Patient Z (25 page)

Mitch doubted it. Between the defenders and Cal they’d done a number on his flotilla. He helped Cal away and inside. Cal was wobbly on his feet, but the coughing had stopped. When they reached the infirmary, it was deserted, the medical staff still in the shelter and Cal the first casualty to arrive.

“Let me get your jacket off,” Mitch said as Cal sat on an exam bed. “And your boots.” Really he should undress him entirely; his clothes were soaked through, and the sooner he was out of them, the better. But he should leave that to the medics. Cal didn’t need anyone to tell him, though. He peeled his shirt off over his head and tossed it to slap wetly on the floor. Then he smiled wryly at Mitch.

“I guess I should be more careful with my clothes, since they’re the only possessions I have left.”

“We’ll find you some new clothes,” Mitch said. “It’s a shame about the Winchester, though.” Good. Banter. Keep it impersonal. This wasn’t the time to ask Cal if he’d be staying and if he’d maybe be getting back into Mitch’s bed anytime soon.

Cal fumbled with his fly button and swore. “My hands are numb.” He looked up at Mitch. “I’d appreciate a little help, if you can manage.”

What the hell was Cal doing to him? He stood there, dripping wet and shivering, looking like he needed someone to towel him off and give him a warming hug, and he asked Mitch to take his pants off.

“It’s unhealthy to sit around in wet clothes,” Cal said. “You should get out of yours too.” Mitch stood in front of Cal and had no idea where to rest his eyes. On Cal’s face with its intense expression? His chest, an all too familiar playground for Mitch’s hands? Or down at his hands as he pulled the zipper of Cal’s jeans down slowly, the fabric wet and heavy, hard to work. He was close enough he could hear Cal breathing, see the rise and fall of his chest.

He desperately wanted to pull Cal into his arms and kiss him. Not a “let’s get back together” kiss, but one of gratitude for Cal’s return, for his help against the attackers. He found himself too close, his eyes on Cal’s mouth, leaning in, when the sound of voices approaching made him stop and step back. The doctor and nurses burst into the room.

“A patient already—Cal! What the hell?” Phyllis stared, then shook herself. “Never mind. You’re here. What’s wrong with you?”

“Swallowed and inhaled a load of seawater,” Cal said.

“Nasty. Okay, let’s take a look at you. Someone help him get his pants off.”

Mitch would have liked to stay and finish the job he’d started. But he had to go change into dry clothes too. After holding Cal’s gaze for a long moment, he hurried out of the infirmary.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Cal approached the room he used to share with Mitch, what seemed like months ago. Incredible to think it had only been a couple of days. The door was open, the light on. He took a breath and tapped on the door.

“Mitch, you in there?”

“I’m here.”

He heard the springs of the cot. When he went inside, Mitch was standing beside it. The two cots were still fastened together. Cal stopped just inside the door.

“You’re released from the infirmary?” Mitch asked.

“Yeah. The doc wanted to keep an eye on me overnight to make sure the water I inhaled doesn’t give me a lung infection. But there’s no sign of it. I’m fine now.” His voice was hoarse, and he’d caught a glimpse of himself looking pale in a mirror on the way up here. But he tried to put a brave face on, as appealing as the prospect of having Mitch take care of him might be. He couldn’t waltz back in here and expect to hop right back into bed with Mitch.

“Bren says she’ll find me someplace else to bunk,” Cal said. “If you don’t want me back in here.”

“What? No…of course you can stay.” Mitch glanced back at the tied-together cots. “We can split these up again. If that’s what you want.”

“Can we talk?” Cal hugged himself, chilled by the metal walls. Mitch grabbed a blanket off the bed and put it around Cal’s shoulders.

“Come here,” he said and sat on the bed. Cal sat beside him, close, seeking his warmth. When Mitch put an arm across his shoulders tentatively, Cal leaned into him. Mitch gave a small sigh. “So, what happened? How did you end up pulling the Han Solo act?”

Cal told him. Explained about spotting Ethan’s little marina with its zombie guards. Seeing Ethan’s group heading out to attack the rig. Following in the
Cora
, determined to stop them.

“I heard him say…” Cal didn’t quote the rest of Ethan’s hateful instruction to take Mitch alive so Ethan could even the score. “You don’t need to hear that crap. But he intended to kill you.” He shrugged and leaned closer into Mitch. “I couldn’t walk away and let it happen.”

“Are you…staying?”

There was more than one question there. But were all the answers the same?

“Since I don’t have a boat anymore, or even weapons, I guess I am,” Cal said. “If I’m still welcome.”

“After what you did today, I think you’d be welcome to marry any of us aboard who are old enough.”

Us? Now there was an interesting way of putting it. It made Cal a little nervous again. He’d never taken much notice of that whole debate about letting guys marry guys. It didn’t seem relevant to a man who never stayed in one place long enough for anyone to propose marriage to him. But Mitch, with that social conscience of his, probably used to campaign and vote on propositions and amendments. Cal had never voted in his life, never mind campaigned.

“Why did you leave, Cal?” Mitch asked. “Please tell me. You can trust me.”

“Can I?”

“Of course you can.” Mitch smiled. “I’m a police officer.”

Cal snorted, more amused than cynical. He didn’t really hate cops as such. He’d met several good ones. Mitch was the best one he’d met, but maybe he was biased.

“I’m scared, Mitch. I’m scared of you. I’m scared of what I feel about you.”

Mitch’s eyes widened. Perhaps he expected, or hoped for, a declaration of love, like the one he’d made to stop Cal from leaving. But Cal wasn’t ready for that. “I’m not saying…what you said to me. I don’t know if I feel that way yet. But I think I could feel it, for you.”

“But why run from it? Why run from love? Love is good.”

God, he said the word so comfortably, so easily. Cal couldn’t, not even when it didn’t have the words “I” and “you” on either side of it. Like some people couldn’t come out and say the word “cancer.”

“Because it messes you up,” Cal said. “It makes you a slave.”

“That’s a harsh way to put it. It certainly changes your priorities, makes you act kind of dumb sometimes. But a slave?”

“That’s what it did to my mother. She wasted her life waiting for a man who was never coming back. Who felt nothing for her and never had. And when the truth was too hard to face, she drank the pain away.” His eyes grew hot, and he swallowed a couple of times. Shit, he hadn’t cried for her since the day of the funeral. When Mitch took his hand, that only made it harder to keep the tears at bay. Because he felt so safe. Because he
could
cry here in Mitch’s arms, if he wanted to. For a mother he lost long before the day she died. He didn’t have to pretend to be stronger than he really was.

“I’m sorry, Cal. I’m sorry it was so hard for her, and for you. But I don’t want you to be my slave. I want you to be my partner. If you need—”

“I’m not done.”

“Ah…”

“It’s about you too. Who you are. Not a cop, I mean. A man from a small town. I couldn’t stay, because I’ve never stayed anywhere for long. But everywhere I went, I looked for men like you.” No, that wasn’t quite right. “Or rather, the man you would have been if you’d stayed in your small town. Men like your brothers, your father, if they’d been gay.”

“Cal, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You cops tend to call me a drifter. I left New York after my mother died. I was just a kid, barely seventeen. I know they wanted to put me in foster care or some children’s home. But I’d rather have gone back to juvie than that. I figured I could take care of myself. I’d been taking care of myself for years.” Taking care of her too. Making sure she didn’t choke after she passed out. Trying to make sure she ate enough. But he’d been out the day she’d fallen down the stairs. If she
fell
. Mitch squeezed his hand, and Cal smiled at him, caught himself, and felt foolish. He suddenly decided he had to stand up, couldn’t have Mitch’s arm around him or his hand in Mitch’s. Because he didn’t want to feel the chill if Mitch pulled away. He stood, dropping the blanket from his shoulders. Mitch stared at him, started to move to stand too, but Cal waved him to please stay down.

“It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. Please, stay there.”

Mitch did. He nodded at Cal. “Okay. Go on, please.”

“I kept moving, because I knew if a cop picked up on the fact I was a minor, I’d be slapped in county custody or something. I hitched around. I did jobs where I could, enough to get something to eat and pay for a motel. And sometimes… Well, I don’t have to spell it out. There were men.”

“Shit, Cal. I’m sorry.” Cal studied his face carefully for a sign of disgust and revulsion. But he saw only pity. Pity wasn’t good either, but it was pity for a scared boy, pretending to be so brave and cool, while running away from people who only wanted to protect him. Yeah, that boy could have used some pity at the time.

“By the time I wasn’t a minor anymore, running was a habit,” Cal went on. “And so was easy money. I knew how to use my looks to find men who’d give me money, or gifts. I wasn’t a whore. I mean…I guess I was, but not directly, you know.”

He stopped. His hands were shaking. Now for the part where he stopped deserving any pity. “I started going to small towns and finding the gay guys. The guys in the closet. The married ones. And giving them what they’d dreamed about. In return they gave me gifts. Cash sometimes, if I asked for it. Or things I could sell. Sometimes I ran cons on them. Sob stories.” He paused, seeing the shock on Mitch’s face, but steeled himself to go on. Too late to stop now. “You know the kind of thing. I needed money for my little sister’s operation. I needed a plane ticket to go to my grandmother’s funeral. And as soon as I got everything I could from them, I vanished. I’m sure you’ve heard the story a couple of dozen time from…victims.”

“Yes.” Mitch said it softly. Nothing else. The shock was gone from his face. He just looked intently at Cal.

“Well,
my
victims never told their stories,” Cal said. “That’s why I chose closeted guys. The ones who’d never go to their small-town sheriff and file a complaint about the
man
who’d whispered lies to them in bed and taken them for a thousand bucks.” He took a deep breath. “Several times, the mark
was
the sheriff. That’s what I mean when I say you would have been the type of man I looked for, if you’d stayed home and been closeted.”

Mitch didn’t speak. Cal rubbed his hands over his face, then through his hair.

“I was a real piece of shit, Mitch. I didn’t have any principles, like only going after wealthy men or something. Not after I got ten thousand dollars and some good jewelry out of one rich guy. I skipped town, but he sent a couple of heavies after me, and when they caught up, they took the money and gifts back and kicked the shit out of me. After that I stuck with men I thought could raise the money or buy decent gifts, but couldn’t afford to send thugs after me when I bolted. Real hardheaded, coldhearted calculation there, huh?”

Mitch didn’t answer. His silence was frightening.

“The last few years I did more and more con jobs,” Cal said. “Guess I’m not as irresistible as I used to be. I couldn’t always draw them in the way I could when I was in my twenties. Couldn’t enslave them the way I used to.” The sex had still been an important part of it—making sure they were too afraid to report the con. But he hadn’t been the fantasy figure they’d do anything for the way he had been when younger. Maybe it was worse. He’d had to pretend to have more feelings, to be a lover, when running a con. He was no longer simply a beautiful boy promising nothing but the fulfillment of fantasies, wanting nothing but a
token
of appreciation for his generosity. An 18-carat-minimum token of appreciation.

“That’s it,” Cal said, shoulders slumping, guts twisted with fear of Mitch’s reaction. “I’m done.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Was he done? Done here? Done with Mitch? Or rather, was Mitch done with him? Mitch stood up slowly, and Cal tensed. Would Mitch walk past him, walk out of the room? Would he tell Cal exactly what he thought of the kind of scum he was? Would he say he regretted ever pulling Cal out of the water?

“I won’t say I don’t have a problem with this,” Mitch said. “Because I do. But it
is
the past. I have to judge you on what you’ve done here for me, and for this community. And all you’ve done is help us. That’s what really matters.”

“But you do have a problem with it? With me?”

“Yes. But it’s
my
problem. And I’ll do my best to make sure it’s never an issue between us.”

“You’re an honest man, Mitch.” Cal smiled sadly. “I’m not very good at dealing with truly honest men. After all, the one thing the closet cases all had in common was that they were liars.”

“I don’t think they had much choice,” Mitch said.

“They had the same choice you had.”

“Not always. I think you’re making a harsh judgment.” Mitch fiddled with the blanket he held, trying to fold it without looking, and failing. “But, ah, let’s not argue about that. Will you stay?”

“Like I said, I’ve got no boat.”

“No.” Mitch looked up again. “I mean, here, with me. So we don’t need to split the cots.”

Ah, so he didn’t have enough of a problem with Cal’s past that he didn’t want him in his bed again. “Yes. I will. If you want me to.”

“I do.” His slightly nervous, hopeful smile about melted Cal’s long-ago hardened heart. He smiled back.

“Thanks. Um, the doc said I need to get some rest, so is it okay if we go to bed right now?”

Mitch grinned, then wiped that off his face, trying to look serious. “Rest. Of course. I’m just coming off night watch, so I was going to bed anyway. Come here, get off your feet, get into bed. You look exhausted.”