The Art of Hero Worship (5 page)

“But you… you totally saved my life.”

“Nah.” He sniffs again. “I’m no hero. I just
pointed you in the right direction.”

“You climbed on my back and protected me
from getting shot….”

“A hero doesn’t just lend a hand to the
person next to him.” He speaks deliberately. “If I were a
real
hero I would’ve attacked that asshole, accepting that
maybe I’d have died in the process of saving other people—but
that’s not what I did, was it? I stayed under the radar while he
killed my friends and Ginny and all of those other people… little
kids, too! I’m not a damned hero.”

I disagree with his concept of heroic but
I’m not up for a debate. “I never knew I’d get so freaked but I….”
I have no good excuse for my failure to act bravely Friday night.
And my inaction bothers me, but clearly not to the extent it messes
with Liam’s mind.

“Look, there’s no way to prepare for fear
like that.” He speaks as if he’s been there before. “You just do
what you can to survive.”

“I guess so.” Even though the discussion is
making me uncomfortable, my body is somehow relaxing again. All
this sobbing has taken a lot out of me. But I have something else
to let him know, for the record. “Plus, I’m not… Look, I’ve never
done this kind of a thing before… you know, getting this
close
with a guy.” My face is burning and I wonder if he can
feel the heat on his chest.

He lifts his head from the pillow at the
same time I lift mine from his chest, and we look at each other,
which should be extraordinarily awkward, but isn’t. The expression
in his usually penetrating gaze is soft and gentle and
steady—everything that Dom’s eyes were not. Not that I saw Dom’s
eyes on Friday night, but I really didn’t need to. I know they were
hard and hateful and frenzied. I shudder again.

“Right now we’re just two human beings
and….” He swallows noticeably and repeats his last words to me.
“You just do what you can to survive.”

I shrug and then lower my head once again,
deciding that analyzing how safe and warm I feel nestled against
this rugged man’s furry chest can wait until later. That’s when his
right hand slides across my hip and squeezes between our bellies.
He wraps his long fingers around my dick and holds me, at first
hesitantly, and then, when I remain silent, more firmly. I don’t
move a muscle, not to shove him away or to shout, “
What the fuck
is happening here?”

“I can take your mind off all of this,” he
says blandly, as if he’s offering to read aloud to me from
Harry
Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
“Let me help you.”

Neither of us moves, or even breathes, for
almost a full minute, during which time my brain is scrambling at
about a hundred miles an hour. On one hand, I want this escape from
reality so badly, and as proof, my dick has swelled sufficiently to
fill his palm. But I’m not gay… and I don’t know what it
means
to let Liam touch me this way.
Is this just a
warped sort of “friends with benefits” activity, or does it qualify
as one more act of benevolence given by a powerful savior to his
helpless victim? Or does it signify something more? What am I
supposed to do? Do I want this or do I want to push him off me and
curse him out?

And, shit, he’s the fucking hero in this
room. Shouldn’t I be the one worshiping
him
with
my
right hand?

My raging thoughts are silenced by the
movement of his hand. His grip is perfect. Nice and tight, but not
choking me. His hand is huge and rough, like the rest of him. I
think my entire dick fits in his fist… and it feels like nothing
else has… ever. “Don’t stop….” I hear the words and I recognize the
sound of my voice, but I don’t remember making the decision to
allow this.
It doesn’t matter
. I drift into the pleasure,
justifying it like this: taking a single short trip away from all
the horror won’t hurt anyone.

Somehow, Liam knows exactly how I like it.
He knows when to move faster, when to grip harder, and at the
moment I’m about to come, he even grasps my hip with his other hand
to let me know I’m truly not alone… that I’m safe with him. He’s
got my back… and more. I come all over his hand, take that awesome,
after-the-climax breath… and then reality slams me hard.

What the fuck have I done?

“Um… Liam, I… uh… shit.” I have no idea what
I want to say to him, I just feel as if I should say
something.
He jerked me off and I let him do it and
liked
it! Before I can think of a justification for my
behavior or a one-liner to help us laugh it off, I’ve started
sweating and panting. I don’t even consider making a polite offer
of reciprocation or a weak excuse for the lack of one.

“Think you can go back to sleep now?” It’s a
simple question, but its frankness efficiently stops the erratic
movement of my mind. And for some crazy reason I find myself
relaxing, as if what just happened, never happened.

Without replying, I close my eyes and listen
to the steady thudding of his heart. It’s surprising how quickly
I’ve become addicted to the sound.

***

I sleep soundly, far better than I would
have expected. Because of this, when I wake up, the guilt is
overwhelming.
How could I have slept like an exhausted baby when
I was so recently present for the slaughter of seventeen completely
innocent men, women, and children—including my very own
girlfriend—in a college theater?

And I’d love to say I’d completely forgotten
about what Liam and I did last night, but it isn’t something I can
exactly sweep under the rug, which leads me to more guilt and an
entirely unique sense of panicked confusion. Naturally, I refuse to
accept the minor detail that I’m aroused
right now
, lying
literally
on top of
the burly chest of this man I hardly
know, but who knows my mind, and now my body, better than almost
anyone else.

I’m aware that I should recoil from Liam’s
chest as if he’s a burning bush I’ve stumbled upon, but I can’t. My
fingers, as if with a mind of their own, tighten where they’re
resting on his biceps.

“You’re awake.” I wait for him to push me
off his chest, which is what I’d expect a straight guy to do. He
doesn’t move a muscle. None of this makes sense.

“I… I’m….” And just like last night, I can
think of nothing to say. Nothing at all. Thankfully, the phone
rings, saving me from blurting out, “Oh my freaking God, I let you
jerk me off last night!”

Liam hesitantly unwraps his arm from my
shoulder and stretches to pick up the phone from the night table.
As it seems like the correct thing to do, I force myself to sit up
and hop off the bed, then cross the two-foot space of cream-colored
rug where I drop down on the bed Liam had once claimed as his. He
listens to the person on the other end of the line for a while and
the first thing he says is, “You’re kidding me.”

I don’t like the sound of this. Whatever it
was that just loosened inside of me enough to allow me to sleep
like the dead, tightens up.

“Has anybody seen him?”

All too quickly, I’m getting the
picture.

“So we’re supposed to just stay here… until…
until….”

I stand up and head to the mini-bar hoping
that there’s something I can eat containing enough sugar to help me
gain the energy I’m going to need to deal with what Liam is about
to tell me. On top of the mini-fridge is a basket of candy bars and
I pull out a Butterfinger. I take one bite… another bite… during
which time Liam says nothing. By the time I take a third bite he
has placed the phone back on the night table.

He sighs the very sigh I already know so
well.

“What’s the word?”

He sits up and swings his legs over the edge
of the bed. “Looks like you and me are gonna be hanging here for a
while longer.”

I turn around and look at him directly.
“Tell me why.”

“They can’t find him, Jase. Dom DeSalles is
missing.” He stands up and I’m again astounded at the latent power
his enormity implies… as if maybe he can keep me safe.

The good news is that the police take care
of all the details. We are provided with meals, comfortable
clothing from a local sports shop, and since we’re technically off
the grid, they have explained the situation, in general terms, to
our families. I’m most grateful that they lifted from my shoulders
the burden of informing Mom about my precarious situation. I don’t
envy them the task; she’s highly-strung and my safety has always
been her top priority. She’s obsessed by it.

Meanwhile, Liam and I are stuck in a time
warp where we can’t extend condolences to the relatives of those
who were killed, or share memories of the horrifying event with
other survivors. As the police search doggedly for Dom DeSalles,
the two of us remain hidden. And with only each other to turn to,
that’s exactly what we do.

“How well did you know Dom DeSalles?” I ask.
We’re stretched out on our backs with our hands behind our heads,
on individual double beds, more or less watching television. At
some point last night we found a station that shows live, and
previously recorded baseball games pretty much 24/7. Baseball is
just the game we need to help us pass the time. Not too
angst-filled, unless there’s a bench-clearing brawl, which is rare.
It makes decent background white noise if you want to talk or
sleep, but also a sport that can engage your brain, when
necessary.

“Not very well. We’ve had a few classes
together because we’re both in the business program. And the
internship last summer.” He turns onto his side so that he’s facing
me. “I invited him to sit with me in the cafeteria to eat
lunch—every day of the first week of the internship—but he didn’t
even look at me, let alone reply. So I gave up and just hung out
with other guys from my department.”

“Who did he eat lunch with?”

“He sat alone, but the weird thing is, he
seemed pissed off at me… like
I’d
rejected
him
or
something.” I once again notice that Liam is huge… imposing, even
when lying on a bed. “The guy doodled a lot.”

“Doodled?”

“Yeah… he was always drawing in this spiral
bound notebook. He kept it pretty close to his vest, but whenever I
walked by and glanced down he was drawing weapons—guns and cross
bows and stuff like that—and people lying injured on the ground. I
just figured he had a vivid imagination and pushed it out of my
mind.”

I close my eyes to absorb the meaning of his
words and I hear that familiar sigh from across the room.

“I should’ve done something. But I just
shook my head and walked away and … my failure to act might’ve got
a whole lot of innocent people killed.”

“You couldn’t have stopped this, Liam. He
probably had it all planned out right down to the very last
bullet.”

He is silent and flips onto his other side
to face the wall. “I’m gonna try and catch a few Z’s, man.” My best
guess is that he’s feeling guilty.

“Okay. Maybe I’ll do the same.” I don’t make
a move to roll onto my side; I just close my eyes and wait for
sleep to come.

And wait.

And wait.

Sadly, I’m getting used to sleep’s refusal
to show up when I need it. But part of me is thankful for my
inability to sleep. Ever since I was a kid, when something weighed
heavily on my mind, I’ve been plagued by nightmares. Even if I’d
watched a particularly disturbing horror movie, or eaten too much
ice cream too close to bedtime, my dreams reflected it. So it’s
probably just as well that I can’t fall asleep.

***

“Don’t shoot her! Leave us alone!” My own
screaming wakes me up. “Don’t! Please… don’t!”

Within a split second I’ve been scooped into
strong arms. I’m still bracing myself, ready for the explosion and
the pain and the anguish, but instead of agony, I hear a voice.
“It’s over, Jase… you’re safe. You’re safe now.”

I want so badly to stay safe and warm beside
this fortress that now shelters me, but I can’t. I struggle to free
myself from the protective, addictive arms. “But Ginny!
My
Ginny
—she’s dead! He shot her and… and her head fell to the
side… I could feel it drop onto my shoulder…. And there was warm
wet stuff on my face… It was Ginny’s
blood
splashing out… I
think it was coming out of her ear, but maybe it was coming out of
her temple where the bullet… where it went in and….” Although my
eyes are wide open and I’m staring at a textured beige ceiling, I
don’t have a clue where I am. Neither do I know why I’m shaking…
but I’m shivering like when I was five years old and I climbed out
of the warm bathtub and ran down the chilly hallway, wet and naked,
to my bedroom to find my PJ’s, and Mom yelled irrationally, “You’re
gonna catch a cold, Jason—mark my words—you’re gonna catch your
death!”