Whatever the Cost (34 page)

Liam says his lines and follows his client inside. Being Leah is easy, because he
is
Leah. They are the same. She is at least as real as anyone else Liam has claimed to be.

He’s standing in a darkened hotel room and the sense of impending doom twists his gut up in sickening knots. Madness claws at the edges of his brain. The person before him flickers like an old-fashioned movie, in and out, bright and dim, this and that. They change and morph. He doesn’t dare look directly at them because the constant changing makes him want to gouge out his eyes rather than endure the sight. They shrink, grow, get fat, thin, they have a beard, they’re clean-shaven. They’re every race and color. But the worst part, the very worst part, is that it doesn’t matter what they look like, Liam still knows. He knows who it is, underneath. It’s the same person it’s always been. It’s always the same person. Every time he knocks at a door, waiting for an answer, he’s calling on the same person, over and over and over and over again. But it’s never who he needs it to be.

But in the dream, it is. The dream is the truth. The dream is his completion. The dream is his damnation.

The apology swells in his throat, growing in substance and size until it’s too big to pass his lips. He sobs, trying to force it out. He cries, and the tears make his mascara run in black smears down his cheeks.

I’m sorry
, he cries.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. Please forgive me. Please. I’m sorry.

The man’s hands tear at his dress, ripping the delicate shoulder strap, splitting the seam. The sound of it is stark in his ears, over-loud, offensive. The dress falls away and he’s standing there in his bra, stuffed with falsies, his stockings and panties.

Look at you! Why?! Why would you do this to me?! You’re disgusting! You’re a LIAR! STOP LYING! Pervert! You’re a disgrace! You make me sick! Take it off! Take it off and stop LYING!

The bra is torn off next, the elastic snaps back, biting at his skin, but the tears burn even more. They rake down his throat, searing his lungs. He tries to collapse to the floor, to cover himself, but it’s no use. He’s not as strong as he should be. He’s weak. Weak and pathetic.

Fingers grab and tear at his stockings, his shoes, his panties. They are all brutally torn from him. It’s Leah being murdered, spit and shit upon while he’s helpless to save her.

Please,
he begs, pleads.
I’m sorry!

You fucking LIAR! You’re a joke! You’re pathetic! Take this shit off! All of it! NOW!

He’s naked and still he’s being clawed at, short-clipped nails drag over his skin, trying to pull that off too. He falls to his knees, holding himself, rocking, sucking in rough breaths through his wrenching cries, the world awash, smeared, horrific.

You’re nothing! You’re nothing but a filthy LIAR and you make me sick! You’re nothing! NOTHING!

I’M SORRY
, Liam screams until his voice is in shreds, as his body falls away in strips of crimson ribbon made of skin and muscle, revealing the abyss where his soul used to be, the emptiness that’s been inside him for long, long years. Maybe forever.
Timothy, please, I love you! I just didn’t know what else to do! This is all I have! This is who I am now! PLEASE! I’M SORRY!

Timothy stands there over him, his normally sweet face contorted with rage, his voice so sharp and so jagged that if Liam had ears left they’d be bleeding,
Everything we had, you ruined! You shit on it and now you mean NOTHING to me! WHY DID I EVER LOVE YOU?! You make me SICK! You WHORE! You stupid, filthy, fucking WHORE! I hate you! I HATE YOU!

The pain wins. Liam’s will gives out. He welcomes death as it ends him, as the darkness swallows him up, leaving nothing left but the lies he’s told.

The dream folds in on itself again, as it has done over and over, all night long.

He’s standing in the hall, outside the room of his next client. He’s a cowboy, with authentic leather boots handcrafted in Dallas, Texas, and slim-fitting, perfectly worn clothes that hug his body like a second skin. The woody scent of his cologne, the grip of his thick leather belt around his hips, the cool touch of his silver lucky horseshoe necklace resting on his chest all serve to remind him of all of the times he’s worn this identity, and how well it fits him. Smiling, happy, contented, Liam steps up to the door as the numbers change but stay the same.

But it doesn’t last long. The dread creeps into him, burrowing under his skin, making it crawl, because a part of him knows what’s coming, what’s waiting for him on the other side of the door. It’s the same thing that’s always waiting there.

And that’s why he knocks. That’s why he acts, inviting without a shred of doubt the worst thing he could ever imagine. He beckons to it with opened arms and a willing heart, ready to die, ready for Timothy to tear him down and end him, again and again and again, all the while shouting his disgust, his disdain. Because Liam deserves this. This is what he’s earned. This is all he gets to have. He savors it. He dives in, turns inside out and outside in, begging his forgiveness, knowing he’ll never get it. Not ever.

He’s nothing but a stupid fucking whore anyway.

Liam whimpers softly. It’s a pure, heartbroken sound.

He stirs, rising up and up through the thick fog of his sleep. Gasping, the tears burn his eyes and the burning radiates out, awakening all of the throbbing pain laced through his face. He wonders if it all became real, if he’ll find his face in ribbons, like it was in the nightmare.

More of the heavy weight of the dream clears away and all that it reveals is more pain. He makes a small, hurt sound, halfway to a sob and brings a hand up to touch his face. When his fingertips connect with the flesh, he hisses. The hand reflexively draws away and more tenderly, he traces the swollen tissue. He’s confused, so very confused.

Where am I? What happened to me? Did I fall asleep on a job? Do I need to call Della and see the doc? God, I hope I don’t need stitches. That’ll put me out of commission for weeks. No one wants to fuck Frankenstein.

Gotta find my phone. Gotta figure out if the John’s still here. If he’s the one that did this to my face, I’ve gotta beat a hasty retreat, get the fuck back to my car.

He tries to open his eyes. They won’t go. His left eye cracks open. Bright light scorches his retinas and he grunts, blinking his vision clear of tears. But his right eye won’t budge. The lid is anchored shut. It sends a small cold slithering terror wriggling down to his stomach.

He begins to yawn. When his lips part, the tissue pulls, threatening to reopen a recently healed wound. Wincing and grimacing, he fights against the vestiges of sleep as every new discovery unsettles him more than the last.

Turning his head to scan the room, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, he freezes as he sees....

“Val.” The name on his tongue is ragged and thin.

Some realization flickers, but it’s as ephemeral as a mayfly.

Valery’s expression twists with obvious concern as Liam’s face perfectly displays how very lost he is, how scared.

“You have a black eye and a fat lip,” she provides softly. “Hi.”

She’s lying on his right side, the side he can’t see out of, so he turns toward her, rolling onto his right side. With a quick scan, he finds her wearing an oversized tee shirt and not much else. The shirt is familiar. He stares at it, knowing she might mistakenly think he’s staring at her breasts, trying to puzzle it out.

Jacen’s. It’s Jacen’s shirt. That’s why it looks so big on her.

“It was our husbands’ idea.”

“Jacen?”

Her tone is so motherly, soothing in a way Liam has very rarely experienced, even as a child, that it in turn pushes his emotions closer to the surface.

“He’s sleeping on an air mattress in the next room with Yasha.” She shifts so that her head is propped on her hand rather than just the pillow. Dark, soft curls spill over the white linen. “You know, I’ve never really seen him this sick over something. He’s really afraid of hurting you, but he won’t say why.”

Liam sees the now-thawed ice pack beside the mattress on the floor, the pill bottles, a bowl, a cup with a straw. It all comes back to him—the fight, the long hours he spent wandering San Luis Obispo, the bar he wound up in, the guy who picked him up there, the face-off with Clay, the chaos when he found the balls to show his face to Jacen again. Glancing at the door with his good eye, he tries to picture Jacen out there, on an air mattress that would barely be big enough to hold him let alone him
and
Yasha. The curtain-less room and the sunlight it’s flooded with lead him to assume it’s late enough that he’s the only one still trying to wake up. But why wouldn’t Jacen be in here? Why would he ask Valery to take his place as Liam’s nursemaid?

Then Liam recalls the things he said to Jacen when he was caught in the alley with the phone after calling Ryan, and truly understands how much pain Jacen must be in, too.

Valery watches Liam’s misery, his silence. He curls up beside her on the mattress, the sheet gathered up almost to his chin, with no sign of wanting to get up or rejoin the world. He and Jacen had seemed so happy to her before, the gulf that’s opened between them is baffling. It doesn’t make sense.

“Can I ask you something?” she tries hesitantly. “It’s totally none of my business so feel free to tell me to fuck off.”

Liam looks right at her, his one eye opened and aware, much more so than it was the night before when all was empty and broken. He waits for her to continue, mere inches separating them as they lie on their sides, facing each other.

“Liam, he’s your husband. Why would it hurt you to sleep next to him? What happened? You two seemed so great, I just....” She shrugs. Liam tentatively licks at his sore lip, moistening it so that he can speak without further injuring himself. The vivid, dark coloring of his black eye is painful to look at, so she can only guess at what it must actually feel like for Liam. But she can tell that Liam’s face is the least of his concerns right now.

“Our fight,” he starts. Then he stops there. The flash of pure vulnerability in his expression says more than words ever could.

“Go on,” she coaxes gently, “I can tell you want to. I’m a pretty good listener, if you want to talk about it.”

He looks at her, and she seems so fragile, delicate. She’s a wife, and has been for a while. She’s been through years of marriage, and there’s an awe inspiring amount of strength and intelligence contained inside her small frame.
Maybe she’ll understand
, he hopes.
Maybe out of anyone, she would.

“I wasn’t ready,” he tells her, and the amount of urgency and betrayal he fills those three little hesitant words with explain it all, before he goes any further. “I wasn’t ready to let him have sex with me and he did it anyway. How ironic, you know? I’m a whore. An old whore. And it’s my job to put out for him.”

It feels like a fist squeezing her heart, trying to crush it. Her chest aches and she reaches out, taking his hand, holding it.
Oh god, Liam.

“No means no. No matter what,” she says. Fight enters her voice, the same fight that’s always present when there’s someone before her badly used, a spirit damaged by the careless or cruel actions of another. Hearing it, how she takes his side just like that, without question, Liam’s frown deepens. His lips turn down at the edges and he squeezes her hand, trying to hold it together. “Jacen knows that. Better than anyone. There is
no
excuse.”

“But I didn’t exactly say it. I didn’t
say
... but....”

“He should have known. Right? He should have realized.”

Yeah, he should have
, Liam thinks.
He should have realized. And stopped.
But then he thinks back, to when he first took Jacen, the force that he used, the coercion.
I have no right to be upset about this. I was owed this.

And still, the betrayal of it, after everything that Liam gave Jacen, the faith, the trust, after everything was stripped away, all of his control, his control mechanisms. All that Liam had left was the trust he placed in the man he loved. He remembers how it felt when Jacen fucked him without permission, using his body, fucking with his mind too, as he professed his love while making crude use of the vessel of Liam’s body.

Liam fights not to cry, but as his lips try to draw back with his grimace, the flesh tears, drawing fresh blood. His hand goes to his face, hiding behind it, he squeezes his good eye shut and holds his breath, holds it in as the hopelessness of it all settles on him again.