Chapter 17
It was Berkman who called an impromptu media
conference out in the front of the hospital, which allowed us to leave undetected. Kira said he wasn't up for the press, and I didn't argue. The paparazzi, looking for the photo of LAPD's golden boy with his boyfriend, thankfully hadn't tracked us down. The cabin was peaceful, remote and private. Perfect.
Kira was quiet and reserved for the first three days after he left the hospital. He dozed on and off most of the time, though it was a fitful sleep. He tossed and turned, and woke up panting and sweating.
For a man who would eat like a horse the week
before and wouldn't take even a Tylenol ever, he didn't eat much at all and took his pain meds without so much as a second glance. His movements were slow and pained, and he liked me near him all the time.
The doctors told us that bouts of depression, anger, and frustration would be frequent, and not to take it personally. He was booked in to speak to an LAPD
counselor trained in how to deal with the aftermath of what he went through. All four of them: Kira, Anna, Evie, and Rachel were booked in, at Berkman's insistence. Kira had said he'd go, but he hadn't mentioned it since.
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We spent most of our days on a deck chair on the veranda, surrounded by trees, overlooking the mountains.
He'd lie between my legs with his back to my front, his head on my chest, and even though it was peaceful, his silence was wearing me down.
I didn't want to push him, but the guilt of his ordeal was a weight I just couldn't carry. I told him I was sorry. I told him a hundred times. He dismissed me, telling me it was hardly my fault, but his ongoing silence told me otherwise. I tried not to make it about me, because it wasn't. It wasn't about me at all.
It was about him.
But by the end of the first week, I almost had myself convinced he was going to leave me and, deep down, I knew he'd be better off without me.
"You okay?" His quiet voice brought me out of my musing.
A week on and his eye was healing nicely, though he'd have a scar through his eyebrow. His face was still bruised, but the colors were fading. The cuts were healing, his ribs were still sore and his left arm ached and itched under the cast. I smiled poorly. "Yeah, I'm okay."
His brow creased. He knew I was lying. "Will you tell me what's wrong?" he asked me quietly.
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I couldn't. I didn't want to be the one who brought it up. His impending goodbye would kill me. So instead I answered him with a question, changing the topic completely. "Did you want to go for a walk? You haven't been for a walk in a week, let alone a run."
He shook his head no. "If you want to go back to the city, we can," he said out of the blue.
"What?" his statement surprised me. "I don't want to go back."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
My face fell, and after a long moment, my voice was just a whisper. "I don't want you to tell me goodbye."
After another moment of silence, I looked at him.
He looked… confused. "What? Why would you say that?"
"I don't blame you for blaming me," I told him. "I mean, if it weren't for me and my job, none of this—"
His fingers to my lips stopped my words. "I don't blame you," he said with a quiet determination. " You blame you."
"You should blame me."
"Stop telling me what to feel!" His anger surprised me.
"I'm sorry…"
"And stop apologizing!" he yelled at me. Just like that, after a week of almost complete silence, the floodgates
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opened. He yelled at me about guilt and being sorry, and he thumped his chest as he told me what was going through his mind when they were torturing him, how all he could think about was me. He yelled at me about how I shouldn't feel guilty, because if he had to, he'd go through it again.
For me. He'd do it all again, for me.
Because he loved me.
How dare I tell him he'd be better off without me?
Didn't I know, the entire time he kept thinking about me? Didn't I know, that was what got him through it, just so he could see me again? He pulled at his hair and paced and told me how when they broke his arm, he thought it didn't matter. None of it mattered, if they knew we were together, or if the whole damn world knew he was gay—it didn't matter, because being put through hell put his life into perspective, he told me. If he didn't know what was important to him before, then he sure as hell did now.
When he turned too quickly, he winced and
staggered at the pain in his ribs, and tears sprung to his eyes.
I rushed to him. "Kira…"
"I was so scared," he said, as the first of his tears fell. "I was so scared."
I pulled him against me as gently as I could and wrapped him up in my arms as he sobbed.
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He sagged against me and finally let himself cry.
The horror of what he'd been through, the emotions of this last week, all came tumbling out.
Through his tears and mine, he finally told me how he felt. How scared he was, for the women he was with, for me. He didn't know if they were going to kill him, but he couldn't bear the thought of any of those men doing horrible things to the women. He said he'd rather die protecting them than to live with himself if he'd done nothing. He told me he didn't know if I could see him doing sign language, or if we'd even understand it. But he had to do something, anything, he said.
"I couldn't bear the thought of never seeing you again," he admitted, wiping away his tears. Then he looked at me, with pleading in his eyes. "So please don't tell me I'm better off without you, because it would mean I went through all that hell for nothing."
I nodded, and kissed him, wiping the salt water from his cheeks. "I won't. I promise," I vowed to him. "I'll never push you away."
He took a deep breath and exhaled shakily. "As if it weren't bad enough then," he said. "Now I feel like this."
I held his face and made him look at me. "Like what?"
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He shrugged and shirked his whole body. "Like I'm in someone else's skin." He squirmed. "Like mine doesn't fit me anymore."
"Oh, baby."
"Will you help me?"
"Anything," I breathed. "I'll do anything for you."
"Make me yours," he said. His eyes were wide and full of fear. "Show me who I am, who I belong to."
I blinked, not sure what he meant.
He kissed me, hard and sure. His tongue invaded my mouth forcefully, abruptly. I pulled his face from mine.
"Kira…"
"Take me to bed," he pleaded. "Take me. Top me."
There was desperation in his voice, in his eyes, and when he kissed me again, I could taste it on his tongue. I'd only topped a few times before—and never with Kira—I'd always felt the need to be taken care of. But this was different.
This wasn't my need. It was his.
I cupped his face, bringing my nose to his. His dark eyes were boring into me, begging. I kissed him softly, took his hand and led him upstairs. Mindful of his injuries, I took my time getting him ready. He was glorious. His body, his smell, the feel of him in my hands, in my mouth
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as I sucked and licked him, while pushing my fingers inside him.
When he was naked on the bed before me, I readied myself with a condom and more lube, knelt between his thighs and gently lifted his legs.
I didn't push his legs too high, careful not to put weight on his ribs. "Tell me to stop if it hurts."
He nodded, and when he sucked back a breath, I pushed into him.
He closed his eyes, and his breathing hitched as I sunk myself deeper inside him. And when his eyes opened, silent tears ran down to his temples.
I froze. "Baby?"
He nodded. "Don't stop." Then he groaned. "Please, don't stop."
Leaning on one elbow to keep the weight off his ribs, I slowly started to thrust.
I didn't think about how tight it was, how hot he felt around me. I didn't think about how good it felt.
I thought about him.
I kissed him softly and told him I loved him.
I traced my fingers over his still-blackened eye and told him he meant everything to me.
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I shuddered, trying to stave off my orgasm, and I whispered in his ear how he belonged with me, how he belonged to me.
Thrusting as slow as I could, I kissed down his neck, making him moan, and I knew I wouldn't last much longer. With my free hand, I took his cock between us and pumped him. I thrust my tongue into his mouth, while my cock pistoned into his ass.
And when he cried out, I thought I'd hurt him, but then his ass clenched around me, and his cock erupted in my hand. Watching as pleasure rolled through him, being inside his body when it happened, pushed me over the edge. I could feel myself swell and surge while still inside him, and I came.
When I floated back into my body, we were on our sides, facing each other, wrapped in each other's arms. I could feel his fingers in my hair, and when I opened my eyes, his face was barely an inch from mine.
He looked… serene.
"Thank you," he murmured and pecked my lips with his. He stared at me for the longest time, but eventually, he said, "We should get cleaned up."
"I'll do it," I murmured. "I'll take care of you," I told him, the same way he took care of me. "I just need to wait for the bones not to be jelly in my body."
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I heard the most beautiful sound, a sound I hadn't heard in what felt like forever: the sound of Kira laughing. I smiled at him, taking in his still-bruised, still-beautiful face.
I told him I loved him before I cleaned us up, and when I crawled back into bed and pulled him into my arms, I told him I loved him again.
He sighed contentedly, and the even rise and fall of his chest against mine lulled me to sleep.
* * * *
I woke up to the familiar feeling of being watched.
When I opened my eyes, it was barely morning, and Kira was looking at me. He was on his side, resting his head on his not-broken arm, tracing the fingers on his casted arm up my chest.
He smiled. "I'm starving."
I blinked myself awake. It was the first time he'd had an appetite in a week.
"I thought we could walk down to the coffee shop,"
he said, still smiling. "And maybe grab some breakfast."
I grinned at him. "Sure, babe. Just let me get dressed."
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When I came out of the bathroom, he was holding my phone. "It beeped," he explained. Then looking at me, he said, "You've got a lot of missed calls."
"I've had it on silent all week." I shrugged. "They can wait."
He frowned, but said nothing. He put on his Lakers cap, and we took it easy on the walk into town. We'd been so cut off from the rest of the world for the last week, I had no idea what the media said about their 'Golden Boy', or the whole Tomic ordeal, for that matter. If the girl behind the counter in the café recognized us, she didn't let on.
We ordered breakfast, and while we waited, Kira asked me if I'd spoken to Mitch.
I shook my head. "No."
"You need to talk to him."
"I know," I said with a nod, turning my cell phone over in my hands.
"He's your partner," Kira reminded me. Then he added softly, "I'd like to know how Anna is."
Shit. I didn't even realize… I reached over the table between us and squeezed his hand with one of mine, and pressed redial on my phone with the other.
"Mitch?" I knew my name came up on his screen, but I told him anyway. "It's me."
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