Morgan blew a long stream of breath up toward his hair. It did help to move some of the hair out of his eyes and moved a little bit of the sweat away, too.

It had been three days since he’d had the best sex of his life. It had been rough, almost savage, but he’d loved every second of it. Three days since he’d gotten his stash of ice … and this was the problem with getting things on credit.

Bills came due.

Captain Ice, Tim Collins, would be back to the abandoned house on the mountain (Mount Culver, Morgan now knew, named for Jamie’s mother’s family just like the town, how about that?) in just four days.

Morgan had only been able to sell about a third of the product so far.

It wasn’t as easy as he’d thought it would be for an outsider to wander into a small city and sell illegal drugs. He’d had one guy say he’d call him back to arrange another buy but so far he hadn’t done it. Besides,Morgan wasn’t positive the guy was being straight with him—he may have been a cop.. At this point, he wasn’t really counting on seeing the guy again. It didn’t help that he hadn’t given out his phone number in the first place.

Shit. I am so fucked.

What was he going to do if he couldn’t find buyers? On the one hand, if he let Collins kill him, he wouldn’t have to worry about finding a job or putting a roof over his head. The idea had merit.

On the other hand, letting Collins kill him would mean admitting he’d failed. It would mean confessing he couldn’t make it without his father, just like Jamie had suggested.

And it would mean never having an encounter like he’d had with Jamie again.

Morgan’s life might not be much. He might not have anything to his name besides some camping equipment and stolen clothes. Maybe the last thing he’d really enjoyed had been a stolen kiss from Jamie Roscoe but it was his life. Now? He wasn’t prepared to give it up so soon.

He wanted to keep living it, damn it. Maybe if he went into one of the casinos, he could find more buyers? There was such a risk involved with that. Security guards were everywhere.

A guy with open sores around his mouth sidled up to him. “Hey, I heard you’re selling.”

Morgan nodded once. “What do you need?”

“I want an eight ball.”

“Two hundred.” The alley reeked of about a hundred years of piss. Morgan was tempted to tell the guy two fifty, just to get himself out of debt faster, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Who knew how many other people in Culvertown were selling and how many were working for Collins? Sweat trickled down his back at the very thought. No, he had to toe the line. He couldn’t get away with jacking his prices until he’d been around for a while and knew the lay of the land a little better.

And he wasn’t going to be in that position. Morgan had already planned his work. Now he was going to work his plan. He wasn’t going to go getting ahead of himself or anything like that. It worked in legitimate business and it would work for this too.

The buyer passed him an envelope. Morgan shook his hand, passing him a baggie, and the transaction was over. His customer went on through the alley, and Morgan stayed where he was.

What would Jamie say if he could see Morgan now? He’d laugh. He’d laugh until he barfed, that was what he’d do.

From the penthouse to the gutter, that was Morgan, and there was no one better placed to laugh at that than Jamie. Morgan had only been following his father’s orders when he’d taken that internship from him but he’d had some inclining of what it meant to Jamie.

Yet Morgan had chosen to obey. Look where his obedience had gotten him.

The light at the far end of the alley dimmed.

Morgan’s pulse quickened. He hadn’t been a drug dealer for long but he’d been on the streets long enough to know this wasn’t good. One person couldn’t block the light from the alley entrance by himself.

He was athletic but could he really outrun more than one serious assailant? He wiped his palms on his jeans.

He looked up. Three massive bodies approached him. Morgan assumed they were male, but that wasn’t the most important part of it. All he could think about was muscle. He supposed that was the point.

“I heard you got some gear.” The guy in the middle had long, curly blond hair and a squeaky voice. He also had a New York City accent, which sounded downright alien in Nevada.

Morgan needed to not think about his accent and focus on the possible mugging in progress — the one that might get him killed.

“Gear?” Morgan frowned and tried to make sense of the leader’s words. What the hell kind of gear would they want in a back alley in the middle of the night? They could go into a camping store and buy whatever they needed — or steal it.

“There’s a Walmart on the edge of town, I think. It’s open 24 hours and everything. They should have what you need.”

The guy on the right, who was as broad as he was tall, grabbed for Morgan. He didn’t look like he should be all that fast,. Morgan tried to dodge but it was no use. The guy had a grip like a vise.

“We don’t like smart stuff,” he growled into Morgan’s ear. He’d been eating pickles and tuna fish. Morgan hadn’t eaten in a long time but even he didn’t find this to be a particularly appealing combination.

The last time someone had growled into Morgan’s ear it had been Jamie. He’d nibbled on it afterward. The cartilage was still a little sensitive all this time later.

Morgan shuddered at the memory and the contrast to now. If this guy nibbled on his ear, he would probably throw up. “Look, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. We don’t have to get violent about it, just let me down and we can talk. Okay?”

The leader’s other henchman grabbed Morgan’s other arm, holding him even tighter than the first guy. The leader punched Morgan twice in the stomach.

Morgan did throw up now. It splashed onto the old cobblestones and up onto the attacker’s jeans. Blondie hadn’t pulled his punches. Morgan probably shouldn’t have expected him to.

He struggled to recover his equilibrium and his breath. These guys might very well kill him, not that it would be any loss to the world.

“Let me refresh your memory." Blondie grabbed Morgan’s hair and pulled his head up, so Morgan had to look at him. “You’ve got fifty Glocks you’re carrying for those guys in Reno. You’re going to give them to us, and maybe we’ll kindly let you keep all of your teeth.”

“Meh.” The first thug shrugged. He didn’t loosen his grip, so Morgan felt like his shoulder was being pulled out of its socket like a chicken wing. “Teeth are overrated for a guy in his position.” He used his free hand to grab Morgan’s chin.

Morgan’s blood ran cold. He fought against the men holding him but he couldn’t get anywhere. Not only were they three experienced attackers against one man with a very privileged upbringing but he’d lost a lot of weight and muscle over the past two years. There was no way he could fight them all off.

“You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t do guns. I don’t sell guns, I don’t carry guns, I don’t run guns, I don’t handle guns, I don’t even look at guns. Try the alley three blocks up, maybe?”

Blondie backhanded him across the face. A couple of Morgan’s teeth did loosen up under the blow. Crap — he couldn’t afford a dentist. He struggled to get his breathing under control.

“I didn’t ask you for bullshit lines,” the leader told him, in a calm tone. “I told you to give me the goods. Pat him down."

Morgan’s chest hurt, possibly because his heart was trying to take leave of it. If the bad guys found his stash of product, this would be a disaster.

The thugs threw Morgan up against the brick wall of the building beside him and groped him six ways from Sunday. Only three days ago, he’d been pressed face first against a wall by Jamie Roscoe. How was it that he could find himself in a position that looked so similar but was so many worlds away?

Christ, he’d thought Jamie would laugh at him before. Now he’d turn away in disgust.

“Nothing, boss,” said the second brute. He slapped Morgan’s ass hard enough to knock him forward. “If he’s got guns, they’re not on him.”

“Where the hell would I be hiding fifty Glocks in these jeans?” Morgan snapped, before he could stop himself.

His mother had always told him his mouth would be the death of him. Tonight, she’d be pleased to find out she’d been right. Of course, she’d probably never find out. He’d taken his father off of his emergency contact list.

Blondie grabbed Morgan by the hair and smashed his face into the bricks. Morgan saw stars. “We already told you, we don’t like smart guys. Where did you stash the guns?”

“I don’t have any guns! I don’t have them stashed anywhere!”

Thug Number Two reached into Morgan’s pocket and pulled out the rest of the meth he’d brought out to sell tonight. “No guns, boss, but he’s got some ice.”

“Oh, one of the Captain’s little bitch boys, huh?” The man’s face shriveled into a mass of wrinkles and hate. “I can’t stand that fucker. Make sure this son of a bitch regrets the day his parents ever met.”

Morgan went limp. He couldn’t get away and he couldn’t save himself. All he could do was try to minimize the damage.

Pain exploded in his forehead and at his temple as they smashed his head into the wall, again and again. Morgan bit down on his lip to hold back a scream.

No one could possibly want to help a guy like him. He’d turned himself into a drug dealer, for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t get away, he couldn’t fight back, all he could do was wait it out.

“Oh my God, what are you bastards doing to that poor boy?” A little old lady’s voice echoed across the alley. She couldn’t be anything but a little old lady.

“I’ve called 911. The police will already be on their way, and believe you me, they’re going to have a lot to say about you hurting that innocent young man.”

Blondie gestured, and the two side thugs dropped Morgan to the ground. He couldn’t pick himself up. His head was spinning too badly. He retched but his stomach was empty.

“Trust me, sister,” Blondie told her, as his adjuncts ran away. “There ain’t nothing innocent about this fucker.” He walked off, almost strutting, with his middle finger raised.

The little old lady approached. She put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder and spoke to him but he couldn’t understand a damn thing she said. His head felt like it was going to burst.

He let the explosion happen and the darkness took him. If today had been his last day, at least it hadn’t come before he’d gotten to be with Jamie.

It was a small comfort but he’d take what he could get right now.

Morgan woke up on a plastic mattress, with a thin cotton blanket over his body. Something beeped in the distance. His head ached like he’d been on a three-week bender before going to a heavy metal show. His face hurt too, but not as badly.

A woman’s face popped into his field of vision. Then there were two and then just one again. “Hi there,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m Jane Culver; I’m your nurse today! Looks like you’ve decided to rejoin the land of the living.”

Culver. The name echoed through Morgan’s skull. It was Jamie’s mother’s maiden name, the name of the town and the county and the mountain.

He couldn’t get away. Not that he wouldn’t cheerfully kill to have Jamie by his side right now, but he was too ashamed to be seen by anyone. “How long was I out?” he groaned.

“Only a few hours. I’ll go tell the doctor your pretty blue eyes are open.” She winked at him and sashayed away.

Morgan closed his eye, and immediately regretted it when a wave of nausea threatened to overtake him. He didn’t have anything in his stomach.

The little old lady really had called the cops. He guessed he should be glad the bastards had taken the ice from him.

Of course, how he was supposed to pay Collins back was anyone’s guess. He had nothing to sell and the hospital wasn’t about to let him out without money.

A few tears leaked from his eyes. Every time he thought he had a way out, things just got worse.

The door opened and a tall, slender man walked into the room. He looked familiar, and for a second the déjà vu almost overwhelmed Morgan. Was this Jamie?

No, Jamie’s eyes were blue, not brown. His hair was dirty blond, not brown, and he didn’t have facial hair. The underlying facial structure was the same, though, and that could only mean one thing.

“Jesus, you Roscoes are everywhere these days.” Morgan sighed. He tried to adjust his position to get more comfortable but given that someone had replaced his head with a lead weight, nothing quite worked.

“Well, this is Culvertown General, so, yeah. That’s kind of how it works.” The doctor huffed out a little laugh. “I’m Dr. Phillip Roscoe. I’m a trauma physician here in the ER.”

“Morgan Patrick.” Morgan held out his right hand and frowned at the IV line sticking out of it.

Dr. Roscoe chuckled. “I know who you are. Guys who are trying to keep a low profile don’t usually keep their driver’s license in their pocket. The police would like to know what happened but I’m keeping them at bay on account of you having an ugly little concussion.”

“My concussion certainly feels ugly. Thanks for your concern,” Morgan continued, trying to sit up, “but I can’t stay. Concussions usually resolve themselves, right?”

“And if you had someone to go home with, I’d be happy to sign you out. You’re alone.” Dr. Roscoe gave him a penetrating glance that killed Morgan’s objections in his throat.

“You need to stay here at least twenty-four hours to make sure your brain doesn’t double in size or anything fun like that. And before you push back on that, yes, that does happen and it happens often enough that I can’t let you go home until I’m sure you’re not in danger.”

They fell into silence for a beat. “Do you want me to call Jamie?” Dr. Roscoe asked.

Morgan heard the heart monitor speed up. “Wait, what? How do you know I even know Jamie?”

“Jamie’s my cousin. We’re close.” He stroked his beard and sat down on the end of Morgan’s bed. “You know, I remember that one year he came home for the summer. It wasn’t expected. You were all he talked about.”

That would have been the summer of the internship. “I’m sure it was all complimentary, too,” Morgan said. He meant it to come out tough and strong, but he was too tired and in too much pain to hold the line. It just came out sad and wretched.

“Meh.” The good doctor shrugged. One word spoke volumes.

Morgan’s stomach flipped. Could he have had more with Jamie? Could he have had something with Jamie, other than a single savage fuck in an abandoned house in Nevada?

No. An actual relationship with Jamie would have required them both to push their fathers off a cliff, which just wasn’t an option, legally or morally. He couldn’t get the memory away from his consciousness, though. He’d tried to banish the little flashes of the past from his mind but they wouldn’t go away. He could still feel Jamie’s fevered touch against his skin, his mouth against Morgan’s.

He huffed out a laugh and pointed to the cut above his eye. He hadn’t seen it but he could feel it. It itched mercilessly. “He’d be thrilled about this,” he told the doctor.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Roscoe was either oblivious to Morgan’s bitterness or he knew something Morgan didn’t. “You’ve mostly seen Jamie in a competitive environment.”

That mostly rattled around in Morgan’s bruised skull. “Everything’s a competitive environment,” he hazarded. “Especially when you get Roscoes and Patricks together.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Jamie’s not like all Roscoes. He’s — well, I guess you could say he’s reluctant.

“But that’s not relevant right now. That’s between you and Jamie and not something that needs to involve Jamie’s cousin. That’s just gross.

“But seriously. Do you want me to call Jamie? I’m sure he’d come by to help you out.”

Morgan flinched away from the thought of reaching out to Jamie. Sure, they’d had good sex. That didn’t make them lovers, friends, or even friendly. He could push away the memory of Jamie kissing him softly on the back of his neck if he had to.

“No, thanks. You don’t need to call anyone. I’m fine.”

Dr. Roscoe took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. “Well, I can’t force you to call. But I do have to keep you here for 24 hours to ensure you’re in full possession of your faculties. It’s an insurance thing, you understand. If you don’t have a sober, responsible adult who can come and keep an eye on you after getting a concussion like that, I can’t let you leave.”

“Look, Dr. Roscoe.” Morgan looked straight ahead, not at Dr. Roscoe. Not at Jamie’s cousin. “I can’t afford to stay here, okay?”

Dr. Roscoe put a hand on Morgan’s. “Morgan, you’re a crime victim. We have a fund set up, okay? No one in Culver County who’s a victim of a crime has to pay for their own medical treatment. That’s just absurd.”

Morgan looked away. He didn’t need charity. Well, he did, but his pride wouldn’t let him take it. “And if Marianna Roscoe were a victim of a violent crime and was brought in…”

For a second, Morgan wondered if he’d gone too far but Dr. Roscoe just grinned at him. “Then her care would come from the same fund. She set it up, after all.

“Look, Morgan, I don’t know where you’ve been. And I don’t know what your situation is now. I’m guessing it’s not as good as you’d like to pretend it is. But no one here is out to get you, okay? I know what happened with your dad.”

Morgan gripped the bedrails. “I’m so out of here.”

“Relax, Morgan. Like I said, Jamie and I are close. I’m not about to go telling tales or anything.” The doctor gave him a shy little smile.

“You’re in safe hands now. No one here gives a crap who you sleep with, as long as everyone’s consenting. But help’s available, if you’re willing to take it.”

Morgan hesitated. Could he accept what Roscoe seemed to be offering? No. Dr. Roscoe had no idea what Morgan had gotten himself into. “Thanks but I’m fine,” he lied.

Dr. Roscoe sat up a little straighter. Morgan didn’t think he bought any of it but the doctor didn’t say anything to that effect. He just smiled. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours. Nurse Culver will be checking on you, okay?”