Chapter One
“FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH, I’M really glad you’re here, Ry.”
Scott brushed their lips together, and without another word, let go of Rylan and turned to run lightly down the VIP stairs.
“Me, too,” Rylan whispered to the empty room, sighing. His eyes were burning from emotion and fatigue, his body throbbing from Scott’s kiss, his touch. He sank down onto the couch they’d just been lying on, running his hand over the still-warm leather and quirking his lips ruefully.
Things hadn’t changed much in six years.
It wasn’t just Scott’s beauty, his sheer physical appeal—Rylan had never been quite that shallow. But layer their explosive chemistry on top of that vulnerability in Scott’s eyes, the loneliness Rylan suspected he didn’t let many people see…and he was lost.
So much for holding you at arm’s length, huh?
Shaking his head and vowing to do better, Rylan grabbed his camera and backpack before trudging down the stairs himself. A quick glance toward the main stage revealed Sheer Blyss wrapping up what looked like a comedy routine, some oiled, muscular go-go dancers in thongs lifting her to their shoulders to carry her away.
The crowd was definitely thinning, but Lance was still ensconced with his posse over in one corner, the amount of pitchers, bottles, and glasses on the tables in front of them attesting to the hangover they’d be feeling later. Corey was nowhere in sight, and neither was Teena.
Not all that disappointed at having missed the last show, Rylan picked his way along the edge of the dance floor toward the club entrance. What a night. What a confusing, exhilarating night. Outside it was warm, and the dry desert air smelled of orange blossoms. He took a deep, cleansing breath, striving for calm. The best thing to do was let things with Scott unfold in their own time, in their own way. He snorted to himself. Easier said than done, as tonight had made painfully clear.
Rylan squared his shoulders and straightened his backpack, scuffing along the pavement next to the parking lot. The short walk to the light rail station wouldn’t be so bad, even if he’d much rather be riding in Scott’s little convertible right now. He should have taken him up on his offer—
A piercing scream rent the air, and Rylan jumped in shock, stumbling over his own feet as he whipped his head around looking for the source of the sound.
“Help!” came another cry. “Oh my God, I need help!”
Without thought, Rylan took off at a sprint toward the inner depths of the parking lot. The desperate shouts got louder as he rounded a couple of cars, and Rylan skidded to a stop when he saw a woman crouched next to a figure crumpled on the ground.
“Ma’am, what’s wrong?” he called, not wanting to approach blindly without some idea of the situation. A few other people ran up, and Rylan recognized one of them as Jerry, the club bouncer. He slumped with relief, turning away. Let the pros handle it.
“This man, he’s hurt!” the woman was babbling, and Jerry triggered his wireless earpiece with his finger as he strode over to kneel next to her.
“It’s Jerry. We have some sort of situation in the west parking lot. I—Jesus Christ! Scotty!”
“What?” The name cut through Rylan like a hot blade, and he whirled around before shoving through the growing crowd to stare down in disbelief. It was Scott, half on his back, half on his side, a horrifyingly large pool of blood spreading from under his head.
“Oh my God.” Rylan collapsed to his knees next to him. “What happened to him?”
Jerry was shouting at someone, ordering them to call 911.
“Is he breathing?” the woman sobbed, clutching a shivering black poodle. “I don’t think he’s breathing.”
No. Rylan felt a shaking start deep inside and spread outward, until his whole body was trembling so hard his teeth started to chatter uncontrollably. Jerry pressed unsteady fingers to Scott’s neck. “He’s got a pulse. He’s breathing.”
Through his tears, Rylan could see that Scott’s chest was indeed rising and falling, and all he could do was whisper, “Thank you, God. Thank you, God.” A warm hand landed on his shoulder, and Rylan started so badly he almost lost his balance.
“Rylan, what happened?” Chris squeezed his shoulder as he knelt down next to him, taking in Scott’s crumpled form.
“I don’t—”
“Somebody hit him with something!” the woman interrupted in a voice high-pitched with shock. “I was walking my dog, and I saw this guy about to unlock his car, and some other guy ran up to him and bashed him in the face! He hit his head really hard on the ground, too.” The woman buried her face in the dog’s fur. “Oh my God. He went flying backward and—”
“Head wounds bleed like a motherfucker,” Chris said tersely. “We need to put pressure on the cut if we can find it.” He yanked his T-shirt off and wadded it up before hesitating. “I don’t have any gloves.”
Rylan elbowed Jerry aside and took his place at Scott’s shoulders. “I’ll look for it.”
“Rylan, the blood. You don’t have to put yourself at risk. The paramedics will be here any minute.” Chris put his hand on Rylan’s arm, and Rylan knocked it away.
“I said I’ll look for it.” He plunged his fingers into Scott’s blood-soaked hair, feeling along his scalp, until he discerned a ragged gash above his ear. “Give me the goddamn T-shirt.” Chris shoved it at him, and Rylan pressed it hard to the gash, trying not to jar Scott’s neck.
“Where’s the fucking ambulance?” he screamed, and he looked up into the crowd, enraged to see how many of them were just standing there, filming on their phones. “Tell me somebody called a motherfucking ambulance!”
“Easy, man,” Jerry murmured at his shoulder. “Travis just radioed me that the cops and paramedics are on their way.”
Rylan crouched next to Scott and stroked his temple, his jean-clad legs soaked through with Scott’s blood, and prayed like he’d never prayed before. It seemed like hours but it had to have only been a few minutes until he heard sirens followed by the sound of booted feet running toward them.
He moved back, collapsing down on his ass and watching through his tears as the paramedics and EMTs worked over Scott.
“Probable mandibular fracture,” one of them called to another, who was relaying information to someone through a cell phone. “Patient unconscious and unresponsive. Crepitus, malocclusion appear to be present.” She probed inside his mouth carefully with a gloved finger, her voice clipped and clinical. “There is active intraoral bleeding and edema also present.”
A neck brace was clicked into place before they carefully rolled Scott onto his side and then to his back again on top of a rigid board.
Rylan let out a gasp as the first paramedic, her hands sure and swift, used some sort of blade slipped between Scott’s teeth to ease a breathing tube in. A bag was attached, and another paramedic started to squeeze it rhythmically.
“He can’t breathe?” he choked out, and he felt a strong arm come around his shoulders.
“It sounds like he has a broken jaw,” Chris said. “If so, it’s possible the muscles aren’t strong enough anymore to keep his tongue from blocking his airway. Plus there’s a lot of blood in his mouth. They’ll breathe for him until they make sure he’s breathing okay on his own.”
“You a doctor, man?” Jerry asked, sounding as shaken as Rylan felt, and Chris shrugged.
“No, just a photojournalist who was embedded with a combat unit in Afghanistan for several months. Saw a couple of bullet ricochets to the face. Not enough velocity to kill, but it sure as fuck could mess a guy’s jaw up pretty good.” Rylan and Jerry flinched in unison, and Chris tightened his arm around Rylan, remorse in his tone as he said, “Aww, shit, I’m sorry, guys. I didn’t mean to be so blunt, and that was uncalled for. I know that’s your friend over there.”
They sat in silence for a minute, watching, until Jerry demanded, “What the fuck they doing to him now?”
Chris glanced over. “Stabilizing his jaw with a bandage wrapped around his chin and head. It’s kind of like a splint.”
The paramedics started an IV, and Scott was lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled to the waiting ambulance.
Rylan turned and buried his face against Chris’s bare chest. “Will you drive me to the hospital, please?”
“Of course.” He helped Rylan to his feet. “I’m over this way.”
They followed the ambulance as best they could, and when they reached the emergency room entrance, Chris dropped him off. “I need to run home and get another shirt, and I’ll bring you some sweatpants to change into. Be back in a few, okay?”
Rylan wanted to tell him he didn’t have to come back, that he could handle it, but at the moment, he wasn’t sure he could. Seeing Scott, always so larger than life, now battered and broken, made Rylan feel like he himself could shatter into a million pieces at any moment. If there was any kind of bad news to come, he selfishly didn’t want to be alone.
“Thanks,” he croaked. “I appreciate that.”
Chris nodded before roaring away. Rylan hurried through the doors into the ER, a couple of horrified gasps echoing around him.
“Sir, you okay?” asked a man sitting in one of the rows of plastic chairs, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on Rylan’s legs.
“Not my blood,” he said tersely as he strode to the admitting window. A few minutes later, he was ensconced in a plastic chair of his own, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Wait. Of course he had to wait.
“Rylan, baby!” An unmistakable voice, and Rylan looked up to see Teena—no, there was no trace of Teena in the man who rushed toward him, no sparkly dress or fabulous makeup, no badass attitude or snarky words. Just a friend wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and a terrified expression on his face.
“Hey,” Rylan said, accepting Minh’s fervent hug with gratitude. “There’s no word,” he said, forestalling the anxious questions he could see welling up on Minh’s lips. “I’ve asked a couple of times, and the receptionist lady won’t tell me anything.”
“Well, I’ll get that bitch to tell me some-mahfuckin’-thing,” Minh snarled, and before Rylan could stop him, he’d headed toward the admitting window. Some loud words and wild gesticulations later, Minh slunk back, looking abashed.
“That lady don’t give no fucks,” he muttered, and Rylan huffed out a mirthless laugh.
“Yeah, I’m sure she’s used to shutting down hysterical people in her waiting room,” he said drily. “Which is why I’m just sitting here staring at nothing!” His voice rose in spite of himself, and Minh slid an arm around his shoulders.
“Hush now,” he soothed. “Scotty’s tough, and that man been through way worse things than a lil’ ol’ punch to the face.” His tone held a determined cheerfulness, and Rylan heaved a ragged sigh just as Minh dropped his arm and sat back, his eyes narrowed.
“Y’all way more to each other than just ‘old friends,’” he said, “which is all Scotty will tell me about you.”
Rylan stood and stretched, wincing as his lower back and ass protested the hard plastic they’d been subjected to for the last half hour. “Would you believe we’re stepbrothers? His mom married my dad when we were teenagers.”
“Get the fuck out,” Minh sputtered, a look of utter shock on his face. “Really?”
Rylan told him the CliffsNotes version of their relationship, leaving out Heather’s final revelations, saying only, “His mom pretty much drove him away, and I hadn’t seen or heard from him in six years when I ran into him at Pride…oh Jesus, was it only three days ago?” Three days that seemed like a lifetime already.
“Were y’all in love?” Minh asked with characteristic bluntness. “’Cause there’s way more here than just family bonding.”
Rylan looked at him. “I was, yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Or at least as much as a sixteen-year-old boy can be. We’d started sleeping together at the end there, so there was a lot going on that we didn’t get a chance to figure out. Not before he—”
Minh nodded his understanding, and Rylan went on, his voice tentative, “How long have you known him?”
“Five years.”
“Can you tell me—”
“No.” Minh’s face was implacable, although his tone was gentle. “That isn’t my story to tell, baby. If he wants you to know, he’ll be the one to say it. Aiight?”
Rylan sat back down in the chair. “Fair enough. I’m so glad he had you for a friend―”
“Hey.” Minh put his arm around him again. “I’d die for Scotty, and he for me. But we’ve never been in love, never crossed our minds to try for anything like that.” He gazed up at the ceiling for a moment, as if debating with himself. “He told me one night, a long time ago, that there’d been a boy once. A sweet, kind boy who made him believe there’s good people in the world, even when he’s surrounded by nothing but ugliness.”
Rylan scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, holding back a sob.
“I had a feeling that boy was you, from the first moment I saw you with him.”
Before Rylan could reply, the hydraulic front doors whooshed open, and Chris walked into the waiting room, his eyes lighting on Rylan. “Hey, any word?”
Rylan shook his head. Chris handed him a plastic bag, saying, “Clean pants in there. Hope they fit.” He eyed Minh curiously.
Rylan introduced them before heading toward the bathroom. “I’ll run put these on. Thanks, Chris.”
When he emerged dressed in the sweatpants, Chris and Minh were deep in conversation. He stuffed his bloody jeans into his backpack and rejoined them.
“I bet that fuckin’ Lance did it,” Minh was saying. “He was talking so much trash about Scotty, like he hated him.”
“Is he the tall guy with blond hair and lots of tattoos?” Chris asked.
Minh scowled. “Yeah, that’s the fucker.”
“The police were questioning him when I ran back by the club a few minutes ago. I accidentally left my phone on the bar when all the excitement happened,” he explained to Rylan, “so I stopped by to see if it was still there.”
Rylan was mystified. “The police were talking to Lance? When I walked past him a couple of minutes before I heard that lady screaming, he was talking and laughing with his friends. I can’t believe he’d have had time to run out, hurt Scott literally a minute before that, and be back inside drinking as if nothing happened.”
Minh shrugged. “If he’s crazy, he ain’t rational, man. I still think it’s him.”
“Well, who else would have had motivation to hurt Scott?”
Minh got up to pace. “Depends on the day and who you ask. Lots of people got beef with him.”
“I’d hate to fuck up my one good arm breaking that pretty face of his, but I will if he hurts you.” Rylan flinched as he thought of Val’s fierce words of a few days ago…Val, who was as gentle and peace-loving as they come.
“Sounds like he creates a lot of strong feelings in people,” Chris observed unnecessarily.
“Understatement, my man. Understatement.” Minh stopped pacing and collapsed in one of the chairs, sprawling there with a disgusted sigh.
“Well, I don’t think Lance did it just based on the timing, but that’s for the police to figure out,” Rylan said wearily.
“Yeah, nothing we can do on that end. Maybe Scotty can say who did it when he wakes up.”
If he wakes up. Rylan slumped, and Chris took his hand, rubbing his thumb over Rylan’s wrist. “Is there anything you need?” he asked. Before Rylan could reply, the door leading back to the treatment rooms squeaked open.
“Anyone here for a Mr. Ashworth?” a woman dressed in scrubs called. “Scott Ashworth?”
Rylan jumped up and, with Minh at his side, hurried to her. “I am. We are.”
The nurse looked them over. “Only one of you is allowed back at a time.”
Rylan touched Minh’s shoulder. “You go. You know him best.”
“Maybe.” Minh backed away, toward the chairs. “But you’re the one he needs.” He made a shooing motion. “Go on now.”
The nurse turned to lead the way, and, with a grateful glance back at Minh, Rylan followed. There were lots of noise and murmured conversations going on in each emergency bay as they passed, machines beeping stridently, a few groans of pain.
At last, they reached a room set off to the side near the back, and the nurse whisked back the ugly paisley curtain surrounding it. “Mr. Ashworth is in here. He’s got a lot of painkillers on board at the moment, but he’s semi-awake. Dr. Parnell will be in as soon as he can to talk to you.” She swished away.
“Scott!” Rylan ran to the side of the bed and tried not to gasp in horror. Scott’s face was hideously bruised, his eyes already blackening. Blood was caked around his nostrils and the corners of his mouth, and his jaw looked—weird, sort of lopsided, despite the bandages wrapped around his chin and the top of his head to hold things in place. No sign of a breathing tube anymore, thank fuck.
“Hey,” Scott slurred, and a thin ribbon of bloody drool trickled out to dampen the bandage at his chin. “Ryl—”
“Shhh. Don’t try to talk.” Rylan hooked a nearby chair with his foot and dragged it next to the bed before sitting down on it and reaching for one of Scott’s hands to thread their fingers together. “I’m here. Minh’s in the waiting room, too, if you want to see him later.”
Scott blinked woozily in acknowledgment, and for the next twenty minutes or so, Rylan sat holding his hand, watching him doze in and out. The curtain being yanked back startled him, and he turned to see a harried-looking, bald man in a white coat standing there.
“Hi. I’m Dr. Parnell,” the man said, holding his hand out for Rylan to shake. After the introductions were over, Dr. Parnell walked over to the bedside and peered down at a sleeping Scott, lifting one and then the other eyelid gently to check his pupils with a small light.
“How is he?” Rylan could hear how husky his voice sounded, and he cleared his throat.
“Probable concussion,” the doctor said, “but the good news is, testing shows no evidence of a skull fracture.”
Rylan blew out a breath of relief. “Thank God. The cut on his head?”
“Twenty stitches,” was the reply, and Rylan winced. “However,” Dr. Parnell went on, “he does have a jaw fracture that will most likely require surgery.”
“What—” Rylan squeezed Scott’s hand when he noticed he was awake again and listening. “What type of surgery?”
“A maxillofacial surgeon will have to make that determination, and we have a call out for a consult, which probably won’t be until sometime tomorrow. But basically, like with any other broken bone, the fracture needs to be realigned and fixed in place so it can heal.”
Scott made a sort of incoherent mumbling sound, and Rylan asked, “You can’t put a cast over his face, so what are you talking about? Wiring his jaw shut?”
Dr. Parnell nodded. “Yes. Depending on what the surgeon says. Maybe a plate and screws as well.”
Scott moaned, and Rylan rubbed his chest soothingly. “The thing is, he’s—uh, he’s a model and—”
“Ah, I see.” Dr. Parnell gathered up his charts. “Well, the swelling and bruising look scary now, but there aren’t any deep facial lacerations. The scar on his head will be covered by his hair once it grows back. We had to shave that area, of course, to reach the wound and stitch it.”
Scott closed his eyes as if in pain, and the doctor said, his tone sympathetic, “The surgeon will be able to answer the more definitive questions you have about the reduction procedure and healing time. Right now, just get some rest. We’ll have you moved up to a room as soon as possible.”
Then he was gone.
When Scott opened his eyes again, they were swimming with tears. Rylan wiped them away with his thumbs, whispering, “Hey, you’re going to be okay. It’s okay.” Then he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on the tip of Scott’s nose. “I’m not going anywhere. Minh’s here, too, and I bet by now all your friends are out there waiting to see you.”
Scott didn’t—couldn’t—answer, and Rylan just sat with him until he drifted off to sleep once again. A passing nurse poked her head in and said a room should be ready for him within the next hour, so Rylan stood and stretched, intending to head back to the waiting room to fill Minh and the others in.
When he pushed through the doors, he expected to see the plastic chairs crowded with people anxiously hoping for word, and he gaped in disbelief. Minh was still there, slumped with his head against the wall as he tried to doze. Patients were scattered throughout as they waited to be seen, but other than that—no one. Even Chris was nowhere in sight.
Rylan strode over and shook Minh’s shoulder. “Hey,” he hissed. “Where is everyone?” Minh sat up with a start.
“Who? Your friend had to take off, but he said for you to call him anytime if you need anything.”
Rylan gestured around the half-empty room. “All Scott’s friends! Corey? Simon? Anyone?”
Minh blinked at him.
“Has anyone at least called?”
Minh fished his phone out of his pocket and glanced at it. “No.”
“Shit.” Rylan clutched his hair. “I can’t believe this! No one at the club has bothered to check on him?”
The words hadn’t even left his mouth when Minh’s phone rang, and he held a finger up to shush Rylan as he answered it. “Hey, boss.”
Rylan felt some of his anger drain away when he realized it was Corey, tensing again when Minh’s face tightened at whatever he was saying.
“No, I haven’t seen him yet. He’s still in the ER with no visitors allowed.” A pause. “I just said I haven’t seen him, Corey. I don’t know.” Silence. “Of course I’ll call you as soon as I find out anything.”
He hung up. “That was Corey. He said he heard Scott was hit in the face and wanted to know if he’s okay, if I’d seen him yet, and how bad the damage was.”
Rylan cursed viciously, kicking at one of the plastic chairs. “Son of a bitch! All he’s really worried about is the MC₂ gig, isn’t he? You can tell him that Scott has a broken jaw, extensive facial bruising, and a concussion.” He kicked the chair again. “But he’s alive, and he’s going to make a full recovery, which is all that should really matter, right? Right? Fuck MC₂! Fuck Corey!”
“Baby doll.” Minh stood up and wrapped his arm around Rylan’s shoulder. “Let’s go outside and calm down. There are children present.”
Indeed, a few mothers with blanket-wrapped children on their laps were glaring at him, and Rylan flapped his hand at them in apology as he let Minh lead him through the front doors and out onto the sidewalk. The sky was just starting to lighten with a pinkish glow, and Rylan had the inane thought that he wished he had his camera right then. Camera! He patted his shoulder frantically, realizing the weight of his backpack wasn’t there, and spun around to rush back inside. His entire future was in that—
“Easy, Ry. Chris took your backpack home,” Minh said, correctly interpreting what the problem was. “He told me he’s a photographer too, and that he’ll keep it safe for you, okay? So you don’t have to worry about it while you’re here.” His face filled with apprehension. “Shouldn’t I have let him take it?”
Rylan collapsed against the wall in abject relief, his knees shaky. “No, that’s good. Oh, my God. Jesus fuck. I never gave a thought to it once the nurse called me back. Fuck me.”
Minh smiled with relief. “He also said it’d give you a reason to call him.” He raised an eyebrow. “He’s cute, and he likes you.”
Rylan was still reeling over the close call with his most prized possession. “Yeah, and I like him, too,” he said distractedly. “He’s taking an interest in my work.”
“Hmm, I just bet he is.” Minh snorted. “Taking a big interest in your cute little ass—I mean, your ‘work.’”
“Minh—”
“Sorry, too soon.” Minh held his hands up. “Just trying to lighten the mood. I joke around way too much when I’m upset.” He put his shoulder against the wall facing Rylan. “So tell me what’s up with Scotty.”
Rylan relayed exactly what the doctor had said, and Minh grimaced. “Poor bastard. He’s got himself in a pickle this time ’cause no way will he be healed in time for Miami.”
“Someone knew exactly how to hurt him the most, didn’t they?” Rylan wanted to punch the wall in his anger and frustration.
“Yeah. And I think you’re right about Lance not having time to do it, unless he had someone do it for him.”
“Maybe it was just a random thing, you know, someone trying to rob him or carjack him? Got scared when the woman with the dog walked by.”
Minh gazed up into the predawn sky, his eyes distant as he thought it over. “Yeah, maybe. One of those fuckin’ wrong place and wrong time things.” He sighed. “It’s just—Scotty paid his dues, and it was time for something good to happen. You know? The MC₂ gig, it wasn’t just important to Corey, Rylan.”
Rylan tilted his head back against the brick. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know it was important to Scott too. It’s not fair.”
Minh didn’t say anything more, so they stood together side by side, watching the sun come up, until Minh at last pushed away from the wall. “Gonna go in and see him, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. I’ll try to find us some coffee while you’re gone.”
There was a coffee cart just opening up nearby, and Rylan pulled out his wallet, chagrined to realize he was down to his last twenty dollars. Shit. He purchased two black coffees anyway and headed inside to wait for Minh.
His coffee was almost gone by the time the doors leading back to the treatment bays hissed open and Minh came out, face drawn. Rylan handed him his cup, and Minh took it, slumping down in the chair next to him.
“Shit,” he whispered, lips trembling a little. “Dude is messed the fuck up, ain’t he?”
Rylan didn’t see the need to answer, and so they sat there in silence until Minh stood up once more. “I need to head home, get some sleep. There isn’t anything more I can do for him tonight, and I’m ’bout dead on my feet.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Rylan admitted. “Would you mind dropping me at my place? I’m actually not far from here.”
“’Course not.”
As he got out of Minh’s little compact a few minutes later, Rylan said, “I’ll call the hospital in a couple hours and check on him, probably head back over there later this morning.”
“’Kay. And keep me posted, baby.”
Rylan kissed his cheek, and with a tired wave, trudged up to his apartment. He stripped out of his clothes and climbed into the hottest shower he could stand, the water turning a rusty brown as the blood caked on his knees and arms rinsed away. A lump rose up in Rylan’s throat.
Jesus Christ.
Scott must have been so scared to wake up in the emergency room—in pain, confused, jacked up on painkillers and surrounded by strangers. Did he know who had done this to him? Was it a friend, a former lover? Someone he’d once trusted?
The memory of the empty waiting room made Rylan shake with renewed anger. Scott’s life was chock-full of people who endlessly clamored for a piece of him, yet they couldn’t be bothered to stick around at the first sign of unpleasantness.
Party people just here for the party.
But now the party was over.
* * *
“Okay, Scott, this is what’s going to happen.”
The surgeon pulled Scott’s hospital table close and propped an iPad on it, displaying a set of digital X-rays.
“Your lower jaw is fractured here.” His finger moved over the spot, pointing out the clear fracture line in the glowing white bone of the X-ray.
Scott swallowed against his nausea as he stared at the images, images of his fucking broken face.
“The break is consistent with a blow from a blunt object. The good news is that it’s a simple fracture, which means a clean break with no bone fragmentation. We also consider it ‘favorable,’ in that the pressure from your facial muscles isn’t pulling the fracture farther apart.”
Rylan squeezed his fingers, yanking Scott’s attention to him. He looked tired and drawn, his hair was messy and his glasses smudged, but to Scott he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Because he was here. And he cared.
“So no bone fragmentation means no surgery?” Rylan was asking, and the surgeon tapped his stylus on the table.
“Well, there’s no reason we can’t go with the more conservative approach here, which is realigning your jaw before wiring it in place while it heals. We’d place what’re called arch bars along the gum line and then use a combination of wires and dental elastics to keep everything fixed while the bones set.”
“How long would he have to wear them?”
“A few weeks at least,” the surgeon said, and Scott couldn’t help the pained grunt that escaped at the thought. Rylan rubbed his wrist soothingly with his thumb.
“What are the other options?” he asked, glancing at Scott as he spoke.
“There’s rigid internal fixation, which means an incision in the gums and/or jawline, with the placement of plates and screws—”
“No!” Scott forced out, wanting to moan from the agony the movement invoked. He took a deep breath through his nose, trying to keep still.
“I was going to say, the type of fracture you have doesn’t even warrant that kind of repair.” The surgeon closed his iPad and sat back. “I understand you’re a model.”
“Mmm,” Scott hummed in the affirmative.
“Living with the wiring won’t be pleasant, but it’s the less invasive approach.”
The surgeon launched into a detailed listing of what to expect with the fixation procedure and the aftermath. Scott listened with half an ear, his drugged mind swirling with an overload of memories and sensations.
First Rylan in his arms. Next a warm, orange-scented night. Then…nothing. Not until he woke up at the hospital in an explosion of pain, his cheek throbbing, jackhammers pounding inside his head, and panic setting in as he realized his teeth didn’t meet up right. That things were off, were skewed. That it was his face.
“Once everything is well and truly aligned again,” the surgeon was saying, “your pain relief will be remarkable.” He stood up. “All right. You’re supposed to be released this afternoon, and I’ll see you at my offices tomorrow morning. It’ll be an outpatient procedure.”
Rylan walked him out and came back in to take Scott’s hand again.
“The police are here,” he said quietly. “They want to ask you some questions. I realize it’s hard to talk, but they don’t want to let too much more time go by before finding out what you know. When they’re gone, you can sleep.”
Scott blinked his assent, and Rylan went to the door to beckon a man and woman inside before introducing them as detectives with the violent crimes unit.
“Timothy Johnston, stage name Lance Stone, has an alibi for the entire night,” the woman said right off the bat. “He’s been brought up several times as a person of interest, but independent witnesses have corroborated his story of not leaving the club at any time until after you were injured. We’ve ruled him out as a suspect in your assault.”
“Yeah,” Scott croaked. “Not his style—anyway. He prefers—” He paused and took a deep breath, pushing the pain back. “—to trash me on social media.”
“Anyone else come to mind that might want to hurt you?” she asked, glancing down at a small spiral notebook in her hand.
Scott shook his head slightly. “Can’t think of—anyone,” he slurred. “Might have been—random.”
The male detective nodded. “You were alone in a dark parking lot, getting into a nice car. It’s possible it was a carjacking gone wrong.”
“Did you find any sort of weapon at the scene?” Rylan asked.
“Yes.” The woman flipped back a few pages in her book. “A small aluminum bat was found in an alleyway about a block away. The employees at the club ID’d it as a bat the—I guess the drag queens?—keep at the ticket booth in case of unruly customers.”
“No one saw anyone take it, or even knew it was missing,” the man added.
“They stop accepting cover charges at—one thirty a.m.,” Scott said, wincing as the elephant he could swear was standing on his face started kicking him again. “Club closes at three.”
“So the booth is unattended after one thirty?” the man asked, and Scott forced himself to nod once.
“And I’ve seen them forget—to lock the door to it.”
“That’s helpful information. Well, call us if you think of anything else,” the woman said. She pulled a slim case out of the pocket of her black jeans and extracted a card before writing something on it and handing it to Rylan. “Your case number is on the back, so just refer to that number when calling.”
They left with a perfunctory wish for Scott’s speedy recovery, and then he and Rylan were alone.
“You want to take a nap?” Rylan asked.
“Not—really.”
Rylan snapped his fingers as if remembering something. “Hey, wanna see the pictures I took of you last night, before we…you know? I’m so glad I emailed them to myself from my camera right after I took them, since I didn’t have my backpack when I wanted to edit them first thing this morning.”
Scott thought of that dude, Chris whatever, stopping by earlier to drop Rylan’s backpack off to him, the two of them standing together just outside Scott’s room. When he remembered the way Chris looked at Rylan, smiled at him, Scott’s gut roiled anew with jealousy. That was the type of man Rylan needed. A nice man. A kind man who would care about Rylan the way he deserved.
Scott pushed the thought away and grunted his answer to the question about pictures. “Yeah.”
Rylan perched on the bed next to Scott’s hip, his phone in hand. “I put the pictures in my cloud so I can look at them whenever I want. They turned out gorgeous, if I do say so myself.” He winked. “I had a good subject.”
He swiped his finger across the screen before handing the phone to Scott. “There’s about five of them.”
Scott stared at the first photo, which showed him on the couch, his eyes slumberous, a private smile on his lips as he gazed into the lens. He remembered that moment, of Rylan whispering his name and touching him gently to pull him out of his light doze.
Rylan had filtered the background so it looked dark and rich, the worn-leather couch a warm blur under Scott’s body. The photo was cropped right above the waistband of his low-slung underwear, giving the impression that he was naked as he caught sight of his lover coming back to bed…
The next one was him giving a sensual stretch, his back arched and hips lifted, head thrown back, almost as if he was in the throes of ecstasy. Then the pictures taken from above while Rylan knelt between his sprawled legs, Scott’s fingertips flirting with his waistband as he bit his lip, his eyes dark with the promise of pleasure.
“Oh, Ry,” he rasped. “These are so—”
They were so much more than showcasing a pretty face or hot body… They were intimate and warm and sexy, like the camera and subject were making love to each other.
“Whenever I think of our nights together as kids,” Rylan whispered, “this is exactly how I remember you. The way you used to look at me—”
Before I fucked everything up. Tears rushed to Scott’s eyes, and he determinedly blinked them back, but not before Rylan misunderstood.
“You heard the surgeon, right? Once the bruising and swelling go away, you’ll look good as new. No permanent damage.”
No permanent damage? Oh, baby, you’re so wrong…
“You’re going to be fine, Scott,” Rylan went on, his voice hoarse. “I know you will.” He leaned down to feather his warm lips over Scott’s chapped ones, slipping off the bed to sit in his chair again.
Scott drifted to sleep before his painkillers could loosen his tongue, Rylan’s fingers firmly entwined with his.