Bad Habit Page 3

  “Beach?”

  Before Liam had time to answer, the crowd pushed into the treatment bay.

  Was Scott friends with the victim? Was he there now?

  Liam charged in behind, but none of them had dark brown hair, darker eyes, and a ready snarl on full lips. He caught a glimpse of their patient, who now reclined on the bed like a Roman emperor, the similarity reinforced by the way his friends hovered like attendants.

  Kishori’s voice was clipped but polite. “If you insist on declining intravenous fluids, you need to sign this refusal form.”

  One of the new arrivals, the man built like a pro linebacker, intercepted the clipboard before Kishori could hand it to the patient.

  Liam took as deep a breath as he could through one nostril and started on crowd control. He slipped in between two of the five men—did they travel in a group in case of random volleyball games?—and turned to face them. Being blood-spattered had usually given him some authority as an Army medic. Maybe it would have an effect on these guys. “I know you’re concerned about your friend, but you need to give us a little room to work.” He bit back a grimace at the nasal whine in his voice.

  A short redhead in a tight blue T-shirt rolled his eyes and started helping. “The man’s right. Let’s hit the waiting room. Want to show me where that is?” The redhead pinned Liam with a stare. There were only three welded-to-the-wall plastic chairs near the desk, but there was a lobby in the administration offices that shared the building.

  Liam led them to the staff-only door. “Through here. I’ll come tell you when he’s finished.” A look over his shoulder showed that the big guy was still hovering around the patient.

  When Liam went back to urge him out, he found the redhead still at his elbow. “Officer Donnigan. Baltimore County Police.” He flipped open a badge and then put it away in his back pocket. “I want to talk to you about your bloody nose.”

  “It’ll have to wait until after I see to my patient.”

  The policeman gave a nod. “I’ll wait.”

  Kishori was swabbing Beauchamp’s arm for the IV, the big guy looming behind her. Her braid had slipped out of its bun and hung over her shoulder. “Make a fist for me, please.” She looked up as they came back. “Officer Donnigan, would you please ask Mr. Fonoti to step aside for a moment.”

  The policeman choked off a sound that sounded like a laugh. “Sure thing. Mr. Fonoti?” He smirked as the big man stepped out and followed him toward the desk.

  Beauchamp gritted his teeth as the needle slid in. “I really don’t mind him staying, ma’am. After all, he got me to take your advice on sticking that needle in me.”

  Kishori leaned over. “Mr. Beauchamp—”

  “Call me Beach, please.”

  “—do you feel safe at home?” she finished.

  He blinked, blue eyes wide behind long lashes. “Safe?”

  “Yes. Does anyone hurt you or make you feel that they will?”

  “Uh… not—” Beauchamp stammered, looking down. “No. Ah, to tell you the truth, I’m safer than I’ve ever been.” His cheeks had a hint of a flush.

  Liam had already picked out at least three of the guys as gay. Now some other stuff fell into place. He glanced down at a leather cuff on Beauchamp’s wrist, its mate clutched in his fingers. Kishori must have had him take it off for the IV. Liam didn’t get all that leather and bondage stuff, but there was no reason to make Beauchamp sweat about it. Beauchamp saw the direction of Liam’s gaze and made an appeal with blinked eyes.

  Liam nodded. “I’ll tell the officer your friend can come back in, then.”

  Beauchamp sighed with relief. “Thank you.”

  Liam found himself alone with the cop when Beauchamp’s boyfriend rushed past them to get back to his bedside.

  “You going to tell me about your bloody nose now?”

  Liam shrugged. “There was a crowd. It happens. No big deal.”

  The cop grunted in disbelief. “Maybe. But a lot of witnesses might say someone aimed right at you.”

  Liam met the guy’s gaze and gave him the nothing-to-hide half smile that had worked on social workers and judges and lieutenants. Though it probably was less effective with the bloodstains. “I didn’t see anything like that.”

  “Anything like what?”

  “Whatever hit me.”

  The cop scrubbed at his face. “You two are peas in a pod.”

  Liam’s skin prickled with awareness. Donnigan meant Scott. Did he know Scott?

  The kickstart to Liam’s circulatory system made his nose throb with pain. “Us two?”

  “Something you want to add?”

  “No, Officer.”

  “So you don’t know what hit you. You interested in finding out?”

  “No.”

  “‘I don’t know what hit me’ is your official statement?”

  Liam hadn’t done multiple rounds with the social welfare system and not learned a few things. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Fuck no. Psychiatrist, maybe.” The cop turned and slammed through the door to the administration side of the building.

  LIAM BRACED a hand against the dash as Kishori parked the Gator back in its slot behind their building. They’d delivered a rehydrated David Beauchamp and stern boyfriend to Gate 4. Over the stink of exhaust from the Gator, Liam’s one working nostril delivered a dose of cigarette smoke. The hair on his arms stood up. There was no reason it had to be Scott—probably half the people at the car show smoked. But Liam knew he was here.

  He went inside with Kishori but grabbed his afternoon energy drink from the fridge and waved it at her. “Taking five outside if you need me.”

  Liam tapped the top of the can and pulled the tab as he stepped out. Cigarette smoke hung in the hot air. Scott sat on top of the broken picnic table out back, Doc Martens on the seat, muddy jeans ripped at the knees, puffing away like he waited for Liam there every day.

  Oily doubt twisted Liam’s stomach, self-consciousness robbing him of the coordination he’d spent five thousand hours of physical therapy to regain. He should have worn jeans. Except it was the third ninety-plus day in a row, and he’d never given a shit if people saw his prosthesis before.

  None of those people had been Scott.

  Liam forced himself to take a long drink from his can of Brooks Blast before making his stiff, halting way across the baked-dry grass and powdery dirt.

  As Liam reached the picnic table, Scott leaned back and took a long inhale, then blew the smoke off to his left.

  He pointed the cigarette at the can in Liam’s hand. “Don’t you know those things will kill you?”

  Laughter and tears fought for space in Liam’s throat. Jesus. Scott. Liam had missed him. Missed them in a thousand different ways.

  He couldn’t say that out loud, though. Not when he’d been the one to leave. Though he’d left for Scott. Because of what Liam had forced Scott to be. Liam tried to push something through his dry mouth, a word, a sound even, anything to let Scott know why.

  I’m sorry. I was scared. I was stupid. Damn, you look good.

  The only sound he could make was “Scott.”

  Scott made a disgusted sound in his throat and put the cigarette back to his lips. This time the exhaled stream came right at Liam’s face.

  “So.” Scott rested his arms on his knees. “You’ve been keeping busy, huh? Still gonna save the world?”

  “Scott.” Liam wanted to tell him everything. How losing his leg had been his own fucking fault. That he fucking knew better now. Some things you couldn’t fix. But God, how he wanted to fix this now.

  “You said that, yeah.” Scott tapped his cigarette out lightly, brushed away the end, and tucked it in the pack. “I just came to say sorry for punching you.”

  “Sorry? You admit you know the word?”

  Scott’s lips thinned. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know about”—he pointed at Liam’s prosthesis—“all that.”

  He’d missed this too. The rush and challenge of spar
ring with Scott.

  “So you’re only sorry about hitting me because I’m down a leg? Fuck you.”

  Scott’s mouth twisted, offering a glimpse of his gap-toothed smile.

  Liam pulled the gauze out of his nose. He wasn’t having this conversation honking like a goose. “Besides, not like it was the first time.” He put the gauze and the can on one of the cracked wood planks.

  Scott nodded, then pushed off the table and stood in front of Liam.

  “Wasn’t fair. You didn’t see it coming.” Shaking out his arms, Scott lifted his chin. “You get a free shot.”

  Liam stared at him.

  “One-time offer, here.” Scott made a c’mon motion with his hand. “Try not to break any teeth this time.”

  “I’m not going to hit you.”

  “Why not? I owe you one.”

  Jesus, Liam owed him so much fucking more. He’d been afraid of doing even a tentative online search for Scott after rehab, terrified of what could have happened. But he was here. Alive. Safe.

  “I don’t want to hit you.”

  “No?” Scott dipped his chin and arched a scarred, pierced brow in the infuriating superior expression Liam knew better than his own reflection.

  Liam moved, though he’d swear it wasn’t a conscious decision any more than the contraction of his heart that kept his blood moving. He grabbed Scott’s shirt and kissed him.

  Motor oil, menthol smoke, and cinnamon gum. Scott. The instant their mouths touched, the familiar jolt pulled Liam closer, reminded him how he’d never been able to get close enough.

  Scott shoved a hand between them and pushed Liam away. He staggered, then caught his balance with a hand on the table. They stood glaring at each other, Scott breathing hard in the heavy air. Scott took another step back. “What the fuck was that?”

  “Me taking my free shot. Didn’t see it coming?”

  “Crazy ratfucker.” Shaking his head, Scott sank onto the bench.

  Liam sat next to him and scooped up the can to take another drink, remembering when he’d asked Scott about his favorite insult.

  “It’s like saying the guy has a small dick, right? Because how small would your dick need to be to fuck a rat?”

  Now Scott pulled out his lighter and flipped it through his fingers, despite the swelling on his knuckles. “The fuck happened to you?”

  Liam had seen him do that same trick with a knife, knew the fluid fingers had dozens of white nicks from the learning curve. He watched the shining barrel flash in the sun. There were so many ways to answer him. Starting with why he’d run. Why he’d needed to run to something that would keep him from coming right back.

  He deliberately stretched out his right leg, the ankle joint pointing his fake foot toward the sky. Watching it always gave him the sensation of floating, disconnected from his body. His leg, but not a part of him. After two years he was used to it, except for all the times when he wasn’t.

  “I joined the circus.” He turned to see Scott’s expression. “Lion taming isn’t as easy as they make it look.”

  Scott snorted a laugh; then the lighter made the pass across his fingers again. “Yeah. Guess it’s none of my business.”

  “Army. Afghanistan. Twenty-eight months ago. I don’t like to talk about it.” But not for the reasons most people thought. Explaining that what had happened was his own fucking fault didn’t make him—or them—feel any better. Didn’t make him less maimed. Or Ross any less dead.

  Scott flicked the lighter on. “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re—I mean, they’ll pay for school now that you—” Scott exhaled in a rush. “Doctors only need a good set of hands.”

  “There are programs, if I decide I want to go back.”

  “Decide?”

  Liam finished off his Blast, trying and failing to ignore the stare that burned into the side of his head. Maybe being a doctor was all he’d ever talked about back then. But he’d earned a little time to think about it. Right?

  He stuffed the wad of gauze in the empty can and crumpled it against the bench. “How many cars do you have now, Batman?”

  “Just one. Might be selling it, though.”

  “Time for an upgrade?”

  “There is no upgrading a ’68 Mustang GT Fastback.”

  Liam gasped. “Why the hell would you sell a car you claimed was a blow job you can drive?”

  Scott swung a foot, kicking the bench. Vibrations ran up into Liam’s socket.

  “Beats selling blow jobs.”

  “Huh?” Liam lifted his foot off the bench.

  Scott pocketed his lighter. “To make rent.”

  Shit must really be bad if Scott was planning to sell his dream car.

  “I don’t have a lot, but I banked most of my service pay.”

  Scott leaped off the table. “Don’t. Jesus, Liam. Just don’t.”

  “You put me through two years of school. Kind of the least I can do.”

  Scott shook his head. “You don’t owe me shit.” A laugh that was mostly disgust made his lips curl. “Except maybe a why.”

  Fear. Guilt. It started a fresh tumble of what Liam always thought of as guilt worms wriggling in his stomach. The nights he’d felt Scott’s heart jittering under a palm pressed to his chest, even in exhausted sleep. Finding a prescription bottle full of dexies with a stranger’s name on it. Scott trying to kill himself or ending up an addict like Mom because he was working two full-time jobs to pay the bills and keep Liam in school.

  “I had to.”

  “Yeah. Read the note.” Scott relit his cigarette. “Forget I asked.”

  Admitting Liam had made a terrible mistake then—about all his mistakes—wasn’t going to fix anything now. Wasn’t going to slow the writhing bundle of worms making him nauseous.

  “Is that why you came looking for me, to ask that?” Liam picked up the crushed can.

  “Point to you, genius. Guess college wasn’t a complete waste.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. At least it gave me a chance to say this to your face: bye, Liam. Have a nice life.” Scott walked away.

  Chapter Four

  AS SOON as Scott rounded the corner of the administration building, he savagely punched the air in triumph. That was the first time ever he’d gotten the last word with Liam. His satisfaction barely lasted another five steps because no doubt about it. That had been the last, last word between them. Delivering the sneered goodbye he’d been hanging on to for years left him hollowed out. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking until some fucknugget crashed into him from behind.

  “Asshole,” the guy muttered.

  Ignoring the protest of sore knuckles, Scott tightened his fist and spun around. “What was that?”

  The guy looked like a Viking, a hulking blond a half foot taller, but he lifted his hands palms out. “Hey, man. Just watch where you’re walking.”

  “You ran into me.” Scott’s phone buzzed against his hip. A split-second hope that it was Liam distracted Scott enough that the blond ratfucker slipped away.

  Not that it could be Liam. How would he have Scott’s number?

  And no way was Scott disappointed at that.

  He dragged the phone from his pocket.

  Jamie—acting as Officer Fucking Donnigan, probably. Just what Scott needed.

  “What?” he grunted.

  “You’re fucking welcome,” Jamie snapped back.

  “For what?”

  “For starters, me keeping you from spending your weekend in holding, ya ungrateful bastard.”

  Some small-dicked Chevy driver cruised past with his idle set to overcompensatingly loud.

  “Wanna tell me where the fuck you are?” Jamie sounded more like a cop than ever. “’Cause I distinctly remember telling you to head straight home and stay out of trouble.”

  “I’m driving there right now.”

  “And I’m six foot fucking four. You want your shirt back, meet me at Gate 4.”
br />   Shit. Scott did want his shirt back. The denim was worn paper-thin, down to thread in spots, but it was soft as rabbit fur on his skin. Besides, his cigarettes were in it. The almost-empty pack he’d lifted from an unattended table on the way to talk to Liam was down to half a butt.

  Though most of the foot traffic at Gate 4 was headed out for the day, there was a mile-long line of sweaty adults and whining kids at an ice cream stand and a small herd crowding the table of a huge distributor of parts for vintage cars.

  No sign of Jamie, though despite his red hair, he was short enough to get lost in the crowd. One of the preppy guys from before was there, though. Not the one who had passed out. This guy’s clothes, light-colored shorts and a button-down shirt, were already enough to make him stand out from the T-shirt-and-jeans crowd, but something else about him set him apart even more. He had a face like a magazine model, all cheekbones and perfect wavy hair, but it wasn’t even that. There was a pocket of quiet around him, radiating from the stillness of his body. Scott had seen the same from kids in placement, the ones who survived by being invisible.

  But as Scott got closer to him, he could tell the man wasn’t scared or nervous at all. He studied everything around him, taking in the glued tips of Scott’s hair with same detached amusement as he did the leather-and-studs-wearing baby in a stroller. When the guy turned his full focus on Scott, the look felt itchy, reminding Scott of the way shrinks always tried to probe his guts with their questions.

  Scott knew how to deal with that fuckery: turn it on them. He closed the distance between them. “Hey. I’m Scott. You must be Jamie’s—”

  “I’m Gavin.” He stuck out his hand.

  Scott wanted to let the offer hang there until the guy felt stupid, but he found himself responding, bruised knuckles and all. At least Gavin didn’t feel the need to prove something with a crushing grip. It was just a normal squeeze and pressure from a dry palm that made Scott conscious of how filthy his own hand probably was. He stopped himself from biting on his thumbnail.

  This quiet stand-and-watch guy was Jamie’s boyfriend? It was enough of a shock to think of anyone putting up with the prickly bastard, let alone someone like this. The sex must be out of this fucking world. Scott couldn’t imagine they didn’t drive each other crazy once their dicks were soft.