Lost

Lost by Zoe Nichols

Phaze www.phaze.com

Copyright ©2009 by Zoe Nichols

NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Lost by Zoe Nichols

CONTENTS Lost Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven About the Author ****

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Lost by Zoe Nichols

Published by Phaze Books This is an explicit and erotic novel intended for the enjoyment of adult readers. Please keep out of the hands of children. www.Phaze.com

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Lost by Zoe Nichols

Lost A homoerotic short by ZOE NICHOLS [Back to Table of Contents]

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Lost copyright 2009 Zoe Nichols All rights reserved under the International and PanAmerican Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. A Phaze Production Phaze Books 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222 Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC. To order additional copies of this book, contact: [email protected] www.Phaze.com 6

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Cover art © 2008 Stella Price Edited by Jade Falconer eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-60659-141-3 First eBook Edition—March, 2009 Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter One "I need you to find my mother," a low, familiar voice says, and I look up from my burger to meet a pair of golden brown eyes. They're staring at me from beneath a shock of whiteblond hair and they plead. He looks like he belongs here, oddly enough. I'd thought anyone below the age of thirty would look out of place in a smoky beer-and-burger joint like this. It's more of a bar than a diner and people treat it like one. In dark booths and on stools, people are having liquid lunches instead of solid ones. Yet, decked out in worn jeans and a faded band tee and sporting some beard, he doesn't look like the twenty-fiveyear-old high school teacher's aide I know he is. I'm only about two years older but we're worlds apart mentally. I fit. It kind of makes me blink to see him. He looks like the other men slouched around here. He looks like me. The only thing different is my skin is dark brown, but color don't mean a thing in places like this. Too bad the real world isn't like that, too. I stare at him hard. "I'm not in the business of finding people anymore," I say flatly. "I know." He sits because I haven't told him to fuck off yet, and he knows me well enough to know that if I haven't said beat it in the first five seconds he's got a chance to talk me into something. Doesn't mean I'll do it. It just means he has a chance. Plus, Eric's a friend. 8

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One who, despite my efforts, means a little more than I really want him to. "Ethan, I don't have anywhere else to go," he mumbles, shoving a hand through that bright hair. It's like a beacon in the half-assed lighting. He makes a sound of exasperation when I don't say anything. "Please, Eth," he says hoarsely. "The last time I saw her, she was fucked to hell on coke and God knows what else. Now she's gone. Fucking poof. I just ... I gotta know she's okay. Maybe try and talk her into coming home." There's the light of eternal hope in those golden eyes. They're like a mirror into that bright soul, and reflexively I see myself, the exact opposite. Once upon a time, I'd been a part of an organization called Savior. A well-trained group of empaths and psychics scattered across the country, hunting down lost relatives and missing kids by using the Spark method. All life had glow, a spark that pointed them out as alive. Sometimes, the spark was weak, a sign they were dying or giving up hope of being found. Sometimes, the spark was like a glow that led us right to people. We'd had about a ninety-nine percent success rate. So when that one percent failure happened, it took us all down. That one percent was usually because we simply couldn't find them. No Spark. Nothing. The mind readers had a theory, but I never wanted to believe it. I pushed it away, hundreds of times. I'd finally walked away when the crushing guilt became too much to bear, when I'd had to deliver one too many 'I'm sorry' speeches to devastated families. Unlike Eric, I've lost my hope. My soul is likely as dark as my skin. 9

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Now, Eric, who knows damn well why I don't do this anymore, is here, asking for help. My hands fist without me wanting them to. What's worse is that I can feel his emotions. I know he doesn't want to ask me; the regret is screaming at me. But I can feel his desperation, his frantic worry over his mother. A woman I've met exactly once, back in college, and that one encounter imprinted one fact on me in blinding neon colors: she's an out and out addict. She hides it, yeah, they all do. But with someone as insignificant in her world as me? She didn't bother hiding it very well. Come to think of it, she didn't hide it from Eric very well, either. Not that he doesn't still try to help her. Says something about their relationship right there. I want to tell him that there's no point in hunting down an addict, but I can't form the words. I can't hurt him like that. He's my friend and I have so very few of them. For my sanity, mostly. Empaths don't do so well with too many people around them. All that emotion equals twenty-fourseven migraine. Right now, I'm actually shielding pretty tight. I'm only getting impressions of what people are feeling and I can deal with that. Except for Eric. No matter how hard I try, I can't block him. "Eric," I say slowly, determined to imprint the possible fruitlessness of this task. "Eric, even if I find her, your mother ... she's sick, ya know? When people reach that level of sickness, they rarely wanna come back from it." "Don't talk to me like a child," he snaps out and I straighten, my own temper igniting. He sees it but ignores it. 10

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I can feel his anger rise. "I know the fucking chances of her coming back are slim, but ... but I just gotta try, okay?" I grit my teeth and look away. That little part of me that still wants to help, that still wants to save, pokes at me. His pain is agonizing, drowning me. I slam the door on that part of me that can feel it but it's too late. I've never been able to say no to Eric, not when I first met him back in college and not now, when he needs me. I turn to him slowly, my thoughts settled but angry. "Look, I'm not promising anything, okay? But I'll try." My heart skips a beat when he nods solemnly, his eyes losing their shadow. Fuck me, he thinks I'm gonna find her. That faith is humbling and scary. But seeing it strikes a chord in me. I want to find her, just to keep that faith. Fuck me. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Two I show up at Eric's mom's house close to noon. I feel out of place in such a nice neighborhood but, at the same time, I can sense the undercurrent of filth that lies beneath it. These people may live in nice houses and have bright, pretty lawns, but they have their vices. Those vices are probably just as dangerous as the one Eric's mom has, and one day the monsters inside those people will come free, one way or another. Nobody can hide it forever. I shrug my shoulders to settle the jacket better and walk up the little cement path to the door. I lift my hand to knock and feel a shudder roll through me. It has a familiar taste, one I've bumped into before when I was working with Savior. It makes my gut twist and I have to force my hand to make contact with the wood. It tastes evil. The door whips open and Eric blinks at me with tired, red eyes. He's bare-chested and wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and some socks. He looks exhausted and some part of me wants to just stroke away the pain that trembles in him. "Hi, Ethan," he says wearily and steps back, waving an arm vaguely toward the inner parts of the house. "C'mon in." "Thanks," I say, and then tell my boots to move when they don't. The stench of something hideously wrong overtakes my senses, making my body freeze up. Eric's looking at me like I'm nuts and I can't even pretend I'm not. 12

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"Gimme a sec," I whisper, shoving my hands into my jean pockets and trying to ride out the shakes. "What's wrong?" Eric says, peering around outside and then in. "Do you feel something?" I grunt. "There's something ... wrong about this place. It feels bad. Really bad." Eric's eyes widen with panic. "Does it have to do with Mom?" I can't lie to him. "It might, Eric. It might." It takes a good five minutes before I'm able to move and by then, Eric's emotions are trying to strangle me even as the taint of evil drops on me harder. When I get in, I turn on my heel and grab him by the shoulders, pushing until his back meets the door. He's not small or slender by any means, neither am I, so he makes a solid noise when he connects— half from how hard I pushed him, half from his body just going with it. He blinks at me, so sucked into his worry that his reflexes are slowing. "What're you doing?" "You've gotta chill out," I say, even knowing how absurd the words are. "You're drowning me in panic and if you want me to figure out anything, tone that shit down." His shoulders stiffen under my hand and against my will; I note the muscles moving beneath the firm skin. My fingers itch to stroke over them and the shock of that want makes me drop my hands. Eric doesn't come after me swinging so I guess he's okay enough to talk. He's pissed now and I can't even begin to figure out why I find that hot. "Tone it down? We're talking about my mom 13

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here and you're feeling this bad shit. How do I calm that down?" Don't do it, don't do it, don't even think about it. "You think about something else." The urge is on me, stupid—no, more than stupid, sheer fucking insanity—but my palms still burn from touching him and I want to do more. It's not like I've never had the urge to before; Eric's a fucking sexy guy. But I like to keep friends and fucks separate, so I've carefully avoided thinking of Eric that way since. When you get down to it, he's one of my only friends. There's some things about him I don't know, never needed to know, but he's one of the few people I'd go out and drink with. Anytime. Selfishly, I don't want to face the evil in the house just yet, and I'd rather focus on him. So I pray that Eric takes the bait. Pray that he's mad enough to do what I want so I can pretend that I'm doing it solely for him. "Think about what?" he says, right on cue. "What could I possibly think about that will be more important than finding my mom?" I'm on him before the word 'mom' can make it into the air. I slap a hand on the wall and bury my dark hand in that bright gold hair and slant my mouth over his, shoving my tongue in rudely and just taking. His shock rolls over me and he goes dead still. My tongue slows, and for a moment I think I'm gonna get my ass kicked. I realize that I have no idea if Eric's gay or not. It's one of those things that I never cared to know about 'cause I never planned to be where I am right now. 14

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With the possibility that I'm shoving my tongue down the throat of a straight man, my friend, for that matter, I figure Eric will have the right to kick my ass. Then Eric does something that completely blindsides me. He moans and kisses me back, beard scraping my face, his hands scrambling up to fist in my jacket, and he yanks me in closer. I stumble forward until I'm pressing on him chest to thigh, and there's a definite boner pressing into my hip. He comes in close and my mind spins at the feeling of that nearly naked body pressing in close enough to imprint DNA. I grunt and get my tongue going again, rocking my hips into his, rubbing on him and wishing there was nothing there. My hands scramble down to make that true and catch on his sweats, yanking on them until his hips are bare in my palms. He rips his mouth away and mumbles something that sounds a hell of a lot like encouragement and the sound of his voice shocks me into backing up. It's both a dumb and smart move. Smart because I was a split second from fucking my friend in his missing mom's house and dumb 'cause I've pulled his sweats low enough that they're literally hanging on his cock. If it were flat, they'd fall. I can see tufts of blond hair, darker than the mane on his head, peeking up from the waistband. I want to bury my nose in them. My cock throbs in my jocks and I suck in a breath, trying to remember how to think. Eric just looks horny, mouth swelling up, hair mussed, eyes heavy and hot. He's very slow to pull his sweats back up. My mouth waters as all that tan skin gets covered again. I 15

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burn from knowing what that bare chest feels like, pressing against mine. "Ethan," he says slowly. "What was that?" "Distraction," I make myself say and even I don't believe the tremor in my voice. "Right," he says and rakes a hand through the tousled mess on his head. "We'll deal with this later." No, we won't. "Sure," I say and make myself turn away lest I jump him again. "First things first, though. Where's your mom's room? I'll start there." "What're you gonna do?" he says as he takes the lead, heading down a hall. We'd been in the sitting room (who the hell still had those?) and now I get a glimpse of a wellappointed office, a really freaking nice bathroom with a lot of marble and a big, well-lit laundry room through cracked doors. I have to remind myself that Eric's mom is a Realtorturned-coke fiend when I start to get a little envious. I live in a one bedroom apartment that ain't horrible, but it sure as hell ain't this. The successful really do live like kings in this world. And like many of the successful people in this world, Eric's mom (I really wish I remembered her name) used it to fuel her addiction. I can't imagine how she managed to control it or how she'd been able to do her job competently enough to get this house. The place feels empty and as we head up stairs, apparently closer to her room, my senses are crawling with a sense of feverish need. It's not mine, though watching Eric's ass go upstairs has me hot. No, it's hers, and the closer we get to the room, the 16

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need only gets stronger. Eric pushes a door open and we step into what must be the master bedroom. The room's pretty clean except for the bed, which is completely destroyed, and some clothes on the floor. "You didn't tell me this part," I say as I step gingerly over clothes and study the messy bed. The bed looks like a bomb hit it. It's a woman's room, with a large vanity parked next to a monster bureau; the sheets are a silky red that match the throw pillows on the floor. There's a black and red comforter that's twisted all around the bed. On the floor, there are more pillows, along with some shoes, a dress, and a dark blue blazer with a name tag attached to it that reads 'Deborah'. The name conjures up a pretty but icy blonde in my head. Eric's green eyes, teased hair and lips jammy with ChapStick and lip gloss. A memory, long since forgotten, shows up and I see her dabbling at her nose with a lacy handkerchief. When she thinks we, Eric and I, aren't looking, she checks the white fabric. We all see the blood. Yeah, that's her. The room is tainted with that sense of evil mixed with the need. It makes my stomach crawl. When I get into the large, white-on-white marble bathroom, there's a makeshift straw and what looks like powder in one of the sinks. Bending closer to make sure the powder is what I think it is, my eye catches the tiny scratches in the marble. My fingers brush over the marks. In my mind's eye, I can see her lining up the coke on the counter with a little knife. Maybe a box cutter. Shit. "Eric?" I call when I don't get an answer and turn to find Eric standing, stiff as board, in the bathroom doorway. "Well?" I prompt. 17

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"I ... I only went into her room once," he says abruptly and hugs himself. "When I saw this I just ... I couldn't think about it. It looks bad, doesn't it, Eth? Like ... like maybe she fought someone or something." I stare at the counter, at the little scratches, at the coke in the sink. The room feels heavy but not as heavy as the bedroom. This room feels like hopelessness and impurity. It brings me down so hard that I have to take a sharp breath to rid myself of the crushing depression. "It looks like something happened, yeah..." I agree slowly and flinch inside when he winces, deflating. I didn't realize until then that he'd been hoping I'd say something else. I walk toward him, fighting the feeling of self-loathing. I know it's not my fault that Deborah's gone but I hate having to be the one to confirm her son's fears. When I get up close, I reach out to do something, rub his arm, hug him, I have no idea but he turns away swiftly and I can see him, feel him trying to hide the hurt. "Can you ... can you see if there's anything in the room? Maybe something that says where she might have gone?" He doesn't look at me when I ask and, by the careful way he holds his body, I can tell he's waiting for me to say something disparaging. Instead, I walk back into the bedroom and immediately have to start breathing a little harder as the sense of darkness, of wrong, attacks me again. I walk as carefully as I can around the room, trying to decide what to touch. When it comes down to it, I'm a touch empath. My psychic skills are fairly strong, but my real hunting is best done with something in my hands. For lack of 18

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a better option, I grab up the blazer. The world goes into an immediate spin as my fingers tighten in the material and the memories in the jacket come flying into me. I feel eagerness, need, and then I'm tumbling into Deborah's mind... I'm going to take a hit the minute I get home, just snort as much as I can so I can float. The day sucks, a sale fell through, and the boss is getting worried about my nosebleeds. Fuck her, nosy ass cunt. I know what I'm doing. Fuck Eric, too, getting worried, asking me if I'm ready to go to rehab. Fuck rehab, I'm not addicted to shit. I like being high, fuck you very much. I see the house and the memories kind of blur, giving me a moment to breathe. Deborah was a very angry addict, and I only have a moment for that thought before I'm sucked back in. He's coming, he's coming, I'm so excited! I don't have enough blow to really get to where I wanna be so Zeke is coming to hook me up. Fuck yeah, and maybe he'll let me fuck him this time. I like fucking Zeke when I'm blown. It's almost magical. The memory skips again like Deborah's mind was ignoring the little details and I have a moment to notice that Eric's eyes are wide on me and that my mouth is moving before pain is shuddering through me. Deborah's pain. Oh fuck, oh fuck, he gave me bad shit. I'm sick to my stomach, vomiting in the toilet, and he tells me that it's just got something extra in it, that I need to stop being such a pussy and take it. He's right, I know he's right, I know because I puked when I snorted the first time, too. Oh, 19

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okay, stomach's empty and I'm feeling it. He says it's ecstasy, ecstasy with a little bit of LSD. Never had either, but I feel so damn good that I don't care. I float back into the bedroom and he's there, naked, hard. The memory stutters midway and fades some until I can barely see anything. I'm back and Eric stares at me. "Oh, Mom," he says and his agony washes over me. "Oh, Mom, what have you done?" I want to comfort him, but I know that kind of agony can't really be assuaged. So I move to the bed and grab some of the sheet, hoping I can give him better answers. The memories tumble over me in a rush, tainted with that evilness. Here, I think, here are the answers. God, I feel so good, so fucking good. Sex with Zeke is never bad, but it's ten times as wonderful with this new mix in me. Zeke rolls over and looks at me, smirking. He asks if I like it and I think I nod and say 'hell yeah' and he tells me that he's got another surprise. I'm all for it. Zeke has the best surprises. The bedroom door opens kinda slow and then there's another man there. Zeke tells me I don't have to pay for the drugs if I let this guy fuck me. I laugh, 'cause he's gotta be joking. I don't wanna fuck him, I tell him. I wanna fuck you or snort some more. Pain, sorta numb but surprising nonetheless, makes me blink at him. His hand is flexing and I think he might hit me again. You want any more drugs, he says, you gotta fuck him. You want me? You fuck him and you fuck whoever I tell you to. 20

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I'm pissed, but the drugs are making me too mellow to really fight. I don't wanna, I whine, why can't I keep paying you for what I what? Zeke shrugs. You don't like your job, remember? I don't remember telling him that but it's true and I say, so? You just wanna snort and fuck right? He says and I nod. Well, I'll let you snort whatever for free if you fuck him and make me some money. Then you can quit your job and work for me, he says and he nods at the guy. The stranger tugs off his belt and smiles at me. He's not ugly, I guess, and free drugs sound so good. Whatever drugs I want, I ask suspiciously. It's kinda not a bad deal. Drugs and I'll make money fucking. Whatever drugs you want, Zeke says. Okay, I say and smile at the guy. Let's do this. Whatever drugs I want. For free. Fuck yeah. **** I come out of the memory quicker this time and there's a bad taste in my mouth. The sound of footsteps, too many footsteps, echoes in my head and I shove it back, wishing I hadn't heard it. Knowing what it means. Eric hugs himself and his face is wet. But he doesn't say anything except, "So why's her room a mess? Where did she go?" I look down at the sheets, feeling nauseous. I can't tell him the rest. I won't put him through that. "Do you know a Zeke?" I say instead of answering. 21

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"Never heard of him. She's been really secretive in the last few months because I've been on her about rehab." His pain is terrible to listen to, like broken glass poured into the ears. "I guess I should have pushed harder." Screw being sensitive. I move from the bed over to him and grab hold of him, rubbing my hands up and down his arms. "It's not your fault," I say firmly. "Your mom has an addiction and only she can break it, Eric. If she doesn't want to, then she won't. You can just be there for her." He stares me straight in the eye. "I want to do more." His frustration is so strong, it's almost tangible. "I need to do more. I can't let her go like this, Ethan. I can't. I won't." I chew on my lip, then say slowly, "Have you tried just checking her in?" He snorts. "She wouldn't stay and that's if I could even get her in. Then she'd probably move so I couldn't find her. She's done it before." I cock my head and try to ignore the evil sense in the room, then give up. I can't have this conversation in this room, with Deborah's memories parading like sludge in my head. "Can we talk about this somewhere else? Your place?" He blinks. "I ... yeah, okay, let's go to my place. I stayed here, hoping she'd..." Eric's voice trails off, then turns so painfully anguished my heart hurts for him. "I just want her to come home. She's out there somewhere, being someone's whore for coke and God knows whatever else. She could be killed, Ethan." He drops his head and the breath he takes is shuddering. "I just want my mom to come back. I just want her home." 22

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He sounds so lost. What kills me is that I have nothing to say to make it better so I squeeze his shoulder again, trying to convey all my sympathy for him. "We'll get her home, Eric. I promise." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Three I follow Eric's car in my truck to his place, and the whole way I'm casting out my senses. The way Savior taught us to hunt was to treat our skills like invisible nets. You cast it out as far as you can and wait for that little spark to catch on, like fly to fly paper. Then you follow it, taking whatever path you can until that spark is a flaming beacon, pointing out whoever you were searching for. My net is out as far as I can put it. Some part of me says it's pointless. I shut it up and turn away, ignoring the heaviness in my gut. Eric clears us through the security gate and then takes us on the winding road to his apartment building. His place is a little shabbier than his mom's, as befitting someone living off a teacher's salary, but it's still better than mine. But then, mine is almost free since the landlady has me do all her maintenance work, so I don't care. Still, it's hard not to be a little envious as I check out the well-trimmed greenery, the tennis courts, and the sparkling pool. Eric's apartment is a little more comforting, though. Worn furniture, mid-size TV and, through a door that is clearly a bedroom, there's clothes on the floor. I like Eric's home far more than his mother's. He throws his keys on his kitchen counter, then wheels around to face me, waving his hand vaguely. He looks so dull and tired, all his color gone. Even his hair seems less bright. "Make yourself at home ... I'm gonna shower and change. I feel dirty 24

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after..." his voice fails and I know he's talking about witnessing me reliving Deborah's memories. Call it sixth sense. Or maybe it's the fact that he looks sick and disillusioned. He's learned a lot about his mom today, none of the kind of things you want to know about a parent. I shoo him off. "Go 'head. I'm just gonna grab a smoke outside." He nods and goes into the bathroom and I head out onto his little balcony, pulling out the battered red-and-white box from my pocket along with my lighter. Lighting up, I let myself take a few reassuring puffs before forcing myself to face the memories. I feel bad for keeping it from Eric but how did you tell a son about his mother's rape? I can still see it in my head and I watch it from a distance, as the stranger—a man Deborah never learns the name of—mounts her. I watch as Zeke slips away and Deborah gets absorbed in the sex, unaware of the sound of more feet. It'd slipped by me too for about a second since I'd been so engulfed in Deborah's head, but I'd heard it. I watch as she realizes what's happening, as belts and zippers slide down, as men climb onto her bed— hard, horny. Cruel. I watch as hands squeeze and pinch and fondle in a mockery of intimacy. I listen to bones break and the smug laugh of men who are no longer men but animals, set on pain and humiliation. It plays in my head like nightmarish background music. I watch as she screams and feel my darkened soul scream with her. I jerk away and feel my heart racing despite my attempt to stay distant. I don't have to see the rest to know what happens. 25

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Deborah is dead. Zeke and his cronies probably took her off and buried her. But how do I tell Eric that? How can I crush his faith like that? The cigarette burns to death in my hand and I flick it over the balcony then lean on the rail, staring at everything and nothing. I need a shower myself, I decide after a while, and head back inside. I'm leaning on the kitchen counter, trying to decide whether or not I should write a note before leaving when Eric comes out the bathroom. Naked. Wet and naked. Jesus. My mind simply seizes up as my gaze walks all over him, taking in the wet skin and dripping hair, turned a harsh gold with the water. Muscles gleam and flex subtly and without trying, my gaze is drawn straight to the prize between his thighs. His cock curves so it's nestled in his thigh and the nest of gold curls around it just seem to glow like an arrow. Look here. Under my gaze, it twitches. Starts to swell. My throat dries up even as my mouth waters. "Ethan?" Eric says and my gaze jerks up, leaving me feeling like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It's not like I can pretend I wasn't looking or that he's not hardening beneath my gaze. I meet his eyes and see something needy and broken. "Yeah?" He visibly shakes and I can feel his desperation, the need to not be alone. "Come in here. With me? I can't..." Eric flounders and his hands rip through the wet gold strands. The move makes muscle stand out in sharp definition and that's all it takes to get me hard and wanting. Wanting Eric. 26

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"I need to make it go away," he says, and those golden eyes are aching. "Please make it go away. What ... happened to her, it's in my head. Make it go away." I'm moving toward him without even realizing I'm doing it. I have to make it better for him, somehow. Especially with what I know. It drives me to him, that guilt, that horrible knowledge. I crowd him but he doesn't move, just lets me in close, his breath coming fast and rough. His eyes are both bright with pain and dark with shadows. A little boy stares out at me, lost and hurting. Parents who become addicts only have one victim: their children. No matter how old they are, they're still kids inside. "Get back in the shower," I say softly. "We'll wash it away." As best we can. He nods jerkily but waits until I've stripped down and am clearly going to follow before he moves. The bathroom isn't that big and neither is the shower, but we make it work so that I'm backed up against the wall. Eric is molded to the front of me, arms around my waist. It's a not quite hug that has me rubbing my hands in circles along his back, just trying to soothe. Every now and then he trembles and I can feel the hurt inside him. It's twisted around anger—at her, at Zeke— and I rub his back, trying to keep that hurt from melding totally into anger. The water is steaming up the air, turning it moist and fragrant with the scent of Eric and some soap that smells like a waterfall. He already smells clean, but I cajole him into letting me wash up. I don't tell him why I want to and he doesn't ask, but he does help. Except, seeing his hands, gold against the 27

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darkness of my flesh, makes something in me shake. The soap melts under his hands and the look in his eyes slowly darkens. "Ethan," he whispers, leaning in close enough so his breath puffs across my lips. "Please. Make it. Go. Away." I kiss him because I'm clean enough to do it now. I kiss him because he's hurting and crushed on the inside. I kiss him because I know how his mom died and I won't ever tell him. My tongue surges in to meet his and his hands skitter on my arms then slide down to my hips. I drop mine to cup his butt and lift him further into my mouth, tilting my head for a better angle and grinding against him. He groans against my mouth, tasting hot and desperate. His beard tickles some, reminding me that this definitely a guy. This is Eric. "Don't stop this time," he pants. "Don't stop." I don't think I can. I get us switched around so I'm caging him on the wall and lift him up just so. My fingers slide in between the slippery line of his ass and press hard on his hole. He grunts and spreads his legs as wide as they can go. "Fuck, Ethan," he breathes. "Oh fuck." "Yeah," I mumble, a little incoherently because I'm pressing a finger in and he's flexing around it, squeezing and flinching, and I'm losing my mind at how tight he is. His fingers brush over my cock, grab and squeeze. I hesitate, shuddering with the pleasure and he growls at me, leaning forward to kiss me hard. "Don't fucking stop." 28

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"Can't think here," I grunt back, then moan when his hand slips away. "Not fair." "Fuck fair," Eric grumbles and bears down on my finger until I slip all the way in. His eyes snap open and he makes this needy little sound that I can't quite describe because it's one of those unconsciously wanting noises that defy all description. Just know it's sexy as all hell. "Ethan. Christ," Eric hisses and in the back of my head, I note that he's a talker. "Need more, fuck, man, I need more." I work in another finger and slowly scissor them open. Eric's head thumps back, chest shoved forward, ass backed up and rocking on my fingers. "Talk to me," I growl, working them in and out. My cock throbs in time to the motion. "Tell me you like it." "Ah God," Eric pants. "Fuck, I like it. Damn. I like it." "Where's the shit?" I ask to keep from grinning, breath hitching as Eric fucks himself on my fingers. It's the most sensual experience I think I've ever had. The smell of him, twined with the smell of sex and need is getting to me, bad. I need in. "N ... Ni ... Nightstand," he gasps out. "Lube. Nightstand." "Condoms?" He grunts. The sound is disappointed. "Out." My mind slips when he squeezes and I have to slide my fingers out to think. He moans his protest but I shush him when I remember the just-in-case condom in my wallet. I can't remember the last just-in-case moment I had, but I'm a 29

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cautious guy, period. I'm in and out of the shower in a minute or two, condom on and a small bottle in my hand. Eric opens his eyes when the shower door slides shut and he watches me grease up, my back to the water. It seems a little ridiculous to use lube with water right behind us, but I want Eric to experience as little pain as possible. He's already suffering so much. He turns at my spinning gesture but not before crowding up close and kissing me hard, tongue filling my mouth with something close to a thank you. Then he turns and that muscled ass is front and center. I press my fingers between his cheeks again, pulling them open so his hole winks at me. He hisses when I brush my cock over it and growls something mean when I do it twice. "Ethan, stop fucking teas ... oh." The last is 'cause I'm pushing in slow, watching his ass take in inch after inch. I'm not all that long, but I am pretty thick. I watch him stretch wider and wider, that golden ass just sucking in my thick brown length, and damn if I don't get harder. He groans the minute I slide in all the way. The sound echoes and rolls through the tiny bathroom, reverberating through me. I savor the feel of him, hot and tight around me, before sliding back out slow, watching my cock reappear. His fingers make a squeaking scratchy noise as they slide on the tiled wall and I smile at his grunt. Then I'm rocking back in, setting up a rhythm that works itself into a pounding. He pushes back, taking it, squeezing, flexing. Above the sound of the 30

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water, I hear the fleshy sound of him pumping his cock and he talks the entire time. "Fuck, oh God, so good, so good," he pants as I slam into him, holding his hips and snapping mine back and forth. The feel of him is mind-blowing, perfect. The sight of my hands, big and dark on all that gold skin, gets me. Mine, I think. He's mine now. I can't imagine walking away from this, can't imagine going back to treating Eric like a friend. Can't. Won't. I grind into him and reach around to squeeze his cock. He swears, blowing off hard against the tile. His ass clamps down like the perfect vise and I can feel the orgasm rippling up my spine and through my cock. The world goes a little gray around the edges and I can hear myself panting. When I slip free, my knees wobble and I collapse against Eric, one hand braced against the wall, the other flat on his belly. He slumps against the wall and shudders before twisting around to kiss my cheek. His face is wet and I'm not sure if it's from the water or from his emotions but he smiles for me. A small, broken but very much there smile. That's all that matters. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Four I have to tell him. Seventy-two hours have passed and Deborah has not shown up. I think some part of me wanted Deborah to not be dead, for me to be wrong. But I have felt no blip on my mental net and though we've been through Deborah's house over and over, trying to find more clues, I have nothing. Nothing except the news that she's gone. Eric is slowly losing his faith. He calls her cell everyday and leaves a voicemail each time. Soon, his soul will be as dark as mine. I find that idea horrific, and on the fourth day I sit him down. He looks at me with hope in his eyes and that look is so similar to the ones I'd seen when I was working with Savior. The look of blind hope, the one that says they just need something to get them through the long wait. So unsure if we'll deliver in the end, but praying anyway. I light a cigarette and swallow hard as I form the words. I take it back. Telling strangers that we can't find their little girl is so much easier than telling this man, this man who makes me feel a little less dark on the inside, that his mother is dead. But I have to. I brace my legs apart and let my hands dangle between them. Smoke trails around me thinly and I know I shouldn't be smoking in his apartment but I'm too freaked to not have something to distract me. Killing my lungs slowly with nicotine seems like a good enough distraction. "Eric," I begin when the silence starts to 32

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feel heavy with Eric's apprehensive worry. "I haven't been completely honest with you." He rears back and eyes me warily. I'd expected him to be angry but wary makes me wonder. "What do you mean? Have you heard something about Mom?" "Kinda." Just say it. Tiptoeing around it will just piss him off in the end. And hurt so much more. "Eric, back at the house, when I was reliving her memories? I saw more than what I said but it was ... it was difficult, man. Really fucking difficult." "So what else ... happened?" His voice is slowing and the light in his eyes is flickering like a candle taking umbrage from the wind. "She was gang-raped." The words come out tight and brisk. I start to distance myself like I was once trained to do so I won't get swamped with the dark anguish that always came at the end of hope, but then I stop. Eric's gonna need support with this and damn it, I don't want him to suffer alone. It might not be our fault in the end, but she had no one else to grieve for her. I wouldn't let Eric be alone in it. "Zeke, her dealer, had her new 'clients' come in all at once. That's why her room was a mess. They were rough. Brutal," I say and memories flicker behind my eyelids. They're burned there and I've been seeing them in my nightmares. I'm sure I will for many years to come. Eric goes statue still. The only thing moving is the pulse in his throat and it's ragged. Then he licks his lips and says so softly I have to lean forward to hear him, "Is she..." 33

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I nod, once. "I'm sorry, Eric. There's just no way her body could withstand five," My voice falters when he flinches. "Five men beating on her, hurting her." Defiling her. I take a breath. Hold it. "I heard bones break. If nobody helped her, if they just let her suffer.... "The sound he makes is pain at its rawest. I can't look at him. "I'm pretty sure she's ... gone." I draw hard on the cigarette. "I don't sense her, anywhere in the city." "Sense her?" I explain the Spark method to him and he nods dully. "I see." That's it. The glow in his eyes dies and he drops his head back, breathing rough. I let the silence fall, smoking my cig and brooding. His emotions have retreated and all I get is a blank numbness. It panics me somewhat and that's surprising. On the whole, I keep myself tightly locked off from people or else I'm overwhelmed. With Eric, I've been keeping myself subconsciously open, taking his emotional punches they came. Without them, I feel cut adrift. I start thinking that I should leave when he straightens abruptly. "That Spark thing works with everyone right?" I nod. "Can you sense Zeke then?" I frown at him. "I could probably, yeah. Why?" Eric's eyes gleam with something too dark to name. "I want you to put out his spark." My mouth drops open. "You want me to kill him?" 34

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Eric nods rapidly. "Yeah. Just put it out like a candle. You can do that, can't you?" I flex my jaw. "I'm not the strongest mentalist, but if I focused enough I could probably take him out." I pause. Take a breath. "But I won't." That's when Eric reacts the way I expected him to. "Why the fuck not?" he explodes, jerking to his feet. "Huh? Why not? He fucking killed my mom. He deserves to die, the murdering fucking bastard." I squeeze my eyes shut, then snap them open to glare at him. "I'm not a murderer." "But you saw what he did!" Eric roars. All his anger comes pouring out and knocks me back on the couch, makes my lungs hurt as I suck in air. "Damn it, damn it, damn it," Eric stomps out onto the balcony and he stares out, his whole back rigid. I rub the butt of my palm against my eyes, feeling worn out. Never, not once, did I see the conversation turning that way. In a way, it's both a relief that I'm not that twisted inside but it's frightening to know Eric could turn that way. I stand up to put the dying cigarette out in the sink when it occurs to me that Eric is feeling determined. His emotions haven't wavered from that first initial burst of anger. I understand that but I think ... I think he really will try to get me to kill Zeke. I can't imagine being used like that and a part of me dies when I realize that Eric is infuriated that I won't go along with what he wants. Maybe its grief talking, but it's powerful. 35

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I won't be used like that. I won't kill for anyone. I have the blood of others on my hands already, all those bodies that I'd never able to find. I turn on my heel, fueled by those memories, to find Eric back inside, hands fisted in his pockets. I grab my jacket from the couch and shove my arms into it, not looking at him. "Where are you going?" His voice is still hot with anger but the question is somewhat concerned. "Leaving. My work's done." I can feel his shock but it's numbed by his grief. "So that's it? You tell me my mom's been raped and murdered then take off on your merry way? God, I bet that's what you did when you were with Savior. Just brushed it off and kept going." I jerk my head up and find his eyes burning with golden fury. "You're just a ghoul. A psychic freak of a ghoul." I know its grief talking. I know it is. But the words echo in a part of me that's damaged, probably for good. "You sonovabitch. You think you're the only person to ever lose someone in a terrible way?" I snarl and I can feel myself shaking. "There are parents that have lost children. I've found pieces of people in ditches and lakes. I've seen women brutalized by fuckers like Zeke and his buddies. And even worse than all that? I've had to go to people, people just like you, people just as fucking in pain as you are and tell them that I could find nothing, no one." Eric's eyes flicker and I realize that I'm yelling at him and I just don't care. "A ghoul wouldn't fucking drink himself stupid because he never found a little girl. A ghoul wouldn't die 36

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inside every time he had to tell a wife that her husband was decapitated and left in three different Dumpsters in three different counties. So you know what, Eric? You know what? Fuck you, you selfish prick. You think I can walk away from this without a scar? Fuck you. Just ... fuck you." I stalk out without another word, leaving Eric staring after me. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Five I'm staring down at a burger, thinking about giving it to the homeless guy I passed on the way into the diner when a throat clears. The emotional signature is too familiar for me to not know who it is. "Go away, Eric." "Ethan, come on. I'm sorry." He wastes no time. "I'm sorry but ... shit, that was rough." I turn my head away. Light up. Thank God for the smoking section. "Yeah. Sorry. Go away." "Ethan." The word is filled with a plea that hurts to hear. "C'mon, look at me, man. I'm sorry." I look at him finally and he looks as out of it as he did when I left. Weird how someone can age in a couple hours. He looks older than he ever has. I guess it's that innocence, brutally ripped away by a gruesome death. I'll miss that nearnaiveté about him, but I'm kinda glad he can see the world for what it is now. A dark, scary place. That's the cynic in me talking, but I've been on a lower plane lately. Wonder why. "I'm not mad," I say even though until about an hour ago I had been. "I'm not. I'm just ... it's a raw deal, what happened to your mom. It reminds me of working for Savior. Going to people's houses at three in the morning and seeing the light of hope die in someone's eyes when you don't give them what they want to hear." He winces. "Shit, I hit a homer with that one, didn't I?" 38

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I shrug. "You were hurting. Are hurting." Eric nods and for a moment, there's a wave of pain so strong, I almost choke on it and my cigarette. I jab it out before I swallow it and he's under control again. "It's funny in that non-funny way but ... I was almost not surprised. I mean, how she died, yeah that was.... that was just out of left field." Anger-drenched agony wells up, makes it hard to breathe, then seeps away. "But she'd been gone for so long, I think I knew. I knew she was gone and I just wanted someone to pay." He takes a breath. Looks at me. "I'm sorry, Eth, about asking you to, you know." His hand gestures to my head and I nod sharply in understanding. "I know you're not like that but I have no idea what else to do. I can't bury her because I have no idea where the hell she is." He pauses and I can almost see the shudder running through him. No child should have to bury his mom. Ever. I reach out and bump my fingers against his. Dark to light. His bump back, get tangled then release. I lean back, feeling a little lighter. "What about the cops?" I say suddenly as the idea pops in, literally from nowhere. Eric looks cynical. It strikes me as little morbidly funny because it's backwards. I should be the one who looks cynical when it comes to going to the cops. They may use psychics and empaths on the force thanks to some recent laws, but they were still the cynical bunch you saw on Cops. They'd be more than a little leery about taking an empath's statement. 39

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Eric echoes this and I say quietly, "Outside of taking some street justice, which you just can't do against dealers, they're too well-protected; this is the only way we can do it. You want Zeke to pay? We go to the cops; I give a statement and tell them what he looks like. It may be hard, he may even get off since the justice system in general is wary of psychics but," I shrug and keep my voice steady, "if he gets off, the cops will probably be watching. They don't like dealers anymore than the rest of the world does, and if another person makes a report, hell if they find a dead addict in another county, they'll probably go after him first." Eric stares at me, looking indecisive. "God that feels so ... loose," he says and he rubs his eyes. His shoulders are hunched and his whole body screams exhausted. "It's bad that I just wanna kill him and be done with it, huh? That I don't think the cops will move fast enough?" I stare back, tangle my fingers with his again and squeeze before letting go. "It's not bad really. I'd be kinda worried if you didn't want to. But you can't. There's a reason that Zeke guy's running around still and your mom isn't." He winces and I grimace in apology. "What I mean is, there's some things that we just can't do on our own. This ain't some movie, kid, or a book where you're gonna find a way to kill Zeke and not get arrested." Eric stares down at his hands and deep down, I think he's crying. But when he looks at me, his eyes are dry. "Okay. Okay ... let's go to the cops." I nod once, take out my wallet, and toss some bills beside my plate. "I'll drive." 40

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Chapter Six Idling at a stoplight, my hand rests on the emergency brake. My mind is carefully clear as I keep Zeke's image at the forefront of my mind. I want to be able to give each detail to the best of my ability. I glance at Eric from the corner of my eye and he's staring out the window, brow furrowed. His emotions are twisted between the thirst for blood and logic. It's an impossible combo and I reach over to nudge his hand. His fingers relax and slip into mine. He doesn't look over at me but his emotions are mellower. I keep his hand in mine as the light turns and I start across the intersection. It happens in a blur. One moment, I'm crossing through, halfway to the other side, the next the truck's spinning out of control. People, cars, and stores are literally a kaleidoscope of color. Eric's shouting but it's almost drowned by the roar in my ears. I instinctively try to right the wheel and get my feet from the pedals. Letting the truck go but trying to keep it from going to hell. From the corner of my eye, Eric grips his seat and goes wide-eyed with horror. "Ethan, oh fuck!" I look up in time from my battle with the wheel to see the streetlight seconds before it meets the front end of my truck. The air bags explode with a hiss and, for a moment, I can see nothing but whiteness. I think I'm dead. 42

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Then I realize that my heart is pounding a mile a minute in my throat. I shake my head, swear at the dizziness, then immediately check on Ethan. His head's in the head rest and his chest is jumping up and down. I twist around to look out the window to see what hit us and there, crammed against the front of a semi a good several feet away from us, back in the intersection, is what was once a sporty little convertible. It looks like it hit us; kept going and the semi took it back. It looks like a jagged red accordion. Climbing out on wobbly legs, Eric and I stagger over as cars come to a screeching stop and people stare at the wreckage. In the background, somewhere far off, I hear sirens. Something keeps pulling me toward the car. Morbid curiosity or civilian worry, you choose. The truck driver is climbing out of his car and shaking. "Just came outta nowhere," he keeps saying as we pass. We circle around the car and peek in through the window. The front is completely smashed in, bending the bodies in the front at an awkward C. Air bags jut out, cushioning them. The woman in the passenger seat is of no consequence. But the face of the man staring blindly at me from the driver's side, head resting on the bag like a pillow, is starkly familiar. I want to think that it's because of Eric's need for vengeance that this happened. I want to think my gift did something good again. And maybe it did. But there's a part of me that says that something this clean couldn't have anything to do with human emotion. 43

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Moments like these make me think that there really is someone or something up there, watching. Someone who knows exactly when to act. Or maybe God just has a really twisted sense of irony and very good timing. I look at Eric and he looks wide-eyed, shaken up. "What is it?" he asks. "That's Zeke," I say quietly and am almost drowned out by the arrival of cops, firefighters and an ambulance. "Zeke?" Eric mouths and he looks as stunned as I feel. "Are you..." "Yeah. Yeah I'm sure." I will never forget his face. Not the one from before and not the one he wears now, the blank baby doll look of death. A burly cop comes up to clear us out. According to his badge, he's Officer Oswald. After we identify ourselves as the other people in the accident and the truck driver as well, we're pushed toward the EMTs. I keep a hold on Eric and just move to the side, waving them off. Officer Oswald comes back once the traffic has been re-directed and the crashes individually marked off, and fires off questions. I answer while Eric stands beside me, giving off quiet waves of dazed shock. I figure he's due for a beer and promise myself to get him one as soon as I can. It's been a long day. ****

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I park my rental outside of Deborah's house a couple of days later. I'm minus a ticket since I wasn't at fault and, sadly, a truck. The collision killed the engine. I've also been trying to get hold of Eric, but it's like he's disappeared. I've been by Deborah's house at least twice now and I'm getting desperate. My Spark radar says he's still alive, but not seeing him has me antsy. Too many days in his company has me used to him. It's stupid, but there you go. Plus, he's gotta be grieving for real now. It drives me nuts that he's doing it alone. My heart starts pumping when I see the door to the house wide open, and when I walk in there's fat black trash bags everywhere, but no sign of Eric. The house is eerily silent, with not so much as a creak of floorboard to give me an idea where he is, or if he's even there still. "Eric?" I yell and when I get a shout back from upstairs, my heart jumps into my throat. I head toward it, hurrying up the stairs and round the corner to find Eric sitting on Deborah's bed, the mattress stripped bare and a couple more trash bags dotting the room. It's clean from top to bottom and not a scrap of Deborah remains anywhere in the room. It's creepy in its sterile state. I light into him. Or start to anyway. "Where in God's name have you been? I've been looking for you everywhere, man. You don't answer your phone, you haven't been at your apartment. Jesus, I've just about had a damn heart attack!" I can remember my messages, trying to get him to talk to me, demanding he 45

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answer his phone. I've been afraid each and every time I've come here for reasons I refuse to admit. Eric looks up at me and his eyes are dead. "They found Mom. In his trunk." My stomach bottoms out. "What? What, what do you mean?" "The cops," he says, and rakes a ruthless hand through his hair. I see a few strands in his fingers but he doesn't even flinch. "The tow yard? No, it was the cops. Someone, one of them, they cleaned out the car. Found Mom tied up in the trunk. The coroner said she'd died within the last week or so. There were ... bruises all over her. Bad ones. Broken ribs. Fingers. Even her fucking toes." His gaze dips, darkens. "They fucked her up. Completely and totally fucked her and left her to die in a car." My mind spins out. I can't begin to figure out why I didn't feel her even once. Had I not tried hard enough? There had to have been a moment before she'd died that should have given me some sign. Or had Deborah just not wanted to be found? It's happened before and all the old memories, tart with bitterness, rise to the surface. Sometimes that's the only explanation for disappearances. People just not wanting to be found. That's what the mind readers used to say when we empaths failed to 'see' the Spark. It was, they'd told us, mind over matter. The mind didn't want the body found. So the Spark simply disappears. I'd never believed it. Never wanted to. It makes sense in Deborah's case, though. That kind of abuse ... the mind would just shut down. 46

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She'd given up and my only guess was by the time I threw out my net, her Spark had already gone out. His eyes have a suspicious moisture and the gleam brings me back to the present with a mental anguish I haven't felt in years. "The only reason I got called to the morgue ... was 'cause one of her friends from work put in a missing person's report. It had her description and everything and they looked up her next of kin and voila." He throws his hands out and his smile's bitter. "They're gonna let me have her in a few days for the funeral." Something dry and painful, like a sob, escapes his throat. "A missing person's report. I didn't even think of that. I just went ... straight to you." That moisture glitters. "I can't feel bad either about choosing you over the cops. At least you were fast." The laugh following those words isn't anywhere near happy. "Fuck, Ethan, I can't even go and beat the guy who did it," he snarls and he raises his fists, then stares at them like he has no idea what to do with them. "I can't even see that murdering motherfucker rot in jail. Because he's dead. Death's too fucking good for him, Eth, but he's dead. And there's nothing, nothing I can do." He drops his fists and shakes so bad I think he's gonna break apart. I'm across the room in an instant, called by his anguish and sitting beside him, tugging him close, my arm around his neck, gripping his shoulder. For one brief, dark moment, I see her as he did. I see her body, frozen in rigor mortis, curled into a defensive ball. I see the patches of darkness along her flesh, the rope burns around her wrists 47

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and ankles, the protruding bones and crooked fingers and toes. I hurt for him. Deep inside. He leans into me, wraps an arm around my waist and shakes silently. His pain is all the more agonizing for its silence. "I just wanted her back," he mumbles and his face is buried in my throat. His mouth brushes my skin as he talks. "I just wanted her back." I can't think of a thing to say so I rub his back quietly while he grieves. I know it won't be the last time I do it, what with the funeral and all, but right at this moment, I think this is the true grief. When it hits him later, it'll be the latent grief of reality striking the blow of finality. But now, this is the rawest moment Eric will have. I rub his back and scoot close enough so that we're touching in one long line from chest down to knee. It's the best I can do and he squeezes me as he shudders, his emotions tumbling from him to me in a twisted mass that's ten times worst than anything I've ever felt before. He rides it out without a word and some part of me is proud of him. He's a lot stronger than he's really aware of. When he straightens, his eyes are still shiny but he seems steadier. "Thanks," he says after a moment and I get the feeling its one of those encompassing, sweeping thank yous. I just nod, bump fingers with him. "You mind helping me haul these bags out? I'm thinking Salvation Army." I nod again, pull out a cigarette, and light it. "Salvation Army's good. My rental's a Suburban. We can pack a lot of shit in there." 48

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He nods. "Let's hurry, yeah? I feel weird the longer I stay here." No complaints here. We work in silent unison, emptying the house of Deborah's things and loading the Suburban with bag after bag. We're pretty quick; Deborah wasn't much a homebody, and the few things she has around the place have a 'for show' feeling, so Eric doesn't hesitate to toss them in a bag. After we unload all the clothes and bedding on Salvation, we trash the rest and head to a bar. Over beers, Eric finally mentions the funeral. "I think I'm gonna keep it small, ya know? Just you, me, and a priest." My eyebrows shoot up. "What about the friend who filed the report?" Eric shrugs. "Don't know her." I take a sip. "Fair enough." We drink for a little while in silence before Eric breaks it again. "Hey, listen, about what happened back in my apartment a couple days back..." I glance at him, beer to my lips, heart in my throat. We've been careful not to really mention it or have it repeat but it's been there, buried under everything else. A connection forged by a moment of intimacy, passing friendship and going into a realm that's so much more treacherous. "Yeah?" Eric blows out a breath. "After everything's ... done, do you think you'll stick around?" I look at him. "For that?" Eric looks me in the eye. "For whatever you can handle." 49

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I take a sip of my beer and ignore the way my belly pulls tight in anticipation. "Think I can do that, man." He lifts his beer and though there's no smile on his face— there probably won't be one for a while—there's a bit of a glow in those golden eyes. "Sounds good." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Seven Deborah's funeral is on a cloudy day. We stand in dark suits over the small hole in the ground while the priest extols on the virtues that neither of us remember or even believe, and then the casket is lowered by Eric. We fill up the hole and I'm quiet as Eric says a very solemn goodbye to the woman that was more of a ghost than a parent. There's no flowers, no fuss, but after we shake hands with the priest and wave him off, Eric blinks hard a couple of times. We walk to my Suburban because Eric's car heater is broken and as we warm up and head back into town, Eric leans against his head rest. "Is it bad that I don't really feel anything?" he says softly. I glance away from the street to him, studying his profile. "No," I answer after a moment. "Your mother left you a long time ago." "Yeah," he looks at me and his eyes are simply sad. "I still feel kinda ... lost, I guess. I mean, she was the last of my family, you know? No brothers or sisters. Gran died when I was five. Dad ran out when I was sixteen. So it's just been me and her. Now, it's just me." I struggle for a moment, the idea of reaching out this far so much harder. Grief is something I'm familiar with. Loneliness ... I don't think I've ever let myself feel it. I'm empathic, meaning that to survive I must be alone, or lose 51

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my mind trying to ignore the influx of human thought and feeling. Hell, the most contact I have with people is during my brief forays of maintenance for the landlady. And I usually time those so the tenants aren't home. Still, Eric's my friend and quite possibly something else. So I stretch out my hand and instead of just bumping knuckles with him, I let my hand tangle up good and proper. And leave it there. "You got me, kid," I say without taking my gaze off the road. The sky is gonna open up at any moment, I just know it. "Yeah?" His hand stays still, warm but unmoving. Waiting. His emotions are quiet again but I sense some tension thrumming beneath the silence. Everything you can handle. I can handle this. Dark to light, my soul getting another chance. Maybe I need this more than he does. Maybe we're both a little lost. "Yeah," I say quietly. His hand tightens. "I got you." There's a burst of something like sunshine from him that seeps right into me. I spare a peek at our hands. Dark and light, tangled up, clutching on. The sky seems to lighten and on the horizon, clouds dissipate. The sun peeks through. When I look up, there's a beam of warmth on my face. Eric stretches in the light, hand in mine. That hair is like a beacon in the sunshine. -End52

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About the Author Zoe Nichols is a prolific author of homoerotic romance. Her story, "If You Only Knew," appears in Volume One of Coming Together: At Last from Phaze Books. Visit Zoe's website at www.zoe-nichols.com for more information on her books.

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