Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (62 page)

My heart’s racing. Mikhail is breathing hard, his anger filling the air even over the strong rubber scent of the tires, now. I can hear a larger crowd at the entrance to the garage, can see them out of the corner of my eye, but Mikhail does not look at them. He reminds me, in an image I wish I could dismiss, of Dev during our last fight: furious, betrayed, confused. But not understanding what I’m saying. To my horror, I find that I really do want to hit him. My paws are clenched into fists again. I uncurl them.

“
That,” he says finally, “Is. Enough.” He points to the entrance. “Leave. Now.”

I shake my head. “We’re having this out.”

He opens his mouth to say something, closes it again. “There is nothing to have out. We are finished. Leave, or I will call the police.”

I stare back at him. “You really want them to come remove your son’s boyfriend from your garage?”

His eyes flick around to the crowd, then. He shrugs. “Then stay.” He laughs, with a horrible, forced sound. “
Boy
-friend. Hah.”

His paw pushes at my chest. I only manage to evade part of it, staggering back into the car. He turns and walks toward the front of the garage.

Anger flares; I push it back. “Hey! We’re not finished.” I take a step and grab at the denim shirt.

As soon as he feels my fingers, he whirls and pushes me again, harder. Again, I only manage to partially avoid it. I stagger back into the tires, stumbling to the back of the garage. My injured paw smacks into a box, sending pain shooting through my arm. “Okay,” he says, the grin back. “You want to fight? Let’s fight.”

Ivan and the bear are watching me from the back wall. I’m trapped here in the corner against shelves full of parts and tools. “I don’t—”

He pulls back a fist and jabs at me, almost playing. I dodge. “Coward. Come on. Show me you have balls.”

“
We both love your son!” I yell.

His massive bulk looms over me. I wish I could smell the oil or grease now; all I can smell is tiger, and it smells enough like Dev to confuse the hell out of me. “Making him turn his back on his family, making him ashamed, you think that is love?”

There’s no room on either side of him for me to get past. Desperate, I scrounge for words. “You tell me,” I say. “Seems to mean it to you.”

He’s so close, I can’t stop him from grabbing my shoulder. I feel his claws punch through my shirt, brush my skin through my fur. He tries to hold me with his left paw while he draws back his right. I twist away and push him backwards, not hard, but enough that he staggers into the car behind him. He recovers, shaking his head. Behind him, the spectators look at each other, but none comes forward.

“
See,” he says, and he’s smiling a dangerous this-is-going-to-be-fun smile. “You can fight.”

There’s no way out but past him. Now he doesn’t want me to leave, and he can stand here and grab at me all day until he gets me where he wants me. But if he throws a punch, if I could throw him to one side, I could get around behind him, be in a better position. “The problem is,” I say, “that you love your idea of him more than you love him. Did you ever really love him?”

“
Love,” he snorts. “You know nothing of a father’s love.”

I brace myself on the shelves to my right with my uninjured paw. My eyes narrow, while I curl my tail under me in preparation. “Neither do you.”

His lips twist, wrinkling his muzzle with a low, deadly growl. He winds up again, not playing this time. The balled fist rockets toward me. I have a split-second.

I sidestep, grab his fist, and lower my shoulder. I can’t get completely out of the way, but I only get pushed back into boxes as he goes tumbling past me.

I hear a thud, a clank. Mikhail drops to the floor. I catch myself with my uninjured paw, staggering back to my feet quickly, watching him.

He stays on the floor, shoulder and head leaning against a shelf of tools and parts, the rest of him sprawled awkwardly around grease and oil stains. He doesn’t get up.

“
Mickey!” Ivan leans in to try to see better. “Mickey?”

The way to the crowd of spectators is clear. But if Mikhail’s really hurt, I can’t run out. I take a step toward him. I’m panting hard. He could be just faking to get me closer.

Ivan stares at me and then jumps forward, kneeling at Mikhail’s side. “Mickey, you okay—sweet Lion Jesus!”

I don’t have to ask. When he gets up, the smell of blood hits me before I see the red smear on his paw. “Danny,” he yells. “Call an ambulance.”

“
Shit.” I take a step forward as the bear scrambles for the phone. “You guys have any clean cloths?”

“
You keep away from him.” Ivan’s not nearly as imposing as Mikhail, but he tries.

“
Oh, come on.” I scan the area I’m in for anything clean. Nothing. I grab my shirt where Mikhail’s claws ripped it. “I’m dating his son. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. I didn’t want
that
to happen to him.”

My heart’s still pounding. I can’t smell anything but blood as I rip my shirt at the sleeve. “Here.” I push past Ivan and kneel next to Mikhail. He really is barely conscious. I don’t think he’s completely out, but the bloody gash behind his ear looks frightening. I press the cloth to it and hold it there, looking up to see what he hit his head on.

“
Let me do that.” Ivan tries to squeeze in next to me.

There: a toolbox has a corner sticking out about a foot over my head. “It’s okay, I got it,” I say. When he doesn’t move back, I say, “He’s not going to catch gay from me. I’m helping. I know how to do this.”

His ears flatten. He takes a step back.

In my paws, Mikhail’s head moves. His eyes focus on me, briefly. “Fox,” he gasps out.

“
I’m not going anywhere,” I say, softly. The flicker of a frown crosses his expression, then he loses focus again.

Someone from the entrance calls, “Is he okay?”

Ivan turns and holds his paws up. “He’s okay. Just hit his head. Ambulance is comin’.”

Under my fingers, Mikhail rumbles, making vague movements. He clutches at my bare arm with a paw, claws extending and retracting. “Help’s on the way,” I say. “You’re gonna be fine.” And then, as my panting subsides, “I’m sorry.”

He focuses on me again, staring. I don’t know if he heard me.

Ivan turns back, crouching behind me. “You sure he’s okay?” His tone’s softer. I wonder if
he
heard.

I nod. “Just keeping pressure on it. He might have a concussion, but as long as we don’t let him go to sleep...even then, he’ll be fine ’til the ambulance gets here.”

The other tiger and I watch Mikhail. Ivan puts a paw on Mikhail’s other arm. “You hear, Mickey? You’re gonna be okay.”

Sirens wail, distant. “Just a couple more minutes,” I say.

Ivan says, “Hey, uh.”

I turn to look at him. His ears are down. “That night you was here. Mickey was actin’ weird all day. Wasn’t himself.” His eyes go to my splint. “He ain’t violent like that. Mostly.”

I snort and look back at the wound, at my black fingers pressing on the white shirt sleeve, the smears of red through it. It doesn’t feel bad, but I don’t dare press hard enough to sense a fracture. My tail’s still tightly pressed below my thigh, and I can’t seem to bring my ears up past half-height. They keep wanting to flatten down.

Ivan clears his throat. “Look, we got a couple, they bring their cars in. Bears, Mack Bremly and Ollie Denton. You, uh, you know ’em?”

I frown. Then it becomes clear what he means. “No,” I say, gently. “I haven’t looked up the local gay directory here.”

He’s not sure if I’m joking. “Oh. They’re pretty nice, y’know. I mean, we got nothin’ against ’em. Just Mickey, he was all worked up ’cause it was his son. Y’know, it’s okay for other guys, but...”

“
I know how that works.” I shake my head. “It’s just...if it makes him happy, what’s the problem with it?”

“
It ain’t how he thinks of his son.”

I stare down at Dev’s father’s fluttering eyelids. The sirens are loud now. Almost here. “Maybe he needs to change the way he thinks.”

“
Mickey ain’t much for that.” Ivan looks down at his boss. “Y’know we only started servicin’ foreign cars like three years ago?”

“
Dev told me.”

“
After a while wasn’t really much choice. Not if he wanted ta keep the garage.” He kneels, still a foot taller than me. “Stubborn bastard. I tol’ him for years, but he di’n wanna take them foreign cars.” He looks down, out at the crowd. “So, uh. What d’you drive?”

It takes me a moment to remember. “I got a Civique, actually.”

He nods, keeping an eye on Mikhail. “Runs pretty good, don’t it? Got a Dayrunner m’self.”

I wouldn’t have imagined myself sitting here, holding Dev’s father’s bleeding head, having a conversation about cars with his head mechanic. But there we are, trying to ignore the reality of the situation. Then the ambulance arrives.

Paramedics rush in, a pine marten and a bear. They give me a nod as I release the shirt sleeve bandage and carry him to the ambulance. “Male tiger, mid fifties. Head injury. Vitals look good. Probable concussion,” the pine marten says while the bear and a wolverine prepare the rolling bed and lift him onto it. Ivan and I step out of the garage, into the snow, to give them room. The marten bends over Mikhail and asks him his name, what day it is. I don’t hear any replies.

That’s when I notice the police car behind the ambulance and the uniformed stag leaning against it. When he sees me and Ivan, he walks toward us, taking out a pad. Ivan raises a paw when he sees him. “Hey, Chaz.”

“
Ivan.” The stag has an impossibly deep voice, to go with his broad shoulders. His rack’s even more impressive than Paul’s. “What happened?”

Ivan looks at me, scratches his head. “Uh, well, Mickey fell... He’s gonna be okay, though, Jamie said so.” He waves toward the pine marten.

“
He awake?”

Ivan shakes his head. “Well, kinda. But he’s not really talkin’.”

Chaz follows Ivan’s look. “What’s your name, son?”

Part of the gawking crowd drifts over to stand a respectful distance from us. “Lee—Wiley Farrel.” I dig into my pocket for my driver’s license.

Chaz leans forward and takes it from my paw. He smells of coffee and sweat. “From Hilltown.”

“
Yeah.”

“
What’cha doin’ up here?”

He holds my license, staring down at me. Between him and Ivan, a fox could get a complex about being short. “Came up to visit Mikhail.”

“
That’s Mickey,” Ivan says, trying to help.

Chaz taps my driver’s license against his fingers. “Did you see him fall?”

Ivan’s waiting to see what I’ll say. “We kinda got in a fight,” I say. What else am I going to do? “He threw a punch and, uh, missed.”

Chaz snorts, and hands my license back. “What did you hit him with?”

“
Nothing. He fell.”

“
Uh-huh.” Chaz rubs his antlers. “Ivan, you see what happened?”

“
Yeah.” Ivan shifts, now looking past me at the people a few yards away. He lowers his voice. “Like the kid said. They got in a fight. Mickey tried to hit him, and the kid stepped aside. Mickey hit his head on somethin’. Tool box, I guess.”

“
Really.” Chaz looks at me. “That’s assault.”

“
Oh, look, Chaz,” Ivan says. “The kid...he didn’t...I mean, he grabbed Mickey’s arm, sure, but...”

“
I meant for Mickey,” Chaz says. His dark brown eyes return to me, narrower. “Did you participate in the fight?”

There’s not much I can say. “Yeah. Like he said.”

“
Huh. Why didn’t you say that right off?”

I glance at Ivan and then flick my ears, looking down at the snow and then up at Chaz. “I, uh, I didn’t want to embarrass Mikhail. Mickey.”

“
Right.” Chaz rubs his antlers again. “You better come with me.”

“
Chaz, go easy on the kid. Mickey’s a big guy.”

“
Thanks, Ivan,” I say. “But I’ll be okay.”

“
We’re just gonna hold you,” Chaz says. “When Mickey wakes up, he can decide if he wants to press charges.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “And you can, too.”

“
You don’t have to cuff me,” I say. “I’ll go quietly.”

Chaz raises an eyebrow. Then he snorts through his long nose, and I get a hint of a smile. “Don’t watch so many cop shows,” he says.

I’ve never been in the back of a police car. It smells pretty bad. The thick pine of the air freshener doesn’t really cover up the stench of vomit, the musk and body odor of several different big mustelids. I look out the window and see Ivan looking back. I give him a thumbs-up, and though he doesn’t stop looking worried, he does give me a little smile. And it occurs to me then that all of Ivan’s car talk was as much for my benefit, to make me feel better, as to distract himself.

Chaz’s antlers scrape the roof of the car. He slams his door shut, says something into the radio. I look back as we pull away, following the ambulance. They’re not running the siren, which I think is good. Ivan’s trying to shoo the crowd away, but as we turn the corner, I see him make gestures, like acting out a fight.