Love Starved (11 page)

Thursday didn’t happen.

Well, no, Thursday itself came, bringing with it sweltering heat and a six-hour workshop in a room with barely working air conditioning, but there was no sexy reward waiting for Micah at the end of the busy day, as he’d eagerly expected. Angel called Wednesday evening, apologizing profusely and sounding like hell. He was down with a flu, so they had to reschedule for next week. Micah was disappointed, but well, it happened. He couldn’t blame Angel for getting sick.

But when Angel called him to cancel again next week, and mere hours before he was supposed to be at his door, Micah did get a little annoyed. A “work emergency” might sound convincing if Angel were a firefighter, or maybe a doctor, but not an escort. It seemed as if Micah had just been pushed aside for another, more important, client. Angel apologized and promised to make it up to him by staying as long as Micah wanted him to, but Micah wondered if he really wanted him to stay at all. How good could their night together be if his stand-in seemed to not really want to be there at all?

He decided to give it one last chance. They rescheduled once more, but Micah promised himself that if Angel didn’t show up Monday, he would ask for his money back and give up on this particular experiment. He wanted to try skillful, unattached sex in safe circumstances, and feeling like a bother didn’t fit into the scenario at all.

Micah didn’t expect Angel to
bring flowers this time, so the bouquet of sunflowers and red roses took him by surprise.

“Here,” Angel said, handing it to him. “I’m really sorry it’s taken so long.”

“That’s okay,” Micah found himself saying, his earlier annoyance already gone. “They’re beautiful, thank you.” He moved aside to let Angel in and gestured toward the living room. “Come on in. I’ll put them in water and I’ll be right with you.”

Arranging the flowers in the vase with Angel waiting in the next room felt like déjà vu, except the nervousness and uncertainty that had accompanied Micah before their first “date” were not there. He knew what he wanted, knew the man he wanted it from—or at least as much as he needed to know—and instead of anxiety, he was vibrating with excitement. He’d been aroused all afternoon, ever since Angel’s text message came, confirming that he would be there tonight.

Micah was ready.
So
ready.

He brought the flowers to the living room, setting the vase on the coffee table where a bottle of red wine and two glasses waited. Angel was standing by the window, waiting for him, and it was only now, when Micah looked at him in proper light, that he noticed the changes in him.

Angel looked paler than the last time Micah had seen him, three weeks ago. Dark circles under his eyes hadn’t been there before, and his whole posture seemed different, tense, yet a little slumped. He was dressed impeccably in khaki pants and a black V-neck shirt, but the clothes seemed ill-fitting, too loose in places. Even Angel’s face seemed thinner; his jaw and cheekbones were more pronounced.

Micah frowned. “Are you alright? You look—”
Sick
was the word that came to mind, but he settled on “exhausted.”

Angel smiled—even his smile seemed paler—and stepped closer, putting his hand on Micah’s cheek and tracing his lips with the pad of his thumb. “I’m fine. I’ve been exceedingly busy lately, but I’m okay.”

The proximity and the touch, already sending tendrils of warmth through Micah’s body, were enough to push his worry aside. He nuzzled his cheek against Angel’s palm.

“Mm. This feels nice.”

“Good. It’s supposed to.” Angel pressed a soft kiss to Micah’s lips. He tasted like mint. “Where do you want me?”

“How about we just let this unfold naturally? Let’s have some wine, get in the mood. There’s no need to rush.”

“Of course.” Angel stepped away and led him to the couch.

It didn’t take them long to settle comfortably with wine glasses within reach, and soon the first gntle strokes of Angel’s fingers up Micah’s bare arms led to kissing, sweet and slow at first, but increasing in urgency. Micah fell into it with no hesitation, his body already waking in ways that felt new and dazzling, making him open and eager to explore and experience. Impatient, he tugged at Angel’s shoulder to get him into his lap, and Angel went easily, only breaking the kiss for the few seconds it took to change positions.

Halfway through the shift, however, Angel stilled and winced, barely containing a gasp. Micah froze with his hands on Angel’s hips.

“What’s wrong?”

Angel shook his head. “Just a cramp. I’m okay,” he said through clenched teeth.

But he didn’t look okay. He held himself stiffly even as he settled in Micah’s lap, and when he leaned in to go back to kissing, his breathing was fast and shallow against Micah’s neck. The way he was mouthing along the sensitive skin felt good, with his tongue setting the nerve endings alight where he traced hot little circles, but Micah was too concerned now to let go and enjoy the sensations. Something was amiss.

The conviction only deepened when Angel’s head fell heavily onto Micah’s shoulder a moment later and he whimpered, a distressed sound that couldn’t be confused with any kind of sexual noise. Micah put his hands on Angel’s shoulders and pushed gently, so that he could look at his face. What he saw startled him.

Beads of perspiration were gathered on Angel’s forehead, and his face looked paler than ever, alarmingly so. His eyes were wide and panicked, and he was breathing with difficulty. His arms were wound protectively around his middle.

“What’s wrong?” Micah asked. “What can I do?”

Angel shifted, gracelessly sliding off Micah’s knees and to the side; another whimper escaped as he landed on the couch. He curled forward, panting softly, before setting his feet on the floor, clearly bracing himself to stand up.

“I’m sorry, I have to—” He pushed himself up on unsteady legs.

A short, ragged scream was followed by a thump as Angel’s knees hit the floor hard, his head barely missing the corner of the glass coffee table. He folded in half, his arms still pressed against his stomach, and threw up on the floor.

The beige rug under his knees turned deep, violent red.

For a few seconds, Micah just sat there, frozen, unable to understand what was going on. His first conscious thought was the wine. Maybe Angel had an upset stomach and the wine didn’t sit well with him. That was all. He’d be fine.

But Angel’s glass was still untouched.

It was not wine staining the floor and dripping down Angel’s hand where he’d tried to block the flow.

That realization set Micah in motion. An eerie calm spread over him as his mind ticked, planning how to deal with a crisis. He had no time for emotions or panic now.

He knelt next to Angel, grabbing a box of tissues from the side table as he went, and began gently wiping the blood from his hand and then his chin. The tissue came away a bright, shocking red. Micah kept his voice low and soothing as he spoke.

“I’m calling 911. Is there anything I should tell them? Do you have a condition they should know about?”

The force with which Angel shook his head surprised him. “Don’t,” he rasped. “I’m fine. Just… stomach problems.” He paused to breathe, a shuddery inhale that sounded all wrong.

“Angel, you’re throwing up blood; that’s clearly not fine,” Micah said firmly. “Did it ever happen before?”

“Once. It’ll stop. I’m fine,” Angel insisted. “Just… bathroom?”

The short utterance tapped him out. His head hung low, he breathed for a moment before putting his hands on the floor, bracing himself to stand. Micah felt torn. His instincts told him he should call for an ambulance immediately, but, if this had happened before, maybe Angel knew better. The spot of blood on the floor wasn’t too big.

Still, it was blood.

He would help Angel up and to the bathroom, he decided, and then see how things were going, but he slid his phone into his pocket before winding his arm around Angel’s shoulders.

As soon as Angel rose to his knees, he let out another strangled scream and curled up again. His soft whimpers soon turned into heaving and Micah ran to the kitchen to grab a large glass fruit bowl standing on the counter. Grapefruits and limes rolled to the floor with dull thumps. Micah shoved the bowl in front of Angel’s knees just in time.

There was much more blood this time.

Micah pulled out his phone, inwardly cursing the screen lock as he tried to unlock it with one hand while using the other to dry Angel’s lips with a tissue. He was about to dial 911 when Angel weakly squeezed his wrist.

“Please. They’ll… ask.” It was barely more than a whisper and Micah thought he finally understood.

“About your insurance? It doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out later; now is not the time to worry about it.”

Angel shook his head. “My… back.”

Confused, Micah dropped the tissues into the basin and raised Angel’s shirt to look at his back. What he saw made him gasp.

The wide expanse of skin was sticky with sweat and covered with red and purple lines, long and straight; the skin was broken in several places and just beginning to heal. They looked like… whip marks. He carefully eased the fabric back down.

“Who did this to you? You need to report it, Angel, but first we have to get you to the hospital.”

Angel shook his head again, with visible effort. “Client,” he whispered barely audibly, and then he coughed and curled up in pain, more blood staining his lips and dribbling down his chin. Micah grabbed the phone, his decision made, fingers already tapping out the number.

“Okay, I’ll explain it. You’re my boyfriend, remember?”

Angel nodded and then cried out when another wave of retching folded him in half.

The connection came in seconds, but it still felt like ages.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

Minutes later, Angel lay slumped
on his side on the floor. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. Micah was… not praying, but silently begging any hypothetical higher power that might be listening for the ambulance to hurry up. It was a mantra, holding fear at bay. He kept one hand on Angel’s back and the other on his wrist, to let him know he wasn’t alone—if Angel could feel it.

Despite growing panic, he came up with a cover story. They were boyfriends. They liked kinky sex, and were into the BDSM scene a little. The marks? Completely consensual. He hoped Angel would confirm it once he regained consciousness, if they asked.

He hoped he would regain consciousness, period. That he might not was too scary to consider. But there was a whole lot of blood in that bowl, and Angel’s pulse was fast and weak against Micah’s fingertips, like a tired hummingbird’s wings.

Micah’s eyes fell on the messenger bag standing by the couch. He almost smacked his forehead as realization struck: He didn’t know Angel’s last name, his address, date of birth, nothing. What boyfriend wouldn’t know these things? Feeling like a creep, Micah reached to open the bag. The wallet was the first thing he found. Soon he was looking at Angel’s driver’s license.

Aiden Peter Reeves’s driver’s license.

He was twenty-three, not twenty-six; his birthday was on September twenty-fourth; and he lived near Dinkytown, just two blocks from Micah’s office. That had to be enough information for the paramedics, who were just ringing the doorbell.

They didn’t ask about anything but Angel’s name.

One look at the blood-filled bowl and a quick check of Angel’s vital signs sent the paramedics into a flurry of activity. They loaded Angel onto the stretcher and rushed him to the ambulance. Micah asked to go with them. But they said he would have to follow instead, gave him the name of the hospital and were gone. The spike of terror rose even higher. Micah barely remembered to give them Angel’s wallet.

The next two hours were like a surreal, chaotic dream. Not in his most pessimistic thoughts did Micah expect to end this evening in a hospital waiting room, alone with his thoughts, pacing and worrying for what felt like forever. He’d forgotten his phone at home, and the only magazine in the room featured articles about hugs, love after fifty and incontinence.

Finally, a doctor came out to talk to him. After a brusque interview about Angel’s bruised back, all Micah learned was that he was alive, out of surgery and would be okay. He wasn’t allowed to see him. The doctor suggested he should try tomorrow, but Micah could see how the man looked at him. The hospital couldn’t report abuse without the patient’s consent, but if it were the doctor’s decision, the police would be on their way.

Micah returned home after midnight. All lights were still on, and music played quietly where he’d left his iPod in the dock. A decorative cup that the paramedics had bumped in their hurry was lying on the floor in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by spare change Micah had been keeping in it. He stood in the doorway to his living room and the coppery smell of blood made his stomach turn. So much had happened, and now his body was catching up to what his mind had been processing.

The wine glasses were still on the table, but their contents had spilled after the paramedics shoved furniture away to make room for the stretcher. A couch pillow was pushed aside where he had sat with Angel, kissing, just a few short hours ago. The blood stains on the floor were darker; the contents of the bowl looked like a prop from some gory movie. Above all this, the flowers sat alive and vivid, jarring in their serene beauty.

Micah would have to enter this room. He’d have to clean up this mess. He knew of no equivalent of crime scene cleanup crews for medical emergencies, and the thought of waking up in the morning—assuming he’d manage to get any sleep—only to see evidence of tonight’s horror was too much to bear. He would clean right away. He just needed a second to breathe.

Closing the living room door, Micah went to the kitchen and dropped onto the nearest stool, his body sagging. How did it happen? What was wrong with Angel? Aiden, not Angel, but that was beside the point. Micah couldn’t think of him as anyone but Angel and he wasn’t going to try to change it right now. Had Micah missed something? Was it somehow his fault? Had he done everything he could? Should he have called 911 sooner?