Bad Things (27 page)

“
Did you call the police?”

“
No. I’m too paranoid.”

“
Good. Don’t. Where are you supposed to be taking the package?”

“
To Max. I think Brian gave me a real address this time. He made a huge deal about me not putting it into my phone or anything.”

“
Are you already late?”

“
I think we have at least half an hour.”

“
How long exactly?”

He checked the time. “Forty-five minutes.”

“Photograph the passports and the address. Use your phone, not your camera. Text them to me. Right now. I have to make a phone call, and I’ll call you right back.”

“
Okay.”

“
Carson? You haven’t gone to your apartment?”

“
No. Fuck no.”

“
Where are you?”

“
I’m just driving around. I’m scared to go anywhere. I’m afraid they’ll be waiting for me.”

“
All right. There’s a bar by my place. Hinano. On Washington Boulevard. You know it?”

“
Yeah.”

“
After you send the photos, go there and wait for me. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

When Xavier appeared, such a flood of relief crashed down on Carson, he was afraid he might start crying. After a few minutes, the urge to melt in a torrent of tears passed, and he was almost calm. Was that what shock felt like? Or did Xavier’s presence make him feel that safe?

But something about Xavier was different. Even jacked up on adrenaline and fear, Carson could see that something had worn his armor a little thinner.

Elena showed up less than ten minutes later and took the passports and the scrap of paper with the address on it. She seemed weirdly cold, almost robotic compared to the nervous, frightened person who’d liberated him in Xavier’s basement.

“
I hope I didn’t fuck up, opening that. I thought about waiting for a—”

She instantly silenced him with her hand in front of his face. “Do not say one word to me about how you ended up with these. If you give me any reason to suspect Xavier put you up to this, this whole case is fucked.”

No way. After everything? And when something so big had fallen into his lap?

“
Will they help?”

“
If they can pry a warrant out of the judge in time, yes. It’s exactly what we need.” To Xavier, in the tone of an exasperated mother talking to a daredevil teenager, she said, “You swear you both have somewhere safe to go? A place the Vukova syndicate definitely couldn’t know about?”

“
We’re set.”

“
Okay. I gotta get this to court. Love you.”

She kissed Xavier’s cheek and hugged him like she was never going to see him again, then dashed out the door, barely murmuring a distracted, “Thank you,” to Carson.

In the parking lot, Xavier said, “Give me your phone.”

“
Why?”

Xavier cocked an eyebrow, and Carson handed him the phone. Xavier walked to the street, approached a car stopped ten or twelve cars back from the red light, and tapped on the driver’s window. Carson watched him lean in and talk to the woman for a second, and just as the light turned green and the long line of brake lights dimmed in succession, saw Xavier set the phone on the roof of the car, between the slats of the luggage rack.

“What the fuck?”

“
She’s heading south. We’re heading north. If they have a way of tracking your signal, they’ll go the wrong way.”

“
And what if they already tracked the signal, and they’re here, watching us?”

“
Then your fucking phone doesn’t matter. Does it?”

Xavier took him to a black pickup.

“Whose car is this?”

“
A friend’s.”

They got on the ten heading toward downtown.

“Nineteen,” Carson said, half to himself. “Nineteen girls. Are they already doing things to them, like what happened to the one in the video?”

“
Maybe.”

“
Today was my fifth run. That’s almost a hundred people.”

Xavier braked when someone cut in front of them, and Carson almost had a heart attack, as if it were Max in that car, trying to force them off the road. Trying to kill them. But that was ridiculous. Max didn’t know where they were.

Carson turned on the radio. Strange; within seconds, he felt soothed, buoyed in the stream of a familiar song. Even freaked out as he was, those memorized words, that delicate, intense voice were seeping in through his skin and filling him up. He leaned back, took a deep breath, and let the music sway him a little. Xavier looked at him and grinned.

“
I love this song,” Carson said, making small talk so the fear wouldn’t crash down on him again.

“
Do you?”

“
I love all his stuff.”

Xavier laughed like it was the funniest fucking thing in the world.

“What? You don’t like this music?”

“
I like it.”

“
What’s so funny, then?”

Xavier looked so fucking tickled, Carson should have been angry for being mocked. Strangely, though, it was almost endearing, seeing Xavier’s expression of playful enjoyment. “Just promise me you won’t go all fanboy on him when we get to his house.”

“You know Aidan Novak?”

His amused smile went mischievous. “Yes.”

“And you’re taking me to his house? Right now?”

“
Yes.”

“
Okay.”

The man who answered the door wasn’t Aidan Novak. It was a god of a man, so fucking beautiful Carson almost blushed just looking at him. He introduced himself as Dario, and he gave Carson the warmest smile and handshake he’d ever gotten.

The way Dario greeted Xavier was strange. No handshake. No hug. But for some reason, the way they stood so close together, the way they looked at each other and smiled, Carson was almost sure they’d been lovers. And despite all the crazy shit that was going on, despite his own surreal, fucked up connection to Xavier, he felt a sudden twinge of jealousy.

Then Aidan Novak appeared, saying hello and shaking his hand as if Carson were an old friend instead of an unknown guest, before shaking Xavier’s hand, too. Then, as if they were going to watch football or have a barbecue rather than helping him hide from the Ukrainian mafia, they sat around in the living room drinking beer and chatting for an hour.

So, Aidan Novak was gay. Carson wondered how long he and Dario had been together. They exuded love. Like the chemistry between them produced a cloud of it that they spent their lives in.

Maybe Xavier was in love with Dario. Something about the way he watched them.

After their second round, Xavier said he had to go, leaving Carson with nothing but a lingering but ambiguous look, and Dario walked him down to the garage, which left Carson alone with Aidan.

“I sincerely appreciate you and Dario letting me stay here.”

“
Our pleasure.”

“
Xavier told you guys what’s going on?”

“
More or less.”

“
Because if it feels too risky, having me here, I can stay in a hotel. I have money.”

Aidan’s smile faded. “No way. Trust me, Dario and I are happy to be doing this for you and Xavi.”

That was funny. Aidan using an affectionate diminutive for Xavier. That weirdly inappropriate twinge of jealousy pinched him again.

“
I love your music,” Carson said, because he couldn’t go on pretending he didn’t know who the guy was.

“
Thank you.” Aidan smiled, but his gaze and chin sank. “You know, I’m still surprised every time I find out someone’s heard of me and my music.”

“
Xavier was giving me a hard time on the way over here, because I was gushing about your music before I even knew whose house we were going to.”

“
That’s really nice to hear.” Aidan buried his hands in his pockets. “It’s too bad you weren’t here last year, when we were still doing the gigs here at the loft.”

“
You put on shows here?”

“
Every weekend. Not just me. There were four or five regular bands playing. But after my solo album got released, it turned into too much of a scene, so we had to shut it down.” Wistful smile. “I miss it, though. It was such a free, exciting time, you know? No expectations to live up to.” He seemed to slip away into his memories for a moment, but then he smiled. “And you’re a photographer?”

For some reason, that caught Carson off guard, and he was afraid he was blushing. “Did Xavier tell you that?”

“Your bag.” Aidan nodded toward Carson’s small pile of things by the wall.

“
Just amateur.”

“
That’s a synonym for artist, isn’t it?”

“
That’s what I keep telling myself.”

When Dario came back up, he was as warm and kind as before, but somehow he seemed weighed down. Almost grave. Worried that he was regretting putting himself and Aidan at risk, Carson mentioned again that he could go to a hotel.

“
I’m afraid you’re our prisoner now,” Dario said. Those words might have triggered a panic attack, except Dario’s gaze and his smile were somehow comforting. “It’s our pleasure, having you here. Xavier’s one of those rare, loyal friends you’d do anything for. Your visit isn’t even a drop in the glass.”

When Dario took him upstairs and set him up in the guest room, he handed Carson an envelope. “Xavier asked me to give you this.”

Unbelievable. Even with the surreal drama of defying and betraying Max and Brian, a startling, wild thrill surged through Carson when his fingers touched the smooth paper.

“
All right. Thanks.”

“
You okay?” Dario’s warm, soothing smile.

“
Yeah. It’s just been a crazy day.”

“
Well, come down and join us whenever you’re ready.”

The second Dario left, Carson tore the envelope open. What had he thought it was going to be? A syrupy apology? A fucking love letter?

Xavier had done it again. Taken control. Taken away his choice. Gagged him.

By now, if what he’d written was true, Xavier had already given his bullshit statement to the authorities, claiming he’d been waiting for Carson in his car. A hurt, bitter laugh leaked out of Carson as he read the detailed description of how Xavier had supposedly physically forced him to drive a few blocks to a strip mall parking lot, then surrender his cell phone and the envelope with the passports. How Carson, a helpless hostage, had watched Xavier open the package full of passports (this was important, Xavier emphasized, so Carson could corroborate the crucial evidence of the passports) before Xavier got out and got into his own car, waiting a few spaces over. That Carson had fled in panic, terrified Max would imagine he’d betrayed him, even though he’d been a helpless victim of Xavier’s.

Max and the rest were going to realize very soon that Xavier had betrayed them, anyway, the letter said. No point in Carson walking around with a target on his back, too. But Carson should still stay at the loft, just to be sure. Then there was a stern admonishment to make sure his story matched Xavier’s, when he was questioned. Otherwise, he’d be jeopardizing the credibility of both of their testimonies.

What was he supposed to feel? Gratitude? Fuck that. He hadn’t asked to be protected. To be rescued.

Cowering under the jumble of sharp, cold edges of anger and resentment and humiliation at being manipulated again, Carson tried to hide from his ridiculous, wounded surprise that there was nothing more personal in the letter, and from his maddening, idiotic concern as he wondered if Xavier had really gone somewhere safe. Was he recklessly going about life as usual, spending his nights in his own house and his days moving between the tattoo parlor and the Kung Fu studio where Max’s syndicate could easily find him?

When Carson had calmed down enough to go downstairs, the three of them cooked and ate dinner. It surprised Carson, for some reason, to realize Aidan was quite shy. Dario, though, had that unusual gift for making him feel at ease, at home, even though Carson was the third wheel in the domestic bliss of two total strangers.

“
So, what’s your website?” Dario asked after they’d eaten, and passed the bong around a couple of times.

“
My website?”

“
For your photography.”

“
How’d you know I had a website?”

Mischievous grin. “Because you just confessed.”

Fuck, that smile was seductive. How could Aidan not be crazed with jealousy every day? Probably being a rising star in the music scene kept things somewhat in balance.

If he hadn’t been stoned, Carson probably would have been too shy to let them see his photography, especially blown up fifteen feet high, projected on the far wall of the loft. Where the stage used to be, back in the days of the now-defunct art collective, Dario mentioned.

And if he’d been manning the computer, he would have tabbed through all two hundred and eighteen photos in about five minutes. But Dario lingered that long on the first image, one Carson had chosen because he thought it was his best, and because he doubted many visitors to his site would get past the first two or three shots. A cityscape he thought almost succeeded in capturing the two faces of Los Angeles, it’s bright, warm beauty and its sad, filthy lostness. It felt so strange, listening to Dario comment on a dozen elements that had made Carson feel this was the best photograph he’d ever taken, and even make a few observations that hadn’t occurred to him. When Dario clicked through to the next shot, he kept it on the screen for just as long, and had just as much to say.

When they got to the fifth image, Aidan started commenting, too. Maybe it was the pot, but somehow they’d tumbled into the richest, most animated conversation about photography Carson had ever taken part in, despite several efforts to join groups on and offline. And for the first time, thanks to them, he felt like someone other than himself saw real talent in his images.

When they were all too sleepy or too stoned to follow the thread of the conversation any more, they went to bed. From his spot in the so-called guest room, which was obviously set up more as a music studio, lying on the sofa converted into a bed for the duration of his stay, Carson listened to his hosts’ low, indistinct murmurs for half an hour or so. And then he heard them having sex. It sounded like they were trying to be quiet. But every now and then, there was an unmistakable moan, soft but audible.

For some reason the sound of them making love made him sad.
Making love
. Is that what they were doing? Because the way he’d seen them together, and the way they sounded now, that’s the image Carson had of them. Tender kisses. Soft caresses. The slow sliding and undulating of their bodies while they looked into each other’s eyes. Nothing like what he and Xavier had done. Or, more accurately, what Xavier had done to him.

Even though those low, furtive noises blanketed him in a strange, heavy sadness, after just a minute or two, they had him hard. And every sigh he heard, every whisper made the ache worse.

He wanted them to stop. Hurry up and finish and go to sleep. Because those noises reminded him of Xavier. Reminded him of what Xavier had done to him. Reminded him of how Xavier looked at Dario. Reminded him of that thick, churning cloud of love Dario and Aidan were enveloped in.

Sad, frustrated, agitated beyond endurance, knowing he’d never fall asleep, otherwise, Carson jerked off, then went into the bathroom to wipe the come off his belly with a wad of toilet paper.

Watching them cook in the morning, he felt almost none of the sadness that had been swallowing him the afternoon and night before. Now he just felt embarrassed by his uselessness, since they’d refused to let him help make breakfast.

“Would it be too weird if I took some pictures of you guys?” He regretted asking as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Why did that always happen? Why didn’t the kill switch get flipped before the impulse was announced to everyone within ear shot? “Never mind. The last thing I want is to be more intrusive.”

Dario and Aiden looked at each other, grinning like they’d just gotten away with some kind of practical joke.

Dario turned to Carson. “Have you been eavesdropping?”

Carson’s face flushed hot. One of those incinerating blushes that gets worse and worse for long, excruciating seconds before it starts to abate.

Dario laughed. Not like Xavier’s derisive, cutting laughter. Dario’s was soothing. It sucked the heat out of Carson’s embarrassment almost instantly.

“
It was a joke. Although,” he turned to Aidan, “suddenly I’m thinking we weren’t being as quiet as we hoped, last night.” He gave Carson another slightly contrite smile. “We were just talking about you, upstairs. Saying it would be nice to have some candid shots of us, around the loft. Our happy home. Something to look back on in our golden years.”

“
Could I take some right now? This scene with you two in the kitchen? The light is amazing.”

He hurried upstairs and grabbed his camera bag. Put on the 35mm lens, so he could get some nice wides, the two of them in the space. Sunlight pouring through the antique panes of the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the birch of the cabinets, illuminating the dark waves of Dario’s shaggy hair and the Mediterranean greens of Aidan’s eyes. Steam billowing up from the frying pan in Dario’s hand. The fine blond hair on Aidan’s arm luminescent in the field of his dark tattoo.

“Your food’s getting cold,” Dario teased him when they’d sat down to eat, because he kept seeing another shot, and abandoning his chair to get it, changing to the 85mm lens so he could compose a few more intimate shots and play with the depth of field. Fuck, they were beautiful. Both of them. But especially together. The way they looked at each other, an almost palpable tenderness and attraction in every glance, but also something playful. Like they were constantly telepathically sharing inside jokes.

Carson smiled at Dario. “This is why I’m a terrible date. Once the camera comes out, someone usually has to pry it out of my cold dead hand.”

Not that he ever dated.

While Dario was out on some appointments and Aidan was up in the studio working on his music, Carson forced himself to check for texts on the burner phone Xavier had given him. God, he was a schizo spaz, hands cold and unsteady with dread, terrified of seeing Xavier’s name come up, then weirdly disappointed when it didn’t. Instead, there was a message from Elena, saying they’d taken Max and Brian into custody, along with a few other suspects, and that Carson should know that a lot of people were being helped thanks to what he’d done, although she couldn’t disclose any specifics. No news from her, either, about Xavier.