Destiny (Waiting for Forever) (42 page)

When he straightened, he squared his shoulders with a scowl.

Several tense minutes passed while Steven glared at Mike, surrounded by friends. A big man, Steven could have taken on two or three of them and come out okay, but not five. His hands twitched as if he wanted to try anyway. Mike finished dressing quickly while I remained painfully naked and hunched against the wall.

More footsteps on the stairs brought Nick and Julio into the room.

Rather than speaking right away, Nick surveyed the room with detached interest. For a new arrival, the standoff between Steven and the rest of Nick’s crew was evident. I was sure the only real questions were what had started it and why I was naked. Apparently, those things could wait.

“You need to leave. I’ll call you during the week with his schedule, but before this gets out of hand, you need to go,” Nick told Steven. The authority and hint of menace in his voice were unmistakable. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that Steven was the catalyst to the fight because real trouble in the house usually involved him. Steven looked around the room one final time, probably trying to assess his chances of getting at Mike, before he threw my clothes at me with as much force as he could. The shirt billowed, but the jean shorts came much faster. A metal button struck me near the eye when I didn’t catch them fast enough.

“Get dressed, you little whore.” Every word was a hint of the pain I would feel later, once we were alone and no one stood to help me. Not bothering with the briefs that had landed a foot in front of me, I hurried to get my shorts on. Brian bent down, picked up my shirt, and held it out to me.

“You don’t have to go with him,” he said tenderly. I took the shirt slowly and looked at him. “We can take care of you. We can protect you, Jamie. Just stay here with us.” His voice sounded calm, as if he tried to soothe a frightened animal. He was such a better man than I was. God, he deserved someone who would make him happy, not me hurting him over and over.

“Don’t even think about it,” Steven warned, and my eyes shifted to him instead. I knew about the gun he kept in the nightstand. I’d seen it from the wrong end of the barrel a few times as he threatened me with it. If I stayed with Brian, there would be nothing to stop Steven, to distract him from going home to get it.

Trying not to look at Brian’s desperate, frightened face, I threw my shirt on and followed Steven out the door.

Twenty-Five

T
HE
pain in my head woke me up, and I realized I was freezing. A violent shiver rolled through my body, making my head throb. I tried to move my hands, but something wet and soft made them slide. My head spun, and for several long, terrifying minutes, I had no idea where I was. The smell of tomato and garlic confused me further, and I took the chance to open my eyes. When they finally adjusted to the low light, I realized that I was on the kitchen floor.

Oh… right, the lasagna.

For the three days since the standoff in the studio, I’d been on lockdown. I could not leave the apartment or talk on the phone to Alex, who had called over a dozen times. I could do absolutely nothing that would give Steven any reason to worry about me screwing around. Being unable to leave the apartment meant I also couldn’t go to the market, leading to the fight last night. We’d been out of spaghetti sauce, so I’d tried to use tomato sauce and different Italian herbs to make it taste right.

It ended up tasting like shit, which is what Steven had been screaming at me when he threw the plate of lasagna, fresh from the oven, at me across the table. I hadn’t been wearing a shirt, and the hot sauce and melted cheese burned my stomach on impact. Standing quickly with a scream, I tried to make it to the sink to wash it off, but Steven got to me first and, really, that was the last thing I remembered.

Turning my head slightly, I saw the time on the microwave: 11:42 p.m. Even that small movement brought blinding pain to my head, neck, and arms. A sharp, stabbing pain in my back stopped me from rolling over. Reaching behind me to pull the broken shard of a dinner plate from my skin, I sat up slowly and looked at the fragment of stoneware. Blood and tomato sauce stained the white surface, making a grotesque red collage.

As the room gradually came into focus, I panicked at the mess. Broken dishes and food littered the floor and countertops. The table lay turned on its side, leaving wine and debris in its place. My legs and back ached from lying on the floor for the last several hours, my abdomen stung from the burn, and my face throbbed. One eye was swollen almost closed, and I could taste blood on my lip. None of that mattered as I crawled over to the small closet that held the broom and dustpan. I needed to get it cleaned up before Steven woke up. I moved as quickly and quietly as I could, straining to set the table upright without letting it bang against the wall. I set the dustpan deep in the garbage can to prevent the clatter made by pieces of the plates as they hit each other. My back screamed as I scrubbed the red mess from every nick and groove in the pattern on the tile. A piece of rogue glass got caught in my sock, cutting my heel as I swiped my feet across the floor to make sure I’d found every sliver of the broken wine bottle. Finally, knowing Steven would be even angrier if I left the apartment, I double bagged the garbage and set it in the small closet where we kept the broom so I could beg him tomorrow to take it to the chute.

The sun had just started to rise when I finally collapsed on the couch, which had become my new bed.

T
HE
pain of the hot water hitting my skin was so intense I nearly skipped the shower. Crusted tomato sauce, grime, blood, and sweat forced me to continue. I tried to shield my abdomen as much as I could from the water, but if I didn’t clean the burn and the open cuts on my arms and back, they could become infected. Even if I had health insurance or money for a doctor, I was sure Steven would never let me out of the house. The only thing helping me through the pain was knowing that once I had dried off after the shower, I’d dig into my hidden stash and make the pain go away for a little while. I’d nearly emptied the tiny stash since Steven had brought me home from the studio in a towering rage. Each line I snorted, each pill I took, dulled the pain a little bit more, and it became harder and harder to just stop with two or three. I welcomed the escape from the physical pain, but even more, it helped me escape the scathing words Mike had screamed at me that day, the accusation in his voice.

Brian had given up everything for me.

He’d had the chance at college and a life, but he gave that up for me.

Brian did porn to be close to me.

After slamming off the water, I wrapped myself in a towel and headed for the closet, for the book that held my last few lines of coke. I didn’t want to think anymore. I didn’t want to hurt.

“S
TEVEN
,
Nick is not going to let me shoot like this,” I tried to reason with him on Saturday morning when he told me to get my shit together for the studio. My face was so bruised, cut, and swollen that I barely recognized myself in the mirror. The angry red burn from my navel up to my nipple had started to blister. Deep bruises littered my arms and back. I’d taken to sleeping on my side just to help with the pain because my stash and the aspirin had already run out.

“Then we’ll just have to make him see that it’s in his best interest, and yours, that you get paid,” he growled, and I knew better than to argue with him. My bad situation was about to get infinitely worse. No amount of makeup would cover the damage he’d inflicted over the last few days, and no way would Nick let me shoot when my body looked like a demilitarized zone. I couldn’t think of any way out, so I went to get dressed.

Steven hadn’t given me any drugs all week, so I was terrified he’d send me to the shoot in pain. My body hurt so bad, and I didn’t want to take the chance I would pass out at the studio and make Steven even more furious. I grabbed my clothes out of my dresser and checked the door. He still sat on the couch watching television, so with trembling hands, I searched his top drawer until I found two ecstasy pills. Without thinking about the consequences when he found them missing, I swallowed them dry and whimpered as I dressed quickly.

When I came back into the living room, I saw Steven had cut out three short lines of coke. He handed me a straw and looked at me expectantly. I’d only ever taken that much coke once before, and I’d already taken the E. For a moment, the fear of an overdose gripped me. Slowly, I realized death couldn’t be much worse than what my life had turned into. I took the straw and leaned over the mirror on the table. The first line went down smooth as silk. The second line burned my nose and throat, and I hesitated, swaying as the drugs started to make my body numb. The fear prickled again on the back of my neck.

“Don’t be a wimp. Do the last line,” Steven said, kicking the back of my knee so I went down in front of the table. “I don’t want any crap from you today. Do the goddamn line.”

The pounding in my head subsided as I pinched my nose and drew in the third line. A thick blanket of oblivion slid over my mind. I didn’t pass out, but my whole existence felt wrapped in gauzy cotton.

“Great, now get in the truck.”

A
T
THE
studio, my body floated toward the front door as Steven half carried me from the truck. The door opened by itself, which I found strange, but then I stumbled into Alex’s arms. He caught me and held onto me as Steven pushed me away. The shock and horror on the faces of the guys around me registered dimly in my mind, but I couldn’t really process what it meant. Brandon stood back, looking angry, and Mike held Brian back. My Brian, always so sweet and so brave. I wanted to go to him, but I couldn’t make my legs work. My heart raced in my chest as if it was trying to get out, and my head spun. I watched as Brian pulled out his cell phone and left the room.

“Do something with him. He’s a mess,” Steven barked at Alex, who just stared. Exasperated, he added, “You know, make him up so he looks like a good little whore. At least cover the bruises and shit on his face. I need to go talk to Nick.” Steven sighed and left the room, and for several minutes, no one spoke. I just rested my head on Alex’s shoulder and didn’t look at anyone else. For some reason, it made me feel bad. I didn’t want to feel bad. I wanted to feel good, like the drugs were supposed to make me feel.

“Oh, baby,” Alex said, and I could hear the broken sound of tears in his voice. I didn’t know why he sounded so sad. I was high. I was happy. Everything was fine.

The drugs took me higher than I’d ever been, and for a while, I only heard snatches of conversation as I sat on the couch and Alex tried to fix my face. He kept pushing my hands away. Why did he do that? I felt like something was crawling on my face. I needed to stop it, but he pushed them away again.

“Twenty minutes….”

“Can he walk?”

“We need at least five minutes….”

“How the hell do we keep him busy?”

“He’s here….”

I didn’t know who the voices belonged to as I lay back with my head resting on the couch and tried to understand what they were saying. It was like I was underwater, only I wasn’t drowning. I felt warm and happy and safe in the water. I liked water. Dad used to take me swimming all the time when I was a kid. I didn’t know why that made me sad.

“He’s going to the john. We have to go….”

“Jamie, honey.” That voice was closer, and I opened my eyes to see Brian’s face above mine. “Do you trust me?”

Of course, I trusted him. He was my Brian. Brian would never hurt me. Brian loved me. I needed him. So I pushed my head through the cotton around it and nodded.

He took my hand, and we ran.

About the Author

A survivor
of the ex-gay residential institution The Sunshine Center, fictional author
J
AMIE
M
AYFIELD
went on to find his voice in novels. Always a great lover of books, Jamie found his passion as he began to pursue a liberal arts degree in creative writing. An avid reader, he’s a fan of gay romance, suspense, and horror—though not all in the same novel.

Jamie lives in San Diego with his fictional husband, Brian. He writes YA fiction as a way to let kids know that they have an entire LGBT family all around them. Above all, he wants them to know that they are not alone. It does get better.

Jamie Mayfield is a fictional character from the acclaimed Little Boy Lost series by female author J. P. Barnaby.

Website: http://www.JamieMayfield.com

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Coming Soon