Games Boys Play (32 page)

He’d imagined having to watch or listen to those things being done to Dylan too.

It was just that, apparently, in
real
life, what he really wanted to do with a guy who tied him up was shove his tongue down the guy’s throat and hold on tight.

The hysterical idea—hysterical crazy, not hysterical funny—came to him of leaning toward his mom and saying, quietly,
I might be bi. I just wanted you to know.

It’d certainly take Patty’s mind off the motorcycle accident, even if he left Dylan out of the confession.

And all this was assuming Dylan was even interested, now that things were out in the open. Because who had taken the first kiss? Him. Who had tried to rub Dylan’s dick through his jeans with taped fists? Him. Who had told Dylan to
“get up before I lose my nerve”?

Him.

Dylan had actually worked to
not
sexualize their last thing. It had been violent and impersonal—no trailing of fingers over his neck, no touching his nipples. Until
he’d
taken it somewhere else, and Dylan’s first response had been to get up and walk away.

“Hey-hey!” Frank said when the
thud-click, thud-click
that had been making its way up the hall stopped in the doorway. “Look at you!”

Brian lifted his eyes, his fingers steepled against his lips.

“They got you casted up!”

“Casted up and ready to get out of here,” Dylan said. “Hey, Kels, Aunt Terri.”

“You don’t look nearly gruesome enough,” Kelsey said. “You could at least have tubes and shit coming out of you.”

“Should’ve been here before they took care of my leg.”

“So, did they do surgery?” Frank said.

“Nope. Clean break, just the fibula. I didn’t even break my ankle, which is apparently some lucky shit. They just put the cast on to hold it in place while it heals.”

Someone from the hospital waited patiently behind him, holding a big plastic bag by its plastic handles.

“You’re coming back to our place, right?” Patty said.

“What?”

“The foldout in Kelsey’s old room. It’s right on the first floor, right next to the bathroom. Frank can even put in a ramp on the front steps.”

“A ramp? What, am I moving in?”

“How long’s the cast gotta stay on?” Frank asked.

“Six weeks. Then they’ll take another look.”

“Just till the cast is off, Dyl,” Patty said.

“I’m not staying at your house for six weeks. What are you, crazy?”

“What are we, chopped liver? You live on the third goddamned floor. How are you gonna get out and get groceries, do your laundry?”

“Hey, is your cleaning business going to pick up and deliver, Dad?” Kels asked.

“No offense, but I just want to get back to my own place, Ma.”

“On the third goddamned floor. The last thing you need is to slip and fall halfway up those stairs and crack your head open.”

“Halfway up, I’m pretty sure I’d be crossing a landing.”

“You think you’re clever.”

Brian was on his feet, watching the volley, hoping Dylan didn’t end up at Patty’s for a month and a half, on the first floor, right in the middle of everything. He cut in with, “You want a ride?”

Dylan looked over, surprise flashing in his eyes, gone in a second. “Yeah, that’d be great. If someone could take my stuff here—” He shifted over so everyone could see the orderly carrying the overstuffed bag with the hospital’s logo imprinted on it and, in his other hand, Dylan’s helmet.

“You should come stay with us a few days, at least,” Patty said.

“Maybe I’ll get home, find out I can’t make it up the stairs, and show up at your door after all. But first I’m gonna try going home.”

“Wow, look at the scrape,” Kels said, taking the helmet, then the bag, from the orderly.

“And it’s not because I don’t like you or your house or your cooking or your company, but because I really,
really
just want to sleep in my own bed and shit on my own toilet.”

“Do you need to keep the helmet for the investigation?” Patty asked.

“I don’t know. Gonna keep it anyway.”

“Of course. He doesn’t throw a thing away. You’re not gonna use it again, right?”

“Nope, gotta replace it after it’s been in an accident.”

“Or you could just drive a car.”

“I
could
.”

“But he won’t,” Kelsey said, poking in the bag. “Jacket—” She pulled it out. “Two boots, looks like a sock wadded up in one.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Is that everything?” Patty asked.

“Cigarettes?”

“Outside,” Patty said.

“I know outside. I’m just wondering if they’re still in my jacket, because when I
get
outside, I’d really like to have one.”

“Your cancer sticks are right here.” Kels popped open the top of the hard pack of Winstons and pulled one up so he could clamp it in his teeth.

“I guess we’re ready to go, then.” The cigarette bounced as he spoke.

The orderly held out a sheaf of papers. Frank, closest, took them with a “thanks” and rolled the pages into a tube as they filed out the waiting room doorway, Brian and Kels ahead of Dylan, the parents in back.

“They don’t want to see you again for six weeks?” Patty asked.

“That’s what they said.”

“Six weeks is a long time.”

“They gave me a paper of things to look out for. I think overbearing mothers was on it.”

“Give me that,” Patty said. Brian heard the unmistakable sound of Dylan getting swatted with a roll of papers.

“Ouch. Hey. I’m a cripple here.”

“Did they x-ray your clavicle?”

“My clavicle is bruised.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Brian looked over his shoulder, caught the wince that crossed Dylan’s face as he set his weight on the crutches and swung forward.

Brian turned, walking backward. “Need any help?”

“I’m good.” The rubber ends of the crutches thumped on the floor, another wince pulling at Dylan’s face as his good foot swung forward to take his weight again.

“Hold this,” Kels said, pushing the jacket and bag of boots at Brian.

She ran ahead, getting her phone out. Brian stepped out of the way to let her get a few shots of Dylan, who came to a stop and rested on his good leg till she was done.

“Anything special you’d like to say to your fans when I post this?”

“Yeah, motorcycles are on the fucking road too.”

“Where is your bike, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Ask Dad. He’ll know what they’re doing with it.”

“I want to get a shot of that. And the scrape on the helmet.”

“Bet my jacket’s got some good scuffs too.”

“Awesome.”

“As long as it’s not ripped to hell,” Dylan said.

“Bri, go pull your car up,” Patty said.

He was happy to speed up, leave the slow-moving crowd behind, do whatever he could to expedite the process of getting Dylan into his car, alone.

Even with having to find his way out of the building and cross the parking lot, he made it back to the doors before they emerged. He had the AC going, the engine idling. The ER doors opened, Dylan coming out with Kels alongside him. Brian got out of the car and walked around to get the passenger door, then the back door for Dylan’s crutches.

“Hey,” Dylan said, turning to his mom. He passed one of the crutches to his other hand and gave her a one-armed hug. “I love ya, Ma. I just want to be home, you know?”

“I know. Your father’s the same way. I’ll be by in the morning with some groceries, sandwich stuff, easy-to-make stuff. Anything you can think of you need?”

“No, whatever you think.”

“Take care,” Frank said. “Give us a call if you need anything.”

“Yep.”

“I’ll be by tomorrow for more pics,” Kels said. “Be prepared for an onslaught of fan well -wishes.”

“Yep.”

“Take care, Dyl,” Brian’s mom said, hugging him gently.

Brian didn’t escape a hug, either. “Bye, Mom.” Then he was helping Dylan maneuver into the passenger seat, closing the door, heading around the front of the car, and getting behind the wheel with a final wave to everyone through the windshield.

“Thank fuck that’s over with,” Dylan said as Brian pulled away from the curb.

“Yeah. You can roll down the window if you want to smoke.”

“Holy shit. In your car?”

“Just this once.”

“Thanks. I really fucking appreciate it.”

“So, were you coming back from dropping off the van?”

“Yeah. I spent half the day hauling shit down to the van, drove it over to the storage place, unloaded it, then dropped the van off and got on my bike. I was halfway home when
bam
, my back wheel whipped out from under me. I didn’t even see what hit me. They say the guy stopped, though. I guess the police talked to him, got his info.
Someone
got his info. I don’t know. It was fucking crazy. Even after I found myself lying on the fucking pavement, I was having a hard time getting my head into what was going on.” He was looking for the car lighter.

Brian said, “You may have to use your own lighter.”

“Right.” He dragged his jacket into the front seat. “You know what I was thinking when I got hit? I was thinking about coming out. You know, just telling everyone. Fuck it.”

“Now would have been a good time. It would have gotten Aunt Patty’s mind off the accident, at least.”

Dylan snorted smoke through his nostrils.

“You’re really thinking about coming out?”

Dylan shook his head. “I don’t want to be ‘that band with the gay guy.’ Or even ‘that gay guy.’ Or have that conversation with Patty. I want the fucking music to come first. Why is it anyone’s fucking business anyway? I don’t know. I could tell Kels, I guess.”

“Yeah, that won’t get it up on Facebook or anything.” Brian turned the car into the lot behind Dylan’s building.

“Nah, she wouldn’t.” Dylan flicked his ashes out the open window. Quietly he said, “I should have told you.”

Brian got out of the car and walked around to Dylan’s side. “I’ll come back for the rest,” he said, helping Dylan to his feet, Dylan letting Brian’s shoulder stand in for one of the crutches.

Brian felt better about the idea of going up two sets of stairs with his arm around Dylan than the thought of Dylan thumping up by himself. “Watch your step. It’s hard to see back here.”

“Thanks, Patty,” Dylan said. He sounded tired.

As they made their way to the first flight of steps, Dylan said, “Do you think we’ll be okay?”

“Probably.”

They slowed for Dylan to put his crutch on the bottom step.

“We probably have a fuckload of talking to do,” Brian said. “But there’s plenty of time for that. Let’s just take it one mountain at a time.”

They rested on the first landing, Dylan leaning against the wall between the kitchen window of one apartment and the kitchen window of the next.

“We should’ve brought your cigarettes,” Brian said.

Dylan smiled.

When he pushed off the wall, they headed up the next flight of stairs.

“Shit,” Dylan breathed as they neared the top.

Brian’s fingers dug into his side, a quick panic. “What?”

“My keys are in my jacket.”

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me. I have my key.”

“Right. Sorry.” They thunked across the landing, and Dylan leaned on the wall while Brian got the door open.

“Need the bathroom?” Brian asked.

“No, I’m good.”

He helped Dylan into the bedroom and sat him down on the edge of the bed. “I’ll be right back. Your dad picked up your meds already. They’re in the car. What do you want to swallow them with?”

“Water’s fine.” Dylan opened the drawer next to his bed and pulled out a fresh pack of Winstons, one hand pressed against his collarbone.

“Be right back,” Brian said again and ducked out.

When he got back with a pain pill and an antibiotic in his palm and a glass of water in his hand, Dylan still sat on the side of the bed, a half-smoked cigarette drooping from his lip, his thumb rubbing slowly over the circle tattooed on his wrist.

“What’s that for, anyway?” Brian asked, coming in with the pills.

“What?”

Brian nodded at the tattoo as Dylan reached for the glass with the hand that had been rubbing his wrist. “I always thought it was something about your mom.”

“My mom?” Dylan lifted his eyebrows.

“Something to remember her by or something. I don’t know.”

“Nah. I mean, I don’t remember her in the first place.” He set the cigarette on the ashtray by his bed. “I guess this would be appropriate then, an empty circle. But if I got something for her, it’d probably be, well, I don’t know, something nicer than an empty circle.”

The circle disappeared as Dylan popped the pills in his mouth.

“So what’s it mean, then?”

He waited for Dylan to swallow half the glass of water, set it down, and wipe his mouth with his hand.

“It was an idea.” With a wince, Dylan started to turn so he could put his back against the headboard and bring his legs up onto the bed. Brian picked up the cast leg and helped him get settled.

“Thanks. Anyway. Long story short, it’s like I have two lives—this one, and the one that can’t bleed into this one. Whenever that one starts to threaten to break through—when I connect with a guy or start thinking, ‘If only…’—and I’m in
this
life, I touch this to remind myself.” He put two fingers against the circle, like he was taking his pulse, that familiar gesture, but held out now to show Brian. “Like I’m putting the thoughts and the energy into here. And I can have them later, when I’m in that other life. Just not now.”

“You’re insane. You know that?”

“Well, it worked, right?” Dylan raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, fuck you.” Brian pushed his hands into his jacket pockets. “You lied to me.”

“You don’t know how close I came to telling you, how many times.”

He closed his eyes, fists clenching. Anger still lived inside him about this—anger over being duped, over not being trusted, over being kept on the outside, which might have been the worst. His
best friend.

When it had peaked and dulled, he said quietly, “What’s your ideal outcome here?” He rocked a little on the balls of his feet. “Now that I know. Now that we’ve done all that we’ve done.”