Make Me Soar (9 page)

Dorian dumped his bag by the door and went into the kitchen. Alan followed him in and watched as he filled the kettle.

“Good idea. Some tea or coffee would warm us up.”

Dorian said nothing. He pulled two mugs from a cabinet and sat them on the countertop, then leaned carefully against it, his gaze fixed on the window. He was clearly in no mood to talk, not that Alan was surprised. He knew it might take a while for the lad to open up, but Alan was a patient man. He’d have plenty to do to occupy him once Leo returned with his laptop. He would simply bide his time until Dorian was ready to talk.

There was still no sign of the Dorian he knew, and that only fueled Alan’s purpose.

I want you whole again, as you were before
. Then he thought about it.
No—better than before
. He wanted something he hadn’t seen yet.

He wanted Dorian to be happy.

A
LAN
TOOK
advantage of Dorian making them some tea to have a look around the flat. The lounge was a good size, with a wide window overlooking the river. The skyline was a mass of tall buildings; they were in the city center, after all. A dining table in polished mahogany stood in front of the window, four chairs around it. There were two two-seater couches, one of which was a sofa bed by the look of it. A wide screen TV stood facing it, across from a low coffee table.

“You have a nice flat,” Alan called out to Dorian. Four doors led off from the lounge, one leading to the inner hallway and the front door, another to the kitchen. A brief glance around the door nearest the window revealed a decent sized bathroom, with a large bath, shower cubicle, washbasin, and toilet.

So that only leaves Dorian’s bedroom
, he surmised.
Looks like I’ll be sleeping on the sofa after all
. Not that he minded. Alan had slept in far more uncomfortable places, and besides, he wasn’t concerned about comfort. The only thing on his mind right then was Dorian.

Dorian entered the lounge carrying two mugs, which he placed on the coffee table. He glanced at Alan before sitting on one of the couches. His body language left no room for error. A neon sign saying
Keep Away
couldn’t have been any clearer. The way he sat was another reminder for Alan. It was obviously painful to sit back right then.

Alan sat on the other couch and reached for his mug to warm his hands. January had been mild so far, but today he just couldn’t get warm. The awkward silence sat heavily on him. Dorian’s gaze was focused on the window, the wintry sky a mixture of thick white and gray clouds. Alan decided to leave the boy be and settled back into the cushions, eyes closed.

“I… I think I want to have a sleep,” Dorian said, his voice rasping.

Alan peered at him. “That sounds like a good idea. You didn’t sleep well last night, I know.” He smiled. “I’ll take a look in the kitchen and work out what I’ll cook us for dinner. And if needs be, I’ll order in. That sound okay?”

Dorian nodded, a look of gratitude flitting across his face. Then he got to his feet and picked up his bag. “Don’t let me sleep too long.” Those brown eyes had a haunted quality about them.

Alan peered at the clock on the wall. “It’s gone three o’clock. How about I wake you before six?” Dorian nodded. “And Dorian? You can take off the bandage. It needs air now.”

Dorian’s eyes were pained. “Is… is it bad?”

Alan decided to be honest. “Dorian, a brand is basically a third degree burn. It will feel irritated, just like when you burn your finger.”

“Is there some cream or something that you can put on it?”

Alan shook his head. “It only needs cream for the first day or so. When you’re in the flat, it would be better if you left it uncovered. It will heal faster like that. I’m leaving it up to you to apply some cream to your anus. You don’t need me for that.”

Dorian was still, his expression closed off. “Thank you for all this.” Then he disappeared through the door into his bedroom, mug in one hand, bag in the other. The door closed with a soft
snick
.

Alan sagged into the cushions. He knew the atmosphere would improve, but the tension in Dorian was palpable. He nursed the warm mug of tea, his thoughts going back to the sight of Dorian in that tiny hotel bathroom, the blood stark in the fluorescent lights, the pallor of his skin, and the sound of his breathing, harsh and rapid. Alan knew it would be a couple of weeks before the injury to his anus would heal, the same for the brand on his back. The physical scarring he could help with. As for the mental ones? They would take a while.

Those fucking bastards
.

Alan wasn’t a betting man, but he’d lay even money that they hadn’t told Dorian what they’d intended doing.

A soft knock at the front door brought him back into the present. Alan put down his mug and went to answer it. Leo stood there, overnight bag in one hand and laptop bag in the other. Alan let him into the lounge, and Leo glanced around with interest.

“He’s gone for a nap,” Alan told him. They sat down after Leo had placed the laptop bag on the coffee table and left the other on the floor by the couch. “Did you find stuff easily?”

Leo nodded. “I didn’t pack much, just a few changes of clothes and some sleepwear.” Then a wry smile crossed his lips. “I have to say, I’m very curious about something.”

Alan frowned. “Oh?” Then he sat very still. He suddenly had a sinking feeling that he knew
exactly
what Leo was about to say.

Leo smirked, as if privy to his thought processes. “I thought about bringing you a book to read, so I took a look at your bookshelves.”

Shit
.

Leo grinned. “So either you’re Lauren Peters’s number one fan, because you have
all
her books, or there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Well, crap
. Leo must have seen his notes on the table. Then it hit him. “Just a moment. How did you know I had all her books? Unless you’re a fan too?” Alan grinned. “Why, Leo Hart, are you a closet gay romance reader? I’d never have guessed.”

Leo’s cheeks burned. “It’s not something I spread about, okay? Only Thomas knows, and he’s not about to tell anyone at the club, because I have
far
too much dirt on him after all these years.”

Alan chuckled. “Your secret is safe with me. So I guess I have no choice but to share mine.” He extended a hand toward him. “Pleased to meet you. The name’s Lauren Peters.”

Leo shook it and then broke into a broad grin. “How come you’re writing MM romance under a female pseudonym? It’s usually the other way round. I’ve heard of a few women writing under male pen names.”

Alan scowled. “And how do you think those men at Collars & Cuffs would react if they knew what I did for a living? I mean, come
on
. It’s not as if I write BDSM or some gritty gay fiction, is it?”

Leo was shaking with quiet laughter. “God, no. Your books are pure romance with a capital
R
, complete with alpha males and happy-ever-afters.” He grinned. “And I love them.”

Alan mimicked his grin. “Oh, so
you’re
my fan!”

Leo’s eyes widened. “If I bring you my copies, would you sign them? I’d love to have autographed copies.” He sighed. “At least now I know why there have never been any book signing events for you.” His face straightened. “How is he?”

And just like that, Alan’s lightness of spirit vanished. “Still quiet. I know it might be a while before he can talk about it, but it
will
come.” He gave a shudder. “And it won’t be pretty. Right now he’s keeping a tight lid on his emotions, but he’s going to reach a point where he can’t keep it in any longer. My job
then
will be to listen—and then help him see a way forward.”

Leo gave him a speculative glance. “You obviously have some experience of what he’s going through.”

Alan nodded. “I worked for a while on a helpline. I’ve counseled men and women in similar situations, and before you ask, yes, I’m qualified to do so.” He laced his fingers together and gazed at them. “He probably resents my being here, but right now he’s vulnerable. I’m not about to leave him to his own devices.” He pointed to the laptop. “I can get on with my writing—or to be more accurate, my edits. Not that I can complain, the editors at Trinity Publishing are a thorough lot, and I have an excellent working relationship with them.”

Leo smiled. “I saw your pile of notes. I put them in the laptop bag, by the way. I figured you might need them.”

Alan gave a wry chuckle. “I thought that was how you’d worked things out.” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Oh well. I guess I’ll have to trust you.”

Leo rose to his feet. “You can pay for my silence by dedicating your next book to me,” he suggested, his eyes gleaming. Alan laughed. “But now I’ll leave you to it. I have a new husband waiting for me at home. Sev gave him the night off, and he’s making me a special dinner. What I’m
really
looking forward to is dessert.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m still on honeymoon, after all.”

Alan led the way to the front door. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. Now go home and enjoy your husband.” He held the door open for him.

Leo gave him a grin, but as he crossed the threshold into the hallway, he patted Alan on the arm. “If you need to talk, you have my number. You may be supporting Dorian, but I can be there for you.” His gaze met Alan’s. “I mean it.”

“Thank you,” Alan said sincerely.

Leo didn’t break eye contact. “And Dorian needs to get tested, ASAP.”

The same thing had occurred to Alan. “That’s on my to-do list, though it might have to wait a few days, until I’ve ascertained what Dorian’s state of mind is right now. Of course, not having a clue as to what went on at that party doesn’t help.”

Leo nodded and then walked away in the direction of the stairs, his phone pressed to his ear. Alan closed the door quietly and went back into the lounge. He stared at the door to Dorian’s bedroom.

You sleep, lad
.
I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk
.

He sat on the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him, and reached for his laptop bag.

H
OW
MUCH
longer is he going to stay?

It had been two days, and so far Alan showed no sign of leaving. Dorian was used to his own company, and having another body in the flat was strange. No one came to his flat,
ever
.

And how sad is that?

He’d awoken on Tuesday morning before dawn and stumbled out of his bedroom to find Alan asleep on the sofa bed, a long mountain range under the blankets. Dorian had gone into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and gone back to bed. When he’d surfaced again at nine o’clock to be greeted by the smell of fresh coffee and toast, for the first time since he’d arrived back in Manchester he was glad to have someone else around. The moment was fleeting, however. It hadn’t taken long for the now familiar refrain to start up in his head.

When is he going to leave?

He knew what lay at the root of the problem. Alan had seen him at possibly the lowest point in his life. He’d seen him in that hotel room, seen the mess he’d gotten himself into. Every time Dorian looked at Alan, he flushed with shame. He didn’t want to know what Alan thought of him. Alan was being so nice, so kind, but it had to be a cover. He must have been so disappointed in Dorian.

Then it had struck him. Alan’s opinion mattered.

Dorian hadn’t done much during the day except veg out on the couch while Alan typed away on his laptop. All he’d felt like doing was sleeping, and Alan had let him. Every now and then Alan had got up and made them drinks or something to eat. There’d been little in the way of conversation, which had suited Dorian just fine. His mood vacillated between a desire to be left alone and relief that Alan had stayed, and his mood swings only served to show Dorian the mess inside his head.

The following day had brought much of the same, and suddenly it was Wednesday night, another night of watching TV, him on one couch, Alan on the other. Channel hopping ’cause there was nothing on. Long stretches of silence that should have felt bloody
awkward
but didn’t, for some reason. Yet
another
night of him putting off going to bed because what was the point? He didn’t fucking sleep when he got there. He’d lain in bed the last two nights, fighting off the fatigue, because when he
did
sleep, all it brought him was another round of nightmares.

More than once during the last two days he’d wanted to say something, to start the conversation he knew was coming, but he couldn’t find the words.

How do you
start
a conversation like that?

Dorian knew he’d have to eventually, because the memories were starting to eat away at his insides, a malignant mass of darkness that was spreading throughout his body like a cancer, pervading everything,
touching
everything.