On the Streets of New Orleans (13 page)

The gun shook. Charlie knew if the guy pulled the trigger, he’d never survive. In fact, he’d be dead before he hit the ground. For the first time in a very long time, Charlie didn’t want to die.

The junkie cursed, spittle flying, hitting Charlie in the face, and then he smashed the butt of the gun into the side of Charlie’s head. Charlie staggered back, reaching for the metal handrails to stay upright, but missed and fell onto the concrete steps.

The impact of his side hitting the sharp edges of the stairs exploded pain through his body. All the air whooshed out of his lungs, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the gunshot.

Nothing. He opened his eyes in time to watch the guy run away, reach darkness, and disappear. Charlie’s head pounded and blood, wet and warm, ran down the side of his head, over his ear to his neck.

Shit. Fucking druggies. And fucking drug dealers.

The neighborhood had been bad before, but in the last few months, it had grown worse. Now his shelter was under attack, and he’d been robbed and pistol-whipped.

Charlie pulled himself up, one hand to his head, and staggered up the stairs, leaving the broom and dust pan behind. He got to the doors and stared out into the darkness up and down Tulane Avenue.

“Where’s a fucking cop when you need one?” he asked the night.

He pulled the door closed, locked it, and went to his room to clean up and tend his bleeding cut. No sense in calling the cops. They wouldn’t do anything anyway. Understaffed and overworked, they’d just take a report and move on.

Charlie went into his bathroom and wet a towel. He wiped at the blood and checked out the wound on his cheek. Not too bad. Head wounds bled like a bitch. He dug into his medicine cabinet and found a box of bandages, tore one off the roll, and put it on with minimal wincing.

He exhaled with a hard shudder, and his ribs ached. He pulled up his shirt and stared at his side, already bruising. A few presses and he decided he hadn’t cracked any ribs.

Damn that junkie.

It was guys like that who ruined a good place to live. Charlie should know. He’d ruined just about everyplace he’d ever been—his parent’s home and his apartment. But he’d blown through all his belongings, selling them for whatever he could get for them. He’d begged money from his parents until they realized he was buying drugs with it and cut him off. He’d even asked Lloyd for money. But he’d never robbed anyone.

He snorted. Who was he kidding? The only reason he’d never sunk that low was because he’d bypassed that and went straight to hell. Don’t pass go. Don’t collect shit.

Just kill your brother and wind up in jail.

But he wasn’t like that anymore. Now he was clean and sober.

The real enemy was the drugs and the men and women who sold them.

Men like Devon?

Fuck.
He’d forgotten about his suspicions of Devon and that he thought the man was dealing drugs in this neighborhood.

Well, now he knew for sure. He’d witnessed it for himself. Been a victim of it.

If that didn’t just beat all. What irony! He’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so damn much.

Damn it.
If he ever saw Devon again, he was going to tell him off and call the fucking cops on him.

DEVON HUNKERED
down behind the derelict car with Jingo, keeping in the shadows as he watched the drug dealer across the street. He’d sent the brothers Mo and Mini-Mo out scouting, and they’d found this young woman pushing crack on a corner of Mid-City, just blocks from the shelter.

It pissed him off that after he’d established a territory here, someone thought she could just waltz in and sell drugs on his turf. He’d have to make an example of this dealer.

Jingo gave him a sharp head jerk toward the woman. “What now?”

“We’re gonna let the cops handle this for us.” Devon grinned. He pulled out his burner cell phone and texted the location to the vice squad’s tip line. No one would be able to track him through the phone. “Now, we wait.”

Jingo grinned and nodded. He shifted to one knee on the ground and kept surveillance. Devon leaned his back against the car, trusting Jingo to let him know if anything happened.

“Teach her ass to trespass,” Jingo whispered.

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, four cars pulled over, their occupants chatting to the dealer. They handed over the money, and she passed them the crack in tiny little baggies.

Each time, Jingo nudged Devon so he could take photos of the deal and the cars’ license plates. Extra proof, if he needed it.

When the first patrol car turned the corner, she was leaning into the car at the curb, doing the transaction. She looked up, cursed, and bolted down the street.

The cops hit the lights and siren and took after her. The guy in the car tried to pull off, but a second unit pulled up and blocked him off.

Down the block, the cops had the woman on the ground, cuffing her.

Devon gave Jingo a high five. Another dealer off his turf. One by one, he’d get them all. A small crowd gathered, coming out of houses to see what was going on, and Devon and Jingo slipped into it and then away from the commotion.

“Tell Mo and Mini-Mo they did good tonight.” Devon stopped around the corner and lit a cigarette. Jingo bummed one from him, and Devon flicked his cheapie lighter open.

The men stood on the sidewalk, smoking for a few moments, then Devon nodded good-bye and went to his car. Jingo strode off down the block, his cocky
I’m badass
strut making Devon laugh.

He started the engine and pulled off, heading back to his place. But when he reached Tulane Avenue, his mind went right to Charlie. Devon hated that he and Charlie had left things so badly. He’d wanted to help the man, make it better for him, but how?

Without thinking, he turned the car toward the shelter and glanced at his watch. Almost closing time. Would Charlie be outside with the others? Smoking? Should he stop?

Ahead on the right, the light from the overhead beamed down on the porch and steps of the shelter. Men stood about, hands in pockets, heads down, some smoking, others leaning against the buildings.

On the top of the porch stood Charlie.

Devon’s heart thudded, and he groaned. Damn, he was in too deep, and he knew it. He wanted Charlie in the worst way—more than for sex—and for a very long time. He’d be breaking all his rules about staying loose and unattached, but he knew that.

He pulled the car over about half a block away, parked, and sat there.

What was he thinking of doing? Charlie had made it clear he wasn’t capable of giving Devon anything, but Devon knew inside, if he could just reach Charlie, the man would be a marvelous lover.

He wanted to know Charlie that way more than anything he’d wanted in a long time.

The fact Charlie was a recovering addict? Well, fuck, Devon had demons of his own, didn’t he? How many nights had he lain in bed, the fading memories of bad dreams, of events and things he’d seen, burning into the back of his eyelids?

Devon shook off his thoughts and got out of the car.

He knew what he wanted, and it was standing on the steps of the shelter. He strode down the sidewalk with purpose burning in his eyes. Would Charlie see the flare of his desire and bolt? Run inside and lock the door?

He’d never know if he didn’t try to reach the man.

CHARLIE LOOKED
up at the approaching man bathed in shadow. At five minutes to ten, his first thought was that, whoever he was, he’d better get his ass in gear before Charlie locked him out for the night. His second thought was that the junkie had returned. He dug in his pocket for the keys to the front door.

“Five minutes,” he called out. Best to get them inside and safe if it was the same guy.

The men shuffled and stubbed out cigarettes or lighted up new ones for that last smoke of the night. A few wandered inside, but Charlie sat on the ledge of the porch wall, drumming the heels of his sneakers against the concrete, waiting until they all went in.

Waiting until he could see who this man was.

The man stepped into the nearby light, and Charlie’s heart stopped, stuttered, and then pounded in his chest.
Devon.

What the hell?

He didn’t know what to feel or how to sort out the emotions swimming inside him—relief, anger and fear, desire and lust, all rolled into one huge ball of uncertainty in the pit of his stomach.

He had to force his hands to unclench as he rose. He took the steps down and walked up to Devon, meeting him before he reached the other men.

“What do you want?” Charlie didn’t bother to hide the anger in his voice. He’d told Devon to forget him because he wasn’t worth the fight, but damned if the man hadn’t ignored him and showed up.
The nerve of the cocky bastard.

Did he think Charlie would just fall into his arms?

Devon stared at him. His eyes narrowed, and he reached out and caught Charlie’s head in his hands. “What the hell happened to you?” The rumble of anger in Devon’s voice wasn’t lost on Charlie, and he had to brace himself against the urge to lean into Devon’s embrace.

“You should know.” Charlie pulled away, and Devon let his hands drop to his sides.

“What’re you talking about?”

“One of your loyal customers did this.” Charlie spun around and headed back to the shelter. He didn’t get far before Devon caught up to him and hauled him around to face him.

“
My
customers? What the hell are you talking about?” Devon demanded.

“Okay. Play stupid. I’ll explain it.” Charlie shook loose. “A junkie jumped me. Right here in front of the shelter. He had a gun. I gave him money, but he hit me anyway.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. But he’s not mine. I didn’t have anything to do with that.” Devon followed him up the steps.

Charlie turned at the door. Most of the men had gone inside. “Come on, Buddy. Let’s get in,” he told the last straggler. He held the door as the old man took his time as he shuffled past.

“Charlie, listen to me. Please.” The desperation in Devon’s voice just kicked Charlie in the gut.

He sighed and let the door close. “Okay, I’m listening.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the cement wall of the porch.

Devon ran his hand over his face. “Look. It’s not what you think. I’m not… I can’t tell you the truth, but I can swear to you, I don’t sell drugs. I never have and never will.” He stepped into Charlie’s space, a look of pain on his face as he cupped Charlie’s cheek. “Damn. I want to find who did this to you and….” Devon leaned forward and brushed his lips across Charlie’s.

It felt so good. Devon’s hand on his skin, his lips against Charlie’s. Christ, he wanted to believe this man. He wanted not to hate him. He wanted to give in to him, let Devon kiss and hold and stroke him.

But something held him back. Lloyd’s ghost.

“I want to believe you, really.” Charlie pulled back. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt when you say you’re not selling drugs.” He opened the door to the shelter. “Good enough?”

“Can you take a walk with me?” Devon shuffled his feet. “So we can talk?”

“No, I’m on duty. I have to settle the men down first.”

“After, can we talk?”

Charlie looked up and blew out a breath. “We can talk in my room, if you want to wait. It’ll take about twenty minutes.” It was a bad idea to let Devon in his room, but at this point, his hunger for the man had overridden his common sense or his fear the priests would find out.

Devon followed him inside.

“Here’s my room.” Charlie opened the door and nodded. “Wait for me.”

Devon stepped inside, and Charlie closed the door behind him. Then he went upstairs to do a head count and make sure everyone had blankets and a bed, and to check if the showers were empty and clean. He took his time, drawing it out until he had to face Devon.

DEVON LOOKED
around the sparse room. A full-size bed against one wall. Next to it, a dresser with a ladder-back chair with a worn cushion. A small nightstand by the bed. A door to either a closet or a bath. Devon wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to pry.

A priest’s cell might have more furnishings.

No art on the walls, no pictures either. Nothing personal anywhere. Nothing that said this room is where Charlie MacAfee lives.

Devon felt incredibly sad. The demons riding Charlie had stripped him of everything and left him with nothing, not even a small bright spot like a wall calendar.

He wanted to break Charlie free, but how? All he had to give was… what? His body? Devon knew Charlie needed much more than just a warm body to lie with or a quick blowjob every now and then.

Charlie needed to be loved. He needed someone to be there, to support him, to let him know he stayed clean and sober for a reason other than doing penance.

Could Devon give him that? He wasn’t sure he was even capable of love. He’d been so focused for years on his work, it’d left little time for relationships. He’d had crushes when he was younger, before he came out, but not much since then. In his line of work, letting someone in might be more dangerous to them than to Devon’s heart.

Charlie needed a man he could have something with, something lasting, something that told him every day he was good and worthwhile. That he mattered.

He wasn’t sure if he was that man.

Devon sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. To say his life was in turmoil was to say the least. His life was… complicated, but that didn’t mean he didn’t need someone also. Someone like Charlie.

Fuck.
He had a damn rescue complex, and he knew it. He wanted to save Charlie from himself. Be a hero.

Did he want Charlie?
Really
want him? Or was this just lust talking? Did he think of Charlie as another notch on his bedpost or as a person who deserved more?

Devon closed his eyes and thought of how the junkie could have shot and killed Charlie, right here on the steps of the shelter. He could see Charlie’s body spread out across the steps, blood seeping from the wound in his chest, his eyes glazed over and—