Patient Privilege (3 page)

Christ, he could still remember the look on Marshall's face when he'd stumbled into their house in the early morning hours. Erik had reeked of booze—probably whiskey. That'd been his drink of choice back in those days. He and Marshall fought nearly every time they came in contact with each other. Marshall had asked him to slow down so many times, and then he'd just seemed to give up trying.

Early that morning, sometime before sunrise, Marshall met Erik at the front door and demanded he get the hell out of the house. He didn't want to see Erik's face ever again. Erik had laughed and headed back out to the car he'd just stumbled out of. Turning the keys in the ignition, he'd hit the road. He hadn't known where he would end up. He'd just started driving, and not even ten miles into his journey, he'd had a head-on collision with a parked car.

The cops said Erik had to have been doing about sixty miles an hour for the damage he'd done. Three weeks after the accident, he'd woken up in the hospital with absolutely no recollection of what happened that night, no job, no home, and no Marshall. So he'd checked himself into rehab, hoping to heal the emotional scars while his body fought to heal the physical.

Just over a year later, he seemed to have his life in some sort of order again. He'd returned to his career of choice: helping the people everyone else thought were hopeless, the people life gave up on. But he didn't do it in a swank San Francisco office anymore. He didn't have his amazingly handsome partner to go home to, and every waking hour of his life he had to remind himself how he'd lost everything to booze.

His loafers clapped against the linoleum as he fought to push away the memories of his life's greatest disappointment. He knew he would be no good to his patients if he couldn't get over his own pain, and the boy whose room he headed toward needed his complete focus.

Eric pressed his palm against the door of his most tragic patient's room. Poor kid had never been given a chance. His mom smoked crack during her entire pregnancy, and because of her bad decisions, baby Chris had been born an addict. He'd started on the light stuff at an early age, said it made everything that came with being a crack-addicted child a little easier. After the cops hauled his mother away, he moved to the streets. Now, at thirteen years old, Chris was addicted to meth.

At least Erik had managed to make more headway with him than anyone else. The kid finally started to talk to people, letting them get close. In fact, Roni could now go into his room without him screaming bloody murder and throwing pillows or bed linens or shoes at her.

"Heya, Chris," Erik said as he stepped into the kid's darkened room. "How we doing today?"

"It's a good day, Doc," the kid said.

Erik could see the sweat clinging to Chris's forehead. He saw his trembling hands as Chris hugged his legs to his curled body. He'd apparently been lying in bed, writing in his journal, something that seemed to take his mind off the detox his body went through.

"What are you writing?" Erik asked as he nodded toward the journal Chris had left open, but face down beside him.

"Fantasy," the kid mumbled. "Where's my chocolate?"

"How could I forget?" Erik reached in the messenger bag slung around his back and pulled out a king-sized Snickers bar. He tossed it on the bed and Chris beamed. Erik loved that he could make the kid smile, but his smile reminded the world that meth had nearly destroyed him. There were empty holes in the spots where adult teeth should be. The teeth he had left were black and yellow. Erik swallowed and looked down at the chair he normally sat in for their little visits.

"Fantasy, huh? Like sci-fi or paranormal?" he asked as he took a seat next to the bed.

"Dr D, I told you, I don't do that wussy, chick-lit stuff. No bratty teen-agers and their vampire crushes. My worlds aren't even on this planet!" His eyes widened with excitement. "Cody, that guy that's like… five rooms down, he said he'd draw the art and we'd make our own comic books. How cool is that, Dr D?"

"Pretty cool, Chris. Will you make me into a superhero?"

They both laughed. Yeah, Chris was definitely having a good day… a very good day. Two days ago, he cried and threw up everything he tried to eat. Kept mumbling about how he wouldn't survive. Erik really worried. Now, seeing the kid thrive in the worst possible conditions, Erik loved this part of his job. This was the reason he kept coming to work.

After nearly an hour had passed, Chris kept on and on about his story, and the comic book he and Cody would start. No one mentioned drugs or rehabilitation. Erik learned long ago if he just let the patients have their moments and enjoy their good times, they would learn to trust a lot faster, and their healing would go a lot more smoothly.

So tonight, when Erik finally had a chance to lie down and try to sleep, he would have a smile on his face, because somehow, he'd managed to reach the unreachable. He wouldn't dwell on his lonely life without his ex-partner, or how badly he wanted to go back to San Fran and tell Marshall he was sorry and he'd screwed up. He would think of the kid everyone said didn't have a chance in hell, and this would all still be worth it, even without the love of his life.

Chapter Three

Dropping his worn brown leather messenger bag on the kitchen table, Erik breathed a sigh of relief. It felt good to be home again. Twelve-hour shifts at West Clinic were kicking his ass, but apparently, they needed him… or rather, those kids needed him. He had been named the foremost drug addiction counselor in the area. Every concerned parent wanted Erik treating their addicted child… that is, every concerned parent who couldn't afford private, high-end healthcare. And with all the budget cuts, the staff had been trimmed down to almost nothing, so it wasn't like they had a ton of doctors to choose from.

Erik stopped at the coffeemaker. Caffeine made for a great "lonely man's" dinner. As he started a ten-cup pot of leaded goodness, he couldn't help but laugh. He'd traded one addiction for another: alcohol for caffeine. At least this one didn't turn him into an incoherent asshole. It actually kept him from stumbling about his day as a… well, an incoherent asshole.

Just as he reached toward the cabinet to grab his overdose-sized coffee mug, he noticed the red light flashing on his answering machine. He frowned, tilting his head. A little mutter of confusion tickled his throat and slipped between his pursed lips. No one ever really called him, only his mother—who, by the way, could talk the ears off Joan Rivers. Nobody else had time for Dr Morose and the world of the melancholy. And believe it or not, the idea didn't really bother him. He didn't mind the downtime. After all, people talked to him about their problems all damn day.

The little red indicator kept flashing. Did he really want to know? It was probably a bill collector or something anyway. But Erik Daniels had one more annoying habit that he couldn't seem to shake—his obsessive compulsive disorder. The OCD won every time.

He reached down, pressing the play button on the machine.

"Erik." The voice made his spine straighten and his heart sink. "It's Marshall." As if he wouldn't remember that velvety voice. "I, um… I just wanted to check on you. I hope you're doing okay. Hope LA is treating you well." God, it would be so much better if Marshall had come with him. "Look, I… I'm coming to town in a few weeks. I'm supposed to give a journalism seminar at UCLA. I'll be there for a few days. I would love to see you, maybe have lunch. Anyway, please, give me a call."

The machine beeped before Marshall could've said "I love you," not that he would end a call that way anymore. Marshall had once told Erik he would always love him, but things changed—people changed.

Damn, he missed San Francisco so much.

"Shit!" The word hissed from between his slightly parted lips. He leaned against the counter with his hand over his face while the wheels in his brain churned. Erik just didn't know if he could face Marshall right now. He hadn't really moved on. That particular break-up almost killed him—literally. It had taken just over a year to get his life back together. He finally had a firm grasp on reality. And now, the one addiction he missed the most wanted to have a lunch date.

"No. I can't do it. I can't."

He started pacing back and forth, imagining what it would be like to see Marshall again, thinking up every possible scenario, every possible disaster. Erik would grovel. The moment Marshall turned to leave, Erik would break down and beg him not to. He could see it as clearly, as vividly as he could see the stark, outdated mess of a kitchen surrounding him.

The alarm on the coffee maker beeped and gave him a start. He nearly climbed out of his skin.

"I'm losing my mind," he mumbled as he reached for a mug.

Only Marshall could make him doubt his sanity like that. Only Marshall could make him uproot his life and bend his will until it broke.

"God, help me. I want to see him."

With a sigh, Erik filled the mug then headed toward the bathroom. Something about sipping coffee while soaking in a tub of hot water made everything seem so much better despite how dire or dangerous or exciting things might be. He sat his mug down on the vanity and started to strip. His gaze wandered down his body, taking in every single jagged pink scar from the accident that had changed his life. They were little reminders of how badly he'd messed everything up.

Erik eased himself down into the scalding water of his bathtub. It wasn't the Jacuzzi tub he'd once owned back in San Francisco when life had been as perfect as he could've ever dreamed it being, but it was big enough that he could submerge most of his six-foot, two-inches into the water. He was mostly legs. They could hang over the edge of the tub because those muscles weren't the ones playing hell with him right now. His neck had been giving him fits since he'd listened to Marshall's message.

"Lunch," he grumbled. "He wants a lunch date with me, after all this time with no contact, no calling to see if I was okay or anything. Now, he wants a lunch date?"

Erik could act offended, act a little pissed off, but in reality, he would jump on any opportunity to see Marshall again, even if a simple date had the very real possibility of breaking his heart again. He still loved that gorgeous genius. There was no denying it, but what wasn't to love about Marshall? Brains, beauty, personality, and heart—the guy had it all. He was the total package.

And Erik had let him slip away.

He sank further into the tub. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he still fantasized about being with Marshall. The things that man could do with his body… the thought sent a shiver down Erik's spine. Maybe he should be ashamed, but every time he thought about Marshall and the love they use to make, he'd get an excited twitch between his legs, a sudden tightening and throbbing. And thank God he lived alone or some poor, unsuspecting someone might've walked in on him relishing his fantasies with his right-hand friend.

Closing his eyes, Erik reached down and rubbed his palm back and forth over the length of his flaccid penis. It would only take a second of stroking and imagining Marshall's lips gliding up and down his shaft before he hardened completely.

What he wouldn't give to have his beautiful ex-partner's hand on his erection right now. Oh, who was he kidding? He would've given anything to have Marshall in the same room with him, the same bed. He would've sold his soul to have Marshall back in his life.

With a hard sigh, he tried to push the sadness aside, tried to remember the good in their relationship and not the disastrous end. He thought about the nights he'd spent wrapped in his partner's arms, the many hours they'd spent pleasuring each other's bodies. Depending on the mood, it might've been Erik plunging into Marshall's warm depths or vice versa. Neither of them had an absolute proclivity for being the dominant one. They would give and take, and that arrangement worked well for them. Erik had never found anyone like that before, and he hadn't really bothered trying since.

Gripping his erection a bit harder, he toyed with the delicate flesh as his hand moved up and down his shaft. He imagined it was Marshall's hand. Imagined Marshall's lips pressed against his chest as his ex-partner trailed kisses up the line of his body to his throat. His pulse raced down to his thighs, sac tightening, shaft throbbing. Moaning loudly, he cried out Marshall's name as the pressure built below.

"Oh, God! Yes, Marshall! Yes!" he cried out as his hand picked up the pace. "That's right, baby. Just like that!" And in a matter of seconds, Erik's orgasm erupted all over his hand and left him panting, his head resting on the edge of the tub.

For a moment, he wondered what his therapist would've said if she knew about his tendency to live out his fantasies in such a way. He wondered if she would call him crazy or tell him he needed to let go. He had the training. He knew he needed to move on and let go, but Marshall wasn't an easy one to walk away from. Truth be told, the man still had a very big piece of his heart.

As soon as Erik eased out of the tub and began to dry himself off, the phone rang. For a moment, he thought about letting it go to voicemail. After all, it was probably work or his mother, neither of whom he wanted to talk to at the moment, not after his single-handed serenade to lost love. That was almost as bad as getting caught swearing in church. But what if someone needed him?

Water still dripping from his body, he darted out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, launched himself across the bed, and reached for the phone. He didn't bother checking the caller ID. Again, it would've been one of two people.

"Hello?" he said in a ragged rush of breath.

"Erik?" It was Marshall's voice.

The sound made Erik's heart stop for a second. Marshall had pretty much caught Erik red-handed—metaphorically speaking, of course. "Hey, um… how are you?"

"I'm… I'm good," Marshall said. "How are you?" Erik could've sworn he heard a whole lot of caution in Marshall's tone.

"Good. Working a lot, but good."

"That's good. Hey, did you get my message?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, um… I got it. So, UCLA?"