Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (43 page)

all right?”

“I am now,” he replied, forcing a thin smile. “Thanks for asking.”

She still looked . . . apprehensive, or was it scared? Bran figured

he probably looked like he’d just staggered away from a car wreck. Or

a gang fight.

Well, at least she didn’t bolt back inside and lock her door.

“I have noodles I could bring you,” she said. “If you’re hungry.”

Bran’s stomach growled so loud he was amazed every door on the

floor didn’t fling open. “Um, yeah. Thanks, Mrs. Chan. I’d appreciate

that.”They exchanged nods, and Bran let himself in, let the door swing

shut behind him. God, the place smelled like . . . well, like it hadn’t

been aired out in three weeks. He strode over to his one working

window and opened it, eardrums freshly assaulted by the screeches

of bus brakes and people yelling from the street. Funny, he’d learned

to tune all that shit out a long time ago, but after weeks living in the

fucking sky (not to mention in a dark silent closet), he must’ve lost

his tolerance.

He stripped off his clothes as gingerly as he could, threw

everything in the hamper, and headed in for a shower. Dialed the

water down to lukewarm—he’d learned his lesson about hot water

on fresh welts that first week at Jonathan’s—and stepped under the

anemic spray. It still hurt as the water poured down his skin, but he

gritted his teeth and got through it, grabbing a bar of soap to wash his

face and hair. Couldn’t wait to get the stench of Jonathan’s dungeon

off him. Of
Jonathan
off him. He still smelled like leather from that

fucking sling. Still had lube in his ass. Jonathan had offered him the

use of the shower—his upstairs shower, in fact—but Bran couldn’t

wait to get out of there. Couldn’t wait to get Jonathan’s face out of

his head.

Good luck with that, pal.

He dried off, tied the towel around his waist. Padded into the

kitchen to see what—if anything— was left in the fridge. A battered

old gallon jug of tap water, a jar of kosher dills, and a whole lot of

frost.Better than nothing, he supposed.

He poured himself some water, grabbed a pickle, and flopped

onto the edge of the bed. Bad idea—his ass was still way too sore.

Stifling a groan, he rolled onto his side—which hurt just as bad—and

bit into the pickle. Dripped all over the damn bedspread, but he was

too fucking tired to care. Finished the whole thing in three bites,

rolled over on his stomach, and fell into a coma.

He wasn’t sure how long he slept, but there was sunshine pouring

in through the open window when he opened his eyes. Every joint

felt rusted together, but finally he managed to roll to his feet. The

place hadn’t looked so bad in the dark, but now he could see the film

of dust coating everything, the holes in the carpet and curtains. The

crappy kitchen linoleum he’d patched with fucking duct tape.

This is your life, Brandon McKinney. And welcome back to it.

So, what would he do now? Jonathan’s thirty grand in the bank,

plus the four he’d managed to save on his own, and this shithole was

paid up for the next eleven months. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.

Although, you
could
afford to go back to school now . . .

Could maybe even afford to take a year off to do it right. Enroll

at Berkeley full time. But it was barely April now, and he couldn’t

start until September—assuming it wasn’t too late to apply. And he’d

gotten tired of sitting (kneeling) around doing nothing all day after

just three weeks. Might as well call his boss and see if he could get his

job back.

He picked up the phone, dialed the office number. The secretary

answered: “Sung Integrated Design, how may I help you?”

“Hey Jen, it’s Bran. Is Mr. Sung around?”

“Bran, hi!” God,
way
too chipper. His head hurt too much for

her brand of flirty-friendly today. “Are you— is everything okay?”

He’d left without much explanation to his co-workers, but the

central staff was tight-knit enough that Mr. Sung might have spread

his sob story. Hopefully not; he’d felt bad enough lying to
one
person

who’d been good to him. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Back a little sooner

than I thought I’d be. Boss there?”

“Sure, sure, hang on one sec.” A click, and then the spiel Mr. Sung

had programmed into their phone system in mildly accented English.

At Sung Integrated Design, we’ll help you realize your dream from start

to finish. From conception, to planning, to nailing the last shingle on the

roof . . .

“Bran, how are you?”

He snapped himself out of his hold-talk-induced stupor and

tried not to sound too needy when he said, “Fine, fine. My dad’s

responding really well to treatment. Told me to go home, get back to

work. So, uh, here I am.”

A sucked-in hiss of air between teeth, and then a long, drawn-out,

“Yeeeeeeah. Look, about that. I’m sorry, Bran, but we won the bid for

the Hillside Home and I needed a full crew right away. I couldn’t be

down a foreman.”

Bran closed his eyes, dropped his head into his hand. Sure, Mr.

Sung had warned him he might have to replace him, but it’d only been

three weeks. Three lousy weeks! “Are, I mean, isn’t there
anything
I

can do?”

“Well, we do need day labor. We’re running two shifts at Hillside;

I’m picking guys up at Home Depot twice a day.”

Migrant workers earning $8 an hour. How the fuck was he

supposed to live on that?

“Look, I could give you as much time as you wanted. Well, 60

hours a week, anyway; more than that and the client won’t sanction

the overtime. But, like I said, we’re running two shifts, six days a week.

And who knows . . . we cycle through people all the time. Maybe

something more permanent will open up soon.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Except they both knew that was bullshit. No one

in their right mind left a good construction job in this economy.

So what does that make you, moron?

“I’m sorry, Bran. I didn’t want to have to do this, but you said you

might be gone half a year.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Sung.”

“Tomorrow at six, then?”

God, to be
useful
again. To work with his hands again, do

something he enjoyed again . . . So fucking tempting. But ready as

his mind was, his body still needed time to heal. No way he could

spend all day in a harness right now. And how the fuck would he

explain all the bruises when it got sweaty enough to force him out of

his jacket?

“Yeah, uh, I actually could use a few days, if that’s okay. Just got

back today, have some errands to run, have to make a few calls for my

dad. Insurance bullshit, you know how it is.”

Mr. Sung chuckled. “Okay, Bran. Monday, then?”

What the fuck day was it today? How did he not
know
that?

Couldn’t be any later than Thursday with a 6 a.m. pickup tomorrow;

the weekend crews didn’t start running ’til 8. Which gave him at least

three days. It’d be enough. “Yeah,” he said. “Monday’s fine. Thanks,

Mr. Sung.”

“Anytime.” A pause, long enough for Bran to start to hang up, and

then, “Bran? I’m glad your dad’s okay. It’s good to have you back.”

I hope he’s dead.
“Thanks, Mr. Sung.”

He stared at the phone for a long moment after he hung up, a

weird, empty feeling coming over him. He’d better get dressed, go

out and buy some food. And yet he didn’t move. At last he tossed the

phone on the bed and stood, wincing as his body protested. Jesus,

was he
ever
going to stop hurting? Every welt and bruise felt like it’d

been branded into him. Sure, they’d fade in time, but the memory of

how he’d gotten them wouldn’t.

Or who’d put them there . . .

He shook his head, trying to dislodge Jonathan’s image from

his brain. That smug, smirking little fucker who’d thought he could

break him.

He
did
break you. More than once
. All it’d taken was some pain

and discomfort—

And shoving his whole fucking hand
up my ass. And putting a

fucking stun gun to my balls.

Whatever. He’d dealt with his dad for
years
. And yeah, okay,

his dad had never tried to shove
anything
up his ass, but he’d spent

plenty of drunken rages beating Bran with the wrong end of his belt.

He’d made Bran
bleed
. Had even sent him to the emergency room a

couple times. And Bran hadn’t given up then. Hadn’t given up later,

either, after the old man had kicked him out, after he’d run out of

friends’ couches to crash on, not even after social services had started

sniffing around with the threat of foster care. He’d spent months cold

and hungry and broke, hitching across the country eating food from

trashcans and sleeping under bridges. Still hadn’t quit when he’d

gotten to San Fran, when all anyone wanted to pay him for was his

ass or his mouth, when he’d told them all to fuck off and managed to

find real work, a place to stay, a shot at a better future . . .

You got soft, you little sissy. Weak. Just like I always knew you were.

He scrubbed his hands across his face, sat back on the bed.

“Thanks, Dad. Real helpful.”

You don’t deserve help. God helps those who help themselves, not

whiny little faggots like you.

“There
is
no God, Dad.”
God wouldn’t have taken Mom and left

me with
you.

Or maybe there was a God, and he just had a fucking mean streak.

Dangled the carrot out in front of Bran and then snatched it away.

Made it impossible to chase.

Well, maybe not impossible, but at least harder than he was

willing to try. Maybe that was God’s way of telling him he didn’t want

it bad enough, after al . That maybe, like his father always said, he

deserved what he got.

Turned out it was Tuesday, and Bran spent the next five days

doing nothing but eating, sleeping, and watching TV, cocooned on

the couch in every spare blanket he could find. The apartment wasn’t

that
cold, but it felt so damn good
to be warm again, to sprawl out

how he wanted to instead of kneeling on a hard floor, to sleep in his

own bed, to take long hot baths in his shitty cracked tub and not have

to shave his fucking nuts every day. The hair itched as it grew back in,

and he scratched with pure pleasure, reveling in the ability to touch

himself without being punished.

And, okay, maybe he touched himself a
lot
for a guy his age, but

Jesus, he couldn’t get sex off the brain. Couldn’t turn his libido down.

It was like Jonathan had chemically
changed
him somehow, jacked

into something raw and primal and
needy
that’d clung to him after

he’d left that nightmare of a place. He wouldn’t admit it out loud

for a million bucks, but he even kind of missed the shower nozzle.

Closed his eyes as he washed and jacked himself, imagining how it’d

feel if he were full of warm water, letting the pressure in his ass and

gut build and build along with the pressure in his dick and balls . . .

Jonathan had never let him do that. But Jonathan was gone, for

good, for
ever
, and good riddance anyway, and Bran would do as he

damn well pleased.

He fell into bed around 8:30 Sunday night, decked head to toe

in flannel pajamas so old and soft he couldn’t remember what color

they’d once been. He’d eaten enough to make him sleepy, and yeah,

it wasn’t exactly Sabrina’s cooking—hell, it wasn’t even
McDonalds

cooking—but even five days on, he still got a kick out of choosing

his own meals and feeding his fucking self. His bed was a little on the

lumpy side—he’d had the same one for over a decade now—but it

beat the shit out of a yoga mat, or worse, the floor. Or a damn fucking

cage
.

He woke up at 2 a.m., for once not from a nightmare, but shit,

this was worse. He’d woken thinking of
Jonathan
. That pretty mouth,