Reaper (6 page)

“Where’s a damned cop when you need one,” Reaper muttered as he loosened his hold on the potential rapist. He didn’t let him go, however. He just didn’t want him dying.

Well, I’d like him dead, but that’s not what I do.

“You…” Reaper glared as the teen, who was holding his injured wrist against his chest. “Down on the ground, on your stomach—now.”

“Fuck you!”

Reaper smiled grimly. “Do it, or your friend here gets hurt worse than he is already.” Reaper tightened his hold again at the same time that he reached around to grab his prisoner’s balls, squeezing hard.

“He ain’t no friend,” the teen said. He turned and sprinted toward the end of the alley. Seconds later, he vanished from sight.

Still holding his prisoner, Reaper finally looked at the kid who has been the target of the assault. The boy had sunk down to the pavement, his back against the wall, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.

“Are you…? Never mind, that would have been a stupid question,” Reaper said gruffly. “As for you…” He returned his attention to the attacker, forcing him down to his knees. “I’m debating between beating you to a pulp and calling the cops. Got any druthers on which I do?”

“Fuck you!”

“Are those the only two words you and your friend know?”

“Fuck—” The punk’s words were cut off when Reaper punched him hard in the mouth.

“You’re bleeding,” the blond boy said, looking up at Reaper.

“Flesh wound,” Reaper replied, although now that it had been pointed out to him, he had the feeling it was a bit worse than that. Gritting his teeth, he punched the punk again, knocking him flat on his back and out cold.

The boy stood slowly, pulling up his jeans. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Oh…God…” Tears started streaming down his face.

“You want to thank me? Find something I can use to tie up this piece of trash.”

The kid nodded, wiping away the tears. He scuttled down the alley, returning a minute later with a garbage-covered length of rope. Reaper used it to bind the attacker’s hands behind his back after rolling him none too gently onto his face. Then, wincing in pain, he hauled the punk up high enough to tip him into the dumpster.

“Wonder if anyone will find him before the trash truck comes by to pick up the garbage.”

“I hope not,” the teen spat angrily.

“Let’s get out of here,” Reaper said.

The blond grabbed his fallen backpack and dug through it as they walked out of the alley. “Hold still,” he said, when he found what he’d been searching for. Standing on tiptoe, he pressed something against Reaper’s shoulder where the knife had gone in. Then, much to Reaper’s surprise, he wrapped a belt around it and under Reaper’s arm, pulling it tight. Fire shot through Reaper’s shoulder for a moment then eased back to a slow burn.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” Reaper asked him.

“You live the way I do, you learn,” he replied sadly.

“Yeah. True. Okay. You got somewhere to stay?”

When the kid shook his head, Reaper told him to follow him. “What’s your name?” Reaper asked while they walked the three blocks to his car.

“Umm…Mango?”

Reaper chuckled. “Okay, Mango. I’m going to take you to a shelter. I expect you to stay there long enough to get some real sleep and eat. Understand?”

“Yes…” Mango hesitated. “You’re Reaper, aren’t you?”

“Yep.” Reaper unlocked the car, waited for Mango to get in, then he got in too. As he drove to Off-the-Street, he told Mango, “You should get yourself a weapon of some sort.”

“Got one,” Mango said shyly, showing him the knife the smaller punk had used to stab Reaper.

“That works. Just remember to use it if it comes down to it.

“Yes, sir.”

Reaper pulled up in front of the shelter, nodded when Mango thanked him again then watched to make certain the kid went inside before driving off, heading home.

* * * *

“Zack’s been hurt,” Mrs. Cook said the moment Dallas walked into the kitchen. “Said someone tried to mug him. I found him in the living room when I came in, bloody and—”

The rest of her words were lost as Dallas raced upstairs to the bedroom.

Zack was seated on the edge of the bed, one arm in the sleeve of the shirt he was trying to put on. He looked pale and drawn, but determined.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Dallas asked tightly as he approached Zack.

“Getting ready to go into work,” Zack replied, not looking at him.

“Like hell.” Dallas dropped to his knees in front of Zack.

“Now is not the time,” Zack muttered through pinched lips, obviously trying to smile—unsuccessfully.

“You’re right.” Dallas gently took hold of the shirt and removed it. “Let me see,” he said, looking at Zack’s bandaged shoulder.

“Nothing much to see. It’s just a minor stab wound.” Zack sighed, complying when Dallas told him to lie back. “Mrs. Cook took care of it.”

Dallas sat beside him, carefully pulling back the tape that held the thick wad of gauze in place. “Minor, my ass,” he muttered, even though he could see the knife had only penetrated flesh. But the cut was a nasty one. He suspected the blade had hit bone and slid off and up. “Why the hell didn’t you go to the ER?”

“And tell them what?”

“The same thing you told Mrs. Cook. That someone tried to mug you.”

“Then the cops would have been called and…” Zack spread his hands.

“What happened? Exactly.”

Zack told him. Dallas’ frown deepened as he listened until the end. Then he smiled—barely.

“You have a thing for punks and dumpsters all of a sudden.”

Zack shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Whatever works.”

“Why didn’t you call me for backup?”

“I was sort of busy dealing with those two sons of bitches and keeping the kid safe. Besides, how would you have explained it to Mike?”

“I’d have thought of something.” Dallas carefully re-taped the gauze, asking, “Did she at least put some antibiotic cream on it?”

“Yeah, after she scrubbed it. That woman is heartless,” Zack muttered.

“Better than you getting an infection.”

“Mind if I get dressed now?”

“Yeah, I do. I think you can miss one day of work. In fact, mister, you’re going to stay in bed until this time tomorrow, and do
not
argue with me,” Dallas said pointedly when it appeared as if Zack was going to.

“It’s only a damned flesh wound. I’ve had a lot worse done to me in my life.”

“Back when you were young and able to handle it.”

“Right. Play the age card.”

“I will, if that’s what it takes,” Dallas told him. “I’m going to shower, and if you’re not here when I get back, your ass is in big trouble.”

“From you, it’s not trouble. It’s—”

“Not what you’re getting until you heal.” Dallas waggled his eyebrows. “Does that give you a reason to rest and get better?”

“It does,” Zack admitted, closing his eyes. He smiled when Dallas leaned over to kiss his forehead. He started to say something, and seconds later, was asleep.

You are too much, my man. Too impetuous, too daring, too…too caring. And those are only a few of the reasons why I love you.

Chapter Six

Zack did adhere to Dallas’ wishes and had spent twenty-four hours either in bed or on the computer putting together his plans for the fundraising gala for Off-the-Street. He’d awakened late in the afternoon when Dallas had and they’d cuddled for a while, but that was all. Between the ache in his shoulder and the doses of aspirin Dallas had foisted on him, Zack had the feeling he couldn’t have performed no matter how badly he might have wanted to.

The following morning, however, Zack was up, dressed and down in the kitchen, about to dig into a hearty breakfast of pancakes and sausage when Dallas came home from work.

“Thank God,” Zack whispered, after making certain Mrs. Cook wasn’t within earshot. “She’s been mothering me like I was going to die any second now.”

Dallas snorted in amusement. “And you love it.”

“Okay, it
is
nice—I guess. Never got that from…” Zack snapped his mouth shut, not wanting to rehash his past.

“I know,” Dallas replied compassionately, giving him a gentle hug. “And it still hurts after all these years.”

“Almost thirty years. You wouldn’t think it would but… Well, I guess that’s life.” Quickly changing the subject, Zack asked Dallas, “So how did your night go?”

“Other than the normal traffic stops? We caught three kids trying to break into a clothing store. Broke up a fight between a couple of gang members and a potential one between two very drunk men outside of Tommy’s Bar.”

“And survived in one piece.”

“Don’t I always?”

“No.” Zack remembered a time eight years ago when he’d spent two days at the hospital watching over Dallas while his lover recuperated from a gunshot wound.

“All right. Most of the time.” Dallas saluted Mrs. Cook when she returned to the kitchen, smiling when she told him to sit and eat.

“It’s not often I see both of you in the morning at the same time,” she lamented. “Usually you grab something on your way out,” she said pointedly to Zack. “And you…” She shook a finger at Dallas.

“Come on,” Dallas said. “I sit and eat. Well, half the time anyway.” He grinned. “It’s hard to make a sandwich out of pancakes or French toast.”

“Not that you haven’t tried. Well, now that you’re here—and he’s here too—I expect you both to eat everything in front of you.”

“Yes, Mama,” Dallas replied, hugging her before he sat.

She set his plate in front of him, poured him juice then put her hand on Zack’s forehead. “No temperature, but really, Zack. Don’t you think you should stay in bed for another day? It
is
Saturday.”

“I have to go talk to Brian about the gala then do another walk-through of the building he’s going to buy—or we hope he’s going to. I want to make certain I didn’t miss anything vital Thursday afternoon.”

“Want me to come with you?” Dallas asked.

“You need to sleep.”

“It’s eight-thirty. I’ll be in bed by nine. Hold off until three then wake me up. That’ll give me time before my shift starts.”

“You need more sleep than—”

“Don’t fuss over me,” Dallas grumbled. “If you can survive on six hours of sleep, so can I.”

“We’ll compromise. I’ll wake you at four.”

“Deal.”

* * * *

Zack and Brian spent an hour at Brian’s house going over the plans for the gala.

Brian was doubtful, as he had been since the beginning, that Zack could pull it off. “I mean the Gold Hotel? Come on. They’ll charge more than we’ll make in donations.”

“Not when one of my clients is both on their board and behind this one hundred percent.”

“You and your clients.” Brian shook his head. “Is there any bigwig in the city you don’t know and work for?”

Zack laughed. “Tons. It’s just luck that I happen to work with some who can—and are willing—to help with this.”

When they were finished, Brian asked if Zack had plans for the day.

“Other than taking Dallas to see the building late this afternoon? Not a one. Why?”

“Feel like keeping my company while I go dog hunting?”

Zack cocked an eyebrow. “You’re getting a dog?”

“I know. Crazy, huh? But I figure I could use the companionship on the weekends.” Brian smiled wryly. “I thought I’d like having time to myself away from the shelter and all the noise and action and what have you. And I did, for a while.”

“I totally get that. Sure, I’ll come along. Your car or mine?”

“Mine,” Brian said firmly. His car was equipped with hand controls for braking and accelerating, giving him the freedom he needed to drive to and from the shelter and run errands. “God help me when I’m confined to the wheelchair,” he said when they got into the car. “Then I suppose I’ll have to get one of those vans that are wheelchair accessible.”

“Twenty years from now,” Zack replied, patting his shoulder.

“Your words to God’s ear.”

When they arrived at the animal shelter—which was busy, being Saturday—one of the attendants asked Brian what kind of dog he was looking for.

“A calm one, for starters—and big. Well, not Mastiff big but not some whiny poodle either.”

“I have the perfect dog for you,” she said, eyeing his crutches. “Kozak.”

“Weird name,” Brian commented as he and Zack followed her into the dog room.

Halfway down an aisle of cages, she stopped. When Brian looked into the cage, he lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “That’s a greyhound. Don’t they…? They race. I don’t think…”

The woman laughed. “That’s a common misconception. Greyhounds are the ultimate couch potatoes. Especially Kozak.” When she said his name, the coal-black greyhound stood and came to the door, revealing as he did that he was missing his right hind leg.

Brian looked at the dog then at the attendant. “You figure we’d be well matched because we’re both handicapped?” he asked sardonically.

“Well”—she smiled—“that did occur to me.”

“What the hell. Can you let him out?”

She did, and Brian reached down to pet Kozak. The dog leaned in to Brian’s touch, gazing up at him with what seemed to Zack to be a pleading look.

“How long has he been here?” Brian asked.

“Too long,” the woman replied with some asperity. “Thankfully, we’re a no-kill shelter.”

“How hard would he be to take care of?”

She explained the dog’s needs, agreeing with Brian that his having a large backyard would be a plus under the circumstances. “You should walk Kozak, when you can, but letting him run and play in the yard will do just as well.”

“Would you like to come home with me?” Brian asked Kozak. The dog licked his hand, as if replying in the affirmative. “Then it’s a done deal.”

Once the papers were signed and the adoption fee paid, Brian bought a collar and leash for Kozak, as well as pet bowls and food, all of which the shelter had for sale. Some of the workers came out to say goodbye to the dog, one of them bringing the toys he’d had in his cage. Then Brian led Kozak out to the car with Zack trailing behind with all the purchases.