Safe in His Arms (16 page)

pitying glances. Shit, Hank had spent a fortune over the years paying their salaries with

his dues and golf fees and dinners and booze. He didn‘t need their fucking pity.

He marched out of the dining room, taking the stairs up to the administrative

offices two at a time. Steve Decker was the evening manager, someone Hank had

played both golf and tennis with. Their fathers moved in the same circles. They‘d

known each other for years. Surely that would count for something.

He stood for a while outside the closed door, consciously willing himself to calm

down. He took slow, deep breaths and thought about Russell. Russell, the one bright

thing left in his life, was out tonight fucking some middle-aged dude for money.

Stop it,
he admonished himself. That was
not
the way to calm down. It wasn‘t so

much the sex work stuff that bothered Hank per se, but the fact that Russell was so

damn busy all the time. When he wasn‘t doing tricks for Gentleman‘s Elite, he was busy

at the microbrewery, or working at a construction site to earn more money. Hank had

never been around someone who was so focused on their goal. He‘d never really been

around someone who had a goal. He couldn‘t help a growing, if grudging, admiration

for how hard Russell was working to attain his dreams. Though it also pissed Hank off

because it took him away so often. A shard of jealousy poked at him. What would it be

like to want something so passionately?

Focus.
Hank blew out a last cleansing breath and knocked on the door.

―Come in,‖ Steve called from within.

Hank opened the door and entered the large office. Steve was at his keyboard,

busily typing. ―I‘ll be right with you,‖ he said without looking up. Hank glanced

impatiently around the room, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Finally Steve looked up, his automatic smile shifting downward. ―Hank. What can I

do for you?‖

―You can cut the crap about my tab,‖ Hank snapped before he could stop himself.

He tried to back up, holding out his hands, annoyed that he‘d let his temper get the

better of him again. He took a breath and said calmly, ―Look, you know I‘m good for it.

I‘m only a little behind—‖

―Hank, you owe the club a lot of money. I‘ve held off as long as I can, since you‘ve

always been a member in good standing until these past few months. I just can‘t do it

anymore. I‘m getting major heat from the owners. They want to suspend your

membership. Getting them to hold off on that, and agree to a cash-only basis while we

clean this up was an uphill battle in itself, believe you me.‖

Hank scowled. His back dues and bar tab were no big deal—or they wouldn‘t have

been if news of his father‘s problems hadn‘t gotten out. Even so, this club was rolling in

money, why all this shit about his measly bill?

Steve was regarding him with a curious expression. ―So what about it, Hank? I

heard about your dad.‖ Steve shook his head, pursing his lips in disapproval. ―I sure

hope you‘re not involved in all that tax fraud stuff. Our members expect a certain level

of—‖

―No, I‘m not involved in it!‖ Hank shouted. He pressed his lips together, fighting

the urge to smash something. Steve was frowning now and Hank forced himself to calm

down. ―Look,‖ he tried again. ―It‘s just that my income is all mixed up with his, see? So

for the time being, while they sort out all this crap, I‘m screwed.‖

Hank tried to smile. ―Hey, come on, Steve,‖ he said, his tone placating. ―Our

families have a history that goes way back. You and me, we‘re friends, right? Can‘t we

work something out? Cut me a little slack here, will ya‘?‖

Steve folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. ―I‘d like to help you, but

no can do. I‘ve been directed from the higher ups on this. Here‘s the bottom line,‖ Steve

continued. ―You have until the end of the month to pay in full. That will take you off

the potential suspension list. Once you do that, you‘ll remain on probation for six

months, which means you‘ll lose certain VIP privileges, including the right to run a tab,

but at least you‘ll have full use of the facilities and grounds.‖

―Hey, come on. I can‘t—‖

―Take it or leave it,‖ Steve interjected. ―And don‘t forget, no matter what pans out,

you still owe us the monies incurred to date.‖

Hank stood dumbstruck, so angry he could barely breathe. He started to protest

some more, but knew it was useless. Steve Decker was just a cog in the wheel, a

nobody. He‘d have to go over Steve‘s head to appeal. He‘d figure something out.

Meanwhile he turned on his heel and walked out of Steve‘s office, slamming the

door behind him. As he passed the library he stopped, looking around the door, which

was ajar. The place was empty and he entered the room, his heart suddenly beating

faster, a plan blooming in his head.

He moved quickly toward the glass display cases that lined one wall, running his

eye along them until he found what he was looking for. One of the cases contained six

gold coins that looked like the genuine article. Shit, if they wanted to be paid so damn

bad, they could help him come up with the cash. It wasn‘t like they would ever miss a

couple of stupid coins.

Hank hurried back toward the door and shut it as softly as he could. Moving back

to the case, he examined it, wondering if anyone would hear if he broke the glass. There

didn‘t appear to be any kind of security device. Surely it was locked, but on a whim he

tested the lid, which, to his shock, opened on silent hinges.

He glanced reflexively around the empty room and then grabbed the coins, shoving

them into his jacket pocket. He moved fast, pulling open the door and striding down

the hallway without a backward glance.

Hank drove through the streets of one of Denver‘s seedier neighborhoods until he

spied a pawnshop. No way could he park his Porsche there—it was even worse than

Russell‘s neighborhood. That gave him an idea. Russell‘s neighborhood wasn‘t all that

far from here—only a few long blocks. He‘d park the car at Russell‘s place and walk

down here. He‘d be in and out and back to his car within the hour.

It started to rain while he was walking, so he hurried his pace. When he got to the

right street, two guys wearing hoodies that obscured their faces slouched toward him.

―Hey, man,‖ one of them said, ―can you spare a few bucks?‖

Hank gave a curt shake of his head and moved past them. ―Come on, man,‖ the

second guy said. ―You got cigarettes at least?‖ Hank ignored them, pushing by to get to

the pawnshop door.

The man in the shop didn‘t seem too impressed with the coins. He examined them

carefully with a jeweler‘s glass and then put them on the scale on the counter. He

looked over at Hank. ―I‘ll give you $3,000 for the lot.‖

―What?‖ Hank sputtered. ―These are rare, old coins.‖

The man, a short, dumpy fellow with small, mean eyes, shrugged. ―You‘ve heard

the expression, worth its weight in gold? Well, that‘s all these are worth to me. You

want some fancy coin price, take ‗em to a coin dealer. I pay based on the weight of the

gold, period.‖

Hank glared at the man. He wanted to snatch the coins back and take them to

someone who would pay what they were worth, which he was sure was more than

$3,000. On the other hand, he didn‘t dare try to sell them to some legitimate dealer.

They were, after all, stolen goods.

Jesus, to think he was reduced to stealing. Well, it wasn‘t his fault. Dire

circumstances called for dire action, and those fuckers at the club deserved it. Shit, they

hadn‘t even bothered to lock the case.

―Well?‖ the man said impatiently with a lift of bushy eyebrows. ―Take it or leave

it.‖

―Okay. I‘ll take it,‖ Hank snapped.

It was raining even harder when he stepped out of the pawnshop. Ducking his

head, he began to walk quickly down the sidewalk back toward Russell‘s place. All at

once the two kids who had begged him for money and cigarettes were flanking him.

―I got a knife, motherfucker,‖ one of them said, jabbing something hard into Hank‘s

side.

―Give us your wallet and we‘ll let you live,‖ the other snarled.

Hank shook the men away, adrenaline flipping him into instant overdrive. The one

who claimed to have a knife stepped suddenly in front of him, tripping him so he fell to

his knees while the other one smashed his fist into Hank‘s ear. Hank was jerked back by

the hair, forced to look up into the face of the guy with a knife.

―Give us your wallet, asshole.‖ The guy held out his hand, which Hank saw did

indeed have a knife in it, a switchblade that opened with a menacing flick. He touched

the point of the blade to Hank‘s cheek and drew a stinging path down the skin.

The guy behind Hank jerked his arm up and back, while searching through Hank‘s

pockets. He found and tugged at the fat wallet, pulling it free while the first guy kept

his knife at Hank‘s throat.

―Got it,‖ the one behind crowed. Thank god, the other one put away the knife, but

before Hank could react, he punched Hank in the abdomen, making him double over

reflexively.

―Whoa, pay dirt!‖ the punk cried triumphantly, flashing the wad of bills toward his

partner before shoving it down his baggy pants. He tossed Hank‘s wallet into a puddle

and the muggers took off. Hank heard the sound of their footsteps echoing as they ran

away behind him.

It took a good thirty seconds before he could catch his breath sufficiently to stand,

much less think of going after them. The cut on his face was bleeding profusely, though

it didn‘t feel very deep. He pulled his shirt tail from his slacks and pressed it against the

wound as he tried to think what to do. His head was throbbing from the blow, his ear

ringing.

He‘d been mugged! But if he called the police, he‘d have to make a report. They

might somehow trace it back to the pawnshop, and to the stolen coins. He couldn‘t risk

that. He bent down, retrieving his wallet from the puddle and wiping it against his

shirt. At least they hadn‘t taken his license and credit cards—small comfort.

He began to stumble forward, the rain pummeling him as he moved in a kind of

daze. Jesus, all that for nothing. Stolen in the blink of an eye. Tears pricked his eyes as

he moved and his throat felt tight. He couldn‘t let Russell see him like this. Hopefully

he could get to his car and out of there before Russell came home. He‘d tell him he cut

himself shaving or something. He couldn‘t tell Russell the truth. He would see him as a

loser on so many levels. He couldn‘t let that happen. He just couldn‘t.

~*~

That was odd, Russell thought, as he turned his car down the street. What was

Hank‘s car doing there? He was pretty sure he‘d told Hank he wouldn‘t be home until

later that evening, and he wouldn‘t have been if the client he was scheduled to see

hadn‘t called at the last minute to cancel.

He pulled up in front of Hank‘s car and parked. The car was empty but Hank didn‘t

have a key to his place—not yet. So where was Hank? Russell turned, looking up and

down the street. He saw someone round the corner and realized it was Hank. It had

stopped raining, but it was clear even from a distance that Hank was soaked to the skin

and he looked like a mess.

What the hell?

As Hank drew closer, Russell saw he was holding his shirt up to his face, and he

was weaving slightly. Russell hurried toward to meet him.

―Hank? What are you doing out here? Are you okay?‖

Hank‘s head jerked up and it was clear he hadn‘t seen Russell until that moment.

He stopped walking and just stood there waiting. ―Jesus, what the hell happened?‖

Russell demanded, a jolt of panic ripping through him. Hank‘s shirt tail was red with

blood. Had he been in a fight?

―It‘s okay. I‘m okay. Shit, I didn‘t want you to see me like this.‖ Hank‘s teeth were

chattering.

Russell put his arm around Hank‘s shoulders, forcing himself to act calm. Hank

was soaked to the bone and shivering, and Russell now saw the long, thin gash on his

cheek. ―Shh, don‘t talk right now. You can tell me later. Let‘s get upstairs and get you

seen to first.‖ He drew Hank along as quickly as he dared.

Once inside the loft, he had Hank sit on a kitchen chair while he examined the

wound, which was, he was relieved to see, superficial. It was too long to cover with a

bandage and had stopped bleeding, so Russell just washed it as gently as he could and

dabbed some antibiotic cream on it.

―Let‘s get you out of these wet things.‖ Russell helped Hank unbutton his shirt and

step out of his slacks. ―You get into a hot shower, and then I want to hear just exactly

what happened to you, understand?‖ Hank nodded wearily and allowed himself to be

guided to the bedroom.

When Hank came out of the bathroom he looked considerably better, though still