Unquiet (32 page)

When Loren came in about an hour later and slipped into bed next to him, Eliot pretended to be asleep so as not to worry him. He listened as Loren settled in behind where Eliot lay on his side, muttering and punching his pillow as he tried to get comfortable. Then all went silent, and Eliot almost jumped when Loren pressed his lips to Eliot’s bare shoulder.

“You’re so strong, so patient,” he whispered, his words little more than warm puffs of air against Eliot’s skin. “I don’t deserve you.”

Another soft kiss, and Loren turned away with a heavy sigh. Before long his rhythmic breathing filled the quiet room and lulled Eliot to sleep.

ELIOT JOLTED
awake, his heart pounding and his breaths coming fast like he’d been running. A quick glance at the bedside clock showed 1:00 a.m., and he’d only been asleep for about two hours. He could feel the residual effects of the sleeping pill tugging at him, but his mind was racing so fast he couldn’t settle back down.

It had been a hellish nightmare, and the horror of it lingered, tendrils of fear feeling like they were wrapping around his neck and strangling him. Eliot looked at Loren, sleeping peacefully next to him. He was here, and safe. He
wasn’t
lying in the street, covered in blood while Eliot tried to wade through quicksand to get to him. In the dream Loren had been begging him for help, begging Eliot not to let him die….

Eliot gave a small sob, then clapped his hand over his mouth when Loren stirred fitfully at the noise. He climbed out of bed, being as quiet as possible, staggering into the living room on shaky knees, shivering in just his underwear.

Snagging an afghan from the back of the leather couch, Eliot wrapped himself up in it and curled up on a nearby recliner, trying to make himself as small as possible. Eventually his breathing slowed and he tried to fall back asleep, but the same thoughts kept chasing themselves around, over and over:
What if he dies? What will happen to me? How will I live without him?

Different scenarios flashed through his mind as his anxiety grew, scenarios where Loren was shot and killed during an arrest, stabbed in the neck while interrogating a suspect, hit over the head with a brick while walking down the street…. The bloody images tortured Eliot, making him hurt like he was covered with small, stinging cuts. To combat it he curled up into an even smaller ball.

Eliot couldn’t help but relive over and over the terror he’d felt when he’d woken up alone in bed, Loren’s side undisturbed and stone cold. That’s what he’d wake up to every day for the rest of his life if Loren died.

Don’t think about that
, he told himself sternly.
Loren is safe in bed right now,
warm… alive.
But his brain wouldn’t switch off, and Eliot huddled there in the chair until the morning light crept through the slats of the wooden shutters.

It wasn’t long until Loren padded in, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He caught sight of Eliot and knelt next to him, reaching out to card his fingers through Eliot’s hair.

“There you are. Why did you come out here, babe?” he asked, and he looked so worried that Eliot didn’t have the heart to tell him about the nightmares.

“I woke up to go to the bathroom and you were snoring,” Eliot rasped, clearing his throat. “I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

Loren looked appalled. “Jesus,” he exclaimed. “I’m so sorry.”

“It happens,” Eliot said, shrugging. “I fell back asleep out here, no problem.” The lie came easily, and it was worth it when Loren looked relieved.

“As long as you slept,” he said with a tender smile, stroking Eliot’s hair. “Maybe you can get a nap today too.” Loren heaved a weary sigh and pushed to his feet. “I need to get moving. Long day ahead.”

Eliot fixed Loren a travel mug of coffee while he showered, sneaking a few sips as the hangover of an incomplete night’s sleep had him feeling like he was wrapped in cotton wool. He knew he wasn’t supposed to have caffeine, but he was feeling like shit and this once couldn’t hurt.

A few sips turned into a large mug, which he hid behind the toaster when Loren came out.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully, taking the travel mug Eliot held out to him. “I don’t know if I’ll be home for dinner, El, but I’ll call if I’m not going to be home by bedtime.” He leaned in and brushed his warm lips across Eliot’s, and Eliot had to fight not to wrap around him and cling, beg him not to walk out the door.

After he left, Eliot finished his mug of coffee and dumped the rest of the pot down the sink before taking his meds with a large glass of water. He fixed himself a few pieces of toast and wandered into the family room, switching the TV on for some mindless background noise before picking up his journal. His therapist had assigned him a journaling exercise, and he blew it off most days, not seeing how it would help, but today, with residual anxiety still roiling through him and making him nauseated, he decided to try and get some of his feelings out on paper.

“We’re taking you to the scene of last night’s shootout, where two suspects were killed and a police officer seriously wounded. Ana Rodriguez has the latest. Ana?”

The dramatic tones of the news anchor’s voice broke into Eliot’s concentration, and he forgot all about the journal as footage from the aftermath of the shootout appeared on the screen.

“This was the chaotic scene last night after an arrest gone wrong shook up this peaceful Phoenix neighborhood. Two men were shot dead—”

Ana’s voice was tense and full of news anchor emotion as she introduced helicopter footage of the scene from the night before. The angle was from a long distance since they wouldn’t have been able to fly directly over the scene during an active operation, but Eliot was still riveted as he watched black-uniformed men running to and fro.

“Phoenix Police Detective Evan Marshall, a ten-year veteran, was seriously wounded by a bullet to the leg, and ABC15 has learned that he’s in serious but stable condition—”

All Eliot could make out of the nighttime scene was a bunch of flashing lights, but he thought he caught a glimpse of Loren as he climbed into the ambulance after a figure on a gurney was pushed inside.

“Detectives are on scene today, trying to figure out what went wrong—”

And there was Loren, standing in the background with a group of other men, looking crisp and professional in his white dress shirt and tailored black trousers, his badge and gun clipped to his belt. He was holding a small notebook as he pointed toward something, then he and the men started walking in that direction.

“Stay tuned to ABC15 for more on this riveting story throughout the day—”

Despite Ana’s breathless promise for more, there was very little new information forthcoming as the day went on. They replayed the clip of Loren and the group of men over and over, with periodic updates on Marshall’s condition, but by the 5:00 p.m. news, another story had taken precedence.

Eliot finally got up from the couch, stiff and sore from sitting hunched into a little ball most of the day, and a little lightheaded from not eating. He rubbed his stomach, the anxiety feeling like it was eating a hole in it. His phone had been silent all day, Eliot having resisted the urge to call Loren, not wanting to bother him when he was so busy.

He was dying to hear something, so at last he gave in and sent a quick
How are you
text, gratified when Loren immediately responded,
All’s well. Probably not home for bedtime, though, sorry
.

Eliot forced himself to eat a little, heating up some leftovers from the night before, and was dismayed when he threw it back up. The anxiety coursing through him was making him shake, so he picked up the phone again and called Dr. Babcock.

When she answered he was so on edge from holding everything in that he broke down, and she spent a few minutes talking him through some various calming techniques until the storm of emotion passed. Then she instructed him to increase the dosage of his antianxiety drug for the time being.

“We can adjust it back downward again when you feel like you have a better handle on the situation. You did the right thing in calling me, Eliot,” she said with approval. “This is exactly why I gave you my personal number, for situations like this.”

He went to take a shower, and the smell of Loren’s bodywash sent him into a renewed fit of weeping.

“Stop it, you fucking loser,” he hissed aloud. “You’re so weak, so goddamn pathetic.” Eliot scrubbed viciously at his hair and body, berating himself for his failure to cope. “This isn’t what Loren needs, a whiny little bitch like you. Stop it!”

At last he got out and headed for bed, determined not to use the crutch of a sleeping pill to sleep. He could handle this, he could go to bed and sleep like a normal person, like—like a sane person. Overwhelmed with exhaustion, he did drift off not too long after climbing between the sheets.

At midnight his phone buzzing next to him woke him with a start, and he grabbed it and stared with bleary eyes at a text from Loren:
Not gonna be home tonight, El. Working. Didn’t want you to worry when you woke up and I wasn’t there. Xoxo

For a moment Eliot was gratified Loren felt comfortable enough with Eliot’s stability to stay out all night working and doing what he needed to do, and then the fear set back in.
What is he doing? Is he on another bust? What if
he’s
the one to get shot tonight?

Eliot huddled under the covers, trying not to think of Loren lying somewhere bleeding, dying. Oh God. If something happened, who would tell him? No one would think to tell the “roommate” for a long time! Did Loren’s parents even know they were living together? Would it be that Loren just wouldn’t come home one night, and eventually there’d be a news story with Loren’s name in the banner creeping along the bottom? Would he miss the funeral, miss the chance to say good-bye?

Increasingly morbid and upsetting thoughts chased themselves around in Eliot’s mind, fits of weeping alternating with ferocious anger at himself for being so weak. His phone buzzing startled him at about seven, and he realized with surprise he’d fallen asleep and slept for about an hour.

Another text from Loren:
Just letting you know I’m fine, babe, and should be home for dinner.

Eliot texted him back,
Okay
, and then staggered into the bathroom. When he glanced in the mirror, he winced. He was shockingly pale, the dark circles under his eyes looking like bruises.

Jesus, I’m a fucking mess
, he thought in disgust.
I need to get a grip.

Feeling antsy and needing to move, after he’d taken his meds and forced himself to eat a piece of toast, Eliot began cleaning the house, starting in the kitchen and ending up on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor from corner to corner. When he was done with that, he started rearranging the living room, moving from bedroom to bedroom until he was sweaty, dirty, and absolutely exhausted.

He took a shower, and for some reason the rainfall showerhead was fucking up, the water feeling like sharp needles stabbing into him, and he couldn’t stand it for more than a couple of minutes. It hurt to run the towel over his skin.

It was midafternoon by that point and Loren still wouldn’t be home for hours, so Eliot decided to run out and see Sam and Queen Elizabeth, maybe take them a little something special.

Pulling on some sweatpants and a T-shirt, he thrust his feet into some old sneakers, grabbed some cash from the freezer, and headed to the bus stop. After boarding he slumped in his seat, squinting out the window, his tired eyes burning. Maybe he should have worn some sunglasses because the Arizona sunlight was excruciatingly bright today.

As they jounced along, Eliot suddenly noticed his skin was prickling, the fine hairs on his arms standing up straight.

Oh no.

Eliot had learned to sense the approach of madness, almost like licking a finger and holding it up to test the direction of the wind. No. He’d been doing
everything
right. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t fucking
fair
. No!

He would hold it back with every fiber of his being; he was strong and healthy now. There had been no drinking, no drugging. Eliot would hold on to his stability, would cling to sanity by his fingers, his toes, his teeth. He would fight it, and it wouldn’t take him.

Not again.

WHEN LOREN
let himself into the house a little before seven p.m., he was alarmed at the darkness and the silence. “El?” he called out, but there was no response. “Baby, where are you?”

He found him on the back patio, wrapped in a blanket, huddled into a little ball in the corner of the large porch swing. Loren sat down next to him, and eased him into his arms.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Eliot shook his head, and Loren lifted his chin so he could look into his eyes. “I know these past few days have been rough on you, El. I’m sorry.”

“You’re just doing your job, Loren,” Eliot said, his voice slightly raspy. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“For what?”

Eliot didn’t say anything, and Loren stroked his thumb over Eliot’s cheek. “What are you sorry for?”

“For not being strong enough,” Eliot finally whispered, and Loren gave him a gentle shake.

“You can’t be serious, El. I can’t even tell you how I proud I am of you, the way you dealt with what happened, and my thoughtlessness on top of it. Give yourself some credit, please.”

Eliot just closed his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “You don’t understand. I wasn’t strong enough.”

Loren felt unease slither through him. “Strong enough for what?” Silence. “Talk to me, Eliot!”

Eliot gazed up at him, his eyes huge in his wan, pale face. “To keep the madness away.”

In an instant Loren understood what he was trying to tell him, and the fear that coursed through him turned Loren’s insides to ice. He clutched Eliot to him, holding him tightly.