Run This Town 04 - (Watch Me) Save You Read online

  He cut off her words, spoken in Mandarin. “I know who you are,” he said in English.

  “Yes.” He imagined she nodded. “My father said we should talk.” Her voice was so fucking soft. Jesus.

  He rubbed his forehead. “You’re in New York, correct?” His fiancée attended NYU.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll do this in person.” He gave her a day and time for later that week. “See you there.” He hung up. Goddamn it. Was anybody else’s life this fucked up? The hits kept coming from so many different sides he was getting dizzy. He stared down at his hand where he clutched the phone.

  It shook.

  He punched in a number of his phone, breath escaping him in loud gasps.

  “Tek.”

  His eyes slid closed. “I need you.”

  “Where are you?” The question was brusque, all business.

  “Atlanta.”

  A heavy sigh echoed in his ear. “I’m in New York—”

  “Please.” It went against everything in him to beg Stavros, but if he wanted what he wanted, he had to.

  “I can be there later today.” No warmth. “I’ll forward the necessary information to your phone.”

  Tension flowed from his body in a loud whoosh. “Thank you, Stavros.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” Stavros’ snort echoed long after he’d ended the call.

  When his phone whistled with the incoming text, Tek understood Stavros’ parting remark. He was bringing his stepsister, Annika, along.

  “Oh fuck.”

  Chapter Seven

  Quinn didn’t leave his bedroom for the rest of the day. Mostly he didn’t want to see mockery in Tek’s gaze. And even though he told himself he didn’t care what Tek thought of him, he still couldn’t make himself move from the bed. He didn’t regret the parting words he’d hurled at Tek. The man had no right to judge him regarding what he felt or didn’t feel for Xavier.

  He rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the plush pillow. He and Xavier had had some adventures during their time together, back when Quinn was open and carefree and could take being ordered around in the bedroom. He’d even been the one to give Xavier permission to engage in the rough play he liked with strangers Quinn chose. He always watched. While Xavier wielded the whips and canes, Quinn had been the one calling the shots.

  Their play had been tame compared to what he knew his husband leaned toward, but Xavier never played without Quinn’s express permission. Quinn had been a switch, bottoming exclusively for Xavier, but topping anyone they’d brought into their bed. They’d made it work. They’d been making it work. Two black men, married, successful, in love. They’d had it all. Until his homophobic in-laws decided to snatch it all away.

  Going back to who he used to be had been impossible. He’d learned that the hard way, letting himself be picked up in a bar one night when he couldn’t fall asleep. Letting himself be touched, slobbered on. He thrown up all over the guy’s front. He’d slunk away, humiliation riding him, only to attempt it a full year later, on the anniversary of the assault.

  This time he’d had the idea he could be in charge. Be the dominant one, be the one to call the shots. He couldn’t. He hadn’t been sure of himself, his need to have human contact warring with the images and textures in his head from that night. He’d walked away again, leaving the stranger he’d picked up staring after him in angry confusion.

  He’d learned his lesson then. Irretrievably broken. What he was. Unable to withstand human contact.

  “You clung to me so tight I thought you’d never let go.”

  Tek didn’t know what he was talking about. At first Quinn had assumed any hand touching him that gently had to be Xavier’s. No one else could touch him that softly and make him feel it down to his toes.

  His eyes popped open. No. He didn’t feel it, not like that. It was just different, not keeping with the harshness of the nightmare, so yes, he’d felt it. The difference in intent, the touch was meant to comfort not harm. And it registered.

  Still registered, if Quinn closed his eyes and inhaled. He kept his eyes open, unblinking even though his eyeballs burned. Not breathing, not even when he grabbed the sheet in his fists and pulled and pulled. Water spilled from his burning eyes, quickly blotted by the pillow.

  He wanted to march down the hall and demand Tek leave immediately. Then he remembered, with Tek he’d gotten his first semi-decent night’s sleep in years. He’d had his first overnight guest in years. The only man to see him at his weakest in years. Only the second human to see him cry and beg and plead with those phantom men for his life.

  Did he want Tek to go more than he wanted to sleep? More than the human contact he pretended he didn’t crave?

  A knock sounded on his bedroom door and he tensed, shuffling onto his back and quickly drying his eyes. “Yes?”

  “Quinn,” Tek called softly. “Can I come in? I need to say something and I’d like to do it to your face.”

  Quinn took a deep breath. “Come in.”

  The door knob twisted and he was there, standing in the doorway, intense gaze immediately zeroing on Quinn.

  “What do you want to say?”

  Tek squared his shoulders. “I apologize, if I came off as judging you downstairs. Not my intention, not even close. I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

  “You didn’t hurt me,” Quinn lied.

  Tek watched him for the space of five heartbeats then dipped his head slightly. “Good.” He took a step backward, out the room. “I’d planned on leaving tomorrow,” he said. “But I think I’ll head out tonight.”

  The panic those words roused stunned Quinn into silence. He lowered his lashes, trying to figure out the whys, the hows.

  “Yeah, so I’ll just—”

  “No.” The words sprang from him like a bullet leaving a gun, hitting Tek the same if his shocked expression was anything to go by. Quinn swallowed. “I—I mean, can you help me one last time before you go?”

  “Whatever you need.”

  Without hesitation. Whatever had he done to warrant such blind agreement from a stranger? He flicked his gaze from Tek in the doorway, to the space to the right of him on the bed. His California King. He forced the words out before they got permanently lodged in his throat. “Lay with me. Help me sleep.” He licked his lips as Tek’s eyes got bigger and bigger. “One last time.”

  “Okay.” Tek stepped fully into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. Something lingered in his eyes. “Should I take my boots off or…?”

  “Boots off.” Quinn watched him hobble on one foot then the other, yanking off the black heavy boots with a whole bunch of straps and heavy silver buckles. He kept his black ankle socks on and walked slowly to the empty side of the bed.

  Tek stood there for a minute, hovering. “I’m just gonna—” He jerked his chin.

  Quinn nodded. “Yes.” He felt unsteady. He fisted the hands on either side of him, gaze straight ahead as Tek climbed onto the bed and settled next to him. Side by side, but not touching. But it still registered. Why? To cover his confusion, he yanked the blanket up over his legs. “Blanket?”

  “No.” Did Tek’s voice used to always rumble?

  Quinn didn’t look at him. He peered at the ceiling.

  “Quinn. I don’t want you uncomfortable.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, still refusing to look at Tek. “Talk to me like you did before.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Quinn pursed his lips as he tried to find a safe topic. “Do you speak Chinese? Are you even Chinese?” he rushed on. “I’m just guessing from the way you look.”

  “How do I look?”

  Dangerous. “Ch-Chinese or close to it.”

  “I was born in Queens to Chinese immigrant parents.”

  Quinn looked at him then. Tek was also on his back, his face turned up to the ceiling, so Quinn could watch him without Tek’s deep gaze on him. “Talk to me in Chinese,” he said softly.


  Tek turned to him abruptly, gaze trapping Quinn, keeping him caged as his lips moved. “Wúlùn nǐ rúhé shìtú yǎngài, wǒ kàn nǐ.”

  Quinn had gone to a spa once, gotten a hot stone massage. The feeling of the heat sinking into his pores, turning his bones liquid, had been uncomfortably intimate. Erotic. Tek’s tone, the words Quinn had no way of deciphering? A thousand times that sensation. It robbed him of breath. “What—” He blinked, clearing his throat. “What does it mean?”

  Tek flipped fully onto his left side, facing Quinn on the pillow. Close enough for Quinn to smell his own soap on Tek’s skin, feel his body temperature, but still so far away.

  “No matter how you try to hide,” Tek whispered. “I see you, Quinn.”

  The way he said it, the way he looked at Quinn… He believed Tek. He believed Tek saw everything, making him so much more dangerous than Quinn had first thought. He drew breath into his lungs, panting and trying to make it not too obvious. Tek’s gaze flickered again then he broke their stare, rolling onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling.

  “Get some rest, Quinn.”

  He should. He would. He let his lashes fall, hyper sensitive of the man next to him. The stranger offering comfort Quinn couldn’t afford to turn down. He let Tek’s presence lull him into safety one last time, let Tek put him to sleep…

  Until the sound of a car door yanked him awake to find himself alone in the big bed. He stretched out a hand over the rumbled expanse, found it cold, a piece of paper in place of the man who’d been there when he’d last closed his eyes. Quinn sat up, blinking the sleep away, legs folded under his body in the middle of the bed as he read the short note.

  “Quinn, my gratitude for allowing me into your home when we both know it was the very last thing you wanted to do. I owe you.” A phone number was scrawled there. “I pay my debts. Anytime you need me. This is a cross my heart promise, something I never break. Take care of yourself. Please. You’re a special man, and you deserve only good things. WǑ kàn nǐ. (I see you). P.S. I have your gun.”

  He bit back a cry as he balled the note in his fist and tossed it across the room. That son of a bitch. He was tempted to call up the number and chew Tek’s ass for taking his weapon, but he didn’t want anything to do with the man ever again.

  Good riddance. He could get another gun. He’d never have to see or deal with Tek ever again.

  “Bastard.” How fucking dare he? Quinn climbed off the bed and went to the balled up note, intent on torching it. He picked it up, breath hiccupping in his throat.

  First he’d smooth it out.

  I see you.

  Fuck you. No, you don’t. You see nothing.

  He walked over to the bed, sat on the edge and pulled open the top drawer on his nightstand. Candles were in there. A neon green lighter, too. Quinn picked up the lighter, flicked it on, then let the flame wink off. He thrust the paper into the drawer and slammed it shut. He let his body take over and slunk to the floor, the landing hard and jarring.

  With his back to the bed, he tugged his jeans down and kicked it off then grabbed the stick from under the bed.

  “Faggot.” He hit himself again and again, upper thighs, lower thighs. “You deserve this. Faggot.” The pain wet his eyes, the hurting inside him deeper, harsher than the physical one. “Take it like a man, fucking faggot.”

  I see you, Quinn.

  “Shut up. Shut up.” The shouts cracked, shredded him. The punishment not enough, never enough, not when he couldn’t figure out why he needed to feel it, why he desperately needed to feel it. His self-flagellation continued until his hand stopped on his own, wrist aching fiercely.

  The welts on his thighs were bright against his dark skin, burning. He hunched over, the tears dripping from his chin, and raked the freshly raised flesh with his nails. A scream burst from him, the pain jerking his body upright, then he slumped forward.

  The words echoed through it all.

  I see you, Quinn.

  Chapter Eight

  From the instant she’d stood in the doorway of her bedroom and watched Tek lean forward on his tiptoes, peering into the mirror on her dresser while painting his face with her makeup, his mother had stopped being his mom.

  He’d been ten.

  She’d been horrified, disappointed, too. The horror had long sorta faded away from her features over the years when she looked at him. The disappointment was permanent, etched for eternity on her face, in her eyes. She’d protected him from his father, sure. Something he didn’t think she knew he’d overheard that night.

  She hadn’t stopped being his mother. She’d fed him, clothed him, and provided the roof over his head. Props to her. But she’d taken away the hugs, the words I love you, the warmth of her embrace he used to love when he snuggled up against her softness in contentment.

  The night his parents had discovered who he was, he’d learned to never expect things to go back to what they’d been before he gave in to the urge to see what his lips would look like colored with his mother’s red lipstick.

  He’d had to train himself to not turn to his mother when he wanted to feel safe. He’d learned not to seek out his father when he got bullied at school for being too small, too pretty, too Chinese. Before he hit eleven, he’d already known what love they’d had for him had died as quickly as the swipe of the tube of lipstick across his lips.

  In a blink.

  Yet he never left. Never abandoned his mother. And he’d assume the throne from his father. Like a good son, for her. It was what they’d been waiting for since he was ten, for him to be the good son, the obedient son. A son, and nothing more. He’d be that son for them, the loving, loyal son, even though they’d long stopped being loving, loyal parents to him.

  Just like he’d never told his mother about the blackmail. His father’s threat on her life. Her for Tek. Tek for her. Good sons protected their mothers. They sacrificed their lives and their happiness for their mothers’. And if that mother didn’t know, didn’t care, didn’t reciprocate?

  Nothing changed.

  He left Quinn’s house and Atlanta, and took a flight back to Queens, back to his mother’s place. She owned the dry cleaners he’d told Quinn about, living on the top floor of the three story building. His dad had set her up there before moving out to Atlanta. They didn’t see each other, his parents. Rarely spoke more than once a year, but they remained as married as married could be.

  Not once had he asked his mother why his father left. Some things weren’t hard to figure out. It puzzled him as to why his father would move out of the family home because of Tek, but still want him to take over the multi-million dollar empire he’d built from the ground up in Atlanta.

  Maybe he thought Tek being in charge would force him to abandon his proclivities?

  Tek gave a mental shrug. Maybe one day he’d ask the old man.

  He found his mother behind the counter in the store when he pushed the double doors open and stepped inside. She lifted her head from the newspaper she’d been reading, the wide smile on her face melting off like hot wax when she recognized him.

  It didn’t ever stop hurting. Would never stop hurting.

  “You’re back,” she said in Mandarin.

  He nodded as he walked over to the door marked employees only leading to the back. “I’m back,” he answered in kind. She buzzed him through the door and he stepped in, making sure the door was locked behind him.

  “Did you see your father?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t look at her.

  “Mei-Lei? When will you go to her?”

  He shook his head with a soft chuckle and turned toward her. Her attention was back on the newspaper as she spoke to him. She was shorter than him, having changed little in appearance since he was a small child. The only obvious sign of her age was the generous gray in her hair, styled into a chin-length bob. He got his looks from her, but the eyes were all his dad’s.

  “I’ll deal with Mei-Lei when I’m ready,” he told her clearly. “Not when
you want, not when she or our fathers want. When I’m ready.”

  His mother didn’t speak again so after a short pause, Tek made his way to the back and out the rear door. In the narrow alley he called Israel to let him know he was back in town. Then he just stood there, back braced against the wall and breathed.

  He’d had the option to leave this place, leave them, to get out from the heavy-ass obligations his father had settled on Tek’s way-too-young shoulders. Instead he’d chosen to stay. For his mother. He figured he owed her for sticking up for him when his father wanted to throw him out.

  Ten. He’d been ten years old.

  He hadn’t known it was wrong to want to look as beautiful as his mother did. He hadn’t known it’d been wrong to put on her stockings, roll them up his skinny, ten year old legs and wobble in her high heels. All he’d known was that it made him happy, made him smile.

  His mother had talked his irate father into leaving Tek alone, and he’d sat in the hallway outside their bedroom door and listened, knees hugged to his chest, shaking, tears running down his face. His heart had leapt when she’d said no to his father’s angry words.

  She still loves me, he’d thought. The fear in him had dissipated, and he’d smiled again. Until she’d come into his room that night to tuck him in.

  “Be a good boy,” she’d muttered. “You have to be a good son.” Then she’d pulled the covers up to his chin, turned out the lights and walked out, leaving him staring after her in the darkness.

  It had been his first inkling that things had changed. She normally kissed him goodnight on his nose, she’d play with his hair, brush it away from his forehead and she whisper her love against his forehead before turning off the lights.

  She’d never done that again.

  He still missed that. Still, to this fucking day, grieved that loss. And still, he’d assume leadership of an underworld empire for her. For them. Was a child’s love stronger than a parent’s? Why did his love endure when theirs didn’t?

  He shook his head and opened the back door. It didn’t matter, never did in the end. He went back inside and went up to her.