Wicked Hearts (12 page)

bottle of red wine. The food was some of the best Reese had ever had, even when Hank

had taken him to Paris, and Hank was clearly pleased when Reese expressed this. They

talked about nothing much, to Reese"s relief, though if he knew Hank, and he did, it

wouldn"t be long before the other shoe fell.

Two bottles of wine later, over crème brûlée and port, Hank leaned back against the

plush, velvet upholstered chair and laced his fingers over his chest in what Reese

recognized was his “getting down to business” mode.

“Okay, Reese. Out with it.”

“Out with what?”
Here we go,
he thought.

“It"s been three weeks. I"ve barely seen or heard from you. It"s like pulling teeth just

reach you on the fucking phone. You"re seeing someone. I know you are. Don"t try to

deny it.”

“Why would I deny it? You and I are friends, not lovers.”

Hank"s head jerked back like a flag snapping and his face reddened. Reese knew

he"d gone too far, too fast. “Hey,” he said, trying to backpedal. “You know what I mean.

We"ve both dated other guys before. Why am I getting the third degree now?”

“We"ve
fucked
other guys before. What"s this
dating
crap? Who"re you dating? How

come you"re not telling me about it? Shit, what"s the fun of „dating",” he used his index

fingers to draw quotes in the air, “if we don"t tell each other all the sordid little details?”

“It"s not like that,” Reese ventured. “It"s—it"s different. He"s different.”

“Oh Jesus,” Hank said contemptuously. “
Spare
me. They"re all the same. You and I

are the only ones who are different. The rest of them are just pieces of ass, waiting to be

used and discarded, once we tire of them, which we always do. You"re just caught in

some stupid infatuation. So out with it. Who the fuck is this prince among men? And

what"s he got that I ain"t got? Don"t tell me you found a new sugar daddy.”

Reese winced. There was no denying he"d taken advantage of Hank"s largess over

the years, though at this moment he regretted it. All of it.

“Come on, spill it,” Hank prodded. “Who"s the guy? Where"d you meet him? Oh,

shit!” Hank slapped his forehead. “Don"t tell me it"s that French guy you met at George

Sander"s party, Jean-Pierre whatever the hell his name was. He was all over you like

flies on shit and don"t deny it, you were into him too. Is that the guy? Is it? What is it,

that sexy accent, or is his cock as big as yours—”

Reese reached across the table and put his hand on Hank"s arm. “Hey,” he said,

interrupting him. “Keep your voice down, will you?”

Hank shook his hand away. “So am I right? It"s the French dude? Is he

uncircumcised? Is that the draw?”

“Hank, shut up. You"re drunk.”

“So what if I am? Does that change the fact you"re not confiding in your best and

oldest friend? In your
only
god damned friend?”

“Hank, please.”

“You owe me. Damn it, if it weren"t for me—”

“Enough!” Reese slammed the table with his fist, rattling the crystal. Two waiters

materialized, hovering inquiringly around their table.

“We"re fine,” Hank said, his mouth forming what might pass for a smile as he

nodded toward the waiters. “You can bring the check.”

When they"d disappeared, Reese tried but failed to keep the fury out of his tone. “I

can see who I damn well please.”

Hank took a sip of his port, his eyes not leaving Reese"s face. “Think about it. Who

but me understands you?” Though Hank"s voice was smooth, there was anger beneath

the words. “You may think you"re into whoever this mystery man is, but when he gets

to know you, really know you, what then? Face it, nobody but me would accept the
real

Reese. You"re damaged goods.”

Reese was silent, Hank"s words hooking like barbs into his psyche. All the shame

and gnawing fear he"d suppressed for years flooded through him. Hank was right. He

was damaged goods. No one would want him. Especially not Jeff, who seemed so

genuine and sincere.

Jeff wanted him now, but only because he didn"t know him. Not really. He didn"t

know Reese"s initial seduction of him had been cynical and premeditated. He didn"t

know Reese had taken money in exchange for the betrayal of his trust.

With Jeff, he had hoped he had a chance to reinvent himself. To become what Jeff

thought he was. Was Hank right? Was there no such thing as redemption? Could the

damage never be mended? Was Reese only fooling himself that this bright, shiny new

thing with Jeff could last?

He looked into Hank"s handsome, cold face, searching for some spark of his soul to

latch onto. But beyond the cruel smile and the flat, glittering eyes, he saw nothing.

He set his napkin on the table while Hank accepted the small leather portfolio that

contained the bill for the meal. “Let me help with that,” Reese said uncharacteristically,

reaching for his wallet.

Hank laughed derisively. “Don"t bother. This probably cost more than your

monthly rent. Anyway, you know I like to be paid in trade.” Hank waggled his

eyebrows and licked his lips, leaving no question as to what was expected.

Reese shook his head. He was done being Hank"s whore.

Julio tapped lightly at the open door of Hank"s study. “There"s a Mr. Oliver

Hawkins at the door. Should I let him in?”

“Yeah. I"m expecting him.”

Who would have thought it would come to this?

If there had been one constant in Hank"s life, it was Reese. Hank hadn"t been fooled

by the tough boy swagger and cultivated bad-boy image Reese projected in high school.

From the first time he got Reese alone in the pool house, he"d taken full control. It had

been relatively easy to get past the façade to the sexually naïve but eager guy beneath.

In a twisted way, Hank was grateful for the tragic accident that had cost Ray Sipos

his life and nearly cost Reese his freedom. In his heart of hearts, he knew he would have

lost Reese long ago without that lingering obligation.

The actual event would always be a blur for Hank, though he knew from the

depositions and from Reese himself what had happened. Ray and his thugs had been

trailing the pair, waiting for the opportunity to make their move. Hank suspected the

misguided jerk was actually gay himself, but too macho and in denial ever to admit it.

Ray had been angry when Reese abandoned his gang to spend time with Hank. His

frequent threats to beat the two of them to a pulp had never come to much, but

apparently he"d only been waiting for the right moment. One of the kids who had been

identified fleeing the scene confirmed they had been planning to take Reese and himself

behind the school and beat the shit out of them. They were the ones who planned the

diversion to get the science teacher out of the lab.

It was a clever plan, as far as it went, at least in terms of getting Reese and Hank

alone. Reese had taken to getting a ride home with Hank each day after school, which

didn"t leave the thugs a chance to follow and attack them the way they could have if the

boys took the bus or walked home. Apparently they"d just been biding their time,

looking for the right opportunity.

When the gang entered the science lab, Hank had just shot his load down Reese"s

throat. Still caught in the grip of his orgasm, he looked up at the shuffling sound of

sneakers on linoleum. A moment later four boys burst into the room and someone

shouted triumphantly, “I told you. They"re a couple of fucking faggots!”

Before Hank had a chance to react, he was doubled over by a fist slamming into his

solar plexus. Another punch to his jaw sent him backwards and he"d lost his footing. He

heard the crack of something he later realized must have been his skull, and that"s all he

remembered.

Reese reportedly went berserk, turning all his fury and fear against the punks

who"d picked the wrong boys to attack. When Ray went down, fatally smashing the

back of his head into the corner of a lab table, his so-called friends had scattered like the

wind, leaving their fearless leader to his fate.

Moments later, shouting teachers and hall monitors burst into the room. There they

found Reese standing in a daze beside the two boys unconscious on the floor, one of

them with his pants around his knees, the other lying in a pool of blood.

The police were called and Reese was led away in cuffs, despite the now-conscious

Hank"s protests that they"d been the ones attacked. The school officials managed to

keep the story out of the papers, but Reese"s guilt was assumed by everyone. He was

removed from foster care and placed in a juvenile detention center while authorities

investigated the case and decided what criminal charges would be brought against him.

Hank missed him dreadfully during those weeks he was incarcerated. He wanted

his sex buddy back. He needed someone to admire him and hang on his every word, as

Reese still did back then. And, though Hank wouldn"t have admitted it, he was lonely

and Reese was his only friend.

Hank was an only child to parents who lavished him with things and money, but

never with time or love. His father was too busy running his business empire, his

mother engaged in luncheons and charity events. Hank usually ate alone in the kitchen,

the maid bustling nearby, the TV for company.

They rarely noticed his existence, except when he made trouble at school, which he

did every couple of years, mainly out of boredom. Negative attention was better than

no attention, he"d come to learn. He had also learned to manipulate his parents to get

the things he wanted, and this time was no exception.

Mr. Seeley had made absolutely certain Hank"s part in the whole tragic mess was

kept well out of the media, not to protect Hank, but because it would be bad for

business. His mother"s focus had been on discovering his homosexuality, and her

distress over his “perversion.” She"d tried to make him go to counseling for a cure, but

he"d refused and for once his father had backed him up.

It had taken some doing, but his father had managed to pull the strings to make the

whole thing disappear. Hank allowed Reese to think it was his doing, strongly

encouraging the idea that Reese was now bound to Hank not only by friendship and

desire, but by an added obligation more binding than love.

Yet now, the only relationship in his life that mattered might be slipping from his

grasp.

The private investigator appeared at the door of his study, a nondescript man in his

mid-fifties with thinning hair and small, pale eyes. He carried a slim portfolio under his

arm. Hank stood and moved around his desk to greet the man.

Hawkins had a good reputation as an investigator, specializing in divorce cases,

providing the evidence of adultery to the injured party. Who better to tail Reese and

determine who the mystery man was who was getting in the way?

Hank still wasn"t quite sure what he"d do with the knowledge, once he had it, but

he believed in the old adage that knowledge is power. He"d see what the investigator

had to offer and go from there.

Hawkins sat on one of the chairs in front of Hank"s desk and set the portfolio on his

knees. He extracted a manila envelope and held it out. “Here are the photos and

information you wanted. It"s all in there.”

Hank, too agitated to sit, felt a strange pressure in his heart, like someone was

squeezing it. He stared at the envelope but made no move to take it. “Who is he? What"s

his name?”

“Jeffrey Michael Hartman. Single, white male, aged twenty-four, no criminal

record. He"s a developer for a company called Strata Systems. He moved from Boston to

Denver last year and lives alone in an apartment on Hamden Avenue. There"s a map in

the envelope with directions.

Hank stared at Hawkins, confused. He knew that name, but that couldn"t be right.

That nerd they"d made the bet on? Reese was still seeing
him?
Jesus H. Christ, things

were more serious than Hank had thought.

Not only was Reese caught up in some ridiculous infatuation with another man, but

now he was falling for geeks who could barely string two sentences together and

probably dreamed in binary code.

Hank owed it to Reese to make him see what a fool he was making of himself. He

had to save him from his own stupidity.

The detective put the envelope on Hank"s desk and stood. “Would you like to

examine the contents before we settle up? There are photographs of them entering a

bakery, riding on Mr. Armstrong"s motorcycle and several of them along various hiking

trails. There is even one,” Hawkins paused slightly, his features contorting with distaste

for a split second before they settled back into bland repose, “of the two of them kissing

in the parking lot of Mr. Hartman"s apartment building.”

Hank felt sick, his stomach clenching as the image of Reese and that little shit