Internet. What the hell are you eating?”
“Dragon Chicken.”
“Is it spicy?”
Ash licked his lips. “Yeah. I should’ve figured. I just liked the name.”
I rolled my eyes while he mulled over his options. I knew he’d discount them both. He hated computers, but he despised shopping even more. It took me a moment to realize he was indirectly asking me to do it for him.
“Hey, don’t look at me,” I said. “I suck at bed shopping. How do you think we ended up with that obnoxious thing in the first place?”
He ran his tongue over his lips again, and I knew I was fucked. I held my ground for a while, but he had his ways of persuading me. He brought a piece of hellfire-hot chicken to my mouth and pushed it in, then licked the sauce off my lips. Dinner was quickly forgotten, but later, as he dozed beside me, naked and serene, it wasn’t long before I reached for my laptop and ordered him the bed.
T HE NEXT few weeks were busy. If I wasn’t working or schlepping across the city, I was fixing up some part of the new place. All things considered, we settled in well, but as I’d predicted, the commute to the firehouse was killing me. I lost count of the times Ash got up to find me passed out on the couch in my uniform. It worried him, I could tell, but there was no way around it. I had to work, so I had to travel.
I held that stance for weeks, until a call came in that made me question why I was fighting for a job that was sucking the life out of me.
We lost a baby that shift. It was a strangely warm day for the last days of fall. I remembered the sun melting away some of the fatigue in my bones. Then we walked into one of the most horrific cases of neglect I’d ever seen, and rather than puking my lunch into the gutter, like Mick did, I felt nothing. I accepted it, and that made me sick, eventually, at least.
The next day I got up with renewed conviction that something had to change. I was in the middle of signing myself up for an online nurse/medic bridge course when Ash wandered into the living room with a plastic box of art supplies. I shut my laptop with a snap. No point stressing him out until I was sure of my path. “What’s all that?”
He put the box down on the coffee table and opened it. “My school stuff.”
Curious, I pushed myself up from the couch and set my laptop aside. Ash had been acing his night course until his past caught up with him. He’d dropped out to concentrate on his recovery, and he’d never mentioned a desire to return. “Are you thinking of enrolling again?”
“Maybe.” He flipped through one of the books. “But not to do this crap. It wasn’t really me.”
I’d have to take his word for that. Art went over my head. Ash sensed my predicament and handed me the open sketchbook. “What do you see when you look at that?”
I stared at the drawing. It wasn’t done in his usual pencil style, though I couldn’t tell what he’d used. I looked at it long and hard until I realized what I was looking at, or, rather who .
I inhaled sharply. “Fuck. Is that…?” Ash nodded and confirmed that I was indeed looking at a picture of Daryl Hunter, the man who’d almost certainly sexually abused him. “But why? I don’t understand. When did you draw this?”
Ash pointed to the corner of the page. Shocked, I cursed again. The drawing was dated months before he’d flipped his shit, months before the horrors of his past collided with his present and we discovered that the man raping and murdering street kids in the park, right here in the city, was the same man who’d abused Ash in foster care.
“I must have seen him somewhere,” Ash said, reading my mind. “He was in Chicago then, wasn’t he?”
I nodded, suppressing a shudder. Knowing that creep had been within spitting distance of Ash all that time still made me sick. If the police hadn’t shot him dead, I would have killed the motherfucker myself. I took a silent deep breath, forcing myself to focus
“Dragon Chicken.”
“Is it spicy?”
Ash licked his lips. “Yeah. I should’ve figured. I just liked the name.”
I rolled my eyes while he mulled over his options. I knew he’d discount them both. He hated computers, but he despised shopping even more. It took me a moment to realize he was indirectly asking me to do it for him.
“Hey, don’t look at me,” I said. “I suck at bed shopping. How do you think we ended up with that obnoxious thing in the first place?”
He ran his tongue over his lips again, and I knew I was fucked. I held my ground for a while, but he had his ways of persuading me. He brought a piece of hellfire-hot chicken to my mouth and pushed it in, then licked the sauce off my lips. Dinner was quickly forgotten, but later, as he dozed beside me, naked and serene, it wasn’t long before I reached for my laptop and ordered him the bed.
T HE NEXT few weeks were busy. If I wasn’t working or schlepping across the city, I was fixing up some part of the new place. All things considered, we settled in well, but as I’d predicted, the commute to the firehouse was killing me. I lost count of the times Ash got up to find me passed out on the couch in my uniform. It worried him, I could tell, but there was no way around it. I had to work, so I had to travel.
I held that stance for weeks, until a call came in that made me question why I was fighting for a job that was sucking the life out of me.
We lost a baby that shift. It was a strangely warm day for the last days of fall. I remembered the sun melting away some of the fatigue in my bones. Then we walked into one of the most horrific cases of neglect I’d ever seen, and rather than puking my lunch into the gutter, like Mick did, I felt nothing. I accepted it, and that made me sick, eventually, at least.
The next day I got up with renewed conviction that something had to change. I was in the middle of signing myself up for an online nurse/medic bridge course when Ash wandered into the living room with a plastic box of art supplies. I shut my laptop with a snap. No point stressing him out until I was sure of my path. “What’s all that?”
He put the box down on the coffee table and opened it. “My school stuff.”
Curious, I pushed myself up from the couch and set my laptop aside. Ash had been acing his night course until his past caught up with him. He’d dropped out to concentrate on his recovery, and he’d never mentioned a desire to return. “Are you thinking of enrolling again?”
“Maybe.” He flipped through one of the books. “But not to do this crap. It wasn’t really me.”
I’d have to take his word for that. Art went over my head. Ash sensed my predicament and handed me the open sketchbook. “What do you see when you look at that?”
I stared at the drawing. It wasn’t done in his usual pencil style, though I couldn’t tell what he’d used. I looked at it long and hard until I realized what I was looking at, or, rather who .
I inhaled sharply. “Fuck. Is that…?” Ash nodded and confirmed that I was indeed looking at a picture of Daryl Hunter, the man who’d almost certainly sexually abused him. “But why? I don’t understand. When did you draw this?”
Ash pointed to the corner of the page. Shocked, I cursed again. The drawing was dated months before he’d flipped his shit, months before the horrors of his past collided with his present and we discovered that the man raping and murdering street kids in the park, right here in the city, was the same man who’d abused Ash in foster care.
“I must have seen him somewhere,” Ash said, reading my mind. “He was in Chicago then, wasn’t he?”
I nodded, suppressing a shudder. Knowing that creep had been within spitting distance of Ash all that time still made me sick. If the police hadn’t shot him dead, I would have killed the motherfucker myself. I took a silent deep breath, forcing myself to focus
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