Well, that was certainly true. Roan had a beer bottle in his hand, but it seemed to be empty. What a bastard. “Maybe this is for the best. I was no good for Dylan anyways. He could do better.”

  “Of course he could. But he wanted you, you stupid fuck.” Paris cuffed him on the back of the head, a small slap that could have been more forceful but was just firm enough to get its point across.

  “Hey!”

  “And he’s right, you know. He and Murphy don’t agree on a lot, so the fact that they agree on you being a reckless and stupid asshole seems to indicate that you are being a reckless and stupid bastard.”

  Roan gave him a dirty look. “Aren’t you supposed to be my soul mate?”

  Par gave him a look that he knew all too well, one that made him feel a twinge in his gut even in this dream world. It was the look of a kindly old mentor about to kick your ass and honestly sorry he has to do it. “You’re so depressed you’ve come out the other side of it, Ro. You know you could die at any second, so you push it. All your life, that’s what you’ve done. Someone says you can’t do something, you go out and do it, and go spin doughnuts on their lawn, giving them the middle finger and insulting their mothers. That’s the beauty and the terrible pain of you: you’re a contrary bastard.”

  “Yeah, well....” He didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could argue with here.

  “You say you don’t want to end up a sideshow attraction, a freak show, but you go out of your way to use these abilities where they will get a lot of attention. Subtlety has never been your strong suit.”

  “It’s who I am. It’s what I am. Ask me to not be gay while you’re at it, or a redhead. I’m a freak. World might as well get used to it.”

  “I agree. But are you ready for what will happen? The media attention, the medical attention?”

  Par actually seemed to be expecting an answer. “Well, no....”

  “Are you ready to die half transformed?”

  “No, but that’s not gonna happen.”

  “Oh really? Why not?”

  He shrugged and then suddenly realized he wanted badly to wake up. “I’ve adapted. It can’t kill me. It won’t.”

  “Really? Then go all the way. If you won’t get any more aneurysms, go for a full change. What’s holding you back?”

  “Stop it.”

  “You’re not a coward, Ro. Hell, you go out and pick fights, that’s how not a coward you are. So why don’t—”

  “Just shut up, all right?” he snapped angrily. He would have felt terrible if this was really Paris, but it wasn’t. He knew he was talking to himself, that the mean bastard taunting him could never be Par, but it could be him. Yes, he was contrary, but he could also be fucking vindictive.

  “You want Dylan back? You tell him the truth, and you get help.”

  “There’s no help for me.”

  “You’ve never tried, so you don’t know. Try before you give up. Or are you actually a coward, Ro? Is that your dirty little secret?”

  The ringing of the phone woke him up, shattered his reverie, and he was honestly grateful. His subconscious was a bitch.

  He didn’t answer the phone; he just let it go to machine, and it was Murphy, like he suspected. (It was either her or Dee—there was no way Dylan would be calling him so soon.) He listened to her talk and felt water on his face. Was he crying? Yes, he was, but he hadn’t been aware of it. The drugs still had a velvet stranglehold on him, but he wasn’t sure he could totally blame them.

  Apparently the Brand case was being shut. They’d found nothing that indicated foul play, and since he’d killed himself with his service revolver and left a note on his computer, it looked pretty legit. She still didn’t trust it—she said it looked like there might have been another person in the house—but there was no way to make a timeline for that. He wondered idly if she’d found the bottle of booze he took out of the back cupboard. It was unlikely Michael had cleaned up. She wasn’t happy—was she ever?—but it was done, unless he wanted to tell her something. He didn’t, so the case was closed.

  Maybe Grey was telling the truth—maybe he had gone back to bed and never paid Brand a visit. Would he ever know for sure? Truth be told, he was fine not knowing. Michael had been dead in every way save physically. Poor bastard. That was where Hamlet syndrome killed you—you couldn’t live with things as they were, but you couldn’t make yourself change them either. Indecision as mental illness and self-destruction.

  Roan must have fallen back to sleep, or just slipped into some drug-infused fugue state, as the next time he found himself staring at the curtains that were closed over the glass patio door, there was weak sunlight behind them, making them faintly glow. He still felt tired and empty, but now that the drugs had mostly worn off, his joints ached ever so slightly, like he was getting over the flu. His stomach rumbled to let him know toast had been nowhere near enough last night.

  He went upstairs and took a long bath, letting the warm water relax his muscles and take out the residual aches. His face was itchy, and he noticed he’d gotten a two days’ growth of beard overnight. He was too tired to shave, so he didn’t. He almost didn’t bother to get dressed, except he was cold, so he put on sweatpants before going downstairs. He threw a frozen dinner in the microwave and nuked it, not looking at what it was and not caring. After it was done, he still wasn’t sure what it was, and again, didn’t care. Eating it didn’t provide further illumination.

  So he was supposed to tell Dylan the truth? The truth about what? He knew he was a freak; they had covered that part. So what was there to say?

  There was a knock on the door, and he wasn’t going to answer it, but Dee shouted, “I know you’re in there!”

  So, fuck, word was getting around.

  He got up and let Dee in, not surprised he was in his paramedic gear. “Dylan called me and told me he might need me to pick up some stuff for him. So he’s left you? What did you do?”

  He glared at him but stalked back to the sofa, not even in the mood to argue with him. “Didn’t you hear what went on last night?”

  “The cat outside Panic? Yeah, I heard. That’s it? Gotta be more than that.”

  “He seems to think I hate myself and I want to die. Or I want the lion to take over full time, or some shit like that.”

  “And you’re saying that’s not true?”

  He gave Dee a scathing look that he knew would do no good, as it never did any good with Dee. “No, it’s not. Just get his stuff and go. What stuff does he want?”

  Dee came and stood in front of him in the living room, hands on his hips. “No, you’re fucking not.”

  “Not what?”

  “You are not giving up.”

  “I can if I want.” What was he doing? He didn’t even know. It was all reflex.

  Dee glared down at him, imperious and angry. “He’s right, isn’t he? You want to die. Dylan leaving is the final excuse you need.”

  “Fuck you.” He couldn’t even work up enough energy to make it sound angry. It was anemic and could have been anything. It didn’t even sound like an insult.

  Dee gave him a curious look, one only an ex could possibly give you, and sat down on the sofa beside him. He put his hand on Roan’s leg in a comforting, friendly manner and asked in his most consoling EMT voice, “What’s wrong?”

  A good question. He didn’t know. But he found himself admitting, “I’m so tired,” and for reasons unknown to him, he burst into tears. Stupid fucking asshole—why was he crying?

  Dee pulled him into a hug and let him cry into his shoulder, and in that moment, Roan really did want to die.

  17

  You Could Have It So Much Better

  ROAN tried to stop crying because it was fucking humiliating enough without bringing the whole “ex” thing, but on the bright side, he couldn’t actually humiliate himself further in front of Dee. Been there, done that, posted it on his blog.

  As it was, he couldn’t actually stop crying, so Dee eventually asked if he wanted a sedative. Roan heartily agreed, and after Dee came back from his car and gave him the shot, he asked, “Why have you never offered me a sedative before?”

  “’Cause I knew if I did, you’d expect one all the time,” Dee told him, wiping the injection site down with an alcohol-soaked cotton swab. He then looked at Roan’s forearm and frowned at it. “Is this where you were bit?”

  Whatever Dee gave him, it was working already. His heart started racing in his chest, the preamble to its slowing down, to all his systems gliding into a lower gear. Roan actually had to look at his arm to remember. “Uh, yeah.”

  Dee lifted his arm and looked at it up close, as if trying to see each individual pore. “The report said your arm was bleeding, but you refused treatment at the scene.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why aren’t there puncture wounds?”

  “Magic?”

  Dee gave him a light backhand slap across the chest. “Don’t smartass me. This is, what you call it, forcing a change? You forced a change and healed it.”

  “No.” Actually, now that he thought about it, he never did that. So when did it happen? “I got mad, after Dylan left.”

  “And?”

  “I probably did a partial change without realizing it at the time. That can happen when I get pissed off.”

  He gave him a skeptical look. “So you’re the Hulk now?”

  “No! I’ve never owned a pair of purple pants in my life.”

  Dee’s glare was ceaseless. “I’m gonna beat the shit out of you. I swear to God I’m gonna knock you out and beat the shit out of you. I’m gonna put you in a body cast.”

  “Where’s your sense of humor?” Roan belatedly realized he’d stopped crying. He wasn’t sure it was the drugs more than the distraction.

  “You’ve driven away the sweetest hot guy currently on the planet, and you are making smartass jokes. Jokes that aren’t even that funny. You should be figuring out how to get him back.”

  “I shouldn’t.” At Dee’s disbelieving look, he explained. “You’re right, he is sweet, and hot, and he deserves so much better than me. I’ve brought nothing but pain into his life. He deserves to have some fun, meet another nice hot guy and have hot Buddhist sex, not be weighed down with a diseased old freak like me.”

  “I agree. But he seems to like you, proving he’s crazy and has a thing for hot old guys who are nothing but trouble.”

  “You think I’m a hot old guy? Hey, is that an insult or a compliment?”

  “A little of both.”

  “Ah. Well, fuck you. Kinda.”

  Dee put his hand on his forehead—which was a mild relief, as he thought for a moment he was going to slap him—and asked, “You all right? You’re flushed.”

  He shrugged. “Happens with drugs sometimes. It’s my Irish blood.”

  “I thought you were Scottish.”

  “Mostly Scottish, but some Irish, and probably some alley cat as well.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “That it does.”

  “So, are you going to clean yourself up and go throw yourself on Dylan’s mercy?”

  He actually thought cutting Dylan loose was the kinder thing. Did he miss him? Hell yes, he did. He wished he was here right now. But that was selfish of him, wasn’t it? But what was a relationship besides a compact of mutual selfishness? Or was he so incredibly wrong it wasn’t even funny? “He’s at D’Andra’s?”

  “Of course he is. She’s a scary person who will rip your head off if you bother her Dylan.”

  “So you’re scared of her too?”

  “Yes, but I can drug her, so it’s limited.”

  “Your answer is always drugs, isn’t it?”

  Dee glared at such an obvious invitation, and opened his mouth to say something mean, but Roan was saved by his beeper going off. Dee checked it and cursed. “Gonna kick your ass later,” he promised, standing up. “This isn’t over.”

  “Is it ever?”

  Dee didn’t answer that, just gave him a knowing, dark sort of look on his way out the door. It said “You’re an asshole” without actually saying the words. They were never really necessary.

  Roan lay on the couch for a while, trying to determine his next move, wondering why it was always so easy to just crawl in a hole and never come out. He would really love to never do anything, just sit here and rot. It was honestly what he deserved.

  He had things to do. He had laundry, and probably shopping, and a buttload of apologies to make. What could he possibly say to Dylan to make it better? “Sorry I want to die.” That didn’t sound like it would make it better.

  He decided to call Doctor Rosenberg’s office. He thought he’d leave a message, but she picked up the phone. Didn’t that always figure? He took a deep breath, bracing himself, glad for the heavy-duty medication, and told her what he knew about himself: that he could change whenever he wanted, that he could alter his own muscle density, that he could half change, make his eyes turn and his teeth come out, his jaw distend, that sometimes when he was angry or upset it could occur of its own accord, that his vocal chords could change shape and become inhuman, that triggering a change could heal minor injuries, that when his adrenaline got pumping his reflexes could go off the charts. She just listened, occasionally making a soothing noise to let him know she was still there. When he stopped, she finally said, “I know.”

  He had expected a lot of potential responses. That wasn’t on the list. “What?”

  “You think I’ve never seen YouTube? I’m old, I’m not dead.”

  “You got all that from videos?”

  “No. Some from past tests, some from general assumptions on my part. The virus is in your DNA, Roan, and not as an invader but as a cohabitant. You are one strange fellow.”

  “Isn’t that an understatement?”

  “A bit. But don’t take that as bad. You’re remarkable. A once-in-a-lifetime biological event.” She paused to take a drag off her cigarette. “Wait, what’s the world population again—six billion or some such number? Okay, you’re technically a three or four in a lifetime event, but most infecteds don’t live that long.”

  “Which is a bit of the problem I’m having now.”

  “Hmm? You think you’re dying?”

  “I’m wondering why I’m not. I should be dead. I’m almost forty.”

  She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Jesus Christ, only you could find the dark streak in a silver lining. So you could die any second. So what? Who isn’t always at risk of death? You get up in the morning, you could slip in the shower and die. You could step out and get hit by a bus. You could get E. coli from your burger or MRSA from the gym. You could get flesh-eating bacteria after getting a paper cut. Some meshuggenah could go postal while you’re in line to buy stamps. So fucking what? Live while you can. Don’t worry about what could be—live in the now, you stupid schmuck.”

  That made him smile. “Is that what you do?”

  “Of course I do. Why do you think I’m still sucking on these cancer sticks?”

  “I thought it was nicotine addiction.”

  “Well, that too. But it sounds better if I make it seem like a choice.”

  “Do you think you can give that death speech to Dylan?”

  “Man up and talk to your own damn boyfriend.”

  Fair enough. Doctor Rosenberg also gave him the name and number of a therapist she thought he might want to talk to. Yes, he was technically alone among infecteds, but she thought talking to someone about his unique predicament would be good for him, and besides, with doctor-patient confidentiality, there was no way she could share the information about him with anyone. He didn’t like therapists and she knew it, but she reminded him he was a miserable, depressed bastard and probably needed to talk to someone. It was another fair point.

  He had just about convinced himself to get off his ass and do something when there was a knock at the door. Had Dee finished already and come back to administer the ass beating? He was tempted not to answer the door, but it spurred him off the couch, so he did. He was deeply surprised to find that it was starting to sprinkle, the sun occluded by temporary clouds, and that it was Scott at his front door in a pair of jeans, a Flyers logo T-shirt, and a worn-looking brown leather jacket. He looked as casually, shockingly handsome as he had in only underwear and bedhead hair. “Hey,” he said casually.

  “Hey,” Roan said, only realizing he was still shirtless when Scott’s eyes glided over his tattoos again. “What are you doing here?”

  “Grey thinks you’re mad at him,” he said matter-of-factly and pulled a piece of paper out of his front pocket. “So he sent me over with a check.”

  “What? Oh, fuck.” Grey had left about six messages that he hadn’t listened to yet. He wasn’t honestly sure if he was mad at him or not—more disappointed, really. “Um, come in.” As he waved him in and held the door open, he still took the check. Hey, who didn’t need the money? In the day of all-over cameras, intrusive software, and economic free fall, people weren’t so eager to hire private detectives anymore. He needed to get the money where he could.

  “Why does he think I’m mad at him?” Roan asked, wondering if Scott would honestly tell him.

  He shrugged and looked around the living room as Roan closed the door. “He wouldn’t say. But I know him and figured he was rude without realizing it.”

  “He wasn’t. I just felt he might have been disingenuous about his reasons for hiring me.” He opened the check and glanced at the sum. Yeah, that would cover his fee and expenses.

  Scott gave him a curious look. Roan could now see he had a faint, ghostly scar just under his left eye. You could only see it in a certain light and when you were close up to him. He should have figured that you couldn’t play hockey for so long without getting visibly injured. But the ghost scar just made him look hotter, the bastard. “What d’ya mean?”

  He shook his head dismissively. “I’ll leave that to Grey. He can tell you or not.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that. “Client confidentiality?”

  “Something like that.” Roan tossed the check on his kitchenette counter and wondered if he should ask. It didn’t matter; he should really just leave it, but he asked anyway. “Did Grey go back to bed after I left?”