Scott shrugged again, and from the brief grimace, must have found the question odd. “I got no idea. I went back to bed, remember? I slept until after noon, and when I got up he was gone.” He was so casual about it, it most likely wasn’t a lie. “Oh, speaking of which, he’s talking to the coach about hiring you to teach the youngsters some fighting techniques.”

  “I don’t know any techniques that could be applied to hockey fights.”

  “Doesn’t really matter. He said he thought you were anticipating his moves before he made them. That’s always useful.”

  Roan leaned against the kitchenette counter and sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s flattering, but I can’t teach anyone anything. If I did anticipate anything, it was due to being infected.”

  That made Scott scratch his head and look adorably befuddled. “Uh, how?”

  “Catlike reflexes. As my adrenaline levels rise, my senses heighten.”

  Scott gave him a brief smirk that quickly collapsed as he realized Roan wasn’t joking. “You’re not kidding.” Not a question.

  “Nope.”

  “Umm... huh. I didn’t think infected people reacted like that. I mean—”

  “They don’t. I’m abnormal.”

  “Why?”

  What an excellent question. “I don’t know. I was a virus child whose DNA didn’t react badly to the virus’s incorporation.”

  “That’s it?”

  Roan was forced to shrug. “They don’t know why I am the way I am. Maybe I was exposed to gamma radiation or hummus in the womb, and that made all the difference. My parents aren’t around to ask.”

  Scott blinked, as if he’d said this angrily. He hadn’t, but it seemed to strike him that way. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t care. It’s hard to miss people you’ve never met.”

  Scott nodded but looked a bit uncomfortable. “Whoa. Grey’s right, you’re pretty hard core.”

  Because he didn’t have any feelings for his parents? If Scott only knew the whole story, about how a succession of shitty foster homes had taught him parents were severely overrated, as were heterosexuality and marriage (“sacred” his rosy red ass). “He thinks that only because I kicked his ass.”

  “Well, that helps.”

  “Why did that impress him so much? If it happened on the ice, he would have found a way to leave me as a puddle of blood and teeth.”

  “Yeah, but that never happens—no one kicks Grey’s ass. He’s not only big, but he’s a decent boxer. I kind of wished I had been there to see it.”

  “The coach probably should have filmed it.”

  That made him smile. “Yeah. Actually, the whole team would have loved to watch. Could’ve made a night of it.”

  “Agree to buy me dinner, and I’ll reenact it live. Assuming Grey is willing.”

  Scott was still smiling, in a sort of mischievous way that made him look about seventeen. He seemed like a nice, slightly milquetoast Canadian guy, a good team captain, but Roan was willing to bet that secretly this guy was hell on wheels. Or skates, as the case might be. “I’m sure he would be. He’s very competitive.”

  “That makes sense, being a sports guy and all.”

  Scott glanced upstairs, nodding his head in that direction before approaching him. “Boyfriend here?”

  That momentarily threw him. “Um, no, not at the moment.”

  “Too bad. I was gonna ask him about that tattoo.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “I was thinking of getting something like a phoenix, but is that too common?”

  “Depends on the design.”

  Scott was close enough to touch his tiger tattoo again, which he stroked softly with his thumb. “I’m not sure where to get it, though. How much does it hurt to get one on your chest?”

  Roan shrugged, and couldn’t help but notice that Scott was way too close. He wasn’t just invading his space; he was close enough to walk right through him. “Not that much,” Roan told him, wondering if this meant what he thought it did. “No matter where you get it, a tattoo is gonna hurt.”

  “I’m a hockey player. I can take a little pain,” he admitted, then confirmed what Roan suspected: Scott kissed him. Not just a peck on the cheek, but a full-on, sloppy, wet kiss.

  Okay—he had found the gay player on the team. He now owed Dylan an apology and twenty bucks.

  18

  Daredevil

  ROAN knew he should have pushed Scott away immediately, but he didn’t. In his defense, Scott was a great kisser, and when Roan grabbed the back of his head, he discovered his hair was silky soft. It was actually kind of nice.

  But Roan only allowed one kiss—well, Scott kissed him and he kissed him back; as far as he was concerned, it was one kiss total—before he reluctantly pushed him away. “Okay, that answers that,” Roan said, keeping Scott at arm’s length. “You’re a deliberate cocktease.”

  Scott looked amused at the accusation. “Excuse me?”

  “That morning when I dropped by—that was an act. You were putting on a show.”

  “No, I’d just woken up. Although I have to admit your chest was better than caffeine.” Scott let his fingers trail down Roan’s torso, stopping only at the waistband of his sweatpants. Barely. He could feel the heat of his palm through the fabric.

  “Does Grey know you’re gay?”

  Scott chuckled faintly as Roan picked up Scott’s hand and moved it away from his groin. “I’m not gay. I just like variety.”

  He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “God, save me from hot bisexuals.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “My husband was one. He was also a Canadian as well. Is being bi a Canadian thing I’m unaware of?”

  “Judging from my high school experiences, I’m gonna say no.”

  Kind of what he thought, but he had to be sure. “Does Grey know about your love of variety then?”

  Scott seemed to get the idea that there was going to be no more making out right now and took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking a hip in a way that suggested he wasn’t sure whether or not to kill him or kiss him. “I dunno. We’ve never talked about it.”

  “What about the team?”

  “What about them? Look, I know some guys aren’t gonna be comfortable changing out or showering around me if they know I like guys too, so it’s not somethin’ I’m gonna say around just anyone. I mean, I like my women exotic and I like my guys older, but I wouldn’t count on them to believe me.”

  “Older,” Roan repeated, feeling his ego deflate ever so slightly. “You’re a silver queen?”

  Scott just stared at him. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “You chase old guys.”

  “I don’t chase. I don’t have to chase.” He grinned at this admission. “And I don’t go after guys in old-age homes. I just like guys older than me... thirty-ish, forty-ish. Guys who know what they want, who aren’t interested in game playing. And, um, I didn’t mean hockey.”

  “Yeah, I know what you meant.” Roan rubbed his eyes and tried to figure out how he felt about this. Basically, by not telling anyone he was bi, he was remaining in the closet. But then again, he did play a macho sport, among macho guys, and it might hamper his career if word got out that he was a fag (even just a half fag). Yes, the sport probably had some gay boys in its ranks it didn’t even know about, and someone needed to be the first one out, but no one said it had to be Scott. Oy, this was difficult. Yes, he’d been out all his life, but he couldn’t say it didn’t bring him a whole ton of shit that he wouldn’t have gotten if he had just pretended to be straight. It wasn’t up to him to make life judgments for other people.

  “You think I’m a closet case.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Scott met his gaze, and it was merciless. “You’re thinking it.”

  “No.”

  His clear blue eyes narrowed, and they had the frostiness that many an opponent must have seen from time to time on the ice. It was wonderfully nasty; it gave him a minor chill. Scott would only last three seconds in a fight against him, but it would be a bloody, hard three seconds. “You think you’re the only one who can spot a liar?”

  Roan threw up his hands in surrender. “I’m not lying. I’m not going to make that decision for you. You don’t want to spread it around, I get it, I know why. It’s not a decision I would make for me, but I’m an asshole who doesn’t give a flying fuck what people think of me. Obviously. And I have no career to speak of, since I pissed it away a long time ago. So you’re making the right decision, if I’m anything to go by.” He turned away and retreated behind the kitchenette, glad he had somewhere to hide, and glad he was so sedated that he probably couldn’t get a hard-on right now without help from a hydraulic lift. Although Scott was just the kind of guy who might be able to get through the drugs.

  Scott frowned at him, seemingly aware of his cowardly escape, but his softened expression seemed to suggest he forgave him for it. “Were you just putting yourself down there? Fuck, man, how brave are you? You’re the bravest guy I’ve ever met.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “’Cause, like you just said, you don’t give a shit—you’re you, and if people don’t like it, they can fuck off. And I’m not only talking about the gay thing. I mean, you’re infected.”

  “Thanks for the news flash.”

  Scott gave him an evil scowl for that, and Roan had to admit to himself he deserved it. “There are a whole bunch of people who still think if an infected brushes up against them in the elevator, they’ll get it. People freak out, and most infected people, unless they’re one of those church people or something, stay quiet about it. You don’t hide, and that’s pretty cool.”

  Roan just shrugged. It wasn’t cool; it was who he was, but he knew what Scott meant. Infecteds were the modern-day lepers—you admitted it at your own peril. He already felt like a leper—being orphaned, unwanted, stranded in the foster care system, a medical oddity, and gay—why the fuck did one more thing matter? After a certain point, it didn’t matter that the sinking ship had leaky faucets and a shitty buffet.

  He dry washed his face, and wondered if that was the point where he went from being odd to being totally fucked up. Did it even matter? When he looked back at Scott, he was giving him a lopsided, sad smile. “So I guess you don’t wanna fuck me, huh?”

  “Of course I want to fuck you. Straight guys would want to fuck you. But my boyfriend’s already fed up with me; this would be the final nail in the coffin.”

  “He wouldn’t hafta know.”

  “I would know. That’s enough.”

  Scott shrugged, grimacing slightly. He didn’t like it, but he had to live with it. “You know where to find me in case you change your mind. Although make it quick. It looks like Tank and I are going to be moved to the Bruins’ farm team soon.”

  “Hey, the Bruins. Congrats.”

  He shrugged again, but this time there was a kind of assumed nonchalance about it, like he was trying very hard to be cool when in fact he was very tense about it. “It’s not the big leagues yet. But it’s close.”

  “Say hi to Tank for me, that crazy bastard.”

  Scott’s grin was genuine and very sweet. “I know. He’s... something else. Even if he sucks, he’s gonna be a star in the NHL. He’s too much of a character not to be. I wish I was that interesting.”

  “Are you kidding me? Out bi hockey player? That’s news.”

  “That might be a little too interesting.”

  “Never know ’til you try.”

  Scott gave him a sad smile and headed for the door. Maybe he wasn’t ready now, but maybe, in a year or two, he would be ready. Roan had no idea, but he was hoping that maybe, in another year or two, it wouldn’t even matter anymore.

  Deciding it was about fucking time to get moving, Roan went upstairs and got dressed, then grabbed his helmet, got the bike out of the garage, and headed for D’Andra’s apartment. He was kind of hoping she wasn’t there, but didn’t count on it.

  It was a good thing, as she answered the door. Her head was still shaved, and she’d gotten another facial piercing in her chin. Good lord, how did you get that without surgery? Nail gun?

  They argued a bit, mainly because he wanted to talk to Dylan and she insisted Dylan didn’t want to talk to him, but she wouldn’t let him talk to Dylan to confirm this. It was a silly, pointless argument that went on much longer than it should have and probably entertained the neighbors with its childishness.

  Finally, Dylan came out, looking sleep disheveled, and exclaimed, “D’Andra, would you just shut the hell up and let him in before someone calls the cops?”

  She looked like she wanted to argue with him but let it go. It helped that D’Andra apparently had an appointment at a gallery or some such, although Dylan had to encourage her to leave. (Really, she got work? She had an artwork of her own design tucked in the corner of her living room—it was a papier-mâché papaya, as large as an end table, split open and painted in orange and red glitter with tiny penises cut out from skin mags scattered about the inside and a mannequin’s head at the base with knitting needles sticking out of its green painted scalp. Dylan told him it was titled “Domino Effect.” What the fuck? Seriously, Roan wanted to take a baseball bat to it and light it on fire, and he had no idea why.) When she did finally go, she gave Roan a look so dirty he felt frostbitten.

  But as soon as that front door closed, an awkward silence descended, and Roan wondered if he’d made a mistake. He had been so gung ho after having Scott hit on him, but now he wondered if he was just shifting guilt around.

  He’d obviously woken Dylan up. He was wearing gray sweatpants that sat low on his hips and an oversized yellow T-shirt with a bottle of ketchup on the front. (Why? Who knew?) He scratched his head and rubbed his eyes in that way he did when he’d just gotten up. Sometimes he also scratched the back of his right shoulder, which he was doing now. There was a tiny scar on that shoulder, hard to see, but it was the only remaining sign of the car crash that had killed Jason. The fact that Dylan almost always scratched it was unconscious and probably very telling from a psychological point of view. As was Roan keeping a couple of Paris’s old shirts in the back of his closet, unwashed, just so he could occasionally smell his scent. They had ghosts between them, and maybe that was the ultimate problem.

  “I need to say this in one go,” Roan told him. “Don’t interrupt, just listen. You know how I hate talking about my feelings, and this is going to be hard enough as it is.”

  “Roan—”

  He held up a hand to silence him, and then just launched into it, looking at Dylan’s throat, his stubble-riddled cheek, his forehead, pretty much everywhere but directly at his eyes. Not because he was lying, but because he was sure he’d freeze if he saw a reaction he couldn’t deal with. “Let me just get this out of the way first. I love you, you stupid bastard. I’m sorry you don’t think I do. I’m sure that’s my fault. Do I still love Paris? Yes, and I always will. That’s not going to change, but you know that. Just like I know you still love Jason too. Now, the other thing.” He took a deep breath, then plowed on. “Am I depressed? Yes. Have I been acting recklessly and stupidly lately? Yes. The fact that I’m asking myself questions confirms that. But I’m not suicidal. I’ve talked with Doctor Rosenberg, I’ve agreed to see if seeing someone regularly will do me any good at all, but you knew when you met me I am stupid, Dyl. You can’t be shocked now.”

  “Ro—”

  “Let me finish.” Now Roan looked him in the eye, because this was the part where he would stand or fall, and he had to know the answer before Dylan gave him one. “I fight. It’s what I do. I wish I could take my final years off and sit on a porch with my feet up, watching the sun go down, but I’m not that kind of person. I’ve always lived by the sword, and I’m gonna die by it. We all know an aneurysm could kill me at any time. It could kill me in my sleep. Yes, physical stress can set one off early, but if that blood vessel is going to pop, it will pop. Being propped up on a sofa and watching TV won’t stop it. I have a time bomb in my brain that could go off at any moment, no matter what I’m doing or where I am. I’m taking the meds, I’m doing what I can to stave it off, but we know it’s not a cure. There is no cure. I’m the oldest living virus child in recorded history, and in nearly forty years there hasn’t been a cure. There probably won’t be in my lifetime, no matter how long or short it is. I want to spend time with you, Dylan. You can have as many of my last hours as I can give you, but don’t ask me to stop. Don’t ask me to be something I’m not. I love you, but I’m not going to be treated like I’m fragile, and I’m not gonna act like I am. If you can’t live with that, I understand. But don’t tell me I wanna die when all I’m doing is living my life.”

  This was all so very hard. Yes, he got it out, he said what he wanted to say, but tears were starting to spill from Dylan’s warm brown eyes and a lump was forming in Roan’s throat. He hated it when Dylan cried. It made him want to go to him and hold him, lie and say it was all right when they knew that it wasn’t. He was a dead man walking, and wishing he wasn’t wouldn’t change one fucking thing.

  “You still have your key, so if you wanna come home, you can, any time. If you’d rather just get the rest of your stuff and move on, you can do that too. Just think about it. I love you regardless, but I’m not going to live a lie. I just don’t have enough time left to compromise.” He turned away, because he didn’t want Dylan to see him getting teary eyed; it would seem weak. He quickly left, mainly so Dylan didn’t make a rash, knee-jerk decision he would regret later.

  So he’d either torpedoed this relationship or he hadn’t. He wondered when he’d know for sure if he’d fucked things up permanently or managed to save the sinking ship.

  19

  Flathead