Flesh Cartel, #8: Loyalties

was panting, could feel his pulse pounding at his temples and throat. And Roger’s hand, stroking soothing little circles right above his knee. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I . . . Sorry.”
    “It’s all right.” Roger’s hand stopped stroking, patted Dougie once. “I’ll just . . .” He hooked his thumb toward the door, began to stand.
    Dougie lunged forward and grabbed his wrist. “No!” He was on his knees somehow, his blanket-shield fallen away, the empty tray clattering on the floor. Completely naked in front of this stranger, making a mess of everything, and he didn’t even care. “No, I mean . . . please, stay.” He didn’t know why he wanted that so much— needed it so much—but he did. He did.
    And thankfully, Roger sat back down. Offered him that patient smile again. Not patronizing, not condescending, not even mad about the mess on the floor. Just . . . kind . Understanding, too.
    I’ve been where you are.
    Dougie let go of Roger’s wrist, settled himself back against the headboard, pulled the blankets back up to his waist. All easier things to do than giving voice to any one of the jumble of questions rushing to the forefront of his mind. But he could only fidget for so long while Roger sat patiently by, and who knew how long Nikolai would let the man stay. So Dougie sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to start talking before he could overthink himself into a corner. “What, um . . .” His eyes darted to Roger’s—pretty, bright green like the kind you read about in romance novels but never see in real life—and back down to the blanket bunched in his lap. Had Nikolai chosen him for those eyes? The rest of him wasn’t so bad, either.
    Off topic, Dougie. Stop stalling.
    Yeah, okay. “When you . . . before , I mean, you know, before . . .”
    “Nikolai saved me?” Roger offered.
    Dougie nodded, desperately searching for the sincerity in that statement, for any hint of artifice. He found none. “What was it like? I mean, what did you want to be? What did you dream about? Who did you love?”
    “Ah.” Roger said nothing else for a long moment, but that Ah spoke volumes. Like he knew the question Dougie was really trying to ask— How did you leave it all behind? —but wasn’t brave enough to articulate. “It was . . . confusing. Messy. Not very nice.” Roger shifted, tucked one leg up beneath him and scrubbed a hand through his dirty blond hair. It stuck up endearingly—still cute, even at his age. And since when had Dougie started to think about other guys as cute ? “My mom died when I was little. I don’t remember her at all. My dad . . . well, he loved me, but he wasn’t very good at the whole father thing, you know?” He looked down at his hands, examining his knuckles. Did he have his father’s hands? “He worked a lot. We never had much. He drank. I was fourteen when I ended up in foster care.”
    Foster care. Just like Dougie had been.
    No point to thinking about it, though. Trying to puzzle out the reasoning behind his capture was the action of a man still wishing to be free.
    Roger, oblivious to Dougie’s revelation, went on. “I decided then and there that I wasn’t going to be like him when I grew up. I studied hard. I got into college. All I wanted was to be a cop. Not just any cop, either; I wanted to make detective. I didn’t realize until after I came here that all I’d really wanted was to not feel helpless anymore. Not feel afraid, you know? I wanted to learn how to take care of myself because there was nobody else in the world who would do it for me. Nobody else I could lean on. And I was scared all the time, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. The mast—Nikolai, Nikolai helped me. Took care of me. Taught me how not to be afraid anymore.”
    “I don’t want to be afraid anymore either,” Dougie said. “Not even of Nikolai, or what might happen to me a week from now. I’m even afraid of myself, of what I might do.” To Nikolai or for Nikolai, he couldn’t say.
    “My advice? Let it go. Just let it go. Give it to Nikolai. Let him carry that burden for you. He wants to.”
    Dougie nodded. He believed that every bit as much as Roger clearly did, but it was still way easier said than done. “I wanted to be a therapist. A psychologist.” He paused, shut his mouth with a click of teeth. Why had he said that? Why even talk about his old life? And why to Roger, of all people? It wasn’t like Roger had been expecting him to