CHAPTER TWO #2
Maybe half an answer would satisfy him for now. He had done a lot for me, a completely annoying fiend who’d ranted from his roof. I had to give him something.
“A guy who raped me. Many times.”
When I finally looked back at Truman, his face was wiped of all life. It was the first time I’d seen him appalled by anything—or even slightly stunned. Truman Oakley was the most down-to-earth, pragmatic, sensible guy I’d ever known.
And I’d managed to shock him.
“C’mon,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Which one’s your house?”
“All right,” he drawled, taking a giant breath. He backed the car into a space by the curb. Putting it into park, he turned off the engine and looked levelly at me. “I won’t ask you who. For now. Just one thing. Is anyone coming for you?”
I felt confident answering that. “No. Someone took the fall for me. A very good friend.”
“I imagine he was. Okay. We’re here. Sorry we left your stuff at the Establishment. I can have Erin bring it by later, with my car.”
Now I felt antsy. Being sincere was not my forte. “Hey. I want to thank you for all this. I know you took some risks.”
Truman exhaled. “Yeah. Well. I can’t say I know why I’m doing this. Letting addicts know where you live is a giant risk.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
He nodded, once. “Okay. Now let’s get you clean.”
I had no idea if he meant “take a shower” or “go cold turkey,” but my only choice was to follow him.
His pad turned out to be one of the three-story Victorians with gables and tall, narrow windows.
Painted a tawny shade of brown, the black trim work made it daunting, like a haunted house.
But a cool haunted house. We went up some stairs to get to the front door, and once in where Truman tossed his keys on a side table, another flight to the living area and kitchen.
My previous euphoria was wearing off fast, and I doubted we’d just sit down with a beer to watch the game.
Truman got us two cans of soda from his expansive, modern kitchen. Handing me one, he examined me with a doctor’s eye. “You’re thin, but buff.”
What did that mean? My pop-top can went tccch, and I took a hesitant swallow. “We worked out in prison. Nothing else to do.”
Truman nodded. “I’ve seen hundreds of guys go through withdrawal. I think you can handle it.”
I chuckled cynically. “Yeah. I know how. I’ve done it dozens of times. Where’s the can?”
I had to race there, and when I staggered out, wall-to-wall goosebumps littered my body, hip pain stabbing through to my stomach. “I have to tell you. I only took drugs due to agony in my hip. Pain from prior rapes.” God, did I sound like a victim. But I was. A victim.
Leaning on the kitchen counter, Truman frowned and handed me my soda. I guess he wanted to give me something to puke up later. “You were raped before prison?”
I wiped my messy bangs away from my eyes. “Yeah. Foster father growing up. A classic chomo.”
My brain automatically dropped a wall on those fleeting thoughts.
Damn, did he look classy in his button-down shirt open to reveal dark silken chest hair.
And the way he leaned with feet crossed brought out the delicious bulge behind the buttons of his 501s.
I’d been “out” for all my adult life. But this guy was as straight as a tower. “Where are your real parents?”
I put the can onto the counter and folded my arms, hugging myself.
Perfect body language. “Gone. Never knew who my father was, mother was some sort of . . . “ I don’t know why I suddenly couldn’t say it.
Lord knew I’d been forced to tell this to people, county parole workers and friends down the line, my entire life.
When Truman patted me on the shoulder, I jumped.
“That’s okay, you don’t need to talk about it.
We’ve got shit to do now.” He grabbed a dish towel off the counter and actually wiped my brow with it.
Standing so close by like that, eye to eye, I felt his concerned breath against my cheek.
“I can tell by your sweat you’re jonesing.
That’s okay. I’ll be here for you. Cumon. ”
He actually tugged my sleeve, yanking me in the direction of yet more stairs. As we climbed, he said, “You know, I agree with a lot of what you said on the roof.”
“I’m glad someone remembers.” The soda was making me nauseous.
“Well, it’s been my job for ten years, dealing with addicts.”
“Only ten? How old are you?” He’d been asking me tough questions. I could ask them, too.
He didn’t seem to mind admitting, “Forty. But I started out in the Department of Public Health just doing grunt work, administration. Wasn’t ‘til ten years ago I demanded to work directly with addicts in the street. And you’re right.
The heart of addiction isn’t in what you swallow or inject.
It’s the pain you feel in your head. But we’ve created a system where we increase the pain of addicts.
Prohibition just piles another load of disasters onto the calamity of drug use.
And the more you stress out people, the more they’re gonna use.
The more you calm them, the less they’ll use. ”
We’d reached the top story that appeared to be one huge bedroom. What a fucking view he must have out of those windows. Yet all I wanted to do was nosedive onto the unmade bed, covering myself in his manly, musky scent. Truman was delving into a few dresser drawers, removing some items of clothing.
I asked, “And how do you calm them?”
I couldn’t be sure, but as he sprinted off to the bathroom I thought he said, “Wild sex.” Wild sex? He must’ve said something about “six.” Like Section 6 of some county document. Frowning with curiosity, I followed him.
He laid the clothing out on the sink’s counter. Three-fourths of the room was the shower, one of those enormous tiled enclosures with three shower heads. I’d had this in my old house, but it turned into a crack den because folks could just lie prone and pee directly down the drain.
“How do you calm—”
Truman clapped his hands. “Okay then! Let’s get you clean. Strip.”
What? Was he demanding I shower, like the cabrones at the halfway house? “No, no, wait just a—”
Rolling his eyes, Truman stepped closer to me. I was so shocked I allowed him to peel my sweatshirt over my head, tossing it to the tiles. He spoke practically nose to nose. “Look. I’ve dealt with enough addicts in withdrawal. You’re gonna feel like shit—”
“I already do.”
“—and the last thing you want to be doing is swimming around in last month’s sweat smelling like a wet dog.” He turned to fling open the shower door, stepping inside to shake various shampoo bottles.
Like a wet dog? That was the fucking limit, man, the absolute limit, and I eagerly whipped off my shoes, socks, and jeans.
Truthfully, they were so dirty they practically stood up on their own.
My briefs didn’t fare much better. I had the guts to look in the mirror as I yanked out my hair tie.
I frowned something fierce. My soul patch and drooping outlaw moustache had blended into my unshaven face. I did look like a fucking con, a fiend.
I didn’t want to look that way to Truman.