Chapter Seven #2
He glanced at the ass in question. It looked perfectly fine to him.
More than fine. He moved his eyes to safer pastures, and his mind toward other directions.
It was true what Hailey had said about the inflammation.
Though Eli was eating smaller portions and still slowly dropping weight, the food was taking its toll.
The man looked like the pinnacle of virility, but his movements were those of an older man.
He almost offered him a hand up, but decided against it.
Eli was doing his best to hide his pain.
He wasn’t going to abort those efforts with useless gestures.
If he wanted to help Eli—and his instinctive reaction to Big Tom had proven that—he had to come up with a better plan.
Because he was failing. The predators were making that abundantly clear.
Eli’s ban on violence was starting to be realized, and with it came increasing chutzpah.
The first couple of times people bumped into Eli, Samuel said nothing.
But as time wore on, the assaults grew bolder, until Samuel couldn’t take it anymore.
When Racer sent Eli a wink instead of an apology, he took twin handfuls of the man’s jumpsuit and launched him into the wall.
Eli was furious. But not at gross-ass Racer—at him.
“Am I a pushover? Is that what you think?”
The question seemed like a trap, so Samuel decided to ignore it. “He grabbed your ass, and you did nothing.”
“He didn’t grab shit.”
But he had. Samuel was sure of it. “He’ll grab your dick next, and then what? You still going to ignore that?”
“I’m handling it.”
“You aren’t.”
The argument meant dinner that night was an awkward and largely silent affair.
Samuel wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t think walking away was the answer, but if he tried to say so, they’d just end up arguing again, and he didn’t want that.
It wasn’t like Eli was glaring at him or anything, and the bowl that had been pushed into his hands had been given to him with a quiet, “Here, puppy.” He still didn’t know the meaning of that nickname, but he knew it wasn’t an insult, and hearing it put a lump in his throat that made it hard to eat.
Still, he ate every bite (without tasting it) and then forced out, “I’m sorry. ”
Eli set down his fork and sighed. “Forget it. I’m not angry. I just don’t you getting hurt.”
But Samuel was still angry. Angry at Racer, angry at the prison, and angry at Eli, too, for being so goddamn quiescent about it all. But he tried not to be, and as he lay down to sleep that night, he told himself he wasn’t going to explode the next time. That he’d stand down.
And he did. He said nothing when Ned snapped a towel at Eli’s ass in the showers, and nothing again when Trenches put his arm around Eli’s shoulder and squeezed one of his pecs. He had to bite down on his tongue to do it, but he managed.
It was a mistake.
He knew it was a mistake while it was happening, but he didn’t want to fight with Eli. The way Eli ruffled his hair afterwards and said, “Stop worrying,” didn’t help much, but he tried to believe that the man was right, and that he was just being overprotective.
He should have known better. He did know better.
And maybe that was why, when he saw Eli wince one morning while he was getting dressed, he knew, without having to ask, that something had happened.
He went right to Eli and jerked up his shirt.
It was hard to see bruises on the man’s dark skin, but he was looking very closely, and the mark wasn’t small.
“Who?”
He didn’t recognize the voice that came from his own throat.
Eli yanked his shirt back down. “No one. I took care of it.”
He pressed his hand to the mark, deliberate. Eli jerked away with a hiss. Took care of it, his ass. “Who?” he said again, demanding.
But Eli wasn’t going to answer him. He knew that already, so he didn’t ask a third time.
When he tried to leave, Eli grabbed his wrist, but he shook it off.
He wasn’t going to be stopped. He was going to find the culprit and beat the shit out of him.
He was going to do worse than beat the shit out of him.
But then he found them. Two of them. Leroy and One-Ball. Leroy was limping, and One-Ball had a shiner so dark it looked painted on. Leroy was moving gingerly, with much wincing. One-Ball was still lying in bed.
He wanted to do worse. He wanted to make it so they could never touch anyone again. But he turned around and walked away.
“Told you I took care of it,” Eli muttered when he saw his face. “Maybe now you won’t treat me like a piece of porcelain.”
But Eli was wrong, because the creature that clawed in his chest was worse than ever. He didn’t want Eli getting his hands dirty. It was beneath him. Let me , he wanted to say, I want to do something. Anything. I can’t just stand here.
The moment he sat down at Nathaniel’s next visit, he blurted out the news. “Eli’s hurt.”
Nathaniel’s expression changed in an instant. “What?”
“I let it happen. I don’t know. I wasn’t there. We were fighting because I kept interfering, and he thought I was disrespecting him. Thinking he was some kind of pussy. But I wasn’t. I just don’t want him to—”
Nathaniel gripped his arm. “How is he hurt?”
Right, that was the important part. “He has a bruise on his ribs about the size of my palm. I’ve seen bruises like that. Bar of soap in a sock, maybe, or a rock from the yard. But Eli took care of them. Did them worse than they did him.”
“And that was all? The one bruise? Could there have been more you didn’t see?”
“It’s possible. He’s good at hiding pain. ”
Nathaniel nodded. He didn’t look good, kind of ashen. Then he laughed, black and bitter as coffee grounds. “He didn’t mention anything, of course. Didn’t want to worry me. As if I’m not going to worry three times as much now knowing he’s hiding shit like this.”
Samuel looked down at the table. They were cheap metal, like the chairs, and had lots of dings and scratches. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to. Maybe Eli. The man would be furious when he found out he’d been snitching to his husband.
The grip on his hand gentled. “You’re doing your best.”
“But I’m not.” The truth tumbled out of him, shameful, but cathartic. “I could be doing more. I know that. But I was—” afraid. He was still afraid. Not of the predators. He’d beat them before. He could do it again.
Nathaniel’s hand slid down and took his. The motion made him jerk his head up. Nathaniel’s look was intense. Penetrating. He wasn’t used to anyone other than his sister looking at him like that.
“No touching!” Carnivore barked.
Nathaniel released the hand, but those eyes remained. “Have you thought about—" The man stopped himself. “Forget it. I’m just being—”
“I have.” He hadn’t stopped thinking about it, really. “The prison husband thing, right?”
Nathaniel gripped both sides of the table as he leaned forward, trying and failing to hide his avidity. “You’ll do it?”
“ You’re his husband.”
Nathaniel smiled. It was so full of love, that smile. Love and pain. Why did they so often go together? “Yes,” Nathaniel said, and his voice was soft. “But I’m not the only one who loves him. ”
Again with the love business. He knew he had to put the accusation to bed before it really got out of hand, and yet he still said nothing.
Maybe he would have found his voice in a moment, but Nathaniel didn’t give him that time.
He nodded, as if it all made sense. “Do what you think best. I know you’ll protect him. ”
“But I didn’t.” Nathaniel’s misplaced confidence was worse than outright blame. He felt sick. He’d been feeling sick all week, but especially since that bruise. “I didn’t protect him.”
“You did. You will. He’s doing much better, Sam. You think I can’t see it? That he’s eating. Finally sleeping. How did you manage that, by the way?”
He knew Nathaniel was trying to make him feel better, and part of him wanted to fight it. To whine and demand to be punished. But what would that do? “I stay by his side for the first few hours, reading until about midnight, or so. Usually everyone’s asleep after that.”
“But don’t you get tired?”
“I told you, I don’t need much sleep.” That was true, but also misdirection.
The truth was, he still wasn’t sleeping well.
Whenever he left Eli’s side to lie down in his bed, his heart would pound, and he would keep his eyes on the bed, still on guard.
One night he’d fallen asleep with Eli. He’d been reading with his penlight, sitting on the floor and leaning against the bed.
He’d awoken hours later when Eli tugged on his arm with a soft, “You’ll get sick if you sleep like that.
Come up onto the bed.” So he’d gone to his own bed, but he hadn’t slept again.
Nathaniel leaned closer and raised a hand as if to brush the hair back from his face but dropped it before it connected. “You don’t look like you’re sleeping enough.”
“Neither do you.”
“I’m not Eli’s first line of defense.”
“Yes you are. In everything.”
Nathaniel blinked, and as he did, his face went pink. Samuel found himself watching the color spread from his cheeks to his neck and even, eventually, to his ears. “Thank you.” The words were quiet. Embarrassed. “I think I needed to hear that.”
Samuel wasn’t sure what to answer, and Nathaniel didn’t wait for it, rising to get the food and coffee.
Samuel left him to it. He had a feeling the man wanted time alone to gather himself.
When Nathaniel came back, he immediately set about sandwich construction, looking better than before.
They were talking about Hailey’s upcoming gymnastics recital when Nathaniel suddenly asked, “What did they look like again? The ones who hurt Eli.”