Chapter 5
Luke
Oliver’s call wrecked me. I’d been telling myself his silence the last three weeks was a good thing.
That it meant he was okay. I hoped I'd misread the situation, projected my own junk onto him, dragging old ghosts into a brand-new room.
But every time I tried to shrug it off, doubt kicked up in my chest.
I couldn’t explain why Oliver stuck with me the way he did.
He just . . . did. He'd gotten under my skin, settling somewhere between instinct and memory.
I kept telling myself that I was being responsible.
Careful. Concerned. Which, yeah. I was. But there was more to it than that.
I'd built my whole career around it; I was chasing amends.
“I just passed a diner with a sign out front that said ‘Pumpkin Spice Milkshakes are back!’ It’s still spring, why are we resurrecting the great gourd this early?
Perhaps it’s a seasonal promotion they never took down.
Can you imagine? Some poor soul rolls in, heart set on cinnamon-nutmeg nostalgia, only to be told it’s off the menu.
I’m a mint milkshake man myself. Always in season, refreshing, green enough to count as a vegetable in an emergency. ”
I thought I caught the faintest huff in response.
Oliver hadn’t said a word in ten minutes, but that didn’t matter.
I didn’t speak to encourage conversation, I spoke to anchor us.
To offer a presence he might hold on to, even if all I had to give was the sound of my voice and a rambling tangent about milkshakes and the ridiculous theater of seasonal capitalism.
The directions led me to a neighborhood that screamed money. The streets were full of houses plucked straight out of Vanity Fair. I pulled to a stop in front of the address Oliver gave me, got out of my car, and walked the steps up to the front porch.
“I’m here, Oliver. I’m at your door. Can you let me in?”
Silence met me. Long, still silence.
I opened my mouth to speak again, when the deadbolt clicked. The door opened with tentative slowness.
Oliver leaned against the doorframe for support.
Violent purples covered his pale skin. Puffiness swallowed the fine structure of his features, making him almost unrecognizable.
One eye had swollen shut. A gash split across his brow and down the bridge of his nose, crusted with dried blood.
His lips were bleeding. He clutched his ribs with one arm, his entire posture curled inward in pain and defense.
Before I could think to hold it back a half gasp, half curse left me. I coughed to cover it up. “Hey,” I said, but the word came out thin and raw. Not the controlled tone I’d been trained to use.
I’d sat through the workshops, repeated the scripts, studied every “right” response. And none of it meant jack shit staring at Oliver like this. You could rehearse scenarios a thousand times, but nothing prepared you for when the hypothetical turned into flesh and pain standing three feet away.
A memory slammed into me. A different doorway. A different bruised face, another broken body that had gone unseen until it was far too late. For a shaky breath, I thought I might cry. I swallowed back the tightness. That was not an option. Not now. Not in front of him.
Taking a single step, Oliver’s legs buckled. My arms closed around him before he fell, and his face pressed into the front of my shirt, shallow breaths hitching against the fabric. Sliding my free hand up to the back of his head, my fingers threaded through his amazingly soft hair.
“It’s okay,” I murmured. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”
“I’m going to be sick.” Tearing himself from my hold, he staggered to the edge of the patio.
Torn between wanting to hold him and not wanting to crowd him, I knelt beside him as he collapsed onto his hands and knees and vomited into the hedges.
My hand went to his back anyway, rubbing small circles because I needed to do something, even if it wasn’t textbook approved.
When the retching tapered to dry spasms, he sagged sideways, his cheek landing above my knee.
His breaths came in jagged, uneven pulls.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so small it barely existed.
“Hey, no,” I said. Oliver flinched against me. Shit. I’d spoken with too much force. I took a deep breath, trying again, softer this time. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. Not for this.”
“There was no one else to call . . . I . . . I have no one.”
“You have me. I meant it when I said you could call me whenever, and I’m so glad you did. I’m so glad you’re not dealing with this alone. What we do next is up to you. Do you want to leave here?”
“I . . . I have nowhere to go.”
“Don’t worry about that. There are options. You aren’t trapped here if you don’t want to be. I can help get you away from here. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” he whispered, fear leaking into the single word, as if the affirmation alone would bring Vincent’s wrath down on him.
“Okay, we can do that. First, let’s see if we can get you standing.”
He nodded.
“On three. One . . . two . . . three.”
We moved together, his body slow to respond. “Hurts,” he said.
“I’ll bet,” I said, voice shaking. No matter my years of working with abused clientele, I would never get over seeing someone in so much pain at the hands of someone else. It punctured my heart every time. “We’ll get you resting and comfortable ASAP. Just lean on me, okay?”
Once upright, he slumped into me. My arms settled around him. “That’s it. I got you. If I hold you like this, do you think you can walk?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Alright, if you feel up to it, we should grab anything essential so we don’t have to come back. Stuff like your laptop, medications, things you need and can’t replace.”
He gave the faintest nod against my chest. “My personal and work laptops.”
“Okay, I brought a backpack, and I can help pack things if you’re comfortable with me going into your room?”
He nodded again, looking a little lost, but he led me to what must have been his office. We hastily packed his belongings, and then together, moved down the front steps.
“Thank you,” he choked out as I helped him into the passenger seat.
I squeezed his hand. “I’m so glad you called.” I would keep saying it until he digested that truth. “Can I take you to a hospital?” I asked as I pulled away from the curb. “I’m concerned about the extent of your injuries.”
“I can’t! Please no! Please don’t take me to a hospital. Please.”
“Okay, okay, no hospital.” I’d hoped, selfishly perhaps, he might agree so he could be treated by professionals.
As a requirement through work, I had basic first aid, wound care, AED, and CPR certifications, but what I could perform was not a substitute for true medical attention.
While not unexpected, I didn’t like it. I swallowed the sigh trying to escape.
“Would you be okay coming back to my place instead? I’ve got a spare bedroom.
You can stay tonight, or longer if you need. ”
The answer didn’t come right away, pending seconds of silence, until at last in a hushed voice he said, “Yes, please.”
“Alright, it’s about a twenty-minute drive.”
He nodded.
“Peanut butter.”
The sentence, ten minutes later, came out so quiet I almost thought I’d imagined it.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Peanut butter milkshakes, that’s my favorite.”
“Yeah? Solid choice. Creamy, nutty, buttery deliciousness.”
The barest hint of a smile tugged at his lips, and it was everything.
We drove the rest of the way in silence to my condominium building. Once parked, I stepped out and came around to open his door, helping him out of the car. We took the elevator up to the third floor and I led him to my door, ushering him inside.
“This way,” I said, guiding him up the stairs to the spare bedroom and lowering him onto the bed. “I’m trained in first aid. I get why you don’t want to go to a hospital, but would you permit me to evaluate you? Nothing invasive, basic care only, for my peace of mind?”
He took another long moment before he answered. “Okay.”
“Okay, good, thank you. I’m going to grab my first aid kit. I’ll be right back.”
Upon returning with the kit I asked, “Would it be alright if I sit next to you while I look you over? I won’t touch you anywhere that isn’t necessary.”
“Oo . . . okay.”
“Thank you,” I said, sitting beside him, mindful to leave whatever distance I could while still tending to him.
“May I remove your shirt?”
Oliver nodded, lifting his arms, with a hiss through his teeth.
I helped him ease it off. Seeing his bare torso, I let out a hiss of my own.
Bruises covered him—deep, dark ones across his ribs, stomach, back.
Big, ugly splashes of purple and black. Vincent had beaten him senseless. The cruelty was staggering.
Anger shot through my chest, wanting blood and justice, but I shoved it down. I couldn’t let that loose, not when Oliver could see it and think it was aimed at him.
I forced myself to look with a level head, even though my gut twisted at the sight.
This wasn’t just “bruised up.” This was the kind of beating that put people in morgues.
I started running through worst-case scenarios—broken ribs could puncture lungs, internal bleeding .
. . And that eye? If the wrong bone was cracked, vision could be gone for good.
And a head injury could lead to more than just a concussion. My concerns doubled, tripled.
A part of me wanted to scoop him up, ignore every protest, and drive straight to the ER. Better he be upset me with me and alive than dead.
Slow down. One thing at a time. Evaluate first. Don’t spiral, I reminded myself.
“Are you feeling dizzy at all? Nausea still present? Any flashes of light or blurry vision?”
“A little dizzy. Nausea’s better. I can’t see out of my left eye but my right is fine.”
Okay. Okay. Those answers were promising.