Snowball in Hell - lanyon Josh - Страница 29
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It wasn't logical thinking, it was just Matt's instinctive response to the pleasure he felt at hearing Nathan's voice– because he felt too much pleasure, he knew that much. So he said crisply, «What did you need, Doyle?»
There was too long a pause, and then Nathan said deliberately, «I'm trying to tell you. I found the Jarvis girl.»
Matt's face flamed. He'd been so busy panicking that he hadn't heard a word Nathan had said, and he could hear in Nathan's voice that he knew it.
He didn't know how to back away from his mistake, so he just said, «Where?»
And Nathan told him where, crisply and concisely. «I wouldn't take too long getting here. She thinks she's being tracked by whoever killed the Arlen kid. She's liable to pull another flit.»
«We're on our way,» Matt said. And then, awkwardly, «Will you be there?»
He wasn't even sure why he'd asked it, but Nathan said, «No. She's got a couple of brawny gamekeepers here to keep her safe, and I've got a story to file.»
«Right,» said Matt. «Thanks for the tip.» He should have hung up, but for some reason he couldn't. He wanted to correct the mistake he'd made when he'd first picked up the phone. He'd realized how stupid he was to think that he and Nathan couldn't be friends, couldn't work together as much as the press and police could work together. As long as they both understood that it couldn't go any further than that, he wanted to be friends with Nathan. In fact there was only one thing he wanted more. So he said tentatively, «See you around.»
And Nathan said shortly, «I'm not leaving town,» and hung up.
Several hours later, sometime after midnight, Matt followed Nathan and his newest swain-a big bruiser in a khaki uniform-down the steps of the Biltmore hotel, watched them run across the street and disappear into the jungle of Pershing Square. Matt followed silently, cursing himself-and Nathan-every step of the way.
Who was the unhealthy, neurotic one here? Himself or Nathan? Nathan was at least-assumingly-getting what he wanted out of this. What the hell was Matt getting? Other than ill with jealousy and anger and something too close to despair.
He was the one who'd told Nathan that any kind of relationship between them was impossible. That the risk was too great. The incredible thing to him now was that he had expected-believed-that Nathan would understand that the risk to himself was too great as well. That he would belatedly exercise wisdom. That he would make the same sacrifice that Matt was having to make.
Why not admit it? He had believed that what they had shared was so special that Nathan wouldn't cheapen himself by settling for something else, something less.
But here Nathan was, not even waiting one goddamned night before he was back in the jungle with the other animals.
None of which explained what the hell Matt was doing down here again. And if he hadn't seen Nathan, hadn't tracked him like radar illuminating a target, would he have been trying to find someone of his own to spend a few hours with?
He didn't know.
He was afraid to consider it too closely.
He crept through the grass and brush until he heard them, the harsh panting, crackle of dead leaves and twigs, and he pushed aside the branches and found them-found Nathan down on the ground fighting for his life while his erstwhile lover tried to brain him with a short and solid tree branch.
As Matt watched, the man kicked Nathan, and Nathan cried out and stopped fighting, lying there stunned. The man bent over him. Matt took his gun out, stepped through the branches, and hit the big man hard with the butt of his revolver across the back of his head. The man slumped over Nathan's supine body. Matt dragged him off.
He knelt beside Nathan, dragging his boxers up, pushing his flaccid dick inside, possessive and angry about that soft warmth, Nathan unaroused but asking for it-he had asked for it and he had got it-and Matt wanted to kill the other guy, and he wanted to kill Nathan.
«Come on, get up,» he told Nathan, locking hands on him, drawing him up, and Nathan staggered to his feet, peered at him, and then looked ready to fall again when he saw who his rescuer was.
«Christ, pull yourself together,» Matt hissed, and then tried to soften it. «Nathan, come on. We've got to get out of here.» He was trying with all his might not to let his anger through because Nathan had been hurt enough for one night. And as angry as he was with Nathan, he was also frightened for him.
Nathan hadn't said a word. Not one word. He reached out to steady himself on a banana tree, and then looked down at the man who had tried to kill him.
Matt collected his coat and hat. He put an arm around Nathan and Nathan reeled against him, and dropped his head in the curve of Matt's neck and shoulder. Matt pressed his cheek to the softness of Nathan's hair. He gave Nathan a moment; he thought he might be crying, but then he realized, no. Nathan was just breathing deeply, exhaustedly as though
he'd run and run to get to this moment, and now there was nowhere else to run.
«Can you walk?» Matt murmured. He had to walk. Matt couldn't carry him, but he asked anyway.
Nathan nodded. He pulled away from Matt and reached for his coat, and almost overbalanced. Matt grabbed him, helping him shrug into the coat, putting his hat on him.
The man on the ground moved, groaned, and Nathan's foot lashed out. He kicked him with the strength and accuracy of a mule and then almost fell over again.
Matt put an arm around him and led him through the trees, keeping to the deepest shadows, Nathan stumbling along like he was drunk or blind.
When they reached the plaza, Nathan suddenly straightened up, pulling away from Matt.
«It's better if we don't walk across the square together.» His voice was flat.
And that was true. Matt said, «I parked on Seventh Street. Wait for me at the intersection.»
He didn't know if Nathan heard him or not. Nathan walked out of the bushes across the pavement and he stood straight and moved briskly, swiftly, with no sign of what had just happened.
Matt watched him go, gilded in moonlight, crossing the square, and suddenly he couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear for Nathan to have to make this particular journey on his own.
He started after him and caught him up quickly, walking beside him, within arm's distance but not touching, and
bitterly damning to hell anyone who watched them and dared to think anything.
They crossed Olive Street and walked north. There was no traffic, no one at all.
And then they were on Seventh Street. Matt took Nathan's arm, ignoring the initial resistance, and guided him along till they came to Matt's car. He put Nathan inside, and he was gentle now, careful with him. He slammed the door and went round to his own side, sliding inside. He rested his hands on the steering wheel.
«Are you-how bad is it?»
«I'll live,» Nathan said dully.
«He could have killed you. You know that. He could just as easily have bashed your brains out.»
Nathan stared out his window, not answering.
Matt started the car engine. He didn't even think about it, he drove straight to his own house, taking Nathan home. He parked in the back, turned off the lights, and came around to Nathan's side. Nathan got out slowly, as though he hurt, and Matt put a supporting arm around him. Nathan tried to shrug him off, but Matt wouldn't let go, so instead Nathan walked stiffly, rejecting help without saying a word, making Matt feel silly for that protective arm wrapped around straight shoulders and a ramrod spine.
Up the tidy walk, past the flower beds that Rachel had planted, beneath the trellised car port with roses heavy with perfume even in December. Matt unlocked the side door, and put Nathan inside before stepping in himself and turning on the light.
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