Page 71 of Follows with Intent

If someone grabs you from behind, there are a few simple ways to escape.

Nico couldn’t drop to the ground—it was too late for that, with Vic already holding him in the air.

But.

Nico planted his feet on the side of the Buick. He kicked off, and the unexpected force sent Vic off balance. Combined with Nico’s weight, it sent him reeling backwards, trying to catch his balance. Then his foot caught on something—the doorstep, Nico guessed, and they went down.

Beneath Nico, Vic took the worst of the fall. Nico heard his head crack against the concrete. Vic’s arms loosened, and when Nico elbowed him in the ribs, Vic let out a gasp, and his arms loosened. Nico broke his hold and scrambled upright. He couldn’t seem to catch his balance, so he leaned against the Buick, dragging himself down one retro fin.

A gargling noise behind him made him turn. Somehow, Vic was on his hands and knees, spitting blood onto the concrete. His head came up. Blood made a mask across his face. He planted a hand against the side of the Buick and tried to push himself up, but his hand slid, leaving a bloody smear behind it. He tried again, grabbing one of the Buick’s rotting tires, and this time, he got to his feet.

“Get back here, you fucking faggot!” Vic screamed. “You’re mine!”

“You have got to be shitting me,” Nico said and tried to go faster.

He released the Buick and forced himself into a jog. Beyond the carport, the wide expanse of the street waited. All he had to do was—

A shadow moved in front of him, blocking his path. Instead of panic, outraged disbelief rolled through Nico. Not here. Not this close. Not now. He ducked his head, jogged faster, and braced himself for what was going to be the worst tackle in the history of the world.

“Nico?”

It was Jadon’s voice.

And then, “Vic, show me your—Nico, down!”

Nico dropped.

A gun barked. A flash of light. The hot expelled gas. The smell of gunpowder.

Silence came roaring in. Nico kept his face to the rough concrete. Whatever reserves of energy he’d had, they were gone now.

Footsteps moved past him. And then a familiar ratcheting sound—handcuffs.

Warm hands settled on Nico’s shoulders, and a moment later, Jadon was helping him sit up. Jadon’s darkly sandy eyes roved Nico’s face, and Nico opened his mouth to say something. Instead, he noticed that Jadon was dressed like Superman. The white dress shirt, the suit, and underneath it all, the spandex costume. Only not Superman. A G. Super Gay. And he remembered that stupid jab about being Superman. The stupidity of all of it. He touched the G, felt the warmth and solidity of Jadon’s body beneath it. He started to laugh, and Jadon cupped the side of his face. And then he started to cry.

19

Jadon

When they finally let him see Nico, it had been hours. Hours of answering questions. Hours of repeating himself. Hours of trying to explain.

And now here, this: the semiprivate hospital room, the dark, the fading astringency of a cleaning product. At first, he could only put together fragments. The privacy curtain closing off the other patient’s area. The lamp next to Nico’s bed. The window that looked out on the swells and troughs of more darkness. Like an ocean, he thought. And all the lights bobbing out there, everyone lost at sea.

Nico wore a gown, and it swallowed him up, making him look frail and small. Bruises covered one side of his face. His lip was split. Jadon couldn’t see it from where he stood, but some of that dark, shaggy hair had been ripped out. His hands started to shake, and he pressed them against his legs.

Maybe the movement drew his attention; Nico looked up, uncertainty creasing his face, and then a smile. Air whispered in the ducts. Then it stopped.

“Do you want to sit down?” Nico asked.

Jadon sat with his back to the dark ocean. The lamp lit the side of Nico’s face. It threaded coils of gold through his hair. It made a blaze of the long expanse of his slender neck. Where the gown exposed part of his shoulder, it gleamed on the coppery skin there.

“I look that bad, huh?”

After a moment, Jadon realized it had been a question. He shook his head.

Something changed in Nico’s face. His expression didn’t close, not exactly. It wasn’t even wariness. A kind of reserve, maybe. Or hesitation.

“Nobody will talk to me about Vic.”

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