Page 57 of Takeover-
Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. Slowly, the tension in his body slackened. “I met a guy in grad school. He was out and proud—a lot like me at the time. First week of classes, he was jumped in an alley and had the shit beaten out of him. For being a fag. I never—I didn’t do anything. I should have done something.”
“You saw it happen?”
Sam tensed again. “Yeah. I mean, it was dark, but yeah. I saw it.” Sam shuddered. “I was there.”
The lines of anguish in Sam, the way he stared at the ground, it spoke so much more than Sam’s words—a physical knowledge of the event.
Shit. Oh, shit.Suddenly everything made sense.
“Sam,” Michael spoke the question as neutrally as he could. “That student? Who was he?”
* * *
Michael’s questionrebounded in Sam’s skull. So many ways he could answer that. When he looked up, all options but one fell away. The line of Michael’s mouth, the compassion in his eyes, they reflected back what Michael already knew. Sam’s bones ached to voice the truth.
“Me.” He breathed the word.
Michael exhaled and took a seat next to Sam on the bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”
No. Yes.He could taste the blood in his mouth, smell the stale dampness of unwashed tarmac and brick. “I didn’t start at Yale. I started at Harvard.”
“You transferred to Yale after…”
“After I was beat up, yes.” Sam balled his hands and waited for the pity, the pithy statements of compassion that didn’t mean a damn thing.
He didn’t get either. Michael was silent for a time, his brow creased in worry. It smoothed over. “It’s okay if you don’t want to—”
“I want to.” Needed to. “Hell, it wasn’t even that bad, in the grand scheme of things. They punched me a few times in the face and gut. Dropped me to the ground and kicked me, then they ran.” He’d been sore for days. That pain—had been so unlike anything else. Nausea-inducing, gut-wrenching. He’d been so damn scared he’d pissed himself. “They didn’t even break anything. A cut lip, a bloody nose, and a bunch of bruises. That’s all I had. I got off light.”
Michael fidgeted, his breathing shallow. Probably reacting to what Samwasn’tsaying. He hadn’t been raped. He hadn’t been killed—unlike so many others. He’d only thought he was going to die.Hey fag, where you going?He shook away the memory and continued. “It was my first week there. I’d found a nice apartment close to campus. Met my professors and some classmates. Everything was great. Loved campus, enjoyed my classes—so different from computer science. I adored Boston. And then…” He shrugged.
“What happened?”
“I went to a meeting for the LGBT student association. Got jumped on my way home. That’s pretty much the story.”
“No, not if you transferred to a different school.” There wasn’t any recrimination in Michael—and no pity. Just curiosity.
I don’t deserve this man.Not his care. Not his understanding. “I should have gone to the police. Reported it. Given them my clothes or something. For DNA. I didn’t. I ran home, took a long, scalding shower and tossed everything I’d been wearing into a dumpster.”
“Understandable. You were probably in shock.”
“I was furious. At myself for not fighting back. At them for being ignorant fucks. At the world and everyone in it.” Sam swallowed. “The next day, I went to classes and got stared at. Pitied. I was seen as weak.” Sam looked at his hands and lowered his voice. “The worst thing was that I kept hearing those voices, that laughter. Everywhere. Half the men around me sounded like the shitheads who jumped me.”
Michael held out his hand, palm up. An invitation. Sam took it, twining his fingers between Michael’s.
“They probably weren’t even students, but I couldn’t shake the uncertainty, the anxiety, so I transferred halfway through the term.” That had been rough, playing catch-up on coursework. But he’d also impressed his new professors when he maintained high marks. “I decided to wait a bit before coming out at Yale. Check the waters before jumping in.”
“Makes sense, considering.”
That had been eye-opening. On the other side of the table, he’d heard what people said when they thought you were one of them. “I discovered a subtle, more pernicious kind of discrimination. It wasn’t out there in the open, but gay men and women didn’t make the same kinds of connections. They weren’t invited to the same parties. They weren’t hired by the same caliber of company.”
Michael squeezed his hand. “Yeah, I know. That was part of the appeal of founding our own company.”
Sam hadn’t even considered that. He looked at Michael.
“No one ever picked a fight with me,” Michael said. “That’s an advantage of being six four. Doesn’t mean I didn’t notice the other things—wasn’t subject to them. The comments under the breath. Being excluded from dinners. Off-campus parties. All the other shit.”
“I never thought—” But in a way he had. Assumed Michael’s life had been easier—despite the shit with Rasheed and Susan. So turned-in on himself, Sam had never considered anyone else’s pain. He let his hand slip from Michael’s. He really didn’t deserve this guy. “I wanted to beat them all at their game. Make it big. Prove that a gay man could do it. But in order to do that—”
