CHAPTER 2

Dallas moaned, dragged from unconsciousness by the bright light and the sound of his name. The fog lifted enough for him to know he wasn’t dreaming; at least, he didn’t think he was. Someone was there, he was almost sure of it. With a supreme effort, he pushed himself onto his side, groaning as stiff muscles and seeping wounds protested the callous treatment, and squinted at the man kneeling next to him. "Lo'an?" he mumbled, wondering vaguely if the man was really there or once again a product of his semi-conscious hallucinations. The need to know was superseded by another, greater need. "Wa'er?"

The word came out as a harsh croak but the apparition seemed to understand. To his relief, its disappearance was immediately followed by the sound of running water, and then the man reappeared, propping him up. The cool edge of the glass was a welcome touch as his visitor held it to his lips. It was difficult to open his swollen mouth and much of the water dribbled out over his chin but he managed to gulp down several swallows before the glass was taken away.

"What happened? Who did this to you?" Logan asked again as he set the glass on the floor beside him.

"Tol’ him had to use condom," Dallas mumbled. "Tol’ him no barebacking." Images from earlier in the evening flashed through his head as he tried to explain how he had ended up in this condition. He sank back to the floor with another pained groan but then attempted to bolt upright when he saw Logan pull a cell phone from his pocket and flip it open to dial. "Wha're doing?" he croaked in alarm.

"I'm calling 911." Logan seemed surprised at the question. "We need the police and an ambulance right away."

"No!" Dallas shook his head violently, a move he regretted immediately as it caused a renewed pounding in his head. "No p'lice! No am'lance."

"Dallas, you're badly hurt. You need medical attention. And the sooner we talk to the police, the sooner they can find and arrest the man who did this to you."

Panic overtook pain and Dallas repeated frantically, "No! No p'lice. Won' arres' him. Arres' *me*. Recor'. Solic'tation. Don' call. Please!"

Logan stared down at the hand desperately clutching at his wrist. The man was smeared with dried blood and gore from his matted blond hair to his dirty bare feet, yet his main concern was not to call for help. More blood and ominous-looking stains covered his shirt and jeans and Logan didn't even want to think about the damage beneath them. How could the police possibly arrest this battered young man instead of the bastard who had done this to him?

Sadly, though, he had seen enough in the past six months to know that it was probably true. With a sigh, he flipped the phone closed and put it back in his pocket. "All right," he conceded reluctantly, not at all sure he was agreeing to the right thing.

"Promise!"

The grip on his wrist tightened convulsively and Logan sighed again. The last thing he wanted to do was add to Dallas’ distress. "All right, I promise. Let's see if we can get you over to the bed where I can get a better look at you."

He helped Dallas pull himself to a standing position, supporting his weight as the young man swayed and almost fell. Even the few slow, halting steps to the bed were almost too much for him. Logan eased him gently onto the bed and covered him with the lightweight blanket he found neatly folded over the foot of the bed.

As the young man shivered under the blanket, Logan ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Every instinct said to ignore the young man and call 911 but he couldn't do that, not when Dallas would be the one to pay the consequences. He glanced around the room as if searching for inspiration. It was as much of an enigma as the young man.

The room, not much bigger than his guest room at the loft, was bleak and uninviting. The walls were painted a bland, uncompromising white and only a utilitarian blind covered the window. The 'kitchen' was a one-piece unit with a tiny stove, refrigerator and sink built into it and the furniture was obviously either castoff or secondhand. The narrow bed was little more than a mattress on a frame, the bureau was missing a drawer, one chair had stuffing showing through the torn upholstery and the other sat in front of a battered table with the paint peeling off it. The whole place, except for the tile midway between door and bed, was spotlessly, almost painfully clean, but there were no pictures of family and friends, no posters, none of the small distinctive items that defined most personal spaces. The only clues to the owner's personality were the stacks of used paperbacks present on every available surface, and the desktop computer sitting on the table. The computer stood out starkly against the other objects in the apartment. While antique by current standards, it had been one of the most expensive of its line when it was new. Where would someone who couldn't even afford a decent chair find money for something like that?

He picked up the glass he had left on the floor and saw a bloody key laying there. It must have been under Dallas earlier. Frowning, he picked it up and rinsed it off before going into the bathroom in search of a first aid kit of some kind. The medicine cabinet revealed the usual toiletries, a single box of Band-Aids, and a couple of sex toys that raised his eyebrows. The cupboard under the sink had a shoebox full of lubes and oils in various scents, one extra towel, five boxes of condoms, and a sight that raised his eyebrows again. Chained to the pipe under the sink was a stout lockbox with a high-quality combination lock on it. Obviously Dallas didn't believe in banks.

He walked back into the main room and leaned over the bed. "Dallas."

There was no reply or movement and he grasped the young man's shoulder and shook it vigorously, sure that he had made a terrible mistake in not calling for help. “Dallas!”

With a terrified exclamation, the young man’s eyes snapped open and he pushed himself backwards away from Logan, almost falling from the bed in the process. "No, don't! I'll be good! I swear!"

"Easy, Dallas!” Logan soothed in a rush of relief. “It's just me. I'm not going to hurt you." He continued to speak softly until he saw recognition in the other man's eyes, then added, "I need to leave for a few minutes but I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Where-- where you going?"

"I'm going to go get my car so I can take you to the hospital."

"No!" Dallas pushed himself upright and grabbed Logan's arm. "You can't!"

"Yes," Logan insisted.

"You promised! No cops, no hos'pal! Leave me 'lone! Ge' out if you won' help!" He made a frenzied attempt to get out of bed, then collapsed back against the pillows in pain. Defeated physically, he repeated with as much fight as he could muster, “Go on! Ge’ out!”

"No, I won't get out. I’m not leaving you here like this,” Logan said firmly. “I won't call the cops if you don't want me to but I can't take care of this with a box of Band-Aids. We need help so I'm going to go get my car. I'll be back in a few minutes. You lie there and don't move until I get back. You understand?" Driven by stress and anxiety, the stern tone Logan adopted was sharper than he had intended and the effect on Dallas was dramatic.

"Yes, sir," he mumbled in resignation as he curled into a tighter ball under the blanket and closed his eyes. "Sorry, sir. I'll be good."

"It's all right, Dallas," Logan said gently, feeling slightly guilty about the effect he'd had on the young man. He reached out and gave Dallas’ shoulder a calming squeeze. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

After locking the door and pocketing the key, Logan set off on a fast walk to the parking garage where he kept his car, already second-guessing himself as he dug in his pocket for his car keys. Was driving him to the hospital enough? Should he have overruled Dallas and called 911? What if moving him made his injuries worse? What if something happened while he was getting the car?

He was almost as relieved as Dallas was when he got back to the apartment and found the young man no worse off than when he had left. As he eased Dallas to his feet for a second time, he worried about how he would get him to the car currently parked in the loading zone. It seemed much farther away than it actually was, he told himself. They just needed to take it one small step at a time. He helped the young man fasten the torn jeans and straighten his shirt as best he could. After Logan got a good look at them he was relieved that he had tossed a blanket over the seat of his car. He knew he couldn't get Dallas changed into clean clothes without hurting him further and it was more important to get him to the hospital than to clean him up. Besides, he vaguely remembered that the clothes should be kept as evidence, just in case Dallas changed his mind about the police.

"Let's go, Dallas," he said. "Come on, one step at a time."

An hour later, Logan was running his hand through his short, dark hair and staring incredulously at the amount of paperwork the nurse expected him to fill out. There were far too many blanks on the pages and Logan had far too few answers for them.

The emergency room had been fairly quiet when they arrived. In a few hours it would be bustling but now only a handful of people lined the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room, all with minor injuries. Most of them had looked around apathetically as Logan entered with Dallas then went back to watching 'Wheel of Fortune' on the small TV mounted high in the corner of the room.

The triage nurse had come out for a quick look and immediately taken Dallas back to an examining room. As Logan started to follow, a short, gray-haired nurse in navy-blue pants and a brightly-flowered shirt stopped him. "Friends aren't allowed in the back," she told him sternly. "You'll have to wait out here."

"I'm family. I'm his- his uncle."" Logan lied quickly, feeling ridiculous at being intimidated by a woman half his size, even if she was twice his age.

The nurse looked at him skeptically over the tops of her bifocals. "Uh huh. And I just won the lottery." As Logan maintained eye contact, wordlessly refusing the bait, she added, "Well, fill out these forms, 'uncle'. When you're finished I'll see if you can go back with him." She handed him a clipboard with a leaky pen attached to it by a grimy piece of string. Several papers were clamped under the metal clip, awaiting hoards of information about a man Logan barely knew.

Sitting down in a plastic chair as far from the TV as he could get, he took out his own pen and started on the top sheet.

First name. It sounded simple enough, yet he was fairly sure 'Dallas' was a professional name. He wrote it down in neat block letters anyway. Last name. Smith? Jones? Brown? All too common. With a shrug, he penned in 'Bradley'. If Dallas was going to be his nephew, he might as well have the family name. Surprisingly, he knew the answers to the next two questions. Address was simple enough - having just come from the apartment, and sex was easy, but he drew another blank at age and birth date. He tapped his pen against the clipboard as he thought. Dallas looked around 17 or 18 but he was cultivating a waif look so he was probably older. 20? 22? With a sigh, he wrote down 22 and left the birth date blank. After all, an uncle couldn't be expected to remember everything. He painstakingly went through the rest of the pages, answering what he could.

The swoosh of the emergency room doors drew him away from his task and he looked up at the nurse headed his way. He stood to meet her and handed her the clipboard. "I answered what I could. I don't know much about his medical history," he began, anxious to bypass the formalities and find out more about Dallas’ condition.

She took her time looking over the information and then said, "Thank you. I’ll get this entered in the computer and let you know when you can go back. The doctors are still examining him and waiting for the results of his lab work."

"Can we change the channel or turn the TV down a little?" he asked, wincing as a wild flurry of bells and sirens indicated that somebody had solved the puzzle.

"Nope. Buttons on the TV don't work and somebody stole the remote about a month ago," she replied as she walked away.

Logan sat back down and picked up a copy of an outdated Reader’s Digest, flipping straight to It Pays to Increase Your Word Power. Satisfied with his score, he absently flipped through the rest of the magazine, wondering what was taking them so long. Two and a half game shows later, as Logan was seriously considering battering the TV into silence, the nurse returned. "You can go back now," she said.

He followed her back to a small examining room where Dallas lay quietly on his side, eyes closed, tousled blond hair still damp from the shower. He looked much smaller than usual, wearing nothing more than sterile white bandages and covered only by a stark white sheet that emphasized his pallor. A clear IV bottle hung over the bed, its tubing leading to a needle in the back of his hand. He must have been pretty dehydrated; it looked like it had taken several attempts to find the vein. The bruises from the IV needle were already blending into the ones around it and Logan felt a stab of compassion as he crossed to the bed, not quite sure what to say. He instinctively reached for the pale hand lying on the blanket and Dallas opened one eye at the light touch.

"How are you feeling?" Logan asked.

"Like shit," Dallas mumbled, grasping Logan's hand before closing his eyes once again. "Don’ leave."

"I won't," he promised as he pulled a chair within reach. "I'll stay right here."

He sat for what seemed like an interminable length of time, with nothing to do but hold Dallas' hand and watch him drift in and out of sleep. He tried to get comfortable in the scantily padded chair, careful not to move enough to disturb Dallas, but it was impossible. He was actually starting to miss the game shows by the time a young intern in green scrubs finally entered the room.

"Hi, I’m Dr. Davis. Sorry it took so long. A bar fight got a little out of hand and I've been busy stitching up the participants."

"Logan Bradley. What can you tell me about Dallas?"

"You’re a relative?" he asked cautiously.

"Uncle," Logan replied, causing Dallas to open one eye and peer at him quizzically. Logan winked at him and Dallas managed a faint smile.

The doctor asked, "Dallas, is it all right if I discuss your case with your uncle?"

Dallas nodded and reluctantly loosened his grip on the older man's hand as the doctor added, "Can we talk in the hall?"

"I'll be right back, Dallas," Logan assured him as he followed the doctor into the corridor and leaned against the wall, feeling the need for a strong support just then.

"First, none of his injuries are life-threatening." Dr. Davis began with the good news. The bad news followed without emotion, as the doctor clinically cited his findings. "He was beaten pretty badly, both with fists and with some kind of implement, probably a belt. He has gouges on his back and buttocks that are consistent with a belt buckle. He was also handcuffed and raped, probably multiple times and also with a large foreign object. He refused to let us call the police, but we did the standard rape kit and bagged his clothes for evidence in case he changes his mind. As I said, none of the injuries are life-threatening, mostly contusions and lacerations, along with a couple of cracked ribs and a mild concussion. He also has some rectal tearing and contusions and lacerations on his genitalia. And you saw his wrists."

Logan nodded mutely, nauseated even by the general description and sure that he was going to be seeing the mangled wrists in his sleep.

"We tested for STD's, including HIV," the doctor continued. "You can get the results for those in a few days. We stitched the worst of the lacerations and we're giving him an IV antibiotic, fluids and pain medication now. I have prescriptions for an oral antibiotic, pain meds, a stool softener--" Dr. Davis paused at the bewildered look on Logan’s face. "Don’t worry. You can get them filled at the hospital pharmacy - it's open 24 hours - and he should be ready to go by the time you get back." He handed Logan a sheaf of prescriptions along with several other papers. "You'll find care instructions there, too, but it's mostly common sense--"

"Wait," Logan said, straightening up from the wall as the last few sentences sank in. "Wait just a minute. Aren't you admitting him?"

The doctor looked up from the chart he was scribbling on. "He doesn’t have insurance, does he?"

"That shouldn’t matter," Logan objected vehemently. "I thought you were supposed to treat everyone, whether they can pay or not!"

The doctor shrugged, half-heartedly apologetic. "I’m sorry. Hospital rules. He doesn't have insurance and he doesn't need any care that you can't provide at home."

"Me?" Logan asked in surprise.

"Well, you’re his uncle and he doesn't seem to have any other family. Right?"

"Right," Logan agreed unwillingly. "How long will he need help?"

"Depends on how fast he heals. I’d say a couple of weeks," Dr. Davis guessed. "You won’t have any trouble. Just follow these instructions and call his family doctor or bring him back here if you have any problems. He’ll need to be seen in a week for a re-check."

"All right. Will he--"

"Hang on," the doctor interrupted as his pager beeped. He checked the number then said "Sorry, gotta go. I'll talk to you again before he's discharged."

Logan stared at the rapidly disappearing back for a moment, then went back into the room to tell Dallas where he was going.

Dallas nodded tranquilly but as Logan left, his mind was spinning. Damn these pain meds, he thought resentfully. He had spent the last hour trying to figure out what he was going to do but he kept drifting off and waking with a start with nothing settled. Worse, the drugs were messing with his mind and he was having trouble figuring out what was real and what was part of his semi-conscious dreams.

He knew Logan had found him and brought him to the hospital. He vaguely remembered him at the apartment and the man was here now, so he was fairly sure that part was real. But why was he still here? Why hadn't he just dumped Dallas and left? And how he had known Dallas was in trouble in the first place? Since no amount of contemplation could answer any of those questions, he moved on to a tougher one. What was he going to do now?

He wasn't going to be able to work for at least a week, which meant no income. The box under the sink held barely enough to pay for rent and groceries; there wasn't going to be enough to cover an enforced vacation. Worse, the bastard had not only not paid him, he hadn't returned the gym bag that held Dallas' special collection of toys and implements. He couldn't work without his equipment and he wouldn't risk using anyone else's. The thought of confronting the bastard and demanding his belongings back terrified him but he couldn't see any other options. He was trying to add up the cost of the various equipment and supplies when he drifted off again.

Logan’s head was also spinning as he followed the hospital placards leading the way to the pharmacy. What in hell had made him announce he was Dallas' uncle? The last thing he wanted or needed was to take the man home and nurse him for a week or two. What about his work? What about his schedule? His privacy? But he couldn't send the young man back to that cold, sterile apartment to heal all alone, could he? And he seriously doubted that there was anyone else to call on. He entered the glass-fronted pharmacy on the main floor and handed the prescriptions over to the young woman at the counter.

"Insurance?" she asked as she filled in the address and the birth date Logan had randomly come up with.

"No insurance. Can you add it to his hospital bill?"

"No, sorry. Different department. They'll be ready in about an hour."

"A full hour?"

Without looking up from what she was doing, she said, "Sorry, yeah. We’ve been really busy.”

Logan glanced around the empty pharmacy then looked back at the girl. She met his gaze unflinchingly and he sighed. "All right. I need some other things anyway. I’ll look around."

He sat down on yet another uncomfortable plastic chair and leafed through the care instructions. Then, wandering up and down the short aisles, he filled the small handheld basket with a few necessities, including gauze bandages, antiseptic ointments, and pads for the bed, and other odds and ends. The hands on the clock were moving at a snail’s pace and Logan was sure he had looked at every item on the shelves at least twice by the time the girl called his name. He winced at the total as he handed over his credit card, wondering if Dallas would ever be able to pay him back. Probably not, he thought pessimistically. He'd just have to call this his donation to charity for the month. Or the year.

He returned to Dallas’ room to find him still sleeping. The IV had been removed and a Band-Aid covered the spot where the needle had pierced his hand. Logan shook his head at the irony and sat down next to the bed, placing his purchases on the floor next to him. Reaching out, he gently touched the bruised hand. "Dallas."

Dallas opened his eyes and managed a faint smile. "Hey. You’re back."

"Sorry it took so long. They said they were busy."

"’S okay. I was sleeping. They said I could go when you get back."

"I'm back," Logan said with a smile. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah. You giving me a ride?"

"A ride?" Logan was puzzled by the question. How else was Dallas going to get to the loft?

"Yeah. I thought-- Never mind." He closed his eyes again, making an obvious attempt to gather his strength. "I'll find my own way home. Thanks for all you did, though. 'Preciate it."

"Wait," Logan said as the question began to make sense. "You aren't going back to your apartment right now. You're going home with me. Didn't the doctor tell you that?"

Dallas' eyes flew open. "No."

"He said you have to have help for a few days. Do you have family or friends you could stay with?" He tried to keep a hopeful note out of his voice and apparently succeeded.

"No. Stay by myself. Be ok," Dallas replied stubbornly.

"The doctor doesn't think that's a good idea."

"So?"

"So I think you should go home with me." Logan struggled to keep his tone even, wondering why he was insisting so much on something he didn't want to do. Dallas was a grown man and if he wanted to be alone, who was Logan to argue?

"Why?" Dallas asked suspiciously. "What's in it for you?"

Logan's temper, already strained by the long night and lack of sleep, snapped. "There's nothing in it for me! I'm doing it because it's what human beings do for each other. Now put these clothes on and let's go!" He tossed the pale blue-green scrubs the hospital had provided onto the bed and immediately felt like a first-class bastard as Dallas bowed his head, all signs of rebellion gone.

"Yes, sir," he said softly as he pushed back the covers and struggled to pull on the pants Logan had thrown at him.

"Here, let me help you," Logan said gently. He helped Dallas sit on the side of the bed and get his feet into the legs and then stand up long enough to pull them over his hips. "Look, I 'm sorry I yelled at you. You don't have to go with me if you don't want to," he said as he eased the young man back to a sitting position and picked up the shirt. "Is there anyone that can give you a hand if you go home? At least check on you a couple times a day?"

Dallas shook his head. "No. I'll go with you if you want me to."

"I think it would be best," Logan told him as he pulled the shirt down over Dallas’ midriff. "You only have to stay a few days."

Dallas nodded silently, too tired to argue any longer.

Getting him into the car wasn’t much of a problem. Hospital policy decreed that an orderly push him out to the car in a wheelchair and it wasn't a strain for him to stand up, pivot and sit on the car seat. Logan tossed the soiled blanket in the trunk with a grimace, vowing to throw it in the trash dumpster as soon as he got home.

Getting him out of the car and into the loft was more difficult. Logan's first attempt to slip his arm around Dallas’ waist for support was met with an outcry of pain and an attempt to jerk away, immediately stifled.

"I'm sorry," Dallas whispered. "I didn't mean to."

"It's all right," Logan assured him. "I'm sorry I hurt you. Let's try it again another way."

Logan ducked his head under the younger man's arm, looping it around his own shoulders, trying to find somewhere that he could place his hand without resting it on a sore spot. The options were limited, to say the least. After several false starts and pauses for Dallas to rest and catch his breath, they finally made it into the loft.

Once inside, Logan guided Dallas to the couch and helped him carefully sit down. "I need to make the bed in the guest room," he explained. "I'll be right back."

It took only a few minutes to make up the bed with fresh linens and one of the disposable absorbent pads that he had purchased. A few minutes more, and Dallas was lying between crisp white sheets.

"All right?" Logan asked him.

"Cold," Dallas murmured.

Logan found an extra blanket on the closet shelf and spread it over the bed.

"I need to take the car back to the parking garage," he said as he tucked it in. "I don't want to leave it on the street overnight. Do you need anything else before I go?"

"No. Fine," the exhausted young man replied, so softly that Logan could barely hear him.

"I won’t be long. I just--" Logan stopped talking as he realized Dallas was already asleep. He turned off the bedside lamp and made sure the night light in the bathroom across the hall was plugged in. It would provide enough light for orientation if the young man woke up, not that Logan expected it after the ordeal he had been through.

He moved the car to the garage and hurried back toward the loft, worried about being gone for very long. Halfway there, he made a quick stop at the corner store for 7-Up, juice, Jello and soup, hoping his unwilling houseguest would be able to swallow one of them. He doubted Dallas had eaten since before the attack.

"Dallas, I'm back," he called softly as he opened the front door, torn between the possibilities of waking the young man up unnecessarily or scaring him half to death by sneaking up on him. He needn't have worried. Dallas was so deeply asleep that not even an earthquake would have awakened him. A warning mew greeted him as he entered the room. Hinx had found his patient and was standing guard over him.

"All right, I'll leave him alone," Logan said with a smile. "Come and get me if he wakes up, all right?"

The cat mewed again, as if in agreement, and Logan managed a small laugh as he pulled the door partway closed and went to put the groceries away. Afterwards, he climbed the stairs to his own bed, almost too tired to pull his clothes off before he fell into it. As he did, he cast a baleful glance at the clock. No need to worry about waking up before the alarm this morning. Joe would be picking up his newspaper anytime now. He closed his eyes just as the sun peered over the horizon.

He woke with a start several hours later as Hinx bit his chin. "Ouch!" he exclaimed as he batted the cat away from him. "Stop it, Hinx!"

Hinx meowed imperiously and jumped off the bed, then jumped back on when Logan didn't get up.

Morning light was pouring through the window, light that Logan didn’t typically see until he had been up for a couple of hours. "What the hell--? Oh," he said as the events of the night came flooding back. "Is he awake?"

Hinx jumped down and stalked toward the stairs, then looked back over his shoulder to be sure Logan was following.

"All right, I'm coming."

He paused only long enough to pull on a robe, and Hinx, apparently satisfied, went down the stairs ahead of him. When he entered the bedroom the cat was back on the bed with Dallas, curled up protectively next to him. "Hinx, leave him alone," Logan admonished. "You don't even know if he likes cats."

"He's all right," Dallas sleepily reassured Logan while gently stroking the thick, silky gray fur. "He's a nice cat."

Hinx purred his approval as he rubbed against Dallas' chin.

Logan laughed. "Ok, who are you and what have you done with my cat?" he asked. "Hinx doesn't usually take to strangers."

Dallas shrugged, then winced. "I like cats," he said simply. "He must be able to sense it.”

Logan nodded then looked over his patient. His face was still a mass of bruises, now turning a virulent green and yellow, but the swelling was down, he could open both eyes, and his speech was more understandable. "You look like the sleep helped. How do you feel?"

"A lot better," Dallas admitted, then added tentatively, "I could probably go home now if you want me to."

Logan ignored the comment. "Are you hungry?"

Dallas considered it and then shook his head.

"How about some 7-Up?" Logan suggested. "It will help you wash down the pills you need to take."

"All right."

Logan went into the kitchen, poured 7-Up into a glass and added a straw, then fed Hinx before getting the bagful of drugs and reading the instructions.

"What have I gotten myself into?" he asked the cat with a quiet groan after reading the directions. He should have realized, he thought in resignation. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Might as well get it over with so he can get back to sleep, huh, Hinx?"

Hinx squinted his eyes closed and then went back to crunching dry cat food, as if telling Logan he was on his own for this one.

Logan peeled the foil away from two suppositories and steeled himself for what he had to do.