The Unlikely One

Notes/Warnings: TRIGGERS: Implied spiking of someone’s drink, attempted non-con, and a thorough beat-down.
Summary: An evening at a club takes an unpleasant turn for Patrick Weiss. Enter an unlikely hero. Written for Prompt #2 Your character's parent/friend/ex uncovers a secret stash of "???" and there's no way to deny ownership.


“Oh. Em. Gee! Patrick!” Alicia Martel giggle-snorted as Patrick Weiss shuffled out of his room, barely able to move in the damn skinny jeans, face burning under six layers of make-up. “Oh, my God! You look—”



“Like an emo, transvestite-clown prostitute?” Patrick finished when Alicia couldn’t seem to. She giggled again, her dark face turning rather alarmingly red as she dropped her yoga mat near the front door and stepped into the apartment proper. “Yeah. Thanks for the vote of confidence, ‘Licia.”



“Oh, Patrick, don’t get your pretty little panties all in a bunch!” Another snort and Alicia put her hands on her hips and looked him over again. "You look . . . very nice. Very much not like a prostitute.”



“But definitely like an emo transvestite-clown?”



“Stop putting words in my mouth, Paddy,” Alicia said sternly, though the twinkle in her eyes and the twitch of her lips was a tell-tale sign she was still laughing on the inside. “You look great, it’s just . . . who convinced you to wear . . . all that?!"



"Your girlfriend—my now ex-friend, because I need to go clubbing, apparently." Patrick rolled his eyes, sighing at the feel of all the mascara on his lashes when he blinked. “Where is Paula, anyway? She dashed out of my room ten minutes ago, saying she had the perfect accessory, and—”



“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!” Paula’s voice, brassy and strong, sang from behind the partially closed door of hers and Alicia’s room. Then the woman, herself, flung the door wide and danced out, her pixie-cut, red-dyed hair sticking up like she’d been dragged backwards through a hedge. Magically, she somehow still looked pulled-together and gorgeous. “Behold!”



She triumphantly held up what looked like a scrap of black velvet with a . . . small, pewter, pentagram-shaped pendant dangling from it. It had some sort of purple stone for a centerpiece.



“Uh,” Patrick said, absently reaching up to scratch his head. But before he could, Paula darted forward to smack his hand away. “Ow!”



“Nawp! I spent forty minutes on that hair, Patrick Weiss! If you even think about touching it, I will literally un-man you!”



“Too late for that, I’d say,” Alicia muttered, earning her a glare from both her best friend and her girlfriend. “Wow, I’m sure glad yoga let out early tonight. To think: I coulda missed all this!”



“Not helping, light-of-my-life,” Paula muttered as she adjusted one spiky lock of Patrick’s hair, then settled the scrap of velvet around his neck with the pendant resting on the dip where his collarbones met. At this point, Patrick didn’t even put up a fight. Paula had spent hours working on his look—basically creating one for him, other than his usual outfits of gamer t-shirts and sprung jeans or sweats—and probably wouldn’t be deterred by anything short of Armageddon. Patrick had learned not to mess with Paula Song or her many agendas.



“Where’d you find this thing? Why do you even own it?” he whined as she finally worked the clasp closed and made a happy little sound.



“Oh, it was a gift from Josh LeFleur, way back when.” Paula shrugged dismissively. “We went out on a ‘date’ in Chinatown and he saw this in a store window and got it for me. What can I say? I woulda preferred the throwing stars, for the same price, but, whatever. I didn’t even remember I had it till I saw how good you look like this! Eeeee! I mean, the collar really pulls the look together, doesn’t it, ‘Licia? I don’t think I’d have had the neck for it, but Patrick definitely does. Long and graceful, like a swan.”



“Mm,” Alicia said, eyeing Patrick thoughtfully. Then her eyes drifted to Paula and softened in a way Patrick had always envied. No one had ever looked at Patrick that way. “You two definitely make quite the pair.”



“Don’t we?” Paula took Patrick’s arm and posed—looking, in her satin mini-skirt, leather corset, and long silk gloves, like sex on legs . . . if one was into busty, redheaded, Asian bombshells which, to the chagrin of many, Patrick certainly was not—blowing a kiss at her girlfriend. “It’s not too late for you to get dolled up and come with us, ‘Licia-pie. Even last minute, you clean up real purdy, babe.”



Alicia rolled her eyes. “Tempting as that offer is, I still have work to do on that simulation Professor Barlow wanted me to run the numbers for. I have a feeling I’ll be lucky to get any sleep tonight, never mind going clubbing with my best gal and my best pal,” she said, not quite morosely. Patrick and Paula shared a knowing glance. Alicia was a workaholic from back in the day. If there was anything she loved more than being busy—besides Paula, of course—Patrick didn’t know what it was.



“Aw, baby.” Paula pouted, fluttering her thick lashes and widening her cocoa-brown eyes.



“Gah! Stop making the puppy-eyes! I will not be moved!” Alicia said, holding a hand up. She marched past a snickering Patrick and still-pouting Paula, toward hers and Paula’s room. “I’m gonna shower then get started on those numbers. You two have a great time, call me if you need a ride home or something!”



The bedroom door shut behind Alicia and Paula looked genuinely sad for a moment. Then she glanced at Patrick and brightened again. “Maybe next time! Tonight, it’s just me and thee, Padraig!”



“Two working girls, out to make a quick buck,” Patrick added dryly, then yelped when Paula pinched his arm somewhat viciously.



“You do look like a rent-boy, and not a cheap one, either. Believe me: that’s a compliment.” Paula rubbed the spot she’d pinched, then swatted Patrick’s backside in a business-like fashion. “Okay, Weiss, grab what you can’t bear to leave behind—the necessaries: wallet, keys, chapstick, phone—and let’s be on our way!”



Sighing, Patrick shuffled back to his room to grab the so-called necessaries, wondering how he kept letting Paula talk him into having weird, isolated little adventures—his life was, otherwise, uneventful, and he liked it that way—when all he ever wanted to do was Netflix and chill (alone), play Overwatch (with his online friends), or catch up on the little sleep he seemed to get.



He supposed that Alicia also felt the same way, a lot of the time—and with more reason. Having Paula as a friend required massive amounts of energy. Patrick couldn’t imagine having her as a girlfriend!

#

Thankfully, the evening was pretty warm, for early spring. Just as well, since there was a line stretching around the block for the club Paula chose.



As they stood on line, Paula talked about her latest role in an off—off-off-off—Broadway production of Peer Gynt. Even ran some of her lines with Patrick as the line inched slowly forward.



“Lies, I know, can be so furbished,” Paula declared in a low, but carrying tone. “And disguised in gorgeous wrappings that their skinny carcasses not a soul would recognize. That's what you've been doing now, with your wonderful adventures—”



“Oh, Hells, no, kiddies! Not without some I.D.!”



Startled, they looked up to find themselves at the head of the line. The bouncer was six-foot-three if he was an inch, broad of shoulder and chest (which were shown off shamelessly in a plain black wife-beater), with big, muscular arms and, from what could be seen of his legs in form-fitting jeans, powerfully sculpted thighs and calves. His café-au-lait skin was covered from the neck, down, apparently, in striking abstract tattoos. They looked like runes and pictograms.



“Um,” Patrick said breathlessly, his eyes wider than dinner plates. The bouncer winked at him playfully, after giving him an unabashed once-over, too, with startling bronze-colored eyes, then grinned wide and white.



“Oh! Right! I.D.!” Paula dug in her tiny, ridiculous purse for her wallet.



Patrick, meanwhile, eased his wallet out of the pocket of the suicidally tight jeans. “Here’s, um, my non-driver, state I.D. . . . if that’ll do,” he added blushing.



The bouncer took the I.D. card without breaking his gaze from Patrick’s, who was suddenly quite aware of wanting nothing more than to put his hands on those broad, inked . . . sexy shoulders and climb the bouncer like a tree. . . .



Then those warm, bronzy eyes dropped reluctantly to the card, full, slightly chapped lips moving as he scanned it perfunctorily. A moment later those eyes were meeting Patrick’s again as he handed the card back. When he did, their fingers touched and there was a brief crackle of static shock, like they’d both been running their bare feet on a carpet.



“Oh!” Patrick jumped and laughed a little. The bouncer’s eyes widened then he blinked, his grin turning into a wry smirk.



“Wow,” he exhaled, withdrawing his hand slowly. Only for that hand to come back a second later, bearing a stamp with a smiley-face on it. He took Patrick’s hand, his thumb rubbing gently across Patrick’s knuckles, before he turned Patrick’s hand over and stamped his palm.



All done without breaking eye-contact.



“I’m not tryin’ to skeev on ya, jailbait, but . . . damn,” the bouncer breathed on the back of an almost dismayed chuckle. “You are fuckin’ flawless.”



Patrick’s eyes widened again and he turned beet-red. “Oh!”



“He’s, uh, not jailbait. And neither am I,” Paula added, holding out her I.D. The bouncer nodded, still not taking his eyes off Patrick. He just stamped her hand—the side of her wrist, basically; he didn’t even wait for her to hold her hand out palm-side up—and continued staring at Patrick, who was trying to smile like he wasn’t completely flustered.



“Um,” he said. Then: “I’m Weiss. Weiss Patrick—I mean Patrick Weiss!”



“Yeah, I kinda gathered. I.D.,” the bouncer said, chuckling and shrugging those amazing shoulders once more. He gave Patrick another shameless once-over, ending again at Patrick’s eyes. “I’m Miles.”



“Nice to m-meet you, Miles,” Patrick stammered, holding out his hand. Miles’s grin widened and Patrick’s hand was engulfed in a warm, rough shake . . . that was actually more of a hold.



“Pleasure’s all mine, Patrick,” Miles rumbled, his low, gravelly voice pitched just for Patrick’s ears.



And here Patrick’d thought he couldn’t blush any deeper.



“Okay!” Paula grabbed Patrick’s wrist and yanked it, breaking the gentle hold Miles had on his hand. “So, are we in?”



“What? Oh. Yeah, sure. Have fun, you two crazy kids.” Miles shrugged again, nodding at the closed door through which music could nonetheless be heard blaring.



“We will!” Patrick could practically hear Paula rolling her eyes as she tugged on his wrist again. “C’mon, Padraig. The rhythm waits for no woman.”



“Right—uh, thank you for your assistance, um, Miles,” Patrick called as Paula dragged him to the door. Miles was staring after them looking almost befuddled.



“And thanks for yours, Patrick!” Miles grinned and waved. Then frowned. “Wait—what?”



“Huh?” Patrick asked, equally confused—though glad he’d been of service?—then the door to the club was open, spilling out the kind of thudding, awful music Patrick had spent his brief adult life trying very hard to avoid.



As the door swung shut again, Patrick kept leaning further and further to the right, to keep his last glimpse of Miles, who was doing the same, his bronzy eyes wide as he tilted forward and waved at Patrick. . . .



Then the door was shut and Paula, after paying their way at the box office, was dragging Patrick through the eighth concentric circle of Hell, toward the crowded bar.

#

The line had disappeared by midnight.



Shortly thereafter, Miles Dawson dragged a stool from against the wall of the club and sat, wiggling his aching toes and flexing his tired feet. Every few minutes, a couple or few club-hoppers and scene-kids would come up, flashing I.D. that was good enough to pass muster or . . . not—Miles really didn’t give a fuck, but damn, some of those fake ones were so bad, it was personally insulting to his intelligence—and sometimes people who’d already gotten in left with people who weren’t the ones they’d arrived with.



Miles smiled a little as another such trio—two guys and one girl—making out and feeling each other up, made their way past Miles and to the corner.



“Now, that’s amore,” he muttered to himself, rolling his shoulders. Then he snorted.



No, that’s a damn good time, is what that is . . . get rid of that chick and replace her with Mr. Weiss Patrick, though, the devil on his shoulder added wistfully. Hell, get ridda all three of those yahoos and just take Mr. Weiss Patrick.



Sounds like someone’s got a crush, the angel on the other shoulder noted, and Miles sighed, glancing up at the overcast night sky, bracing himself for yet another argument between the vocal and warring halves of his nature.



Oh, c’mon, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes, didja see his face? And his ass?! Those eyes? Holy mother of God! That boy was every wet dream we’ve ever had come true!



The angel grumbled. I’ll admit: he was cute. . . .



Chocolate labs are cute. Geckos are cute. Our niece—who takes after her mother, thank goodness—is cute. But Weiss Patrick? He’s . . . gorgeous!



If you insist. The angel sniffed. But realize that he’s out of our league and even if he wasn’t, he’s got a girlfriend.



Oh, you mean the pushy, annoying beard? The devil snorted derisively. Yeah, if she’s his girlfriend, I’ll drink a case of Zimas. As for him being out of our league . . . didja happen to notice the way he was looking at us? That pretty little piece of ass wants the “D,” Dawson-style, and he wants it bad. He may very well be light years out of our league, but Weiss Patrick either doesn’t know, or doesn’t care!



Maybe not before. But who knows what's happened in the hours since then?



Miles covered his face with his hands and shook his shaved head.



You are such a Debbie Downer! The devil huffed.



I’m only trying to keep us from getting hurt. Trying to keep it real, as it were. When was the last time someone as pretty and sweet as that boy was interested in us?



Sighing, Miles didn’t look up even when he heard the door to the club open.



“Never,” he admitted miserably. Then added silently, while his devil hemmed and hawed. There’s never been anyone like Patrick Weiss sniffing around a hot mess like us.



Exactly. The angel paused, then went on. I’m not trying to be cruel—



The devil snorted. Good job, then, douche-nozzle.



—but you two can’t see clearly where a pretty face—or ass—is concerned. You tend to get your hopes up with very little provocation.



Listen, there’s nothing wrong with a little hope, now and then! Sometimes, that’s all we got to get us through this shit-show life! Weiss Patrick was givin’ us the ol’ hairy eyeball. He was attracted to us. A lot. Furthermore—



I beg to differ, the angel interrupted, and Miles groaned.



“Jesus, can’t you two let me pretend to be sane for five minutes?” he slid shaking hands up skull. But his angel and demon continued to argue.



“Hey . . . are you alright, M-Miles?”



Startled, Miles jerked up straight, having forgotten that someone had come outside. He found himself looking into round, obliquely slanted, dark-blue eyes framed by thick, long fans of lashes, and surrounded by eyeliner or kohl. They were the sparkling centerpiece of a face like a Renaissance Seraphim: cute, pug nose, sprayed lightly with freckles, peachy-pale skin, naturally pink cheeks, a mouth like a fucking cupid’s bow—all pink and bitten and perfect—delicate jaw, pointed chin, and high cheekbones that any model would kill for. All topped by artfully messy sable hair that spiked and whorled wildly, yet still looked eminently touchable.



“Patrick,” Miles breathed, smiling. Patrick returned the smile so brightly, even the angel and demon took notice, and stopped arguing. “Hey, kiddo . . . what’s doin’? Ready to, uh, head home? Where’s your, uh, girlfriend?”



Patrick blushed, looking down at the ground. He was wearing a pair of black Converse All-Stars with purple laces. “Oh, that was just—um, that was Paula. My best friend’s girlfriend, not mine.” He shrugged, that sweet smile turning hapless. “And nah, not heading home, yet. Just . . . needed a breather, y’know? It’s kinda thick in there.”



“Yeah. Club-life, yo,” Miles agreed, laughing. Patrick joined him.



Fuck, even his laugh is pretty, the devil whined. We are so fucked.



Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you both.



Oh, stuff it, Gramma!



“So, your friend’s an actress, huh?” Miles asked, perhaps a little too loud.



Patrick’s eyes widened and his perfect mouth dropped open. “Yeah—how’d you know?”



Miles snorted. “Not too many civilians standin’ around rehearsing Peer Gynt while waitin’ to get into a club.”



Patrick’s smile was slow and approving. “You know your theater.”



“Eh. I know Henrik Ibsen,” Miles corrected, shrugging. “And a few other playwrights. The names in the business, anyway. Williams. O’Neill.”



“Wow.” Patrick’s dark, made-up brows quirked. “Imagine meeting a fellow theater-fan at this place.”



“Yes, imagine,” Miles said mildly, giving Patrick the eye again. He wasn’t tall—maybe five-ten, whippet-lean bordering on skinny, poured into jeans so tight, Miles could read the boy’s religion. His over-shirt—a velvet, lavender-colored thing that was unbuttoned and untucked—whipped a bit in the chilly breeze. Under it, he wore a plain white t-shirt. And—



“Whoa,” Miles exhaled, leaning closer to Patrick and reaching out to the velvet collar that fit so snugly around his long, pale, perfect neck. Patrick’s eyes widened and his breath caught, but he didn’t lean away. In fact, he leaned closer to Miles, allowing the other man to touch the little pentagram pendant that hung from the collar. “That’s so fuckin’ cool!”



“Not as cool as throwing stars,” Patrick said dryly, shivering as Miles’s big finger accidentally brushed his skin.



“Well, few things are,” Miles agreed, grinning and slowly letting the pendant drop back to Patrick’s skin. He met those blue eyes and took a deep breath. “Say, this’s gonna sound kinda forward—and I know, it’s maybe a bit of a dick move, but. . . .”



“Yes?” Patrick asked breathlessly, when Miles trailed off. Miles licked his lips and no, he wasn’t imagining the way Patrick’s eyes followed that movement.



“I was thinkin’ we . . . you and I, that is . . . could maybe, after my shift . . . I dunno—I mean, there’s a great 24-hour diner not far from here, if—”



Just then, the door to the club banged open, startling them both.



“There you are, Padraig!” The girl Patrick had arrived with—Paula—hurried over, grabbing Patrick’s arm and shooting a curious look at Miles before turning back to her friend. “You’ll never guess who I ran into in there!”



Patrick opened his mouth as if he was maybe going to try, but Paula was already speaking again. “Josh LeFleur!”



Patrick blinked and made a face. “Uh. Okay. Wow. Small world.”



“Isn’t it?” Paula bounced up and down and started dragging Patrick back to the door. “Anyway, come back inside and say hi! He’s been asking about you, you know?”



“Ugh, really?” Patrick made another face, this one even more telling. Paula pouted, making ridiculous puppy-eyes, and finally Patrick sighed, shooting an apologetic glance at Miles. “I’ll be back out in a while if you’re gonna be here for a bit?”



“Oh! Yeah, sure! Not goin’ anywhere till three!” Miles said a little too eagerly. But it was worth Patrick’s bright smile again, so it wasn’t so bad.



“Good.” Patrick nodded, seeming quite satisfied with that answer. “That’s . . . good. Diner-chow is starting to sound like a really great cap to the evening, now that I think about it.”



“I’m glad the idea meets with your approval,” Miles replied cheekily, but blushing.



“Well, it’s more the prospective company, than the actual chow that I’m on-board for. . . .”



This time, Miles’s eyes were the ones to go wide, his mouth dropping open in an expression more suited to a village idiot than a seasoned bouncer.



Then he was waving again as Paula bodily dragged a half-heartedly protesting Patrick back into the club.



Now, what was ‘at about keepin’ it real, bruv? The devil asked in an affected cockney accent.



Oh, shut up. For once, The angel actually sounded flustered. It was enough to make Miles laugh out loud.

#

Patrick Weiss felt . . . odd.



Like . . . really . . . really not good.



Though he hadn’t had any alcohol—just a couple of overpriced Cokes—he was light-headed and more than a little dizzy. His stomach churned, and he couldn’t stop sweating and shaking.



“Hey, Weiss . . . you okay?”



Patrick lifted his heavy head off his hand and looked up into Josh LeFleur’s pale blue eyes. He tried to smile, but Josh wouldn’t stop being three of himself and Patrick wasn’t sure which one he should be smiling at.



“I feel . . . weird. I . . . I think I should go home. Where’s Paula?” Patrick tried to stand and miscalculated several factors, flopping back into the sticky booth seat. Next to him, Josh frowned and slid his arm around Patrick’s shoulders.



“Uh . . . Paula already left—yeah, she, uh—said she was gonna call it a night. You know how chicks are.”



“She left without me?” Paula never left without him. Patrick sniffled. “That was rude.”



“Yeah . . . poor Weiss. . . .” Josh sighed, his arm around Patrick tightening. “But if you like, I can give you a ride home.”



“You’d do that? For me?” Patrick's vision blurred alarmingly. He wiped his teary eyes as Josh stood, pulling him up, too. This time, Patrick stayed up.



“Sure, Weiss. We’re friends, right?”



“We are?” Patrick was glad Josh seemed so steady, since the world was spinning worse than ever and the crowd was crazy-thick. Patrick could barely breathe. It was like there was no oxygen in this place . . . just bodies. Moving, thrashing, shimmying. Talking, laughing, crowding.



Patrick whimpered from the sensory overload and hung onto Josh. The other man was taking him somewhere, but Patrick could barely tell up from down. “You beat me up, like, every week till sophomore year.”



“Ah, kids bein’ kids, y’know? Water under the bridge.” Josh pulled Patrick close. His body felt hot and damp, but then, so did Patrick’s. “Anyway, even then I always thought you were real cute, Weiss.”



Patrick snorted. “Did not.”



“Sure, I did.” Suddenly a door opened right in front of them, and Patrick staggered at the blast of chilly, fresh air and hissed at the light from nearby streetlamps. “Here, lemme prove it to ya.”



In a dizzying move, Josh had Patrick pinned next to the door, his brawny body pressing against Patrick’s. Something hot and hard poked at Patrick’s thigh and before he could even begin to process that weirdness, a hot, wet mouth was covering his own, bruising and biting.



“Josh—” Patrick tried to say around Josh’s tongue and teeth and lips. “What—stop—”



“But you like this, Weiss . . . don’t you?” Josh shoved him into the wall hard, grinding against him roughly. “You liked it in high school and you like it now.”



“Get—get off me!” Patrick gasped as Josh licked his throat and bit down over his jugular vein with blunt, careless teeth. The world was spinning so fast, like a merry-go-round gone mad, and Patrick’s limbs didn’t want to work right at all—he couldn’t marshal even a tiny bit of strength to push Josh away. Those hot hands were all over him and it didn’t feel nice. “Stop—please!”



“C’mon, Weiss, don’t be a tease, just shut up and take it, you little—” Josh suddenly made a winded oofing sound, his hot hands falling away from their grasp of Patrick’s hips. Then Josh disappeared altogether with a startled, pained grunt.



Patrick opened eyes he hadn’t even been aware of closing. The world was still a spinning, swinging mess and his vision was still pretty fucked. But he could see well enough to make out . . . Miles?



Yes. Miles. Punching and kicking the crap out of Josh LeFleur, brutal and soundless.



“No,” Patrick mumbled, sliding down the wall, weak as a kitten and with much less coordination. And he could still feel the ghost of Josh's hands all over him. He shuddered and forced away the memory, denying its reality and the implications of his own weakness. Of the total loss of agency and power he'd suffered at Josh's hands. “Miles, stop—”



But Miles didn’t stop. For almost a minute, he just did not. Stop. He kicked and punched until Josh was burbling bloodily and pleading for Miles to leave him alone. Until a darker, previously unheard-of part of Patrick began radiating grim satisfaction at this just and fitting end for the man who'd tormented him since childhood and then had dared to. . . .



Nothing, Patrick told himself, folding and stuffing away the memory of Josh's awful kisses and disgusting touch—the harsh, gross heat of his breath and his hands and his—



No, Patrick thought blearily, but with determination. Not going there. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.



"Please . . . stop—" Josh repeated the Patrick of just two minutes ago. And he could barely speak for retching up blood and spitting out teeth.



“Sorry, chum, I don’t take requests from wannabe-rapists,” Miles apologized, chipper and vicious, landing another kick to Josh’s left kidney. Both Josh and Patrick groaned, and this, at last, gave Miles pause. The big man—bigger than Josh, even—turned his gaze, as bright and merciless as his voice had been, to Patrick. Some of the brightness and all of the mercilessness leached away.



“Jesus, Patrick . . . you okay?” he asked, stepping over Josh as if he didn’t exist anymore. As he got closer to Patrick, he grew hesitant. But Patrick reached out his shaking hand and Miles looked at it for long moments before kneeling, taking it, and pulling it to his stubbly cheek. “We should get you to the ER—I dunno what he slipped you, but it was somethin’.”



“Slipped me?” Patrick slurred, muzzily alarmed. “Whah. . . ?”



“Patrick, kid . . . that skidmark drugged you and he was gonna fucking rape you. You’d have woke up in the morning with no idea what’d happened, most likely, and no memory of anything that’d gone on after he drugged you. He’d have hurt you and got away with it.” Miles reached out with his other hand and brushed Patrick’s hair—sweaty and limp, now—out of his face. “We gotta get you to the ER. To at least make sure that whatever’s in your system doesn’t make you seriously ill, sweetheart.”



“Don’t leave me alone,” Patrick said desperately, closing his eyes and leaning into Miles’s touch. His big palm was warm and dry and rough. It felt so nice. . . .



“Not on your life, Patrick. But we gotta at least get some kinda evidence of what this prick did. And tried to do,” Miles was saying—growling. “Can’t let him try this shit again with someone else who maybe won’t be so lucky.”



Patrick shivered. The cool air felt bracing on his face, but lulling, too. “I am lucky . . . so lucky. My hero. . . .”



Miles snorted. “Well, I’ll be yours all day, every day, baby-cakes, but I’m definitely not a hero.”



“My hero,” Patrick insisted, forcing his mostly non-compliant eyes open. Miles was watching him worriedly. “‘M cold, Miles.”



”Okay, sweetheart. Just one more thing, and I’ll take you inside . . . call an ambulance from the employee lounge.”



Miles sighed and let go of Patrick. When Patrick looked up, it was to see Miles standing over Josh LeFleur, looking disgusted and like he wanted to kick the other man some more. A lot more. And though Patrick felt as if he should be the first person to cheer should Miles start waling on Josh again . . . he didn't want to see Miles hurt someone else in his name. He was righteous and kind and brave—a hero—and those qualities shone from him like a bright light Patrick could not only see, but bask in.



Miles was better than stomping Josh LeFleur into the pavement no matter how deserved said stomping might be.



“Miles . . . please. . . .”



But thankfully, instead of picking up where he'd left off turning Josh into a sidewalk stain, Miles bent over Josh and patted him down, coming up with a small plastic baggy of bright-pink pills and a wallet, some seconds later. He glared at the stash of pills before pocketing them, then rifled through the wallet, pulling out what looked like an I.D. card. He scanned it, then put it back, dropping the wallet on Josh’s prone body like trash.



“Now, I know where you live, Joshua James LeFleur,” Miles said, his voice pleasant and flat. “And I’mma be seein’ ya real soon.”



Josh groaned again, rolling onto his side away from Miles.



Then Miles strode over to Patrick again, worry and consideration all over his craggy face. He darted down and scooped Patrick up as if he weighed nothing, holding him close. “Hmm.” Patrick wrapped weak, shaking arms around Miles’s neck and smiled, closing his eyes as Miles began walking. “Thank you, Miles . . . for being my hero.”



“For you, sweetheart? Sure, I’ll be a hero. I’ll be a superhero,” Miles said gently, humoring Patrick as he somehow opened the door to the club. Horrible house music assaulted Patrick’s ears.



“You already are,” he said slurred, certain Miles wouldn’t hear him over the din. But Miles looked at him, surprised and strangely vulnerable-looking. . . .



Then he smiled and kissed Patrick’s forehead tenderly.



“I’m such a goner,” he murmured against Patrick’s damp skin. Yet he didn’t exactly sound displeased about his goner-status. “But then,” he smirked, “you already know that, don’tcha, Weiss Patrick?”



Patrick grinned, crooked and loopy. “Yep. We goners c'n smell our own,” he admitted, feeling hot about the face once more. Miles quirked one bushy brow, then chuckled.



“Oh, yeah,” he said confidently as he let them into a small, empty employee lounge just past the box office. It was dimly-lit, with the requisite dirty mini-fridge in one corner; moldering, old sofa; and rickety, ancient chairs surrounding a large folding table. “Keepin’ you.”



Please, do, Patrick meant to say as Miles laid him on the couch, but then, with a final lurch, the world went completely sideways . . . leaving him with no other anchor than Miles’s gentle, reverent fingers brushing his clammy cheek and that low, gravelly voice rumbling soothingly: telling him about how okay everything was going to be and how he was going to take Patrick for the best disco-fries in the city as soon as he felt up to it.



“. . . and all the egg-creams you can stomach, kiddo. Hero’s treat. . . .”



And really, what more of an anchor did Patrick need?

END