Flanked Read online

  Devin couldn’t hide his disgust. “What happened to her boobs?”

  “Magnificent, aren’t they? Latest craze in the biodomes. I don’t know exactly how the effect is achieved, but it heightens sensitivity for her and gives a man something to really sink his teeth into. Shall I pull the curtain to give you some privacy?”

  “Oh, God, no way in hell.” Devin swallowed and tried to cover his mistake. “I’m, um, freshly fucked, but thanks.” He winced. Joe would tell him he was being crass or some such shit.

  The manager deflated a bit. “Very well. I can show you...”

  Another customer came in, a rangy man with actual chaps covering his sil-fab micro-shorts. His dick was already half out, and he headed straight for the caged women. Balls away.

  “Mr. Dalton,” the manager said, “always a pleasure.” He was already halfway toward Mr. Dalton when he glanced back at Devin. “Whatever you’d like, Mr. Goodknight. Oh, and” — the man gave a small sniff and pointed toward a plain black door — “complimentary showers are located in the lavatory.”

  Devin all but stumbled into the lavatory and stripped off his clothes in a haze. He had a last name, a family. Devin Goodknight. Tanner Goodknight. Beryl and Holling. The man had said something about grandparents. They were probably long-dead, of course, just like his mom and dad and his sister Mattie, just like Tanner. But he’d belonged to someone.

  He turned on the shower spray and stepped in. Warm water beat against his shoulders with more pressure than he’d ever felt in the bathrooms at Flights of Fantasy. His tension loosened under the water. The headache he’d grown accustomed to since the explosion in Purcell eased, too, and for a moment, he wished he could stay here under the shower spray forever and let the water work its magic.

  But he had a world to discover, a home somewhere. Even if his closest relatives were dead, maybe he had aunts and uncles, cousins. Family. He needed to find out. The man had said Pittsburgh. Joe had mentioned something about that place once. They could visit there after Minneapolis.

  Using way too much of the provided shampoo, he lathered up his hair and body and rinsed off quickly. Outside the shower stall, Devin dried himself with a fluffy white towel he found on a table. His clothes...ew. They were filthy, coated in that never-ending red Oklahoma dirt. He wrapped the towel around his waist and went to find the manager.

  After he tracked the guy down, bought some new clothes, and changed, Devin jogged out of the store, wincing when his healing ankle twinged.

  Peter jumped up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the porch and fell into step beside him. “Where have you been? I almost went to find Joe to tell him there was a problem. No fair, you got to get cleaned up!”

  “Hush, Petey.” Devin patted Peter’s head idly, at least until Peter jerked out of range. “You know anything about Pittsburgh?”

  Peter grumbled. “I hate you treating me like I’m a child. I already told Joe about Pittsburgh. Can I get cleaned up?”

  Devin spotted the others on the road, farther away than he’d expected. They must have gotten restless. He’d been gone longer than he meant to be. Joe and Flix had their backs turned, standing side by side. The rifle hung from Joe’s hand, but otherwise he and Flix looked remarkably similar. Sweat-soaked gray shirts clinging to their backs. Navy running shorts. Long, lean legs. Matching shoes. Same height. Curly black hair hanging halfway down their necks. Bony elbows. The shoulders, though. The way Joe had his thrown back. How high he held his head. Their skin was different, of course; Joe’s was paler. But Devin didn’t give a shit about that.

  Joe looked Devin’s way as he got close, some expression crossing his face that Devin didn’t understand. “You changed.”

  “The old clothes were dirty. Listen —”

  “You smell better,” Aria said. “A lot better.”

  Devin got the feeling it wasn’t a compliment. He cupped Joe’s elbow. “Can we talk? I have great news.”

  Joe stepped out of Devin’s grasp. He glanced around the road, then motioned to a small group of trees. “Do you want Flix and Peter to organize the backpacks? We can go in there and talk while they do.”

  Joe’s behavior didn’t add up. Joe didn’t ask questions like that. Joe led. Devin nodded curtly and walked into the treed area. The trees were dead, but they were the kind that should have been green even in the winter. The thin branches hung dense enough to make a little hiding spot. Devin plopped onto the soft carpet of needles that littered the ground. Joe sat facing him with his legs crossed.

  Devin leaned forward for a kiss and was surprised as all fuck when Joe shied away. “What the hell is wrong with you? I got good news and I want to touch you.”

  “You’re clean, and I’m... I didn’t want to get your new clothes dirty.”

  Joe’s melted-chocolate eyes, warm and dark, seemed to ache with sadness. Devin slipped his fingers into Joe’s hair, caressing his scalp, and dragged him in for a kiss. Chapped lips. Soft, heavy breaths. Joe was holding back, Devin knew, so he kept his touch light and tender. When it ended, Devin rested his forehead against Joe’s.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Joe sighed. “I lost the VICE-shot.”

  Devin jerked back and gave Joe some space. “What do you mean, you lost it?”

  As Joe filled him in, Devin put his hands to his face and squeezed tight. The pressure helped keep him calm. He couldn’t decide if he was more pissed at Joe for letting it happen or at the guards for taking advantage of the situation. He stood up. “I’ll go back there and get the manager to give back our gun. Assholes.”

  “Hey.” Joe shot to his feet and grabbed Devin’s arm. “Don’t. All that’ll happen is the manager will tell you that you shouldn’t really trust your staff. I’m Mexican. I lie.”

  “Don’t say shit like that.”

  Joe shrugged. “Get used to it. That’s how it’s going to be from here on out.”

  “Damn it.” Devin wrapped his arms around Joe and held tight. Maybe New America was going to treat Joe that way, but Devin would never buy into that bigotry again. And he wasn’t going to let Joe get weighed down by it, either.

  Little by little, Joe relaxed in Devin’s arms until they were propping each other up and Devin felt safe and secure. He nuzzled his face against Joe’s temple. “Can I tell you my good stuff now?” The ghost of a grin brushed against Devin’s chest, so he went on. “I found out my last name. My people. Who I belong to.”

  Joe stiffened. “You belong to me.”

  “I know I do. It’s just, I didn’t think I had a family, and maybe they’re dead, but...” Devin had trouble putting the feeling into words, the way knowing about himself settled his stomach and calmed his worries. “It’s —”

  “I get it,” Joe said. He kissed Devin’s cheek and pulled away. “This helps you define who you are, where you fit. We should get back to the others.” He walked almost to the edge of the trees before turning back, those eyes sadder than ever. “I’m happy for you.”

  It had been a long time since Joe had last lied to him. Devin’s stomach turned to stone.

  ***

  As he walked down the highway with the others, Flix examined the smooth white candle in his hand. Long and tapered, maybe an inch across at the base, it was more luxury than he’d probably ever hold again, and he couldn’t bring himself to waste it.

  He bumped Devin’s arm. “Can I borrow your knife?”

  Devin hesitated. “What for?”

  Flix could figure what Devin thought. What they all thought. That he was sinking under his grief. That he couldn’t manage without Marcus. Half the time, he thought they were right. This, though, he could do.

  “I want to cut down the candle.”

  Devin winced into the setting sun and put his hands to his head. “You should talk to Joe.”

  “It’s your knife.” Flix fingered the handle where the knife was strapped to Devin’s thigh. That bastard Sanders had stolen the big Bowie knife, but Joe had g
ot it back after Sanders was dead. After Marcus was dead.

  “He has a better one for it,” Devin said. “Mine’s too big.”

  The Flix he used to be would have made a joke about the size of Devin’s knife, but this Flix couldn’t work up the life it would take. Someday, maybe. Instead, he nodded and sped up to catch Joe, already hating having to talk to him. The pain and anger hit so much harder when Flix had to see Joe’s face.

  He reached Joe and slowed to walk beside him. Gazing at Joe in profile like this, Flix didn’t hurt. He studied Joe’s sculpted cheekbones, plump lips, and hard jaw. Objectively, Flix found him beautiful, still the most stunning face he’d ever seen, even if Flix’s attraction to him had sputtered to nothing but the joke of a memory. He ran his fingertips down the long scar on his own face, grateful that no one, no man offering to pay and no man interested only in beauty, would ever look at him again the way he and so many others had looked at Joe. That sort of admiration meant nothing.

  Joe tilted his head and met Flix’s gaze head on.

  God, those dark, somber eyes. They screamed Joe’s guilt. It wasn’t like Flix was mad, not like Joe thought. He didn’t blame Joe, exactly, for Marcus’s death. Joe had made a plan, and it had failed. And Joe had held Flix down, prevented him from getting to Marcus, in order to keep him safe. Always protecting. Flix had lied that day at the greenhouse when he’d gotten Cadia to give him information. Joe wasn’t the Tin Man or a robot. He considered himself responsible for Marcus’s death. Nothing Flix had to say would change that. And seeing Joe’s guilt reminded Flix over and over that Marcus wasn’t there. That’s what made him mad.

  “Devin says you have a knife I can use to divide this candle.”

  To his credit, Joe didn’t ask why. He wrangled the backpack off his back and dug in a side pocket, withdrawing a small metal and wood item that he handed to Flix.

  “See the metal in the middle? That’s the blade. Pull on the grooved area, and it’ll slide out from the wood.”

  Flix gripped the warm wooden surface and followed Joe’s instructions. A short, gleaming blade extended from a hinge embedded in the wood. Flix pressed his finger to the edge of the blade. Sharp, but not something that would hack through bone. Not a weapon.

  The knife cut smoothly through the candle, though, about two inches below the top. Flix took a few moments to whittle away the wax around the wick of the longer bottom piece, exposing enough of the braided cord to make that portion of the candle useful again. He folded the knife and handed it back to Joe.

  From his pocket, Flix extracted the box of matches he’d gotten from one of the backpacks earlier. “I need a minute alone.”

  Joe’s expression didn’t change, but his voice came out wrong. “Whatever you need. I’m sorry.”

  Joe would know, of course. The guy had a huge brain and a great memory. Last year, the cafeteria cook had made a cupcake. Joe had led the song. Flix counted it another small blessing when all Joe did was blink slowly and yell for the others to catch up. He shooed everyone onward, past Flix, and nodded before walking on.

  Flix stopped at the side of the road and knelt over a tiny patch of greenish-gray lichen. So rare to find something alive. He lit the candle. Soft orange flames flickered in the waning daylight. This wasn’t enough, could never be enough, but it was all he had to offer.

  “Feliz Cumpleaños, hermano,” he whispered. “Te amo.” He closed his eyes and sang:

  “Qué los cumplas feliz,

  qué los cumplas feliz,

  qué los cumplas Marcus,

  qué los cumplas feliz.”

  Never in Flix’s worst nightmares had he dreamed he’d celebrate his sixteenth birthday alone. That he’d be crouched on the edge of a dusty highway in a mean world with no family and Marcus would be buried in a hole in the ground. That they’d never see each other again. Flix wouldn’t even visit Marcus’s grave. Navarro had offered, would have let him stay. Flix had been tempted. How could he leave his brother? But in Purcell, the tug of Marcus was so strong. All Flix remembered was the end: watching Marcus struggle to live through the broken heel, and then the last awful night, watching him get shot. Flix had to leave, had to tie his fate to the living, had to finish what he and Marcus had started when they ran away from Flights of Fantasy, believing New America would give them a better life.

  Flix set the candle on the ground and wiped his eyes and nose with his shirt. He leaned over and blew out the flame.

  “Happy birthday, Marcus.”

  He turned back to the road and walked on.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Oh!” Joe bit his pleasure into his hand. His hips snapped and stayed. After the last of the tremors died away, he opened his eyes to the black-night stars.

  Vaguely aware of being tucked back into his pants and having his shirt straightened, he wiped his hand on the sleeping bag, then slipped it into Devin’s hair and gentled him back up the length of his body so their heads were close together.

  “You’re getting really good at that,” Joe whispered to the stars.

  Devin’s lips were soft against his jaw. “You always say that.”

  Joe smiled, slow and lazy. “It’s truer every time. Give me a sec and I’ll do you.”

  Devin nestled against Joe’s chest and flung a heavy arm and leg over him. “I’m ready to sleep.”

  Joe frowned. Devin had never turned down a blowjob. “Are you okay?”

  Devin pressed his head almost painfully hard into the hollow under Joe’s collarbone. “Little headache. Rub my temple.”

  Another headache? Joe circled his fingertips over Devin’s skin, but he also stretched and turned his head to peek around the rock they’d cuddled behind for a little privacy.

  Devin bit Joe’s chest lightly. “What’re you doing? Pay attention and rub it right.”

  “I want to see if Aria’s awake.”

  “I do not need a checkup.”

  “It’s been three weeks. Your head shouldn’t still be hurting, even if you had a concussion. And for God’s sake, you should not be blowing me when you have a headache.”

  “It’s minor.”

  “So minor you don’t want me to reciprocate? You always want it.” Joe nudged Devin off of him and sat up. He rubbed his fingers over Devin’s temples, his cheekbones, the back of his neck where the muscles were bunched and tight.

  Devin sighed and leaned into the touch.

  Joe took that as permission. “Aria?”

  Rustling, a few swears, the beam of a flashlight, then Aria stomped around the rock. “This had better be important. It’s bad enough I have to try to sleep over there with two wide-eyed babies standing guard while we all listen to you dicks get it on. Now I have to come over here and smell it?”

  Devin growled. “Do you have to be such a bitch all the time?”

  “He’s having headaches,” Joe said. “A lot. Bad ones. Can you take a look? Navarro stocked us with medicines, and I can treat straightforward issues, but this... he needs someone with training.”

  “I don’t have training.” But Aria sat in front of Devin anyway.

  “You had Navarro,” Joe said. “That’s better.”

  A beat. “Yeah, it was. How long has your head been hurting, Incredible Hulk?”

  “Since your asshole friends knocked me over the head with a gun and dumped me in a cellar so you could sell me to my former boss. Like a slave whore. Thanks for asking.”

  “Tough times. Tough choices.” Aria flashed the light in Devin’s face. “Your pupils are reacting too slowly. During the day, are you wearing your vision shields on the highest setting?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any time it’s better or worse?”

  “It hurts all the time, but” — Devin glanced at Joe — “it’s been getting worse. Every day. The sunlight kills me.”

  Damn it. “Back when we’d just left Austin, he got blinded by a dazzler. It took him way too long to get his vision back. Papi, is your vision messed up again?”

>   Devin settled back against the rock and leaned his head to the side. “Stuff shifts in and out of focus.”

  Joe’s breathing stuttered. “How long?”

  “Few days.”

  Oh, God. Please let it be nothing. Joe reached for his backpack. “I have all this medicine, Aria. What can we give him?”

  Aria shone the flashlight on the bag and dug around until she pulled out a small square patch wrapped in clear packaging. “We can at least treat the pain.” She tore open the package. “Take off your fancy-ass shirt.”

  Devin tugged at the tight, silky sil-fab shirt he’d bought at Maze-On. He dragged it over his head and leaned back.

  “Damn,” Aria said, smoothing the patch against one of Devin’s thick, muscular shoulders.

  “Eyes off,” Joe said. Mine. He beat imaginary hands against his chest. “He’s not a slab of meat.”

  “Slab of granite, more like.”

  Devin lurched sideways and vomited.

  “Joe, get in the backpack and pull out an ondansetron. Small white pill.” Aria patted Devin’s back. “Hey, big guy, were you nauseated before or did it start after I put on the patch?”

  “Made it worse.”

  “Joe’s going to slide a pill under your tongue. It’ll dissolve and take away the nausea, or at least keep you from actually vomiting. There you go. Breathe deep through your nose. Tell me when the pain starts to fade.”

  Joe hated this. Hated seeing his lover hurting. Hated someone else touching him. Hated feeling helpless. He curled up close to Devin and pulled him into an embrace.

  Devin melted against him, tremors and goosebumps racing on his skin.

  They’d unfastened their sleeping bags and laid one on the ground as a mat and intended to sleep under the other one. Joe pulled the top one around Devin’s shoulders and stroked his hair.

  “Hey boss,” Peter said, shuffling around the rock. “Everything okay? What’s wrong with Devin?”