Dad lifts his gun. For a flash second, I react, jumping on my toes as panic spikes through me. But just as quickly, he pulls it back, wrestling through his anger and growling. “You motherfucker.”
“I thought so,” I say, then spit blood at his feet. “Bye, Dad.”
Everything’s blurry for a minute, blood rushing through my veins, and then I’m in the car and pulling away. My chest and face are on fire, hurting from the beating, and my twisted arm throbs. But as I drive through the massive trees and back to the road, another feeling starts to push through.
I’m free. None of those people can touch me again, not fucking ever.
And I’m free to be with Milo, too. I don’t know how I’m lucky enough that he still wants me, even after all the bullshit and hiding I put him through. But for the first time, a life with him really seems like something I could have. I can stop running from my past and build a future that’s good. We’ll treat each other right, and I’ll make sure Milo has everything he’s ever wanted.
Fuck, it feels good. My body is battered, and I’ve just had to say goodbye to the first thirty years of my life, but the love I feel for Milo soothes all that pain. I’ve finally done what it takes to be free, and I never would have gotten here without him.
When I get back to the city, it’s dark, and I’m exhausted. I let myself in through the tattoo shop and haul my aching body upstairs. I want to go straight to Milo, but I need to tend to my wounds first and put myself together. I need food and water, and I’m desperate for a shower.
My phone is useless. When I finally get a chance to check my messages on my computer, though, I’m not surprised that there’s one waiting from Milo.
Whatever you’re doing, whatever you need to do, I’m thinking of you, Joey. Take care of yourself and get back to me soon.
He ends the message with a string of blue hearts and flowers, and I smile to myself. I can hear his voice in my ears, and just the memory of Milo eases my pain.
I lean back against the wall with a grunt. There’s no reason to wait, I realize. The whole point of visiting Dad was so that I never had to wait, or hide, or build a wall ever again.
I get to just be myself now, the same way Milo is always himself, proud and strong and good.
I’m back. Will you come over? Heads up, though, I’m a little battered from my trip.
It seems like no time at all passes before he answers.Be there in thirty.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
MILO
Joey tossesthe key down to me, and I let myself in through the dark tattoo parlor and up to his place. I feel like I’m rushing just because I want to see him and know that he’s okay. Whatever he just did, I know he faced down some dangerous people, and I’ve been twisted up with anxiety all day.
I kick off my shoes and toss my jacket aside, then find him in the bathroom, which is steamed up. He’s got a white towel wrapped around his waist, and he’s bent over the sink, examining himself. One of his eyes is swollen and turning from red to blue, and red scratches hash one side of his face.
Joey turns to me. “Milo,” he says. “It looks worse than it is.”
I rush over, and when I go to throw my arms around him, Joey steps back and raises his hands. “Careful, careful,” he says, and I see the shadows of bruises forming across his chest, dark beneath the curly hairs.
“What happened?” I tentatively step forward. Then, as gently as I can, I press my lips to his chest. “Are you okay?”
Joey’s body shakes as I kiss him gently, then on his cheek. My fingers dance down his arms, and I touch him as lightly as I can.
“Milo,” Joey says. He strokes the back of my head. “I’m okay. I just have to clean these wounds and get some rest, and I’ll be fine.”
I realize he’s holding some kind of ointment, and I take it from his hand. “Here,” I say. “Let me. Can we do it on the couch, so you can sit down?”
I can tell Joey’s about to object, but he stops himself. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”
We both stand there close for a second. Then Joey presses his lips to mine. He bends down slightly, and we kiss, our lips pressing together and our tongues meeting, while my fingers dance along his arms.
A loud beep cuts through the apartment. “Frozen pizza,” Joey grunts. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
I hand him the ointment back. “Meet you at the couch? I’ll get the pizza.”
Once I’m in the kitchen, I lean over the counter and let out a shaky breath. Joey’s tough, sure, but he looks beaten. I don’t know the first thing about cleaning a wound. I’m not even sure I’ve seen someone this hurt up close before, and my mind races as I try to figure out what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to say.
How I’m supposed to feel.
