Ghost in the Flames by Harris Daisy

Author:Harris, Daisy [Harris, Daisy]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: gay bashing, yoga, recovery, firefighter, lgbt, out-for-you, counselor, ptsd
Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Published: 2015-07-07T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Stan avoided the rearview mirror. Hands shaking, he pulled in front of the doors. The car lurched to a stop. Something about the clutch that Stan couldn’t remember. He’d only had his learner’s permit a few weeks.

Stan yanked the door open and sprinted into the basement level of the building. “Hey! Help! Anyone!” No one was around, only rows and rows of clothes. “Please! I need help!” He ran past dresses and shirts, past piles of jeans and mannequins who looked at him with blank eyes.

“Help!” Stan screamed, but he was out of breath, and the word came out weak and ineffectual.

Another hallway appeared to his left, and at the end he spotted a security guard talking to a shop clerk. Stan barreled toward them, legs screaming and chest heaving. He felt like a hot poker was being pushed down his throat when he tried to get a breath.

“Help!” The word was a whisper. Outside in the parking lot, Rick would die. And it would be all Stan’s fault.

Stan gasped like someone was strangling him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered. Eyes pressed together, he reached for his arm and pinched it. Pain shot out from the spot, a welcome reminder that he was in bed next to Rick, not running through Southcenter Mall.

“You okay?” Rick rolled onto his back.

“Yeah.” Stan shifted so he was looking at the ceiling, tracing the exposed pipes. “Just had a weird dream.” He made sure his chest rose and fell smoothly. The last thing Rick needed when he was coming to grips with his sexuality was to hear about Stan’s nightmare. “I think I’ll get up.” Stan pushed out of bed and went to the bathroom to throw water on his face. As he relieved his bladder, he called back into the apartment, “I wanted to go for a run before work.”

“I could stand a jog,” Rick answered.

As Stan came out, Rick folded to standing. He hadn’t worn any clothes to sleep and was gloriously naked. The only things marring his body were scars on his shoulder and another on his calf—surgically straight, raised reddish skin.

Stan hadn’t noticed those before. Now, with sunlight filtering in through his blinds, Stan couldn’t keep his eyes off them. “What happened there?”

“What?” Rick looked at his leg. “Oh yeah. They set the leg right away after the beating. Got a couple pins put in.” Proudly, he turned to the side. “The shoulder came later. It kept dislocating, so the docs went in to shore up the socket.” Rick pulled on his shorts and tank top and went into the bathroom.

“When?” Stan needed to know, though he couldn’t have put his finger on why.

“The shoulder surgery? When I was twenty-five, if I remember correctly. It was pretty soon after I joined the force.” Rick came out of the bathroom, wiping his wet hands on his shorts. “Why?”

“I’d hoped you’d had all the surgeries you needed in high school.” Stan remembered Rick’s face that first year. His scarring had never seemed to go away before the next round of surgery would have him in bandages again.

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