Shh! Patreon Exclusive First Look at Time Served, Book 3, Domesticated Beast (Patreon)

Content Warning: Character is Post Sexual Assault in Hospital

Chapter 1

Bowie

Bowie Baker squinted under the searing light beaming down on him from above, angelically bright. Angelic. Huh. The thought made him shake his head, which would have been pounding if not for the meds they’d shot into his IV. Even with the meds, it still hurt to swallow, to speak.

He wanted to close his eyes against the light but every time he did, the night’s events started over on a loop. The stupid grin on his face. The way he’d checked himself out in the mirrored elevator panels. How stupidly excited he’d been.

This was supposed to have been the highlight of his career. He’d thought he’d finally made it to the big leagues. A meeting with a sponsor. An actual patron who’d loved Bowie’s solo enough to give money to the ballet just to spend time with him. That almost never happened in his small companies like his. And it certainly never happened to dancer’s like him.

He wasn’t even a principal dancer, had barely made soloist by the skin of his teeth and spent hours a day trying to hold the line. He should have known it was all too good to be true. Not because good things never happened to him, or he was a pessimist, but because it hadn’t logically made sense. But Bowie had never been about logic or reason. He was all creativity and feeling. His father said it would bite him in the ass one day.

If only he’d realized he meant literally. This was a fucking nightmare, but it was hard to focus on the things happening around him. The sharp smell of disinfectant, the tug on his IV as the nurse drew vial after vial of blood. The constant paging of doctor’s overhead and the occasional code blue followed by the squeaking of tennis shoes as the nurses and doctors ran to save lives.

He heard it all, but nothing penetrated. He was in a bubble. A bubble of shame and embarrassment and regret. His nurse was a pretty, young blonde girl with a patient smile and huge blue eyes that said she’d seen way too much. Her name was Karen or Katie. She’d introduced herself, but it hadn’t stuck. It was on her name badge but she was on the move too much to read it, especially with one eye swollen shut.

When she saw him looking, she gave him that smile once more. “We’re almost done. I promise. Just a few more things.”

Bowie turned his face away from her to look at the curtain sheltering them from the hospital door. He wondered what time it was. Had the girls waited up? Did they think he was currently boning his way into a sponsorship?

It had seemed funny a few hours ago. They’d teased him, saying his mysterious sponsor with the sexy name probably just had a crush on Bowie and wanted to whisk him away and make him his trophy husband. Bowie had laughed, he’d said if he was hot enough he’d consider it. It was just a joke.

In truth, looks didn’t matter to Bowie, not really. He was surrounded by pretty people every day and some of those people had very ugly souls. The man who’d answered the door of that fancy hotel suite was ugly, inside and out. But Bowie had been too excited to notice any of the signs, too optimistic and hopeful to acknowledge the ones he did see.

Bowie had even spent the small amount of money he’d tucked away for months just to by the beautiful suit he’d seen in the window of the consignment shop down the block from their apartment, black fabric with a lux sheen and roses stitched with golden threads. It had been beautiful and unique. Like him. He’d wanted to stand out, to make the best impression. He wanted to laugh, but was afraid of the sob building just behind it.

The suit now sat in a brown paper bag on a sterile metal tray next to vials of his blood and a sample of his urine. The hospital gown he wore was an unflattering shade of Ciel blue. It wasn’t nearly as flattering as the suit. He shook his head at the dark thought, his lip curling, tugging at the cut there.

“Can you open your mouth for me, hun?”

He did as Katie/Karen asked, shuddering at the feel of the swab as it ran along his cheeks, teeth and tongue. It was just one more indignity to add to his already monumental list. After his head CT and the glue to hold his cuts shut, a detective had spoken to him while they had prepped the room for the rape kit.

To the man’s credit, at no time had he implied Bowie had asked for it. Maybe the bruises made it easier to believe? Maybe it was because he was a man? He didn’t know.

Once they’d brought him into the room, the nurses had him undress completely while standing on a piece of what looked like tissue paper, then they’d photographed every abrasion, bruise and bite mark. They’d combed through the hair on his head and crotch.

He’d imagined that would be the worst of it, but he was wrong. Once they had him on his back, the photographs continued, the nurses gloved hands examining his genitals closer than any Grindr hookup ever had all while collecting swabs from every orifice and crevice for the DNA his assailant left behind. And there was plenty of it. He hadn’t been careful and he certainly had been gentle. He’d seemed very confident Bowie would heed his advice to keep his mouth shut.

But Bowie couldn’t go home looking like he did, left eye swollen shut, the right side of his face swollen and puffy. He hadn’t seen a mirror in hours but judging by the way the staff looked at him, he was guessing he didn’t look any better than he had when he’d caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored panels of the hotel suite’s elevator, where he’d been escorted out service entrance and into an Uber by a man who worked for his attacker. A tear slipped from his eye, but he quickly wiped it away.

“You’re doing great. We’re almost done,” she said for maybe the hundredth time.

Bowie ignored her words, wanting to laugh in her face, but not wanting his lip to split again. His mouth already tasted like metal and… other things. He supposed he should be grateful the man had left his teeth intact. His parents had shelled out good money for them way back when they actually used to speak. He could almost hear his mother’s voice. “I told you not to go out there. I told you LA’s dangerous. Drugs and prostitutes and gangbangers. Dancing isn’t a career. It’s a hobby.”

But it was a career. His career. At least it had been. His legs and arms felt painfully stiff, like he’d torn every ligament in his struggle, but the doctors said it was likely just swelling due to severe muscle strain. Fighting off an attacker sure did take a lot out of somebody. Too bad he hadn’t won.

He gave another bitter laugh and once more the nurse gave him a sympathetic look.

“How do you do this every day?” he asked, hating the sound of his own voice. It felt like he’s spent the night gargling glass. They said he had minor trauma to his throat and vocal cords. Whether it was the screaming or the forcible oral sex Bowie didn’t know.

She gave him a resigned look and a small shrug. “Somebody has to. Whoever did this to you needs to be punished. The stuff in those bags can do that. That evidence helps us find the guy who did this to you.”

Bowie snorted, fire shooting along the right side of his face. “He’s not hard to find. He’s in a penthouse suite at the Hotel Beverly, probably sleeping like a baby on a cloud of egyptian cotton.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. He didn’t blame her. It had shocked him too. It was just supposed to be a get to know you dinner in a luxury penthouse with the son of an Italian diplomat. It had sounded like a fucking fairy tale. It had certainly sounded better than his usual night of ramen in their cramped apartment over the laundromat.

Some twisted part of him wanted to call his mother and tell her she’d been wrong. Not about LA being a dangerous place, but about who he should watch out for. He passed by sex workers and drug dealers every day. None of them gave him a second look, not even when he was rocking leggings and Uggs and a furry pink jacket. If anything, they appreciated the hustle.

The real threat was the always the one you didn’t see coming. The one who laughed at your jokes even while he stared at you with dead eyes, who tried to ply you with booze even after you told them you didn’t drink. The ones who acted like the word no was just a jumping off point for negotiations. He blinked back more tears.

“That’s it. We’re all done.” She finally turned off the bright light, making the room seem dark and dingy in the sallow lighting. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call anybody?”

He shook his head.

Bowie would tell the girls; he had to. But not yet. He couldn’t handle the tears and the rage and the vows of revenge. He loved his roommates. They were the closest thing he had to family, but while they were fiercely loyal, they were also overwhelmingly emotional, and his nerves already felt like he’d dragged them over sandpaper.

They would be asleep when he got home, but if they weren’t, he’d tell them then. Of course, he would. The moment they saw him, they would demand to know who’d hurt him. But he at least wanted the drive home to pull himself together, to gather his thoughts. To just be. He didn’t want to be bombarded with questions yet. He wasn’t ready.

“I can take an Uber.“ He looked down at his hospital gown and bare feet. “What do I do about my clothes?”

“I will bring you some sweats and flip-flops we keep on hand for cases… like yours. We don’t have underwear, but it will get you home fully covered.”

He just nodded.

As she left, presumably to gather his borrowed clothes, the nurse who assisted earlier entered the room, holding a bottle of water and a small cup full of pills of all shapes and sizes. He frowned at her. “What’s this?”

“Medications. To help prevent any potential infections.”

“I’m on PrEP.”

“These are for the other infections. Chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis. A breakdown of each one will be on your discharge instructions.”

His stomach lurched. That hadn’t even occurred to him. It should have. The bastard definitely hadn’t bothered with a condom. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his pants.

He took the cup and swallowed the pills dry, before the gravity of her words could sink in. When she offered the water he took it too, guzzling down as much as his stomach would tolerate.

Katie/Karen returned with the promised sweats and flip-flops along with a toothbrush and other toiletries, removing his IV before pointing to the door in the corner. “You can shower in there if you like. Take all the time you need.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell them he just wanted to leave, but when he stood reality crashed down on him like a ten story building. He was still all over him. Inside him. He took the clothes and hurried to lock himself in the bathroom.

The water was scalding, but no matter how much he scrubbed he could still feel him. He didn’t even care about the agony of his swollen face or his screaming muscles or the ache deep in his core that now seemed permanent. He just wanted to be clean, to be free of the feeling that he’d been marked somehow, tainted inside and out.

He knew he was sobbing, knew the nurses could probably hear him if they were still outside the door, but he couldn’t stop. Each time he closed his eyes, his memories closed in on him.

The sound of the door locking, the way he’d looked at him when he’d he’d barked at him to undress. Bowie laughing at the absurdity of the abrupt request. The pain of the first blow from his meaty fist and how delayed the pain had been, how he hadn’t felt it until he was on his back on the floor looking up at his him.

He’d told Bowie his name, but he refused to think about it. It was bad enough he’d had to say it to the detective with the taste of him still in his mouth. He had been deceptively strong, shoving thick fingers into Bowie’s mouth when he’d tried to scream.

It was when Bowie bit him that it all went fuzzy. The sight of his own blood had enraged him. That’s when he’d flipped him over, hit him in the back of the head so many times, driving his face into the tile floor until his vision began to go black at the edges. After that his memories came in flashes. Being pinned down, half of his face crushed against the cold tile floor, the man’s sweat dripping onto his skin. It felt like it had gone on for hours.

He wrenched the tap to the off position, grabbing the toiletries they’d offered and squeezing the toothpaste directly into his mouth before scrubbing with the toothbrush until his mouth and gums bled.

Once he was dressed, the detective—Detective Hewitt—met him on his way out. “We have the evidence. We’ll send it for processing. We’ve also requested the elevator tapes and we’ll bring the suspect in for questioning.”

“Great,” Bowie said, voice dull, pushing the buttons on his phone to order his Uber.

“You, uh… you did good tonight. We have a lot. We’ve got a good chance of nailing this guy.”

Bowie just stared at the man. He wasn’t sure what the expected response was supposed to be. Did he say thank you? Go get ‘em? Keep up the good work? He just wanted to sleep. He had a date with the Ativan he knew Odette kept in her bottom drawer. Two of those and maybe he could just be unconscious through the worst of it.

Cause that worked so well last time.

Once in the Uber, he texted the company director, Gillian. She’d set up the appointment. He refused to call it a date or even a meeting, not anymore. He started and erased his text ten times. He needed to tell her that her most recent patron was a rapist before anybody else got hurt, but he couldn’t figure out how to put that into a text message. It all all so… dramatic. So fake sounding. So impossible to comprehend even he couldn’t accept it.

He settled for telling her he’d been in an accident and gone to the hospital so he wouldn’t be at rehearsals tomorrow. He’d never missed a rehearsal in his life, not even when he had strep. She would understand. He asked to meet her at her office in the afternoon. If he had to explain, at least he could do it in person. Not that he wanted to have to look anybody in the eye and say what happened to him. Not again.

He dropped his head to the cool glass window, watching the city lights wiz past in a blur. This was his reality now. He would have to tell people what happened. Over and over again. And most people wouldn’t believe him and the ones who did would be awkward and weird about it. He knew because he’d been the one to hear about it, to feel awkward and uncomfortable. More than once. He had lived and worked and played with girls his whole life. He’d even held his friend Julia’s hand at the police station after a guy roofied her drink and they’d asked her increasingly more invasive questions that sounded a lot like they thought it was her fault.

Bowie had believed her. He’d ached for her. But he hadn’t known it was like this, hadn’t understood the feeling of being… violated. Violated in a way that felt like the person had invaded you on an atomic level, changed your DNA somehow. Nobody could know—could possibly understand—until it happened to them.

Chapter 2

Javier

Javier de la Fuente was used to the looks he got. Tall and tatted, hazel brown eyes just a little too observant. He wasn’t a particularly big guy, but, confidence, that Javier had in spades. He’d seen a lot of shit and been a lot of places. It was hard to shock him, even harder to impress him, and he could read people in an instant. They knew it. They feared it. Instinctively. People tended to cross the street when they saw him coming. He was fine with that.

Except days like this. Days where he was forced to stand outside a plain glass window in the LAPD’s sex crimes division, two steps away from the fishbowl of weary detectives who both appreciated what he did, but also knew better than to trust a reformed sinner. But that was there first mistake. Javier wasn’t reformed, he just preferred to do his penance while he did his sinning, figured it would save him time if there was an afterlife. What was it the bible said, an eye for an eye?

Just behind him, behind that glass wall, eight-year-old Annabelle Flannigan sat on the floor, coloring as she explained to the LAPD’s child psychologist, just how and where her soccer coach had touched her. Javier’s part was simple, just stand there and wait, make sure she could see him watching over her, so she’d know the man who hurt her would never hurt her again.

Penance. To him, the penance wasn’t in watching over Annabelle, it was not finding the soccer coach and ripping off his genitals. In his old life, vengeance was swift and not always righteous. But justice, especially in the states, especially with middle-aged white criminals, that took time. A bullet was quick. But Javier had just done his fourth stint in prison. If he went down for a murder, he wasn’t coming out. It wasn’t worth the gamble.

As another detective passed, Javier gave him a bland smile, the man didn’t even bother to pretend to return it, just gave his jeans and black button down a look, fixating for a long moment on the tattoos on his hands, before dragging his gaze away. They couldn’t figure him out. They assumed he was Mexican Mafia, one of the many LA gangs that fell under their umbrella anyway. They were half right, he supposed. He did run with them in prison, but that was more a business venture than a lifestyle choice. He wasn’t down with dealing drugs and laundering money. That was Lawson’s gig.

Javier wasn’t from LA. He’d grown up in Ciudad-Juarez in Mexico, spending his formative years as a runner for the cartel until he became La Linea, part of the cartels enforcers. He wasn’t even from the states. He’d spent most of his young life learning his life lessons. He took his first life before he could drive and he took his first bullet before he could vote. That’s when his mother had called in a huge favor.

She’d called his ‘uncle’ Angel Fuentes, a man Javier still to this day wasn’t sure was actually related to him. But it wasn’t no Fresh Prince situation. Angel was just a gangbanger with a corporate logo and an ally the cartel found far more useful than Javier, who at that point had already done six months in a Mexican prison.

Javier’s mama had believed Angel was rescuing Javier from his life of crime, but really he’d just given him a suit, a pay raise and an air of legitimacy. Turns out his uncle’s business—international arms dealing—was really just a fancy word for gun runner. And gun runners, even ones in thousand dollar suits have business rivals. Javier had always been good with… negotiations.

Annabelle abruptly stopped coloring and turned to look at Javier and he gave her a nod and a thumbs up. She nodded back, her small shoulders sagging in relief. Another wave of anger washed over him. Yeah, a bullet was just so much fucking faster. And a lot easier for the victims living with the aftermath.

A commotion at the front of the office, caught his attention. A guy in black track pants and a sleeveless pink t-shirt burst through the unit’s glass doors with enough force to have them ricochet off the wall, startling a group of armed detectives. Where he came from that would have been a death sentence, but the men and women in the bullpen just eyed him warily.

“Where’s Detective Hewitt?” he snapped, not waiting for an answer as he kept walking. “Hey, John. Where ya at? You think you can hide from me? Duck my calls?”

Javier smirked at the shock on the detectives faces, most of them too stunned to even attempt to stop the boy as he stormed through the sea of desks. His bleach blonde hair and dark roots made him look sort of like an exotic bird from a distance.

Finally, a dark haired woman in her thirties came out of an office. “Mr. Baker, I know you’re upset, but you can’t just bust in here shouting like this.” She settled her hand on his arm.

The guy snatched it back, his tone venomous. “Don’t. Don’t touch me.” His eyes scanned the room, still clearly looking for his target. “I know you’re hear you sack of shit,” he shouted, moving deeper into the room, close enough for Javier to finally get a good look.

The stranger appeared to be in his early twenties, though it was hard to truly know with the numerous bruises covering his face. Judging by the color, they were weeks old at most, long enough for what was probably extensive swelling to heal. He still had a hint of a cut over his brow and one on his full bottom lip. A vessel in his left eye had ruptured, making the pale green of his iris look almost supernatural in the sea of blood.

Even angry, the boy walked with a grace and fluidity that fascinated Javier. He was long and lean, well-muscled, clearly athletic, but even his biceps were covered in healing bruises in the shape of handprints. Somebody—or more than one somebody—had done a number on the kid.

Hate crime? Javier wondered. He wasn’t usually one to jump to conclusions about a person’s sexuality, but the guy’s voice and walk were overtly feminine, even though he was furious, and he had a rainbow heart tattooed on the inside of his right wrist.

It occurred to Javier then. He wasn’t in the violent crimes unit, he was in the sex crimes unit. The boy had been assaulted and recently. Damn.

When he reached the end of the narrow corridor of desks, he stopped short looking at Javier with a hostility he would have found amusing under any other circumstance. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Javier said, sweeping his hand in an after you gesture, just in case the boy was making a left to continue deeper into the labyrinth of hallways where the bigger offices sat.

The boy stayed firmly rooted in place, scowling at Javier with a look that shook him. Beyond the kid’s fury, beyond the indignation, was despair and frustration. He was dying inside. It hit Javier like a physical blow, making him take a step back. That seemed to break whatever spell the boy had fallen under.

“Get out here, you fucking coward,” he called down the hallway.

Finally, a man emerged from one of those coveted senior detective offices from deep in the hallway. Unlike the other detectives in their khaki’s and polos, this man wore dress pants, a stained blue button down shirt and a tie so wrinkled Javier wondered if he’d pulled it out of the trash.

The detective eyed the boy like he was gauging whether he’d be able to coax him back into his office, or if the scene was about to play out right there in front of everybody. He held up his hands in a submissive gesture, like he was a hostage negotiator. “Bowie, I was just going to call you.”

Bowie Baker. Javier liked the way it tasted on his tongue. A nice alliteration.

Bowie sneered at the detective. “Oh, were you?” the boy—Bowie—mocked. “What exactly did that phone call sound like, John.” The boy lowered his voice in a pretty spot on imitation of the man’s vocal register. “‘Hey, Bowie, remember how I told you that we’d get the prick who assaulted you if you just did this super invasive examination, then remember how two days later I called and told you to just drop the case because the man who brutally raped you for hours, the man I promised would be punished, has diplomatic immunity. Remember that? Well, funny story, because he’s suing you for defamation of character and threatening to have you arrested for filing a false police report.’ Was it going to go something like that Was it?”

Another officer started to approach Bowie from behind, his hand on his taser. Hewitt gave the man a look that said don’t do it. The man’s hand floated away from the taser, but others seemed to move closer, circling the two. Bowie was clearly outnumbered if things went sideways. Javier fought the urge to go stand by his side.

“Bowie, I know you’re angry. I get it. But I have no control over who or how the DA’s office proceeds. We just investigate and turn over the evidence.”

“And the evidence you turned over, pointed to me as the criminal?” he fired back.

“Hewitt’s eyes went wide, his look a little wild. “Of course not.”

Bowie sucked his teeth. “You know he did this to me. You know it. He left his DNA all over me, there’s video evidence. The last word caught on a sob, but he quickly sucked it back in. “Still, when you said he gets to walk on some fucking technicality, some arbitrary fucking bullshit called diplomatic immunity, I said fine. I let it go and tried to move on with my life. Because you told me to. Now, they are allowed to accused me of filing a false police report?” Bowie’s voice cracked with some combination of sadness and righteous fury. “He’s following me, you know. Showing up at my dance studio, standing outside my apartment building. Just always watching me. But let me guess. Can’t do anything about that either. Right? Do you wanna lock me up right now? Since apparently I’m the fucking criminal?”

The detective’s face was a distressing shade of purple, flushed all the way to the tips of his almost too small ears. “This is a very… unique situation, Bowie. This isn’t coming from me—us. It’s the DA’s office. We all believe you. We do. Our hands are tied.”

“He’s ruining my life,” Bowie shouted, throwing the balled up piece of paper—presumably the letter received from Mr. Diplomatic-Immunity’s attorney.

Hewitt’s voice sounded desperate. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll increase patrols around your apartment and I’ll go talk to him myself and tell him to back off. Okay?”

The boy scoffed, tears filling his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Because if he doesn’t you’ll write him a strongly worded letter? Terrifying.”

With that he turned, taking a few steps towards the door before saying, “If he kills me, my blood is on your hands.” Then he was gone, leaving the bullpen full of detectives and administrative people to stare after him in stunned silence. Javier found himself staring too.

Whoever had hurt Bowie Baker deserved to be punished, yet not only was he not being punished, he was apparently free to just keep re-victimizing him. Javier was very familiar with those tactics. It’s why he stood outside the room during Annabelle’s interview. It’s why he’d escort her to court. It’s why there was always somebody outside her house. So her attacker knew she had an army on her side. One willing to go to war for her if necessary.

Nobody would be going to war for Bowie Baker.

The idea twisted something inside him. Before he could think much more about it, the door swung open and Annabelle emerged, pigtails swinging, her eyes staring at her sparkly boots. Javier dropped down beside her, careful not to touch her. “Hey, you ready to go?”

She gave a hesitant nod.

“She did great. I don’t think we’ll have to do anymore sessions here. From now on, its the lawyers offices. Please tell her grandmother I do recommend sticking with the strict counseling schedule we agreed on in the beginning. It does help.”

Javier nodded. “I’ll relay the message.”

Annabelle’s grandmother worked two jobs, making it impossible for her to drive her to the numerous appointments that came from being the victim of a violent crime. Doctors, lawyers, cops. It was a grueling process, one nobody should be forced to endure after surviving an attack or assault, least of all an eight-year-old. The guys took turns making sure Annabelle got where she needed to go. It was all part of the gig.

Once they’d made it out of the unit, down the elevator, and through the lobby, Annabelle’s hand slid into Javier’s, her body moving closer to his leg. Javier squeezed her hand. “I got you, little mama. Nobody’s gonna hurt you on my watch. Okay?”

She nodded, but didn’t release her death grip on his hand. He clicked the lock on his Charger, opening the backdoor for Annabelle and making sure she put her seatbelt on. He was walking to the driver’s side door when he saw him sitting on the bench, staring at nothing.

Bowie Baker.

Javier mouthed the boy’s name before he caught himself staring, shaking his head. He dropped into the driver’s seat, but didn’t start the car. He couldn’t. He opened the center console, rummaging for the cards he carried for the volunteer program. His name was printed on the front along with his cell phone number.

He jumped out of the car before he could change his mind, hurrying towards the sad boy on the bench. His head snapped up, eyes wide and fearful as Javier approached. He slowed his walk, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run up on you like that. I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to give you this. My cell phones on the back. We can help you.”

The boy’s fear turned into another scowl, but Javier didn’t say anything more, just returned to the car. He didn’t want to leave Annabelle on her own for more than a minute. “Wanna go through the drive-thru and grab an ice cream?” he asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

The small girl pondered the question before giving a hesitant nod. “Alright. We’ll grab one for your abuela too.”

He pulled away from the curb, his gaze dragging back to the boy on the bench one final time. Would he call? Javier laughed at himself. Why the hell did Javier even give a shit?

Chapter 3

Bowie

Bowie laid on his twin bed, staring at the business card. Javier de la Fuente. He’d traced his finger over the slightly raised letters until the thick paper itself had grown soft. Bowie didn’t think of himself as a snob. He’d grown up strictly middle class. Most of his friends were dancers, who came from all walks of life.

Still, when he’d seen the man rushing towards him, his first instinct had been to run. He hadn’t thought he was a knee-jerk reaction type person. Maybe he wasn’t two weeks ago. He wasn’t a lot of things two weeks ago.

Looking at the card made him feel guilty. When he’d seen him in the station, he’d assumed he was a criminal, which in retrospect made no sense. But when he’d rushed towards Bowie, he’d irrationally thought he had been sent by… him. It was stupid. Especially when it seemed like all he’d wanted to do was help.

Bowie tapped the edge of the card against his lip. Javier didn’t look like a helper. He looked like the kind of person you might run across in a dark alley. He had a skull tattooed across his throat, directly under his chin, a pistol on either side. He’d worn long sleeves, but he had roses tattooed on both hands and something printed on his fingers… Bowie could only imagine the ink that lay beneath. Except he shouldn’t be imagining anything. He needed to focus on the clusterfuck that was his life.

But he couldn’t stop.

Javier de la Fuente was an easy way to disassociate and much more relaxing than thinking of the man trying to torch his whole life. He was tired of feeling like a victim. Even if that was what Javier’s card said. Victim Advocate. Technically, it said Child Victim Advocate. Javier protected child victims.

Bowie had turned down a rape advocate at the hospital, but she hadn’t looked anything like Javier. She’d been a middle-aged woman with an almost too friendly smile and sad eyes. He didn’t want anybody else looking at him with sad eyes. It made him feel like the whole world knew what happened to him. He was tired of it. He wanted his old life back where the worst thing he had to worry about was paying rent and making it to principal before his time ran out. He wasn’t getting any younger.

Being attacked had been really… inconvenient for his dance career. It permeated every aspect of his life. Nobody thought about the appointments with attorneys and doctors and police officers. Missing work. The mental stress of worrying about whether you were going to lose your job as well as your dignity and your safety. Gillian was polite and understanding, but she had a company to run. And dance didn’t stand still for anybody. Especially not a soloist with imperfect turnout.

After the police had told him the DA wouldn’t be pressing charges—that they couldn’t even if they wanted to—he’d been disgusted and furious, but part of him was relieved he’d never have to speak about it again. Not to lawyers or judges. He’d never have to look at his attacker’s face in court. He could just forget about it. Put it in a box on a high shelf in his brain and try to convince himself it never happened. But now all of those things were back on the table, only somehow he was now the villain.

He forced himself to push the thought away. Instead, he’d focus on the man on the card. The advocate who looked more likely to make somebody a victim than to protect them. He was older than Bowie, but he couldn’t say by how much. He carried himself with confidence, had strode towards Bowie like somebody who had never met an obstacle.

He hadn’t been conventionally handsome. Bowie tended to date—well, fuck—other dancers, men with bulging muscles and tree trunk thighs who liked to fuck in front of mirrors so they could watch themselves, critiquing their own form. Sex was just another athletic endeavor to master. Nobody in dance had time for a relationship. The ones who did tended to marry other dancers and then move on from the dancing part of their careers.

But Javier, wasn’t built like a dancer. Despite his broad shoulders, he didn’t look like he was hiding a gym body beneath his baggy clothes, more like somebody who was just naturally lean. He had short dark hair, close cropped, nothing fancy. Like he didn’t have time to care about fussing with something as trivial as being trendy. But he had amazing bone structure, the slightest bit of stubble, sinfully full lips and brown eyes so intense they’d stopped him in his tracks at the police station.

He hadn’t looked at Bowie like a victim. Not even then. He’d examined Bowie like a somewhat amusing quirk

Odette breezed in, still in her tights and a zip front hoodie, not a single blonde hair out of place. She dropped her gym bag just inside the bedroom door and flopped onto her bed. “Ugh, Diego was a real asshole today.”

“He’s an asshole every day,” Bowie said absently.

“Well, yeah, but its usually not aimed at me,” she said, tone pouty.

Bowie rolled his eyes. “You love it.”

She made a face that told him he was right. “Are you ready to go back tomorrow? Everybody has been asking about you.”

He doubted that. He didn’t doubt the gossip mill was churning. The news of his sexual assault had swept through the company like wildfire and, to her credit, Gillian had immediately denounced his attacker, making the other dancers aware of his actions. But Bowie wasn’t popular. He had his friends, his clique, but in a company of fifty dancers, he could count on maybe a handful. Odette was one of them.

She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “Are you still staring at that card? It’s been hours. Why not just call him?”

“For what?” Bowie asked. “So he can hold my hand in court?”

She frowned. “If that’s what you need.”

“I’m not going to court. I don’t have time for that. I have to get back into the studio. I’m already so behind, my feet don’t have a single blister.”

She looked suitably horrified. “So why are you still holding onto his card?”

“Cause he was cute?” It wasn’t a lie exactly.

She frowned. “You said he looked like those guys that stand outside the bodega selling dime bags.”

He had said that. “He did. That didn’t mean he wasn’t sexy.”

Odette stared at him with wide eyes. “Maybe you should go see somebody. Like a professional headshrinker. It seems like you’re not really yourself lately.” He cut his eyes to her, raising his brows. “Not that anybody would blame you. At all. You’ve been through something really bad. But I’m not sure the way to get over it is to fall in love with a criminal.”

“He’s a criminal because he has tattoos?”

“You’re the one who said he looked like a criminal!” she said, exasperated. “Why are you being so defensive of a total stranger?”

That was a really good point. He had no idea.

Fuck. He was really coming apart at the seams.

***