“I was arrested a week later. Suspicion of rape. Ed had filed the report on me saying I had raped him in the library. The spot he said I did it was one of the few not covered by a camera.
“My parents had to drain their savings to get me out of it. The lawyers, the bail, the civil suit. God, they had to bond their house to get me out. Roberts’ family was wealthy and had the ear of a lot of the Boston elite. I was so close to screwed.
“Someone, somewhere decided to set the Roberts family to rights, though, and we pulled the best judge we could hope for. Judge Helen Allen. She heard the evidence, she heard how my story never changed. She listened when I told my side of the story. She directed that courtroom like one of the conductors at the school. And the jury came back with a not guilty. She ordered the ten year restraining order, and I was released. All bail monies released, and bond paid. Lawyer paid. It was over.”
Marcus stopped again, and I pulled one of the bottles of water over to us, cracking the top open for him. He took a hard pulled on it, and I could tell he wished it was whiskey or maybe even the sterno.
“It wasn’t over, was it?” I asked quietly.
“Not by a fucking long shot.”
I waited, and after another drink of water, Marcus went on.
“I lost all but a few of my friends. My roommate beat the shit out of me on the first day back to classes. I never knew he had a brown belt in Okinawan karate. I did after that night. I had to go to the ER, which was fun.My twink roommate decided that I was a rapist and laid into me, a massive linebacker.Size does not trump skill. Ever.
“I started couch surfing among the few friends I still had. They were happy to pass me along between them, and I only went back to my very expensive dorm room when I knew my roommate was out. I made sure I orchestrated the last semester so I would only be on campus three nights, and home the rest of the time. Four and a half hours back and forth every weekend.
“Even some of the teachers had turned on me, and I could barely pass their classes, tests, and recital panels. But. My guitar teacher never did. He arranged for an audition for a small but well-paying classical group, and I went in December.
“Ed and his groupies met me outside the audition after I had given a flawless performance. Best of my life. I had nailed it, perfect. Every note, every beat.
“After his cronies smashed my guitar, they held me against the wall. Ed grabbed a brick and smashed my left hand. The one that sat on the fingerboard, that made the chords and notes. He kept smashing it. Six times. Four with the flat of it and two with the edge.”
Marcus held up his left hand. “Looks good, doesn’t it?” He put it on the table in front of him. “I spent the rest of December and all of January in the hospital. I had an external fixator, like I was fucking Doctor Strange. The bones healed. There are small pins in some of them. I spent two years relearning how to use my fingers. And for the most part they work. But they were never strong enough, nimble enough again, to play the guitar.”
He lifted his ring finger above the others. For the first time, I saw the tiny round scar there. “Fixator scar. I was able to minimize all of them with wound care.” He curved them and the held them there. Not fifteen seconds later, they started trembling. “That’s it. That’s all I have. That’s all the strength I have. I can type, because the keys are so light now. But the guitar?” He let out a breath.
“I spent my last semester of college learning all the sound tech shit I could cram in my brain, and made sure that my voice lessons were on track and on campus during the middle of the day.”
“Did you ever find out why he did all this?”
Marcus nodded, slowly, sadly. “He was jealous. He’d heard me play, and he knew that he didn’t have the talent I had. He didn’t have a chance at being a professional beyond some cheap jazz clubs. In all the months we were together, I hadno ideahe played. I never saw him practice, not once. I thought he was there for sound production alone. He didn’t practice, as it turned out. He had a natural talent, but he never did anything with it.
“I’d been playing since I was seven. Guitar was my backup for my vocal career. I was good. Fucking good. Then it was gone.
“I can’t even enjoy messing around with the fucking thing because I can’t use my fucking hands that way anymore. He took that from me, and now he’s back. He’s going to take more away from me. My job, my ability to live my life.
“Everything is going backward, Chase. I worked so hard to get where I am. I deserved that award last year. Now it’s all in retrograde. My whole life is spinning backward.”
I wrapped my hands around the nape of his neck and pulled him close, leaning his forehead on mine. “You know what’s good about retrograde? It only appears to be spinning backward. Eventually, the illusion stops and everything starts moving in the right orbit again. I want to be that orbit, Marcus. And I want you to be mine.”
He burst into wracking sobs, and I just held him.
MARCUS
IDRAGGED MY ASSTO THE DOOR of my apartment and let out a sigh. “I’ll see you in the—”
Chase spun me around and kissed me hard. “No. You’re coming in here with me and I’m going to fuck you senseless and you’re going to realize that you’re not doing this alone.”
“I have my parents—”
“Who can’t stay down here because they have a life upstate,” he said, taking my elbow and pulling me toward his apartment. “They love you, Marcus, and they will stand behind you. But I love you too, and I want to help you.”
“You have already,” he said.
He pulled me in close so his next words ghosted over his lips. “Not the way I wanted to, I can’t do that in public.”
The door opened and MC was there nuzzling the wall next to us as we walked in. My mother popped out of the kitchen, holding a chicken pot pie. The place was clean and organized and smelled like…
