Martin Risner stares out the living room picture window and watches the towering redwoods sway against the deepening indigo sky. He counts seconds between the lightning flash and the sound of the thunder. Storm’s still off a ways. But it’s coming, and a smile creeps across his face. Martin loves storms—the power, the drama, the rain. Had John shared his enthusiasm, they’d be enjoying the storm together right now.
Christ, they’re so old and boring.
He looks through the telescope—John’s housewarming gift to the both of them years ago, and spies lightning cells dancing along the southern ridge. He watches, astounded by the beauty, and saddened by another shared moment missed.
Front gate buzzer sounds.
Can’t be anyone for John’s clinic. Everyone in the area knew to use John Muir Hospital in Auburn if there’s an emergency after five. Has to be some idiots looking for wine tasting who didn’t bother to read the sign on the stone wall that says ‘Private Residence.’ Martin can’t see who it is. Gate camera is still out. John promised to fix it about a hundred times already. Promises. Promises.
He ignores the first three rings, but by the fourth he goes down the hall and presses the button. “What is it?”
“Martin, is that you? It’s James Whren. Could you open the gate?”
His heart practically skips a beat. My Chiseled Art? No. Couldn’t be. The voice, and British accent sounds familiar, but strange, more East End than cultivated. Besides, James hadn’t used his father’s last name since he left England.
“Who is this?”
“Martin, it’s James—Logan. Will you please open the gate?”
“James?” He can’t believe it. “Is that really you?”
“Yes! Open the gate, Martin.”
He presses the gate release. Has to be some sort of joke. James has never just shown up. But Martin isn’t too concerned with letting whoever it is in. Cameras at the front of the house still work. Can see who it was without ever having to open the front door. Would be wild if it was James. My beautiful James. Last time Martin saw him was at Ian’s funeral, over a year ago now. Was some weird rumor going around about him after that. What was it?
He turns on the floodlights and lights up the front of the house like daylight. He’d heard James was on a DreamWorks project at Apple in London. No. It was something else. Something stupid and he’d dismissed it. Oh well. He’ll think of it later.
Martin stands in the foyer and watches a white SUV come on to the security monitor. Windows are up and reflective so he can’t see who’s inside. He waits for the car to stop when it comes to the center circle, but it doesn’t. It keeps going, very slowly, and sideswipes the fountain. Martin stares at the screen in shock. Car finally jerks to a stop. Then the horn starts blaring.
He can’t believe it. And right then it hits him he’s not watching TV. Martin runs from the house and out to the car, and hesitated only a second when he sees the driver’s door swing open. Young woman sits behind the wheel. She has one hand on the horn but releases it upon seeing Martin. Her other hand holds the face of a young man seemingly asleep in her lap. Upon closer examination Martin sees the man is James.
“Are you Martin Risner?” she says above the beep, beep, beep of the open car door.
“Yes.”
“Your friend needs your help. I’m not sure he’s breathing.” She looks at Martin. Tears streak down her freckled cheeks. Flaming red hair tumbles over her shoulders and frames her wide, delicate face.
Martin reaches over and pulls the keys far enough from the ignition to stop the incessant beeping.
James suddenly opens his eyes, gasps for air and bolts upright. He sits in the passenger seat holding his right side, choking, struggling to breathe. He's very pale. His lips are purple, bordering on blue. He stares at Martin then looks back at the woman driving, glares at her actually.
“Fuck! Why are we here, Kate? I thought you were going to drop me at a motel. This is stupid—” Then he takes a deep breath and starts coughing again.
“I never said that. Look, I’m just trying to help you–”
“You’re not. You’re making it complicated.” His face contorts in pain as he starts to get out of the car, but he keeps moving with only a moment’s hesitation. Moves his legs out and onto the gravel drive, and then just sits there.
Martin goes around the car to the passenger side, and sees John coming from the clinic toward them, his white lab coat whipping around his lanky frame.
“It’s James Logan.” Martin yells as John approaches. “Something happened to him.”
James pulls himself out of the car, stands, and almost falls. Martin moves to help, but James pushes him off. He leans against the car panting icy smoke, holding one hand out to keep distance, with the other he clutches his right side, all his attention focused on the simple act of breathing. He looks at Martin as if to speak, then his eyes rolled back in his head and close as he slides against the car onto the ground.
Martin moves to catch him but misses. Kneels next to James slumped motionless against the SUV, and shudders in sudden terror that James is dead. Second later, John kneels in front of James. Martin stands, moves out of John's way, where he so often finds himself these days. The woman James called Kate comes around the car and stands beside him.
“Are you hurt?” John glances back at her.
She shakes her head as John turns back to James and feels his neck for a pulse.
“No! Get away!” James wakes, panicked, punches John in the chest with the base of his palm then slugs him in the jaw with a closed fist as he scrambles to get up.
Martin gasps as John’s head snapped back, but then John turns back on James, grabs his wrists and pins them against the car on either side of his head.
“What the hell’s wrong with you! James! It’s me. John. Look at me!”
James freezes under John’s grip. Trembles violently. Eyes are black, wide, and vacant. “Get the fuck off me or I’ll fucking kill you." He speaks in a harsh whisper but Martin hears him and is stunned. The James he knew abhorred violence, and rarely cursed.
“James, look at me! I’m John. You know me. Focus on me.” John releases him, holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m trying to help you. Okay?”
James doesn’t respond. He sits there shaking, his hands still fisted against the car, black eyes fixed on John—but not on him, more like through him, locked in some terrible place. When he blinks, tears fall. Then his eyes roll back in his head again.
“Hey! Stay with me, James.” John stays kneeling in front of him. “Hey. Hey! Focus on me.”
James looks at him then. Connects. His dazed gaze travels to Martin, then Kate, then back to John. He brings his arms to his sides and spreads his long fingers wide on the gravel drive. “Shit, man. I’m sorry...I...I thought...You okay?” He reaches up to John’s face where he’d hit him, but in doing so it must have hurt because he sucks in his breath sharply, brings his hand to his ribs and holds them, again struggling to breathe.
John studies him. “I’m going to check out your ribs, okay?” He moves slowly, gently probing James torso. “Can you stand?”
James stares back at him blankly.
“Come on, man. Stay with me, James. Focus on me.”
He does, squints at John then flashes his infamous wily, single dimple grin.
Martin smiles, can’t help it. Even totally ravaged, James is still magnificently adorable.
“You need to lie down before you puncture a lung, if you haven’t already.” John glances up at Martin. “Let’s take him to the guestroom. He’ll be more comfortable than in the clinic. Get his left side, I’ll get his right.” He looks back at James as Martin takes position. “I’m going to take your arm and put it around my neck. And Martin is going to do the same with your other arm. Ready?”
“Hey, Martin.” James says casually as Martin kneels down beside him. His usually stunning green eyes were now black marbles. His thick, chestnut hair is longer than Martin has ever seen it—hangs in wild waves just past his shoulders, framing his drawn, slightly stubbled cheeks, exaggerating their hollow and accentuating his square jaw.
“Okay. Here we go. Ready?” John takes James’ hand and draws his arm around his shoulder and nods at Martin to do the same.
James sucks in a gasping breath just this side of a scream as John and Martin help him stand.
John looks at Kate as he guides them forward. “What happened to him?” James takes a few drunken steps but for the most part, Martin and John carry him.
“We were in a car accident up near Tahoe.” Kate follows them. “He wouldn’t go to a hospital. He wanted me to just drop him off at a motel but I wouldn’t, so he told me to take him here.”
“Was he unconscious most of the time, or was he in and out?”
“In and out, but more out after a while.”
“What was his longest period unconscious?”
“The half hour before we got here.”
James’ dark flannel shirt ripples in the fierce wind. He looks absolutely gaunt. He’s easy to carry, surprisingly light, especially for almost dead weight. James is close to six feet, was an avid runner and surfer, a beautifully built athlete. What happened?
“It’s going to be okay, James. You’re going to be fine.” Soothes Martin to repeat it endlessly as they round the car and head for the house. Cold wind whistles through the trees and before they make it to the front doors, an icy rain starts to fall. Martin feels James shivering.
“Did he vomit at all? Spit up blood.” John continues the third-degree.
“He didn’t throw up, but he spit up something and it may have been blood. I couldn’t see.” Kate paces John, practically yelling her responses over the wind and rumbling thunder.
“We’re almost there. You’re going to be okay, James,” Martin chants as they dragged him through the doorway into the warm house. They make their way through the foyer to the guestroom and John tosses aside the quilted maroon comforter and they gently release him onto the double bed. His eyes are still open but he looks dead, like he’s been dead for quite a while. “You’re okay, James. John’s going to take care of you. You’re going be fine.”
“I’m sorry, Martin. I shouldn't be here.” James closes his eyes.
John sits on the bed next to him. “Would you get his boots off, Martin?”
More a command than request, as again was so often the dialog between them of late. James does not stir as Martin removes his boots and John gently unbuttons his shirt. Martin feels that familiar twinge of desire watching John strip him. James was on the bed, unconscious before him, not frenetically working, enraptured with his muse. Martin’s spent many hours fantasizing about having James in his bed...He looks away, at Kate, to suppress his misplaced, unrequited lust.
She stands in the doorjamb, as if unsure she's welcome, staring down at James. Young, early to mid-twenties; her red hair pulled over her slender shoulders is offset by an oversized black cashmere sweater. Irish ancestry most likely, by her fair skin tone and blushed cheeks. Then all the color suddenly drains from her freckled face. Martin looks back down at James as John peels back his flannel shirt.
Torso still defined, with that surfer build James always had going, but red, purple and gray bruises spot his flat, tight stomach. Three inch gash across several ribs is oozing blood but has started to clot. White of bone presses under his skin below the gash along his right side. It’s disgusting.
“Oh my God. He’s a mess.” Kate whispers. She draws in a quick breath, her soft mouth quivers. She blinks and tears slide down her cheeks.
“Lying flat will keep the pressure off his lungs.” John lifts James’ eyelid and shines a penlight he’s retrieved from his lab coat pocket in his eye. James doesn’t stir, his black eye stares ahead blankly. “It’s either a concussion, or drugs, that concern me.” John lifts James’ other eyelid. “Concussions are tricky. Bleeding in or around the brain can cause seizures, coma.” John releases James’ eyelid and it closes. “And it’s even trickier if he’s on something.” Then he unbuttons James’ shirtsleeve and pushes it up his forearm. “God damn son of a bitch,” he whispers.
Martin’s breath catches in his throat. He hears Kate gasp.
James’ wrist is callused, bruised, the skin stripped to red in parts, like irritation from restraints. But even more disturbing is the long vertical cut on the inside of his forearm. The jagged red scar runs from the base of his wrist, six or more inches up the middle of his arm. John unbuttons James’ other shirtsleeve and pushes it back. His left arm is equally disfigured.
“These wounds are fairly recent, maybe a few weeks or so old.” John runs his fingers gently over the cuts. “And they’re not defensive wounds.” He glances at Kate. “You know anything about this?”
Kate stares back at him and shakes her head. “I met him two hours ago, when he smashed into me.”
Martin is sure he’s going to be sick. “Why would James do something like that?”
“I don’t know, Martin. But it looks like he was serious. I think your friend is in some major trouble.”
It annoys Martin how John phrased that. My friend, like he hadn’t known James for the last fifteen years, too.
“My uncle Calvin killed himself.” Kate stands rooted to her spot in the doorway and speaks just above a whisper. “Sliced his wrists and bled out in the tub. I was the first one in the bathroom. I was six. I remember because it was right after my birthday party. I was going to show everyone what a big kid I was taking a bath all by myself.”
Martin tastes the tofu curry at the back of his throat and swallows repeatedly to keep lunch down. John is engrossed in examining James and does not acknowledge she’s spoken. Martin hates that. Lately, John does that to him all the friggin’ time.
“I’m sorry,” is all Martin can think of to say. And suddenly he remembers the rumor. It was a few days after Ian’s funeral. Who was it that told him, James was busted for meth at Heathrow on his way home, and had to do mandatory rehab? Martin didn’t give it a lot of thought at the time. It seemed absurd. He’d known James to indulge in various amphetamines that work cronies supplied him during sessions. Working twenty hour days, most everyone did something. Martin, and other friends of Bill W., lived on triple espressos. James was addicted to music, not drugs. Martin had never known James to use meth, or any hard drugs, and he’d never be so stupid to carry it overseas. Gossip abounds in the Industry. Martin had figured James was totally immersed in studio. It was easy to lose James. It happened often.
John pulls the comforter up to the middle of James’ chest and tucks it around him, strokes the hair from his face gently. Martin caves. He loves the softer side of John.
“I need some things from the clinic. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” And John gets up from the bed, hesitates only a moment for Kate to step aside then exits the guestroom.
Martin turns to Kate now standing in the hallway. “Come in. Come in. Sit down. You must be exhausted. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. I’m Martin Risner.” Extends his hand to her from where he stands near the bed so she’ll have to come into the room to shake it.
She does, hesitates before crossing the threshold and planting herself next to the Deco dresser before shaking Martin’s hand. “Kate McConnell.” Her eyes fill again and she looks back down at James as her tears fall. “I’m real sorry about your friend.”
“Thank you for helping him, bringing him here.”
Her hand covers her mouth. She inhales sharply, her entire body trembles as she pulls her hair back then wipes her eyes and nose on her sleeve. “I did this. It’s my fault. I didn’t see his car. The accident was my fault. There’s no way he could have stopped.” She takes a quivering breath. “I’m really so very sorry.” She never takes her eyes off James.
“Hang on a minute, girl. Kate, right?” She nods.
“Hey. That’s why they call it an accident,” Martin assures her. “And accidents happen all the time.”
She finally looks at him with glassy green eyes.
“I was high, Mr. Risner. I was coming from an office party and I was totally buzzed.”
Rage, compassion and regret consume him almost simultaneously, and Martin can’t think of what to say. The only sound in the room is James’ labored breathing. Martin flashes back to the memory of the cyclist flying over the hood of his BMW on his way home from yet another drunken Halloween in the Castro, and shame encases him.
“It was an accident,” he assures her again. “And, please, call me Martin. I may be old enough to be your father, but Mr. Risner is my dad, and the inference is rather...disturbing.” He’s trying to lighten things up but it isn’t working. Kate stares down at James. “He is extraordinary looking, isn’t he?” Martin knows it’s catty, especially given the circumstance, but he sees the way she looks at James, like everyone looks at James. Kate glances at Martin. Her face flushes.
“He’s going to be fine, Kate. John will take good care of him.”
She nods.
“You didn’t have to bring him here. You could have dropped him at a motel and driven away. But you didn’t. You’ve done all you can to help him. Your conscience should be clear.”
“Right.” She shakes her head. “He’d be in Tiburon, safe and sound, with his very expensive sports car by now if it weren’t for me.”
“Maybe.” Martin flashes the faintest smile. “But a mile down the road he may have hit a jackknifed truck and died.”
Kate looks at him then, gives him a faint smile. “Are you always this philosophical, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”
“Bit of both.” Martin studies her. “How do you know he was going to Tiburon?”
“He told me on the way here. He said he was coming from Boston on his way to Tiburon and that he didn’t live anywhere. But I really doubt he’s homeless.”
“No, James isn’t homeless. At least he didn’t use to be. He has a gorgeous home overlooking Zuma Beach, near L.A. At least, he did. What else did he say to you?”
“Not much. He was pretty out of it.” She looks back at James. “His car was totaled. Instantly. Then it blew up. God….”
“Blew up? With him in it?”
“No. He’d gotten out by then.”
“What kind of car was he driving?”
“A little sports car, a Porsche Spyder I think, like the kind James Dean got killed in. Why?”
Martin leans back against the dresser, three feet from where Kate stands. “James had a hybrid of some sort. He never owned a Porsche, not that I know of, anyway.”
“He told me it wasn’t his. He said it was a friend of his, and she’d got it from a divorce settlement so she wouldn’t care that it got wrecked. But I care.” She takes another quivering breath. Tears slid down her cheeks again.
Martin watches her but she doesn't look at him. She stares down at James.
John comes back right then and sets a small black case, some washcloths, a bottle of something clear, and the iPad under his arm on the Mission end table. He sits on the bed, opens the case and pulls out a filled syringe.
“John?” James blinks heavy-lidded at him. “Am I dreaming?”
“No. I’m here, James.”
James looks confused, like a child upon waking from a nightmare. Martin moves closer to the bed. “Martin?” His eyes open wide. “What is this place? What’s happening?”
“You’re at Paradise, James, at our vineyard in Sonora, in our guestroom.”
“Do you remember coming here with your friend tonight?” John glances at Kate. She gives James a quick smile as he looks at her.
“Kate? Shit. What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.” He tries to sit up, starts choking and falls back against the pile of pillows.
“Relax.” John holds his shoulder to the bed. “You need to be still, flat on your back. You’ve got a broken rib, which is why you’re having trouble breathing, and what looks like a concussion, unless you’re on something. Are you on drugs, James?”
His black eyes almost twinkle. He half-laughs, thick with irony. “Nope.”
John nods once, to himself. “Okay. Then we’ve gotta get you over to Muir, get you stabilized. You’re gonna be fine—”
“No. Can’t go to a hospital.” He stares at Kate. “Must be why I told you to take me here…”
“I can’t do a CT here. There could be swelling—”
“I don’t care. No hospitals. Please. You’ll crucify me if you force me into a public position.” He stays on John a minute then fixes his gaze on Martin. “And no one knows I’m here. You get it, Martin? No gossip. No bullshit.”
“I get it, James. Relax. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”
James narrows his eyes on Kate. “You shouldn’t be here. You have to leave.” His gaze stays on her until John lifts the syringe and James catches sight of it. Eyes go wide and he scrambles up but John pins his shoulder against the pine headboard. “No! No meds. You’re not putting me out. No.” He glares at John, trembling, his huge hands on John’s arm and chest trying to push him off.
“It’s Fentanyl, James, for the pain.” John releases him and sits back on the bed, needle still in hand. “It’s only a low dos—”
“I don’t want it.” James slumps back, struggling to breathe again, hand clutching his ribs. “Unless you OD me.” He flashes a sardonic grin, but Martin’s sure he’s not joking.
John stares at him, shakes his head, drops the syringe on the end table. He glances at Martin, brows furrowed, clearly concerned, which concerns Martin. Then he reaches for his black bag, takes out some bandages and lays them on the bed. He wets a cloth with rubbing alcohol and James recoils on contact as John cleans the bloody gash.
“Breathe, James.” John commands.
James releases a wheezing breath and gasps for another. “Want to tell us what's going on?” John inquires as he
bandages the wound.
“No.” James retorts, flinching with John's touch.
“Try and relax. This will just take a minute.” He wraps James’ ribs, guiding him gently forward as he brings the ace bandage around his back.
“Kill me or be done, John.” Sweat trickles down James' face. John’s pause is barely perceptible before he clips the bandage closed and smooths it out against James’ torso. James sinks back into the pillows piled up against the pine headboard.
His hair is scattered in his eyes which are half-mast, red rimmed and surrounded by dark. He looks like the lead in a punk band.
Martin recalls their last encounter, at Ian’s funeral. They didn’t really talk then, just that quick handshake in the chapel. At the grave site, James was across from him, rocking out to some tune in his head. The man was possessed. He was fine then, gorgeous as always. He’d been the silent center of attention. Martin wonders if anyone else caught him fingering.
“Well, that’s about all I can do right now.” John says as he checks James’ eyes with the penlight again. Martin spies a thin ring of luminous emerald around James’ enlarged pupils before John pockets the light, then pulls his tablet from the end table and begins filling in fields of a chart.
“You need to leave, Kate. Now.” James lays slouched against the pillows watching her.
She stares back at him, her face flushes crimson.
“Ignore him.” Martin senses Kate’s embarrassment, and knows her guilt. “He’s out of his mind, clearly. You’re welcome to stay, Kate, as long as you like.”
James scowls at Martin, blinking to keep his eyes open.
“Couple hours sleep and I’m outta here, too.”
John glances at James and shakes his head but doesn’t say anything.
“This is too fucking hard. I want to be done.” James whispers then closes his eyes. Then his body goes slack and he sleeps, his breathing even for the first time that evening.
Kate stands stone still at the end of the dresser by the doorway. “Is he going to be okay?” she asks in a small voice.
“I have no idea.” John stands and faces her. “I don’t know the extent of his injuries. We’ll give it until morning, monitor his vitals. If he doesn’t respond the way he should, then he goes to Muir. He’s probably better off here right now. It’ll take an hour or more to get to Auburn in this rain, and the winding roads wouldn’t help him any. He needs to be still. Warm, dry, and still.” He gathers his syringe off the table, caps and pockets it, then picks up his iPad, tucks it under his arm and looks at Martin. “I have to find the power pack for the heart monitor, and the portable defib, and research seizure meds. I may be a while. Call me if you notice anything weird.”
“What do you mean, ‘weird?’”
“If he stops breathing, Martin. Call me if he stops breathing.”
Martin ignores his condescension, sort of. “What’s the likelihood he’ll stop breathing?”
“I don’t know. I’m a doctor, not God. He just needs to be still, flat on his back and he’ll probably be fine. Don’t worry about it.” John looks at Kate. “I’m more worried about his friend here. Kate, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you were not injured in the accident. Is that correct?”
“No. Yes. I mean...I’m not hurt.”
“Good. Your car seems fine, too.” He reaches in the pocket of his lab coat and pulls out her keys. “I moved it into a parking space by the clinic.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry for wrecking your fountain!” She’d completely forgotten about hitting it when James passed out in her lap. “I’ll pay for whatever it costs to repair. I’m really sorry.”
“No need. The damage to the fountain is minimal as well.
Nothing a bit of concrete won’t fix. Your follow-through in bringing James here is admirable. Thank you.” He stays focused on her a moment. “Well then, Martin will look after you. He can fix you a strong cup of green tea.” He glances at Martin then leaves the guestroom.