Breakneck

Chapter 1: Push

I couldn't draw. I'd asked the nurse for a pen and I'd grabbed a barebacked pink flyer off of the table (FLU SHOTS AT WALGREENS EVERY SATURDAY, ONLY $10), and there were so many people filing in and out of the waiting room, so many faces and twitches and emotions—but I couldn't draw. It was as though someone had pressed the fast-forward button, speeding the faces into a mindless blur. There were emotions sloshing around inside of me, somewhere, below layers of frozen shock and disbelief. I had to draw. Drawing would settle them, let them leak slowly so that I could deal with them—but I couldn't tap into it at all. I couldn't feel anything but icy shock.

I closed my eyes, took in a deep breath, and let the tip of the pen make contact with the paper. I pictured the man who had been sitting across from me for the last hour: skin like black liquorice, head shrunken, eyes yellowed and spilling down his face. He twitched with a nervous energy, as though there was a perpetual current of electricity running through him.

I opened my eyes and moved the pen—did not think—drew the curve of his cheek, the point of his chin, the rounding of his forehead—did not think—drew the line of his nose, the shells of his eyes, the wisp of his hair, which was growing, curling, lengthening right down to his shoulders and suddenly—

Round cheeks.

Slightly parted lips.

Clear, white skin.

Dead eyes.

I crumpled up the piece of paper as tears suddenly shot into my eyes, and as I fought to breathe I clenched my fists. Deep breaths, in and out, in and out, in and out.

Sara Anderson was dead.

"Taylor and Anderson. You know, Justin, between the two of us, we've interchangeable with 0.622% of the population. That's, like, 150,000 people."

"Hey, at least you can get married and change your name."

When Daphne had told me, I'd thought for a moment that maybe they'd gotten the wrong Sara Anderson. There were at least ten of them in Pittsburgh, last time we'd checked, and seven more Sara-with-an-H Andersons. Maybe it wasn't her. God, don't let it be her. Let it be a mistake, a misunderstanding, a joke—

But it had been my Sara Anderson. My Sara Anderson was dead.

We didn't know it, right away. She'd slipped, cracked her skull, and they thought that maybe if they held the skull together and gave her saline, electric pulses and CPR, she'd live. When Daphne and I had arrived, Cal had still been clinging to the hope that his daughter—our Sara Anderson—would be okay. He told me that she was going to be okay, and I felt a surge of hope and relief so powerful I went weak-kneed for a moment. Sara was back beyond the curtains where we couldn't see her, and I didn't know what was happening, but Cal stood there so sure and so proud, grandson asleep in his arms, how could I doubt him?

It had only been two hours ago that the doctor had appeared, and I learned the truth. Cal had denied it up until the doctor let us see her body.

I said goodbye to my Sara Anderson.

Luke woke up when he was transferred from Cal's arms and into mine. I took his arm and helped him wave goodbye to Mommy, feeling nothing more than muted shock.

Cal had lost it, then. He fell to the ground, screaming and raging, and I took Luke back to the waiting room before he started crying, too. Babies are so aware of people's emotions. Daphne was still there in the waiting room, tearful but ready, and she helped me distract myself with Luke until Cal appeared.

"Please," Cal has said hoarsely, his arms reaching for his grandson. "Please, let me hold him. I need to be with Sara."

So Cal had Luke. Daphne had gone home, although not before extracting a promise from me that I would call my parents. And I was sitting here in the waiting room, drawing pictures of my dead Sara Anderson.

It was almost nine, and I knew that I should call my parents.

But the memory of my mother in the car—the fact that she knew, the way that her voice had shook—I couldn't face her. What if she'd told Dad? What if I wasn't allowed to come back home? What if they tried to put me in counseling, or send me away to one of those Jesus camps? What if they told Cal, and I wasn't allowed to see Luke anymore? What if—

"Justin?"

I started so badly, I dropped the pen I'd been clenching in my fist.

Brian stood before me, eyebrow raised.

For a moment, I thought that somehow, he'd felt my pain and come running to my side—he was going to take me back to his loft, let me stay with him and protect my from my parents and love me forever—and then I remembered that Ted was in the hospital.

Brian hadn't come here for me. He didn't love me.

But it had to mean something, that he had actually stopped and spoken to me instead of walking on by and going to Babylon. Right?

"H—hi," I said. My voice caught a little. Thank god I hadn't been crying. With my complexion, it takes ages to get rid of the puffy-eyed, tearstained look.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Brian asked, tone less harsh than his words. "You didn't come here for Ted, did you?"

I shook my head. "No. Just—just a—" My throat closed up and I blinked furiously. "Just a friend."

"Oh," Brian said. Now he looked awkward.

Brian didn't love me. I wanted him to. I wanted him to love me for these five minutes, just long enough for him to gather me into his arms and let me sob into his shoulder; I wanted it so badly it almost hurt. But I knew I couldn't have it, because Brian didn't love me.

But he did love to fuck me.

I abandoned the pen and paper and pushed myself out of the chair. "Help me find the bathroom?"

His other eyebrow shot up.

Lowering my voice, I added, "I want to give my ass a real reason to be sore, not just from sitting in these fucking chairs." And I bit my lip, grinning a little and looking up at him through the fringe of my hair.

It wasn't great, but it made something flash in Brian's eyes and I knew that I had him.

Excitement surged through my veins.

"Follow me," Brian muttered, and a split second later I was scrambling to keep up. He led me down the hallway, hands jammed in his pockets, saying nothing until he made an abrupt left and pushed open the door to the men's room. Then he shoved me into the first stall and growled at me to lock the door.

I was still feeling excitement, but it was now laced with desire, with need. I needed Brian. I needed him to fill me, trap me, push me over the edge, make me forget my name. Sara's name. Sara's face.

He shoved me against the metal wall, his mouth coming down over mine and claiming it. I kissed back furiously, pushing my tongue into his mouth and pulling at his hair, my entire body suddenly taut and hard. I wanted him to pull my hair and I pulled his harder, digging my fingers in and twisting and yanking, all the while drowning in his kiss. I wanted pain. I wanted sharp, needling pain, burning pain, stabbing, ripping, heart-stopping pain.

With a hiss, Brian drew back. His eyes were glittering with a combination of rage and lust that meant nothing good for me.

I shivered.

"Little shit," Brian hissed, spinning me around and grabbing my wrists, forcing them above my head. My face was mashed against the cold metal. "You think you're in control? You think you can hurt me?"

"N—no."

My pants were pulled down before I knew what was happening, and I gasped as Brian's teeth bit down on the back of my neck. He sucked and nipped and sucked and nipped, sending bursts of pleasure and pain down my spine, and I writhed in ecstasy. My cock was already hard and trapped between the freezing metal of the wall and my belly. It was like a sheet of ice, burning the sensitive flesh and sending shockwaves of sensation straight to my pelvis. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't breathe.

And then, with no warning, Brian's finger was in my ass and I suddenly found my voice.

"Aaargh!" I yelled, pressing the length of my body against the metal wall, trying to escape the burn of the intrusion. Tears pricked my eyes and I gasped for breath. My cock throbbed.

"No lube, princess," Brian whispered into my ear. The hand trapping my wrists shifted, adjusting the angle slightly. "Deal with it."

His finger twisted and I arched, gasping.

"Make it hurt," I panted against the metal wall. "I wanna hurt."

"Didn't know you were so kinky, Sunshine," Brian said into my ear, jamming another finger in.

I let out a ragged noise, something close to a sob, and the tears spilled over. Brian's fingers worked inside of me, stretching and tearing as they went, and I couldn't push myself any farther against the wall if I tried. My cock, still burning against the metal of the wall, was beginning to ache with more than just desire. I longed to reach down and pull it free, slide my hand around it and squeeze, pull, give it some relief, but my wrists were trapped. Desperate, I shoved myself against the wall with renewed vigor. There was nothing else I could do.

The sound of foil ripping hit my ears, and fear lurched in the pit of my stomach. I wasn't ready, I wasn't ready, I couldn't take him—

"Ready?" Brian asked.

"Yes," I whispered, tears pouring down my face.

And then he was there, pushing inside of me.

"Ah—ah—ah—"

I struggled not to cry out, but every inch he put in seemed to rip right through me. My body jerked in protest, and a sudden liquid warmth on my stomach told me that my cock was more than willing to take this agony. But it hurt. I was alive and being pulled apart with pain, and by the time Brian was all the way in, I was seeing black spots.

"Fuck me," I breathed, barely able to put any air into the words.

Brian drew out a little, tightening his grip on my wrists, and then he slammed back in.

I screamed.

He thrust again, but this time he changed his angle and there was an explosion of pleasure laced with pain. I gasped and arched, throwing my head back and pushing down, down, down, forcing him deeper and harder against me.

And then he was hitting that spot again and again, driving into it, and I moved with him desperately. I was lost in a haze of agony and pleasure. I could only see dancing black spots, could only hear his ragged breathing. It was only his hand around my wrists that was keeping me from sliding to the ground.

"Harder." It was the only word coming to mind, the only word that made sense. "Harder, harder, harder."

Brian buried his face in my hair. "Fucking slut. Listen to you beg, all hot and needy and tight—"

Then suddenly, his teeth clamped down on my hair and he pulled.

Brian's name was lost in a rush of sounds that escaped my mouth. Sharp, needling pain drove into my skull, and then he thrust into me again and the explosion of pleasure, the fierce ache of my cock, the feeling of Brian's tongue running down my neck and onto my shoulder—my balls tightened, my ass clenched down on Brian's cock, the world went completely black, and I came. Hard.

A strangled yell and a pulsing sensation in my ass seconds later told me that Brian was coming, and I slumped against the wall as his cock pulsed one last time.

Brian slumped against me, releasing my wrists.

I became abruptly aware of how quiet the bathroom was, how loud the sound of my breathing was off of the white tiles. Tears were still running down my face. I couldn't bring myself to care.

Gentle, now, Brian slid out of me with one hand placed on my back. I heard him tie off the condom and then felt both of his hands on my shoulders. "That was hot," he murmured into my ear.

I drew in a ragged, shuddering breath. Euphoria was still making my head spin.

Brian paused, and then he grabbed my face and twisted it so that he could see.

I stared back.

His confusion morphed into horror as he took in my face. "Justin—"

"I'm okay," I interrupted. My voice shook. "It's not—I wanted it like that."

Brian's eyes flashed. "Don't you fucking lie to me—"

"I'm not lying," I said stubbornly, and I wasn't.

I felt free.

The ache in my shoulders, the stinging pain in my ass, the dull throb at the back of my head—they hurt in all the right ways. I needed to cry. The muted shock from before was gone, and the roar of grief that was beginning to form a chasm in my chest was a welcome replacement. I was feeling again. I was an artist. I needed to feel. If I couldn't feel, then I couldn't draw.

"I shouldn't have been so rough," Brian said at length, not looking me in the eye. He grabbed the condom and unlocked the stall door, letting himself out.

I pulled my pants up, ignoring the stabbing pains that shot up my spine as I bent over.

"I wanted it rough," I said stubbornly. I sniffled, grabbed a strip of toilet paper, and blew my nose. With the absence of overwhelming sensation, my tears were finally slowing.

Brian was washing his hands. "What the fuck ever."

"No," I insisted, grabbing his arm. "Not what the fuck ever. I needed it. I needed you."

Brian shook me off.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror before following him out. I looked like a wreck, but I figured that it was a pretty appropriate state for me to be in. At least my eyes didn't look dead anymore. Like Sara Anderson.

"How's Ted?" I asked, as I caught up with him. Walking hurt like a bitch, but it got a little easier with every step.

"He's awake," Brian said shortly. "Shouldn't you be with your friend?"

The pain tore into my chest, and I couldn't breathe for a second. "I—I can't."

I thought about telling him that Sara Anderson was dead, but I knew that Brian wouldn't care. It would only make him push me away more, because dead friends were not attractive on horny bubble-butt twinks.

"I'm going to Babylon," Brian said, as we approached the waiting room where he'd found me. "You should—"

He stopped himself.

"What?" I asked.

"Pick up some cream for your ass. You remember what I have at the loft?"

I nodded.

"Use that. Twice a day. If you're not feeling better by tomorrow evening, you'll need to see a doctor to make sure there's no tearing."

I tried to lighten the mood. "You know, one of the most recent treatments for an anal fissure is to inject Botox into the patient's anus?"

Brian's eyes went to my ass, and I could almost see him speculating. "I don't think that's really necessary."

I grinned.

"See you around, Sunshine."

I watched him walk away, and the grin faded a little because Sara Anderson was still dead, and no amount of fucking would change that.

*

I found Cal in a chair just outside of the ICU. Luke was asleep in his arms again.

"Hey," I said softly.

Slowly, he raised his head. "Justin."

"I—"

I stopped, not sure what to say.

"She's dead," Cal said, his voice hollow. "My Sara is dead. I'm alone."

"You've got Luke," I said. I felt emotion rising up inside of me, no longer screened by shock. Brian had fucked the shock right out of me. "And you've got me."

Cal slowly shook his head, eyes going to the wall across from him.

"Mr. Anderson—"

He stood up. "I need to leave."

My eyes immediately went to Luke, and I felt a flash of despair. "You can't—"

"Take him," Cal said, thrusting Luke at me.

Luke's eyes cracked open and he began to twist in midair, and I quickly took him before his whine could build into a full-blown sob. Luke hated being dangled. His whine petered out as I got a hand under his butt, the other one on his back, and he was asleep against my chest almost instantly.

I looked up, and Cal was depositing the diaper bag at my feet. "He's your son. He can't be mine. Sara was all I had."

And I watched, feeling the shock descend over me again, as Cal walked away from his only grandson without looking back.

*

I had to call my parents. It was past ten, and my mother was probably freaking the fuck out.

*

We didn't have a car seat in my dad's car, so I held Luke on the way home. He was still asleep—he'd been sleeping through the night for almost five months, now. Daphne and I had fed him in the waiting room around seven, so that should have been enough to hold him through the night. I hoped it was. Exhaustion was starting to settle in, over the pain in my ass and shoulders (I made a note to pick up cream tomorrow morning, because there was no way I was getting it tonight), and I wanted to sleep. And dream of Brian.

"You realize that Luke is going back to Cal, right, Justin?" Dad said, from up front.

"Craig," my mother admonished softly.

I said nothing.

"Luke doesn't have to sleep in my room, right?" Molly asked. "'Cause he's not allowed in there. It's for girls only."

She was cranky because it was past her bedtime. And it was funny, because before Luke, I wouldn't have known that.

"Use your indoor voice, Molly," Mom said gently, turning around in her seat. "Luke's sleeping."

"He's sleeping with me, anyway," I said. For some reason, the thought of him in another room—

I knew that I wasn't going to raise him. But I was his father, and Sara was dead, and Brian didn't love me, and Cal had walked away. I needed Luke with me tonight.

"I think we still have the crib up in the attic," Mom said quietly. "I'll bring it down tonight."

"He's not staying, Jennifer," Dad cut in sharply. "He's going back to Cal Anderson in the morning."

"Luke's only eight months old, Craig," Mom returned, her voice cool. "He needs a crib to sleep in."

Dad said nothing. We turned onto our street.

When we pulled into the drive, Dad was the first one out. He slammed the door of the car shut and stormed off to the house.

"Is Daddy mad?" Molly asked.

"He's just upset, sweetheart," Mom said, unbuckling her seat belt. "Go get your pajamas, and don't forget to—"

"Brush my teeth," Molly interrupted, rolling her eyes. "I know, Mom. I'm not a baby like Luke. I'm almost nine."

I slipped the diaper bag over my shoulder and, careful not to jostle Luke too much, slid out of the car. Molly ran ahead into the house, yelling that the last one in was a rotten egg. She'd always had this amazing ability to not recognize when tensions were running high. Probably, she couldn't even comprehend the idea of death, or maybe she just didn't miss Sara. She never really knew her. God knew she'd never been allowed over the house.

"Justin?"

Mom's voice broke my thoughts, and I gave her a faint smile before heading up the path to the door. I didn't think that she told Dad what she knew. Or hell, maybe Dad was just being nice because Sara was dead.

But then again, Dad hadn't been what you would call nice tonight.

"Go upstairs and get into your pajamas," Mom said quietly. "As soon as I'm done tucking Molly in, I'll get the crib and we can set it up."

She put a hand on my shoulder, the one that ached particularly because of earlier with Brian in the bathroom, and also because that was the arm that I was using to carry most of Luke's weight. I wondered if she was purposely forgetting the fact that I was gay, and I wanted to bring it up. I wanted to shove it in her face. But I was tired and hurting and anyway, it would wake Luke up and that was the last thing I wanted. So instead I just shrugged her hand off and headed upstairs.

*

The crib still had pink and purple frills on it, from when Molly had had been sleeping in it. Fortunately, it required a hammer to reassemble, so Mom just brought down the collapsible bassinet instead.

"Your father isn't mad at you," Mom said, as she pushed the holders into place, insuring that Luke wouldn't be crushed while he slept. "He just—he deals with anger better than anything else."

"I know," I said quietly.

It wasn't true, of course. But it was what Mom had been telling me ever since Dad had first blown up at me, when he heard that Sara didn't want to have an abortion.

"There. And here's a—"

"His blanket's in the diaper bag," I interrupted. I inhaled, exhaled. "Sara says—Sara said that he sleeps with it every night."

Mom paused, and then nodded, unzipping the diaper bag. "Well, then, that's what he'll have."

I laid him down in the bassinet, and tried not to think about how soft and cushy the mattress was. Firm mattresses had been shown to decrease the risk of SIDS. And bassinets really weren't meant to be used beyond the age of four months, or really, as soon as the baby could roll over, because a bassinet typically wasn't stable enough—

"He'll be fine for one night, Justin," Mom said, laying a hand on my shoulder.

I shook her off, tearing my eyes away from Luke. I knew I was being stupid.

I sat down on my bed (my ass protested, but I was too tired to care) as Mom laid the blanked over Luke. I was done. I had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow, and I didn't have the energy to worry about it.

"I'll call St. James tomorrow and let them know that you're not coming in," Mom said, sitting down next to me. "We'll figure this all out in the morning, okay?"

I nodded. I closed my eyes and let myself lean closer to her, laying my head on her shoulder and trying to seek comfort.

Her hand came up and stroked the side of my head as I inhaled her scent, and it was wrong. I didn't want my Mom. I wanted Brian. I wanted the smell of cigarettes and sweat and sex, and I wanted his hands running through my hair, his strong arms around me—

The unfairness of it all rose a sob in my throat, and I jerked away from Mom.

"I wanna be alone," I whispered.

Mom was quiet for a moment, and then she pressed a kiss to the side of my head. "Okay. If you need anything, Justin—if you want to talk, or cry, or watch Yellow Submarine, just come and get me. I don't care what time it is."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

She left, leaving the door cracked open, and I shoved my face into my pillow to muffle my sobs.

*

Luke was up at six, demanding a diaper change, and I had done it enough times that I was able to stumble through it half-asleep. I thought about leaving the dirty diaper on the counter, just to gross Molly out, but then I remembered that Sara was dead, and I just dropped the diaper in the trashcan. I put Luke back in the bassinet with a toy cell phone he loved to slobber on, and lay back down on my bed. Luke was gurgling happily when I fell back asleep.

*

I was woken up around eight by Luke's whimpering, but this time I knew he was hungry. I'd never done a morning feeding before, but a few of the times that I'd gone over to Sara's in the morning, I'd been early enough to catch Luke with oatmeal smeared all over his face. So... breakfast. I'd have to see what was in the diaper bag and what I could scrounge up in the kitchen.

"Hey, little man," I whispered as I lifted Luke out of the bassinet. I winced at the twinges up pain from my ass, but it was a major improvement from last night.

Luke's face crumpled upon seeing me. He was probably expecting Sara.

"Sorry, dude," I said, swallowing. "You're stuck with me."

Luke continued to cry as I picked up the diaper bag, but he calmed down a little when I bounced him lightly. By the time I got down to the kitchen, we were only dealing with a few residual sniffles.

There was a high chair at the table, and Mom was whisking batter in a bowl.

"Is Dad at work?" I asked.

Mom nodded. "He's going to stop by Mr. Anderson's house on his lunch break. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. C'mon, dude, let's get you in your high chair. Look, it's got Care Bears on it. I bet you don't know who they are. They were old when I was your age."

Luke settled into the high chair well, and I decided to check out the diaper bag.

"We have Cheerios," Mom offered. "Does he eat those? He's eating solid food, right?"

I nodded. "Breakfast is usually formula, oatmeal, bananas, and a little bit of yogurt. Sara switched out the oatmeal for Cheerios, sometimes, and he was fine with it." There wasn't any yogurt in the bag, but there was a banana and some formula.

"He looks just like you, when you were a baby," Mom said, with more than a trace of nostalgia.

Luke had the same white-blonde hair that I'd had at his age, but his eyes were a gray-green color, not blue. He didn't have any other distinct qualities, as far as Sara or I could tell—there was no, "Oh, he has your nose," or "Look, he got your chin,". Luke looked like a baby. That was about it.

"Cal's gonna raise him," I said, although I wasn't sure if I was reminding my mother or myself. I busied myself preparing the formula.

"Someone's going to have to do it," Mom said.

Someone that wasn't me.

*

This all changed, however, when Dad came home a little after noon. Luke and I were playing a game where he threw his little stuffed hippo and then giggled as I retrieved it for him, and Mom was sorting laundry.

"Cal Anderson is gone," he said flatly, staring at me as though it was my fault.

Luke's hippo went sailing past me as I stared.

"What do you mean, Craig?" Mom asked, ever unflappable.

"I mean, he's gone," Dad said. "He didn't show up for work, won't answer his phone, and the house is dark and closed up. I don't know where the hell he is."

He was still glaring at me.

"You think I do?" I asked incredulously.

Luke got impatient and began making agitated noises, and I quickly leaned over and picked up his hippo.

"Well, he'll be back, of course," Mom said reasonably. "I'm sure he just needs some time."

"And what? We're left raising his kid until then?" Dad demanded.

"He's my kid," I threw in, my irritation rising.

Dad glanced at me. "You're seventeen, Justin. You can't raise a child."

"Sara was doing it," I said stubbornly, although I wasn't sure why I was arguing. I knew as well as Mom and Dad did that I couldn't keep him. I had a whole life in front of me—college, art, Brian—and I couldn't give that up.

"I'm sure Cal will be back," Mom said soothingly, crossing the room to rub my father's shoulders.

"We're not raising his kid," Dad said again, glaring at Luke, now. "We'll give him a week, and then the kid goes up for adoption."

My head snapped up. "What?"

"What else are we going to do with him?" Dad asked, gesturing at Luke impatiently. "I'm not raising him. You certainly aren't raising him."

My mouth dropped open, and I had to fight back the tears that sprang to my eyes.

"Craig, I don't think—"

"That's fucked," I choked out, and both of my parents stared at me in shock.

"You watch your mouth," Dad warned.

I swallowed, anger overtaking my hurt. "I'm not sending him off to live with some strangers—he's my son, and if I have to raise him, then I'll do it! I'll drop out of school! I don't care! I—"

Luke began to wail, and I realized that I was shouting. I quickly lowered my voice, feeling vaguely embarrassed, and scooped him up. I glared at my father, who glared back.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, here," Mom said, sounding nervous. "We don't know that Cal isn't coming back."

"Luke isn't going up for adoption," I said quietly, rubbing his back. He was quieting again. I gave him a pacifier, and he sucked away happily.

Dad stared at me for a long moment, clearly restraining himself from saying a multitude of things, and finally he said, in a low voice, "While he's here, you're to keep him in your room. You'll feed him, change him, play with him, and you'll pay your mother to watch him while you're at school. Any time you want to go out, you're going to have to find a babysitter."

Anger pounded in my veins. "Fine."

"Raising a child is not something to be taken lightly," Dad went on, eying Luke. "Hopefully, by the time Cal comes back, you'll have realized that."

I glared.

He was partially right. Taking care of a baby was a huge time investment, one that I very nearly didn't have the ability to make, but I didn't care. Some instinct inside of me had awoken, filling me with a thrum of power and determination that I had never before known.

Luke was my son. No one was going to take him away from me.