Chapter 2 - The Cage.
Brian yawned and scratched at his side as he stumbled over some debris at the building's entrance. He was exhausted. It was seven am and he'd either been at the hospital waiting on word about Michael or here at the club dealing with the police and fire marshals all night long. He was covered with soot and grime and his designer clothes were ruined - there was a large stain on the knee of his jeans and even a small tear in the elbow of his Hugo Boss leather jacket where it had caught on a jutting wire.
There didn't seem to be anything more he could do here at the moment. Ted, efficient as always even in a crisis, was handling the paperwork and insurance issues. The police couldn't tell him anything yet - they were just starting their investigation into the bombing. He knew there wasn't anything he could do at the hospital where Deb and the rest of the family were waiting on word about Mikey. So, he thought it was time to head back to the loft, get cleaned up and try to get a little sleep.
As he walked the few blocks away to where he'd had to leave his car earlier, he pulled out his cell phone, thinking briefly about calling Justin to make sure once again that the younger man was okay. Despite his fatigue, he felt a twinge of excitement at the thought of his lover. He could hardly believe that he'd finally been bold enough to admit to the man how much he loved him. The mere thought that he could have lost his Sunshine in last night's explosion brought up a new wave of anxiety followed immediately by the same overwhelming sense of relief he'd experienced when he realized that Justin was safe.
Maybe Justin would come join him back at the loft? Brian knew that they still had issues to work out - it had only been a few weeks since their last argument which had resulted in Justin once again moving out. But, the cold touch of mortality he'd had last night was all the incentive Brian needed to try once again to make things right with the only man he truly loved. He would do whatever it took to get Justin back and this time he'd keep him.
Thinking happily about how great the reunion sex would be once he had Justin back in the loft where he belonged, Brian glanced down at his phone, prepared to hit speed dial #1 to call his favorite blond. Unfortunately, he had to wait while the phone powered on. He must have forgotten to turn it back on after the last time he left the hospital last night.
As the power came on, the display informed him that he had three voice mail messages waiting. He quickly punched the button to listen to the messages. He hoped that at least one message would convey good news about his best friend Mikey.
"Hey, Brian," Justin's voice sounded tired and stressed. "There's no way I'm going to be able to get any rest. I'm still too worried about Michael. If you're heading back to the hospital, maybe you could pick me up? I'm going to get cleaned up and maybe paint a little until you get here. Call me. . . *click* . . . Oh . . . *rattle* . . . Fuck!"
The end of the message - that, 'Oh, fuck' - was oddly muted. It was as if the phone had been dropped while Justin was still talking. He sounded startled but Brian couldn't tell if it was a pissed off 'Oh, fuck', a scared 'Oh, fuck' or just your run-of-the-mill, I'm-stressed-out-from-almost-getting-blown-up-tonight 'Oh, fuck'. Brian immediately listened to the message again, but the words were too muffled to convey any further clues as to why the message ended so abruptly.
According to the display the call had come in about 11:30 last night, which would have been pretty much just after he left Babylon. Brian quickly played the other two messages to see if the blond had called back but neither was from him. The second message was from Deb telling him what he already knew - that Mikey was out of surgery but the doctors wouldn't give any further prognosis until he woke up and they had a chance to examine him. The last message was just a hang up received around 1:00 am - probably one of the gang trying to check in.
The tired brunet pushed the button to call Justin back, curious and a little concerned now about that earlier call. It rang several times but no one answered and it eventually went to voicemail. He left a quick, short message, planning to try again after he got home and showered.
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The stocky blond rolled out of the uncomfortable makeshift bed he'd assembled in the corner and stretched. It didn't help much - he'd slept badly and his neck was so stiff now he could barely turn his head. Hobbs looked at his watch noting that it was after eight in the morning. Fuck. He was due at his shitty excuse for a job by nine, which meant he wouldn't have time to run by his apartment for a shower first. Oh well. Like it really mattered how he looked at work these days.
He shuffled over to the front of the wire mesh cage and looked down on the figure huddled on the floor inside. Taylor was still sleeping. Or at least he thought the man was sleeping - he actually hadn’t woken up at all since Hobbs had been forced to knock him out last night. Chris stared intently at the still form but was relieved to see that Taylor’s chest continued to rise and fall regularly, so at least he was still breathing.
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Fucking Taylor always had to make everything difficult. Hobbs hadn’t really planned to hit him but Taylor had started yelling. Chris had to hit him just to shut him up. It was just unlucky that when he slugged him, Taylor had fallen backwards and knocked himself unconscious against that stupid support beam standing in the middle of the damn apartment. Who was the idiot who designed the place with a beam right in the middle of the walkway by the door anyway.
Actually, Chris hadn’t really planned anything that had happened last night after he got to Taylor’s crappy loft apartment. He’d still been staggeringly angry that the bombing hadn’t worked right. He wasn’t really thinking at all when he followed the blond artist up what seemed like a hundred floors of the old falling down warehouse building and surreptitiously watched as Taylor opened the door and went inside an apartment.
At first all he’d done was stand in the hallway, leaning against the wall and panting until he finally got his breath back. He wasn’t exactly in as great of shape as he had been back in his football days and walking up a bazillion flights of stairs had more than winded him. It had taken him more than ten minutes before he recovered to the point that he no longer felt he was going to die from the exertion. Then, he’d cautiously listened at the door for several minutes, not exactly sure what he intended to do now that he was there.
Inside the apartment he could hear Taylor moving around, his feet padding around on the hardwood flooring. He heard a door creak open and then gently thud closed. He heard the sound of something rattling - it sounded like something rolling around in a tin can, maybe. Then there was a soft swishing noise, barely a whisper of sound, but still clearly audible through the paper-thin walls of the tenement.
After standing there for several long minutes, Hobbs was still unsure what it was he was doing. He’d followed Taylor on pure instinct without any plan. Following Taylor wasn’t without precedent, since he’d been following the other man off and on for more than a year now while laying his plans for the botched bombing. This was the first time he’d been to this building though. Last he knew, Taylor was still living in that swanky place off Tremont with his sugar daddy. Apparently Hobbs had missed something if Taylor was living here alone now. But, it was good to know that the blond was living here, apparently alone. Hobbs wasn’t ready to give up his desire for revenge and, whatever plan he eventually came up with, having the faggot living in this rickety old building with absolutely no security made everything easier.
Hobbs listened in while Taylor made a call - seemingly to his bitch mother - telling her he was home and talking again about the incident at the club. From the conversation, it sounded like some friend of Taylor’s had been hurt tonight, so at least the bombing wasn’t a total bust - hurting one of Taylor’s friends was almost as good as hurting the blond himself, as far as Hobbs was concerned.
After the call to his mother, nothing much more happened inside the apartment for some time. Hobbs heard more footsteps and more rattling and swishing noises but that was it. He was getting tired and bored and was just about to leave when he heard Taylor speaking again, this time leaving a message for Kinney. Hobbs was leaning in, eavesdropping again, when he was startled by a noise coming from one of the other apartments on the floor.
His instinct was to hide. He didn’t want to be caught snooping at doorways and wandering around aimlessly in hallways. His hand twisted the doorknob where he’d been standing and he was amazed that it actually turned freely, the door swinging open without a noise. Hobbs rapidly scooted inside just as the door down the hall opened and two jabbering meth-head types came ambling down the passageway. Hobbs pushed the door closed behind him and heard the latch *click* loudly, the sound causing Taylor, who was standing only a few feet away, to spin around.
“Oh,” was all Taylor said, his face showing shock and fear, as his hand, still holding the cell phone fell to his side.
Taylor had already seen him and the meth-heads were still out there babbling in the hallway so he couldn’t go back. There really wasn’t anything else that Hobbs could do at that point except move forward. He took two long steps towards the blond, whose attempt to back away was blocked by a large table set up on trestles in the middle of the room. Hobbs grabbed for Taylor causing the other man to knock against the table, upsetting a tin can with something sticking out of it that fell to the floor with a rattle.
“Fuck,” Taylor said in a breathless voice as Hobbs closed the distance between them and grabbed the cell phone out of Taylor’s unresisting hands. Hobbs adroitly snapped the phone closed, ending the call, then placed the phone on the table top. Taylor was still standing there stunned, unmoving, frozen in place.
“Hello, Taylor,” Hobbs said with a sneer and a low chuckle, crossing his arms and standing tall, elated with how intimidated Taylor appeared. “Love the new digs. You really should have the super fix the lock on the rear door though. You never know who will just wander in.”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Hobbs,” Justin finally found his voice, although his forceful tone was belied by his frightened demeanor.
“Just thought I’d stop in and say hello, faggot. It’s been a while, you know. The last time we talked you were shoving a gun down my throat and threatening to kill me. That wasn’t really the way I wanted to leave things, so I figured we could have another chat. This time, without the gun, and see how brave you are now.”
As he spoke, Hobbs was moving closer to the smaller man, using his bulk to push Taylor around the edge of the table and back towards the rear wall. Taylor’s weight against the edge of the trestle table pushed the still wet painting lying on the top until, as he backed away even further, the canvas toppled over and landed on it’s edge, propped awkwardly against the side of the table.
The crash of the large painting against the floorboards distracted Hobbs briefly. Taylor tried to jig around the much taller and bulkier man, making a dash for the door. Hobbs might not have been quite as nimble, but he was still fast enough to grab ahold of the back of Taylor’s shirt, swinging the slighter man around and causing Taylor to slam into the wall next to the door. The two men grappled with each other, Hobbs’ fists twisted in the fabric of Justin’s shirt, as Justin desperately tried to get to the door. Taylor was yelling obscenities as he struggled to free himself, his strength surprising Hobbs at first since the artist had always seemed so much smaller and more fragile. Taylor managed to get in one good swing which connected with Hobbs’ jaw before the taller man could grab the flailing wrist.
Hobbs was getting fed up and his anger from earlier, which had never ebbed completely, was bubbling up again, boosting his strength with sheer rage. When Justin’s fist made contact with his jaw, even though the punch didn’t hurt much, it was enough to blast away any restraint Hobbs might have had on his anger. With a primal roar, Hobbs pulled back his meaty fist and slammed it into Taylor’s gut with all his strength. Taylor went flying backwards, his feet at least a foot off the ground as his head banged into the metal support beam in the center of the room. The blond crumpled to the floor in a ragged heap, a trickle of blood dripping onto the base of the beam where Taylor’s head lay against it.
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Hobbs shook his head at the still unconscious heap. It was Taylor’s own fault, he thought. But, Hobbs didn’t have time to worry about that or the blond right now. He dug around inside a large canvas duffle bag that had been sitting near his former bed and pulled out a bottle of water which he placed near the cage where Taylor could reach it. If he ever woke up. If he didn’t. . . . well, Hobbs would worry about that later, too.
He double checked to make sure that the cage door was firmly locked, then turned around, grabbed the duffle bag and walked out the door behind him, locking that as well.
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