Patient Privilege (16 page)

Moaning hard, he wrapped one hand around the phone and held it securely against his ear. He gripped his hard-on with his free hand and began stroking it slowly as Marshall softly, seductively coached him.

"Imagine my mouth wrapped around your cock, Erik. How does it feel?"

Erik's eyes closed. His head rolled back and his chest heaved with every breath he took. "So warm," he rasped. "So moist. My God, your tongue is amazing, rolling back and forth across my shaft. You see that pearly bead?"

"Mhm," Marshall purred.

"Lick it away."

"Yes, baby! I'm running my tongue over the slit, licking away your body's gift to me."

"How did it taste?"

"Hot," Marshall gasped. "Salty and warm. I want more of it, Erik. I want to swallow every drop. I want to make you come, make you feel so good you never forget me and never want anyone else. Come for me, baby!"

Erik's hand picked up the pace, fingers tightening and rippling as they moved up and down his shaft. Pressure made his thighs quiver and his sac tighten. His legs spread wider. "I wish you were here… kissing my body, fucking me. I wish you were in my arms right now."

"I will be soon, baby. Keep going. Let me hear you scream."

"Oh God, Marshall. You feel so damn good." Erik completely lost himself in the feel of his hand. In his mind, Marshall's warm, puckered opening was swallowing his hardened cock whole. In his mind, Marshall's lips were caressing his flesh as the orgasm wound though his body, spasming and exploding between the fingers of his free hand and the khakis he'd once taken such proper care of.

Marshall cried out Erik's name, screaming it to the heavens. The sound made a warm whirl of satisfaction rush through Erik's body. They came together, as they usually did when their bodies were intertwined. Both men panted into their phones. Save their ragged breaths, no other sounds passed between them. Nothing but pure, unadulterated bliss.

"I love you," Erik finally said. "I love you and I want you back in my life."

"I love you too, baby," Marshall whispered. "Soon, okay? We'll see each other soon. Now, get some rest. I'll call you."

The line died and Erik's phone slipped away from his clean hand. His sticky fingers curled, palm up, at his thigh. At the moment, he couldn't move, didn't want to even try. He didn't want to be touched by anything or anyone. He just wanted to sit there for a while and let his body recover. He just wanted to close his eyes and enjoy what Marshall had given him—a long-distance release and a little slice of heaven.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Once Erik finally had the wherewithal and composure to leave his couch, he dropped his soiled khakis on the floor, then went back to the kitchen and cleaned the fruits of Marshall's salacious little phone call away from his hand. The warm water beat down on his flesh and raised the hairs on his arms. He was only half-aware of his breathing and his now steadily beating heart. And ironically, as incredible as that moment had been with Marshall, he still couldn't get his mind off Angel.

And when he went to bed that night, he thought about Marshall, thought about Angel, and how he'd found himself in this situation.

The morning came a little faster than Erik was ready for. He rolled out of his bed, took a quick shower then dressed for work. Same routine. Same safe, sad story, only this time, his mind continued exactly where it had left off last night. Angel or Marshall. Angel or Marshall. Which man would finally win over his heart?

He padded over to the coffeemaker, cranked up another half pot and stared as it started to drip his new addiction into the glass carafe. His mind continued to flip-flop back and forth between Angel, the patient he'd grown way too attached to, and Marshall, the partner who had once dumped him but was now making a huge reemergence in his life. Erik knew he had to get a handle on both situations before they spun out of control, but how? The idea of letting go, of pushing either of them away, made his chest ache.

He poured a cup of coffee then returned to the place he'd left his leather binder. Should he look at the sketch, or just let it go? What would it hurt? Just one little glimpse. And the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to stare down at the perfection Angel's unexpected talent had created.

Erik sank down on the kitchen chair, hands encircling the warm mug. Steam rose up from the dark liquid, tickling his senses and rousing his wavering consciousness. A long, hard yawn spread his lips into a big, wide O. With a sigh, he opened his binder and pulled out the drawing.

His weary eyes traced over the lines of Angel's sketch. All night, his brain had rambled on and on. He'd thought about the kid with the talented hands. He'd thought about his ex-partner coming back to visit. He'd thought about how just a simple phone conversation with Marshall had made him wish for booze again.

Not good.

They hadn't even spent any real time together and already Erik wanted to run back to the bottle. Those old, familiar feelings of inadequacy started to resurface. He'd always been afraid of not being the kind of lover Marshall truly wanted. The phone sex only reiterated how different they truly were, and how Erik would probably never sate all of Marshall's desires. Didn't everyone deserve to have someone who satisfied their needs? Didn't Marshall deserve to have a man who enjoyed satisfying and sharing his carnal cravings? And didn't Erik deserve someone who understood when he didn't want to do things like have phone sex? Didn't Erik deserve someone who enjoyed quiet togetherness?

Maybe they weren't meant to work out after all. The thought hurt a little, but there wasn't much sense in denying the inevitable. Erik needed someone who understood and didn't pressure. Marshall apparently needed someone who could let go and give into the heat of the moment. It made sense now.

Emotionally speaking, they just didn't fit together. A year ago, he would've never even considered such a thing, but maybe that had been the case all along. Not that it mattered anymore. As long as Marshall stayed in San Francisco and Erik stayed in Los Angeles, the occasional visit wouldn't be so detrimental to his recovery, right?

He sighed, running his fingertips over the portrait Angel had sketched the night before. The kid had so much potential. The way he'd drawn out every little detail while they'd sat in the courtyard talking was absolutely remarkable. And to think, he'd been wasting his life away with drugs and prostitution. So sad.

That settled it. Erik would focus on helping Angel and deal with Marshall as best as he could. He wouldn't push Marshall away completely, but maybe with a little tenderness, he could make Marshall realize they were better as friends. Whatever happened, he had to let Marshall go and help Angel find his path.

Obviously, the kid had talent. He just needed to focus and have someone there to encourage him along the way. Erik decided he would be the one. He would do everything in his power to get Angel back on track, to give him a new lease on life and help him find his way. He would open doors for the kid no one had ever bothered to open before. He would show him a side of life far more uplifting and freeing than any drug could ever be. Erik would give Angel a new drug, a new addiction. Erik would give him art.

Now he couldn't wait to get back to work. He couldn't wait to give Angel his second chance, but all new beginnings needed to come with a token, a gift or a tool to aid the traveler on their journey—and Erik knew exactly what to get.

Hefting himself up from the kitchen chair, he grabbed his leather binder and filled his travel mug with the last cup of coffee. With a newfound purpose, he tore through the front door and down the steps to the parking lot. Excitement rushed through him. Hope filled his heart. Maybe he could be someone's saving grace after all. Maybe he could be someone's guardian angel.

It almost seemed like his body was on auto-pilot and that might have been from having absolutely no sleep in almost twenty-four hours—or maybe it was his new mission that guided his way. His mind raced between Angel and Jon and Marshall and the clinic. The car carried him through the streets of Los Angeles, but his mind wasn't in the captain's chair. Erik pulled to a stop in front of a hobby store. How he even knew the place existed was anyone's guess. He'd never been the creative type, never had a use for a store like that, but somehow he knew what he needed would be there. Fate had carried him there.

He went straight back to the art supplies, grabbing the first person who looked like he belonged there. The man frowned as Erik asked, rather excitedly, what he could buy for someone who had just begun to draw.

"Well, what's his medium?" the clerk asked.

Biting his lip, Erik looked over the various supplies. "I'm not sure. I don't know if he has a chosen medium. I've only seen pencil sketches on white paper, but I want him to have something nicer."

"You could always start with a nice set of colored pencils, maybe some charcoals and a sketch pad. That would give him a decent start."

"What about art books? Do you have anything? He's very talented, but I don't know if he's had formal training."

The clerk reached back and grabbed a fairly thick book on the basics of color, blending and shading, and the art of shadows and lines. Not that Angel didn't know any of that already, but what could it hurt? The clerk also handed Erik a wooden box filled with every colored pencil and charcoal imaginable. And to round out the gift, he chose the thickest sketchpad with the nicest paper. It was perfect. He just knew Angel would love it, and the gift wouldn't break any rules because it wasn't really a gift. It was more of a tool to help Angel on his path to full recovery.

Erik had never been so thrilled with himself.

After paying and having the nice lady at the counter slip it into a decent-looking bag, Erik went back to his car and headed north toward the clinic. He couldn't wait for Angel to open the present. He could only pray the kid would be excited about it.

When Erik arrived at the clinic, he didn't waste any time checking in or visiting with the nurses. He had Angel's gift tucked under his arm and he simply couldn't wait to deliver it. He went straight to the kid's door, gave a soft, two-finger tap.

"Angel?" he called out after his patient didn't immediately respond. "Angel, it's Dr Daniels. Can I come in?"

Nothing.

Twisting the knob, Erik wrenched open the door and found Angel's room empty. At first, his heart sped. Panic coursed through his veins. Surely, Angel hadn't left the program, not that quickly. Wouldn't one of the nurses have called him? Wouldn't Angel have said something?

"Dr D?" Roni called from down the hall. Erik spun on his heels, eyes wide. Picking up the pace, she hurried toward him. "You're as white as a ghost."

"Where is Angel?"

"In the courtyard. He wanted some air." Roni frowned. "Are you okay?"

Erik's shoulders relaxed as he let out the breath he'd been holding. "Yes, Roni. Everything is fine, now. Thank you for taking care of my patient."

"Of course."

His eyes shifted away from her, toward the common area. A small smile curled the corner of his lips. Angel hadn't left. He hadn't quit the program. There was still hope, still a chance that Angel's true path would soon know the sound of his sober footfalls.

Erik gave Roni a nervous nod before excusing himself to find his patient. It took a lot of effort to tamp down the excitement and a few deep breaths to slow his racing heart. By the time he made it to the double doors, he'd somehow managed to completely compose himself. Then he saw Angel sitting on the metal bench beneath the biggest tree in the courtyard. His smile widened.

For a long moment, he stood back and watched the kid, the way he hugged his notepad against his chest and drew his knees up tight to his body, the way the sun shimmered against his black hair and the sheen of sweat on his face.

"Sweat?" Erik whispered, his expression fading into a frown. Detox. He'd thought for sure the worst of it would've been over by now.

He pushed through the doors, heading straight for the empty spot beside his patient. Angel didn't budge, as if he hadn't heard Erik's noisy loafers approaching him. He sat down and stared straight ahead, just like Angel was doing. "You okay?" he asked in a low, even voice.

"Yeah. Fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Erik nodded. He shifted in the seat, turning a little more toward Angel. With a smile on his face, he set the bag in his patient's lap and said, "I brought you something."

Angel's brow arched. He looked down at the bag then back up at Erik.

"Go ahead. Open it."

Angel hesitated. If Erik didn't know better, he would've thought a gift was a foreign idea to the kid, like no one ever gave him anything just for the sake of giving, like everything came with a price. Angel finally opened the bag, slowly parting the edges of the paper. And when he looked inside, his eyes softened and his lips pursed. Erik's heart raced with anticipation.

"You didn't have to do this."

"You don't even know what it is."

"It's an art set and a pad and a book."

"So you
are
an artist?"

"Was."

"Why 'was'? Why aren't you an artist anymore?"

"After I started doing drugs, I lost focus. I couldn't draw a straight line to save my life."

"But you did last night. That sketch of me was amazing."

"Doc," Angel said as he lifted his dark eyes. That didn't sound like thanks in Angel's voice. God, Erik had messed up. Maybe the gift insulted Angel. Maybe it was too much too soon. "I appreciate that you have all this faith in me," Angel said, "but I don't get it. What are you trying to do? Why are you paying so much attention to me?"

"Because I
do
have faith in you. Angel," Erik touched his knee. He told himself it was nothing lewd, nothing that crossed the ethical gray line. "You're smart and talented. I would hate to see such amazing potential wasted on drugs. You're an artist. Use your talent, Angel."