Page 1 of See My Words

Chapter One

“FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH, I’M really glad you’re here, Ry.”

Scott brushed their lips together, and without another word, let go of Rylan and turned to run lightly down the VIP stairs.

“Me, too,” Rylan whispered to the empty room, sighing. His eyes were burning from emotion and fatigue, his body throbbing from Scott’s kiss, his touch. He sank down onto the couch they’d just been lying on, running his hand over the still-warm leather and quirking his lips ruefully.

Things hadn’t changed much in six years.

It wasn’t just Scott’s beauty, his sheer physical appeal—Rylan had never been quite that shallow. But layer their explosive chemistry on top of that vulnerability in Scott’s eyes, the loneliness Rylan suspected he didn’t let many people see…and he was lost.

So much for holding you at arm’s length, huh?

Shaking his head and vowing to do better, Rylan grabbed his camera and backpack before trudging down the stairs himself. A quick glance toward the main stage revealed Sheer Blyss wrapping up what looked like a comedy routine, some oiled, muscular go-go dancers in thongs lifting her to their shoulders to carry her away.

The crowd was definitely thinning, but Lance was still ensconced with his posse over in one corner, the amount of pitchers, bottles, and glasses on the tables in front of them attesting to the hangover they’d be feeling later. Corey was nowhere in sight, and neither was Teena.

Not all that disappointed at having missed the last show, Rylan picked his way along the edge of the dance floor toward the club entrance. What a night. What a confusing, exhilarating night. Outside it was warm, and the dry desert air smelled of orange blossoms. He took a deep, cleansing breath, striving for calm. The best thing to do was let things with Scott unfold in their own time, in their own way. He snorted to himself. Easier said than done, as tonight had made painfully clear.

Rylan squared his shoulders and straightened his backpack, scuffing along the pavement next to the parking lot. The short walk to the light rail station wouldn’t be so bad, even if he’d much rather be riding in Scott’s little convertible right now. He should have taken him up on his offer—

A piercing scream rent the air, and Rylan jumped in shock, stumbling over his own feet as he whipped his head around looking for the source of the sound.

“Help!” came another cry. “Oh my God, I need help!”

Without thought, Rylan took off at a sprint toward the inner depths of the parking lot. The desperate shouts got louder as he rounded a couple of cars, and Rylan skidded to a stop when he saw a woman crouched next to a figure crumpled on the ground.

“Ma’am, what’s wrong?” he called, not wanting to approach blindly without some idea of the situation. A few other people ran up, and Rylan recognized one of them as Jerry, the club bouncer. He slumped with relief, turning away. Let the pros handle it.

“This man, he’s hurt!” the woman was babbling, and Jerry triggered his wireless earpiece with his finger as he strode over to kneel next to her.

“It’s Jerry. We have some sort of situation in the west parking lot. I—Jesus Christ! Scotty!”

“What?” The name cut through Rylan like a hot blade, and he whirled around before shoving through the growing crowd to stare down in disbelief. It was Scott, half on his back, half on his side, a horrifyingly large pool of blood spreading from under his head.

“Oh my God.” Rylan collapsed to his knees next to him. “What happened to him?”

Jerry was shouting at someone, ordering them to call 911.

“Is he breathing?” the woman sobbed, clutching a shivering black poodle. “I don’t think he’s breathing.”

No. Rylan felt a shaking start deep inside and spread outward, until his whole body was trembling so hard his teeth started to chatter uncontrollably. Jerry pressed unsteady fingers to Scott’s neck. “He’s got a pulse. He’s breathing.”

Through his tears, Rylan could see that Scott’s chest was indeed rising and falling, and all he could do was whisper, “Thank you, God. Thank you, God.” A warm hand landed on his shoulder, and Rylan started so badly he almost lost his balance.

“Rylan, what happened?” Chris squeezed his shoulder as he knelt down next to him, taking in Scott’s crumpled form.

“I don’t—”

“Somebody hit him with something!” the woman interrupted in a voice high-pitched with shock. “I was walking my dog, and I saw this guy about to unlock his car, and some other guy ran up to him and bashed him in the face! He hit his head really hard on the ground, too.” The woman buried her face in the dog’s fur. “Oh my God. He went flying backward and—”

“Head wounds bleed like a motherfucker,” Chris said tersely. “We need to put pressure on the cut if we can find it.” He yanked his T-shirt off and wadded it up before hesitating. “I don’t have any gloves.”

Rylan elbowed Jerry aside and took his place at Scott’s shoulders. “I’ll look for it.”

“Rylan, the blood. You don’t have to put yourself at risk. The paramedics will be here any minute.” Chris put his hand on Rylan’s arm, and Rylan knocked it away.

“I said I’ll look for it.” He plunged his fingers into Scott’s blood-soaked hair, feeling along his scalp, until he discerned a ragged gash above his ear. “Give me the goddamn T-shirt.” Chris shoved it at him, and Rylan pressed it hard to the gash, trying not to jar Scott’s neck.