Not What it Seems by Nicky James

Nine

River

I tasted Cyrus’s confliction and knew it was over long before he broke the kiss and shoved me away a second time.

“You’re out of your mind”—Cyrus panted—“if you think I’m doing this with you again.” His lips were bruised and swollen, his chin scuffed from my facial hair. “Especially after what’s happened. Are you crazy?”

“You said I wasn’t. It’s why you gave me the means to break out. You’re the professional, Doc.” I grinned, but Cyrus didn’t find my comment amusing.

He scowled and shoved me to the other side of the bed, scrambling away and almost falling as he got to his feet. A raging blush climbed his chest and settled in his face. His pale skin hid nothing.

I tucked my hands behind my head as I lay on my back, smirking at his whirlwind attempt at escape. I kicked the blankets off, letting the air-conditioned room cool my heated flesh while also giving him a little something to think about. I was rock hard and aching. My tight underwear showed the generous outline of my swollen cock. Cyrus couldn’t help but notice.

He pinned me with a look full of venom. “What the hell are you thinking?”

I chuckled and adjusted myself, groaning at the loss of what could have been so perfect. “I was thinking we could expel some pent-up energy before we start the day. Alleviate some stress. Come on. We’ve done it before. We can do it again. Jesus, you act like you’ve never had a one-night stand. Is this all because I didn’t text you back?”

“No. Yes. And no, I’d never had a one-night stand before you. Turns out, it was a horrible decision that I regret.”

“Ouch.”

Cyrus moved far away from the bed. He hugged himself, covering his upper body like he’d done the previous night. I might not know a whole lot about the doctor, and I didn’t have a degree in head stuff like he did, but it was clear as day the man had a lot of issues. A mountain of insecurities. And I had a fairly good idea that a lot of them were rooted in that past relationship he’d talked about.

We’d avoided excessive talk about our personal lives during the weekend we’d shared, so there was much about the doctor I didn’t know.

I rolled off the bed, stretched, and scanned the room. “Mind if I shower?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“What time is it?”

Cyrus crept toward the bedside table and lifted his phone to check. “Six.”

Six. Well, if they hadn’t discovered me gone during the night, they would know now. Wakeup call was at six. The nurses would be frantic.

“Can you check the news while I wash up? See if I’m the official poster boy for Canada’s most wanted.”

Cyrus nodded and paled as he ducked his head to his phone, tapping away.

“Cyrus?”

He lifted his chin.

“You can join me if you want.” I smirked, trying to smooth out my rough edges. “It might help you feel better.”

Cyrus turned his back and resumed working on his phone.

I chuckled and left him to it.

I used the hotel-provided shampoo and soap to get clean, taking a minute to alleviate a need Cyrus had denied me. Pumping my cock into my fist, I tried not to think about the bed-rumpled older man in the next room and how blissfully debauched he’d looked after a few minutes of kissing.

His hair was silky and enticingly wild with those untamed curls. Even the touch of silver was attractive in a way I didn’t expect. Threading my fingers through it, kissing his mouth, chasing his flavor, feeling the firm edge of his erection against my leg, I’d been ready to revisit our few glorious nights from before. I wanted to hear Cyrus scream again—and maybe a small part of me had looked forward to hearing my real name on his lips and not the phony one I’d given him.

I pumped faster, letting the fantasy I’d been denied unravel.

I came on a grunt, envisioning the sweet bliss of plunging my cock deep into the doctor’s ass. It would have been so good.

Spent, I caught my breath, finished washing, and got out. I wanted to shave, but there wasn’t a spare disposable razor among Cyrus’s things, so I was stuck with the makings of a beard. I hated it. All I had for clothes were the scrubs I’d lifted the night before. And underwear. I wrapped a towel around my waist and went to find Cyrus.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, gaze locked in middle space, phone dangling from his hand, threatening to fall. The screen was dark.

“Let me guess. I made the news.”

He blinked, shaking away from wherever his mind had taken him and looked up. “Yeah.”

He’d lost several shades of color. His once warmer skin tone was now ashy.

“Don’t look so surprised. We knew this was going to happen.”

“I’m a criminal.”

“No, you’re not. Neither am I. I just need to prove it.”

“I’ve jeopardized my whole career. I’m going to lose everything. They’ll review the camera feeds. They’ll see I was the only one with opportunity. They’ll know when I left the camera’s field of vision during our session that it was me.”

“You’re quite the pessimist, Doc. Let me tell you something. You’ll be the last person they suspect. There are dozens of nurses who work at that hospital. The turnover rate is stupid crazy. They’ll figure I got a key long before yesterday. The staff will be under the microscope, not you. You need to keep your cool. Even if they find me and catch me, I will not tell them who helped me get out. I promise you.”

The sheer volume of worry that radiated from Cyrus’s powder-blue eyes hit me in the chest. Of all people, I’d enlisted the help of a man who would never forgive himself for what he’d done. Not even if he lived to be a thousand. This would haunt him forever. Even if I found the real killer, cleared my name, and got justice for those murdered women, Cyrus’s guilt would remain.

“Do you have any spare clothes I could borrow?” I asked when Cyrus dropped his chin again.

He remained unmoving for a long time, and I wasn’t sure he’d heard me. Before I could repeat myself, he stood and moved to his suitcase. From within, he pulled a pair of navy-blue running shorts and a white tank top.

“It’s all I have that will fit you. Whenever I travel for work, I always have good intentions of working out or going for a run in the mornings, but it never happens.” He glanced down at himself and frowned. “I should prioritize it more. I’m not getting any younger.”

He held out the clothes without meeting my eyes.

I accepted them and lingered a moment, wanting to say more, sensing Cyrus needed reassurance, a little boost of self-esteem. What could I say? You’re hot as shit? You’re the first man who wasn’t in my age bracket who I’ve taken back to my apartment? You’re the only man I’ve had at my place for a whole weekend, and I ghosted you because I freaked out at how much I liked it? I can’t be who you want.

I’d shut that door. Talking about it would only aggravate the situation. Maybe I’d done enough damage and should keep my mouth shut.

I dressed in the bathroom, and when I came out, Cyrus had collected a change of clothes for himself and slipped around me, taking a turn in the bathroom without another word. The shower ran for a long time. I tried to picture him jerking off to that kiss we’d shared, but something told me it was far more likely he was sitting on the tub floor, knees hugged to his chest, doing all he could to hold himself together.

It wasn’t a pleasant image, and guilt surge to the surface.

When Cyrus emerged twenty minutes later, steam escaped and filled the hotel room with the sharp scent of his body wash and cologne. The strain behind his eyes and the tinge of red in the sclera confirmed my suspicions.

He’d dressed in trousers and a soft lavender dress shirt with a navy tie. His hair was towel-dried and unruly. Curls hung over his forehead, springier than I’d ever seen them. When dry and styled, they were softer and less pronounced. It made me smile. He’d shaved, and it took a lot of inner strength not to stare at the smooth cut of his angular jaw.

Cyrus ignored me as he sat on the edge of the bed and tapped on his phone for a second before putting it to his ear. “Kindly stay quiet while I talk to my parents. I won’t be long.”

There wasn’t anywhere I could go to give him privacy, so I hovered near the window, peeking out at the world beyond. The highway sat in the distance. The bright sun reflected off the windshields of early morning travelers as they zipped by. The sky was the same shade of blue as Cyrus’s eyes and clear from horizon to horizon. It was going to be hot. Waves of humidity were already visible when I peered at the asphalt parking lot below.

“Hey, Dad.” Cyrus’s voice boomed in the quiet room. “Up with the birds as usual. Did you get your coffee yet?”

I spun, startled. Soft-spoken Cyrus was practically yelling.

“Coffee, Dad. Coffee. Did you get your—Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Cyrus was hunched over, elbows on his knees. His eyes were closed, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His father’s voice came through the receiver loud and clear. His old man was shouting something about muffins.

“No, Dad. Mom said she’d make them when I got home… When I got home,” he said louder still. “The muffins. Yes. Lemon blueberry.” Cyrus sighed. “You do so. No, blueberry. Blueberry!” Cyrus tipped his face to the ceiling. “Never mind. Did you have bridge night last night? Bridge. No, not the—yes, cards.”

His father started on a tangent. I caught several words but not enough to string together what he was saying. It wasn’t that I wanted to eavesdrop, but it was impossible not to. I turned my back and focused on the view, trying to think of where I’d go when I got back to London. Was there anyone I trusted enough to call? Unlike Cyrus, I didn’t have a family. None of my foster parents had stayed in touch. We’d never been close.

Could I break into my apartment and pack a survival kit while I figured shit out? Would the police be at my place waiting for me to be stupid enough to return?

My thoughts were interrupted by Cyrus yelling at his dad to put his mother on the line. I peeked over my shoulder and caught Cyrus as he flopped back on the bed, one arm draped over his eyes. The conversation grew quieter after that. It went on for another five minutes before I heard him say goodbye. He hung up but didn’t move. With his eyes still covered, Cyrus lay motionless.

I was about to speak when his phone rang.

Uncovering his eyes, he brought the device above his head to see the screen and frowned. His jaw tightened, and he bolted upright, glaring at the device in his hand like it was a bomb.

His reaction took me from calm to alert in seconds. “Who is it?”

“The St. Thomas Police.” His voice was thin and weak. His hand trembled.

“Don’t immediately assume they know anything.”

“How can I not?” he snapped, glaring. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m harboring a fugitive. I’m an accessory. They’re going to—”

“Hey,” I shouted, grabbing his attention as I crossed the room. “Just answer it. Stay calm.”

“Stay calm, he says.” Cyrus huffed. “Yeah right. Have you met me?” He sat straighter and cleared his throat before accepting the call. “Hello?”

I held my breath.

Statue still, Cyrus stared across the room for a long time, a few noises of affirmation climbing his throat, but otherwise, he didn’t speak. His Adam’s apple took a slow journey up and down. “I see. That’s terrible. I understand. No problem.”

When he disconnected, he spent an inordinate—and irritating—amount of time processing the call.

“Well?”

“They called to inform me the patient I’ve been seeing has somehow escaped the hospital. It’s an open investigation, and they’re talking to everyone who has come in contact with you over the last five weeks. St Thomas is working in conjunction with London Police to figure out what happened. They want me to come to the station for an interview. They also wanted to know if I’d made any decisions about the status of your mental health. If I feel I have enough information to complete my assessment, they’ve asked that I deliver it to the director at New Horizon immediately.”

“See? They don’t suspect you.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” His whole body wavered, tipping forward before he caught himself. Cyrus braced his hands on either side of the mattress as he stared at the ground. “I can’t lie to save my life. They’ll see the truth all over my face. They’ll know.”

I sat beside him, keeping my voice level. “You’re a smart man, Doc. I have no doubt you can outwit a bunch of brain-dead cops. Be prepared, and you’ll do fine. They’ll want to know if I talked about breaking out or if you had any reason to believe I was planning this. They won’t press you too hard. We’ve only met a handful of times. They only really want one thing from you—a diagnosis if there is one. Go to the station, have a quick chat with them, then we can be off, and I’ll be out of your life for good. Sound like a plan? One more baby step and you can put this behind you.”

“I never should have done this.”

I bumped his shoulder. “I’m glad you did. And I’ll make sure to get to the bottom of this whole thing so it wasn’t for naught. I promise. Before you know it, you’ll be lounging in your office somewhere, wherever that may be, reading a newspaper with your feet up, and you’ll see I’ve cleared my name. Then you can rest easy.”

Cyrus didn’t speak.

I resisted the urge to wrap an arm around him to provide moral support. His inner turmoil radiated through the room, and he was giving off the clear vibe that he wanted to be left alone.

After a few minutes, he rose and went back into the bathroom. Leaving the door open, he used product and messed around with his hair, cursing under his breath as he glowered in the mirror. The harder he worked to get the curls to cooperate, the worse he made it.

When he returned, his hair didn’t look any more orderly. I smirked, which earned me a self-conscious frown. Cyrus pivoted, aiming to go back and fix it again.

Before he could spend another ten minutes fiddling with his hair, I said, “You’re ridiculously handsome. Leave it. I think the wild curls are playful and work wonders to dampen your stiff edge.”

He touched the knot in his tie and scanned the ground. “I don’t want to look playful. I want to look professional.” When he found his dress shoes, he sat on the edge of the bed to pull them on.

“If I’m taking you to London later, wait here in the room. Don’t show your face in the hallway or go to the lobby. If you choose to leave, don’t come back.”

Shoes on, he sighed and spared me a glance, waiting for a response.

“Deal.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be.” His forehead creased. “Hell, they might lock me up, then I won’t be back at all. This could be the end of my life as I know it.”

“You’ll be back. You worry too much. Any chance you can grab some food? I’m starving.”

Cyrus gathered documents, stuffed them into a briefcase I’d never seen him use, and stalled at the door, staring at its wooden surface like he couldn’t find the courage to go through it.

Several minutes ticked by.

He remained unmoving.

When he whimpered and dropped his forehead to the door’s surface, I went to him. The poor guy was an utter wreck. I knew he blamed me. His regret was crippling. Cyrus was so twisted up he’d lost the power to take another step. What he’d done was above and beyond. The risk he’d taken… and for a stranger. For a man who’d fucked him and forgotten about him. I’d had no idea at the time how sensitive he was and how personally he would take my ghosting.

Unlike Cyrus, I wasn’t one who overthought or fretted about stuff I couldn’t control. Maybe he would reject me, but I felt the sudden urge to reach out and comfort him. There wasn’t much I could do, but if I could alleviate his anxiety by a sliver, it would be something.

I moved in behind him, rested my hands on his hips, and dug my thumbs into the taut muscles beside his lower spine. If he threw me off, I would accept it. But for all we didn’t know each other, I got the sense Cyrus didn’t have too many people in his life he could lean on.

At first, he stiffened, but after a few purposeful strokes, he exhaled, his body loosening.

I took my time massaging the muscles along his back, encouraging them to release their tension. Slowly, I moved up, inch by inch, taking my time. When I got to his shoulders, I dug my thumbs into the rigid line of muscles along his neck. Without a single word spoken, Cyrus came down from the high wire where he’d been suspended. He melted under my touch.

A soft sigh drifted into the quiet room, awakening something inside me. It was the same something that had surfaced when I’d woken beside him. The same something that had scared me off two months ago. The need to touch, kiss, feel… explore. It wasn’t the same urge that surfaced when I sought a night out and a willing ass. It was different.

More.

Earlier, I had chalked it up to a long dry spell and shoved it aside, but there it was again. That feeling. That need. That connection. It was a core-deep desperation to get Cyrus into bed so I could take my time with him. So I could listen to him talk. See him smile. Hear his laughter. Cyrus had an innocence, a sincerity most men lacked. He didn’t hide behind pretenses. He was honest and real.

For reasons I couldn’t explain, I wanted to show the insecure man that he was desirable and that my actions two months ago had nothing to do with disinterest.

My fingers brushed the soft hairs curling at his nape, and I leaned in, inhaling, catching the essence of Cyrus’s shampoo. The massage faded into the background as I stepped closer, nuzzling my nose along his exposed neck, brushing my lips in a gentle path along his hairline. His body grew taut again, but he didn’t pull away. With a shuddering exhale, his shoulders came down. Cyrus leaned into me, tipping his chin and inviting more.

This was dangerous. The man was in pieces. For a psychiatrist, he was surprisingly fragile. As much as I couldn’t curb my desire for him, I knew if we wound up in bed, if he caved, it would be one more regret for Cyrus to carry on his shoulders. One more thing to hate about himself because I couldn’t offer him more.

I planted a final kiss on the back of his neck and whispered, “You can do this. I know you’re afraid. I know you think you’ve done wrong, but there was a reason you brought me that key card. I won’t let the risk you took be in vain. I promise.”

I squeezed his upper arms and stepped away, giving him back his space. My body thrummed and ached, but I held my ground.

Cyrus stood straighter, peeling his forehead from the door. For a long time, he didn’t move. When he glanced over his shoulder, our eyes locked. I was greeted with a shaky smile. It lingered then vanished. He swallowed, his jaw tensing and muscles coiling once again.

Cyrus left after that, his footfalls fading as he moved down the hall. I rested my head against the door, mirroring his stance from a moment ago.

Cyrus had left his suitcase behind. It contained nothing more than a few changes of clothes. Otherwise, he’d taken everything of importance. A niggling in the back of my head made me wonder if I’d ever see him again or if he’d just slipped out of my life without a goodbye.

It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.