x

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"Dorian."
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"Huh?" Nick looked over at the Vixen -- Dorian -- who walked next to him, no longer adorned in his suspicious all black attire but instead in a warm grey turtleneck and open front jacket with jeans.
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He had, much to Nick's confusion and astonishment, been waiting outside of the school doors just a week after he'd slipped through Nick's bedroom window. Nick had more or less ignored him as he walked past, hoping he was looking for someone other than himself -- that flame of hope was stomped out when the Vixen began to walk beside him, taking Marco's usual place at his side.
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The two had walked in tense silence for a while -- the tense piece of that entirely of Nick's own creation. The Vixen, on the other hand, looked as comfortable as could be, hands shoved into his pockets as he closed his eyes and tipped his chin upwards, breathing in the pleasantly warm air. Soon it would be Spring and the warmth would be brought back to Sweetport, coloring trees green once again.
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"My name is Dorian."
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Nick turned his head but didn't stop walking, regarding Dorian curiously. "Like The Picture of Dorian Gray?"
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Dorian grinned. "You know it?"
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"Of course, it's a classic."
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"I didn't take you for the classic type."
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Nick shook his head, scratching the back of his neck as he kicked the toe of his sneaker against the concrete. "Not anymore." He hadn't been for a long time actually.
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"Hmm." Silence for a moment.
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"So, why are you following me?"
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"I'm not following you," Dorian said, a sly grin on his handsome face, "That would mean I am behind you and we're clearly walking next to each other."
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"Okay smartass, why are you walking with me?" Nick threw him a withering glare that was all bark and no bite. Dorian was silent for a moment -- he tended to do that a lot as Nick was beginning to notice -- before he shrugged.
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"Warren is a last name that means something in my business."
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Nick felt his lungs deflate. "Vixen business?"
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"That's the only business I have." Dorian was watching him like a therapist watches a patient -- evaluating, digging for unspoken emotions. Nick felt his dread drain away and instead be substituted with a cold anger.
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"Maybe," he began, walking faster, "You should mind your own while I mind mine. Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong."
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"And you'll do what if I don't?"
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"I might kill you." He hoped Dorian couldn't tell that Nick wasn't sure if the threat was serious or not.
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"You spent seven years in the foster system." Dorian said it as if he was telling Nick something new. "That's a long time."
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"Yeah." His words were clipped, spoken through a clenched jaw.
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"Your mother is dead."
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"Thanks for reminding me."
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"And your father is in prison." Nick said nothing. "For now." He nearly tripped over his own heart as it plummeted to his feet.
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"What do you mean," Nick asked, frozen in place as he stared at his new tagalong. "What the fuck do you mean, for now."
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"I mean-" Dorian waved his hand through the air dismissively- "Men like him don't spend long in prison."
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"Men like him?" Nick, despite the coolness of the air around him, felt sweat drip down the back of his neck. His fingers were curled so tight around the straps of his bag that the joints in his fingers ached and his nails dug into his palms.
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"You don't know?"
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"Stop beating around the fucking bush and get on with it. What the fuck do you mean." Nick hadn't meant for the words to come out so aggressively, in a low growl that surprised even himself. A voice that reminded him very much of his father. He shuttered, eyes closing as he pulled in a deep breath meant to calm him. "Sorry. Tell me."
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"A man with money," Dorian said, any and all dismissal in his voice now gone. "A man who can buy his way out of prison with money and fear. Your father was an important man in the business."
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"Vixen business." Nick spat the words out bitterly, turning away from Dorian and moving forward, trying desperately to ignore the fluttering wings of panic settling in his chest. Dorian did not follow him.
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"Yes."
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"It wasn't a question."
•••
It was eight in the afternoon when Marco got off work. He worked shifts at a moving company that had a square building nestled in between an arts and crafts store and a law firm; Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other weekend. Today was a Friday.
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Nick had been standing outside with a cigarette burning at the tip of his fingers, back pressed against the brick as he waited for Marco to clock out. He was lost in his own thoughts.
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His father, a man he did not like to think about, would be out of prison soon. Panic spiked in his chest at the mere thought. It wasn't a forsure thing -- from what he knew -- and yet he was inclined to believe Dorian even if he was a cunning and dangerous Vixen.
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Nick couldn't quite remember his father; he had bits and pieces of his childhood missing; his father's face, his mothers voice. What he did know though, was that he was a horrible man who had done horrible things -- he had killed Nick's mother after all and he suspected many others had come before her.
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"Sweeper," Marco called as he stepped through the doors, pulling Nick from his thoughts. "You're here." The teenager was wearing khakis and a hideous polo shirt that he somehow managed to pull off despite it's unflattering uniformness. It had to be the dimples.
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"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"
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"Because it's butt fuck cold?"
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"We both know that wouldn't stop me," Nick grinned, though it felt forced. "If I was really all that cold I would have come inside. I needed some time to sort my thoughts and I can't do that when you're around because you talk so much." His cigarette had burnt down to the filter and was nothing but ash that fell apart when he dropped it on the ground and put it out with the heel of his shoe. For a moment he stared at the blackish-grey streak it left behind.
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"Asshole. Listen, I heard there's this discount for regulars down at Swingin' Blues, what do you say we grab a bite?"
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"Are we regulars?"
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"We go there every week, if we're not regulars I'm going to sue." Marco gave Nick a look that said 'Yes, I know I wouldn't sue but it's the principle.'
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"Of course you would," Nick said, if not to give his friend a brief victory. "Why not, let's eat."
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By the time they were pushing their way into the small burger joint, Swingin' Blues and Burgers, the sun had set, leaving the sky painted deep blue. They were starving: Nick's stress had eaten a hole through his stomach and Marco simply was always hungry.
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The two of them took a seat at their normal booth in the back of the room, a spot where Nick could easily watch the door and look out the wide fixed windows that gave a pleasant view of the old train tracks that led into an opened and lightly forested area. They hadn't been used in God knows how long but every once in a while there is a train that slowly rolls by, loud and obnoxious as it blocks cars from their route.
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Marco dropped into the booth with a grunt and Nick followed a lot more gracefully. Neither of them bothered glancing at the menus that sat at the end of the table: they both had their orders cemented in their memories whether they were considered regulars or not.
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"Is Miranda working a late shift tonight?" It was idle conversation that Nick appreciated, if not to distract him from dark swirling thoughts.
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Nick nodded, rubbing a finger over a coffee rings on the table, faded brown against brilliant red. It had been there for God knows how long and he'd grown oddly fond of it -- it was familiar. "Yeah, she said there was a surgery she had to stand in on so she should be home a little later than usual."
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Marco shuddered, shoulders pulling up to his ears. "I don't know how she does it. All the blood and shit, I would die on the spot."
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"For someone who talks big you've got a surprisingly low tolerance for so much."
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Marco leaned towards him, hands spread out on the table. "Listen, it's not my fault I prefer blood to stay on the inside. I may, in your words, have a low tolerance but I think that's a healthy thing -- I'd be worried if I'd seen enough blood to be unbothered."
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"Pussy."
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"Asshole," Marco muttered, crumbling up a napkin that sat in the condiment holder and throwing it at Nick. It smacked him in the forehead and Nick was debating tossing it back when the waitress behind the counter looked up from her notepad and glared.
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"Marco, Sweeper, don't make a mess or I'm not giving you the damn discount." Marla, their favorite grumpy and foul-mouthed waitress, ripped the paper from her notepad and put it on the surface of the open kitchen window. "You two always start shit here and don't clean up after yourselves." Nick frowned, they most certainly did.
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"Now Marla," chided Marco, giving her a charming smile, "That's no way to talk to paying customers." Nick had to give Marla credit where credit was due, she did not immediately suffocate Marco for saying that.
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Marla was, in short, a very tall woman with long, thin legs and wavy, chin length blonde hair. One glance at her porcelain skin and you'd think she'd never seen the light of day -- or maybe she was a vampire. That was certainly plausible given her temper. The Swingin' Blues belonged to her father some years ago until he died -- heart attack, if Nick was remembering correctly -- and after she graduated she took ownership of the diner while participating in online college classes for marketing. She was two years older than him and yet she had the demeanor of a prickly adult: he may have saw her as an older sister but that did not stop her from giving him lip.
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Nick had learned last year that Marco had a die hard crush on her.
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"I'll talk to my customers anyway I want," she muttered, turning away to take the order of an elderly man who Nick heard ask for a coffee and a breakfast special.
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"She is-" Marco waved his hands in front of him, searching for the words- "amazing, spectacular, a heart-stopper." Nick rolled his eyes and scoffed, a noise that made Marco look at him like he was stupid. "Hey, no, don't make that sound, you know I'm right. I mean look at her- no don't, I don't want to fight you for her."
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"I am not interested in your highly flammable crush."
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"I don't even know what that is supposed to mean. Are you saying she's hot?"
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"She's a fire hazard dude, you say the wrong thing and she'll set you on fire."
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Marco sighed, resting his head in his hand. "I wouldn't mind."
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"Oh my god." Nick swore if he rolled his eyes any harder they'd fall out of his head.
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"Sweeper, your tastes are as bland as ever. A beautiful woman could tell you she wants you to ravage her in bed and you would say no thank you." Marco shook his head solemnly like Nick's lack of interest was truly a loss. "You're hot enough too, it's a shame you don't smile. All of the ladies would swoon."
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"I don't know how I feel about you of all people calling me hot, your standards are incredibly low. And I do smile. Just not at you because you're not funny."
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Marco sniffed. "Okay, we both know you don't mean that -- either of those things because I'm a great judge of character when it comes to the ladies -- but I'm being serious, if you tried a little more you'd definitely get a girlfriend within the week. Hell, I'm pretty sure Mona Smith already has a crush on you!" Nick opened his mouth to object but Marco cut him off with a raised hand, "Ah. Enough about your nonexistent love life," Nick bristled, "Tell me about your day. We haven't talked since you hung up on me this morning." He'd hung up because Marco's morning phonecalls usually consisted of him grumbling incoherently into the phone while he ate his way through a loaf of bread.
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"Oh, well..." Nick's relaxed mood immediately shifted, turning into raw and true nervousness. Should he say anything about Dorian?
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"No secrets, Sweeper." Shit. He guessed it was no longer an option.
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"Well..." he began hesitantly, thinking of his wording, "I may or may not have met a guy."
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Marco made a choking sound. "Met a guy? Like... met a guy, met a guy? Not that I care, you do you. Is he hot? Does he have sweet biceps? If he doesn't you've got to throw him out or I'll do it for you."
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"What?" Nick felt his soul leave his body as heat burned its way up his neck. "No, you fucking dumbass, not like that. I met some dude on my way home from your house and he was bleeding everywhere so I took him home and stitched him up." Nick ignored the concerning look of relief on Marco's face and tossed the napkin ball at him. "Turns out he's a Vixen." The relief was gone and Nick was sure Marco was about to faint.
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"How do you do these things?"
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"What things?"
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"Get in trouble. Meet gang members after meatloaf! What the hell, Nick? Do you have a death wish? Did you forget what happens to the people who get involved with the Vixens or are you just stupid?" Right then, Nick decided he would not mention the fact that Dorian had walked with him after school and told him his Dad could be getting out of jail -- he wouldn't have mentioned that second part either way.
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"His name's Dorian."
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"Well good for him," Marco said incredulously. His eyes were wide in panic and he reached across the table and grabbed Nicks forearm. "Seriously, you're going to get yourself killed."
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For some reason Nick felt a little defensive as he squared his shoulders and met Marco's eyes. "He was bleeding out, Marco. I don't care who he is, I wasn't going to let him die."
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"I wasn't saying that," he exclaimed. He let out a deep breath that sounded like he was giving up and closed his eyes for a moment. "You should have just called an ambulance. Or the police! God knows what types of warrants he has." Marco paled as much as his complexion would allow and he stared at Nick in thinly veiled horror. "What if he's a murderer? He knows where you live. What if he murders you."
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Nick opened his mouth to say "I'm sure if he wanted to murder me then he would have done it by now, I've given him plenty of chances" but was interrupted by a familiar sharp laugh.
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"I don't think that's what I'm trying to do." Dorian leaned over the back of Marco's chair, grinning between the two of them in a relaxed manner. "Unless he tries to kill me -- he's certainly threatened it."
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"Who the hell are you," Marco asked, eyebrows raised. He still looked spooked but Nick could tell he was slowly coming to terms with the fact that his best friend now had gang affiliations.
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Dorian held out a hand. "Dorian Everleigh. Pleasure to meet you." Marco looked at Nick wide-eyed and when Nick nodded in confirmation that yes, this was the Dorian he'd been talking about he rested his forehead on the table with a whine.
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"You're going to be the death of me, Sweeper."
•••
"So. Sweeper." Dorian once again walked alongside him as he had done earlier this evening, all relaxed expressions and unbothered strides. Nick was about ready to break his own neck or maybe throw himself in front of an oncoming car.
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As soon as they'd finished their dinner -- a dinner that Dorian decided he wanted to join without permission even though he did not eat anything -- Marco had bid his farewell with a tight hug that nearly broke Nick's ribs and a warning glare at Dorian. Nick would have thought it funny if he hadn't been very aware of the fact that Dorian was not making any moves to leave.
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"It's a stupid nickname from my Freshman year. No, I will not tell you the story. No you cannot call me that." Many people had asked and many people had been turned away -- he would never tell anyone he'd earned the nickname because he'd quite nearly given Marco a concussion with a broom because the idiot had snuck up on him and grabbed him by the shoulders.
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"You aren't any fun."
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"Well, hard to be fun when you have a gang member following you around for no reason."
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"My boss wants to meet you."
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Nick bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from running. "No thank you, not interested in forging a relationship with a gang leader." His mouth tasted like copper.
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"She said she'd wait until you were ready. She's not going to force you to meet her. Besides, you'll agree eventually." Dorian sounded so sure of himself that Nick couldn't help but second guess his answer. Was that a threat or just a simple assurance? He didn't like the prospect of either.
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"I will not. Why are you still here?"
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"I'm thinking you don't enjoy my company."
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"Because I don't," Nick dead-panned. "You quite frankly make things very complicated. I have, unhappily might I add, been thinking about my father all Goddamn day because of you."
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"Aw, daddy dearest hit a sensitive spot?"
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Nick seethed, breath hissing through his teeth as he took a deep breath.
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"You tell me, Mr.Envasion-Of-Privacy. You read my file." Nick was sure that was a crime in itself but he didn't think there was much he could do about it. He could hardly go to the police and tell them that after harboring what might be a fugitive he'd learned that said fugitive was a part of a gang and his boss had access to his personal files and he most certainly did not appreciate that.
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"I didn't read your file actually, I was just given information from my boss. And not a lot." Nick glared at the stop sign they stopped next to, waiting for a Pontiac to cross the road. He'd hardly say that Dorian knew "not a lot" of information about him -- not even Marco knew that Nick's birth mother was dead, it was certainly a plausible idea but Marco had no concrete answers from Nick. The two of them had come to a mutual agreement to not talk about the past -- Marco was happy enough with what he knew and was content as long as Nick promised to stay with him until they died at the ripe old age of eighty.
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Nick was beginning to worry that he wouldn't even make it to twenty.
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"My father murdered my mother and nearly added me to his long list of homicides, so sorry if I'm a bit sensitive about that."
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Dorian was silent and some part of Nick felt a little satisfaction at that.
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"Sorry."
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"It's fine. You apparently didn't know."
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"My boss didn't say anything about that."
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"Of course he didn't."
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"I'm being serious. She didn't tell me anything I didn't need to know. She assigned me to protect you in case of the worst so my job isn't to know you, it's to keep you alive."
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Nick stopped and turned, looking up at Dorian -- he had at least four inches on him and Nick was immensely unhappy about that, he was by no means short at 5'6" (he was but he refused to admit it) but he'd be damned if Dorian was tall and pretty.
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Dorian was, for a lack of better words, an asshole. In the short time Nick had known him he'd concluded that the Vixen was much too blunt for his own good at one time and at others he danced around the point like he was allergic. The thought of this asshole sticking around to protect him "in case of the worst" did not make him feel any better. The implied notion that if his father were let out of prison he'd come after Nick left him feeling sick with stress. What the hell was he supposed to do about that? And why did the Vixens care about protecting him? Did he owe them something? Did his father owe him something? Nick highly doubted it was an act of selfless gratitude for stitching up Oscar Wilde here.
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"Why?" Nick asked the word quietly, daring Dorian to lie to him. You can't make it through a life of different homes, living with different stranger's, without learning how to read people and Nick was the best. It took Dorian a moment to reply, his eyes dropping to meet Nick's. They were a dark blue that were nearly tipping over into black, deep abyss' that reminded him of Alice's rabbit hole. He was not keen on falling and going on whatever adventure awaited him at the bottom.
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"Your father," Dorian began slowly, "was an important man. You could probably guess that much." Nick could. "He was strong -- he had a high position that was not given to many and he was as ruthless as they come but he could not follow orders and so, after one too many mistakes, he was... demoted, for lack of better terms." They stood face to face on the sidewalk, Nick listening keenly with a face devoid of emotion and Dorian talking quietly, words deliberate and well thought out. The only secrets getting out were his own to keep. "He killed your mother that day, if my guess is correct. I don't suspect he was one to hold his temper."
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Nick, despite years having passed, felt his ribs ache and swore that, just for a moment, that his hands were slick with his own blood. "No," Nick said quietly, voice distant, "No, he was not."
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Dorian continued. "When he went to jail, we did not go after him because he'd become a liability -- liabilities get cut off like dead meat. Important people -- people who were not our own -- went after him before others could tie up the loose ends and we suspect he may have handed over his loyalties. That's a dangerous game to play with a dangerous man. Not many people are willing to leave their scent in more than one animals dwelling."
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"What does that have to do with me?"
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"Your father does not like to leave jobs half done. If he killed your mother and figures out that you aren't buried next to her in some graveyard somewhere, he's going to want to finish the job."
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"A wolf on a trail."
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"A wolf has no place in a den of vixen."
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