Our Sick Obsessions | 16: Never

A Chapter by Noëlle McHenry

“We’re here.”
          Cameron was still in a trance even after hearing the taxi driver say something to him. He moved his head a little, looking at the man but not seeing him. For a long moment, he wondered both what he’d said and whether he was talking to him or someone else he didn’t know was there.
          “Sir?”
          “Hmm?” Cameron arched his neck forward as he tilted his head in confusion.
          “Park Hyatt, right?”
          “Yes . . .” Cameron nodded. That sounded right.
          “We’re here.”
          The writer glanced to his right. “Ah . . . Right. Um . . .” He pulled out his wallet, paid in a daze, and got out of the cab. It drove away as he stood in front of the hotel entrance. To people passing by, he must’ve looked lost. That was because he was. At least, that was how he felt.
          The paintings in the black marble lobby seemed to be taunting him with their colors. There was so much red in them, further accented by the hotel’s warm lighting. It was only two in the afternoon, but it felt like nighttime. Looking down at the keycard, he realized he had no idea which suite it was for. Luckily for him, the name was written on it for him: Park Executive Suite. At the very least, he knew which floor that was on. The rest, he would have to piece together on his own.
          Time seemed to still be moving slower than normal as he rode up in the elevator. He’d never felt this way before. Apathy and sadness were the only two things he could feel. Everything sounded muffled. It was like he wasn’t awake, only walking through a lucid nightmare. Of all the things he might’ve felt at news of Max’s death . . . this wasn’t among them. Sure, he might’ve expected himself to be upset. But he was depressed. He had to wonder: was this anything like how August had felt after watching Julian die? How Max had felt after watching August die? Julian’s death had hurt him, but not this much. He’d even seen Julian die in person. Max, he’d only heard he was dead. Why did it hurt him so much?
          When the elevator doors opened, he hesitated before stepping out. Then, as the doors closed behind him, he stood in place. He felt like a lost child, looking for his mother, scared of being alone. He wandered the halls for a few minutes, passing doors but not seeing them, walking in circles. There was no urge to commit. The longer he spent not knowing which door to use the keycard on, the better.
          Only a few hours ago, Max had been talking to him, joking about wanting to grow a beard. They’d shaved together, like two normal men. Now there was a good chance he was dead. Only a few hours ago, he’d made him happy with the thought of returning to Australia. Now he’d never get to see him happier with arriving there. Oh, how it hurt.
          “Get a grip,” he grumbled to himself. “It’s not the end of the goddamned world . . .” It sure felt like it was, though. Out of the blue, he wished August was still alive. The Dane would be trying to comfort him right about now. He’d been someone he could cry to if he needed. But now, he had no one.
          That sunk in gradually. He had no one. Before he met Max, at least August had still been alive. Now, if Max was dead . . . There was no one left. No one but his father, but he’d sooner turn himself in than turn to him for anything more than his wealth. That left him with two choices: to start over, or to give up. Either way, he was getting ahead of himself; this chapter of his life wasn’t over until he found Max’s body.
          He hovered for a long moment in front of the door that was most likely to lead into Ash’s suite. It didn’t seem possible to gain the courage to open it. The thought of finding Max’s corpse somewhere inside was paralyzing. For the first time in a long time, he craved a cigarette. He’d always thought he’d want to kill Max at some point. Now he was acutely aware he’d been wrong to think that.
          Finally, he pulled out the keycard and ran it through the scanner. With a beep, the light turned green. With slow movements, he pushed open the door.
          The first thing that hit him as he entered Ash’s suite was the strong smell of chardonnay. Though it was better than the smell of blood, somehow it didn’t concern him any less. Okay, so, if Max was in there, he hadn’t bled out. But why the wine?
          He found out why when he stepped into the living area. Following the smell led him to the couch, which had been pushed back. There was a large puddle spilling out from under it, dampening the carpet as it soaked it up from the hardwood. The table was out of place as well. So, did that mean something happened here? A struggle of some sort? The thought intensified his anxiety.
          As he stepped into the work area, with its desk and bookshelves, he noticed the doorway to the bedroom. Though, he couldn’t bring himself to get close enough to see through it. Instead, he stayed close to the wall, in the doorway to the study.
          Oh, God. He was dead in the bedroom, wasn’t he? His beloved, precious, gentle Max. He’d been such an idiot to let him see Ash again! The one time he decides to be compassionate, it gets his favorite person killed. It was Max’s fault for taking him up on it. He should’ve stayed. He should’ve stayed!
          Part of him tried to convince him that it’d been a bluff. That if Max was in there, he was still alive. Maybe he was sitting on the bed in fear, waiting to see who was lurking around the suite. There was no way he could be dead. Ash couldn’t have killed him, right? Right? Thinking he’d got a grip on himself, he stepped forward and looked into the bedroom. It didn’t take long for him to realize he was wrong.
          He found Max immediately. The Aussie was lying on the bed�"no, bound to the bed by his wrists and ankles. There was a belt around his face, part of a makeshift gag. His eyes were closed. As Cameron stared, he didn’t move. He wasn’t moving. He looked pale.
          He wasn’t moving.
          For a few beats, Cameron only stared. He felt woozy and queasy, like he might faint, but beyond that he was okay. Then came the pain, like a stake to the heart. The room was spinning. Tears formed fast. All of a sudden, Cameron, who hadn’t had a tear to shed in years�"who’d hardly shed more than crocodile tears for Julian�"was crying. As strangled sounds escaped his mouth, he fell against the wall and slid down to the floor holding it.
          He wasn’t even sure why he was crying. It didn’t benefit him. It was messy and human and strange. Why was he doing it? The last time he’d cried, it had been to test August. But now . . . this was different. There was no goal to his bawling this time. Crying wouldn’t bring Max back. The best option was to get a grip and move on. And yet . . . he couldn’t. For some reason, there was a crippling vice of emotional pain in his chest. Even if he cried, it would never leave�"only loosen to tighten again in a moment of weakness. For a few seconds, he despised Max for being the root of this new and unusual burden.
          Was this love? This horrible dread�"this feeling of helplessness�"this inability to cope�"was this love? If so, he wished he’d never met Max. He wished he could go back and warn himself that love wasn’t as impossible for him as he’d thought. That love would rip his heart out two years later in one of his favorite cities. Despite rationality telling him he had to, he didn’t want to move on. There was no point in starting over. Without Max, what was the point? Never would there be anyone else like him. Damn love! Without even wounding him, it had killed him.
          A muffled sound ran through his ears, but he wasn’t listening. Had he made the noise himself? He placed his forehead against the doorway, leaning it there for physical support. Crying was giving him a headache, but he couldn’t stop.
          “Cmm-rrn.”
          The writer opened his watery, dark caramel eyes. Had he made that sound, too? It didn’t seem possible; he’d been too busy sobbing. Unless he’d said something under his breath?
          “Cmm-rrn!” This time, it was joined by the creaking of the bedframe and a slight rustle of fabric.
          What? Confused, Cameron cocked his head to the side. On the bed, Max had raised his head. The Aussie, brows furrowed, blinked at him. Cameron blinked back, unsure of what to do or how to react. Was he seeing this right, or had he lost his mind in the midst of his grief? The latter wouldn’t surprise him.
          Max gave his restraints a tug. “Cmm-rrn, mmph,” he grunted through the cloth in his mouth.
          “Max . . . ?” Cameron asked, voice small and emotional.
          Max nodded, tugged at his restraints again.
          For a beat, Cameron did nothing. Then, movements jagged and rushed, he hurried to Max’s side and started undoing the belts holding his wrists down. Once his hands were free, the Aussie ripped off the makeshift gag and spat out the tie. He coughed and heaved to get more air. Cameron watched him do so, still not sure what was happening. Only a few seconds ago, he’d been certain Max was dead.
          The Aussie finally looked at him. Noticing the lost look on his face, he explained on a shaky voice: “I thought you were Ash. So, I pretended to be dead. I think he thought he’d killed me, so I didn’t know what he’d do if I was still�"”
          Cameron wrapped his arms around Max and pulled him into a tight embrace. He held him so hard, it hurt even him, but he didn’t dare let go. One of his hands held the back of Max’s head, holding it firm in the crook of his shoulder. Max’s arms went around him as well, fingers digging into the back of his coat.
          “Max,” he cried. “I swear to f*****g God if you ever do that to me again, I’ll kill you myself.”
          “Well, that wouldn’t help anything, would it?” mumbled the Aussie with a small laugh.
          Cameron pulled back and looked Max in the eyes. He huffed out a sob that was half a laugh. It only now occurring to him, he took hold of Max’s left hand. From a pocket, he took out the ring. With trembling hands, he slipped it back onto the Aussie’s ring finger. Still shaken, Max looked down at it, then back up at him. He beamed a troubled smile. Cameron caressed the side of his head, then kissed him hard. Max returned it. Then, a few seconds later, the writer pulled away and held him again. This time, his hold was gentler, though still firm enough for the Aussie to not be able to escape. Not that he tried; instead, he held him as well.
          “How did you know I was here?” he asked.
          “Ash said he’d killed you,” Cameron answered quietly. “It didn’t seem likely you’d leave the hotel, so if he did kill you, he’d have to do it here. There aren’t many ways to get your body out without getting caught.”
          “You saw Ash,” Max mumbled. It seemed to finally be dawning on him. “Where did you get his keycard? He . . . He wouldn’t give it to you.”
          “He killed Dottie and Chandler.”
          The Aussie’s body slacked a bit. “Oh, God. I thought I noticed a taxi following us there this morning . . .”
          “When he said he’d killed you, I . . .” Cameron nuzzled closer against him. “I don’t know. I snapped, I guess.”
          “He’s not . . . ?”
          “I left his body there. Made it look like a murder-suicide. Because, I mean, it was, except . . . Except I forced the suicide by killing him myself. But he must’ve been suicidal, telling me something like that . . .”
          Max said nothing.
          “You didn’t want me to kill him, I know. I’m not sorry, though.”
          He shook his head. “No. Don’t be,” he said. “I don’t blame you.”
          It was Cameron’s turn to be silent.
          “If he told me he’d killed you, then . . . I would’ve killed him, too.”
          A small, bittersweet laugh. “No, you wouldn’t’ve. You would’ve wanted to, maybe, but you’re not a killer.”
          Again, Max said nothing. This silence felt less like waiting and more like an actual response, but of what kind was hard to tell. Cameron took this as a signal to stop talking. So, instead, he held the Aussie a bit tighter. He could fall asleep like this, fatigued from emotion and relief.
          “We shouldn’t stay in here,” he told his lover. “Let’s get back to our suite.”
          “What if someone finds the bodies?” Max asked all of a sudden.
          “Don’t worry. We’ll be out of the country by then.”
          Together, they returned the belts to the closet and corrected the couch and table. After correcting the suite, they left and headed into the elevator. Inside, Max leaned his head against the gently rumbling wall.
          “What did he do to you?” asked Cameron.
          “He hit me over the head with the chardonnay bottle, I reckon. Then he dragged me into the bedroom and started strangling me. Anything after that, I can’t remember. I must’ve blacked out.”
          “How long ago did you come to?”
          Max shrugged. “Half an hour? I’m not sure. Felt like ages, though. Wasn’t sure if I was alone or not, so every little creak scared the s**t outta me.”
          They got out of the elevator on their floor and returned to their suite. Once inside, Cameron rubbed his eyes, sniffled, and promptly resumed packing. Max, meanwhile, leaned against the wall and watched him. As he did, he fiddled with the pendant around his neck.
          “You cried for me.”
          Cameron didn’t answer, continuing to put things into the suitcase.
          “I didn’t think you’d do that.”
          “Why not?”
          Max lifted his head a little. “I expected something more like a sigh, at most.”
          “I love you, Max. I wasn’t lying when I said it.”
          “But you didn’t seem the type to cry.”
          Cameron sighed, finally stopped. After a beat, he said, “Don’t ever leave me again.”
          “I won’t.”
          “You promise?”
          “I promise.”
          The writer turned to look at him. When he gave him a small smirk, he stepped over and leaned down, kissing him again. Max again returned it; a few seconds later, he wrapped his arms over his shoulders. Another few seconds, and Cameron broke the kiss.
          “I thought you’d be mad at me,” he said.
          Max’s face sobered; his eyes looked tired and loving, but he had the faintest of frowns on his lips.
          “You are, aren’t you? About Ash?”
          The Aussie stared, blinked, stared some more. Finally, he shook his head slowly from side to side. In a drone: “You did the right thing.”
          This didn’t comfort Cameron much. “You seem angry.” Or, rather, not: he seemed robotic; cold and distanced. In response to this comment, though, the Aussie plastered on a terse smile.
          “Can we drop the subject?” he asked.
          “I won’t apologize. I did do the right thing.”
          “I know. You did.”
          “Then why do you look so . . .” To his surprise, he found it difficult to find a word to accurately describe Max’s expression. “Grim?”
          “I’m worried we’re in deep s**t,” the Aussie mumbled. “I mean . . . You left his body there?”
          “In the kitchen, yeah.”
          “Did you clean anything?”
          “He’s lying in a puddle of his own blood, some of which is on the knife’s edge.”
          The Aussie shook his head. “They’re going to bring you in for questioning.”
          “What makes you say that?”
          “Your grandparents are dead. The day after their murders, you leave the country. That’s a tad suspicious, don’t you think?”
          Cameron shrugged. “It’s a coincidence.”
          “The police love coincidences. We shouldn’t leave.”
          “Is staying any better?”
          “God, no. Not at all.”
          “Then let’s go to Australia.”
          Max brought his hands to his head as he shook it.
          “Stop stressing. She’ll be apples.”
          “No, she won’t f****n’ be apples. We’re fucked, Cameron. And I mean that in a few different ways.”
          Cameron shrugged again and returned to his suitcase. He zipped it shut, then started packing for Max. “I don’t see why you’re so bothered. It shouldn’t matter to you.”
          “Shouldn’t matter to me? Cameron, you’re my fiancé. You could be my husband in a month. Of course it matters to me.” He huffed, leaned back against wall again. “Besides, this affects me too. I’m in Ash’s contact list. I’m one of the last people he texted. If they trace the number . . .”
          “We can turn off location tracking, Max.”
          “But the cellphone tower data . . .”
          With a sigh, Cameron stepped back over to him. Then, he held out his hand. “Give it here.”
          Max checked his pockets. “Um . . . I don’t . . .”
          The writer realized: “Oh. Right.” From his coat pocket, he pulled out Max’s phone. He then walked over to the suite’s window. After pushing aside the white curtain, he opened it. Max watched without comment as he rolled his arm back, then threw the phone out, as far as he could. After that, he turned back to him with a smirk.
          “Not our problem anymore.”
          Max gazed at him in shock for a beat, then scoffed. His scoff soon spiraled into laughter. Cameron watched him as he laughed, taking note that while it did seem to be out of amusement, the Aussie sounded somewhat unstable. It sounded like at any moment, the laughter could turn into full-blown sobbing. It didn’t, but his laughs wavered somewhat like they were on the brink. Rather than point this out or worry over it, he decided to return to his side. Max’s troubled gray eyes met his as his somewhat-deranged hysteria died down.
          “Max?”
          “Mm-hmm?”
          Resisting the urge to ask if he was okay, Cameron smirked. Even if he wasn’t fine, he could fix him. The marriage would help him recover. He was only stressed from his near-death experience and hearing that Ash was dead. “You’re so paranoid,” he teased. “I told you: she’ll be apples.”
          Max responded first with a thousand-yard stare, then by pressing their lips together again. Appreciating this initiative, Cameron held him close again. He couldn’t be any happier than he was in that moment. After being so sure he was dead, he was holding Max in his arms again, kissing him. Plus, it seemed like he had feelings (though he wasn’t sure how he felt about this revelation).
          Love was a fearsome beast, but if it meant keeping Max by his side, he was happy to risk that kind of pain again. It made him feel like a masochist; a glutton for punishment. But it didn’t matter. Nothing did, except that he was in love. Nothing could ever take him away from Max again. The Aussie would be his, by his side, forever, regardless of whether he had second thoughts at some point. He’d never let him go. Not until death did them part.

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