Chapter Six

RYAN

All good things must come to an end, and Ryan found himself back in the city. Emerson had to return home and to his job, and Ryan could hardly argue with the man. First thing on his list was showing up at his job and hoping they'd understand.

Alisa, the hotel maintenance manager, was less than sympathetic. "Your boyfriend called the office and said you had the flu. That's a week at the most. But three weeks? And no doctor's note? C'mon, man."

"He's not my boyfriend, but aside from that, it wasn't the flu. I-I had a relapse and started using and drinking again. But I'm two weeks clean and hoping you'll give me another chance." He met her gaze unflinchingly, and for a moment he thought he spied sympathy in Alisa's big brown eyes. But then she reverted to her usual, businesslike self.

"Sorry, Ryan. We had to fill your position."

He sucked in air. "So that's it. I'm out."

"That's it, yeah. I appreciate that you told me the truth, but I need someone reliable."

He'd said he didn't want easy, and he was getting his wish. While Emerson had offered his couch to sleep on as long as he needed it, Ryan had counted on the job to enable him to find an apartment. Now, with nothing to his name but the clothes he'd taken with him, the best he could do was live in a shelter. The place of last resort. He knew what happened there, so no way.

He shivered and touched the inside of his jacket pocket, feeling the cool metal links.

Logan's watch.

After reading the letter from the disciplinary committee and downing the bottle of vodka, he'd still had enough brain cells working and remembered where Logan kept his stash of house money and his father's gold watch. In his altered-mind state, he'd had no qualms about grabbing it all. The money had dwindled to half, and Ryan knew from the weight of the watch that he could get a hefty amount for it. He stroked the smooth bezel.

"Where did you get that relic? I didn't know they still had watches you had to wind." With a laugh, Ryan sat next to Logan on the bed.

Logan faced him with an unreadable expression. "It was my father's. My mother gave it to him on their twenty-fifth anniversary. The night before he died, he gave it to me."

"Oh." Another life experience he couldn't relate to. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. Is it real gold?"

"Yes." Logan put it on his wrist. "I don't wear it because it's too valuable." He took it off and placed it in the nightstand drawer.

"Why don't you sell it, then?" Ryan asked, and Logan stared at him as if he'd committed murder.

"Are you kidding me? It was my father's."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry."

In truth, Ryan didn't understand. He hadn't seen his father in over twenty years and barely remembered him. Family meant little to him when he'd been so easily disposed of for being gay.

Did he feel like a shit for stealing it?

Yes.

He had to get it back to Logan, but he was too chicken to face him. For now, he kept it zipped up inside his jacket and walked the streets of the city, looking for a job. He'd filled out application after application, knowing full well for the most part he wouldn't hear from them once they read his answer to the question, "Have you ever been convicted of a felony?" But he applied to other hotels and even as a legal secretary to half a dozen firms, hoping someone might overlook his record. Knowing they wouldn't as soon as they googled his name.

By three in the afternoon, he'd had enough. He'd been out since nine in the morning and needed to rest. He'd returned to Emerson's apartment and settled on the couch to watch some mindless television, when Emerson walked out of his bedroom.

"Oh, good. I'm glad you're here."

"Why?" Ryan drank half his can of club soda.

"I want you to come with me. I'm going to that center in Red Hook to help on their hotline."

Ryan tensed. "I don't want to meet that doctor. I already told you, I can't afford to pay for therapy."

Emerson lowered into the chair opposite him. "I know. But I'm not talking about you meeting Noah, although he might be there tonight, I'm not sure. This is to help your immediate situation."

And despite his initial protest, Ryan was curious. "What situation?"

"A job. Their receptionist is leaving, and they need a replacement. I thought you would be good for the job."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." Emerson leaned forward. "It's a start, Ry. And the center has resources that can help you with other issues."

Despite his misgivings, Ryan couldn't help but be interested. It was the first real opportunity he'd had. "I thought the place was just for young people." Was he trying to talk himself out of something that had potential because he was scared?

"They offer assistance to people who need it. I think you'd fit in and find you have things in common with the people who run it. Why don't we go and take a look?"

He sat up. "Now?"

Emerson raised a brow. "You have someplace else to be?"

A wry smile curved his lips. "You're funny. I just thought that since it's late in the day, there won't be anyone there."

"No, the center is twenty-four hours, seven days a week because of the hotline. Drew's sister, Dr. Rachel, runs it, and Noah and Tash also donate a significant amount of their time."

"Tash? Who's he?"

"A psychiatrist who helps out."

Ryan narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure this isn't some trick to get me to meet all these random doctors and go into therapy? You know I'm not into listening to these people tell me that my mommy issues led to my problems, and what I should do and how I should feel when they have no clue what I've been through."

"Just keep an open mind. I'm telling you the truth when I say there is a job opening."

Mistrustful was his middle name, but Ryan grabbed his phone. "All right. I'm ready."

"Let's go."

Their car dropped them off in a part of the city Ryan had heard of but never visited when he was married to Garrett and lived in Brooklyn Heights. He followed Emerson into a low-slung building. A sign hung above the door: The Audrey and Maxwell Klein Home Away From Home CLINIC. Ryan wondered who they were and if they were also doctors there to force him into therapy.

The reception area was an open, welcoming space with cheerful prints on the walls. Ryan noted that the updated technology behind the desk was the same as at his old firm.

"Is that where the receptionist would sit?"

"Yeah. You'd be the first face people see when they walk into the center to get help."

That was a bit discomfiting—Ryan was a mess himself. "Not sure I'm the right person to be greeting people."

"Emerson?"

A man in his mid-to-late forties, with pale-green eyes and dark, wavy hair sprinkled with silver, stood in the doorway between the reception area and the hallway. He wore a white doctor's coat and the script on his jacket read: Dr. Drew .

"Drew, hi. I'm glad you're still here."

"I thought I heard your voice. Come to help out on the hotline?" He directed a friendly smile at Ryan. "Hi. I'm Drew."

"Ryan."

Drew extended a hand, and they shook. "Emerson mentioned he was bringing someone who might be able to take over as our new receptionist. Is it you?"

Ryan shrugged. "I'm not sure yet." Why was he being dickish and ruining his chances at a job? He should be grateful for the opportunity. "I guess I have to see if we mesh."

"How about I show you the space? This would be your desk. You'd greet the people as they come in, see if they have an appointment or if it's an emergency that needs treatment right away. I'm one of the doctors, and Jordan is the other—he's an orthopedist. We also have a dentist on staff—Mike."

Ryan was confused. "I thought this was like a hotline place. Like a therapist's office. Why would people come here instead of going to a hospital?"

"Most people who come here can't afford to go to a hospital. They have no insurance. Some are runaways or don't have legal immigration status and are afraid to give out their personal information. Queer young people often end up on the streets because their families turn them out, and trans people, especially, don't often get the proper quality of care. Here we take care of everyone, regardless of race, gender, or status."

Ryan's head spun. "And you do all that here?"

"We do what we can." Drew sighed. "Obviously, we don't have a full-service hospital, but we can set broken bones, stitch people up, and provide the care we're able to. But you are right in that mental-health services are a huge part of our care. My sister's hotline has at least five people monitoring the calls—licensed psychologists, PhD students, teachers, and addiction specialists. That's all in the back of the clinic."

It was an impressive setup, and Ryan wished there had been something like it when he was an eighteen-year-old living on the streets. He might not've ended up the fucked-up mess he was today.

"I'm assuming you don't lack for patients."

"Unfortunately, no. We try our best." Drew's eyes grew sad, and Ryan could see he truly cared. "But ultimately, the person has to want to be helped. Many are so traumatized, it can feel hopeless at first. They fight us because they're afraid. But we don't give up," he said fiercely. "Everyone is worth saving." He turned hopeful eyes on Ryan. "Do you think you'd like to work here with us? Emerson told me a little of your story."

Ryan stiffened. "He did?" Shame burned through him, and he glared at Emerson.

"Nothing personal." Drew reassured him. "Only that you've been out of work for a while, and you need a job. Even if you choose not to work with us, you're free to use our services and talk to someone if you want."

Tension built inside him. "I'm not interested in therapy. But I do need a job. I-I guess I could fill out an application—"

Drew waved a hand at his words. "Eh, we don't stand on ceremony like that here. We just need someone who fits with our mission. You have to have a good attitude and be kind to everyone who comes through the door because you don't know what they've been through."

"I-I can try." His life might be shit, but if all he needed to do to keep this job was to put a smile on his face, he'd figure a way to manage it.

"That's all we can do, right? Trying to do our best is a lot to ask of ourselves sometimes when we feel like the world has let us down, but we should remember there is always someone who needs our help. Someone who has it worse." Drew's voice was calm and peaceful, and he appeared to be so earnest and caring that Ryan's frazzled nerves settled. He couldn't imagine the man raising his voice or getting angry. "Why don't I walk you around the clinic so you can familiarize yourself with the place?"

"Yeah, sure." Ryan nodded. Being with someone like Drew gave him confidence in himself and his ability to succeed. Like maybe he was worthy.

They passed consultation and examination rooms, a break room and supply closets. The clinic was much bigger than it looked from the outside. "Did you start this all by yourself? It must've taken a huge outlay of cash."

"It did, but I had a large insurance settlement, and I wanted to put the money to good use. I'm a plastic surgeon. I couldn't see spending the rest of my life doing nose jobs, breast implants, and tummy tucks. But on top of what I brought in, we get some excellent corporate sponsorships. My husband's a lawyer, so he's worked out all the legalities. Jordan's husband is in finance, so we get all our advice from him. Plus, their firms make sizable donations." His eyes twinkled. "It helps to keep it all in the family."

"I guess so," Ryan murmured. Everyone here talked about family, but that term remained a foreign concept. How could it not, when his family had turned him out? Alone and rejected by everyone, he'd left town and figured New York was where he could find a home.

He just hadn't counted on what he'd need to do in order to get there.

Drew opened a door. "This is our call center, where my sister runs the hotline. There's always someone here to answer and listen. Sometimes it's Rachel's grad students, or her doctor friends, but many times it's our friends—Dr. Tash and his husband, Brandon, who's a teacher, and Dr. Noah."

In the large room were tables with phones. Three women and two men, headsets on, waved to Drew. A coffee machine and an expensive espresso machine, like they had in coffeehouses, sat on a credenza along the opposite wall, next to an array of snacks. Ryan spotted a large, stainless-steel refrigerator in the corner. Despite his initial misgivings about coming to this center, Ryan couldn't help but be impressed.

"This is a pretty incredible setup."

"Thank you. I'm extremely proud of what we've accomplished. I think you'll find it a good place to work."

One of the men took off his headset and stretched. He rose from his chair, and after taking a bottle of water from the refrigerator, walked over to Drew and him.

"Hey, Drew. Haven't seen you in a while."

"Yeah. Ash was busy with a case, so now that he's finished, we're trying to spend some time together." He smiled at Ryan. "This is Ryan. I'm hoping he's going to join us and take over for Marly at the reception desk."

"Ryan, hi, I'm Noah. Nice to meet you." His blue eyes were warm.

"Same. I'm looking forward to getting to work." Obviously, this was the doctor Emerson had brought up, and Ryan began to doubt the job was real. Was he being paranoid, or was it a way to get him into therapy?

"Have you been looking long? I can tell you this is a great place to work. You won't find a nicer group of people. They're like your family."

"I hope not, since mine sucked." He laughed, but his weak attempt at humor was met with sympathetic faces.

"I'm sorry," Noah spoke quickly to shut down the awkwardness. "I didn't mean to dredge up bad memories."

"No big deal. I'm fine." Ryan didn't want to say that when all your memories were bad, that was all you could relate to.

"Well, if you ever want to talk, I'm here two nights a week. And you can call me anytime."

"I said I'm fine. I know what you're all trying to do." His temper spiked, and he lashed out at Emerson. "You want me here to keep an eye on me. To make sure I don't start using again and to trick me into therapy. What, you think I'm gonna talk about how my mommy and daddy hated me and that's why I started using? I know it all, and it's not going to work. You're no better than Logan."

He stormed out of the room and ran smack into a tall, blond man exiting one of the offices.

"Ouch." The man rubbed his shoulder where Ryan had banged into him. "Where's the fire?"

Drew, Emerson, and Noah had followed him after his outburst and stood in the doorway to the call center.

"Ryan, come on. It's not what you think," Emerson pleaded.

His steps faltered. He wanted to walk out, but the truth was, if he blew this opportunity, he was back to nothing. He had no options left. Working at the center would give him the stability he needed to find a place to live and get on his feet. Ashamed of his outburst, he rubbed his face and waited for his heart to stop pounding.

"As long as none of you force me into talking to Noah or any other therapist," he mumbled, aware he'd spilled out his private demons to a bunch of strangers.

"I promise," Noah stated, his face solemn. "I didn't mean to upset you and make you uncomfortable. It's just something we tell everyone who works here. If you ever need help, either Tash or I are available to talk. There's no charge."

"Why wouldn't you want to talk to Noah?" the blond man asked, looking puzzled. "He's one of the best therapists in the city, plus he's a really nice guy."

"Not all people believe in therapy. I'm one of them."

"You were like that at one point, remember, Jordy?" Drew said quietly.

The guy grimaced. "Yeah, don't remind me. That whole time of my life is like a bad dream now, a nightmare I was lucky to wake up from. That's not a place I ever want to revisit."

Ryan was curious. Drew had called him Jordy—obviously short for Jordan. He must be the other doctor in the practice, the orthopedist. "What happened to you?" he blurted out, and Jordan's brows arched high in surprise. "Sorry," Ryan apologized. "I didn't mean to pry."

Jordan glanced over to the group standing in the doorway, and a surprisingly light smile tipped up his lips. "Of course you did. You asked. But I brought it up, so it's on me." He opened the door to the room he'd exited. "Come on and sit down, and I'll tell you the story of how I almost killed my career, my friendship with Drew, and myself."