The thing with Marcus’s parents was that they cared. The problem was that the amount of care they exhibited was proportional with the way it affected their image and whether that was a direct or indirect ratio was, most often than not, a bitch to figure out.
Marcus prided himself in having done so pretty well this far.
He’d covered a learning deficiency too shameful to be exposed with medals and trophies in sports and with googling most of his math assignments. He’d masked an unwholesome character with violence on the wrong side of the town, where his parents wouldn’t even glance for fear their eyes would burn in their sockets. He’d hidden his lack of attraction to girls with – well, he’d hidden it. He’d done it so they wouldn’t have to care to pretend caring and he thought it should have brought him a different place from – well, here.
The police station was cold. The chair he sat in was wet, his jacket was long gone and, handcuffed as he was, he was not exactly in a position to work some warmth into his limbs. Everything hurt, from his ribs to his jaw to his head that was unbearably pulsing.
He hadn’t even wanted to take up with Tom Riddle. His father had different ideas, though, and a ridiculous ambition to continue breathing, and Marcus had been the lucky bastard his life hung on. Fucker. And now he was here.
“I – mm – I don’t really have anyone to call,” he said, eyes glued to his shoes.
His father would not even pick up. Riddle – Riddle would just make sure someone with a knife tripped close enough to Marcus to seem an accident.
“You sure?” The old man scratched his ear, bewildered. “What about your parents? A girl? Hell, even your dog walker would do.”
An idea flashed in Marcus’s mind and, though it made his stomach churn, he grabbed it desperately. He didn’t have a dog walker, he didn’t even have a dog but there was someone who liked dogs whose number he just might be able to remember.
“Yeah, ok, I’ll – uh – try that. Yeah.”
The number was so seared in his mind he’d dialled before he caught up with himself and then it was done. One call. No turning back.
The phone rang once, then twice, then a third time – Marcus started wounding the cord around his finger. He answered right after the churning anxiety inside Marcus’s stomach had turned to ash and the fear in his mouth had soured.
“Wood,” the gruff voice said.
Marcus’s entire body jolted. He wanted to smash the phone back in his holder. He wanted to punch someone and cry. Then preferably punch someone again.
“Hi,” he said instead, fingers pressed so tightly against the plastic they whitened. “It’s me.”
“Who are –” A long pause. “Flint?”
Marcus wished he could see Oliver’s face because his voice was – expressionless and blank and doing strange things to his heart. He swallowed hard. Behind him, the policeman cleared his throat diplomatically.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said before he could lose his courage. “I know we haven’t seen each other in two years but, theoretically speaking, how many blowjobs would you have to be bribed with to pay my bail, Oliver?”