Patient Privilege Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note from the Publisher

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Allison Cassatta

  A Silver Publishing Book

  Patient Privilege

  Copyright © 2012 by Allison Cassatta

  E-book ISBN: 9781614956242

  First E-book Publication: August 2012

  Cover design by Reese Dante

  Editor: Geoffrey Greene

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Silver Publishing

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  If you see "free shares" offered or cut-rate sales of this title on pirate sites, you can report the offending entry to [email protected].

  This book is written in US English.

  PUBLISHER

  www.SPSilverPublishing.com

  Note from the Publisher

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for your purchase of this title. The authors and staff of Silver Publishing hope you enjoy this read and that we will have a long and happy association together.

  Please remember that the only money authors make from writing comes from the sales of their books. If you like their work, spread the word and tell others about the books, but please refrain from sharing this book in any form. Authors depend on sales and sales only to support their families.

  If you see "free shares" offered or cut-rate sales of this title on pirate sites, you can report the offending entry to [email protected].

  Thank you for not pirating our titles.

  Lodewyk Deysel

  Publisher

  Silver Publishing

  http://www.spsilverpublishing.com

  Dedication

  To all my fans, thank you for your support.

  In loving memory of my little brother.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Bengay: Pfizer Inc

  Formica: Diller Corporation

  Honda: Honda Motor Company

  Jacuzzi: Jacuzzi Inc

  Joan Rivers: Rosenberg, Joan Rivers

  Land Rover: Land Rover Corporation

  Mercedes: Daimler AG Corporation

  Palomar Hotel: Kimpton Hotel & Restaurant Group

  Snickers: Mars Incorporated

  Starbucks: Starbucks Corporation

  UCLA: Regents of the University of California, the California Corporation

  Volvo: Volvo

  Ziploc: SC Johnson and Son Inc

  Chapter One

  Perfectly fucking tragic—one cock was just like every other cock, nothing fresh, nothing new, just boring. Angel squatted to his knees, lowered his head and took the john's pasty, average-sized dick into his mouth. He drew circles around Mr No-Name's average girth with his tongue, licked down the shaft to the head and back again. Blowing a few of those plain, boring, average cocks bought Angel a room for the night, maybe some food, and almost always a hit—or two or ten—of whatever drug he chose at that moment. Right now, he wanted heroin. And by God, he would get it, even if that meant kneeling down in a slimy-ass alley and blowing some jerk who obviously wasn't getting it at home.

  Every time one of the little spikes at either corner of Angel's plump bottom lip hit the john's balls, the guy hissed, but then the sound rolled into a moan and Angel felt a pulse of excitement against his tongue. He almost wanted to stop blowing just so he could laugh. And he might've if he didn't have an intense desire to get this shit over with so he could get high.

  His thumb stroked back and forth between the guy's balls while he two-fingered the john's ass. This particular guy always came looking for Angel—said he wasn't like the other whores, said he made him come faster than anyone, and that gave the trick time to get back home to his wife and kids without any of them being the wiser. It would've been hard for a forty-something husband and father of three to explain to his family that he really had a proclivity for boys closer to his son's age.

  That shit just wouldn't fly.

  Whatever. Angel didn't give a damn about the guy or his family. He only cared about taking care of himself. Sucking and fucking bought him what he needed to get through a night in his shithole world, and that's how he'd been living since he'd packed up his clothes, hopped in his car, and ran away from his rich-boy life in Maine.

  Angel felt the trick reach down and grab a tight handful of his spiky black hair. He picked up the pace, head bobbing up and down, up and down. A warm, bitter explosion of cum hit the back of his throat. He hated that part, but those assholes paid extra for that shit. They appreciated it because their frumpy wives were too prim and proper to go down on them the way a man really wanted.

  With a grin spread across his lips, Angel wiped his mouth, stood, and held out his hand. The trick dropped three bills in his palm and Angel gave him a nod. "Good doin' business with ya, asshole," he said with a laugh as he spun and walked away.

  Five blocks north, a dealer was waiting with anything Angel could possibly want or need. That was the beauty of Los Angeles. That was the beauty of knowing the streets. He could get whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever the fuck he wanted. Then he'd walk a few more blocks to find some fleabag, no-tell motel to park it for the night while he got high.

  "Oh, if Daddy could see me now… the prick."

  He rounded the corner, black combat boots pounding against wet concrete. Rain made that part of the city smell like a sewer, like half the world had taken a shit and it all landed in LA. Honestly, he hated this place almost as much as he loved it.

  "You lookin' for me, boy?" his dealer called from the pitch-black
of the alley. Angel almost walked right by. The boom of the big man's voice made him jump. As he searched the street, his eyes yo-yoed back and forth just to make sure there weren't any cops or narcs or anybody else that might screw up his plans. Then he ducked into the alley and out of the light so no one would see the deal going down.

  "Goddamn it, Trez, stop doing that shit to me," he said as their hands clapped together.

  Trez laughed so hard his whole huge-ass body shook. He smiled so wide his gold grill lit up like a beacon in all that darkness. Big motherfucker was scary as hell if you didn't know him. Scary as hell if you did. As long as Trez didn't get screwed with, everything was all good. But the moment he questioned someone's loyalty, that someone better hit the fucking road and fast.

  Angel slapped two bills in Trez's hand and the big man returned with a little baggy of white powder. Angel could already feel the tension easing, like just knowing in the next twenty minutes he would be high was enough, but it wasn't. Until that shit hit his veins, nothing would be right… or at least, right in the way he needed it to be.

  He didn't spend any time fucking around with Trez. He had a bag of smack in his hand, enough money to get a shitty room, and maybe even something to eat. Didn't really matter as long as he managed to take the edge off and quench the need he'd been fighting all day—the need to get high and forget his shitty life.

  There were three motels in that particular part of Los Angeles where Angel didn't mind laying his head. They were all completely disgusting, and no way in hell would a sane person stay in any of them. But a broke, desperate man would. Angel saw the perfection in each one. They were quiet and cheap, though mainly just cheap. He could do his thing without getting busted. He could relax and maybe sleep. He considered those shitholes home.

  Well, the closest thing he had to a home.

  The motel he'd happened upon first looked like something out of a '60s horror movie. The lights flickered, and there were no cars in the driveway. He half expected to find a bloody hand in the ice bin, but that wouldn't stop him from getting a room. He just needed a place to get high and stay dry for a night or two. He needed a place to hide from his best friend while he did the one thing Jon always begged him to give up.

  Jon just didn't understand him. Sure, the kid's life wasn't perfect either, but it was better than Angel's. That's how Angel saw it anyway, only because Jon had all the looks that Angel didn't have. He could've easily been every gay man's and straight woman's wet dream: muscled and tanned, with blue eyes and long, blond hair that looked like silk. And he could dance like nobody's business. So instead of letting strange men shove their cocks into random orifices for a couple hundred bucks, Jon got to dance half-naked on bars and make three or four times the money Angel did.

  Angel, on the other hand, had nearly half his body tattooed or pierced and black spiky hair jutting up from a makeup-covered face. The getup—all the way down to the black on black he was always rocking—made his skin look pale and his eyes look dark. The whole package, tats and all, made him look scary, and everyone knew that was the key to surviving the streets. People always said if Angel would just do something with his hair, ditch the makeup and wear clothes that didn't look they'd been pulled out of Dracula's shredder, he would be hot, but he liked his look. Fuck the conformists, right?

  He sat down on the creaky edge of a stinky-ass motel bed and stared down at the bag in his hands. Part of him hated the idea that those little white granules of bliss had so much power over him, while another part thanked God some sorry son of a bitch somewhere had been smart enough to figure out the shit could get people high.

  Digging in his coat pocket, he fished out a little black leather pouch. Shaky fingers pulled the zipper around until the pouch fell open. Inside was a bent spoon with a blackened bottom, a needle, and a tourniquet. He had everything he needed for a quick trip to the moon. It was a simple matter of burning down some of the powder, injecting it into his veins, and forgetting everything in his fucked-up world. He could forget about the cock he sucked just to get by, forget about his piece-of-shit parents. And if he really had the balls to do it, he could even let himself forget about Jon—the jealousy, the desire and the joke their relationship had become over the years.

  With the rubbery end of the tourniquet between his teeth, Angel pulled hard and thumped his arm until a thick blue vein rose to the surface of his pale skin. He stared down at the vein and thought about everything he'd put into it, the shit he'd done to his body. Only twenty-five years old and he wondered how the fuck he'd managed to stay alive. He wondered how he'd managed to stay clean when half the dudes he'd known since he'd moved to LA had died of AIDS or a drug overdose. Angel wasn't scared, though, not enough to stop. Or maybe he just didn't give a shit enough to clean up his act.

  Guess he figured God still loved this little fucked-up fag.

  He pressed the needle against his flesh, piercing through to that thick blue vein. He pulled back on the plunger, watched his blood mix with the shit in the syringe, then pushed down and pumped a heavy dose of heroin into his body. In minutes, maybe seconds, nothing would matter anymore. He'd be somewhere else, somewhere far away from the hell of his existence, somewhere far away from the joke of living life in his body.

  He fell back against the bed. The syringe rolled out of his hand and hit the floor. The tourniquet loosened and the high consumed him. He was so far gone he didn't even hear his phone ringing. It would've been Jon anyway, calling to check in on him, making sure he wasn't getting fucked up. Too late.

  Then, the crashing of the hotel door and the pissed-off sound of his best friend growling, "What the hell, bro?" started pulling him away from his high.

  Angel laughed, eyes rolling back in his head. He lifted his hand a few inches from the mattress, fingers wagging to call Jon over.

  "I've been looking for you all night, asshole! You're going to sit there and laugh at me?" Jon stalked toward the bed, arms crossed over his chest. He muttered, "God, I don't know why I put up with your shit."

  "Because you're in love with me," Angel somehow managed to mumble through his high. "You've been in love with me since we met. Admit it."

  "Go to hell," Jon said in a soft, defeated voice.

  Angel only smiled as his eyes fluttered closed again. He just wanted to ride out the high, but Jon barging in had sort of ruined that chance.

  "Angel? Angel, wake the fuck up!" Jon demanded.

  Angel felt the entire mattress jostle, like Jon had just kicked the shit out of it. He didn't budge though, didn't even bat a lash. The heroin high crashed into his consciousness and drowned out everything around him.

  "Dammit!" Jon bit out, slapping Angel's face so hard it made a loud clap which stung his ears almost as much as the hit stung his face. "Wake up!"

  Angel's eyes slowly opened. His lips curled into a playful grin as he wrapped his arms around Jon's tiny waist. He pulled his friend down into a kiss, thrusting his tongue deep into Jon's mouth.

  Jon slapped the hell out of him again. "You're an asshole."

  "What did I do?"

  "This!"

  Angel watched Jon lean down and when he popped back up, he had the used needle carefully held between his thumb and forefinger. To Angel's eyes, Jon looked like nothing more than a blur of color. Angel only saw the needle, the drugs he'd left behind. He only saw the promise of another high.

  "You're going to end up dead," Jon mumbled.

  A devious grin stretched across Angel's face. He eyed Jon for a long minute before reaching out and grabbing a fistful of his best friend's beautiful, golden-colored hair. His other hand locked over Jon's crotch. He pulled Jon down until their noses touched. "Not so dead, am I?"

  Angel's teeth clamped down on Jon's lower lip as his fist tightened in his best friend's hair. He pulled Jon—by hair and lip—down to the bed beside him. "Don't fucking move," Angel said. He jumped up from the worn mattress, stumbled forward and went to his tattered backpack. He dug around until he found the lu
be and a condom. And when he spun back around, he grinned at Jon with a gleam in his eye.

  "Strip," Angel demanded as he began to take off his own clothes.

  Jon flinched.

  The sight, the feel of the power he had over Jon made a pleasant tingle shoot down Angel's spine and his cock twitched. No matter how pissed pretty boy wanted to be, he always wanted to fuck Angel more. And Angel always met Jon's willpower and anger with double the lust. He'd thrust all that desire into Jon's hot body until blondie came and writhed and cried out to God.

  Angel left his clothes pooled on the floor. He tossed the condom between Jon's muscled thighs. Jon reached down to grab it, and as he started to unwrap the rubber, Angel slipped two lubed fingers into his tight ass. He watched Jon's hands tremble as the kid tried like hell to unroll the damn condom without coming all over the place.

  In and out, in and out, a little faster and harder each time, Angel's fingers dove deep into Jon's body. And somehow, Jon managed to roll the condom down Angel's hardened cock. He smiled as Jon looked up with eyes that begged for so many unspoken fantasies, things Jon had hinted around about in the past, but had apparently been too embarrassed to ask for.

  Angel leaned down and clamped his teeth over Jon's pierced nipple, his tongue flicking the silver ring back and forth with the same rhythm as his fingers. Jon whimpered. Angel knew he wanted to beg to be taken, but begging wasn't allowed. Neither was coming before Angel gave him permission. And somehow, maybe by some freak-of-fucking-nature willpower or some shit, Jon always managed to hang in there until he got his orders.