"Craig!" she groaned. "I like him. How can you do this to him? And why would you want to?"

Sloan looked down at her and smiled. "Very funny. I know Franki told you."

Suddenly the world went still. It seemed that even the crickets and the waves had paused in their

incessant rhythms. Either that or she just couldn't hear them over the crashing pulse of blood through her ears.

"Told me what?"

He rolled his eyes. "You like torturing me, don't you? You know I'm not gay, or there's no way you would have let it go this far."

"What?" she breathed, but even as she asked it, she knew the answer.

And then she decided that no jury on Earth would ever convict her for doing what, very simply, had to be done.

Chapter Thirteen.

"Jesus," moaned Sloan as he reached for the alarm.

The incessant beeping stopped, but the relief was short-lived. The clock told him it was already 6:35. He had barely a half an hour to get packed and ready before his ride to the airport arrived. It was bad enough to have a killer hangover, and then to be aroused at such an ungodly hour. But add to that the aches and pains that had plagued him through the night and now made him loath to move at all, and it was a surefire recipe for a really bad day.

He winced as a cloud moved aside allowing a shard of sunlight to spear his eye. And then he winced again at the pain that radiated through his skull when he squinted. He groped for the ice pack. It was lukewarm but as it thawed it had sweated, and the moisture soothed, even if it was only a little. He held it gently to his eye as he gingerly pulled back the sheet and eased himself out of bed.

Still naked, he padded to the washroom and examined himself in the mirror. Under other circumstances he might have been proud of that shiner. It wouldn't have looked out of place on a valiant hero who had fought to protect the honor of a damsel. But unfortunately, his story wasn't so honorable. In fact, it reeked of cowardice and scandal. He had no wish to spend the day making up stories, or explaining himself to a host of first-class flyers. He'd have to glue those damn Ray-Bans to his nose to avoid the questions, stares and snickers.

Add to that his other misery...

He shifted his gaze downward, to the true focal point of his pain. There was still a little swelling, but he doubted that she had quite managed to neuter him. She had sworn to do as much, as she towered over him, screaming obscenities, while he clutched his genitals and writhed in pain amidst the dew-soaked grass.

Socking him in the eye and simultaneously landing a crushing blow with her knee hadn't been enough for her. She had deemed it necessary to spend what seemed like hours informing him of his numerous transgressions, and imminent exile from the human race.

He supposed he should count himself lucky. It could have been worse. He seemed to recall that she always carried a pocketknife in her purse. There could have been bloodshed. But once her tirade was exhausted, she had walked away without doing any further damage.

At the time he had found it ironic that his physical pain had paled in comparison to the pain he felt at realizing how badly he had treated her. The best friend he'd ever had. Only one other had come close.

"Craig!" he called out from the bathroom. "You got any aspirins in that portable pharmacy of yours?"

There was no answer. Hardly a surprise, considering Craig didn't believe that the sun rose much before noon. Sloan's need for analgesics superseded his fear of reprisals however. He wrapped a robe around himself and tiptoed into Craig's room.

"Damn," he groaned when he surveyed the empty bed.

No doubt Craig had felt lonely and slighted by Sloan's dressing down. He must have sought out Franki's company again for the night. Sloan would have rolled his eyes if they hadn't been threatening to squirt out of his head. He could hardly cast stones for making poor choices where women were concerned. One look inside his robe would have confirmed that beyond all doubt. He just couldn't quite bring himself to look again.

He scanned the room, and had just spotted Craig's toiletry bag when a commotion outside drew his attention.

He hobbled to the window and looked down into the street. A woman was screaming something, but he couldn't make it out. She looked quite harried so he decided to expend the energy required to lift the sash. The frame gave way with surprising ease considering its age, and at last he could decipher her words.

"...a lot of blood!" she was screaming. "On the beach, down by that huge driftwood pile."

Someone ran in the front door of the inn, but another man approached the woman. He was apparently trying to calm her and get some more information. His quiet words eluded Sloan, but the woman's hysterics reached him easily.

"No, no. You don't understand. It's not an animal. It's a man. It must be a tourist because I've never seen him before." Her hands blurred about her in a flurry of frustration and panic. "He's kinda skinny, with blond hair, I think. I-I don't know-" She dissolved into sobs and a set of icy fingers coiled themselves around Sloan's spine.

The man said something else that seemed to frustrate her further.

"Didn't you hear me? He's hurt. And-and he wouldn't wake up." She uttered another heart-wrenching sob. "I'm not even sure if he's alive."

Sloan stumbled back from the window, his pain forgotten and his vision blurred by terror. He dashed into his room and thrust his legs into a pair of loose, drawstring pants. He grabbed a T-shirt, and his deck shoes on his way past the closet. He fell into the hall as he struggled to get his shaking arms into the sleeves of his shirt. He didn't bother with the shoes, even when he leapt from the inn's front porch and ran down the gravel-strewn cobblestones of the sidewalk. They were still dangling from his fingers when he overtook the woman who was apparently leading the strange man toward her disturbing discovery.

Sloan caught her with a hand on her elbow. When she whirled around her hair and eyes were wild.

"I heard you say you found someone." He had to work to keep his voice from squeaking in panic.

"Blond hair, you said? Is that right?"

"Yes. At least I think so. It was so hard to tell because..."

Sloan's mouth went dry. "Because why?"

"Just come with us," urged the man. "The ambulance is on its way."

Sloan trudged after them. He managed to keep up despite the lead weights on his feet and the pain in his groin. After a few minutes she veered off the road, through a thick grove of pine trees, and out onto the beach.

She stopped and pointed. "He's...over there. Behind the woodpile."

The other man said gently, "We'll find him. You go back out to the road so you can catch the ambulance and tell them where we are."

She nodded mutely and headed back through the trees.

Sloan was already slogging through the sand. He heard the other man race to catch him. They reached the woodpile, and Sloan felt a hand on his arm.

"Sloan, wait, " he commanded.

Startled that the other man knew his name, Sloan turned to look at him for the first time. Recognition dawned slowly. "Mr. Cook." His old high school English teacher, Ivan Cook, long since retired, and sorely missed by many students.

"If you think this is your friend," said Ivan, "why don't you let me go first. Don't put yourself through this again. It's not worth it."

But Sloan turned away. "No. I've got to know."

Ivan accepted that in silence and, together, the duo picked their way around the pile of old logs and driftwood. On the other side Sloan caught sight of something that, at first glance, he would have thought was a pile of dirty rags. But then he stepped a little closer, and a muffled cry strangled his throat as he rushed forward and fell to his knees.

"Craig," he whispered. "Oh God, please. Please don't..." He reached out to touch Craig's shoulder, which was caked with dried blood and sand.

"Please, Sloan," said Ivan as he crouched down. He laid a hand on Sloan's arm. "Try to stay calm."

But Sloan barely heard him, he was too focused on his friend.

He thought he should assess the rest of Craig's injuries. He should check for breathing, or a pulse, or some sign of life, but he found that he was too terrified to know. He noticed when Ivan pressed a finger to Craig's throat, but he didn't hear the verdict. Didn't want to hear it. Refused to hear it.

"Please don't..." he whispered, closing his eyes against the pain. "Please don't make me do this again." He opened his eyes and forced himself to take in the pale, chalky skin, and closed, sightless eyes. "Because, this time, I don't think I'll make it."

"How is he?" asked Bree.

Troy glanced at the ICU doors and shook his head. "Which one? Not that it matters. They both look like death warmed over."

Bree sat down beside him. The puffy, vinyl chair sighed with her weight, as if greeting an old friend. In too many ways she was. She hated that she knew these chairs and these hallways so well. She was far too comfortable here. It was a sad commentary on the direction her life had taken in recent years.

"Well, is Craig going to be okay?" she asked at last.

Troy shrugged. "The doctors aren't saying much. The bruises on his face and body look bad, but no bones were broken. He was slashed up pretty good but none of the cuts were deep or life threatening. He did lose a lot of blood, but the head injury is the big worry." He picked up his empty coffee cup and continued to pick away at the already ragged Styrofoam. "It's been twenty-four hours, and he hasn't shown any sign of waking up. I think that's what worries them the most."

Bree couldn't tear her eyes away from the doors. "And Sloan?"

"He came out to use the bathroom about a half an hour ago. He walked right by and didn't even look at me."

"Why don't they send him home?" She turned pleading eyes on Troy, as if he had some control over the situation. "He hasn't slept or eaten since yesterday. They should just send him home," she said again.

"They've tried. I've tried. But you saw how he was when they brought Craig in. He's completely beyond reasoning with."

Sloan had staunchly insisted on being allowed into ICU to sit with his friend. The staff had insisted that policy would only allow brief visits. He had responded by blatantly defying them and taking up a silent vigil at Craig's bedside. No amount of reasoning or threats had succeeded in moving him. He had calmly told them that if they wanted him to leave they would, quite literally, have to carry him out. The pain in his face and the set of his jaw had been so intense and compelling that they had let him have his way.

At the time, Bree had seen the sense in it. Craig needed his friend, and Sloan desperately needed to be there. But now, after more than twenty-four hours of such a heart-wrenching display, Bree had begun to wonder how long it might go on. And she had begun to wonder what kind of toll it would take on Sloan if allowed to continue.

Not that she cared what happened to Sloan. She didn't. Not one bit. His deceit was unforgivable. His reasons didn't matter. The fact that they had shared a profound moment on that bluff meant nothing. The fact that the sight of his battered features made her stomach clench merely meant that she regretted a rash decision acted upon in a moment of outrage. None of that mattered.

She wanted nothing to do with him-didn't want to hear his voice, or speak his name.

So why was she spending every waking moment at her mother's bedside...which just happened to be two floors above where Craig lay, battling a swollen brain, and Sloan sat, battling futility.

"Have the police made any progress?"

Troy shook his head. "Nobody saw anything. There was no weapon, or anything left at the scene." He shrugged so heavily it made Bree's shoulders ache. "They need Craig to wake up and tell them what happened. But I think they have their suspicions."

Bree dropped her head into her hands. "They think somebody targeted the social deviant."

"Yeah. Something like that. It's outrageous, but it's all they've got. He wasn't robbed, and he didn't have any enemies. Who could possibly want to hurt him? He didn't know anybody."

"He knew me."

Bree's eyes flew to the door. "Franki," she breathed. "You almost gave me a heart attack. Where have you been? We've been scouring the countryside for you."

Franki stepped across the threshold. She looked her usual robust, sexy self in her high-cut shorts, and low-cut T. Her hair was pulled high off her face in a sleek ponytail and her lips shimmered a fiery red. She looked more like a woman ready to hustle up some action at the local pool hall than someone who had come to the hospital to "visit a sick friend".

But upon closer scrutiny her red-rimmed eyes and the weight of her feet hitting the tile told a different tale. She sank into the chair beside Bree's. "Have you two been here all this time?"

"We've been in and out," offered Troy, but then he chuckled mirthlessly. "God only knows why. Sloan is the one we're really here for and he doesn't acknowledge our existence. They won't even let us in the unit for more than two minutes at a time."

Bree nodded her agreement. "It seems kind of pointless. But I guess..."

Franki frowned. "You guess what?"

"I guess that's what friends are for." Bree managed a weak smile. "I was just trying to convince myself that Sloan wasn't my friend anymore. You know, after what he pulled. But I guess it's not that easy to look away."

Troy got up from his chair and paced to the far wall. "I can't believe how gullible I was. But I've never heard of anyone lying about something like that."

"Yeah," said Bree. "He must have one helluva secret if feigning homosexuality looked better than telling the truth."

Troy turned away from them and jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. He mumbled. "Yeah. I guess so."

"So, you didn't answer the question, Franki. Where have you been all this time? Did the cops find you?"

She nodded. "Actually I stopped in and gave them my statement on the way over here. I saw Craig a few hours before, but that was all I could tell them." She twirled a ratty tissue around her finger and to Bree's amazement a tear spilled out of Franki's eye. "How is he?"

"Craig's stable, but he hasn't woken up yet. Sloan's been sitting with him nonstop. He's starting to look like a zombie from Night of the Living Dead."

"He probably blames himself," whispered Franki. "He brought Craig here and coerced him into the whole charade. If it hadn't been for that..."

"We can't start laying blame here," said Bree. "The only one to blame is the person who did this. The last thing Sloan needs is guilt on his shoulders."

"I didn't mean it like that." Franki tugged on her ponytail and then dropped her hands to smooth out her shorts. "I'm just saying I wouldn't be surprised if he felt that way. He's isolated himself again. And I think it's high time he started sharing more than lies with his old friends." She stood and walked toward the door.

"It's a lost cause," warned Troy. "I've tried talking to him, and he just won't listen."

She stopped and turned around to face him. "But I have a secret weapon that you two don't."

Bree frowned. "And what's that?"

"I already told you. It's a secret." She turned to go but then seemed to think better of it. "This may take a few minutes, but I think at least one of you should wait out here for him. I don't think he should be alone when he comes out of there." She disappeared and all they could hear was the fading tap of her heels against the tile.

Troy leaned against the wall and stared at the empty doorway. "What was that all about?"

"I don't know, but I can't stay. At least not right now. I promised Mom I'd come up and help her with her lunch." It was true. She tried to ignore the little voice that whispered, You just don't want to be alone with him, Bree. You don't trust yourself with an exhausted, vulnerable puppy-dog-eyed Sloan. You decked him and now you feel guilty because he's hurting, even though he hurt you first. You're pathetic, Sabrina Hampstead. Absolutely pathetic.

Troy nodded, motioned her toward the door. "That's fine. I went into the office this morning, but I couldn't work. I decided to take a few days off. I can stay and take the zombie home to bed."

"Are you okay, Troy? You seem to be taking this whole thing awfully hard. Taking time off work, and staying here last night 'til all hours. Neglecting Carolyn and David... It's just not like you."