EPILOGUE


On Thursday evening, Eric Zane was sitting in front of a mirror in his dorm room, styling his hair into a perfect out-of-bed look, when there was a loud knock on the door. He glanced at the clock. He still had an hour before his coffee date with the new guy, but he didn’t really expect guests today. Well, it was probably just Steve anyway, back to whine some more about his bitch of a girlfriend. For reasons unknown, he seemed to think Eric could give him advice on how to tame her into submission. Not that he couldn’t, of course, but it probably wouldn’t be what this wimp expected. Eric chuckled to himself. Maybe it would be worth it, just to see the look in Steve’s eyes when he scurried.

“Come in,” he yelled, still busy fixing this one stubborn strand that kept flopping down on his forehead.
There was the sound of door opening, then closing, and a click of the lock. Whoa, what…?

When Eric looked up, there were two strangers in his room. The guy was kind of cute, with a Mohawk and a bad boy attitude, scowling at him from under dark eyelashes. There was a girl with him, Latina, in tight leather pants and heavy boots. If he was into girls, he’d probably say she was hot. They were both younger than him, most likely still in high school. And right now they were seriously overstepping his boundaries. What were they doing here? He jumped up to deal with the unwelcome guests and was momentarily blinded by a series of flashes.

“Well thank you,” smirked the girl, putting a small camera back in her bag. “These will be perfect.”

“Whoa, what the fuck? What do you think you’re doing here?”

It was the guy that spoke now. “I hear you hurt my boy Blaine.”

Oh, so that was what it’s all about? Funny, he’d never think this one would talk. He looked way too ashamed for that, and from what he’d said earlier, his family wouldn’t exactly support him if he did. So who was this, a brother? Not likely, didn’t look like it. An ex-boyfriend? No, the kid told him he was the first one, how cute. Besides, his gaydar said no. So maybe just a friend. It didn’t matter anyway.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And even if I did, what could you do, schoolboy? Beat me up? No offence, kid, but I don’t think you’re tough enough.”

“Dude,” the Mohawk looked amused, “it’s not me you should be worried about.”

Eric had just enough time to see the mad glint in the girl’s eyes before she pounced.



It was not going to be a good day, he thought, getting up Friday morning. He was stiff and sore – nothing serious, just roughed up a little. By a girl. The humiliation was half of the reason for his seriously bad mood. He had to cancel his date at the very last minute last night, too, so his weekend plans were so not going to happen. Not that he could really dance at the club tonight. Not to mention fuck anyone. Hell, it would probably be a while before he could do that. This bitch’s boots were steel-toed. Ouch. And she had razor-sharp fingernails. One side of his neck looked as if he had an argument with a rabid tiger. Hello, scarves and turtleneck sweaters. And there would probably be scars later.

Shit.

Not that he worried all that much. None of his earlier dates ever complained. So what if this little shit confided in his crazy friends? It’s not as if they could do much. And to be honest, it was worth it – Blaine had been just delectable. Eric wouldn’t mind doing him again.

His phone rang halfway through breakfast. Harrison, said the display. Erick quickly swallowed a bite of his sandwich and cleared his throat before answering.

“Good morning, Mr. Harrison,” he said in his most polite tone.

“Mr. Zane, I wanted to inform you that Timmy won’t need your help anymore. Your services are no longer needed. Thank you. Have a good day.”

The man hung up and Eric stared at his phone, open-mouthed, for a long while. Fuck. Timmy Harrison generated a third of his income as a French tutor. There was half a dozen other kids that he taught once or twice a week, but none of them was from such a wealthy, influential family or paid so well. He’d have to tighten his belt now, at least until he found more students. He sighed, finished his coffee and checked the watch. Time to go, the first class started in ten minutes. He just hoped his day would get better now.



People kept staring at him weirdly as he went through the dorm and across the campus. He pulled at his scarf self-consciously. Were the fresh scratches showing? Was his hair sleep-flattened at the back or something? Did he get ketchup on his nose? They’d never looked at him like this before. It was unnerving.

He saw it when he got to the main building. His own face, with a half angry, half contemptuous expression, was looking back at him from a large flyer stuck to the door. There was a heading above, in huge fat black print.

RAPIST

Shit. Shitshitshit! He tore the flyer off and stared at it. His picture took half the page, sharp and instantly recognizable. It was one of those that mad bitch took yesterday. And if anyone still had any doubt it was him, there was a smaller photo of his student ID underneath, his name clearly visible. He vaguely remembered the Mohawk guy tossing his wallet. He was too busy trying to shake off the girl to react and nothing was missing when he checked afterwards, so he ignored it. Now he knew what he was looking for.

At the bottom of the flyer, in bold black letters, there were two simple lines of text.

PREDATORY GAY. CHILD MOLESTER.
STAY AWAY AND KEEP YOUR CHILDREN SAFE.

It was so simple, it was almost primitive. But it worked. People were whispering behind his back and pointing fingers, not even trying to be subtle about it. But if he thought that was bad, he changed his mind when he got inside the building. There were hundreds of flyers stuck everywhere – on bulletin boards, walls, doors. In the classrooms, in the toilets. There was no way anyone would miss them. He heard someone say they were not only in every building on the campus, but all over Lima, too. In the mall, at the bus stops and around schools. Everywhere. Eric tried taking off as many as he could before classes began, but it was pointless. There were just too many of them. So he decided to grin and bear it with his head held high. They were just stupid pieces of paper, there was no evidence. Give it a couple of days and the hype would pass. He’d just need to do some damage control in the meantime.

But it wasn’t easy. People kept their distance, whispered and pointed at him all day. He heard his name spoken with disgust and contempt anywhere he went, caught snippets of conversations with wilder and wilder guesses and rumors. In classes there was suddenly a circle of empty chairs around him and the professors were looking at him sternly, even though he used to be one of the best and most popular students. The freshman he was supposed to meet for coffee last night passed him in the corridor, looking positively nauseous.

During lunch break he was summoned to the dean’s office where he had to explain long and hard that it was just a stupid prank that someone played on him and there was not a grain of truth in the accusations. Then he had to repeat the explanations twice more when concerned parents of children he tutored called. They weren’t convinced. Others didn’t even bother to call, just fired him by text. By 4 pm, he only had one pupil left, and it was probably just because the boy was currently away in California with his parents. Just great. What was he supposed to do now? If the whole town saw the fucking flyers, no one would probably want to hire him for a while. He just hoped it wouldn’t somehow get to his parents. They were extremely conservative and didn’t even know he was gay.



He had one more class to go to before he could lock himself in his room, collapse on the bed and plan revenge on Blaine. He’d rather go to his dorm right away and avoid all these stares, but this lecture was mandatory for everyone in his year, attendance checked every time and there was no way around it. So he just sat there, in the back, chairs next to him empty once again, and prepared for two long, boring hours.

Halfway through the lecture, there was a knock on the door and two uniformed police officers entered. Eric’s heart accelerated, but he kept his cool. It had to be a coincidence. There was no way Blaine reported him. He was always very careful to choose inexperienced guys with confidence issues and no strong support system. It was his way of ensuring nothing like this would ever happen. Nothing like what was happening right now.

One of the policemen was quietly talking to the professor.

She was pointing at Eric.

The officers were coming up to him. This could not be happening. His breathing was growing more labored by the second.

They were standing right in front of him now. When one of them spoke, his voice was loud and clear, carrying in excellent acoustics of the aula.

“Eric Matthew Zane, you are under arrest for three counts of sexual assault. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

The familiar clinking and coldness of the metal was somehow completely unsexy now, as the handcuffs were fastened just a bit too tightly over his own wrists.