No Pressure

by Elle Keaton

  “So you are, what? Hiding out in Skagit? How long is that going to last? It’s been three years, right?”

  Something in Miguel’s expression gave Buck pause.

  “Wait. Wait, are you telling me this guy—or one of these guys—is here? Is he a stalker”

  “I guess.”

  “That stuff’s illegal! You can report it; you have to.”

  “Remember the part where I am of Mexican descent? Uneducated filth? This guy is a cop, Buck. A cop. I learned the hard way that they have connections everywhere. They believe each other before they believe someone like me.” Miguel sighed. For the first time since they had met, since Miguel had started working for him, Buck saw beneath the cheeky personality Miguel showed the world.

  “Fuck.” He thought for a minute. “What about the guy Micah Ryan is with? He’s federal; can he help? What if I talked to him?” Miguel clearly wasn’t going to ask for help himself.

  Narrowing his eyes, Miguel glared at Buck. “Don’t you dare. I already owe you too much. I know you paid my ER bill—I wasn’t that out of it.” He ran his good hand through his messy hair. Normally he kept it in a kind of ponytail thing, but Buck supposed being one-handed hindered that.

  It seemed Miguel was done with that part of the conversation, because the next words out of his mouth were, “I want to know what is going on with you and that nurse. Joey, right?” Man, he hadn’t been as out of it as Buck had hoped.

  “Do we have to talk about this?” He scooted back in his chair, rubbing his half-grown-in stubble. Miguel kept looking at him with an amused, expectant expression. Buck tried to figure out what Miguel could be aware of. He’d only seen them at the hospital, he thought. But then Weir was at the house yesterday morning, so. Crud. Miguel had been honest with him; he owed the man that much.

  A lifetime of ingrained habit was hard to push past. As a child and teen, before he had learned not to, when he tried talking to his parents about feelings he’d been quickly shut down. Boys don’t cry, boys can’t like boys, boys don’t show their feelings, boys don’t embarrass their family, boys do as they are told, boys don’t read “literature,” etc.

  It had taken Buck a long time to reconcile that he liked working on cars because he was good at it, not because of some weird loyalty to his father or family or whatever. He liked to read, too, and had been known (in private) to cry over sad movies. The other stuff, well, it had seemed like a lot of work for an ideal. Buck recognized his sexuality as not normal, but since there was no one he was more than passingly attracted to, he had never felt he needed to advertise it. He looked at women; they did nothing for him. He looked at men; there was…something, but not what everyone wrote about. No fireworks, or tingles, or hot feelings.

  Until he’d seen Joey again.

  He couldn’t look at Miguel while he talked. Both his parents had done this thing where he had to look them in the eyes when he was telling them something. It only made him feel exposed and fearful. Another reason he had stopped trying to talk to them. It was just too intense; they couldn’t seem to understand when he couldn’t get the words out. Instead he’d bolted to his room where he could cry like boys weren’t supposed to.

  Buck didn’t have a lot of art or pictures on the walls of his house. He did have one very special piece hanging behind the couch Miguel was sitting on. It had cost a pretty penny. He’d found it in an art gallery in Vancouver, BC, a few years ago. The price tag had made him blanch, but after he’d gone back to his hotel he couldn’t stop thinking about it. On his way home he’d stopped back at the gallery, and it was still there. He brought it home. A modern indigenous Pacific Northwest piece called “Half Moon” by Andy Everson. For the artist, it depicted the myth of the moon and sun fighting over which was strong enough to shine at night. For Buck, it represented himself, half dark and half light.

  Staring at “Half Moon,” he told someone else about himself for the first time. He told Miguel about his parents and how he grew up. He shared with Miguel that he wasn’t confident in his sexuality, but Joey kind of lit him up.

  “And I, uh, kissed him. Twice.”

  Miguel, thank goodness, had been patient while Buck spilled his personal details. Good thing, too, or Buck probably would never have gotten it all out. He gazed back at Buck thoughtfully.

  “You know, sexuality, it’s not all cut-and-dried these days.”

  Buck nodded. He did know, kind of, mostly.

  “So, before we get to the Joey issue,” Buck felt his face heat up at the way Miguel spoke, “let’s talk sex.”

  Buck groaned, covering his face with his hands. He could feel how hot his face was. This was why he avoided talking about this, ever. Ever.

  “So. You know you aren’t attracted to women.”

  Buck nodded, still covering his face. “They’re nice and all,” he muttered into his hands.

  “Have you ever, uh…with a guy?”

  Could a person truly die of embarrassment? Buck stared at “Half Moon” again. He’d been in Vancouver that weekend on a personal experiment. He wanted to find someone. He didn’t want to be alone. He craved the idea of a partner, of someone to share his day-to-day trials with, someone to laugh and cry with. He’d needed to see for certain if men were a thing for him.

  “Yeah, but it was the most horrible, awkward thing I have ever done.” He’d gone to a rainbow bar in Vancouver dressed in his best jeans and a button-down, and let a cute boy come back to his hotel room with him. Just getting past the awkward introductions had taken an incredible amount of alcohol, something he wasn’t proud of. The poor kid had fled as soon as they were done fucking, when it became clear that Buck had absolutely nothing to say to him, couldn’t even look at him. The orgasm almost hadn’t been worth it.

  The one time he had experimented in high school had been a disaster Buck tried very hard not to think about.

  “There is nothing wrong with what you feel, or the way you feel. I would say, Buck, there’s a chance you fall somewhere along the demisexual spectrum maybe—or it could be that your parents fucked you up, creating such terrible social anxiety that you are kind of, uh, handicapped? Maybe a little of both. Maybe, Buck, you are just you and you don’t need a label.” He grinned. “You kissed him, huh? How was it?”

  “Good.” It had been so good he’d thought his entire body was going to explode. So, so, so good.

  “Heh. I bet, by the look on your face. So probably not demisexual.” Miguel was quiet for a minute. “What’s up with him and the cops?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know the details and, uh, they’ve asked me not to share what I do know. He’s in some kind of trouble, but they think, I guess, that it isn’t his fault.”

  “Fuck.” Miguel frowned, clenching his good fist.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “Plan? What plan?”

  “How are you going to romance him?”

  “Sheesh, could you possibly use a more embarrassing word?”

  “Woo, then?” Miguel chuckled.

  “Okay, romance is better,” Buck grumbled. He was thinking of the grocery store, when he’d seen Joey in the produce section. His hastily formed plan had been to “accidentally” run into Joey around town. Upon reflection, that seemed a bit like stalking. “I don’t know.”

  “Have you considered a date? That’s a thing, you know.” Miguel sighed at Buck’s horrified expression. “You know what? Lemme help you out here. If you do it, who knows when it will happen. Ask the guy out; I will set up the details. Find out what he’s doing tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Why tomorrow?” Buck asked, mildly shocked that Miguel thought he needed to act so quickly. On the other hand, who knew when Buck would screw up the courage himself.

  “What am I going to do with you? Hopeless. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, big boy.”

  Twenty-One

  What was he going to do? How was this going to end? One major thing Joey had learned from this gruesome experien
ce was that he, Joey Sigurd James, was absolutely not cut out for subterfuge. He would have been a failure as a spy. Yet here he was, sucked into a murky situation he did not understand, was not prepared to deal with, and had no clue how to handle.

  On the other hand, there was the exquisite mystery of Buck Swanfeldt. How had he flown under Joey’s radar for so many years? Snuggling further under his covers, his feet pushing gently against a softly snoring Xena, he contemplated the mystery of Buck almost as intently as he was freaking out over helping insanely scary mobster types.

  Last night, he had snuck as quietly as he could in the front door after returning from Buck’s shop. Fed Xena, snuck upstairs, and fallen into bed before his mother managed to catch him with a round of twenty questions about his day. Besides, how would he explain any of it to his mother anyway? “Oh, hey Mom, my day was great. Mobsters and stuff are threatening me—and you, and Dad. They’re making me steal stuff to help this guy who has a tetanus infection but won’t go to the hospital. Plus, there are a bunch of sick teenagers who I think maybe are going to be sold into prostitution.” Nope.

  He did wish he could talk to her about Buck. Joey generally shared what was going on in his life with his mom. Maybe not the dirty details, but she knew when he went to Seattle and why. She had supported his nursing career and his choice to move home when he graduated. Joey’s other siblings were not nearly as close to her. They’d all left the house and Skagit without looking back; in fact, only his brother Thomas, twenty years older than Joey, lived in Washington State. He couldn’t talk to her, though, because he knew the instant he opened his mouth she would know something was wrong.

  Buck Swanfeldt. A wet dream come true. The other day in Hardwick’s, when he’d seen Buck for the first time in years, the man been wearing street clothes; a black long-sleeved T-shirt with an old-style Cobra logo emblazoned across his broad chest, blue jeans covering tight thighs and an ass Joey could bounce a quarter off of, cowboy boots…ungh. The next time, Buck had been wearing his work coveralls—which Joey hadn’t yet figured out were sexy. Even when he’d been so rude to Buck in the hallway at work, Joey had still noticed how nicely he filled out a set of ugly blue coveralls, how the smudges of dirt or grease on his forehead and hands made the man sexier.

  Then he’d kissed Joey. Twice.

  Joey had kissed and been kissed a lot in his life. You had to when you were out looking for your Prince Charming hiding among all the lowly frogs. Being kissed by Buck made him thirst for more. Then Buck helped him without asking any questions, without prying. Loaned him a car, watched Xena.

  Buck had kissed him.

  Seriously, universe, now? He couldn’t have met Buck when he wasn’t freakishly involved with some psychotic Russian mafia types? When he wasn’t being forced to give medical aid to killers and what appeared to be undocumented (and probably unwilling) child immigrants. He had private thoughts about what they had been brought to the US for; it made him sick. The kids needed his help, though, and Joey felt a moral obligation to provide it.

  His cell phone buzzed. Grabbing it before he let himself dwell too long, he saw a text with just an address and a time. Joey’s stomach sank; Sacha did have his cell number. He wondered how he had gotten it. The time was only thirty minutes away.

  Leaping out of bed, he collided with Xena who, sensing her human’s distress, leapt up at the same time in the same direction. Legs tangled in his blankets, Joey slammed face-first into the hardwood floor. The next thing he knew, Xena was standing over him licking his face. Fuck my life.

  Could the week get any worse? Joey hoped not. He lifted the bag of frozen peas away from his face. He’d managed to give himself a black eye. A true shiner. He’d hit the edge of the nightstand on his way to the floor. The quickly forming black eye, added to the ten hours of sleep (a generous assumption) he’d gotten over the past six days, and he looked like a gay-zombie-apocalypse reject. He hadn’t bothered to change into pj’s last night when he slid into bed, so there was the added extra-disheveled look.

  Topping it off, a text from Buck had come in while Joey was lying on the floor contemplating his life choices. Buck asked him to call, but didn’t say why, which for some reason set unnecessarily aggressive butterflies loose in his already hollow stomach. Call or text, call or text? Joey decided to call.

  “Um, hey, Buck, it’s Joey, uh, calling you back.” Oh, lord, why was he feeling like he was fourteen again?

  “Hey, Joey.” Buck’s voice was smooth and deep. Joey kind of loved hearing it. “You’re probably wondering what I wanted to talk about.” He was quiet for a second, and Joey could hear rustling and a quiet whisper in the background. “Yeah. Okay,” Buck whispered to whoever else he was talking to. “I was ah, wondering—knock it off, Miguel—” There was more rustling before a different voice came on the line.

  “Hey, Joey, we’re having a little party here tonight and were hoping you could join,” Miguel said. “I’m gonna be cooking—one-handed, which is quite a skill—and we’re both hoping you can make it and help celebrate. Starts around seven, whaddya think?”

  “Celebrate what?” Joey was racking his brain over what there could possibly be to celebrate.

  “It’s New Year’s Eve today, buddy. I know we left the plans to kinda late, but Buck, I mean we, are really hoping you can join the crew.”

  More rustling and Joey had to grin, even though it hurt his face, because now Buck was back on the line. “You don’t have to come or anything; I kind of forgot that lots of people might already have plans—”

  “No! I mean, yes. No, I don’t have any plans and yes, a dinner party sounds fun. What can I bring?” Joey forced out too quickly.

  They settled on Joey bringing a dessert and something to drink, even though Buck warned him he wasn’t much of a drinker and Miguel was on antibiotics so he wasn’t supposed to, but maybe someone else would.

  He was feeling all euphoric, and then he glanced back, catching his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and saw just how puffy his eye had gotten. Great. He almost called back to cancel, but he wanted to go to this party. He needed to feel alive, hopeful, and, maybe, have a reason to celebrate.

  Maybe he’d get a New Year’s kiss.

  As quickly as he could, he traded his slept-in clothes for a tiny-bit-less-rumpled pair of jeans, light-blue long-sleeved T-shirt covered by his favorite chunky sweater, heavy socks, and Timberlands. There was not much he could do about his eye except ice it. If he was going to meet Sacha and whatever the day planned on bringing him, he needed to do it wearing his favorite comfort outfit. Xena danced around while he dressed, informing him she was both hungry and excited for a walk. Breakfast, yes. Walk, no.

  The new address was out in the county near Bow-Edison like the first one, but not the same place as that night, the new address was even more isolated than the first one. Today he turned right onto an overgrown driveway nearly invisible from the road; bare branches of buddleia, European blackberry, and several enormous rhododendron bushes scraped both sides of Buck’s car as Joey inched along. He could barely see where he was going. Eventually he came to a slightly more open area where a dilapidated one-story house crouched. Abandoned or neglected, the place gave Joey the heebie-jeebies.

  Its roof was encased in a thick pelt of dark-green moss; it had been painted at one time, but whatever color it had been was diluted by time and weather into a smattering of peeling gray strips clinging to the siding. Most of the house was exposed wooden siding; in some places insulation protruded grotesquely. Its windows were small and mean, and two of them were boarded up. Christ, it was probably a meth house. The county was sick with it.

  What the fuck. What the ever-loving fuck. When he’d muttered “Fuck my life” that morning, he hadn’t meant for his life to be more fucked.

  They wanted him to clean the body.

  Judging from the parts of the conversation he could understand, Sacha didn’t care, but the other guy, older than Sacha, whose name he thought was Andre or som
ething close to that, was adamant. The body absolutely had to be cleaned and buried by nightfall. They insisted, or Andre insisted, since Sacha was literally standing in the dark living room, hands in his pockets, as if to demonstrate how much he was not going to help Andre do this.

  Of course, the patient had died. A terrible, painful, awful death that he could not bring himself to wish on his worst enemy. Joey couldn’t imagine what the man’s last hours had been like, dying of dehydration and infection. An infection the medical community had been able to prevent with a vaccine since the 1940s.

  Joey had thought these guys were Russian, but apparently, the patient and Andre, at least, were Bosnian. Many Bosnians were Muslim, Joey knew. It seemed Andre was a devout Muslim when he wasn’t trafficking underage children for the sex-slave trade. Andre needed Joey to wash the body because he was afraid to and Sacha refused. When Joey was done, Andre would take over and rewash it with the proper rites. Then Joey would come with them to help them bury it. Him.

  Rarely in his life had Joey been speechless. This was twice in two days. These ... gangsters, for lack of a better word, wanted him to help them with last rites for someone who had violated every commandment out there. Joey wasn’t sure, because he had never read the Quran, but he thought he remembered there was a basic idea that Muslims do “good deeds.” Pretty sure child trafficking, murder, and whatever else these guys had their fingers in did not count as good deeds.

  The inside of the house was as frightening as the outside. The addition of a dead body, stinking from a tetanus infection and the filth of sickness, did nothing to dispel his fear or the nausea roiling in his gut. Joey wanted to know what was going to happen to him, but he was terrified to ask.

  When he’d left his mom’s house that morning had it been the last time? He’d just met Xena. He’d promised Buck and Miguel he would attend their New Year’s Eve dinner party that evening. Was his life going to end in a shallow grave just as it was beginning? Just as he had, maybe, found his prince? What about his mother? She’d already lost her husband to the ravages of memory loss; would she have go through the pain of losing Joey, too?