Bad Behavior

by K.A. Mitchell

  Together they were more. No one dared start shit with them, because it meant taking both of them on. Scott might be good at landing a punch, but Liam was sneaky and mean. He could twist staff around his finger, and no shit ever stuck to him. The assholes could call them fairies and cocksuckers, but when Liam laughed at them, Scott didn’t care as much either.

  He swallowed. “I’ll miss you.”

  Liam lifted his head from Scott’s chest. “Holy fuck. Did it actually hurt you to say that?”

  “Yes. Like someone punched my nuts. Kiss’em and make’em better.”

  Liam shoved at his shoulder. “Say it first.”

  Scott sighed. “When we get out of here…,” he forced out in a monotone.

  Liam took the next line. “We’ll get a place.”

  “And you’ll go to college.”

  “And you’ll be a fireman.”

  “You’ll go to med school.”

  “And become a doctor and buy you your own Batmobile.”

  Scott had to laugh. Liam always jacked up the game till it was stupid.

  “And while I’m driving in my Batmobile, you can give me roadhead, Robin. Better get your practice in now or I’ll never let you in the Batcave.”

  Chapter Two

  Now

  MAYBE THE second weekend in August was a great time to stand out on an open field with hundreds of shining steel heat reflectors. Maybe in Antarctica. At the car show at the state fairgrounds in Timonium, Maryland, way too fucking far from any place to catch a decent breeze, it was hot as fuck.

  Which was exactly what Scott said to Jamie as they both studied the ’65 Ford Galaxie Jamie had his eye on.

  “And how hot is fuck, ya think?” Jamie said.

  Scott leaned over the engine as he inspected the connections on the plugs. “Don’t know about you, but for me, depends on how tight his ass is.” He kept his voice low enough so only Jamie could hear.

  They’d waited until the owner had gone to lunch, not wanting to show too much interest, but some things didn’t mix with the car show crowd. Openly gay guys talking about ass fucking was high up on that list.

  Jamie snorted a laugh and lifted his head out from under the hood. “Ain’t that the truth.” He wiped his face on the sleeve of T-shirt. “At least this is a dry heat.”

  “Yeah, only about ninety percent humidity today.” Scott squinted around the popped hood at the glare on the windshield where the For Sale sign was. “So what’s he want for it?”

  “Seventeen fifty.”

  Scott whistled. Christ, what he could do with a spare grand, let alone almost two. Not have to sell his Mustang for rent money for starters.

  Jamie pointed out the features. “The interior’s okay, so’s the frame, and it’s one hell of a shiny paint job.” They had both admired the two-toned red-and-white classic style. Nothing like classic Fords.

  Scott straightened from his lean into the engine. “Engine’s clean enough to eat off of. You been under her?”

  Jamie nodded. “Exhaust needs an overhaul. I’m not giving him more than twelve if I decide to take it. Wanted a second opinion.”

  Scott dropped his overshirt on the dusty pebbled ground and wiggled under the frame. Damn. The seller obviously thought no one would bother getting a look from underneath. Good thing Scott had sent him a text. With the light from his phone, he scanned the transmission housing. “Fucking bastard.”

  “What?” Jamie squatted.

  Scott wiggled out, and Jamie gave him a hand up.

  “Sorry, man. You were right on the exhaust. Probably seizes up like a virgin. But there’s an oil leak between the engine block and the transmission. Slow enough that you wouldn’t know from starting it up, but I’m betting the main seal is going.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Jamie sat and ducked under. Scott handed him the phone for light.

  “Right at the transmission bell housing.”

  As Jamie muttered under the car, Scott bent back over the engine to check the manifolds.

  “What do you want the Galaxie for?” Scott said to the beam of light flashing up through the engine. “Thought the truck was fine now.”

  Jamie had been working—mostly adding features—on a ’68 F-100 for almost as long as Scott had known him. Back in May Scott had spent most of his free time helping Jamie take out the door motors and fixing it up after it rolled into the bay. Jamie hadn’t wanted to talk about how, but since there was another guy involved, Scott bet on relationship drama.

  “The Galaxie’s not for me.” Jamie’s voice drifted back up. “What a fucking bitch.”

  “You see it?”

  “Yeah.” Jamie wriggled back out and sat there. “What did you want with Galvez this morning? You looking to sell your Shelby?”

  It choked him to admit it. “Maybe.”

  “Ha. Warned you Mustangs were pussy magnets. Unless that’s what’s making your dick hard these days.”

  Scott made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “No.”

  Jamie patted the red-and-white walled tires. “Damn shame.” He looked up at Scott. “You know, if I find another one and you put in some work with me, you can drive it sometimes. I mean, check that sweet interior. You can actually fuck a guy in it. Unlike your bitch Mustang.” He pushed to his feet. “Even with room for your pathetic hair, punk.” Jamie jabbed at Scott’s shoulder.

  “Fuck you.” Scott didn’t take the bait and touch the short tips of the inch-high mohawk he had glued up this morning.

  Jamie had been ragging on him for almost ten years now, since he’d busted Scott for possession of stolen property when he was seventeen. Despite being a cop, Jamie wasn’t a complete asshole.

  Jamie sat back down like he’d been shoved. “Shit. The whole fucking circus. Sorry about this, Scott. Maybe they didn’t see me.” He rocked his shoulders back and forth as he tried to disappear under the car.

  “Huh?” Scott looked over his shoulder. From Jamie’s sudden panic, he expected bill collectors, process servers, zombie hordes. There wasn’t anything out of place in the crowd of sunburned and sweaty people flooding the field at the East and Beast Car Show.

  As Scott watched, a big guy built like the Rock with hair and a beard caught Scott’s gaze and stared back, then nodded. Scott glanced to either side to see who the guy was nodding at. He sure as hell didn’t know anyone who looked like he was starring in an action film franchise. Then he realized the guy was nodding at someone with him

  “Are they coming this way?” Jamie called from under the car.

  The big guy was weaving through the people in their direction, along with whoever he’d nodded at. Maybe Jamie’s overcompensation for being short had led him to pick a fight with this the big man.

  Scott studied the group. “If you mean a pro wrestler, two pretty preppy types, a Mr. Studly Salt-and-Pepper, and some goth kid with a camera, yeah, they are.”

  “Fuck,” Jamie spat.

  The goth kid in black jeans, black T-shirt, and a metal-spiked leather cuff got to the Galaxie first. He tossed his black hair off his face and kicked Jamie’s ankle with a black-sneakered toe. “Why’d you ditch us, asshole?”

  “Because I hoped you’d fucking take a hint.” Jamie hauled himself out, movements slow and sullen. “Uh, not you, though,” he said to one of the preppy guys in an apologetic tone Scott had never heard from Jamie.

  However fun it might be to watch Jamie get harassed by this circus, it was too much drama for Scott. People were starting to stare.

  He bent down and grabbed his phone out of Jamie’s hand. “Gotta run. I’ll keep an eye out for that induction hood you wanted. Catch you around.”

  The goth kid took in Scott with an assessing stare. “Nice sleeve.” The kid nodded at the ink on Scott’s left arm.

  It was a part of him. And he was used to people commenting on it. But every time they did, he flashed back to getting that first small tattoo. Everything else he’d added had been to distract him from that symbol.


  “Thanks.” Scott nodded back.

  That exchange went on exactly a half-second too long, so instead of being ten steps away, Scott was standing right next to the pale sweaty prep when he wobbled. Scott reached to steady the him, but he was dropping too fast. Mr. WWE got involved, lunging across the space. His bulk drove Scott a step back, and he fell backward over someone’s cooler. Scott, the prep, and WWE hit the ice-and-water-soaked ground, taking out a nearby shade canopy on the way.

  People crowded around the show, offering help.

  “I got him.” WWE growled. “Damn it, David. I told you to drink the water, not carry it around. He’s okay.” The force of his assertion—along with his size—moved some of the onlookers back.

  Scott studied Preppy David who’d started the mess. He wasn’t passed out, but he was pasty and shaking.

  “He’s not used to lifting anything but a drink outside air-conditioning,” Jamie said from behind Scott.

  Scott extracted himself from the mess on the ground, jeans muddied on his ass and legs.

  “I’m fine,” Preppy David said. “It’s just fucking hot.” He gestured at the destruction around him. “We should pick up this stuff for the owners.”

  Preppy David tried to move, but there was a reason Scott had named the other guy WWE. His grip on David meant he wasn’t going anywhere.

  “You are getting out of the heat and getting some fluids into you.” WWE had what Scott knew all too well as a cop voice.

  Hell, two of ’em. Obviously a good time to retreat.

  A John Deere Gator pulled off onto the grassy edge where they stood, and people with first aid bags jumped out. Definitely time to go.

  He took a step toward escape and ended up face-to-face with one of the first aid workers.

  No.

  With Liam.

  His hair was cropped tight to his head, jaw clean of familiar scruff, but it was Liam. Six years since Scott had last seen that face, since he’d woken up to a five-word note instead of the man who’d been sharing his bed. His life.

  Rage flashed bright and hot.

  Scott punched Liam right in his clean-shaven face. His knuckles made a satisfyingly solid connection to the side of Liam’s nose as Scott followed through, driving from his shoulder.

  Liam sprawled backward. The shock of anger fizzed out, leaving Scott with a flat hum in his head. He reached for Liam, maybe to shake an answer out of him, maybe to apologize and help him up. Scott would never know what he’d planned because his arms were barred behind his back and someone was shoving him, forcing him away from the chaos on the ground.

  “I’m a cop. I got him.” Jamie snarled the words, along with some revolting moisture, into Scott’s ear. Jamie had to be talking to someone else, though, because Scott already knew that.

  A guy in a ball cap and flag T-shirt beater slammed his fists into Scott in a boxer’s quick uppercut and gut jab. His body tried to curl in to protect itself, but Jamie still had his arms. Blood flooded Scott’s mouth from a split lip, breath trapped in a spasming diaphragm. That hurt, was going to hurt a lot more in a few minutes, but in that instant there was too much adrenaline in his system to deal with it.

  Jamie spun Scott away from the free-swinger. “Police, asshole. Back off. I got this. You want an assault charge too?”

  Without waiting for a response, Jamie marched Scott down the grassy center aisle between cars. A snapped-out “Baltimore County Police” cleared the way through startled faces. Scott stumbled along, his brain absurdly focused on how Jamie, a good five inches shorter, could completely control Scott with that grip on his arms.

  At a point where a lone maple interrupted the line of cars, Jamie shoved Scott forward, releasing him to battle tree roots and momentum for balance. He caught himself, palms slapping into the rough bark.

  He pushed away to get the tree at his back, not sure where the next attack might come from.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole?” Jamie’s face was as red as his hair. Scott was surprised fire wasn’t shooting from Jamie’s nostrils along with his heavy breath.

  The question was reasonable. Jamie had no way of knowing this was the third time Liam had dropped in on Scott’s life, like the whole thing was some kind of fucking game. Hey, look, me again. Surprise.

  Okay, Scott’s random punching-out of a stranger deserved an explanation. Though he couldn’t help thinking Jamie should have grabbed the guy who’d punched Scott instead. He brought his thumb to his lip, ran his tongue over his teeth to see if they were all there. As always, he caught on the one Liam had chipped. Though that had been an accident. Still, he remembered Liam laughing in triumph, then the horror on his face. Shit, I’m so sorry, Scott.

  So where to start with the explanation? Back in at St. Bennie’s, a couple of years later in that dark garage, or when he’d woken up to that fucking note after the best and worst two years of Scott’s life? None of that Jamie needed to know.

  Scott settled on “It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated?” In two steps Jamie had Scott pinned up against the bark of the tree. “You punched a paraplegic, probably a vet, in the face for no goddamned reason. Now you give me ‘complicated.’” Jamie shoved him harder and stepped away. “If I hadn’t hauled you out of there, they’d be mopping up your remains for a week.”

  Scott latched on to a single word in the spew from Jamie’s lips. Paraplegic. But that was crazy. Liam wasn’t in a wheelchair. He’d jumped out of the cart. “He wasn’t a paraplegic.”

  “Quadrpl—” Jamie waved both arms. “What the fuck ever. Guy has a metal leg.”

  Scott didn’t know how it happened, but he was on his ass staring up at Jamie. None of this was real. Some fucked-up version of one of his night terrors.

  No. He could move. Focus. He’d gotten a text from Jamie asking him to come check out that ’65 Galaxie, so Scott met him and then—

  How did that end with him sitting in the grass thinking about Liam missing a leg?

  What did you do, you dumb impulsive fuck? Shit. What did I do?

  Scott scrambled off the ground. He had to find Liam. Find out what happened.

  Jamie shoved him back down. “No way. I’m telling you, people back there wanted to gut you. I thought about it myself. Poor guy goes to war and gets his leg blown off and you take a punch at him for….” Jamie squinted at him. “You gonna finish that sentence for me sometime?”

  Scott shook his head. “Gonna arrest me?”

  Jamie shrugged. Scott reached for the cigs in his pocket before he realized the denim shirt was back on the ground next to the Galaxie where they’d crawled under the car.

  He glanced up at Jamie. “Got a cigarette?”

  Jamie’s hand moved reflexively to his chest, then stopped. “I quit.”

  “Fuck this.” Scott shoved his hands through his hair, fucking up his ’hawk.

  Jamie leaned over him. “You make a habit of punching handicapped people?”

  “No.” Scott bit off the rest of his response. No, asshole. He had a feeling he wasn’t talking to Jamie who shot the shit when they worked on cars together, but Officer Donnigan and his damned badge.

  “So why’s he special?”

  Scott shook his head.

  “Don’t give me more of that ‘it’s complicated’ crap, McDermott.”

  Scott ripped up some grass, less painful than ripping out his hair. “He had both legs last time I saw him. Honest to God, Jamie, I didn’t see that—” he swallowed. “I didn’t even notice. Fuck, how could I not notice?” His guts clenched and spasmed, bile coming up sharp to burn the back of his throat, his sinuses.

  Liam. Torn apart somewhere on the other side of the world. Blood pouring onto pale dusty ground. How could Scott not have known about it somehow, not have felt it?

  Jamie sighed and shoved his hands in the front of pockets of his jeans. Did he carry a spare set of cuffs? He knew Jamie’s job these days was more about cleaning up after drunk assholes in the harbor than chasing d
own teenagers who had only been trying to earn some cash, but he wondered if he was going to get to hear Jamie tell him “You’re under arrest.” Again.

  “So, I’m guessing you’ve seen more of this guy than just his two good legs?” Jamie arched his brows.

  “Yeah.”

  Every hard inch. But it wasn’t just that. The sight of him laughing, singing, coming. Knew every taste and touch and smell and sound.

  Scott had thought he’d known the rest of Liam too. Who he was. What he thought. What he wanted. Until he disappeared like he’d never existed. Like they had never existed.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Jamie blew air noisily through his lips. “The fuck I need another round of some gay soap opera. What happened to just getting your dick sucked?”

  Scott straightened away from the tree. “This from the guy whose truck I just helped clean up because it went off a pier after a fight with his—”

  “Finish that and I swear to God I’ll arrest you right now.” Jamie took a deeper breath, steadier. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go back and check on the fallout, find out if he’s pressing charges.”

  Liam wouldn’t press charges. If it hadn’t been a sucker punch, he’d have come back swinging before Scott could shake out his hand. But Scott had just remembered he didn’t really know Liam. And he definitely didn’t know the Liam who’d been to war, had come back missing—Scott pushed himself up from the ground. He had to see him.

  “Oh no. You are not coming with me. You are going right home where you will eat, sleep, shower, and shit with your phone next to you so if I call you, you better pick up.”

  “Fine.”

  “That does not mean go home after you go looking for the ex you just punched in the face, you got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “Anything on your record I should know about?”

  He shook his head. “Shouldn’t be.”

  “Why the fuck do I keep ending up in the middle of all this shit?”