by Josh Lanyon
Stephen’s expression changed. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
I mocked, “Of Alan and Bryce?”
“Of Bryce and me.”
I turned my profile to him. Stared stonily at the windows of the cafes and shops we passed. “Why should I be? Or are you saying you still have feelings for him?”
“Of course I’m not saying that.”
“No?” I could feel his gaze though I declined to meet it. “But you and Bryce are still friends. Even after you broke it off with him.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you didn’t want to be friends with me.”
“It’s not possible for you and me to be friends and not lovers,” Stephen said. “The thing between us is too intense for that.”
I didn’t have an answer for that; I happened to agree with him.
We continued in silence toward the car park. Farther down the street several young yobs sat on a cement wall drinking beer and yelling commentary to passing cars and the occasional pedestrian.
Stephen touched my elbow. “Let’s cross.”
“Why?”
He didn’t bother answering.
I said coldly, “I’m not giving way to those cretins.”
“This isn’t the time or place for macho posturing. They’re drunk and stupid and I’m not in the mood for it.”
Or for me. That was clear enough.
We crossed the road and continued on our way, but as I could have told Stephen, the thugs on the cement wall recognized that evasive maneuver for what it was and were, accordingly, encouraged.
Two of them jumped down and started across the road encouraged by the jeers and calls of their mates. One of them was a big, beefy blond guy in a checked shirt, and the other was tall and lanky with a baseball cap that read Lynchburg Hillcats.
“What are you two, queer?” shouted one of the geniuses still perched on the wall. He threw an empty beer can, which bounced off the bonnet of one of the parked cars.
“Hey, faggots!” called the blond ape crossing the road. “Our side of the street not good enough for you?”
Narrowly, I watched their approach.
“Oh for God’s sake,” Stephen said. “Just ignore them.”
“I don’t want to ignore them,” I said, peeling off from him.
“Mark!” He grabbed for my arm, but I slid out from under his hold and advanced toward the muscle-bound point man—who’d managed to wedge himself between the bumper and fender of two closely parked cars.
The object of my interest gazed with wary surprise as I strolled up to him.
“D’you have a problem?” I inquired.
When you know how to handle yourself, it communicates itself—much the same way that fear communicates itself to a wild animal. His piggy eyes flickered uneasily at this direct approach, but he was used to intimidating people with his size, and his mates were watching, so he threw back his shoulders, blustering, “Yeah. I got a problem. I got a problem with a couple of fag —”
“I’ve got a problem too,” I said, and I rammed the heel of my hand under his chin, which shut him up and knocked him to his knees in one swift move. “I’ve got a problem with not being able to walk down the street without a parcel of fucking idjits harassing me and my friends.”
He was shaking his head like a bull that had mistakenly crashed into the arena wall. He tried to pull himself up. His companion joined him and tugged on his arm, saying, “Let it go, Eric. It’s that crazy limey bastard!”
I recognized my friend from the fun house the night before.
“Why, hello, Bradley,” I said. “I thought I told you to stay out of my way.”
“You’re a goddamned psycho,” Eric said thickly—he’d bitten his tongue and was bleeding from his mouth.
“D’you know, I get that a lot.” I rested my hands on my hips and waited, ready for someone to push his luck. Frankly, I’d have welcomed it.
Eric’s face suffused with rage and he tried—though only halfheartedly—to pull free from Bradley’s grip
Stephen shoved between us. “It’s over,” he warned them.
None of us needed Stephen telling us that, but I did find it mildly amusing that he apparently thought I needed rescuing. The skinny bastard was already hauling Eric—who was only too grateful for the excuse to abandon the field of battle—across the road to their comrades, who were on their feet protesting loudly the unchivalrous treatment they’d received.
“’Night, Bradley. ’Night, Eric,” I called.
Stephen grabbed my arm and hustled me away; I didn’t struggle.
“What the hell were you trying to do?” he was saying furiously under his breath. “You can’t take on five of those assholes!”
“It wouldn’t be five very long.”
He stared at me in horror. I almost laughed. “I didn’t mean I’d kill them,” I said. “I mean they wouldn’t last long in a genuine fight.”
“There would only have been a genuine fight if you’d provoked one. They’re drunken loudmouths. Why couldn’t you have just ignored them?”
“Because you crossed the street to avoid them,” I yelled, suddenly losing my temper. “Why the hell should we cross the street because of a pack of drunken loudmouths?”
His hand tightened on my arm, and he gave me a little shake. “What’s the matter with you? You can’t tie into every drunken bully because he offends your sense of order. Never mind the fact that you hit him first. That asshole could have you up on assault charges.”
If it had been anyone else, I’d have jerked free and spelled out the facts of life for him. But it was Stephen, so I stood quietly in his custodial grasp, controlled my lousy temper, and restrained myself to a short, “It doesn’t work that way, Stephen. He knows he started it whether you do or not. I was not the aggressor.”
We got into the car. I stared out the window while waiting for him to start the engine. It was dark by now, and the only stars in the sky looked inferior grade and out of range. I realized that I was shaking. Not with fear, not even with anger, but from the effort of controlling myself, of controlling that tidal wave of adrenaline and aggression. Stephen was right. There was something wrong with me. I wasn’t fit for civilization anymore. I didn’t belong with someone like him. I didn’t belong with anyone.
Why had I pretended to myself that I could do this? Why had Stephen bothered to pretend that he thought I could do this? It was like trying to cram the genie back in the bottle. I was what the years and my experience had made of me, and I couldn’t stop being that just because…I wanted to. Pathetic to even try, really.
My bleak thoughts had traveled so far afield that I’d nearly forgot Stephen was still sitting next to me. I was startled when he said quietly, “I do know they started it. And I know you think you were acting in my defense.”
“But?” I continued to stare out the window. In the ominous green of the car park lights, I could barely discern the outline of the last ragged leaves on the trees.
“I guess what bothers me is I’m not sure if I was more worried over what they would do to you or what you might do to them.”
I nodded. That confirmed my own thoughts on the matter, really. “You needn’t worry about me.”
“Don’t I?” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “One of them knew you. The one you called Bradley. What was that about?”
I considered what to tell him, mentally holding up lies and half-truths, trying to think if they would fit, and having to discard them as wrong for the occasion. I said finally, “He tried to mug me one night.”
“What?”
“It’s not a big deal, Stephen.”
“When did this happen?”
“It really doesn’t matter.”
“When did it happen?” That was his medical emergency voice. Scalpel, nurse. We have to amputate immediately. “It was last night, wasn’t it? That’s why you were so wired. So angry.”
“Yes. It happened last night.”
I could feel him trying to re
ad my profile in the gloom of the dashboard lights. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I said bitterly, “Don’t worry. As you can see, I didn’t do him any lasting damage.”
“Mark…” he protested. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not placing the welfare of those animals over you. My concern is for you. For what it does to you when you —”
“Lose it?”
There was a sharp silence.
“Knock off the self-pity, Mark,” Stephen said, and now his voice was grim. “Your reactions aren’t always in proportion, your perception of threat is sometimes off, and we both know it. If you prefer to sit there feeling sorry for yourself, I don’t know what to tell you. My sole concern is for you. Believe it or don’t.”
He turned the key in the ignition and the radio came on. A woman’s voice, husky, familiar.
Isn’t it rich? Isn’t it queer? Losing my timing this late in my career…
“Send in the clowns?” I nearly laughed.
Chapter Three
The answering machine was blinking when we arrived home. I instinctively knew who had left the message before Stephen reached to press the button, and I made my face blank as Malik’s mechanical voice filled the front hall.
“Mark. Dicky Malik here. It appears that I’ll be flying back to London sooner than anticipated. Need to know your answer, old boy.” A pause and then, “I won’t remind you what’s riding on this.”
Careless bastard. Or was he trying to manipulate me into a decision? I glanced at Stephen, and the pain on his face shocked me.
“Who’s Dicky Malik?”
“Someone I used to work with.”
He said nothing.
“Do you think I’m having an affair? It’s nothing like that.”
“An affair?” He sounded stunned. “No, of course I don’t think you’re having an affair. But something is obviously going on. Why haven’t you—why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“That makes two of us. I don’t understand why you’re trying to hide this, whatever it is.” He drew in a sharp breath. “Or am I being stupid? It’s what I originally thought, isn’t it? You’re not happy.”
“Why would you say that? I am happy.” I could hear the fear in my voice and knew Stephen could hear it too—Christ knew what he’d make of it.
“Then what’s going on? What are you doing?”
The two inevitable questions. Not like I hadn’t had time to prepare for them. My mouth opened and nothing came out.
Not exactly reassuring. I could see Stephen absorbing this—the fact that I’d apparently been struck dumb—and trying to decide on the best approach. He said carefully, almost painstakingly, “I know it’s not easy for you, Mark, but it would help if you could talk about what’s going on. I mean that it would help me.”
I nodded, reached out tentatively, and brushed his hand with mine. “Please. I can’t bear to fight with you.”
He moved his hand away. “Then stop lying to me.”
“I’m not lying. I’m not ready to talk about it yet because I don’t know —”
I broke off. He was shaking his head in steady repudiation—very angry but absolutely controlled.
He turned and went upstairs.
I wanted to follow him, but I was afraid he might shut the bedroom door in my face. I couldn’t have taken that. Instead, I went into the study and poured myself a scotch. I knocked it back and then, out of stall tactics, went slowly upstairs.
The door to our bedroom stood open. Stephen was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
He didn’t look at me, but Buck, curled in front of the fireplace, thumped his tail in welcome.
I sat on the edge of the bed, not touching Stephen. He continued to gaze bleakly up at the ceiling. I could imagine the tenor of his memories: my meltdown because he hadn’t been able to spare the time to take me to lunch, then the argument over Bryce, then the near brawl in walking back to the car, and last but hardly least, the discovery that I’d been in contact with an old work mate. I probably seemed about as shaky a romantic proposition as they came.
Well? Wasn’t I?
I looked down at my hands resting with deceptive calm on my knees.
“I’m losing you,” I said. “I don’t know what to do. Everything is”—my mouth dried so that I had to get the words unstuck from the roof of my mouth—“going wrong.”
“Everything isn’t going wrong.”
When I glanced at him, he was watching me, his brows knitted. “What exactly were you expecting? That we would never disagree? That we would never be tired or irritable or too busy for each other?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t sure I could explain—wasn’t sure I had the courage to tell him what I felt was true. That I was there on sufferance, that he fully expected me to fuck up once and for all, and that, once that happened, he’d be able to cut me loose. Tell himself he’d given it every chance and it just wasn’t meant to be.
More and more I had the terrible certainty that I was on borrowed time, that nothing I did would be enough to make up for my previous betrayal—and that when he learned about the impending one…
“I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Mark, but it takes more than love to make a relationship work.”
I waited for him to say something else, but that seemed to be all he had to say on the subject. At last I rose and went to the doorway. I glanced back, but his eyes were closed.
I thought about his expression as I sat on the sofa, sipping my second scotch and absently petting Buck.
Probably better for Stephen if I took the opening given me and gracefully departed. What had I ever brought him but trouble and heartache? For that matter, what had I ever brought anyone—barring the Old Man—but bad luck? I’d long ago outgrown the notion that I was somehow to blame myself for my parents’ death—or my uncle’s—but I didn’t seem to be a very lucky person to love. Some people simply have that cosmic target painted on their back; I seemed to be one of them.
Was this more of the self-pity Stephen had accused me of earlier?
Possibly.
I drank some more.
It occurred to me—belatedly—that I was making an already difficult situation more difficult by not talking to him. Stephen had basically told me this himself. As angry and upset as he was, my inability to confide in him was multiplying the trouble tenfold.
Not that telling him what was going on was going to solve our problems, but not telling him was a guarantee of disaster.
I understood this intellectually, and yet I continued to sit there, sipping my second scotch and postponing the climb upstairs.
Not the way I’d envisioned the evening playing out. But that was my fault, not Stephen’s. I’d fucked it up, and instead of fixing it—assuming that was possible—I was making it worse with every word I said. Or, more exactly, every word I’d failed to say.
It occurred to me that one reason I was afraid to have this particular conversation with Stephen was the superstitious dread that if he broke it off with me, I would have no real incentive for getting myself home alive and in one piece.
It was a new experience, realizing that I was such a coward.
I finished the last mouthful of my drink, forced myself off the sofa, and went back upstairs.
Stephen was still lying on the bed. His eyes were shut, but he opened them when the floorboard squeaked. They looked red-rimmed, and I wondered if he had been crying. My heart seemed to twist in my chest. I could take anything but that.
“You’re right. I have to talk to you,” I said from the doorway.
He said acerbically, “That will make a nice change.”
I opened my mouth, shut it.
He sat up, wiped his eyes with the edge of his hand, and said, “Sorry. That was uncalled for. It’s no easier for you than it is for me. I know you’re trying.”
For all the good it was doing. But I put that thought out of my m
ind. I said, “Thursday. Last night.”
He didn’t look at me and his voice was flat, “The night you were late because you were getting mugged. Yes?”
No, this was not going to be remotely easy. Still hovering in the doorway, I replied, “I was mugged that night. I haven’t lied to you. But I was late because I met Malik. The Old Man sent him to talk to me. He needs a favor.”
I saw his face change, and it was all there: anger, cynicism, confirmation. “Yes?” That chilly single syllable could have been chipped off an iceberg. He’d been waiting for this. Waiting months for it, apparently.
It occurred to me how funny it was that I was supposedly such a brilliant negotiator that I had to be dragged out of retirement, and when it came to trying to explain myself to my lover, I could barely articulate. It was always like this when I tried to talk about the things that mattered to me personally. And about the only thing that mattered to me personally was Stephen.
So I stumbled on, trying to explain. “He—things are—the situation is critical —”
“Spare me the press release.” I realized it had been easier when he wasn’t looking straight at me. The black fury in his eyes caught me off guard. “He wants you to come back to work for him, and you’ve agreed.”
To my astonishment, I heard myself say, “I haven’t agreed. I won’t agree unless you give me permission.”
“Permission? Who am I? Your father? Do whatever the fuck you want, Mark. It’s your decision.”
I stepped back into the hallway as this time Stephen got up and left the room.
I needed to sleep, but no matter how I tried to relax, tried to empty my mind, my thoughts kept chasing round and round—like those cartoons of ghosts whirling round and round until they form a solid white ring. Like a tornado. Or a noose.
It was hours before Stephen returned to bed. I lay perfectly still, eyes closed, modulating my breathing. The mistake most people make when they’re faking sleep is they lie too still. I felt Stephen move to stand by the bed, stare down at me, and I murmured and tossed onto my side. He pulled back the blankets and crawled in between the sheets—staying well to his side of the mattress.