by Damon Suede
He squinted an eye to see what the damage was. Huh. He was naked; it seemed like Dante was wearing something down there, but no way was he gonna risk checking. Griff could feel his pale skin flush, pink washing over him.
Griff’s mouth was sour and dry. He could smel the alcohol sweat in the sheets. Dante’s big bicep was hooked around his neck. Crisp black chest hair, the nipples like old pennies against the tan. The ridged stomach gurgled for a second, rising and faling, rising and faling before his eyes as Griff braced himself to move.
I’m such a numbskull. What the hell did we do last night?
Wait…. He remembered leaving the Stone Bone to get away from the September 11th idiots. He remembered Dante ditching his brunette and the near three-way. Thank Christ. They’d gone for a late dinner… pizza? But there’d been tequila, obviously, and a lot of it. He’d come back to help Dante with something? No, that wasn’t it. Dante wouldn’t let Griff help, but they’d shared the bed. How did he get naked? Jesus. His mouth tasted like a whorehouse ashtray.
It had been September 11th. Out with the guys. Then…?
Ugh! His head felt like beetles were trying to tunnel in through his left eye socket. Tequila was always the wrong choice, and he prayed he hadn’t caught any worms, either. They must have been drinking til 3 a.m. while they ate. Dante was so nuts; Griff couldn’t help it if crazy was catching when they got together. There oughtta be a vaccine.
“5:17,” said the clock.
“Get your ass gone,” said his gut.
“Come back to bed,” said Dante’s warm skin.
Did we actually—?! No fucking way. Dante’s underwear meant nothing had happened, right? Griff lifted his arm in slow motion, watching Dante’s face for any change.
Lucali’s! They’d headed to Lucali’s Pizzeria and picked up a pie with artichoke and sausage and peppers. But there had been no tables ’cause everyone was in the street, partying with ghosts. Dante had been cagey about whatever was bugging him, dodging the question while they waited for their order to come out of the oven.
At some point they must have carried the steamy box back to Dante’s, but Griff couldn’t remember that part. They must have eaten. They must have talked.
Something about money? He couldn’t find the memory; his skul was too ful of dog turds and broken glass.
Dante must have met a girl at the restaurant; he always met a girl . Shit! Had they brought the brunette home after al? What if there was some piece on the other side of Dante right now who’d seen something, who’d say something. Dante might forget, but no way a chick would fail to notice a homo vibe. No way Griff could have kept a lid on things with her between them; he had to get out of here, pronto.
Milimeter by milimeter, Griff roled away from Dante’s glossy olive skin toward the edge of the bed. It was Monday and they were both on duty at six o’clock this afternoon. If he could sneak out without a discussion… if he could pul his head out of his ass… if he could just get to the bathroom before his buddy woke up, everything would be fine.
Thank the Lord he can sleep through a missile strike.
Dante muttered something and shifted away from him into the rumpled space Griff had been warming until about four seconds ago, taking deep breaths against Griff’s pilow, inhaling Griff’s scent as he dreamed.
Griff was awake now, realy awake. The other side of the bed was empty: no girl. In the wee hours, Dante had scootched over to cradle him in his sleep.
Dante was always tactile. They’d been drunk. Pizza and shots. But Griff hadn’t blown a load on his best friend. Crisis averted.
Slowly, slowly, he pushed off the mattress and onto shaky feet; his stomach turned over. “Tequila to kil you,” Mr. Anastagio always said.
Griff tried not to look at the muscles under the twisted sheet, the broad back rising and faling. Rising, faling. The club in front of him jerked.
Motherfucker. A dot of precum and his foreskin shifted. What was wrong with him?! He could see his kilt wadded at the base of the nightstand, one boot peeking out underneath. Dante had literaly stripped him and put his big butt to bed.
Griff swalowed, his face hot with the fresh blush.
He tried to focus on his pale feet, the rusty hairs at his toe-knuckles. His size fifteens looked about a half mile away. He tried not to focus on Dante’s jumbo jar of finger-grooved Vaseline peeking out from under the bedframe. He swalowed. His heart thundered in his ears as he tried to plan his escape route. His heart was going a mile a minute and he had morning redwood.
“The fuck are you doing, G?” A sleepy rumble from behind him.
“Jesus!” Griff flinched and froze.
Dante was propped up on his elbows, his dark hair an endearing, stupid nest on top of his head. His grin was infectious, but Griff couldn’t meet his eyes.
Dante tilted his head in confusion. “You need clothes or what?”
“Piss. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up.” Griff kept walking, keeping his damp ramrod aimed away.
“You hung?” Dante licked his lips, and Griff managed to nod before he closed the bathroom door and let out the breath he’d been holding.
Ten more seconds and his erection would have given him away. He braced himself on the sink and concentrated on not puking, begging his thick dork to cut him some slack. Fat chance. He pinched it, hard. Ow. And finaly it started to shrink.
Turning on the tap, he leaned over and took a mouthful of water, swished it through his furry teeth and spat it into the sink. He avoided the vanity mirror; whatever was looking back at him was not something he wanted to see. His stomach rumbled ominously. He headed to the tub to turn on the shower, but before he could get the water going, the door sprang open.
Dante staggered in, hand inside his baggy boxers, and stopped in front of the toilet. He yawned and scratched his furry bals— scritch-scritch— before hauling his junk out to piss. “I tried to make you drink water but you just zonked out.” Stop watching and put your pants on, shitwit.
Griff grunted and slid out of the bathroom, keeping his eyes on the tiled wal. “I gotta get home. We’re both working a tour tonight and I got shit to do.” Behind him, Dante’s stream hit the water loudly. Griff hunted for his scattered clothing.
“G, you remember what we talked about?” Dante suddenly sounded nervous and stubborn. He rinsed his hands in the sink but didn’t dry them.
“Yeah. Sure. Not realy.” Griff scanned the floor. C’mon, c’mon.
“Can I ask a favor?” His best friend stood in the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, eyes lowered a little.
Griff’s other boot was under the chair and his shirt was nowhere.
“Griffin?” Dante’s body was so close to naked, and the perfect sweet muskiness of his skin was everywhere.
“Yeah, man. Whatever you need.” Griff bent over to grab a sock, keeping his back turned, super aware of his plump cock, more visible than it should be.
“I ain’t even asked yet.”
Griff raised an eyebrow, completely confused. “And the answer is yes, Anastagio.” Where the hel was his shirt? Probably stil downstairs in the living room.
It had been hot last night. He remembered that. Fuck. He’d started undressing downstairs. What else had he done or said?
“It’s just….” Dante looked as embarrassed as Griff felt, but definitely for different reasons. “I’m a little short right now and ConEd is giving me hel. I need another job.”
“Course, man!” Griff’s exposed nipples were impossibly hard.
“Great.” Except Dante didn’t sound like it was great. “You’re not mad, right?”
“No! I don’t have cash on me, but I can run get some.” Griff buckled his kilt, keeping his back to his best friend. At least his dick was covered. He needed to get dressed and get home. He crossed his own arms, which felt like he was either angry or holding a weird pose. “How much do you need?” Dante didn’t say anything to that, just watched him swerving around the clutter in the bedroom.
Gr
iff puled on his socks. Finaly he looked up and noticed the rings under his best friend’s eyes, the arms crossed tight, the scabbed cut on his knuckles.
Dante looked like he was coming down with something.
“You ought to go back to bed, D.” He realized something was wrong with Dante for real. “Are you sure that’s al?” Dante ran a hand over his blue-black stubble and wiped his mouth. “If, uh, you can’t swing it—”
“Hey! Hey! Seriously, man. You can have whatever you need, D.” He stuffed his feet into his boots. “I’l stop by the ATM and grab five hundred. Cool?” Dante looked at him for a second, forehead creased, like he could hear the batshit things Griff was thinking about him. Like he was freaked out by Griff’s hard nips and morning wood.
Griff knelt to tie his boots.
He’s going to say something. He had to have noticed. I did something when I was trashed.
“That’s cool.” Dante smiled and nodded. The smile did not reach his eyes and nothing was cool.
Griff squinted at him. What’s going on? He’d have to get some answers when they were both actualy wearing clothes.
“Thanks, G. You’l bring it to the station tonight?”
Griff nodded and stood up to go, careful to give Dante space. “I’m sorry I crashed and drooled on your pilow. I hate doing that.”
“Spicy pizza needs shots. It’s like a law. And I only trust myself to drink tequila when you’re around. You oughtta keep a change of clothes here anyways.
No way can you fit al that into my tighty-whiteys.” Dante waved at Griff’s oversized… everything.
“I like being in my own place.”
“This is your place, G. C’mon.” Dante ambled to the door, his eyes shadowed. “Plus the guys were al hooking up at the Bone and I wasn’t feeling it.” Griff needed to get downstairs. “I don’t wanna be underfoot al the damn time.”
“Ya kidding?! I’m Italian; I’m fucking miserable without a houseful of hungry bums.” He laughed once and hugged Griff, squeezing his big ribs. “Don’t be an idiot. I love having you here, man.”
“Okay.” The word escaped Griff in a whisper. He half-shivered, conscious of his chest hair against Dante’s bare torso, of their damp skin sticking. Soft stubble scratched Griff’s neck. He hugged back for a sec, patted Dante’s warm neck once. His cock shifted again, swinging free under the pleats. His questions would have to wait.
“Thanks.”
Griff stepped back and fled to find his shirt before he did something even more stupid than he already had.
BUT Dante never came by for the cash. And though he was on the schedule for the night tour, he didn’t show up at the firehouse at al.
The hel was that about?
Griff wasn’t worried and almost assumed he’d gotten the $500 somewhere else, except that he couldn’t get Dante to cal him back. At first he figured his best friend had lost his cel or had food poisoning or was out getting his bone waxed by some girl. No. Griff’s gut told him something was going down, but the hangover realy kept him underwater.
It turned out to be a shitty night.
Griff had gotten to the station near six o’clock stil feeling like his head was a piranha tank. The engine was out and when he got upstairs to the breakroom, the fixings for baked ziti were al over the counters and the long table in the kitchen area. Briggs and Watson were arguing over a potful of tomato sauce, so mad at each other that they didn’t even acknowledge his wave.
Watson stirred the sauce, tasting it carefuly and keeping his back to Briggs, who was holding a deep foil baking tray so tightly he’d mangled it. They were on rotation together and fought over this kind of shit al the time; the Chief said that it was just their way of channeling their aggression.
No thanks. Griff’s sore, dehydrated brain churned and snapped at him.
Instead of going to the fridge for seltzer, he went to the urn and poured himself a cup of thick, rank coffee, steeling his stomach to the idea of pouring this toxic waste inside himself.
“You don’t wanna do that, Muir.” Siluski had come in just behind him, drying his gray-blond buzzcut with a bleach-stained towel. He threw it over his shoulder. He was in an undershirt and bunker pants. Their unit’s oldest lieutenant, he shot the squabbling cooks a disgusted glance. “That pot is from this morning.
More grounds than anything.”
Griff looked down at the cup, saw the sediment, and emptied it into the sink. The sharp stink made his gut turn over again. “Thanks, man.”
“Totaly selfish, kid. We get a cal, I don’t want you puking in my boots.” Siluski left him there and stepped between Briggs and Watson to fil an old plastic Big Gulp cup from the faucet. He came back and pushed it at Griff. A scuffed New York Rangers logo wrapped around the cup. “Drink water. Water is the deal.” Griff got a swalow of it down. He deserved a medal for doing that while standing up.
“Faggot!”
That fucking word.
Griff jerked and turned to see who’d said it. Over in the kitchen area, Briggs was slamming things inside the refrigerator, trying to bait Watson.
“I had a blast Thursday. Anastagio tels the best fucking stories.” Siluski had been at Dante’s to watch the start of the NFL season along with about fifteen other guys from stations in the area, at least til the halftime. He always split early because his babysitter needed to get home. His oldest kid was eight and his wife waited tables weeknights, so his late nights and hangovers were long gone. “A real pisser, huh?” Griff nodded at Siluski and blood rushed over his throat and face. He wondered what the lieutenant would do if he knew that while the gang was watching the game, Griff had gotten a boner smeling his best friend—a big one. What if Siluski had seen him snuggling with Dante this morning or the wood he’d had from perving on his unconscious body? The older man would lay him out with a hook to the jaw and piss on him once he was down. Griff felt his cheeks go hot and took another vile sip of the warm, metalic water to cover it.
“I saw your dad working a scene this afternoon. He seemed good.” Siluski was being nice.
Translation: your dad nodded hello.
As a fire marshal working under the Bureau of Fire Investigations, Griff’s pop was kinda like a firefighter with a badge. Officialy, it meant he investigated serious fires and arson and fraud. Unofficialy, it meant he carried a gun and got to arrest people without having to deal with NYPD politics: instant license to be a hard-ass. He was a stiff old boot, but he took care of his kid when he got around to it. And when a nineteen-year-old Dante got busted for smoking weed on the Coney Island boardwalk, Griff had caled his dad, and the old man had gotten him cut loose in forty-five minutes. Abracadabra. Of course, from that moment on he’d hated Dante’s guts and ignored his son’s “other” family.
Griff squeezed his eyes shut. “Wait. You puled a tour today?”
Siluski dumped the coffee grounds out of the filter and rummaged in the cabinets. “I just finished the nine to six, but Anastagio caled for me to cover his tour.
Prick.” But he smiled and started putting together a fresh pot of caffeine so the crew could function for the night.
Shit and double shit. Griff had been looking forward to hanging out for the shift. He took another gruesome swalow of water.
“Then you fucking do it, cocksucker.” Across the room, Briggs glared at the crumpled foil pan in his hands and tossed it on the counter. Watson had apparently won the ziti wars and was tasting his sauce. Briggs stomped back to the couch and pretended to watch a nature show about jelyfish.
Griff’s company was always like this: a greener crew, crappier hours, more bulshit. It was a slow house—porn and school visits, way melower than the Nuthouse or the Bronx or any of the real shitholes in scary neighborhoods. Griff preferred it because he partnered with Dante. They could mostly share the same schedule. Otherwise they’d never see each other.
Griff realized Siluski was talking to him.
The lieutenant was asking him some damn thing, concern on his windb
urned face, his blond-grey eyebrows creased. Who knew what it was, but Griff felt guilty for ignoring him.
“Goddamn tequila,” Griff covered. He tried to refil his water in the metal sink, but it was slow going. His hands felt like basebal gloves, his fingers like sausages. “Any idea why Dante didn’t come in tonight? He sick?”
“Not a fucking clue,” Siluski huffed and scooped coffee out of a D’Amico’s bag into a fresh filter. “Pussy patrol, maybe.”
“Oh.” Griff knew that wasn’t it. His stomach rumbled a warning but held.
“Go rack out while you can.” The lieutenant held up the stained carafe. “Fresh poison waiting when you’re alive again.” Griff found his way up to his bunk, by touch mostly. The building was old and wasn’t realy equipped to hold this many guys. Even after the World Trade Center and al the speechifying by politicians, the city never seemed to find the budget to improve their setup. Stil, in a way Griff was glad. Early on, he’d won a bet with a veteran who was retiring upstate and inherited a tiny alcove in the bunkroom about the size of a closet. It meant that he had a little privacy and that he could steer clear of some of the middle-school drama that seemed to dog these guys.
After his divorce, he’d actualy slept here more than anywhere else, though only his captain knew it. That was back when Dante had first bought his condemned brownstone and there were stil holes in the ceilings that were open to the sky. Eventualy, Griff had given up the apartment he’d shared with Leslie and moved back into the Muir basement, buried alive in his childhood bedroom. But whenever he wedged into his little nook, he traveled back to the horrible months when everything felt like paper cuts and rubbing alcohol and this was a safe place to hide.
Griff kicked off his boots and set them where his jacket hung ready. He flopped on the little bed and battled his way toward queasy sleep.
THAT night they only had two alarms: a kitchen fire in the Red Hook projects and a wreck on the Gowanus Expressway.
The project fire had been mostly out by the time the crew elbowed past sleepy, wide-eyed families and did a sweep of the floor. What a shitty place to grow up. The crowded, cluttered apartments reminded him how lucky he was to have a place to stay, even if it was with his dad. Looking at the bleary crowd standing on the asphalt, Griff felt guilty about how much he had. Dante’s fixation on his crazy fixer-upper made more sense.