by Mia Kerick
“Not even gonna deny it?” He shook his head. “Well, ya better not make no sexual moves on my ass, ya hear? I’ll sue yer skanky butt for sexual harassment at the workplace.”
Sitting down on the edge of my desk, I said with a smile, “Don’t worry about it. You are completely safe from my advances.”
My comment seemed to rile him even further. “Why? Huh? Ain’t my ass good enough for the likes of ya?” And when he said that, I knew that what Tristan had suggested this morning was true; Mikey was jealous of my feelings for my partners.
“Sit down, DeSalvo. We need to talk.”
The look he sent me could’ve frozen hell over. “Ain’t gonna have no chick-flick girly-chat wit’ no queer boy.” Nonetheless he placed his hand beneath his chin and looked up at me. Expectantly.
At long last, and for the very first time with my friend of so many years, in a situation where it really counted, I did the right thing. “I’m letting you go.”
He didn’t appear particularly surprised. “That pussy put you up to this?”
I swallowed back an angry retort, reminding myself that Mikey was pretty much an asshole, had always been an asshole, and would always be an asshole. Which was an insult to assholes everywhere. “If it is Tristan you are referring to, the answer is no. He doesn’t even know I’m here. This involves us, DeSalvo, me and you.” Truthfully, what Mikey had done to Tristan had been the motivation that inspired me to act on something that was long overdue. “But since you brought him up, my personal opinion is that you should find a way to apologize to Tristan for what you did to him. That was fucking wrong, man, not to mention that it was criminal.”
“As if I’d go begging that pansy for anything.” Until this moment, Mikey’s eyes had remained for the most part stuck to the ledger in front of him. When he looked up at me now, I saw hurt in his eyes, but it was barely distinguishable beneath his sarcastic smirk. “Ain’t gonna happen, man.”
“I’m willing to admit that I played a part in our problems. Because I confess, when I finally met some people of quality, I couldn’t dump your ass fast enough.” I looked directly into his fathomless eyes, wondering if my inability to fully comprehend his nature was evident in my own expression. “I should have told you all of the things about you that pissed me off as they happened, but for more than a fucking decade, I kept my mouth shut. My bad.”
The man was plainly incoherent. His amenable pal, Robby, had never spoken to him in quite this manner, and he was quickly realizing what I’d already figured out: we barely knew one another at all.
“And I guess I used you, not really too different from the way you used me, huh? Just for different reasons. I suppose you were just an easy guy for me to hang with until I started to grow a backbone, you know?” It felt good to vent, but I reminded myself that venting wasn’t the reason I was here. “In any case, I want you out of my office.”
“Just like that? Yer firing my ass like I ain’t nothing to ya?” He managed to stand up, but satisfyingly, he appeared a bit wobbly on his feet.
I took a step toward him. “Unfortunately, since we haven’t been able to work together effectively enough to pick up any additional jobs, I no longer need an assistant. I can handle what limited work Dalton Builders has right now on my own.”
Finally the meaning of this conversation registered in Mikey’s brain. The stern lines on his face momentarily softened, and his cheeks turned pink, but it only took an instant for him to regroup and return to his caustic self. “You are one top-of-the-line, sorry ass-wipe, Dalton. I’m gonna have to make sure that ya, nah, that y’all pay for…. Shit, man, ya know, maybe it is time I made me a return visit to yer pretty boy-toy, Tristan Char—whatever-the-fuck his last name is.”
This was crunch time. And I refused to let this man see me sweat. “The fact is, DeSalvo, you could’ve fucking killed him with that bat.”
“Wah! Wah! Wah! Yer poor little fuck buddy!” Mikey pretended to wipe his eyes for effect. “I wasn’t trying to kill him, Dalton,” he sniffed, “’cause if I was, that faggot would surely be dead. I just wanted to teach you guys a lesson.”
The man was fucking unbelievable.
How had I been his friend for so many years?
“And one more thing, before I forget to mention it. I want you to know that I’ve encouraged Tristan to press charges against you for assault and battery with a deadly weapon. After all, to this day he wears the proof of your attack on his chest and back, and even if he didn’t, I made sure to take quite a few photographs when the marks were fresh. We have the bat sealed up in a big plastic bag too, with your prints all over it. So, at a minimum, I’m going to insist that he take out a restraining order on you.”
Mikey looked at me blankly, and then his stubbly chin dropped.
“So if you’re considering a return visit to apologize for what you did to my boyfriend, I’m going to have to insist that you reconsider. Just send him a nice little note. You can address it to him care of me, right here at my office. I’ll see that he gets it.” I wasn’t sure why this apology meant so much to me. Maybe it was because I was fairly certain that Tristan wouldn’t press charges and I needed him to know that his pain hadn’t been overlooked. I needed Tristan to know that what he’d suffered had cost Mikey something, even if it was the voicing of a mere apology. And the loss of our friendship. Oh, yes, and his job.
For a moment, Mikey just stood there, apparently piecing together in his head the significance of what had just gone down between us. When it had all sunk in, he grabbed the laptop off his desk, stuffed some crap into a briefcase, and snatched up his coat. “Fuck you, Dalton! I fucking quit!”
Nodding amenably, I replied, “That’s fine, but the laptop belongs to Dalton Builders, Mikey. You can put it back down on the desk before you leave.” As predicted, it was slammed down with significantly more force than necessary.
Looking back…. Savannah
TRISTAN hadn’t ever looked as happy as he had when I’d left him last night. After we’d eaten dinner with Robby’s sister’s family, where the discussion had centered on outlining for them the dynamics of our unconventional little family of three, or, in other words, explaining how we fit together, we’d gone back home. While I’d packed my bag, Robby had recited one silly knock-knock joke after another, in an attempt to distract Tristan from the fact that I’d soon be leaving. Cheesy, yes, but also true. And Tristan had allowed himself to be distracted, which I’d considered a huge step in the right direction.
Driving me back to the group home, my partners had sat together in the front seat of the Jeep, holding hands, and gazing at each other at every opportunity, trust and promises in their eyes. Each and every one of these sweet exchanges of their love had warmed my heart. For me, to have seen one decent man, a man whose life had been torn apart by unfair circumstances that had been totally beyond his control—smiling and laughing and loving—had satisfied me in a way I’d never imagined possible. To have seen a second good man who had never before known, let alone recognized himself for who he really was, accepting of and fulfilled in his relationship, had taken my satisfaction to a whole new level.
And as I’d watched them drive away, back to the place that was truly my home simply because they lived there, I had to smile because I’d been completely certain that my happiness would be looked after as well. The two men who’d turned practically all the way around in the front seat of the Jeep in order to wave like children and flash me four enthusiastic thumbs-up before I’d headed back into the dormitory, were my brothers with whom I’d share my life.
About the Author
MIA KERICK is the mother of four exceptional children—all named after saints—and five nonpedigreed cats—all named after the next best thing to saints, Boston Red Sox players. Her husband of twenty years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about that, as it is a sensitive subject.
Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled men and their rel
ationships, and she believes that sex has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. As a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with romantic tales of tortured heroes (most of whom happened to strongly resemble lead vocalists of 1980s big-hair bands) and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to Dreamspinner Press for providing her with an alternate place to stash her stories.
Mia is proud of her involvement with the Human Rights Campaign and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of marital equality. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology.
Contact Mia at [email protected].
Also from MIA KERICK
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also from MIA KERICK
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com