by Gregory Ashe
Rory nodded.
“I had to. It was like, I don’t know, something pulling me. Dragging me. That’s what it feels like, I guess. Like I’m not just me anymore. Like I’m all tied up with him, and sometimes, being tied up with him is the only thing holding me together, holding me in place.” Again, he managed to stop himself before he could say the rest, that he didn’t know what happened when it went on too long, when he didn’t want to be tied in place, when he wanted to go so badly that he started to resent the things that kept him here.
Slowly, Rory chafed his arms again and said, “Thank you.”
“It’s a bad answer.”
“No, it’s just . . . it’s a lot.”
Hazard didn’t wait for more; he started toward the minivan, and Rory’s hand fell away, releasing him.
“I’m sorry, Ree,” Somers said as Hazard climbed into the car. “I’m so sorry. I’m such a shit. I’m such a total fucking shit.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I know, oh my God, I know. I’m such a fucking drunken piece of shit. Ree, I’m sorry, I really am—”
“Ok.”
“No, it’s not—”
“John, just stop. Please.” Hazard took a breath and settled himself and started the minivan. “It’s ok.”
Somers didn’t talk anymore, but the way he slumped against the window told the same story for the whole ride home. Hazard parked and started the garage door down behind them; over the rumble of the chain on the track, he said, “I’m sorry I caused you trouble with the rest of the police.”
Somers raised his head, blinking at Hazard. “What?”
“What Gross said. That shitty little jab at you. Did anyone else say anything?”
“Come on, that stuff doesn’t bother me.”
“Did somebody else say something?”
“Ree, I don’t care about that. Gross is just an asshole.”
“I shouldn’t have done what I did, investigating without telling you.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Thanks.” Hazard reached for the door.
Somers caught his arm, brought it towards him, touched the back of Hazard’s hand to his face. He was staring intently at Hazard. “I’m sorry.”
“We already did this. It’s ok. You had reason to be upset.”
“No, I mean, I’m sorry we’re like this. You’re not a detective anymore because of me. And I’m sorry I don’t know what to say or do so you can talk to me. I’m sorry I don’t know what to do to make it better because I feel like you’re drifting away and I don’t know how to stop it.” He was crying now, silently, just hot tears that Hazard could feel sliding down the back of his hand. “I’m such a piece of shit, I’m such a stupid piece of shit.”
“How many beers did you have?”
“Too many.”
“Let’s get you to bed.”
Hazard half-carried his boyfriend up to their bedroom, and when they were inside, he sat Somers on the edge of the bed. His big hands were steady as he undid the buttons on Somers’s shirt, peeling poplin away from bare skin, exposing the dark lines of calligraphy that swirled across Somers’s shoulders and chest and arms. When the last button fell away, Somers’s breathing changed, and he caught Hazard’s wrists. He guided Hazard’s hands to his thighs. His hands slid up Hazard’s forearms, up his shoulders. Head falling back, he looked out at Hazard from under hooded eyes, chips of turquoise sparkling in the weak light.
“You’re so hot,” Somers whispered.
Hazard’s heart beat faster.
“You’re smart and kind and sweet.”
“I’m not sweet,” Hazard rumbled.
“And you’re so fucking hot.”
“And you need sleep. You’ve been awake for almost forty-eight hours.”
“I can sleep later,” Somers said, matter of fact now, tugging on Hazard’s collar.
Hazard’s heart beat faster. Terror coiled in Hazard’s gut. He thought about begging, but long ago he had taught himself never to beg.
Pulling Hazard closer, Somers kissed him. “Touch me,” he whispered when he broke away. “Please, I’m dying here, just touch me. It’s been, Christ, I don’t know. Days, weeks, months.”
Terror scrabbled inside Hazard, and he had to be careful, always careful now. He drew his lips into a smirk, leaning forward, hands gliding up to the cleft between Somers’s legs where he found Somers hard and waiting.
“Touch you like this?” Hazard asked.
“Fuck,” Somers moaned, bucking up into Hazard’s touch. “Yes, fuck, get my fucking pants off, please.”
“Or, maybe,” Hazard slid one hand up, caressing the smooth, golden skin of Somers’s chest, raking his nails across Somers’s chest hard enough to raise red lines. “Like this?”
Hissing, Somers grabbed at his fly, yanking on the zipper. “Yes, fuck, yes, yes.”
“Or maybe,” Hazard said, planting both hands on Somers and shoving, then crawling forward, pinning Somers, his weight settling on Somers’s waist so all Somers could do was rock up and groan. “Like this?” He caught Somers’s wrists, pinning him to the bed, and then he bent and kissed a line up Somers’s neck, growling and butting hard against the side of Somers’s head when Somers squirmed.
“Oh Jesus,” Somers panted. “Oh Jesus.”
Hazard rocked slowly, using the weight of his body to stimulate Somers without really giving Somers what he wanted. He kissed the dark swirls across Somers’s chest, nipping at Somers’s abs, sucking hard and then biting down sharply on his nipples. Somers moaned and swore and writhed, trying to get free and not really trying at all.
“Fuck me,” Somers said. Sometimes a plea. Sometimes a frantic, frayed attempt at an order.
Hazard ignored him.
For most of his life, Hazard had never really believed he would ever get to touch the boy he had fantasized about. John-Henry Somerset had always seemed as bright and hot and distant as a star—something to dream about, something to pretend might happen. And then, by some twist of luck, they had come together. And the heat between them had been beyond anything Hazard could have imagined, better than any fantasy he’d cooked up in twenty years of dreaming. The heat between them had been nuclear. Fusion. Starlight.
He was aware of that, now, as he made love to his boyfriend. He was aware of it, felt it, felt his own arousal like something hidden behind clouds. Something else lay on top of it all, dark and heavy. And Hazard had the sudden thought, interrupting him as he took Somers into his mouth, that stars died. They burned out all their fuel, and they went dark, drifting through space in cold, lifeless hunks of carbon and iron.
Somers came with a long groan, his hands gathering the sheets, his heels digging into the mattress, his whole body arching up into the connection between him and Hazard.
Hazard rolled onto his back. There, he thought blankly. And then: I really did forget his dry cleaning. Like a piece of paper laid over the terror still pounding through him.
Because what would happen when Somers realized.
“Oh fuck,” Somers was saying. “Oh fuck, that was fucking amazing.” Scooting down the bed, he planted a kiss on Hazard’s cheek and reached for the waistband of Hazard’s pants. “Come on, I want to—”
Terror, scrabbling and clawing, finally broke free. Hazard stood before Somers could touch him and fled to the bathroom. He shut the door and stood there, in the dark, his heartbeat like the sound of a dead star swinging through the universe.
He thought he might wait for his hands to steady, but a minute passed, and then another, and then it was too long. So he turned on the light and flushed the toilet and ran the water in the sink. Then he went back into the bedroom.
The lights were on now, and Somers sprawled across the mattress, the perfect lines of his body on display. He propped himself on an elbow, his gaze moving slowly over Hazard, the turquoise eyes darker than Hazard remembered. Almost like slate, really.
&n
bsp; “Sorry,” Hazard said. “I got dizzy. The drinks, I think.”
Somers nodded slowly. “Do you want me to—”
“No,” Hazard said, stripping out of his shirt. “I kind of ruined the mood.”
Nothing, to this, from Somers.
Hazard kept undressing. Then, in just his boxer briefs, he crawled into bed and pulled the sheets over him. Somers had rolled to stare at him.
“Are you ok?” Hazard asked.
“Am I ok?”
Another minute dragged out. “All right,” Hazard said. “I guess I’m calling it a night.”
He turned out the lamp, and then, like so many nights lately, they lay there. Awake. And pretending.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NOVEMBER 2
FRIDAY
3:30 PM
THE DOORBELL RANG, AND Hazard, on the couch, considered ignoring it. For some reason he didn’t understand, he had found a kind of wild exhilaration in ignoring things he had never ignored before: the doorbell, the phone, the little chirp of email. Once, Mr. Tomlinson, an ancient queen who lived down the block and was an inveterate snoop, had come knocking. Hazard had stood at the door, listening to the knocks, feeling drunk with the sensation of not answering. Later that day, of course—well, later, he had had one of his really bad days. But he thought it might have been worth it.
The problem with the doorbell, though, was that it had broken the spell. Hazard wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, lying on the sofa, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. In his mind, he’d been nowhere in particular. Just drifting, really. And then something would spring out at him, the thought of what it might feel like for a knife to go into the ulnar artery, just proximal to the wrist. And then it would be gone. Just a thought. People had all kinds of thoughts.
Now, shaken loose from the trance, Hazard had to think about Somers. How they had danced around each other at breakfast. How Somers had eaten the steel-cut oats with strawberries and cream and not said anything except good morning, thank you, hope you have a great day. How Somers had stopped at the garage door and started to turn, and then his shoulders had fallen, and he had left.
The bell rang again. Hazard swung his legs off the couch and headed for the door. When he opened it, he was surprised to find someone he didn’t recognize; he had expected Mr. Tomlinson or the FedEx guy or maybe Noah or Rebeca, asking if he could keep an eye on the kids for a few minutes.
Instead, Hazard found himself staring at a young man with fiery orange hair and watery blue eyes. Something slightly off in the eyes, but Hazard was too tired to run it down.
“Yes?” Hazard said.
“Hi.” The kid had a smile and was using it like a battering ram. “I’m looking for Emery Hazard.”
“And who are you?”
“Mitchell Martin. Are you he? Mr. Hazard, I mean.”
He, Hazard thought. Are you he. Not, are you him.
“Nominative case.”
“Well,” Mitchell blinked, and the first hint of a blush grew in his cheeks. “I’m not a barbarian.”
It was the first interesting thing that had happened to Hazard that day. He pushed the screen door open and said, “I’m Emery Hazard.”
“Mr. Hazard,” the boy said, squaring his shoulders and looking up at Hazard. “I want to hire you.”
Somewhere deep inside Hazard, that string of lights flickered back to life. He pushed the door open a little wider. “Come in.”
They sat in the kitchen, with Mitchell taking Somers’s usual chair, which he couldn’t have realized. Hazard took the time, walking from the door and settling into their seats, to study the boy. Boy wasn’t perhaps the most generous term; Hazard was willing to guess that Mitchell was in his early twenties. But he looked young. Very young. And he smiled like he was young too. And still that disconcerting something in the eyes.
“Hire me for what?”
“To look into the death of a friend. Jim Fabbri.” Mitchell drew in a breath and then, in a rush: “I know your boyfriend is the police officer investigating the crime, but I want you to help too.”
“I’m not a detective.”
“I know you left the police, but someone told me you were working privately now.”
Hazard felt the weight of the business cards stacked in his pocket. “Who told you that?”
Mitchell’s watery eyes showed startlement. “What?”
“Who told you I was a private investigator?”
“I don’t know.”
“That seems unlikely. Was it a work friend? A family member? Where did you hear it? How long have you known, and why did you decide to act on it now?”
“Well, I’ve been leading a dull life,” Mitchell said, the ugly blush invading his face again. “I’ve only had just the one murder.”
Hazard folded his arms.
“I don’t know,” Mitchell finally said. “I mean, people talk about you. About both of you, if you want to be honest. But about you more. I go to, um, the Pretty Pretty, and I’ve seen you there.” If possible, the blush grew deeper. “You guys are cute together. And everybody knows basically everything about you, and, I don’t know, you’re like a local celebrity. A hero. I mean, you’re a hero, you know? So people talk.”
The words were dangerously pleasant to hear; Hazard had to remind himself that flattery, even as inept as Mitchell’s, always had an ulterior motive. But still. It was nice to hear that some people, at least, didn’t see him as a corrupt cop who had been chased from the force. It was nice to hear that some people didn’t watch him in public the way someone might watch a rabid dog. Or a rapist. Or a pedophile.
And, a quiet part of Hazard’s brain noted, Mitchell hadn’t really answered the question.
“The police are handling this investigation. Detective Somerset is the best person to talk to, and he’s the best detective I’ve ever worked with. He can help you.” Hazard beckoned with one hand. “If you’ve got a card, I’ll give it to him, or you can tell me your number and I’ll pass it along.”
“I don’t want to talk to Somerset. I’ve already talked to him. And his frat boy partner.”
“The police—”
“You said he’s the best detective you ever worked with. The best detective on the force. But I read all about you. I talked to people. Somerset might be the best now, but you’re better.”
“Apparently not,” Hazard said, with a tinge of bitterness he couldn’t entirely purge.
“If you—”
“I’m not a detective.”
“I understand, but I just want—”
“What don’t you understand, Mitchell? I do not work for the Wahredua police. I do not have a private investigation agency. I wash clothes; I pick up groceries; I’m learning how to make a fucking French omelet that my boyfriend will eat. If I get involved, do you know what’s going to happen?”
“Yes: you’re going to solve the case.”
“Best scenario is that my boyfriend and I have a major fight about my interfering. Again.”
“Again?” Mitchell said.
Ignoring the question, Hazard said, “Worst scenario is that Chief Cravens charges me with obstruction or a million other things. I have a daughter now. I don’t want to spend part of my life in prison, or part of her college savings on a lawyer.”
“You aren’t listening to me,” Mitchell said, slapping the table. “You’re just like the rest of them, you won’t listen to me.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to call John right now and ask him to come home. And you can tell him whatever you wanted to tell me—which you should have told him, by the way, when you were being interviewed as a witness.” Hazard shifted his weight, digging the phone out of his pocket.
“I saw Jim Fabbri talking to the guy who killed him. That night. A couple of hours before the party.” Mitchell leaned forward, grabbing the phone—and, by necessity, Hazard’s hand. “Talking. He was talking to that Ozark Volunteers
guy like they were buddies. And when I told Somerset and Dulac, they thought I was crazy or lying or mistaken.”
“Let go of my hand.”
“That’s why I want to hire you, ok? They won’t listen to me. They won’t take me seriously. But I know what I saw, and Jim was my friend. I’ve got money. I don’t care if you just take it this one time, I don’t care if you really aren’t a private investigator. I just want somebody to find the person who did this.”
“Let go of my hand.”
Something in Hazard’s voice must have warned Mitchell because the boy’s face blanched and he dropped Hazard’s hand.
“I know my boyfriend. He wouldn’t ignore a statement like that.” And, Hazard thought, Somers would have told me about it, even if he didn’t believe it.
“I . . . I fudged some of the facts.”
“You lied to the police.”
“I told them the important thing: I saw Jim talking to that guy. The rest of it was stupid stuff. Just details.”
Hazard didn’t say anything. He didn’t even bother folding his arms again.
“Ok, I was buying weed. There’s this little arts building, kind of a multipurpose thing, and this girl I used to hook up with works there. Anyway, I was, um, talking to her. And the whole side of the front hall, it’s glass, so you’re looking right outside. And there he was.”
“Who?”
“Jim. Talking to that other guy.”
“And what details did you fudge?”
Mitchell shook his head. “I screwed it up so bad. I forgot I had told them where I worked, so I said I saw Jim talking to this guy at work, and then they asked me how I could have seen them from my desk, and I had to say something about a window, and they wanted to know which window, and, Jesus, I looked like a lunatic.”