by Max Walker
“Of course it was. I figured he wasn’t into me, or into girls, probably, after like the tenth time we tried having sex and we couldn’t. I offered going to a doctor with him and—shit, sorry. I’m talking too much. Just, you know, tell him I’ve got his games.”
“Uh, sure.”
Just then, another dog rounded the corner with its owner following. This set off Janet’s bulldog, who started barking and lunging, throwing its drool all over the place. I managed to dodge a few globs as if I were in the Matrix. I didn’t want to press my luck, and I hurried up the stairs while my work scrubs were still dry.
That was… weird. Will hadn’t talked much about Janet, but when he had talked about her, everything seemed fine. They weren’t going out for long, but they had spent a ton of time together. He seemed really smitten with her actually.
If Will was having some kind of issue, did he know he could talk to me about it? I trusted him with everything, so why hadn’t he trusted me?
I dug into my pocket for my keys. I unlocked my door and stepped inside.
Instantly, I knew something was off, all thoughts of Will and Janet and piling dog poop set aside.
Something was terribly wrong.
There was a smell in the air. Like iron. It stung at my nose. I thought that maybe Mason or Jar had an accident in the living room before we left and the sun cooked through it, making the apartment reek.
Seconds later and that theory was put to rest.
“Oh my God.” I grasped at my chest, shock hitting me like a lightning bolt striking down on a cloudless day.
My first instinct wasn’t to run or to hide or to shout.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Beckham’s number, my entire body feeling like it was drained of all blood.
26 Beckham Noble
Sweat beaded on my forehead. I wiped it away with the small white towel I had hooked in the side of my shorts. We were sitting outside of a popular pub, a happy hour special attracting all kinds of people to the beachside sports-themed spot. We had gotten here right after our kickball game and managed to dodge the mad rush, snagging a table by the far corner of the patio, underneath a palm tree that shielded us from the setting sun.
It had been a long day. Before the kickball game, I’d spent all day at the corner store that claimed they still had footage from the night of Oliver and Derrick’s attack. When I arrived, they spent a good hour explaining their system to me and how the videos were stored for years on the cloud. They showed me where all the cameras were set up, and they even went into an explanation of how they’d installed them. When they actually tried showing me the footage was when shit went south.
They opened up the folder labeled with the same year of the attacks. There, they clicked June. Once the June folder was open, they clicked on the seventeenth. A video for the day appeared on the screen.
They clicked on the video.
Clicked it again.
They clicked and clicked and clicked, and nothing was playing.
That was when we discovered the files were corrupt.
My hopes of catching the attackers on camera had been shot. None of the other stores around this area had installed this kind of system, so whatever footage they had lasted a month at most before it was deleted. And I knew that the attackers had fled down this very road because someone had reported two cars speeding off minutes later, and those cars were parked right around the corner shop.
It had been their getaway spot, and the two men must have crossed in front of the cameras to get there.
This had seemed like a massive fish on the hook, and there I was having to cut the line.
The owners of the corner store promised they would try to fix the file. I figured if they couldn’t, I’d ask Anya to work her techno-magic on the corrupt files and try to get something from them.
Still, there was a chance we’d never get to see what was on that tape.
After I got off that roller coaster, I went to my kickball game where we ended up beating the other team and earning a spot in our city’s big tournament. We had come to the pub to celebrate. Around me sat my four closest friends, all of us still wearing our kickball uniforms: shirtless light-blue tanks with white shorts, our nicknames printed on the back of each shirt, along with our numbers. I had met the guys through our kickball team, the Ball Busters, when I signed up something like ten years ago. Since then, the core five of us stuck together and managed to not only keep our team going for a decade, but our friendships as well.
There was Kyle Ramos, the mate I could go to at whatever time of the day, and he’d be there to offer a few helping words. Corey Meis was the jokester of the group and had zero shame in everything he did. There was one time we went on a cruise together and Corey ended up getting everyone together on the deck for a spontaneous improv show between him and whoever wanted to participate. By the end of the night, people were asking him to make his show a nightly thing.
Across from Corey was Silas Anderson, the hardest one of the group to crack, but once you did break through that prickly exterior, you’d find one of the most caring hearts to have ever beat. He had a rough go at life but was finally beginning to find some real happiness, and we were all happy for him.
For now, though, it wasn’t Silas we were talking about. Tonight I was the center of the conversation.
Or rather, Oliver and I were the center of conversation.
“He’s a really cool kid,” Kyle said. We were all wearing our light-blue jerseys from the game.
I had introduced Oliver to the gang a few days ago and was happy with how it went. Everyone seemed to get along, even though there was some awkwardness to overcome in the beginning. Our age difference wasn’t as apparent when it was just me and him together, but I could tell Oliver initially had some trouble being surrounded by men twice his age. I feared that there wouldn’t be anything to talk about and that we’d all stare into the bottom of our drinks for the entire night.
But of course Oliver found a way to crack the ice. It was Oliver Brightly for crying out loud—he could get along with a bucket of ice and a room full of frogs if he had to. Soon enough, we were all cracking jokes and taking the piss, the night flying by.
“I liked him,” Corey said. He leaned back, his bald head reflecting some of the light off the setting sun. “And you really, really liked him. I mean, you were drooling all over the place the other night.”
“I didn’t drool anywhere,” I assured him, crossing my arms and looking out to the sidewalk. It was filled with vacationing beachgoers walking, many of them carrying their umbrellas and chairs and coolers back to their cars.
“Oh, so that wasn’t drool? I think that’s even worse, buddy.” Corey cocked his head before laughing. Kyle joined in, goading him.
I cracked a smile and felt my cheeks getting red like I was a bloody schoolboy all over again, being teased by my classmates. “I do really like him,” I said when the laughing died down.
Silas leaned onto the table. He had a scar across his cheek that made him look all the more aggro, which was funny seeing as how he got it from a gardening accident and not from a pub fight as he would like people to believe.
“And he likes you, right?”
“Silas, what kind of question is that?” Corey asked before I could respond. “Of course Oliver likes him back. Did you see the way they were looking at each other? I wouldn’t be surprised if the two had snuck off on a midnight date to Vegas and stopped to see Elvis.”
“I’m just saying.” Silas leaned back in the seat. He took a drank of his martini. It was an interesting sight, seeing the beefiest one out of all of us holding up a delicate glass and sipping from the edge. I half-expected him to stick a veiny pinky finger out. “I’ve dated my share of young guys. You’ve met a couple of them.”
“Yeah, and I wish we hadn’t,” Kyle said. “Remember the one that was obsessed with that Ultra music festival? I swear, I think he would have gotten a full-body tattoo consisting of EDM song titles and ec
stasy pills.”
“Exactly,” Silas said, confident as though his point had been fully proven. “There’s a different culture nowadays. We didn’t have all these fancy clubs and massive parties to go to. We didn’t have the huge parades that shut down entire cities and the crazy after-parties that follow. Not to mention all the apps there are nowadays. You want a bear? Oh, download Grizzly. You want a twink? Here, download Twinkle. Maybe you want a daddy? Go get Dadder.”
We all looked at Silas before cracking up.
“Honestly,” Corey said, “I think you’re onto something with that last one.”
“Oliver isn’t like that.” I had to defend him. As funny as Silas was, I knew he was speaking from his own experience and was just looking out for my best interests. But I had to let them know that I didn’t need to worry about things like that. “He’s really mature. He’s been through it, and I think he’s matured because of the things he’s been through. And, also on the same token, he’s so fun to be around. He’s not a stick in the mud; he’s not scared of experiencing new things. We’re always laughing. Always having a great time. I know that he doesn’t want to be on any apps, and neither do I.”
Silas looked at me. He had a penetrating stare with a pair of emerald-green eyes that resembled two jewels. “You sure, Beckham? I’m just saying, we’ve all been wanting someone for you as bad as you’ve been wanting someone for yourself. Trust me. I just don’t want you getting carried away.”
“I know you’ve been hurt before, Silas. And I appreciate you looking out for me. I do.”
“But you’re sure on this one, huh?”
“Dead sure.”
Deadass.
He nodded at that, seeming to accept my answer as final. Corey perked up and lifted his glass in the air, some of the vodka soda spilling over and onto the table. “Cheers, then, to Beckham and Oliver and Silas’s new Dadder venture.”
We clinked our glasses, the group of us smiling.
That’s when two massive warheads were dropped on me simultaneously.
First, my phone buzzed with a message from the corner store I talked to earlier in the day. They were able to fix the corrupted files and sent over the footage from that night. Before I could even click to open it, my phone started to buzz again, this time with a call.
It was Oliver.
“Hello?”
“Beckham! Beck, I need you. My apartment. Someone… it’s bad, I can’t. Beckham, please.”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down, Olly.” I felt all the eyes at the table turn to me. “What happened?”
“Just come. Please, Beck. My apartment.”
“I’ll be right there.” I hung up the phone and stood, almost tipping out of my chair. My mates knew there wasn’t any time to explain; my face must have said it all. I left the bar, feeling a terrible sense of helplessness. Oliver needed me, and I was at least twenty minutes away, and that was with me not giving a fuck about speed limits.
27 Oliver Brightly
I was shaking and in tears by the time Beckham got to me. He held me and managed to bring me down from the cliff of panic I had climbed. The cops were already inside my apartment, turning it inside out. I wondered if I should have let Beckham take a look first, but honestly, I wasn’t thinking at all when I walked into my apartment and saw what was written on the wall.
“Are you okay?” Beckham asked me first thing when he got to me.
I nodded, barely able to answer a squeaky “yes.” Next to me, Mason and Jar both meowed from their cat carriers, no doubt recognizing Beckham and taking as much comfort in him as I was.
“What happened?” The red-and-blue lights of the parked police cars bounced off Beckham’s face.
I took a deep breath, unsure if I was able to even recount what I’d seen.
“I was coming home and I unlock the door, open it.” I swallow, my mouth incredibly dry. “I open it and right there, on the wall, there’s the words ‘You’ll regret this’ and it’s written in blood. I thought it was paint at first, but no. It was blood.”
Beckham’s face turned to my apartment. I heard him hiss a curse word.
“Juan had said those exact words,” Beckham noted.
“I know. I keep replaying them. I heard him say it from my room.”
“Was there anything else? Was anything taken?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. They went in there to leave that message and the rest of…” My voice cracked. Beckham pulled me in tighter. His hand went up and down my back, and it was absolutely the most comforting thing in the world at that moment.
“The rest of the poor pig’s body,” I was able to finish. “I’m so… this is crazy, Beck. So, so crazy. I thought I was going to be getting closure from this. But it’s the opposite. I feel like I’m constantly back in that fucking alleyway. And it’s getting worse. If it was Juan, how the hell did—”
My breathing turned ragged. I tried sucking in a breath but didn’t feel like it was enough. I sucked in another. Not enough.
Another.
No, still not enough.
More.
No. It wasn’t working. I couldn’t breathe.
One more time. Deep breath. So simple.
Why wouldn’t it work? Why couldn’t I breathe?
I could barely fill my lungs. It felt like scraping at the air.
“I can’t, I can’t.” I was holding on to Beckham. The world was spinning. This had become so fucking real, so fucking fast.
“Olly, Olly, listen to me. Listen.” Beckham held on to my hands. I still couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t breathe.
“I can’t breathe. Beck.”
“You can. Yes you can. Listen to me. Follow me. Take one deep breath in through your nose. That’s it. There you go. Now let it out. Perfect. Let’s do it again. Just keep looking into my eyes, Olly. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. Just like that.”
It was working. My lungs were working again. The panic was being pushed away. Not far, but far enough to allow oxygen back into my body. I didn’t break my gaze from Beckham’s, letting his eyes serve as a lighthouse.
Another deep breath, my lungs filling up with fresh air. “Thank you,” I said, my voice low.
“Nothing to thank me for.”
In the same way I was able to find my breath, I found the questions I had been meaning to ask, the words rattling around in my brain, adding to the chaos. “How did they… How did they get in? Juan? Nothing’s broken. Nothing. And none of the neighbors noticed anything either, so there was no break-in. And I vividly remember unlocking my door when I got home. Jesus.” The anxiety attack had sapped me of any strength I had left. I broke down like a car sputtering to the side of the road. Thankfully, Beckham was there to wrap his strong arms around me. I buried my face in his chest and let it out. The years of fear, the years of trauma.
Everything felt so fresh. Like it had happened yesterday. Not the six years that separated me from Derrick’s murder. It felt like I was holding him only a few hours ago, watching him take his last breath.
I let it all out. Beckham held on to me through the storm.
After what felt like years of me trying to get it together, I separated from Beckham. He looked up at my apartment, and I knew he wanted to go in there and take a look before the cops messed around with it too much.
“Go,” I said. “I’ll be fine down here.” I took in a deep breath, grateful for the air.
“I’ll go up and take some pictures, and then I’ll be right back down. You’re staying at my place tonight.”
“Mind if these two bums come along?” I pointed at Mason and Jar. Thank all my pop-star gods that they were both underneath my bed when I had come home, no doubt scared off by whoever had come into my apartment. When I called them, they had come running from out under my bed, purring as they bumped into me.
Holding them and stuffing my face into their fur, allergies be damned, was one of the happiest moments of my life.
Beckham smiled and look
ed down at the hot-pink carriers. “I’ve got some cans of tuna waiting just for them.”
I wasn’t about to break his heart and tell him they preferred salmon. “Go up,” I said, nodding toward my apartment, feeling like an entire football field separated me from it, even though the scene that was going to add to my nightmares was up the stairs and to the right.
Beckham held both my hands and kissed me soft on the forehead. It wasn’t a kind of kiss I’d ever had before. It felt like I could trace the exact outline of his lips on my skin, even as he turned and walked up the steps, pulling out his identification from his shorts pocket. I just now noticed Beck had come here straight from the bar, still wearing his kickball uniform, with his nickname printed in bold white letters on the back of his shirt:
SHERCOCK HOLMES.
That one got a genuine belly laugh out of me. A sound that felt so out of place, I’m pretty sure it scared even Mason and Jar.
We got to Beckham’s place without any more panic attacks striking. Jesus. I hadn’t had many of those since the months after Derrick’s death. They’d struck hard and fast back then, seemingly out of nowhere.
I thought I’d become immune to them, like I’d somehow conquered the panic after all that time.
How silly of me.
I set the pink cat carriers down on the ground, already feeling Mason purring through the carrier. Mason and Jar seemed to be as happy as I was that we were out of my apartment. They tiptoed out of their carriers first and then started to run around the living room, bumping into the table and chairs. I laughed, grateful for the comfort Beckham and his home offered.
“Want some tea?” Beck asked as he kicked off his shoes.
“I’m okay, thank you, babe.”
I fell down on the couch, throwing my feet up and lying down with a loud sigh. I grabbed a big gray pillow and stuffed it over my face. There, I yelled.
“I’ll get you that tea,” Beckham said. He went into the kitchen, Mason following behind him. I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the good parts of tonight: I was alive. Mason and Jar weren’t hurt. Beckham was with me.