by Tal Bauer
“So, Mike.” He slid his Mexican Martini across the wooden table, leaving a wet trail behind his fingers. He had to talk to Mike, hold his attention for at least a little while. Until someone else came and stole him away. “I saw in the paper this morning that the Russian president has agreed to come to the U.S. Finalized the travel plans and everything. The great thaw is coming, apparently.”
“Yeah, it’s crazy.” Mike spun his mojito. “I thought for sure we were headed for a new cold war.”
In 1991, the Soviet Union was in its death throes, and Russia, the fledgling federation that was emerging from the USSR’s tumultuous death, was reduced to a second-rate power and a crippled empire. The world’s laughingstock. Their economy stagnated, crime flourished. The military was a husk of its former glory, best symbolized by the Russians’ only aircraft carrier needing to travel with a tug boat for its inevitable loss of power. But, the world changed, and catastrophe followed catastrophe. Oil—of which the Russians had plenty—soared.
And the great Bear was roused. First, brutal dealings with rebels in Chechnya, and the installation of a puppet government in Georgia. They took a chunk of Ukraine, strumming the strings of NATO, and watched as the finely-tuned orchestra of the European Union and NATO fell to squabbling and passive apathy of Russia’s renewed aggressions. And then, Russia tried their hand in the Middle East, picking the opposite side to the U.S. in the bloody Syrian civil war that pitted faction against faction against faction, and the lines were only ever blurred to incomprehension.
Past presidents had stirred rhetoric against Russia, playing the diplomatic game of censure and insult on the world stage. This president, President McDonough, wanted a face-to-face with his Russian counterpart, President Dimitry Vasiliev. Gossip on the Hill was that McDonough wanted to look Vasiliev in the eye when he told him to go fuck himself, and that the missile defense shield was staying right where it was in Europe.
“Are you going to be involved in any of the security for the visit? When the Russian president comes to DC?”
“No, thank God. That’s Secret Service, FBI, and Diplomatic Security Service at the State Department. They have enough giant personalities and butting heads in that mix. They don’t want any other players making a mess of things. The Secret Service will run the show and push everyone else out, be the big bully on the block. The others will piss and moan about it, but do what the Secret Service says. And then there’s the Russian security services. They’ll demand to be in on the security planning, and the Secret Service hates planning anything with foreign nationals on our soil.”
“Sounds like a nightmare.”
“It will be. I’m glad I have nothing at all to do with that.” Mike grinned. “I’ll just read about it in the paper and watch the headlines on TV.” He squinted at Tom. “Do you think anything will come out of this meeting?”
“Well… Nixon did go to China.” Tom sighed. “Russia locked up tight after Putin kicked the bucket. No one knows how that ended up actually happening. Heart attack, according to half the news outlets, assassination according to the other. This new guy, Vasiliev, is a mystery. But he’s not doing anything that would make me feel comfortable about Russia again. I don’t see that new Russian dawn everyone was talking about, after Putin died.”
“Me either. If anything, Russia is putting more forces on the border with Ukraine, and staging ‘training’ in Belarus. And building up in the Baltics, outside St. Petersburg, too.”
“I saw that. I hope it’s just posturing. But, whatever is coming, it’s going to be a mess.”
“You think Russia and the U.S. could ever be allies?” Mike squinted at him.
“We were once. We won World War Two together. But it would take a lot, I think, to make it work again. A total shift in Russian policy. What do you think?”
“I’m withholding judgment.” Mike spun his mojito again. “Right before Putin died, most guys I knew in the intel community said it was only a matter of time before we were in a shooting war with Russia in a proxy somewhere again. Or multiple somewheres. But everyone has been really quiet about President Vasiliev. The intel community can’t figure him out yet.”
“You have a lot of friends in the intel community?”
“A fair few.” Mike grinned. “I started in intel in the Navy. Did my four years and then got out. But I kept in touch with a bunch of people.”
“That’s great.”
The rest of the bar was fading away, and it was just him and Mike and their little bubble in the world. They talked about Mike’s days in the Navy, his deployments to the Mediterranean and the Middle East. Mike asked about his funniest case and the craziest day he ever had as a prosecutor. Kris appeared and disappeared, listening and watching with eyes that were far too shrewd. Tom kept waiting for Mike’s gaze to wander, for his attention to wane, but Mike kept looking into his eyes, kept smiling right at him.
Either Mike’s smiles or the Mexican Martini were starting to mess with his mind. The boldness of his twenty-one-year-old-self came crawling back, a shadow of who he’d once been coming out of the past, resurrected by the bar and the men around him. He leaned his thigh against Mike’s and left it there.
Kris reappeared again with another pink Martini. “Tom,” he said, his voice a little looser, a little deeper than before. His eyes were shining, bright and tipsy. “Tell me. What’s your opinion about international development organizations? You think they’re effective?”
“Oh, here we go,” Mike muttered under his breath. He winked at Tom, but stayed quiet.
He and Kris went back-and-forth, him arguing for international relief in all cases and sustainable development projects in certain cases. Kris listened, his eyes flashing, and then jumped in, cross-examining each point he made like an expert attorney. They bantered, Mike’s eyes bouncing between them like he was watching a tennis match.
And then, Tom heard it. An electronic drumbeat, a pitter-patter sound, close by. He knew that sound. From where—
Mike slipped his phone out of his hoodie pocket and swiped it on.
GrindMe’s icon splashed on his screen.
Tom couldn’t help it. His eyes darted to Mike’s phone, and he watched as Mike’s message window popped up. Kris was still talking, gesturing as he waxed on about the benefits of sustainable local workforces as opposed to propping up long-term relief missions. He sipped his Martini every other sentence, and his gestures grew wilder.
Mike’s message opened.
A picture splashed across the screen, a young, smooth, naked man on all fours, spreading his ass.
Come fuck my hole baby, the text read. I’m so horny for you.
Holy shit. Tom stared, his mouth dropping open, his eyes boggling.
Kris stopped talking, going silent mid-word.
Mike looked up and angled the screen away, hiding it against the zipper of his hoodie, but it was too late.
Shifting, Tom turned back to Kris, trying to pick up their conversation again. Kris wasn’t having it. He stared at Tom, and then at Mike. Mike had palmed his phone and slid it back into his pocket like nothing had ever happened.
Well, hello, reality. The text was a slap to Tom’s soul, a wake-up call for his delusions. Of course Mike was on GrindMe. Of course Mike was looking for hookups, for men who were his type—young, beautiful, and confident about who they were and what they wanted. Oh-so-confident. That was Mike’s type. He wasn’t looking for a boring middle-aged man, too scared of his own shadow to do anything.
“What?” Mike frowned, staring at Kris. Kris’s expression had soured, going frosty. His pouty lips pursed and his eyes slitted, and he glared at Mike like he wanted to fight.
“Excuse me. I’ve got to use the restroom.” Tom smiled, as best he could and slipped away, moving through the crowd. Behind him, he heard Kris’s voice rise and carry over the din, but he couldn’t make out the words.
In the restroom, two younger guys were making out against the back wall while everyone else did their busines
s. He watched them from the corner of his eye, smiling. Another man caught his gaze and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, too. Young love. To be so young and free.
He headed for the bar and found a slice of room between two groups of gabbing friends. He smiled politely at a younger guy, college-aged and skinny, who gave him a long, lingering once-over as he drank his colorful cocktail through a tiny straw. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked.
Tom looked away, flushing.
“How can I help you, daddy?” The bartender leaned across the bar top, smirking.
“Uhh…” Jesus, the last time he’d been at a bar, he’d laughed at the older men, the daddies, and said he’d never end up like that. Oh boy. “Uh, that table over there?” He pointed to Kris, sulking as he stabbed his pink Martini, and Mike, who stared down at his phone. A pang of jealousy hit him in his chest, and he sucked in a quick breath. “I’d like to pay their tabs.”
“Mmm, that’s sweet of you. You want to pay my tab, too?” The bartender leaned in a little closer, pushing his shoulders back.
He held out his credit card and kept his mouth shut. Sighing, the bartender snatched it and flounced away, one hip pushing out in a pout as he worked the register.
“You look familiar…”
A deep voice rumbled beside Tom, just over his shoulder. Cold panic washed down his spine, the combined fears of twenty-five years hitting him all at once. He stared at the man who’d spoken, a middle-aged businessman leaning against the bar beside him, a gentle smile on his patrician face. His brown eyes were warm, his full head of salt-and-pepper hair swept to the side, like Tom’s.
The businessman wagged his finger at Tom, smiling. “I know…” he said, “You were in my dreams last night.” He winked.
Relief broke like a wave against a rocky shore. Tom laughed, helpless release and a little bit of guilt.
“I hoped you would be the kind of guy to laugh at that terrible line.” The man held out his hand. “Steven.”
“Tom.” He shook Steven’s hand, still smiling. “Does it work for you often?”
Steven’s thumb stroked down the back of his hand. “It let me see your smile.”
Tom shook his head, still chuckling. A burn started in his belly, an ignition on a long, long thread he’d tried to bury. Desire, and the almost-forgotten feel of being wanted by another man, sparked.
“Are you here alone?” Steven’s attention was laser-focused on him. He didn’t blink as the bartender dropped Tom’s card and a pen and flounced away again, bitter at his attentions being rebuffed.
“Here with friends.” Tom scribbled his signature and nodded toward Kris’s table. There were all still there, and, for the moment, ignoring him. Which meant he was free. Free to take down his mask, hold it in his lap, and try to be the man he’d hidden for so many years. “You?”
“Just came to unwind and have a good time.” Steven’s smile was honey-slow, seductive.
“And are you having a good time?” Steven wasn’t exactly his type, wasn’t anywhere close to Mike’s level of attractive good looks, but he was handsome and fit and his eyes shone with good humor. He was smooth and polished, and probably had what his Spark app liked to call “shared life experiences” for men in his age range. And, with a Mexican Martini sloshing in his veins and only chips to soak up potentially bad decisions, Tom hovered between stay and go, good decision and bad. His breath shook.
Steven winked at him. “I might be on the way to a great time.” He waved for the bartender. “Can I buy you a drink? Let’s go outside and chat. Sit by the fire for a little while.”
“There you are!” Mike bulldozed his way beside Tom at the bar, practically knocking the young college guy from his chair and hip-checking another man out of the way. They sent him sour looks but stepped aside, muttering under their breath. Mike’s arm wrapped around Tom’s shoulders, and he sent him a wide-eyed, questioning look. “You okay?”
He felt his mask snap back into place. “I’m good.” He crumpled his receipt, hiding it from Mike. “I’m actually going to head out, though.”
Steven’s lip pushed out for a half-second. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a crisp card. “If you want to grab a drink, give me a call, Tom.”
“Thanks.” Tom slid the card into his shorts. “I hope you have a good night.”
Steven sighed, and Tom felt Mike’s stare on the side of his face. “Well, it will all be only second-best now.” But, he moved off, disappearing into the crowd and walking away from the bar.
Mike guided him toward the exit, pushing and winding his way like a salmon moving upstream. The music was louder, and the place was packed. The crowd had easily doubled. The patio was full, and clusters of men smoked outside the door and along the curb.
“I’ll walk you home.” Mike shoved his hands in his hoodie’s front pockets and fell into step beside Tom.
“You don’t have to. You were having a good time. You should stay with your friends.”
“I was leaving soon anyway.” Mike shrugged and didn’t look at Tom.
Oh. Right. His GrindMe message. He was on the way to a hookup.
They walked together, not speaking, for several blocks.
“Are you… okay?” Mike frowned, spreading his elbows and biting his upper lip. “I mean, did something happen? Were you uncomfortable, or…?”
“No, I’m good.” Tom smiled, forcing a lightness into his voice that he didn’t feel. Mike was walking him home, dumping him off, and then going to have a good time with a guy he really wanted. He’d never felt older or more discarded in his life. Maybe he should call Steven when he got home, invite him over. Throw caution and twenty-five years to the wind. “Just a long day.”
“Yeah.” Mike went quiet again. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Tom’s teeth gnashed.
Eventually, they arrived at Tom’s place, and Tom hurried up the steps to his door. Mike hung back at the street, wearing a deep frown with his hands still fisted in his hoodie pockets. “I’ll see you Monday, Judge B.”
“Yeah.” Tom turned, his key in the lock, and gave Mike a quick smile. “See you Monday.”
Mike started to walk off, keeping his eyes on Tom’s as he moved. Sighing, he turned away after he passed the second maple tree. His shoulders hunched and he looked down at the sidewalk.
What could he say? What could he possibly ever say that would change reality, or change history? Mike was Mike, and he was himself. He knew his fascination was doomed from the start. It was always going to end like this, with him watching Mike walk away, swallowing down his disappointment as Mike kept on with his life, his happy, proud life.
At the corner, Mike turned back, and for a moment, their eyes met. Mike stopped, going still, and seemed to wait.
Tom stepped inside and shut the door.
Chapter 11
Mike’s cell phone buzzed again.
Another text from Kris. Where are you? Tom picked up our whole tab.
[What!? Omg] He stopped on the sidewalk, closing his eyes. He should go back. Knock on Tom’s door. Apologize. Thank him, berate him, tell him he shouldn’t have done that—
WHERE ARE YOU?
[I walked Tom home.]
Are you with him?
[No]
So where the fuck are you??
Mike sighed. He scrubbed his face and turned off Dupont Circle onto P Street. [I’m going home.]
I’ll be right there.
He shoved his phone back in his pocket and kept walking. When he got to his building, he didn’t go inside, but waited on the steps, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging limply between his legs.
Kris stormed up the block ten minutes later, his low heels clicking, his hair sticking up, the artfully messy spikes nearly a mile high. Auburn highlights wound through his strands, catching the street lights. His bronzer had faded and his eyeliner was smudged, but Kris didn’t seem to care. First time for everything.
He stopped in front of Mike, crossing his arms loosely
as he shoved out one hip. His pants were rolled at the cuffs, showing off his slender ankles and low-heel leather boots.
“Want to tell me what the fuck that was all about?”
“I think Tom’s upset. I don’t know what happened.”
“Your little GrindMe message probably did it.”
Groaning, Mike scrubbed his face again, squeezing his eyes closed. “He wasn’t supposed to see that.”
“And you’re not supposed to be on GrindMe. Aren’t you taking a break? Didn’t you say you were deleting the app?
“I did. I just wanted to see… I dunno. What was out there. We haven’t been out in a long time, Kris.”
“Yeah. ‘Cause you’re supposed to be on a fuckboy cleanse.” Kris’s head bobbed as he spoke, and he pointed one long, manicured finger at Mike. “GrindMe is the home of the fuckboy. Do you want to find another Silvio?”
“No.”
Kris threw his hands wide and glared.
“What do you want me to say, Kris?” Anger flared, and his words turned sharp. “I’m fucking lonely! Even when I was with Silvio, or Don, or Brad, I was still fucking all alone! I want…” He sighed explosively. “Somebody, God, I just want one good man. Someone who actually likes me and I don’t have to play games with! I’m looking everywhere for him! So yeah, I opened GrindMe again. And you know what? It was fucking depressing. I already deleted it.” He tossed his phone to Kris.
Kris, the bastard, checked. He clenched Mike’s phone after, folding his arms again. “So what the fuck is going on with Tom?”
Mike buried his head in his hands and didn’t look up.
“Who is he, really?”
“He’s a judge.” Mike’s voice was muffled against his hands. “He’s one of my judges in the courthouse.”
Kris’s delicate eyebrows arched sky-high.
“He’s always been cool, but when Silvio fucked me over, he was…” Mike shook his head. “Beyond amazing. He’s a great guy. We’ve gotten to know each other. We’re kind of friends, I guess.”
“And, you have no idea that he’s crushing on you hardcore?”