Hush

by Tal Bauer

  “What?” Mike reared back, scowling. “Kris, fuck off. He’s not. He’s not into men.”

  “He’s not into men?” Kris’s chin jutted forward, like he was hammering nails. He counted off the evidence on his perfect fingers, slapping them against Mike’s phone. “He was at the Mall today. He hung out with all of us and never batted an eye. He came to a gay bar and was pretty chill about it. He was enamored with you. One hundred percent focused on you, until your little GrindMe message wrecked him.”

  “Doesn’t matter! He’s not into dudes!”

  Kris spun, walking away from Mike, down the block as he cursed and muttered under his breath, moving smoothly from Spanish to English and back again.

  “I have a file on him that’s four inches thick, Kris. Background investigations from every government agency there is, going back to when he was a toddler in kindergarten. There’s nothing in there, not a single thing, about him being gay, or bi, or ever having anything to do with a man.”

  “I’m telling you. He likes men. He likes you.”

  Mike pushed himself to his feet and trudged up the entrance to his building. “He doesn’t.”

  “Why are you fighting about this? Why don’t you just make a move and know for sure? I guarantee you he’ll be open to it.” Kris followed him, his heels clacking with every step.

  Mike tore open the door, the glass rattling as it shook in his grasp. “It’s not that easy,” he growled. “He’s a judge. I can be friendly with him, but anything else is… It’s never been done. A judge slumming with a marshal?” He shook his head. “Judges are untouchable. They’re up there in the ivory tower. I can’t go near him.” He stomped up the steps to his apartment, Kris on his heels.

  “These sound like excuses. You going to let something get in the way of what you want?”

  “I never get what I want.” Mike glared as he shoved his key in his lock. “You know that. Jesus, even you shot me down.”

  “You didn’t really want me.”

  Mike snorted and stormed into his home.

  “You wanted a warm body to hide your heart in and a teddy bear to hold you through the night, Mike. That’s not a relationship. That’s you running away. I didn’t want to be another man who left you because you were only half-real.” Kris slammed the door shut behind him.

  Finally, after all the years they’d been friends, they were having the fight they needed to have. Mike’s blood boiled as he stared at the partially rebuilt kitchen he’d stalled out on. The frame of cabinets hung on his wall, bare wood that looked like a tree’s skeleton.

  “Half-real?” Everything in him shook, his hands, his voice, his vision. “How fucking dare you—”

  “You’re too scared to open yourself up! You attract the flakes and the fuckboys because that’s all you show to the world! You play the game, being what they all want you to be. Mr. Muscle. Mr. Meathead, Mr. Masc. But you hide yourself, Mike, and you wonder why they end up not liking you when you try to open up later. They don’t want the real you, and they never did! They only want the fake guy you throw out there!”

  “And who are you to talk, huh?” Mike roared. “You eat men alive and kick them to the curb before they catch their breath! Who of us is actually scared of being real?”

  Kris’s eyes narrowed, going cold, deadly sharp. “I loved a man more deeply than you will ever know. I will never find another love as deep, as intense as what we had. Never,” he hissed. “And I never want to. I buried my heart with him, and he will keep it.”

  Mike swallowed.

  Sighing, Kris rested his hand on his forehead and closed his eyes. He marched to Mike’s couch and flopped down, sagging against the cushions. “You’re different with Tom,” he said softly. The tension in Mike’s tiny home vanished, fizzling out of the air. “You aren’t putting on a show with him. You are just you.”

  “He’s a great guy,” Mike said softly. “And way, way out of my league.”

  “You’re right about that.” Kris snorted. “He’s far more intelligent than you are, witty, kind, sweet, gentle, so, so handsome…” Kris counted off Tom’s features, flaring out his fingers. “Running down your list of what your Prince Charming needs to be like, he seems to fit all the boxes.”

  “’Cept he’s not into dick.”

  Kris threw his head back against the cushions, glaring at him upside down. “Do you just not want an older man? He’s maybe ten years older than you?”

  “Nine years older.”

  “Is it the age? You freaking out about a little silver? You’ve chased the twinks for years. Is he just not getting you going?”

  Mike fidgeted. “He’s… he’s really hot,” he said, like he was admitting he’d murdered twelve people. “I always wondered why he was single. He could have anyone he wants.”

  “He wants you.”

  “Stop, Kris. Stop. Please. He’s not like that. I promise you. He’s not. These background checks… you can’t hide from them. Everything comes out. Everything.” He shook his head and kicked a piece of wood, sending it spinning into the bare concrete wall of his kitchen. “Don’t give me false hope. You think I don’t know he’s everything I want? This fucking sucks.”

  “Mike… I’m telling you. He looks at you like you hung the moon personally for him.”

  Sighing, Mike shuffled to the living room and flopped onto the couch. He sagged sideways, lying with his head in Kris’s lap, eyes screwed closed. “Trust me, Kris. I know what I’m saying. I know these background investigations. They find every skeleton. Every sideways thought. Everything about a potential federal judge. Presidents don’t like to be embarrassed by their nominees in the Senate.”

  Kris was quiet. He stroked his fingers through Mike’s hair and rubbed his thumb over the frown lines furrowed in Mike’s forehead. “So what did the fuckboy say to you on GrindMe?

  “He sent a picture of his hole and told me to come fuck him.”

  “No class. These youngsters have no class.”

  “What about you?” Mike pushed his head into Kris’s touch. “No silver foxes for you tonight?”

  “Well. Tom was yummy.”

  Mike’s eyes shot open.

  Kris laughed softly. “Don’t worry, Romeo. I’m not who he wants.” He winked. “But I’ll still flirt with him.”

  “After tonight, I don’t think we’ll be hanging out again.”

  “You let him know you went home alone tonight. Apologize on Monday for this. For what happened at the bar. Hold your dick in your hand and say you are sorry.” He tapped Mike on the nose. “Bad boy.”

  “Are you going to hold me when I’m a mess? When this all ends up the way I said so, and I’m crying ‘cause you told me to chase him?”

  “I won’t need to. Tom will hold you. He’ll never let go of you, either.”

  Mike rolled into Kris’s lap. He hid his face in Kris’s belly, pressing his cheek and his nose against his button-down. Kris kept stroking his hair, over and over, until he fell asleep.

  Mike woke alone, face down on his couch.

  Kris had started his coffeemaker before he left, though, and the little pot was gurgling away on his living room floor beside his bookshelves. His kitchen crap was still in refugee status in his living room, scattered in boxes and pushed around the room. He sat on the floor, sipping mug after mug, and let his mind go, imagining wild possibilities and what could be.

  Eventually, though, he got up, put his cup in the bathroom sink, and changed into his running shorts. He’d run this out, sweat out these feelings and ideas, hopes and dreams that were out of place, out of touch with reality. Shirtless, he stepped out into the DC heat, the early summer mid-morning already making his skin sweat.

  He ran up 14th to U Street and turned west, then ran down Florida Ave and turned south on 22nd. He passed by cafés flying the rainbow flag, and men out for their morning strolls with their fluffy little dogs. Whistles and “hey hot stuff” floated past him, but he kept running until the rainbow flags faded away and the
gingko and sugar maples started crowding along the streets, marching in orderly rows and shading the manicured block of old Victorians and turn of the century DC brownstones.

  He slowed to a stop, bending over with his hands on his knees, huffing in deep gasps of air. Tom lived nearby. Maybe be was out with Etta Mae, walking her over to Rock Creek Park. Or having brunch in Georgetown. Most likely, he was working at home, reading legal opinions and case law and drafting notes for his own opinions he had to write, decisions to be handed down on motions, evidence, and appeals.

  Tom, certainly, wasn’t wasting any time thinking about Mike.

  Monday morning, Mike went in to the courthouse early. He bought two coffees—his drip with cream, and Tom’s fancy, sugar-filled mix—and waited on a bench outside the federal employees’ plaza gym.

  He berated himself the entire time. This was stupid. Tom was going to think he was ridiculous. At best, a stalker, at worst, a princess drama queen, imagining something that wasn’t even there. Was he just reading into the situation, projecting his own discomfort onto Saturday night? Was he just uncomfortable with this whole thing, and that feeling was now pushing out into everything else? He crossed his leg and bounced his foot, clutching both paper cups as he stared at the gym doors.

  Right at seven AM, Tom strode out of the gym, staring down at his phone. He was dressed in his suit, his briefcase and his gym bag slung over his shoulder. The sun caught on his hair, freshly styled, and light splintered over bits of silver scattered through the dark chestnut.

  Mike stood and froze. He could turn away and forget this whole thing. His heart hammered. He could just back off and forget whatever friendship, whatever-whatever they’d fumbled into. It was ludicrous anyway. A judge and him? He was just a marshal, a bruiser with a badge and a gun.

  But Tom looked up, looked right at him, and stopped in his tracks. His jaw dropped.

  He could read everything in Tom’s eyes. They were so expressive, so filled with everything that Tom was. Mike loved it, loved seeing his eyes light up, squint, narrow as he focused, go wide when he was blindsided. Tom would be a shitty poker player. He broadcast nearly everything in his coffee-colored gaze. Now there was shock, surprise... but not anger. Not frustration. There was a light to his eyes, the look of happy surprise.

  He’d take that and run a marathon with it.

  Mike pasted a smile on his face and held out Tom’s coffee. “Good morning. I wanted to thank you for picking up the tab on Saturday. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I was happy to. I like your friends. I had a good time.” Tom took the coffee and chuckled when he saw the order. “So, my secret is out. You know my taste in coffee.”

  “Would you like some actual coffee with all that sugar, Your Honor? If I had that much sugar, I’d blast off into orbit.” Mike fell in beside Tom, and they strolled across the plaza to the doors of the Annex. “I… also wanted to apologize. For Saturday.”

  Tom frowned at him. His expression said he was confused, but his gaze was guarded.

  “I… think you may have seen a message on my phone. From this… stupid app. I don’t even know why I was on that app on Saturday. It’s terrible, and I deleted it. I’ve deleted it a bunch of times, actually.” He sighed, and jogged ahead, holding open the door for Tom. He was getting nowhere fast, and Tom was still frowning.

  “You don’t have to justify anything to me. Your life is your own. I don’t judge—”

  “I know,” he said quickly. “I’m not— I mean—” He bit his lip, forcing himself to stop.

  Tom turned to face him in the bright, open entryway of the courthouse. People passed them right and left, attorneys racing to and from meetings with judges and law clerks and clerks of the court, families and friends arriving to watch their loved ones at their arraignments, hearings, and open trials. Defense attorneys barked into their cell phones, and harried AUSAs juggled bulging briefcases, manila folders, their phones, and paper cups of coffee. But Tom stared right at him, soft frown on his angular face. His eyes were guarded, emotions locked up tight.

  “I was having a great time,” Mike said carefully. “And I am sorry the night ended like that. I would have liked to have spent more time talking with you.” He snapped his jaw shut.

  Tom’s smile was a breaking dawn, and his stomach flip-flopped like he was in an elevator that had dropped out from beneath him. “I had a great time, too, all day, in fact.” Tom shrugged. “We’ll just have to try again.”

  Relief was a physical thing, a weight lifted from his shoulders. “I’d really like that, Judge B.”

  Did Tom have any idea that he sounded like he was asking Mike out on a date?

  “Hey. I want Judge Brewer’s felony murder case.”

  Deputy Marshal Rob Villegas gave Mike the hairy eyeball, glaring at him over his computer monitor in his tiny second-floor office. “Good morning to you too. And why the fuck do you want that?”

  Villegas always got his hackles up. He seemed like he was one of the cowboys, a marshal who just wanted to go out and hunt down fugitives. Being a U.S. marshal was the only legal way to hunt a human being, one of his old coworkers on the task force had told him. Villegas would have loved it out there, would have loved the thrill of hunting a man.

  But, Villegas was stuck at the DC federal court, and was a miserable cuss who hated every minute of it. He took it out on everybody—the defendants, the attorneys, and, especially, on Mike.

  “I don’t want to trade anything, and I don’t want to fucking fight, Villegas. I just want to take Judge Brewer’s upcoming trial off your hands.”

  Villegas’s eyes narrowed to slits. His lips flattened. “Yeah, right. You want to get something in your back pocket and then make me take some kind of shit later on.”

  “No!” Mike forced his hands to unclench. “Look, I know Judge Brewer’s style. He’s on my floor. I should have this case.”

  “But Winters gave it to me.”

  “Why are you fighting me on this? I want to take the case.”

  “’Cause I don’t trust you, Lucciano.”

  He blew out a breath, cursing hard. “Give me the damn case, Villegas. I’m not trading anything, and I’m not giving you any shit later for it. I just want it.”

  “Well, when you ask so nicely.” Villegas smirked. “Sure, you can have my work. I’ve been meaning to get down to the range and put in some time.”

  Mike grabbed the file folder labeled Brewer off Villegas’s desk. “Go have a real great time, asshole.”

  “You wanted this.”

  “I’ll be so Goddamn happy when you’re gone, Villegas. So Goddamn happy.”

  “You and me both.”

  He knocked on Tom’s doorframe a couple hours later, poking his head in the open door. “Hey, Your Honor. Got a minute?”

  Tom looked up from his computer. His reading glasses were pushed down on his nose, he had three law books spread across his desk and two yellow legal pads filled with scribbles. But he left it all and stood, smiling. “Come on in.” He gestured to the small conference table by the door. “Have a seat.”

  “I took your felony murder case off Villegas’s hands. He had some things to take care of this week.”

  “Oh.” Tom smiled politely and folded his hands in his lap as he sat. “Jury selection begins this afternoon. Danny is managing it with the attorneys. Do you need to be involved?”

  “I’ll need the juror information after they’re all seated, but I don’t need to be in the courtroom unless the defendant is there or the proceedings are open to the public. And when you’re in there. I reviewed Villegas’s plans and they’re all right. I made a few changes. I’ll be escorting you to and from the courtroom, as per our usual practice.”

  “Villegas doesn’t like escort duty.”

  “Villegas… doesn’t like much.” Mike tried to stay professional. He cleared his throat. “Are you still trying to convince the defense attorney to come to a plea agreement?”

  “I’m trying to conv
ince the AUSA to accept a more lenient plea agreement.” Tom sighed. “I think Ballard told them all to be hard-asses specifically on my cases.”

  “But you’re the judge. Doesn’t what you say go?”

  “I’m the arbiter of the law. The U.S. Attorney is the representative of the state, and if the state wants to pursue a hard justice, that’s what they’ll do. They’ll take the case to trial if they want to prove a point. To the community, or to me. That they want to toe a hard line.”

  “Do you think it will go all the way?” Even though they were picking a jury today, if the AUSA bent, a plea agreement could still be finalized before Tom’s gavel fell on the first day of trial.

  “I don’t know. Ballard is really pushing. He thinks he can make a statement with this one. Or he just wants to make my life miserable.”

  “Okay. This is a case in flux.” Something turned over in his belly, and he squirmed as he pulled out his cell phone. “Can I get your number, Judge Brewer? We should keep in close contact about this case.”

  Tom blinked, but he pulled his cell out. “Sure.”

  Smooth, Mike. Real smooth. He berated himself as he punched in Tom’s number and sent a text. Tom’s phone buzzed, and then a text appeared on his own phone’s screen from Tom. A single smiley face.

  “I’ll reach out to my contacts in the marshals and see if they have any insight into what’s going on. If they know anything from the detention center.”

  “Thanks.” Tom stood, and Mike followed. Silence hung over the office.

  He couldn’t ask Tom to lunch, not so soon after bringing him coffee and stealing his case from Villegas. There was coming on strong and there was being crazy, and he was verging on full-tilt crazy. “I’ll… leave you to your work.” He headed for the door.

  “I’m glad you took over for Villegas.”

  Mike stopped and turned back. Tom smiled at him, and he couldn’t help the goofy grin that spread over his face. “Me too.”

  Tom brought him coffee Tuesday morning and stayed in his closet of an office to chat for thirty-seven minutes, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe and grinning the whole time.