Hush

by Tal Bauer

  Mike’s heart fluttered for two hours after.

  His marshal friends at the detention center were a bust. No one knew whether Tom’s case would go to trial or not. It seemed stuck in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, like Tom said.

  On his way back from grabbing lunch at the food trucks in the plaza, Mike spotted Tom and the law clerks all clustered together in the fourth-floor law library, laughing. Tom had a way with the young law grads, somehow able to make them smile and laugh, even though by now they should be ground down and dead-eyed. Tom was the only judge who could pack the law library full of clerks. The other judges got their own clerks to stick around for lunch, since that was good for appearances, and maybe their friends. But it seemed like most of the clerks actually wanted to be with Tom.

  Well, not Chief Judge Fink’s law clerks. They were hard-asses like Fink.

  Mike hovered in the doorway, watching as Tom told a story about one of the craziest cases he saw from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, when he was an AUSA.

  “I watched a South Dakota man bring a lawsuit against the federal government—which brought the case here—because the FBI in South Dakota had raided his paleontology laboratory at the university. He, over the course of three years, dug up dinosaur bones for his university on a university-funded dig. Turns out, he was digging on federal land, and didn’t exactly fill out the paperwork perfectly. The FBI went and took the government’s bones back, years after the dig was through, and the bones were on display at the university. They charged him with violating federal law, trespassing, conspiracy, and theft, and wanted him to serve time in jail and pay a giant fine. He countersued, saying they were way out of line, and that since the dig was public for so many years and they didn’t do anything at the time, they lost their right to come crying about it after the fact. Way back when, the federal government even sent park rangers out to take photos of the dig, which were still up on the U.S. Park Service’s website at the time of the trial. It was Keystone Cops meets Three Stooges.”

  The law clerks hung on his every word, captivated by the legal intricacies of dinosaur bones and the obstinacy of the federal government. It was like he was telling ghost stories by camp light.

  Tom caught his gaze before he launched into the rest of the story. He smiled, before Mike beat a retreat. Tom’s voice followed him down the hall to his office.

  Right at five PM, Tom appeared in his doorway, shrugging into his suit jacket and holding his briefcase.

  “Leaving early tonight, Judge B?”

  “Class at Georgetown is at six.” Tom smiled. “Have to get over there to teach.”

  Oh. Right. Tom taught a law class at Georgetown. Was there another more obvious example of how out of his league Tom Brewer was? “What class do you teach again?”

  “Constitutional Law.” He checked his phone and winced at the time. “I do have to run, but I wanted to ask you: when is your and Kris’s next volleyball game?”

  “Tomorrow.” He swallowed. Ask if he would like to come. Ask if he’d like to check it out. Hell, ask if he’d like to heckle Kris at the very least.

  But Tom smiled and disappeared down the hallway, heading for the stairs.

  It was his ‘turn’ to buy coffee Wednesday morning, according to the ritual they’d begun.

  He could do the same thing he did Monday, buy Tom’s coffee and wait outside the gym.

  Or… he could go into the gym early and work out. Run into Tom, perhaps. Maybe even check him out a bit in the locker room.

  He was pathetic. Thirty-seven-years-old, and he was acting like a sophomore in high school.

  Still, Mike went to the gym. He was too jumpy, and he dove into his weight routine with gusto, burning through his upper body routine in half the time he normally took. Sweating, panting, and finally burnt out of his nervous energy, he headed for the pool.

  Four men and one woman were swimming laps in the lane pool. He picked Tom out after a few seconds, watching his long legs and his smooth movements in the water. He swam a simple breaststroke, ducking and turning at the walls and beginning again, back and forth across the pool. He was a machine, a dolphin with feet. Mike’s breathing slowed as he watched, but his heartrate stayed up.

  Eventually, Tom stopped at one end of the pool and hauled himself out. Water sluiced off his body, rolling down his chest and his hips. He wore jammers, the just-above-the-knee skintight swimsuit favored by serious swimmers everywhere.

  And, they left nothing to the imagination.

  He was a deputy U.S. marshal, but here it was, the true test of his life—could he keep himself contained in front of a soaking wet, mostly naked, skintight-swimsuit-wearing Judge Tom Brewer?

  Tom tore off his goggles and shook his head. His hair puffed out, fluffing into dark chestnut and silver spikes. Water clung to his sparse chest hair, running in drops down his chest and stomach, racing for his jutting hipbones and smooth thighs.

  “Hey.” Mike hoped he didn’t look as utterly ridiculous as he felt. “Morning.”

  Tom stopped dead, his jaw falling open. Shock poured from his chocolate eyes. He looked Mike up and down, as if he didn’t honestly believe Mike was truly there.

  Shit. He shouldn’t have come to the gym. He shouldn’t have barged in and invaded Tom’s private time. He was way out of line.

  “Mike?” Tom’s mouth worked slowly, searching for words. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d give the plaza gym a try.” He shrugged. “You said good things about it.”

  Tom smiled. “What do you think?”

  I’ll never work out anywhere else again, as long as I can watch you climb out of the pool like that. “Not bad!”

  They walked to the locker rooms and then separated, heading to different lockers in different rows. Thank God.

  The plaza gym’s facilities were of a higher caliber than he was used to. Private shower stalls and individual toiletries. Blow-dryers provided at a counter in front of a long line of mirrors. He met up with Tom at the mirrors as he was knotting his tie and sprucing his hair.

  Mike asked Tom about his class and about Georgetown and his students as they walked across the street to the Annex lobby and the coffee shop. He batted Tom away when Tom reached for his wallet. “It’s my turn today.”

  Tom smiled.

  He wanted to ask if Tom wanted to go to his volleyball game tonight. He wanted to casually bring it up, throw it out there as a friendly invite. Just if Tom was interested, or didn’t have any plans already.

  But he kept his mouth shut and listened to Tom the whole way up to the fourth floor.

  [Any lunch plans? I’m going to run out and grab something off the Lebanese food truck. Want anything?]

  After an hour and ten minutes of internal debate, Mike sent Tom his first text message. He hoped Tom would say I’ll come down with you or Bring it back up to my office and we’ll eat here.

  Instead, Tom said Getting a haircut, actually.

  [Okay. No prob.]

  Damn. He grabbed a protein bar out of his desk drawer and leaned back.

  He was pushing too hard. He was coming on too strong. Tom was polite and kind and considerate, but he was pushing the envelope way too hard. He needed to take a giant step back. Tom wasn’t even interested in men. Kris was wrong. Kris was never wrong, but there was always a first time for everything.

  His cell phone, face down on his desk, buzzed. Flipping it, he froze mid-chew as he read the message.

  Hey, I was wondering if I could come watch your game tonight. Is that allowed? I’ve never been to those courts before, and I’d like to check them out. And cheer you guys on.

  Damn it, this didn’t help. This didn’t help at all. He was supposed to be backing away from Tom, not turning to a puddle of goo. His cheeks ached. God, he was smiling like a loon, just beaming as he stared at his phone screen. His inner teenage girl was jumping up and down, shrieking, and Britney Spears was playing in his mind. Hit me baby one more time.

  [Yeah! Would lo
ve to have you come by!] Were the exclamation points too much? [Kris would love to see you again. :) ]

  I’ll be there!

  Okay, but what if Tom was into men?

  Mike’s gaze kept wandering, drifting to the locked file cabinet where he kept all his judges’ background investigation files. He had everything. The results of every background investigation done on Tom Brewer. Supporters of Tom—the Senator who nominated him, the president’s staff, and members of the American Bar Association, who had given him a strong recommendation for his appointment—had all conducted background investigations. Seemingly everyone had. They’d also paid private investigators to act like opposition party members and to try and dig up any dirt they could on Tom Brewer.

  The opposition, and members of Congress who did not support Tom’s nomination, also paid for background investigations.

  And then there were the official ones, the investigations run by the FBI, the U.S. Marshals, the White House, and the Senate Judiciary Committee.

  He had a copy of every single one.

  Mike had read through them before, when Tom was first confirmed and Winters dropped his background binder on his desk with a heavy thud and said, “Here’s another one.” He kept the binder on hand in case he needed to reference something from Tom’s past. A threat made in prison from someone he’d put away as a prosecutor, someone who came up from the darkness and claimed such and such against Judge Brewer, or a political slight that came out of left field. To do his job correctly, he had to know all the skeletons in everyone’s closet.

  Trouble was… Tom Brewer didn’t have any skeletons. He was a picture-perfect nominee, which made some people extra nervous. There had to be something on the man. There was always something.

  Tom had a few extra background investigations done by his nominators, just to make sure.

  Nothing. He’d been a straight-A student in college and law school. He’d worked through law school as a law clerk and lived in the basement of a retired couple who had nothing but the best things to say about him. His college professors had either retired and fallen off the face of the planet or died. He lived alone his junior and senior year in college, thanks to a job as a paralegal that paid handsomely, and his roommates from freshman and sophomore years said he was a rule-following, classic nice guy. One of his roommates was now a colonel in the Army, and the other was a multi-kajillionaire in New York.

  His high school teachers knew he was destined for greatness. His parents, sadly, were deceased.

  After law school, he’d landed at the DC United States Attorney’s office and stayed there for his career. He had the usual complaints against him from bitter defendants who lost their cases, but nothing ever panned out. No major investigations. No accusations of impropriety. Award after award after award for superior professionalism, adroit legal strategy, above average conviction rate.

  His coworkers said he was polite, professional, and extremely competent. They knew he had a dog and a house in DC, but didn’t know anything about his personal life. When Tom was questioned by the FBI, he stated he was single and had been for some time, and wasn’t looking to change that. The questions on a background investigation were invasive and pervasive. All questions about relationships were ticked “no” or “not applicable.” He’d never had a relationship with a foreign national, he said, and the FBI agent had made sure to note that Tom had laughed at that. No relationship with a foreign national, his background investigation notes said, because no relationships at all.

  He had no social media accounts, nothing that could be hacked or used against him. Smart man.

  He was a homebody and a workaholic. A typical Boy Scout. He was, on paper, flawless. He sailed through the Senate, appointed to his bench by vocal affirmation with no opposition.

  There was nothing at all to suggest that Tom was hiding a secret sex life.

  No hint of a scandal, or a cover-up. No headlines about Tom Brewer hanging out at parks or rest stops or cruising spots around the city. No insinuation from male colleagues that he preferred them over the women he worked with. No money paid in a settlement to hush a sensitive matter up. Not that Tom would behave like that, but Mike had seen other men dish out revenge in petty ways over the years. Tarring and feathering a man’s reputation because of a spat was a nasty thing, but he’d seen it happen.

  Nothing at all to suggest he was hiding anything.

  And nothing at all to suggest he wasn’t.

  He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t try to read into things, say the absence of proof meant that in itself was proof. The law didn’t work that way, and neither did human beings. If he presented his findings to Tom and then asked for a kiss, Tom would probably smack him with his gavel.

  What would it mean, though, if Tom was into men? His brain raced through the obvious—maybe a kiss, maybe something a whole lot more interesting—and then squealed to a tire-screeching halt.

  It would mean Tom had lied to him. Maybe not directly, but certainly of omission. He’d hung out all Saturday playing the part of the chill straight friend, and he’d had ample opportunity to set the record, well, not straight, per se.

  So the fact that he hadn’t was in itself a kind of proof, then. Right? Tom wouldn’t keep something like that, something huge about himself, a secret. Especially not when Mike was open and out and proud. Tom wouldn’t need to hide. Not from Mike.

  Mike didn’t care for liars. There was never a good reason to lie, and people always got hurt.

  Mike chucked his phone across his desktop and leaned back in his chair. He scrubbed his hands over his face and groaned.

  He had to take a step back, for his own sanity. He was going to lose it.

  And, he had to text Kris, tell him Tom was coming tonight. And beg him to behave.

  Kris, of course, didn’t behave. And neither did anyone else.

  Tom showed up right before the sets began, dressed casually in shorts and a t-shirt. He and Kris were playing second out of the night, facing off with their co-team against two other teams from the league.

  Of course, it was a gay men’s league, and Mike hadn’t thought about that when he said it was cool for Tom to come by. The first teams up to play were Butt Sets versus Sliding Deep. The ref, a gay cop who could ham it up to the ever-loving stars, made a show out of calling the team names, side-eyeing Tom, hanging out with Mike on the sideline, with a smirk.

  Tom flushed and coughed into his shoulder. Kris, stretching, grinned wolfishly.

  “I… forgot to mention that it would be kinda crude.” Mike cringed. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” Tom laughed. “When do you guys play?”

  Mike explained the game setup and the rotations, and then stretched while Kris chatted with Tom. Kris wore his team tank top with pride, the rainbow letters boldly screaming their team name, Multiple Scoregasms, across his flat chest. He had on neon yellow short shorts and a sweat band. His hair, of course, was artfully coiffed skyward.

  Mike kept his hoodie zipped around Tom. His shorts were a bit longer than Kris’s, but he was showing a lot of leg. He kept bouncing, jiggling, trying to bleed off his nervous energy before the match began.

  Their team partners, Butt Sets, won, and then they were up. Kris leaned in close as they hit the sand. “Gonna be able to perform with your man watching?”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  He ditched his hoodie at the last moment, tossing it back toward the bench. He missed, and it fell on the grass.

  “Aww, Tom is picking up your hoodie.”

  “Shut up, Kris!”

  “You’re so obvious. So, so obvious, Romeo.”

  He tried to breathe before he served, tried to clear his mind. His first serve went too far, though, and then they were on defense.

  The game went fast after that, and he was sweating in no time. Kris and he moved in sync, long used to each other on the court. They kept up with their opponents, and then moved ahead.

  At a break in the game, Mike ripped of
f his tank top and tossed it aside, not thinking. He downed half a bottle of water and poured the rest over his face, and then froze when he saw Tom walking over.

  “You guys look great.”

  “I always look great.” Kris winked at Tom. The bastard was hardly sweating, even though they were working their asses off out there. Mike was drenched, in sweat and half his water bottle.

  Tom smiled at Mike, like they were sharing a private joke, and took his empty water bottle when the ref blew the whistle and called for the end of the time-out.

  The whistles and catcalls started then. Everybody had seen that, had seen Tom and him on the sideline. Mike had played with most of these guys for over two years, and they knew him pretty well. They’d seen him after Don and before Silvio, and knew his ways.

  Him showing up with an older man, for any reason, had never, ever happened.

  “Someone found a sugar daddy!”

  “Showing off for daddy, hmm?”

  “Be a good boy for your daddy!”

  “Bend over and hit the spread, your daddy’s watching!”

  He flushed, burning alive. Where was quicksand when he needed it? If he could dig his way out of the court, disappear and reemerge in China, he wouldn’t be far enough. He couldn’t look at Tom, Jesus. He could barely set up for the serve.

  “Here daddy, daddy, daddy…”

  He pounded the ball just to shut them all up, and he, naturally, missed.

  “Ooo, get your daddy to soothe that burn, baby!”

  “Don’t worry, babycakes, daddy will take care of you tonight!”

  “Daddy, your baby needs a kiss-kiss!”

  “Bite the pillow, I’m going deeper than your daddy!”

  It only got cruder from there.

  He and Kris eventually beat Top Me Hard, but they had to work for it. The heckles faded, and for the last half hour, just their play calls, grunts, and shifting sand broke over the courts. Cars passed by, the hum of tires, and lapping water on the Potomac. The moon rose, hovering over the city, but it was still hot. In the final play, Mike set Kris up for a spike, and Kris slammed it home, beating the guard by inches. Kris collapsed to his knees, screaming, and Mike tackled him into the sand as he laughed.