by Tal Bauer
There was something inside him that wanted him to run, though. Run from Mike’s care and his smiles, his tenderness, and everything about him. He didn’t deserve Mike’s affection.
Their relationship was too risky. Coming out was wrong. It would end in disaster, sheer, epic disaster. Everyone would know about him, that he was gay, that he’d been living a lie for his whole life. The world around him would change. Everyone around him would look at him differently, and the shame he felt within, running down his bones, sliding down the inside of his skin, would suddenly be exposed, painted across his body and shown off for the whole world to see. His soul would be flayed open, spread for the masses to excoriate.
He wasn’t ready for his world to change. His closet was safe. Dark and lonely and safe.
His toes curled inside his shoes as he tried to breathe. His whole body shook, trembled. His lungs, his breath, quaked.
Mike made him feel alive, made him come alive, made him dream again. If he went back into his closet, his soul would atomize and he’d turn into a skeleton, his life bleeding away until he was nothing more than a bereft bag of bones, constantly remembering what might have been, if only. If only he was strong enough. Brave enough. Man enough, to accept both the man he was and the man he craved.
Tom heard them before they arrived, heard Etta Mae’s nails clicking on the linoleum of Mike’s building, and Mike’s voice urging her along. She was probably tired and moving slowly. Tom stood, and his whole heart quivered.
God, he wanted this, so, so much.
Mike burst in, straddling Etta Mae and hurrying through the door with a giant paper bag stuffed with Styrofoam containers. He spotted Tom, the plates, the candles, the beer, and broke into a beaming smile. “Honey, I’m home.” Holding out his hand, he pulled Tom in for a gentle kiss.
Tom sagged into his arms, for a moment.
They ate on the couch, Mike feeding Tom bites of everything he’d bought. He might have bought one of every item on the menu. Food crowded the coffee table, the end tables, and the floor. If Etta Mae weren’t snoring, she’d be stealing food for sure. For the first time since the shooting, they laughed together again, and when Mike gently pulled Tom on top of him, Tom went with a smile.
Kissing turned to necking, which turned into a slow—then fast—strip. Etta Mae ended up with Tom’s shirt over her head, and they stumbled half naked to Mike’s bedroom, kissing and trying to strip out of their briefs and crawl into bed at the same time. Mike sank into Tom, kissing every inch of his skin, wrapping his arms around Tom’s shoulders and thrusting deep into his center. Tom shouted as he came, right after Mike, gripping the headboard as he sucked in ragged breaths—
And Etta Mae bounded onto the bed, leaping up and shoving her face between them. Mike flew back, sputtering, and Tom gasped, his whole body vibrating. Etta Mae tackled him, pancaking him as she sat on his chest and stared at Mike, as if she was Tom’s guardian who had just saved her owner.
“Your bed is lower than mine.” Tom laughed, one hand on Etta Mae’s head. “She can’t jump up on mine. I have to lift her up.”
Mike breathed hard. “Jesus. I think I lost a year of my life.”
“She thought you were killing me.” He ruffled her ears. “He definitely wasn’t hurting me, girl. It was all good. I loved it.”
Etta Mae huffed and lay down, spreading out over Tom’s chest. She rested her head on his shoulder. Mine.
“I can get bed risers.” Mike tapped Etta Mae on her nose. “I can fix this. You may have won today, but tomorrow...” He grinned. Leaning over, he kissed Tom around his smile and gently pushed Etta Mae away when she tried to nose in-between them. Mike and Etta Mae wrestled, elbowing and headbutting and laughing, but eventually, Mike ended up back on top of Tom, and Etta Mae sat beside them, glaring. She turned her back, lay down on the other side of the bed, and curled up to go to sleep.
“She’s going to steal that half of the bed.”
“That’s okay.” Mike nuzzled closer, as if he could crawl inside Tom. “I like cuddling.”
Tom wrapped his arms around Mike and rolled into him, and they fell asleep sandwiched together, a tangle of arms and legs on half of Mike’s queen bed as Etta Mae snored on the other half, completely undisturbed.
Mike woke with a Basset paw in his lower back and a raging hard on. He rolled Etta Mae over first and then woke Tom. Slowly. “To the shower,” Tom gasped. “I’m not ready to have sex in the same bed as my dog.”
They stroked each other, trading blowjobs and careful fingering, and then took their time washing. Etta Mae was still snoring when they emerged, utterly oblivious. Tom fixed her breakfast while Mike made coffee and grabbed two blueberry muffins he’d picked up the day before for them.
In the car, driving their circuitous route into DC before dawn, they heard the news on the radio.
“Overnight in Moscow, riots erupted again in the streets in front of the U.S. embassy. Rioters threw Molotov cocktails over the embassy fence, sparking multiple blazes that overwhelmed the Marines and destroyed a section of the embassy. The embassy fence was breached later in the night, and rioters gained entry to the U.S. embassy grounds and clashed with Marine guards. Six people were killed, and over 180 wounded. Russian police have surrounded the embassy, keeping all rioters back, but for the moment, no one is sure whether the police are there to help or to harm.
“Statements from the Kremlin condemn the violence but place the blame squarely on the United States. ‘Once again, the United States believes they can harm Russian citizens, this time on Russian soil. They fire indiscriminately into crowds of Russian protestors exercising their rights. The United States claims to support freedom of speech, freedom of protest, except when it is aimed against them. Their Marine forces were so overwhelmed by simple protestors that they reacted like cowards, shooting at unarmed civilians.’
“Reports from eyewitnesses on the ground suggest that the protestors who stormed the U.S. embassy were Russian special forces soldiers and FSB operatives.”
Tom grabbed Mike’s hand and held on for the entire car ride.
That afternoon, President Dimitry Vasiliev ordered all non-essential Russian personnel out of the Russian embassies and consulates in the United States. Two Russian subs were caught patrolling the edge of United States territorial waters. One off the coast of Maryland, and one inside the Gulf of Mexico.
The next day, President McDonough spoke at the funerals for the three slain Secret Service agents, laid to rest at Arlington. His speech was broadcast to the world, and he addressed President Vasiliev directly.
“These American heroes died serving their nation. Performing their duties to the limit of perfection, and beyond. These men made the ultimate sacrifice. They acted to help secure a better, safer, and freer world. True heroes act in the face of danger. True heroes rise to the occasion. True heroes ask what they can do, in that moment, to better the world. Whether that is to protect or to calm, to save a single life, or to speak and to act to save thousands, and perhaps millions more lives.
“The world hungers for peace. For unity. For freedom of all mankind. But, real, lasting peace in this world cannot come about while freedom is crushed by harsh words and savage actions made in retaliatory anger. The poet Aeschylus once wrote:
Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart
until, in our own despair, against our will,
comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.
“These men, these heroes, are in the tender mercies of our Lord above today. And it is we who must endure the drop by drop of pain remembered as we live on without these great men. And it is we who must find, through all the despair of our days, the awful grace of God, and find the wisdom which these men ask of us. Their sacrifice must not be made in vain.
“The world is a difficult place. We are facing difficult times, full of uncertainty. But, together, we can create the world these men died to protect. President Vasiliev,
let us tame the wilds of our countries’ hearts and turn away from the savageness of revenge. We must dedicate ourselves, together, to the pursuit of peace in honor of these brave men we lay to rest today.”
Thursday, reporters decamped from Tom’s house, figuring that he’d moved out for the trial. They still surrounded the courthouse and the Annex day in and day out, and profiles on Tom, Ballard, and Renner were nightly news staples. They scoured Tom’s past, hungry to speak with anyone who’d ever known him, who could provide insight into how he’d manage the trial. The twenty-four-hour news channels dissected his past federal cases, diving into his opinions and his motions and his papers, searching for clues as to how he might rule on a hundred possible scenarios in the trial.
Ballard, suddenly, went silent, not speaking to the cameras, not appearing on television. No leaks came from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, and the news media went rabid, circling through the same information they’d already dissected a thousand different ways, looking for a new tidbit to explore.
Tom stopped watching CNN. He couldn’t take seeing his face on-screen ten times a day, or hear commentators that he’d never met discuss his life, his decisions, his choices, as if they knew him better than he knew himself. More than half the time their commentary was wrong, and the rest was so full of superiority and assuredness that Tom almost started throwing things at his office TV.
Mike moved his laptop and his files into Tom’s office and worked out of the end of Tom’s conference table. Winters raised both eyebrows when he poked his head in, checking up on how they were handling everything so far. But, he didn’t say a word.
It was good, having Mike nearby. More than good. Having him nearby, in eyeshot, in stumbling distance if he really needed him, was a balm to his sanity. As he waited for the breaking news alert to scream across his monitor, shouting his secret to the world, having Mike nearby kept him from bolting. If he was left alone, the darkness would crawl up inside him again, the fear, and his old professor’s skeleton rattling and screaming that he was a fraud, a phony, and destined to die for his sins.
It would be too easy to run from Mike, hide in that darkness, if Mike wasn’t there all the time. Mike’s constant presence, his solidity, his unwavering commitment to Tom, was becoming the anchor of his world.
Chapter 25
July 3rd
Friday, just as the clock struck noon, Mike leaned back, stretched, and cleared his throat. He gazed at Tom, as if trying to figure out how to spit out what was inside him. Tom could practically see the gears grinding in his mind.
“Everything okay?”
“It’s the July 4th weekend.”
Tom nodded. The whole government was shutting down and American flags dotted every square patch of grass and flapped from street corners and stoplights throughout DC. With the ratcheting tension between the U.S. and Russia, the holiday was taking on a supersized status this year. “Do you have plans?”
Mike made a face. He pulled a folder from the bottom of his stack and crossed to Tom’s desk. He held it with both hands. “I didn’t know if you wanted to do anything. I understand if you just want to go home and stay inside for three days. We can probably move you back into your own house, too.”
“Or…?”
“Or…” Mike smiled shyly. “I thought we—you and I—could get out of DC.” He passed over the folder. Inside, a few pages had been printed out, a flyer from the web for a secluded cottage on the Maryland shore, complete with a private beach. The cottage was small, just a studio, and rustic. The kind of private beach vacation that a marshal could afford. But it was very private and very secluded. Empty sand stretched for miles on either side of the cottage, the flyer promised. Uninterrupted privacy. “I put a hold on it. It’s ours for the weekend if you want it.”
“They accept dogs?”
“Of course. That was a requirement for any place I looked at.”
Tom’s heart pitter-pattered. Once, months ago, he’d dreamed about Mike on the sand, lying on a towel by the ocean, letting the sun soak into his skin. He’d played the part of the indefatigable lover, constantly pouncing on him in his daydreams. Licking off beads of sweat and running his hands over Mike’s sun-kissed body. How many times had they made love on that beach towel in his fantasies?
There wasn’t a calamitous risk of being discovered, though, in his daydreams.
Miles and miles and miles of privacy, the flyer said. Uninterrupted privacy.
It only took one pair of eyeballs to see them, one person to recognize who he was.
Into the sunlight or into the darkness. His toes curled inside his dress shoes, pressing against the firm leather of his wing tips.
He should say no to Mike, to this vacation.
He should get rid of the trial, march into Fink’s office and tell him he could have the damn thing, and the heartburn, too.
He should tell Mike they needed to cool it, be careful, at least until this was done.
But if he turned around now, he’d start running until he found the very end of his closet, and looked right back into the face of his old professor, into the empty eye sockets in his skeletal face, and his cackling, bony jaw. And he’d never come out again.
“Let’s do it,” he breathed. He nodded. “Let’s go.”
Oh, it was worth saying yes just to see that smile on Mike’s face. He grinned in return at Mike’s exuberant joy.
“I gotta call and confirm.” Mike bounced on the balls of his feet. “Lemme go let them know.” He pulled out his wallet and ducked into the hallway, hiding the full price from Tom.
Tom breathed out slowly, closing his eyes. Miles and miles of uninterrupted sand. Privacy.
He could do this. They could do this.
Mike drove Tom to his house to grab a few things. Swimsuits, t-shirts, shorts, flip-flops. They didn’t plan on leaving the cottage, aside from hitting the sand and the surf. Tom grabbed a few toys for Etta Mae and another couple of towels for her.
Mike packed fast at his place and was ready to go in just a few minutes. As Tom was putting Etta Mae’s harness on, Mike rifled through his mail, bag already in hand. He sucked in a sharp breath. Tom turned to him, and saw him staring at an envelope with wide eyes. “Something up?”
“My last STD check.” Mike clutched the enveloped, grimacing. “Silvio was cheating on me. I caught him screwing another man without any protection. I don’t know how long that was going on, so I went and got the whole shebang. This is my three-month blood test results.” He took another breath, and exhaled slowly.
Tom frowned. “Was there anything on the other tests?” They were using condoms, but still.
“No, no, I would have told you. This is really my last major one for possible HIV. The risk is low. Silvio was on PrEP. But I just want to be absolutely certain.” Mike slid his finger into the envelope’s seam. Paper tore. He tugged out the single sheet inside, and his eyes roamed over the table, the grid of tests run and the results on the right-hand side. Tom averted his eyes.
Mike beamed. “My blood test is still negative.”
Tom smiled. “Good. I’m glad.” He hesitated, but then dove right in. “So, you weren’t using condoms with your ex?”
“No. If I’m serious about someone and we commit to monogamy, then I like to ditch the condoms. I’m kind of old school that way.” He shrugged, and his shoulders hung up by his ears. “I just like to really be with someone. And I’m old-fashioned. I don’t like to share.”
“We’re serious about each other.”
Mike blinked. “I’m very, very serious about you. Us.”
“You’re definitely the only man for me.”
“I’m not looking for anyone else. Anything else.” Mike’s voice was breathy, shaky. “Are you saying you want to…”
“I have twenty-five years of negative test results.” It was Tom’s turn to shrug. “So… if we’re both healthy, and we’re both serious, and we’re both committing to monogamy, then…”
Mike smiled and d
ropped his bag. Unzipped it, and rummaged around. Pulled out a box of condoms. “Guess we don’t need these this weekend.” He tossed them over his shoulder, and they bounced on the couch cushion before tumbling onto the floor. Mike pulled Tom close, kissing him slowly. He seemed to hesitate, pausing mid-kiss as if he wanted to say something.
But then, he kissed Tom again and stepped back. “Ready to go? If we get there early enough, I can pick something up to grill for you.”
“Lead the way.”
Mike grilled chicken wings on the cottage’s patio while Tom lay back on the sand and drank beer. He was under strict instructions to do nothing and enjoy himself while he did it. The sun set behind the dunes that shielded their cottage from the private road leading to the beach, casting a pink and lavender glow over the sand. Summer heat clung to the shore, but a salty breeze blowing off the gentle waves made it comfortable, relaxing instead of like being in an oven. Etta Mae sniffed every square inch of the beach and then put herself to bed, seeming to sense that this was a perfect chance to nap uninterrupted on the porch for days.
“This weekend is about you.” Mike sat next to him after dinner, feeding small logs to a fire pit in the sand. “I want to take care of you.”
“Let’s make it about us.” Tom leaned into Mike. Mike showering him in affection made his heart and soul go all squirmy, not used to this much care, and totally out of his depth on how to reciprocate. It also made his guilt swell, rise within him until he felt a dam was about to break somewhere deep inside. Every day he fought a war that Mike couldn’t see—stay or run, turn into Mike or flee to the safety of his closet. Mike was making it so damn hard for him to think.