by Tal Bauer
Mike slipped in and shut the door behind him. Tom looked up, wide-eyed. “Everything okay?”
“Kind of. I’m being sent home.”
Tom paled. “What? Why? Did they—”
“It’s regulations. Winters thinks I haven’t had a night off in over a week. That I’m spending too much on-duty time with you.” He shrugged, a helpless smile on his lips. “He doesn’t know that off-duty or on, I’d still choose to be with you. That I want to be with you.”
Smiling, Tom visibly relaxed. “So, he doesn’t suspect anything?”
“Don’t think so.” Mike pulled out Kris’s keys and the badge to his parking garage. “Villegas’s taking over for today and tonight. He’ll stay with you at Kris’s place. I told him you had the keys and everything.”
“He’ll see your stuff there.”
“He won’t know what’s mine or what’s Kris’s. If you see anything out, tuck it away, but he won’t be able to tell my boxers or toothpaste from Kris’s stuff. It’ll be okay.”
“You’re right. But… I won’t see you until tomorrow?”
Mike shook his head. “I have to prove to Winters that I’m rested and can take you back. And I will. I’ll be here for the pre-trial hearing tomorrow. I swear.”
“I’m going to miss you.” Tom reached for him, grabbing his fingers. “We haven’t been apart for…”
“We kind of rushed in, yeah.” Mike grinned. “Spending every day and night together.”
“I like it. And I needed it. Needed you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He sighed, huffing. “Text me. I’m going to be a mess. I’m not going to rest at all. All I’ll be doing is pacing and thinking of you.”
“Don’t do that. I will be okay.” Tom squeezed Mike’s hand and let go. “I will be. And I’ll text you.”
“See you tomorrow.” Mike leaned across the desk and kissed Tom, gently.
Tom spent the rest of the day researching every angle he could possibly imagine that Ballard would try to use. The pre-trial hearing the next day promised to be a bitter, acrimonious battle between Renner, Ballard, and himself. Renner’s requests for information were targeted to hurt, playing, clearly, on the Russian documents.
How would Ballard respond?
What were the rules of evidence, to the atomized level? What could he allow into the trial?
What would he allow into the trial?
How could this entire thing be fair, if it had been a sanctioned black op from the start? And now the government was trying to point the finger and avoid their reflection in the mirror?
He wished Mike were still there. He’d like to go back to Kris’s place and relax on the couch, kick back with Chinese take-out and watch something on TV, just let his mind go as Mike held him close.
But, Villegas walked into his office at five PM, not Mike. “Judge Brewer? What time would you like to head out?”
His brain hurt. “Now is fine. I think I’ll make it an early night.” He tried to smile.
Villegas gave him a wan grin in return. They headed down to the garage in silence, and he spotted Mike’s empty parking space near Villegas’s blacked-out SUV.
“You look tanned, Judge Brewer. Spend some time at the beach?”
“Yeah. This past weekend.” He stared out the rear passenger window.
The rest of the ride to Crystal City was long and silent. Tom watched DC, Maryland, and then Virginia streak by outside his windows. They took a new route, a loop north before heading south to Kris’s home. He fumbled the key card when Villegas asked for it, but took them to the right floor at least, once they were inside.
Etta Mae bounded across the apartment to greet him, tail wagging a mile a minute. She sniffed him, and then cocked her head at Villegas. She looked back at Tom, as if asking, Where’s my playmate? Where’s Mike?
Villegas, though, dropped to his knees and reached for her, smiling wide. “Hey girl. You’re beautiful. What’s her name?”
“Etta Mae.” Etta Mae, the little traitor, rolled right over for Villegas, stretching her short legs and begging for a belly rub. Villegas beamed as he petted her.
Tom saw his opportunity. He ducked into Kris’s screened-off bedroom area and snatched up Mike’s clothes, then dropped them into Mike’s duffel and tucked both his and Mike’s into Kris’s closet off the master bath. He pushed Mike’s things into Kris’s on the counter, hiding them in plain sight. Hopefully.
“What do you want for dinner?” Villegas poked his head into the open bathroom door. “I can order a pizza.”
“Sounds great.”
Awkward silence descended after they negotiated pizza toppings. Tom escaped to Kris’s patio, sitting outside and watching DC descend into dusk and then twilight. Villegas stayed indoors, flipping through files he’d brought from the courthouse as he sat in the kitchen, facing Tom on the patio, as if watching his every move.
Hey you. :) Hope you got some sleep.
Mike texted back almost immediately. [I did, actually. Not that I needed any. But I took a nap.]
Good. And I’m jealous. No naps for me today.
[What are you doing now?]
Avoiding the great Inspector Villegas. He’s in the kitchen. I’m on the patio. Waiting for pizza to show up.
[Pizza sounds yummy.]
Won’t be as good as what you BBQ’d this weekend. :)
[ :) ]
The pizza arrived, and they ate in silence at the kitchen bar top, trying not to stare at each other. Tom retreated to the patio with a full glass of wine and Etta Mae. She rested beneath his feet as the stars came out, one by one.
[I miss you.]
I miss you too. Villegas is not good company.
[Well, he shouldn’t be. Don’t want him replacing me!]
No danger of that. :)
[I miss Etta Mae too. Miss hearing her walking around. Miss her cold nose in my ribs.]
Tom smiled stupidly down at his phone. Etta Mae had hunted for Mike during dinner, sniffing the door and all the corners of Kris’s apartment, as if he’d magically turn up just for her.
It was only twenty-four hours, and yet, the minutes seemed to drag on and on. Had it been only last week when he’d worried that if he spent a moment away from Mike, his tether to his soul would snap and he’d freefall back into his closet? His newfound identity, his fledgling pride, the way he’d finally assembled the puzzle pieces of himself into place? Humpty Dumpty had been put back together again.
And, it seemed, was staying together. He didn’t feel the frantic need to run, barricade himself in his—or Kris’s—closet. Not tonight, at least. For the moment, if the big bomb dropped and his secret came out over the airwaves, the only thing he’d feel was relief. It would all be out in the open, and then he—and Mike—could get on with everything.
Right now, he just wanted Mike back, sitting beside him. If he were here, they’d sit on the patio together. Hold hands. Mike would make him laugh. He’d try to make Mike laugh. Etta Mae would shift between them, greedy for attention from them both. And later, he’d put the moves on Mike—the few, fumbling moves he had—and pull Mike into bed. Another night of lovemaking, of Mike gazing at him like he was the sun, and his body singing the ecstasy hymns.
She was looking for you earlier. She adores you.
[ :( Now I feel worse. She doesn’t think I abandoned her, does she?]
He couldn’t stop his smile, or his gentle laugh. Mike, for all his bluster about being just a meathead with a gun, was such a gentle soul. A puppy, when it came right down to it. She doesn’t. She’ll be super excited to see you again.
[Soon. This exile won’t last long.]
As long as you show up bright-eyed and rested, you’ll be back on, right?
[Hope so. I’ll throw a fit if I’m not.]
He took another sip of his wine, and then a larger gulp. So… what are you wearing?
[Tom!]
What?
[Isn’t Villegas right there? I mean… Kris’s place isn’
t huge…]
I’m saving the visual for later. ;)
[Well… in that case…] Mike sent a picture over, himself lying on his side in bed in just his tiny yellow briefs and hugging a pillow to his chest. [This is your pillow.]
Should he be aroused or melting in adoration? Both? Miles and miles of tanned skin, burnished from their weekend at the beach, and a tiny stretch of banana yellow briefs. A bulge that made his cock twitch, made his mouth water. He rubbed his thumb over the screen, over Mike’s face, his tiny smile and shining eyes.
This was who he was. A gay man. A man who adored this other man. A man who craved Mike’s touch and kiss, his texts and his handholds, and whose soul bloomed whenever Mike looked at him in exactly this way.
He sent back a heart emoji. You are perfect.
[No I’m not. I’m just crazy about you. :) ]
Inside, Villegas had turned on the TV, and CNN blared over Kris’s surround sound speakers. The anchor droned alongside dramatic music, beats signaling rising tension and breaking news. As if every hour didn’t bring a new breaking news alert. Russian troops on the move, massing near the Estonian border. The Baltic states are readying their own defenses and calling out for NATO assistance.
Tom ducked back into Kris’s apartment. Images played on screen, shaky cell phone cameras from Estonian border towns looking across the river to Russia. Tanks and troops massed on the Russian side of the river, next to brand new helicopter pads cleared out and marked with spray paint in the packed dirt. Frantic Estonian flew in the background, mixed with gasps and curses. The images repeated, from Narva to Karoli to Kuningakula, and down to Saatse, Koidula, and Maasi. A map appeared, the entire border of Estonia—a NATO country—covered by Russian tanks and troops, poised and ready to invade.
Gunshots snapped and cracked over the TV and the cell phone cameras. The Russians were practicing on their side of the border, live-fire exercises yards away from NATO land. Intimidation at its finest.
Villegas sat on the edge of Kris’s couch, his wide eyes glued to the screen, jaw hanging open.
The anchor popped back on screen, reading a just-released statement from the White House. “This sudden act of aggression by the Russian military and President Dimitry Vasiliev is exactly what the world does not need at this moment. We need calm, forthright peacefulness, and a willingness to compromise and come to the table with open arms. This aggression will be met with the full force of NATO, should one Russian toe or bullet cross the Estonian border.”
“Well,” the anchor said, his eyes wide as he turned to his colleague at the CNN news table. “Does this sound like we’re headed to war?”
“Most definitely. Most definitely. How this plays into the DC Sniper trial, which is set to begin very soon, is anybody’s guess.”
They stayed up to watch CNN for the next three hours, until Tom’s queasy stomach forced him to turn away. He and Mike texted throughout, Mike’s tension throttling sky high with each new revelation on the news. His texts were shorter, with more exclamation points. Villegas seemed transfixed by the news, and he never once asked who Tom was texting.
Tom caught him side-eying the phone a few times, though, trying to catch a glimpse of the screen.
He brushed his teeth and grunted goodnight to Villegas, and then crawled into bed. Villegas turned down the TV. He was sleeping on the couch. Etta Mae grumbled about losing her spot, but Tom lifted her onto Kris’s bed and she happily stole one of the many pillows for herself.
In bed now. You?
[Same. It’s too big and empty without you in it, though.]
Etta Mae is not as good a cuddler as you are. :)
[I’m going to dream about you tonight. :) ]
Oh yeah? :)
[Yep. I’ve dreamed about you every night, actually.]
And there went his heart, again. His toes curled in the sheets as he beamed. He wanted to say something ridiculous, something like ‘when this trial is over, let’s run away to Europe for three weeks,’ or ‘move in with me, I never want to be without you,’ or even, ‘I’m falling in love with you.’
[Seven hours until I see you again.]
You’ll be there at 6?
[Waiting for you with your diabetic nightmare. I mean, your coffee. :) ]
He sent four hearts, all in a row. He didn’t know what else to say. He heard Villegas moving around, heading for the bathroom. Brush his teeth behind the closed door and change into sleep clothes. Head back out to the couch. “Good night, Judge Brewer.”
“Night.”
Night, Mike. See you in seven hours.
[Goodnight, babe. <3 ]
Babe. Him, being called “babe” by Mike. He was dreaming. He was absolutely dreaming. His toes curled again, squeezing the sheets as lightning raced through his body, fireworks going off at the ends of his neurons. He swiped the screen and pulled up the picture Mike had sent earlier, his golden skin and tiny yellow briefs, his soulful, electric-blue eyes and his pouty, just-smiling lips. Tom propped his phone up beside him, laying it against the pillow’s edge. He blew a kiss at the screen.
After a few minutes, he powered it down and plugged it in, and then rolled over to go to sleep.
Villegas slipped into the bathroom, holding his toiletries bag. He’d gone home in the middle of the day to grab clothes and what he needed for the overnight, and then went straight to Winters.
“Put this in Judge Brewer’s belongings,” Winters had said.
Villegas fingered the GPS transmitter, a tiny tracker that could easily get lost in Brewer’s duffel or bag. Brewer would never see it, if Villegas did his job right.
Brewer’s toiletries bag was open on the counter, everything inside arranged neatly in rows and stacks. His toothbrush rested a perfect right angle to the sink, drip drying. Okay. So Brewer was neater than average. Villegas turned to the closet and spotted two duffels tucked just inside the door.
Perfect.
He pulled them both out. One was unzipped, and he flipped the top. Bunched up shirts, suit pants, a balled-up tie… and spare ammo clips. A spare shoulder holster.
This wasn’t Judge Brewer’s bag. It was Lucciano’s.
He rifled through everything, through Lucciano’s socks and ridiculously tiny underwear. There were shorts and a swimsuit, still flecked with sand. Shirts that smelled like salt and sunscreen. And, at the very bottom, a half-full bottle of lube.
Villegas’s eyes rolled up, as if he could stare through the closet wall, right to where Judge Brewer was lying in bed and texting. Texting who? Lucciano? Could they really be…
He shoved it all back into Lucciano’s bag and flipped open the second. Brewer’s bag was neater, everything folded and in its place. Dirty shirts that smelled like sunscreen and sand, a swimsuit, flip-flops.
They’d obviously gone to the beach together.
Villegas tucked the transmitter into the bottom of Brewer’s bag, hidden by a seam. He slipped out of the closet and back to the bathroom, and then changed and brushed his teeth.
Mission accomplished.
“Good night, Judge Brewer,” he said, heading back for the couch.
“Night.”
Chapter 30
July 7th
Tom waited in his silent chambers, listening to footsteps clap and snap down the hall. Mike leaned against his desk beside him, their hands tangled together. Mike couldn’t offer any advice, but he could hold Tom’s hand, be there, and that meant more than anything.
Winters had let Mike back onto Tom’s protective detail, but growled that Mike would be sharing the load from now on. Tom was expected to spend some time in the Hyatt for Mike’s relief. Mike agreed quickly, and then he delivered the good news to Tom.
Knocks sounded on Tom’s door, delicate raps from Peggy’s gentle fist. “Judge Brewer, your ten o’clock is here.”
His ten o’clock. The pre-trial hearing to decide discovery, what was admissible and inadmissible in trial. Knives would be out, and blood would be shed. He squeezed Mike’s
hand and stood. “Send them in.”
Mike stepped aside, straightening his suit jacket. He’d brought Tom a new cup of sugared-up coffee, and now he watched Ballard and Renner and the court reporter file into Tom’s chambers, giving both attorneys the hairy eyeball. No coffee for either of these men.
“Thank you, Mike.” Tom smiled. “I’ll let you know as soon as we’re done.”
Ballard watched Mike nod and stride out of Tom’s chambers. Peggy shut the door. “You know, I don’t have round the clock U.S. marshal protection.”
“You crave the spotlight, Ballard. You couldn’t be private if your life depended on it. My face plastered across the internet is a different matter entirely.”
Renner’s eyes darted from Ballard to Tom and back.
“Please, gentleman, have a seat.” Tom unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat at the head of his conference table. Mike had cleared his workspace clutter, hiding his stuff mostly beneath Tom’s desk.
Tension thrummed, as if a tuning fork were about to start singing. The court reporter finished setting up her tiny tripod stand and stool in the corner and nodded to Tom.
“All right. We’re meeting today in chambers to discuss the discovery process and admissible evidence in this trial. I will remind you: these proceedings are under seal. Your motions, the transcript, and any response are being kept from the public.”
Renner nodded. He held a fountain pen in his hand, one eyebrow delicately arched. He was ready.
Ballard stared at Tom, an almost-sneer curling his upper lip.
“Before we begin, let’s discuss extradition. Mr. Ballard, is Russia planning on filing for extradition?”
“No.”
Renner smirked. “I wouldn’t think so. Recent revelations are proving wonderfully embarrassing for the government and the government’s case. Russia wants to keep you twisting in the wind.”
“Russia knows that the United States has the death penalty and they do not. Russia wants your client to die, Mr. Renner.” Ballard grinned, cold and lifeless. “Which he will. After he is convicted.”