by Tal Bauer
“Had?”
“It has been deleted. I cannot find him.” Real pain threaded through Kryukov’s voice, weighted down his words.
“Is that usual? That people delete their profiles on GrindMe?”
Behind Tom, Mike stiffened, and Tom heard his soft inhale, the shuffle of his shoes against the carpet.
“Very. People come on and off the app. Delete the app for different reasons.”
“And is this the only way you’ve contacted this man?”
“Yes.”
“Did the FBI ever ask you about this man?”
“They did. But they say they could not find him. That GrindMe does not keep user data, and they could not find him if the company keeps no logs.”
“Could you describe him for the court?”
“Middle-aged. Dark hair, cut short. Slender, but strong. He was what the app called ‘clean cut’.” Kryukov smiled, wistful. “I liked him a lot.”
“Anything else?” Renner pressed, as if he knew there was more, as if he was trying to jog Kryukov back to his own testimony.
Kryukov nodded, blinking, focusing. “Yes. He had tattoo. On his—on his butt. A rainbow with a crown on top, a bit tilted.”
Tom’s world came to a blinding, screeching halt.
Mike surged forward, hovering behind him. Tom could feel him vibrating, feel his restraint, the raw power that Mike had within him being held back by every micron of Mike’s being.
Ballard rose, shaking his head and throwing his hands out. “Objection. What does any of this have to do with the case? Why are we hearing about Mr. Kryukov’s lost lover?”
“Your Honor, we’re attempting to find this man. The FBI and the prosecution have failed to identify or locate him.”
“We’re not a dating service!”
“Your Honor, this man may represent the only individual who knows if my client sent that text or not!” Renner hesitated. “Your Honor?”
Renner’s voice, Ballard’s voice, the hushed whispers of the courtroom—everything came through as if Tom were stuck underwater, had plunged into the deep end of a giant pool and was struggling to free himself. Was someone holding him down, pushing him underwater? What was happening?
Mike’s hand landed on his shoulder. His grip was firm, squeezing hard, even through the bulletproof vest he wore. “Judge Brewer,” Mike growled. His voice shook. “You’re very pale.”
God, what must Mike be thinking? Oh, God…
He took a breath, and then another, slow inhales through his open mouth. Cold sweat beaded on his skin. His spine shivered, the echo of a lover’s kiss.
“The court needs a recess,” he breathed. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to see both counselors in my chambers. Special Agent Barnes as well.”
Twin expressions of confusion stared at him, Renner and Ballard, frozen in place like dumbfounded goldfish. Renner blinked. Ballard’s eyes narrowed.
Tom rose and climbed down from the bench before the bailiff could sputter, “All rise!” He slipped past Mike, ducking past his burning, haunted eyes and his reaching hands. Tom spotted the jury staring at him, confused and frowning, looking back and forth among each other. Reporters chattered, their conversations rising like a crashing wave, breaking through the hum, the roar that was crescendoing through his world.
Breathing hard, he escaped into the hallway behind his courtroom.
“Tom! Wait!”
Mike’s voice, behind him, as if he was at the end of a long tunnel.
He pitched forward, not waiting, and his shoulder clipped the wall. Stumbling, Tom ended up slumping sideways, his forehead pressed to the cool paint, both hands up by his face. Was he surrendering? Or trying not to drown?
“Tom?” Mike, suddenly there, at his side. Mike’s hands on him, on his waist, turning him around. Mike’s face swam before him. Concern, fear, confusion, suspicion. God, his heart broke at the sight, at Mike looking at him with anything other than the joy and raw affection that had suffused his gaze for weeks. “Tom? Talk to me. What’s going on?”
He reached for Mike, grasping his forearms. His hands were shaking, and when he grabbed Mike, Mike’s arms started shaking, too.
“Why did he describe your tattoo, Tom? Why did he describe a man who looks like you, with your tattoo?” Mike was talking to him like he’d talk to a spooked horse. Or like he was girding himself, preparing to hear the worst. Like he was holding his hands beneath his heart, ready to catch the shards as they fell when it cracked.
Tom’s own heart cracked. He licked his lips. Shook his head, slowly. “Not my tattoo,” he breathed. “Peter’s. It’s Peter.”
“Peter?” Mike frowned. “Who?”
“Peter… My…” His throat closed. They were in the courthouse’s back hallway, and the bailiff was going to walk out of his courtroom any moment. Anyone could hear him. Judge Juarez’s office was ten feet to the right. The law library four feet to the left. “My college boyfriend,” he breathed. “We got those tattoos together.”
A light flicked on in the back of Mike’s eyes, before a wariness crept in. He pulled back. Dropped his hands. “Oh.” His eyes skittered down the hall. “We, uh. We should get you to your chambers. The attorneys will be there soon.”
“Mike—”
“Come on, Judge Brewer.” Mike wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Let’s go.”
A new panic slithered up his throat, seized his heart. He trailed after Mike, his mind a blur, memories of two men crashing into each other like head-on trains. Mike averted his gaze as he held the door to his chambers open for Tom, but as soon as Tom was inside, he turned back to Mike.
“Mike. I—” He had no clue what to say.
Mike flinched. Tom’s heart shredded. He reached for Mike—
Knocks broke through the silent office. “Your Honor, Mr. Ballard and Mr. Renner are here for you.”
He winced, and shook his head. “Mike…”
“I’m staying here. Like I said I would. I don’t want you alone with Ballard. I don’t care if Renner is here too. I don’t trust him to save your life, if it comes to that.”
“Okay. Yes. Stay.” Keeping Mike close, even though it meant Mike thought Ballard was a threat to his life. What world had he been dropped into? What rabbit hole had he fallen down, what mirror had he fallen through?
Clearing his throat, he called for the attorneys to enter. Barnes trailed after them both and took up position near the back. Tom shucked his robes, buying time. He moved to his conference table, standing behind his chair. “I believe I know the identity of Mr. Kryukov’s missing lover.”
Renner perked up. Ballard scowled. “What? How could you possibly—”
“The how isn’t important at the moment.” He spoke with a steely conviction he did not feel. “If, in fact, the man that I believe is the man the defense is searching for, we can discuss the details then.” And, he’d have to talk to Chief Judge Fink about a recusal. In the end, was he going to lose this case anyway? And all because of his past? Could he ever escape who he was?
“Who do you think it is?” Barnes stepped forward. He had his notepad out, pen ready to take notes. An FBI agent to the core.
“He went by Peter, but his name was Pasha. Pasha Baryshnikov. We went to the same university. We were… friends.”
Barnes eyeballed him. Friends. Right. Friends enough to recognize a man from a bland description, aside from one vividly identifiable tattoo on his ass.
“He was Russian, too?” Renner frowned. “Kryukov didn’t mention that.”
“He came over when he was young. Before going to university. He was a refugee in the late eighties, I think. He didn’t care much for Mother Russia. By now, he’s probably shed everything he could of his Russian past.”
“Approximate age?” Barnes was still taking notes.
“My age. Forty-six. Maybe a year older.”
“DC local?”
“He was at the time. He intended to move to New York right after graduation, but said he wanted
to return to DC sometime later.”
Barnes nodded. “We’ll start looking.”
Ballard sent Tom a sour glare. “How long will the court be in recess for, searching for some long-lost boyfriend?”
Tom flinched, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mike step forward. “Agent Barnes, if I recess the court until Monday, will that give you enough time to search for Mr. Baryshnikov?” The rest of the day and Friday, and the weekend if they needed it.
“More than enough, Your Honor.”
“Then we’ll recess until Monday morning at nine. If it’s him, we will address moving forward on Monday. If it’s not him, then we will resume with Kryukov’s testimony at nine AM.” He nodded to Renner and ignored Ballard. “I will see you all then.”
As they filed out, Tom grasped the back of his chair, squeezing the leather until his fingers burned. Finally, the door shut, and he pitched forward, almost collapsing.
Arms wrapped around him from behind. “Hey.” Mike’s soft voice rumbled behind his ear. “Tom.”
Turning, he buried his face in Mike’s neck. Mike held him.
“That was brave,” Mike murmured. “That was really brave. Revealing that.”
“I had to. If he’s a witness. If he knows that Kryukov is being set up… If he can prove that Kryukov didn’t send that text…” Tom pressed his face against Mike, cheek to cheek. “My secret is not worth another man’s life.”
“This isn’t how you wanted to come out, though.”
He shook his head. “No. Is there ever a right way, though? I just want it done. I just want to be free of this.”
“This?”
“Living in the closet. Hiding. Having this secret.” Secrets and lies, cover-ups and denials, always circling around the truth. What was true? What was really true?
Mike kissed his cheek, his nose. Pulled back, and cradled his face in both hands. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I shouldn’t have closed down like that. I was being stupid.” Tom frowned. Mike tried to smile. “I… thought about asking you if I could get a tattoo that matched yours. A rainbow and crown on my ass, too. I thought…” Shrugging, he sighed. “Doesn’t matter. Someone beat me to it.”
Tom’s bruised heart didn’t know what to do. He ached, in every way. “He wanted to cover up a prison tattoo. He’d been thrown in jail for having sex with an older man in a park in St. Petersburg. He was a teenager, but they still sent him to some big Russian jail. His first day, he was held down and attacked.” Tom closed his eyes. One night, Peter—Pasha—had told him the story. They’d been huddling in Tom’s bed, one stubby candle on his desk the only light in the room. Pasha had spoken softly, describing the horrors of the Soviet Union. How much freer he was in America. How freedom tasted like Tom’s kiss.
“After the attack, they tattooed him on his ass. It was a playing card. The ace of hearts. He said it was a prison sign, telling everyone that he was gay and that they could use him if they wanted. For anything they wanted. He had no say at all. I’ve never forgotten that.”
“How could you?” Mike stroked his arms, and looked like he wanted to puke. “Jesus…”
“He wanted to cover it up. We kept joking about what to cover it with. He decided on a rainbow and a crown. He was the king of his own life, he said. When we went to get it, he asked if I wanted to get one with him. Be a king, too. His king. I thought…” A shaky inhale. “I thought I was going to spend forever with him. I thought this was our version of a proposal, or something young and dumb like that.”
“I get it. I… wanted to get a matching tattoo with you for the same reason.” Mike looked like he was collecting the shards of his heart in both of his hands, like he was swallowing back his own bitter pill. “Why didn’t you guys stay together?”
“I broke.” Tom squeezed his eyes closed as a sob tore through him, a lightning blast that shattered his heart. “I thought I was strong enough to love him—to love myself—but I wasn’t. And I broke apart.” Whatever else he wanted to say, whatever else he needed to say, he couldn’t get it out. Not past his tears, the sobs that ripped apart his heart, made his soul bleed down the inside of his ribs. His knees buckled, and he pitched forward, collapsing against Mike and clinging to him like Tom’s own bones would betray him where he stood.
Mike pulled him closer, as close as he physically could, until if they pressed any harder their cells would merge. “You’re not broken.” His words fell on Tom’s hair, slipped down the curve of his neck. “You’re not broken, Tom. You’re not.”
They stayed wrapped together until Tom’s tears ran out and his soul had scraped itself raw against the wreckage of his past.
Tom spent the rest of the day in a daze. The jurors were sent home and reporters buzzed all over the courthouse, trying to wheedle information out of anyone and everyone. Barnes disappeared to FBI headquarters. Ballard disappeared somewhere. Mike stayed close, but he gave Tom space in his chambers, stepping out and leaving him alone for several hours.
Tom spent each of those hours with his head in his hands, trying to comprehend the Möbius strip shitshow that was his life.
Eventually, it was time to head to the Hyatt. Mike slid into the back with Tom, even though Villegas spun all the way around in the driver’s seat and stared at him for a solid five seconds before putting the SUV in gear.
Tom laced their fingers together, hidden in the press of their thighs, side by side.
“What are your dinner plans, Judge B?” Mike spoke softly, but even still, Villegas glared at Mike in the rearview mirror.
“I’m not hungry.”
Mike arched one eyebrow at him.
Tom chuckled. “What do you suggest, Inspector?”
“How about I get takeout from the Mexican place? Queso and both soft and crunchy tacos together?”
This time, Tom actually smiled. The dinner they’d shared when Mike first asked to take him out. Granted, it was a professional ‘thanks for not chewing me out’ dinner, but still. It was theirs. And Mike apparently remembered it just as fondly as Tom did.
He nodded, leaning his head against Mike’s.
“I’ll go get it and bring everything up. You relax.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” Mike smiled.
Villegas watched them in the rearview mirror, until the darkness of the Hyatt’s parking garage stole through the SUV, washing Villegas in shadows and obscuring his harsh glare.
Upstairs, Tom scrubbed his face and waited on his balcony, after getting his hugs and slobbery kisses from Etta Mae. She hung nearby, seeming to sense he needed the comfort, and trotted outside with him.
He stared over the city, letting the heat, the humidity, and the hum and buzz of the capital work through him. His whole life, he’d worked for the capital, for the District and the nation as a whole. Was it all coming apart now? Was the puzzle of his life, so meticulously put together, finally breaking apart? Was Humpty Dumpty falling again?
Mike texted him from the Mexican restaurant, sending a picture of the corner booth they’d eaten in and a heart. [ <3 Our first date.]
Circles upon circles upon circles. He’d loved Pasha as a young man, more a boy than a man, on the cusp of his own existence. He’d given up Pasha in exchange for the life he thought he wanted, and now Pasha was back, at the edge of the life Tom had worked so hard for… and was willing to give up to be with Mike.
His sob hit him again, out of the blue with the force of a tank, and he doubled over, gut-punched with the slam of his realization. He wanted Mike. He wanted the life they were building. He wanted freedom, the freedom he’d tasted as a younger man.
What had happened to Pasha in the years since? He’d looked at Tom like Tom was his life, his liberty, and his personal pursuit of happiness. He used to practice the pledge of allegiance, and called America the ‘United States of Freedom’. He’d been drunk with happiness, giddy at the liberation he’d felt in America.
/> Tom had only seen a prison cell made by words of hate and violent discrimination. Paths that led only to a tomb, the grave of both his dreams and his life. His hopes, his plans, were too big for 1991.
Pasha’s dreams had been the dreams of a refugee—to live simply, to love deeply, to laugh often. To stay safe within his community.
Did Pasha still think America was a glorious refuge, a home away from people who hated who he was? Had he ever found the hate that Tom had? What had his life made him into?
How had he come to be Vadim Kryukov’s lover? In all the ways, in all the days, that he ever imagined seeing Pasha again, he’d never, ever thought it would be in his courtroom. Certainly not in the most important trial heard on the world stage.
Mike arrived as the tears were drying on his cheeks, blown off his skin by the hot winds of summertime DC. Mike said nothing, just kissed him sweetly, thumbing his damp cheek before he pulled out dinner.
Tom picked at the chips and ate a taco, and managed to smile and even laugh as Mike distracted him with stories. He felt better after eating, and told Mike so. Mike beamed.
“What now? We’re in recess until Monday. Are we locked in this hotel until then?”
Mike frowned. “According to Villegas, yes.”
“‘According to Villegas’?”
Slowly, Mike smiled. “In my professional opinion, I think you need a break. I think we should get out of DC for the weekend. You need to get away from all of this. Barnes is looking for Baryshnikov. Ballard is… well, I don’t know where he is. No one has seen him since this morning. But, there’s nothing we can do until Monday. Except, if you stay here, in these four walls, you’ll be spinning your wheels and running your mind in circles.”
“You do know me well.”
“I try.”
“Are you proposing a jail break?”
“I am. Any thoughts on where we should we go?”
“My parents had a place in the mountains. Far enough to be far away, close enough to get there in a few hours’ drive. We used to go there when I was a kid. They turned it into a winter rental for backcountry skiers and hikers. I kept that going after they passed. I haven’t been there in years.”