by Gregory Ashe
After the third shot—or was it the fifth?—Somers could feel some of the knots untying themselves. He felt loose, almost stretched out. He leaned against the bar, scanning the room, breathing in the smell of sangria and getting a whiff of the harsh tequila still on his lips.
There he was, on the far side of the room, past the pool table. Jesus, it was like a GPS signal, throbbing in the darkness of Somers’s head, like he could find Emery Hazard anyone in the universe, eyes closed. Hazard had shrugged off his jacket, and his tie hung loose around his unbuttoned collar. A patch of bristly dark hair showed at the top of his chest. Hazard was, to Somers’s surprise, laughing. He was talking to Upchurch, their heads close together. Hazard didn’t look relaxed, not exactly—Somers had a hard time imagining that Hazard ever looked relaxed—but he looked less stressed than usual.
Everyone was there, Somers realized. He’d been itching too bad, he’d been in too much of a rush, to notice before, but he noticed now: Cravens, in a gray cardigan and high-waisted jeans that made her look, even more than usual, like she might be pulling a pan of cookies out of the oven at any minute; Swinney, with her short, reddish hair falling into her eyes; Lender, squirreled away behind those thick, plastic frames, and laughing at something Swinney had just said. A lot of the uniform guys and gals too, and some civilians as well. Plenty of people had turned out to say goodbye to Renard Upchurch.
But not, Somers thought, Eldora. Upchurch’s wife was nowhere to be seen. It made sense, in a way; this was, after all, a work party. Maybe Eldora had simply felt it would be better to let Upchurch say goodbye in his own way. Maybe Eldora had not wanted to come to Saint Taffy’s—a cop bar, and a particularly noisy cop bar, was not exactly Eldora’s scene.
Something prickled inside Somers, though, and his eyes went back to Hazard. Hazard wasn’t leaning towards Upchurch, Somers realized. Upchurch was leaning towards Hazard. And Hazard was still laughing—his head going back, his long, glossy black hair catching the glimmer from the low-hanging lights. What the fuck was so funny? And why was Upchurch sitting so goddamn close to Somers’s partner?
It wasn’t jealousy. That was the first thought, loud and clear, that rang out in Somers’s mind. It wasn’t anything close to jealousy. It was curiosity, that’s all. Somers was just curious. Had Hazard been right? Was Upchurch gay and in the closet? Or was he bi? Were Upchurch and his wife swingers? Somers snorted with laughter at the thought; Eldora Upchurch was as much a swinger as Mother Theresa.
But what the fuck was that, Somers thought as Upchurch squeezed Hazard’s shoulder. And now it was jealousy, a dark, spiny tangle around Somers’s lungs like he couldn’t take a breath without feeling those prickles. And Somers couldn’t admit that it was jealousy he was feeling—he wouldn’t admit it—even as he tried to figure out what he felt: was he upset that Upchurch hadn’t made a move on him? Or that Hazard hadn’t?
A dim part at the back of Somers’s mind was saying slow down, think, you screwed up once with Kaylee and you’re trying to make things right with your wife. You remember her, dumbass? Your wife, who’s at home with your little girl. You stepped in it, you really did, with Kaylee and now you’re looking at Hazard like he’s fresh meat and you haven’t eaten in a hundred years, so watch out, you better watch the fuck out.
But Somers wasn’t paying attention to that voice. Instead, he was in two places at once: he was in Saint Taffy’s, breathing in the fumes of fermented grapes and spices, the soles of his shoes peeling up from a floor that was tacky with spilled beer; and, at the same time, he was back in the locker room. The locker room at Wahredua High School, back in his junior year.
That day, Somers had stayed late. He was still freaked out about what had happened—
—to Jeff Langham—
—with Mikey and Hugo, and he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t freaked out by staying late after basketball practice and running suicides until he puked. Today hadn’t been any different; Somers had run and run and run until he doubled over at the doors and spilled his guts into the grass just outside. Then he had gone to the locker room. He had showered, a long hot shower, trying to escape the one thing he couldn’t escape: himself.
Somers shifted on the stool as the memory washed over him; his chest felt heavy like he had that lead apron on, the one they used at the dentist’s. His eyes felt dilated; the low-hanging lights in Saint Taffy’s had halos around them, orangish-gray blurs of light that wouldn’t go away no matter how much he blinked. He didn’t want to go back to that memory, he didn’t want to go back to the locker room, but he was already there and he couldn’t escape.
The locker room had been hot. The water in the shower had been hot. Somers had been sweating when he’d stepped out of the spray, and condensation beaded on the tiled walls. He padded barefoot out to his locker and stopped because Emery Hazard was there, wearing nothing but a pair of gray flannel boxers and grungy tube socks that had gone gray from too much washing.
Back then, Hazard had been scrawny. Somers could count his ribs. But there had been the faintest hint of definition to Hazard’s chest, the slightest swell of muscle in his arms—hints of what he would look like when Somers saw him fifteen years later. His hair had been an untamed mess of black, unlike the long, parted look he wore now, but the eyes were the same: cold, merciless scarecrow eyes, the color of straw at the end of summer.
Somers had never allowed himself to think what he thought right then: that Emery Hazard was beautiful. Hollow-cheeked, with dark circles under his eyes, he was damaged but beautiful. Hazard’s thin arms folded across his chest; he shifted his weight back, as though ready to run, even if it meant sprinting away in nothing but a pair of boxers.
But he didn’t run. He stayed where he was as Somers advanced. Neither of them said anything. Neither of them, Somers still believed even fifteen years later, needed to say anything. There had been something in the air, maybe, pheromones or hormones or whatever you wanted to call them. Or maybe it had just been fate, that their lives had been linked in some unknown way, and this moment was inevitable, that they were rushing towards it like two trains on the same track. When Somers was sober, he told himself it had all been perfectly normal: the result of high-octane teen sex drive and curiosity. But right now, swimming in Jose Cuervo, he knew. He knew it had been fate then, and he knew it was fate now, tonight.
He had touched Emery. Just brushed his fingers across the breadth of Emery’s chest and watched as goosepimples covered Emery’s skin, as though Somers’s touch was lightning. Somers had never felt hotter than at that moment. He’d never felt more desired. It had been intoxicating. And so he had leaned in. The kiss had been nothing but a brush of lips; in another setting, you could have called it chaste. Right then, though, it was as chaste as a wildfire.
The clack of billiard balls colliding pulled Somers out of the memory; he sucked in a breath as though he had just swum up from a great depth. For a moment, he struggled to orient himself. Everything in Saint Taffy’s looked dark and distant and out of place. Then he remembered. He was being a tool. He should be talking to Cravens or to Swinney or Lender. He should be congratulating Upchurch and wishing him well. And instead, John-Henry Somerset was drinking his ass off at the bar, alone, and pining for the gay boy he had tortured in high school.
As though sensing Somers’s thoughts, Hazard’s head came up. He looked across the room, straight at Somers, and—and he smiled. It was vintage Emery Hazard: a tightly guarded smile, the smile of someone all wrapped up in trying to protect himself. But it was there. And Somers felt like his heart was melting, drip by drip, at how much pain could flash out in that smile. For no reason Somers could explain, he tilted his head at the bar, inviting Hazard to join him.
Hazard said something to Upchurch, and Upchurch’s eyes stabbed at Somers. Somers ignored his former partner and tossed back another shot. When Hazard crossed the room, he moved with slow, confident steps—not quite a strut, but very close. Hazard leaned on the bar, close enough for
Somers to smell the Guinness on his breath when he said, “Hey.”
That word, that one word, spoken in Hazard’s low, throaty way, set everything else in motion: from that moment forward, everything happened the way Somers knew it was supposed to happen because this was fate turning the wheels now. Somers recognized the tone in Hazard’s voice. He recognized when someone was trying to pick him up. He knew how good-looking he was, and he knew how people responded to it. And now it was happening with Hazard, the way it had happened with women—and men—ever since Somers had hit high school.
And now, ignoring that tiny, warning voice in his head, Somers let it happen because he wanted it to happen. He had wanted it to happen fifteen years ago, but he had been a coward, and now it was fifteen years too late. So he made jokes. He laughed. He swiveled on the stool so that his legs bracketed Hazard. He tossed back shots, matching Hazard drink for drink. The laughter grew easier, the conversation more fluid, their knees brushed and then pressed together. Somers had lost track of his fellow cops, of the bar, of everything else when Hazard leaned in and whispered, “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
And they did. Somers knew he had drunk too much. He had the impression of leaning on Hazard as they walked, of Hazard’s arm around his waist. When they reached the Crofter’s Mark and took the elevator up to Somers’s apartment, Somers staggered and fell against Hazard. Both of Hazard’s arms went around him, and Somers buried his face in Hazard’s neck, smelling the sweat and the lingering soap on Hazard’s body and the starch of his pressed shirt. Hazard’s stubble rasped the side of Somers’s face. Somers took a step back. The mirrored walls of the elevator gave a dozen reflections of them, of Somers staring up into those scarecrow eyes, where a thick lock of dark hair had fallen.
Somers moved first. His lips found Hazard’s, and again the stubble rasped his cheeks. It reminded Somers, in the most basic way, of the kisses he had shared with Ricky Wade, his college roommate. But Ricky Wade, although cute, was nowhere in the same league as Hazard. Hazard’s big hands tightened around Somers, pulling him closer. The kiss went on and on; Somers’s felt his legs give out, and Hazard caught him.
But underneath the passion—hot enough that Somers worried, at the back of his mind, that his skin was on fire—there was a hardness to the kiss, an aggression, a fierceness from Hazard. As the two men, still entangled in each other, staggered out of the elevator, Hazard’s hand moved up and caught Somers’s hair. He was pulling hard, almost too hard, but the pain sent a rush of endorphins through Somers that made his breathing quicken. They tumbled through the door, into the apartment, and Somers realized he was being manhandled—half-carried, half-shoved across the apartment and towards the bedroom.
“Slow down,” he said, aware that his breathing had become a whistle, aware of the whimpering noises he made as Hazard yanked at his short blond hair, aware of his growing need to do whatever Hazard wanted, to give his partner whatever he demanded. “Oh fuck, you’re so hot—fuck, slow down. Just for a minute.”
But Hazard didn’t slow down. Those long, strong fingers found purchase on Somers’s shirt and ripped. The shirt tore away. Buttons pinged against the windows. Hazard, for the first time that night, looked stunned as he studied Somers, and Somers felt a prickle of nerves.
“It’s—I don’t know. I just started doing it—” Somers fought to keep his hands still, to keep from trying to cover the tattoos. He couldn’t cover them, of course, not with his hands, not even if he wanted to. Ink ran from his collarbone to his waist, and it formed sleeves along both arms. It meant always wearing collared, long-sleeved shirts while he worked, even on the hottest days, because it wasn’t ok for a small-town cop to sport tattoos like that.
Hazard still hadn’t said anything. The light from the street washed color from his face. Then, wordlessly, he began to run his hands over Somers’s chest, caressing, teasing, and slowly guiding Somers backward until they toppled to the mattress. Hazard knelt astride Somers, pinning Somers’s hands with his own. The kisses had become, if anything, more insistent, more compelling. Somers’s head was swirling, and it had nothing to do with Jose Cuervo. Dizzy, struggling to draw breath, he tried to pull away, but Hazard followed him.
“Oh fuck, please,” Somers moaned, rocking up into Hazard. It had been this way with Ricky, too, the need, but then Somers had been in control, had been able to hide it. Now he knew, at some instinctual level, that whatever happened next was up to Hazard, and that stoked a fire inside Somers that he’d never felt before. “Goddamn, oh, please.” He pivoted his hips up harder, grinding against the bigger man and feeling solid muscle.
“That’s right,” Hazard whispered, breaking the kiss and bringing his mouth next to Somers’s ear. “Beg.”
“Fuck. Please, I’m fucking begging. Oh please.” He rocked his hips again, desperate for contact with Hazard, lost in the booze and in the hormones and strangely grateful for the lack of inhibitions, for the feeling of complete surrender. “Please, please, please.” He knew he was just rambling, speaking incoherently, but it didn’t matter.
Except, the next moment, it did seem to matter because Hazard, his mouth still against Somers’s ear, gripped Somers’s jaw in iron fingers. “That’s right, fucking beg me. Beg me the way you made Jeff beg.”
The words hit Somers like cold water. He tried to scramble out from underneath Hazard; a part of him desperately wanted to see his partner’s eyes, to try to understand what was happening. But Hazard still had one of Somers’s wrist in a vise-grip, and his other hand still held Somers’s jaw.
“Go on,” Hazard growled, his voice hard and empty of the earlier passion. “Beg. I want to hear you say every humiliating thing you made him say. I want you to tell me, out of your own fucking mouth, everything you did to him. And once you do that, if you’re a very good boy, I’ll give you what you want.”
“Get off me.” Somers shoved at his partner, trying to shift his bulk, but it was no use. Hazard was much bigger, and it was all muscle. “Get the hell off. Get off me.”
“I told you—”
But before Hazard could finish, Somers clocked him on the ear with his free hand. Hazard rocked sideways with the blow, and Somers followed it by hammering him on the head again. With a roar, Hazard batted away Somers’s hand.
By then, though, Somers had managed to wriggle away. He crawled backward until he hit the corner of the room. Hazard got to his feet, massaging the side of his head. In the darkness of the room, with only the amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the window, Hazard was nothing more than an enormous shadow and two glittering gold eyes.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Somers said.
For a moment, Hazard did nothing. Then he said, “I thought I’d been wrong about you. I thought what happened—” He swallowed, and Somers had the bewildering impression that his partner was on the brink of tears. The darkness hid his features, though, and when he spoke again, his voice held old anger. “I thought I was wrong.”
Then, after another long moment, he left.
Somers was shaking, and his right ached from the blows he’d delivered. His head hurt, and his lips felt swollen and bruised from the force of Hazard’s kisses. A long time after the front door had shut behind Hazard, Somers dragged himself to the mattress and lay in the amber light that slipped through the windows. He thought about that day in the locker room, all those years ago. And he started to cry.
THE PHONE CALL DIDN'T WAKE Somers because Somers never really slept. He lay on the mattress, eyes wide to the glare from the streetlights, drifting between painful memories. From time to time he slipped towards sleep, but then his heart would hammer him awake with a fresh wash of panic—panic that Hazard was still there, or, strangely, panic that Hazard had left Wahredua. When his phone vibrated, he clutched at it, fighting off a fresh wave of fear, and unsure whether he was afraid that Hazard was calling or afraid that Hazard wasn’t. Instead of Hazard’s name, though, the screen flashed Naomi Malsho.
For a m
oment, Somers considered letting the call go to voicemail. Then, grudgingly, he slid his finger across the screen and picked up. Her breathing was wrong. That was the first thing he noticed.
“John-Henry. John-Henry, are you there?”
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
Then she started to cry. Somers tried to calm her down, but Naomi had descended into harsh, racking sobs, and she couldn’t seem to hear him—or, if she could, she couldn’t answer. Somers finally settled for shouting, “I’m coming right over.”
As he dug through the clothes on the floor, his hand scraped one of the buttons that had popped free from his shirt earlier that night. Hazard, his breath reeking of Guinness, his kisses bruising Somers’s lips. Somers pushed the memory aside, found a relatively clean button-up, and shrugged into it.
The thought of Hazard, though, had reminded Somers that Naomi was involved in their case, and if something had happened to her, Hazard needed to be part of it. The thought sent mingled fear and thrill through Somers, and he hated himself for both feelings. First thing, Somers promised himself. First thing he’d talk to Cravens and get her to put him with Swinney or Lender. But for now, he had to at least let Hazard know what was going on.
“Naomi, I’ve got to call Hazard. We’ll be right over.”
She was still crying when he disconnected the call.
Somers dialed as he drove towards the Bridal Veil Motor Court. Hazard didn’t pick up on the first or the second call, but he did on the third.
“What?”
What. That was how Emery Hazard answered the phone after what had happened earlier that night. Somers wanted to reach across the line and rip out the other man’s throat. But he managed to say, “Something’s wrong with Naomi. We’re going over there. Be downstairs in five.” He disconnected without waiting for an answer.