by Gregory Ashe
“Ok?”
Tucker nodded. The clutching heat of him, the texture even through the rubber, made North struggle to keep still. He was aware of sweat dappling his chest and forehead, and he hadn’t done a damn thing. Yet. After a moment, Tucker settled North’s hands on his hips and guided their bodies, moving until they found that spot inside him that made Tucker let out a throaty cry he made no attempt to muffle. He contracted around North at the contact. His thumbs left white impressions on the backs of North’s hands.
When he opened his eyes, they were wet. “You feel that? What you do to me?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“You own me. That’s what that is. Everything I am, it’s yours. Being open like this for you, taking you like this.” Tucker shivered, and tears spilled down his cheeks. His nipples were hard. He was hard, and that brief alignment at his prostate had sent a fat drop of milky precome oozing down his cock. “You can hurt me. If you wanted to, you could hurt me so bad right now, and I couldn’t do anything to stop you. But you won’t, will you? This is how I’ve always been with you. Not just the sex; I’ve always been open to you in a way I wasn’t to anyone else, you’ve always been able to touch places in me no one else could. Being vulnerable like this, it scares the hell out of me.” A dry smile appeared and smoked away. “You know I like being in charge. But not with you. I’m not scared anymore; I trust you. And I love you.”
From under hooded eyes, North watched him. His hands slid to cup Tucker’s ass again, and he said, “Ride my cock.”
Tucker did. They changed positions, and North mounted him from behind, using a handful of hair and a hand on the small of Tucker’s back to manipulate the angle of his body until Tucker screamed on every stroke, face buried in a pillow. Tucker came first, shaking his head as North jerked him off and thrust steadily into him. Then North took his time, ignoring Tucker’s whimpers, the overstimulation that probably had him half out of his head.
When he finished, he bit the inside of his mouth and tasted blood.
They lay there awhile, North collapsed on top of Tucker. Then he rolled off the bed, and on wobbly legs made his way to the bathroom. He was working the condom off his dick when he thought: coggly, that’s the word Shaw was trying to remember when he was writing his Harry Potter fanfic. Coggly. Like wobbly. And then he had to brace himself on the sink, condom deflated between two fingers, and listen to the clink of dishes downstairs, the toilet running because it had a bad flapper and nobody ever used this bathroom anymore. When he’d had enough of that to make him crazy, he ditched the condom, cleaned himself up, and carried a wet cloth out and cleaned Tucker up.
Tucker made a satisfied, cat-like noise, arching slightly into the touch, but his eyes remained closed.
“Jesus, do you just do shoulders now?” North said, tracing a line down from Tucker’s neck.
A laugh broke from Tucker, and he rolled onto his side. “Cuddle with me.”
“Tuck, what happened here—”
“Don’t ruin it. It was what it was; it was fantastic. Come cuddle with me instead of overthinking it.”
North stretched out on the bed. Tucker curled up against him, head on North’s chest, and dragged the sheet over them.
“You want a beer?” Tucker said. “My dad was icing some more down; he thinks you’re staying the rest of the day.”
North shushed him and stroked Tucker’s hair. The room swam in North’s vision, and he didn’t know if it was tears or exhaustion, but the safer course seemed to be closing his eyes.
“North, I really do love you.”
Halfway already to sleep, North decided it was better to pretend not to hear.
Chapter 27
THE AMBIEN WERE HIDDEN inside a Fashionista Fillies-branded retainer case that Shaw had purchased at a Savers, with the result of four separate lessons from North on germs, oral hygiene, resale shops, and “how much goddamn money you’ve got in your bank accounts”—in that order. The Fashionista Fillies retainer case, in turn, was hidden inside a Zayn Malik plushie. Pari claimed she had once walked in on Shaw kissing it, which had made Shaw laugh and explain that he’d had something in his eye, and the Zayn plushie had been helping him get it out. And that had made North go fix something on the GTO for two hours, only when he come back, he didn’t smell like motor oil or WD-40; he smelled like cigarettes. And a couple of days later, Shaw had noticed that all his Zayn songs had been deleted from his phone. And One Direction, apparently as a just-in-case.
He took two of the pills when he was supposed to take one. Then he lay in bed. The sun came in through the window, and the house got bigger and bigger, the whole structure starting to sway and spin. Shaw would have been worried—it felt like a big storm was whomping the house—but he was in the process of getting smaller and smaller. A little bit smaller, he figured, and he’d be small enough to fit inside that Fashionista Fillies retainer case, and then North would never be able to find him. If he even came looking.
That was his last thought before he began to fall. He fell for a long time through darkness, the sense of restless velocity, match-flare dreams of something huge and monstrous making its way with heavy uneven steps. The kite string of the Ambien played out far enough for him to realize he was hearing Tucker coming home late—why so late? why Arcade Fire?—and then he was falling again.
In the morning, his room was gray with a weak storm light that seemed to lack a source and direction. His mouth tasted like chewed-up aspirin, and the edges of his vision were doing something swirly when he moved too quickly.
North didn’t answer any of his calls or messages. After an hour, he gave up and drove to the jail by himself. The City Justice Center had seen better days. Graffiti tagged the pale stone—NO WATER NO RITES—and several of the blue-glass windows had been broken. Shaw judged by the glitter on the sidewalk that they had been knocked out from the inside. Plywood covered the gaps, but the boards had swelled and warped in the heat and the air’s moisture. The sound of voices and movement carried from inside, even over the rush of traffic: shouted commands, electronic blares, laughter. Another riot must have happened recently. They were more common in the summer.
Shaw hadn’t called ahead, and neither Peter nor Paul had submitted a request for a social visit. The smell of institutional cleaning products and sheet-vinyl flooring went through his head like a drill bit, and he made a mistake, a dumb one. He scrambled for an idea, and he came up with a bad one; when he tried to pass as Peter’s legal counsel, he got hauled off to a secure room, and he realized he was quickly on his way to a cell of his own.
A phone call to Jadon saved him. The guard, a dour woman with her short hair in what Shaw thought of as a Caesar cut, spoke briefly to the detective and then passed the phone to Shaw with a pitying look.
“What are you doing?” Jadon asked. He sounded beyond tired.
“Nothing, I swear.” The silence waited, and Shaw heard himself adding, “I need to talk to them.”
“Why do you need to talk to them?”
“I want to figure out what happened.”
This time, the silence had teeth. “So you can prove they didn’t do it. And I end up looking like a moron again.”
“No, Jay—I mean, you know that’s not how it is.”
“I didn’t go after them, Shaw. They came to me. They walked into the station and confessed. They told me they did it.”
“I know. I know. And I know you’re doing your job the best you can.”
“The best I can?”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant, Shaw. You and North are going to ride in and show everybody how stupid the cops are. Go ahead, Shaw. Do whatever you want. This time, though—and I’m only asking for old times’ sake—could you try being gentle when you fuck me over?”
“Jay—”
He banged the receiver down, and Shaw flinched and pulled away. The guard made an all-knowing noise of disappointment, took the phone from Shaw,
and motioned for him to follow her.
“I’m not trying to cause him problems.”
No noise, this time. But she had long lashes, and she could get a hell of a lot across with them.
He saw Peter first. They met in a cramped interview room. The walls were cement painted gray. The floor was cement painted blue. A yellow line marked the do-not-cross limit. Two windows, high and small, provided more of that gray, empty light—it was almost as bad as the fluorescents. When the guard showed Peter in, Shaw was surprised at the transformation. Peter looked small inside the orange prison uniform, his hair wispy without whatever product he normally used, his face lined and sallow. He wore handcuffs, which he seemed eager to hide under the metal table as soon as he sat. The guard took up a position in the corner of the room.
“Could we have some privacy?” Shaw said.
The guard ignored him.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s not going to leave you alone with a dangerous murderer,” Peter said with an attempt at a smile. “Hello, Shaw.”
“Peter, what is going on? Why are you doing this?”
“I was drunk, I didn’t know—”
“I don’t want to hear whatever story you told them. I want to know why you confessed. I want to know who you’re protecting.”
Peter shook his head. “I’m not trying to protect anyone, Shaw. I did this. I…I don’t remember doing it. My lawyer thinks when it comes down to it, that will make a difference. He said maybe manslaughter, but not to get my hopes up. That’s—that’s only five years. I know that’s the minimum, but it could be less with good behavior.”
“What are you talking about?” Shaw stood, and the guard turned sharply toward them. Hands in the air, Shaw sank slowly back into the seat. “I know you, Peter. I know you didn’t kill Rik. I don’t know why you think you did—”
“Because I wanted to.” The words were technical precise, patient. Explaining basic coding to someone too slow to understand. “Because I’ve wanted to kill him since sophomore year when he raped me.”
“He didn’t—” Shaw touched his forehead. That drill bit was still spinning. “What?”
“He raped me. We met at a party. He was interested. I was already with Paul. One night, I had too much to drink, and Paul was traveling for an internship interview, and I let Rik talk me into going to his place. That apartment he was renting while he was separated from Jean. He wanted to show me a new computer. He couldn’t figure something out. You know how he could be. So charming. We had some more drinks. I blacked out, but not all the way. Browned out, I guess you could say. He raped me. Then he drove me home.” Another of those aborted smiles. “Like a gentleman.”
“Peter.”
“I didn’t go to the police if that’s what you’re going to ask. I didn’t even tell Paul until years later, after we were married. I had this crazy thought that he would blame me. I certainly blamed myself.”
“I had no idea.” Shaw shook his head. “I am so sorry.”
“I didn’t know he was going to be at Teddi’s party. I wouldn’t have gone if I had. And of course Teddi couldn’t have known what he was doing, bringing all of us together like that. But when I saw Rik there, all I could remember was the smell of limes and gin on his breath, the feel of him, how much it hurt. How everyone thought he was the perfect father when his son was in the hospital and he got back together with Jean. It all came back. I drank too much. Liquid courage. Enough to follow him, anyway. I don’t know what I planned on doing, but I kept drinking, and eventually it caught up to me. I blacked out, and when I came back, I was covered in blood, and my hands were, well…” He moved his hands up above the table, exposing the scabbed scrapes and cuts that covered his knuckles. Shaw remembered their conversation on the balcony, how busy Peter had been to keep his hands buried in the potting soil. “I called Paul. He helped me…clean up, as it were. And now the dummy is trying to save me.” For the first time, a genuine smile flickered on his face. “God, I love him so much, but he’s really not the best problem solver when he gets emotional.”
“How did you get Tucker’s driver?”
Peter blinked. His expression closed. “I followed him and took it out of his trunk.”
“But how? How did you get it out of the car?”
“I don’t remember. He must have left the car unlocked.”
“Really? Why was it locked when North and I found it?”
“Habit. I must have locked it before I left.”
“Where was his car?”
“I don’t know. I blacked out.”
“Why did you put those pictures under the driver’s seat?”
Peter let out a shaky breath. “That’s a trick. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but you’re asking me trick questions.”
“How did you drug Tucker?”
“He was doing drugs recreationally with Rik. They found the pills there; I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“I meant the second time.”
Peter looked like he’d been hit.
“You didn’t kill Rik,” Shaw said. “Someone else did, and they went after Tucker again, and the fact that you don’t know anything about it is proof that you had nothing to do with this.”
“Was it Paul?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Peter shook his head. “This was a mistake.” He twisted in the seat to look at the guard. “Can you take me back to my cell? I want to go back to my cell.”
“Peter—”
“I’m not talking to you, Shaw. I don’t know—I’m confused, and anything I said today is simply a result of that confusion.” Raising his voice, he said to the guard, “I want to go back to my cell.”
The conversation with Paul took place in the same room, with the same guard, and Paul, like Peter, showed the fatigue and emotional toll of the last week.
Shaw spoke first. “I know Peter didn’t do this.”
The relief in Paul’s face was like sped-up footage of erosion: layers of exhaustion and grief and pain scoured away. Then he seemed to catch himself, and a wall dropped down. “Peter didn’t do this. I did. I killed Rik.”
“For heaven’s sake, Paul, don’t make me do this again. How’d you get the golf driver? Where was the car? Why’d you put the pictures under the driver’s seat? How’d you get those roofies into Tucker? Quit wasting my time; this is serious, and you and Peter are making things worse.”
Paul stared at him. In the bad lighting, without a decent shave, under stress and fatigue, he looked jowly.
“Tell me why you’re doing this,” Shaw said.
“Is Peter still saying he killed Rik Slooves?” Shaw opened his mouth, and Paul said, “Please don’t lie to me.”
Deeper in the justice center, an electronic lock buzzed, and then the sound cut off.
“Yes.”
“He’s lying,” Paul said. “I killed Rik.”
“This whole thing is going to fall apart once Jadon knows the right questions to ask. Peter will be out of here in a day or two; there’s no way any of this will stick, no matter what he tells them. And you’re even worse. The only reason you’re still in here is because the whole thing has been such a cluster. All you’re doing is making their jobs more difficult. And you’re hurting yourself. So drop the act and tell me what’s going on.”
For a long time, Paul looked down at the table, the steel pitted and scarred. His head came up slowly. He met Shaw’s gaze, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. Almost reverent. “I know it’s stupid,” he said. “And I know it won’t work. I begged Peter not to do this.”
“You should have stopped him.”
“Maybe. But that’s the thing about relationships, Shaw: even though you’re fifty percent of them, sometimes they’re not about you. What would you do if it was North in there?”
Chapter 28
SHAW SENT JADON A list of questions to ask to disprove the
confessions. He omitted the photos they’d found in the BMW, but the number of things that Peter and Paul couldn’t account for would be enough to let Jadon kick them loose and, in the process, keep from embarrassing himself. Then Shaw called North.
No answer.
No answer for the rest of the day. No North, no sun, no rain. Just the smothering heat, so much water vapor in the air that Shaw wanted scuba gear, and the gray light that was everywhere and nowhere. Adrift, Shaw floated from place to place, looking for something to do. Pari chased him out of the office after she caught him trying to sort the bills by environmental impact. The emptiness of the house—his parents were gone to China for at least a week—chased him back onto the street. He drove past the Slooves’ home in Ladue, the dark eyes of the windows following him. He smoked a fatty lying on a rice mat in the storage room of Master Hermes’s shop, lights off, and every time he blew out more smoke, the ceiling dropped a few inches. You can’t keep doing this, he told himself. Not forever. When the brownie that Master Hermes sold him crumbled, Shaw started sobbing, and Master Hermes made him sit on the curb in the suffocating heat until he’d calmed down enough to drive.
When Tucker didn’t come home at midnight, Shaw thought he knew. When it was two, certainty made a lead weight in Shaw’s gut. At three, he drove to the house in Webster Groves, and he saw the Volvo sedan and the GTO parked side by side in the driveway. He went home and ripped the head off the Zayn plushie trying to get to the Ambien.
The next day, when North didn’t answer again, Shaw drove to the Southampton duplex and waited. He didn’t have anything better to do; the investigation had hit a dead end, and Shaw wasn’t sure it mattered anyway. Tucker was off the hook, and Peter and Paul were probably home by now. Someone had killed Rik Slooves. That was the end of it.