Redirection

by Gregory Ashe

  He started with the grill. The burgers were briquettes by now, but the brats, although split and a little charred, had magically survived. He covered them with foil and set them in the kitchen. He packed up the folding chairs. He emptied the coolers, beer going on the deck, ice going into the grass. The pellets crunched and scraped against the plastic lining, shockingly cold when they brushed his hands.

  When he looked up from dumping the last cooler, Shaw was leaning against the deck’s rail. Today, Shaw had chosen a Hawaiian shirt printed with turquoise fronds and jean cut-offs. The clothes exposed the thin, sculpted lines of his body. He’d let his auburn hair down, and it fell past the clean slice of his jaw. Hazel eyes set in that impossibly beautiful face tracked North.

  Standing below him, North said, “Asshole requesting permission to come aboard.”

  Shaw leaned over the rail and kissed him. He made a face. “You smell like smoke.”

  “Kids in the alley.”

  “You taste like smoke.”

  “Permission to come aboard?”

  “I cleaned up the glass, so you can bring the puppy in.”

  They ate at the white gateleg table in the kitchen. The ceiling fan swung lazily overhead, helping to circulate the air conditioner’s vain attempts at making the place cooler. North had his brats in buns he had meant to toast on the grill. Shaw ate his in lettuce wraps.

  “I’m sorry I shouted at you,” North said.

  Shaw waved a limp piece of lettuce. “I know you weren’t mad at me. I was more scared when you went on and on about how I ate all the pink Starbursts.”

  With the half-eaten brat, North smeared the coarse-grain mustard across his plate. “I think I need some time to cool down.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “By myself.”

  Shaw was quiet for a moment. He tore the scrap of lettuce into strips. He picked up each strip and snapped it in half.

  “We talked about this,” North said as gently as he could.

  “Of course. I agree a hundred percent. You never had time when you could be yourself, not with Tucker, not with your dad, and I understand: you want time when you can do that, be yourself, and figure out how to be you, how to be independent and autonomous and self-actualized. I think that’s fantastic. I think it’s the best idea you’ve ever had. I’m totally signed on.”

  Sighing, North stood and carried his plate to the sink.

  “What? I’m agreeing with you. I’m supporting you.”

  North watched the spray flick granules of mustard across the stainless steel. He turned the faucet off. He flicked water from his fingers.

  “I fully and completely and a million-percent support you.”

  “Ok, Shaw. Do you want the living room or the bedroom?”

  “What do you want?”

  North had to fight the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m asking you.”

  “But I want you to decide.”

  It was a fight waiting to happen, like the charge in the air before a lightning strike. North shook it off. “I’ll take the living room. If you don’t mind.”

  “No, that’s great.”

  After the dishes had been loaded, North changed into shorts and settled onto the couch, the puppy curled up next to him, and flipped channels until he found a Cards game. They were playing the Brewers, and things didn’t look great. On another night, North would have been swearing a streak and providing some input on the basic fucking essentials of baseball that Mike fucking Shildt apparently still needed help with. Tonight, though, he tried to turn his brain off and disappear into the rhythm of pitch and swing, the bubble of halide light, the scuff of red clay on the mound. At the back of his brain, hammering on the glass, were Tucker and his dad and Ronnie.

  What made it all so fucking awful was that Belia wasn’t wrong. North’s father had approached Ronnie, who was involved in some sort of criminal operation, for help with a civil suit that a man had brought against North. David McKinney had done this without asking North what he wanted. He had done it without even telling North, until it was too late, what he was doing. But it had happened, and Ronnie had used the fact as blackmail, trying to coerce North and Shaw into helping him steal valuable intellectual property from Shaw’s family’s business. When North and Shaw had turned the tables and gotten Ronnie arrested, Ronnie had lost his mind. He had turned his attention to revenge, obsessed now with destroying North and Shaw, and Tucker had been his instrument. North still had nightmares about that moment in the Aldrichs’ home, when Tucker had shoved Shaw off the landing, and for a moment, Shaw had hung in the air, the toes of his bunny slippers already drawn down by gravity. When those nightmares came, North woke with a scream in his throat, the sheets soaked through in cold sweat, and he spent the rest of those pre-dawn hours with the CZ in one hand, a round in the chamber.

  Behind him, the door creaked. North settled into the couch, gaze locked on the TV. Another Bud Light commercial. The trimmed-down version of the one they’d used in the Super Bowl, the one based on that fantasy show Shaw had a hard-on for. Steps whispered against the boards behind him and into the kitchen. The steps came back. A cold Schlafly, their summer lager, already open and sweating, moved into his field of vision.

  “I’m not interrupting,” Shaw whispered, “but I thought one beer—just one—might help you relax.”

  North made a grateful noise and took the beer. He caught Shaw’s fingers, kissed the tips, and released him. The steps padded away, and the bedroom door creaked shut.

  Being alone wasn’t new to North. He’d been alone, in different ways, for most of his life. Growing up. At school. Even when he’d been married, even when he’d had his husband in the same room. But having a time when he could be unguarded, when all the walls could come down, that was different. It wasn’t even exactly the same as privacy, because they overlapped in strange places: there were ways he could be himself with Shaw, and there were places and times he needed privacy to drop his guard. To have all of it together, though—well, the word autonomous was a good one. He was trying, on the cusp of twenty-seven, to figure out who he was as an individual, without anyone else around to make him want to be something else. Some days, that sentence sounded so fucking pathetic it made him want to spend the rest of his life under the couch cushions, collecting fallen change. At least he’d be providing a service.

  The protest of old hinges and shift in the air made him intensify his gaze on TV. More of those soft steps—barefoot this time, because they had the slightly sticky sound of skin on the floorboards. But instead of heading into the kitchen, Shaw hovered in North’s field of vision.

  “Can I get you anything?” he whispered.

  “No,” North said in a normal voice.

  Whisper: “Another beer?”

  “Still working on this one.”

  Whisper: “A snack?”

  “No, Shaw.” He paused. “Thank you.”

  The barefoot steps moved away. The fridge opened, jars clinking in the door. The ice maker rumbled and gave off its popping noise that meant another load of cubes was about to be discharged. The clink of a plate. The soft-close drawers. Flatware. Unidentifiable sounds: crinkle-crackle, and something hitting the plate. More steps.

  A plate of ridged potato chips and sour cream and onion dip floated into view.

  “In case you get the nibbles,” Shaw whispered.

  North took the plate.

  “I’m going back to my room.”

  “Thank you,” North said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

  “Unless you need anything.”

  “Shaw, we’ve been over this. A few times actually. I know you think I’m weird for wanting some time alone, but—”

  “No, no, no.” Whispered protests. “I think it’s great. I think it’s smart. You’re totally right. I’m going back to my room right now.”

  Footsteps away. Footsteps back.

  “Our room. I meant our
room.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I’m going to our room right now.”

  Seconds later, the door closed, and North picked up the chip. The sour cream and onion dip worked its magic. Between that and the beer, a knot between his shoulders loosened, even though the game was 2-2 now, and the Cardinals had rolled over for both runs like a rentboy at the end of the month.

  Part of North’s mind couldn’t turn off, though. He was still working on the problem of Ronnie, still trying to figure out where Ronnie might be hiding, what he might try next. Finding Ronnie had been a dead end; North had tried all his usual haunts, had tried to shake down every piece of shit he could think of. For now, he had resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be catching up with Ronnie in person—not until Ronnie made a mistake.

  The fact, though, was that last time, Ronnie had come close to succeeding. Next time, he might not make a mistake. The attack orchestrated through Tucker had been effective precisely because North hadn’t expected it—Tucker had been paid for the attack, yes, but Tucker had simply thought he was helping Ronnie collect on a debt and, in the process, been getting his revenge on North and Shaw. The attack had worked because North had let his guard down around Tucker, which would never happen again. If Ronnie tried the same trick again—if next time, it wasn’t a car bomb, or a hired gun waiting in the bedroom closet, or a knife in a crowded place—then North would be ready; he wasn’t trusting anyone except Shaw from here on out.

  The whisper of the door made North groan, although he tried to quash it. The clinging sound of bare skin against the humid boards announced Shaw’s approach.

  “Got a beer,” North said. “Got a snack. All I need is some quiet.”

  But the steps came closer, and then Shaw was standing behind North, out of sight but registering as a presence of body heat and disturbed air flow and the smell of his body. Shaw lowered himself, head behind North’s now, and warm hands settled on North’s shoulders.

  “You’re stressed.” He tugged on the tee. “That woman ruined your night. You keep watching your game, and I’m going to make you feel better.”

  North grunted.

  “Off,” Shaw said with a soft laugh, tugging on the tee again, and when North raised his arms, Shaw turned him out of the shirt. Then Shaw’s hands were skating up North’s chest, his mouth on North’s neck. Goose bumps broke out across North’s body when Shaw nipped at the sensitive spot between his shoulder blades.

  “No fucking way,” North said. “I wanted alone time, remember?”

  “Pretend I’m not here.”

  But the little shit licked that spot again, the textured heat of his mouth making North hard enough that he had to adjust himself.

  “Cut it out, Shaw.”

  But the warning had little force behind it. From behind him came the sound of a bottle being uncapped, and then something squirting out.

  “If you are prepping yourself, you are in for some serious disappointment.”

  Shaw laughed again. “Jeez, I’m trying to be nice to you. Be quiet and have your alone time. Lean forward a little. Yeah, like that.”

  A moment later, Shaw’s hands came to rest again on his shoulders. They were slick with oil already warm from his body heat, his fingers glided across North’s upper back, smoothing the oil into the skin, probing for tight muscles, caressing his arms. Because Shaw could be a dick, he spent a lot of time on that spot that drove North wild, and North had to adjust himself again—this time, he left his hand there. He was intensely aware of a drop of oil sliding down his spine, dampening his waistband when the elastic collected it.

  Whatever other bullshit had come out of Shaw’s New Age streak—crystals and spells to Greek broads and the time he’d tried to preserve a lock of North’s hair (taken while North was asleep) in a magic amulet—he’d really hit gold with massages. Sometimes, he dug deep, until the pleasure was painful in its own way—or maybe the pain was pleasurable. Tonight, he was gentle, stroking away tension, the warm, slick oil softening his touch. Sandalwood and frankincense curled up in North’s chest like a fevered prayer. North made a noise that sounded embarrassingly gratified.

  “I know,” Shaw whispered with a tiny laugh. “We can stay like this if you want. Or you can lie down and I can finish the rest of you.”

  North made himself find his voice, although it was a little scratchy when he finally did. “Breezi goes to the garage.”

  Those silken fingers kept moving. “Hm?”

  “She’s always tearing apart their cars because Nita hates the smell of engine grease. It keeps her out of Breezi’s space.”

  “I’m insulted that you’re thinking about our lesbian neighbors’ garage right now.”

  “Plus she’s got all those Ladies with Power Tools calendar pages stapled to the pegboard.”

  Shaw made an amused sound.

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” North said, falling back into Shaw’s touch. “I’ll hang calendars of pinup boys and motorcycles. I’ve got those postcards you bought me from that modern art exhibit, the one with the twinks trying to lift their appletinis. Oh, and one of those singing fish. Maybe a stag’s head.”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Breezi—”

  “Breezi can get away with that because she’s married.”

  “Christ, if I have to get married again to have some peace and quiet, then let’s get married.”

  Time for a commercial. Michael Bublé was hawking sparkling water.

  “Well?” North said.

  “Well what?”

  The sandalwood and frankincense had started a bonfire in North’s chest. He worked his jaw. “What do you think about that?”

  “About getting married?”

  “No, Shaw, about hanging a singing bass on the wall.”

  Shaw’s fingers slowed, but they began moving again almost immediately. “I think it’s a great idea.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  North focused on the far wall. It was the picture of them on the quad. Christ knew who had taken it or why. But North remembered that evening, remembered how frightening it had felt to sling his arm around Shaw, even though they were both pretending they were just buddies. You go on pretending, he thought. You go on pretending and pretending.

  Shaw’s hands left his shoulders, and a moment later, Shaw came around the couch, kneeling between North’s legs. With glistening fingers, he caught the double waistbands of North’s shorts and trunks, and he tugged. “Let me show you how good of an idea I think it is.”

  “Shaw—”

  “Please let me show you.” Eyes downcast, he rubbed North’s flagging erection through the poly-spandex blend. “I want to get married.”

  North fell back against the couch. Shaw had draped a towel there, he now realized, and he wondered how much of this had been planned.

  “I want to get married to you,” Shaw was whispering, the words directed to North’s crotch. He tugged on the waistbands again, and when North didn’t lift his hips, he simply shifted his grip and pulled down the front of the shorts, tucking the waistbands beneath North’s balls. The combination of Shaw’s persistence, the relatively cooler air, and the fact that Shaw was the most beautiful man North had ever known still had a predictable effect on him. Shaw said, “Mmm,” and leaned closer, giving kittenish licks to the head of North’s dick, then licking long stripes from base to tip as it lengthened, and then taking it in his mouth. It took him a few tries to take North all the way to the root, and then he held himself there, staring up at North. His lips wrapped around North’s cock. His hazel eyes dark with arousal. North surprised both of them by grabbing the back of Shaw’s head and holding him there.

  The flare of panic in Shaw’s eyes was momentary and then gone.

  “Squeeze my ankle if I hold you too long,” North said roughly. “Squeeze it now so I know you understand.”

  Shaw squeezed hi
s ankle.

  North changed his grip, two-handed now, and began to move Shaw’s head back and forth. Shaw gasped wetly for air, but North only gave him a few seconds before pulling him forward like that. He kept a count in his head, varying the time, until spit and precome ran down Shaw’s chin, and his lips were swollen, his eyes glassy as he gave himself over to this. Staring at him like that, North lost control. He pulled Shaw onto him again and unloaded, shaking as he clutched Shaw’s head, counting each pulse the way he’d counted the seconds. Then, palm to Shaw’s forehead, he pushed Shaw off and sagged against the couch.

  “Holy fuck,” Shaw was whispering, his voice raw. “Holy fuck. Holy fuck.”

  “Yeah,” North muttered.

  “But North, I mean—oh my God.”

  Elbowing up from his half-reclining position, North took him in again: flushed, face a mess, hair wild. “Are you ok? Christ, I cannot believe I did that. Did I hurt you?”

  Shaw was touching his jock, where a stain showed that either he’d gotten off during the festivities or had, at the least, leaked like a faucet.

  “Shaw?”

  “Fucking hell, North, that was amazing. I mean, I’m going to be eating Jell-O for a week, but that was insane.”

  North tried for a smile. “Yeah.”

  Shaw stretched up, his body sinuous with muscle, and kissed North. He squeezed North’s hand. “Let’s shower together. I feel so close to you right now, and I don’t want that to go away. Ever.”

  “You go on,” North said. “I need to sit here for a minute.”

  “Ok. We’ll cuddle.”

  North opened his mouth, but a knock at the door cut him off. The knock was frantic and hard, and it send a flush of adrenaline through North, all the night’s thoughts rushing back at him from their dark corners.

  The knock stopped. Then it began again.