Love Can't Conquer

by Kim Fielding

  Narrowed eyes again. “Where?”

  “It’s called Patty’s Place. It’s over on the east side, in a real nice neighborhood. It’s safe. They’ll give you somewhere to stay, feed you, help you find a job or finish school. They’re good people, Toad.”

  The brief flash of raw hope on Toad’s face broke Jeremy’s heart—but not as badly as the bleak expression that followed it. “They’ll throw me out on my ass if they find out I’m queer.”

  “Nope. Patty’s Place is specifically for kids who are LGBT. Q. Um, P. And whatever the other letters are.”

  Toad chewed on his lip so viciously that Jeremy was surprised it didn’t bleed. Fuck. Toad should be worrying about which video game to play next or an upcoming chemistry test, not this kind of stuff. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t get to be a kid. “What if I hate it?” he asked quietly.

  “Nobody there is going to tie you down. If you hate it, you can book. But I think you should give it a try. I’ve driven a lot of kids over there, and I’ve never known one who regretted it.” Although not all of them had made it. Some of them ran, some got strung out on drugs. A couple of them found their burdens too heavy and their hope too thin and ended their lives. But at least they’d had a better chance than the streets would have provided. At least for a while, somebody cared for them.

  Toad didn’t say anything. He just nodded.

  BY THE time Jeremy delivered Toad into the hands of the staff at Patty’s Place, the streetlights had come on. He called to check in with a few of his rangers, and he stopped off at Laurelhurst Park for a brief chat with representatives of a neighborhood group. They were worried about a string of recent burglaries and believed the culprit was hanging out in the park. He promised to have his rangers keep an eye out, which seemed to satisfy the group, at least for now.

  He had some reports to complete and a few spreadsheets to review, but he just wasn’t in the mood. Although he was always glad to help kids like Toad, the experience was emotionally draining. What he wanted to do now was work out, have a light dinner, and maybe hang out for a while at the neighborhood coffee place. He didn’t think P-Town would have live music tonight, but that was fine. He’d be happy to have other people’s conversations wash over him like soothing waves. The paperwork could wait for Monday.

  The gym was only a few blocks from home, so he parked the Jeep in his garage and jogged up three flights of stairs to his loft. God, he loved this place. He’d lived here for five years—ever since the train wreck of a breakup with Donny—and although it wasn’t likely to feature in any magazine spreads, it was airy and attractive. High ceilings, tall windows to let in as much of Portland’s limited sunlight as possible, polished concrete floors, and gleaming stainless countertops. A partial wall shielded his bedroom from the large main living area, and the bathroom was ridiculously enormous. Between the oversized bathtub and huge shower, he could have hosted an aquatic orgy, had he been so inclined. He kept the furnishings comfortable, but few and spare. He didn’t like clutter.

  The floor below him was office space, which meant no noise on weekends and nobody to complain if he tromped around at night. He shared the underground parking garage with the office staff and with patrons of the spa housed on the first floor. The neighborhood offered him an abundance of restaurants and bars, plus a fancy-schmancy grocery store with prices that would have made Mr. Stoltz from the Sav-Rite stroke out.

  It took Jeremy only a few minutes to get ready for the gym, changing from his uniform to sweatpants and a tee and then slipping on a pair of running shoes and his fleece jacket.

  He worked out longer than he should have, until his muscles ached in a reminder that he’d passed forty a few years ago. In the gym shower, Jeremy noticed a brunet he’d seen lift well over two hundred pounds. He wasn’t as built as Jeremy, but he had a nice ass—round and meaty. Unfortunately Jeremy was too tired to admire it. If the other man paid him any attention, Jeremy didn’t notice.

  With his short blond hair toweled dry, Jeremy pulled on the clean clothing he’d brought in his gym bag. Just jeans, a white T-shirt, and a comfortable green sweater he’d owned forever. He wasn’t exactly a clotheshorse.

  By the time he stepped outside, the evening’s light mist had coalesced into a steady drizzle. He pulled up the hood on his jacket and smiled, thinking of Toad spending the night in a warm, dry bed. The kid had looked relieved at the welcome he received at Patty’s—maybe a little overwhelmed with the friendly new faces, but in a good way. He’d be okay. That thought warmed Jeremy, as did the Thai grilled chicken and noodles he ate for dinner. He considered picking up a few groceries—his cupboards were bare—but shopping felt like too much effort tonight. Instead, he ambled into P-Town Café.

  “Regular, Chief?” asked Ptolemy, the gender-fluid barista. Today she wore a low-cut, lacy blouse and striped skirt; the day before he’d been decked out in an approximation of biker gear. Either way, the hair was short and multicolored, and the intellect was sharp as a razor. Ptolemy was midway through a doctorate and was probably capable of taking over the world.

  “Yeah. Big.”

  Ptolemy nodded, rooted behind the counter for an oversized mug, and filled it to the brim. “Here,” she said, scooting it across the counter. “Craptastic day, huh?”

  “Nothing a little weekend won’t cure.”

  Jeremy took the cup, paid, and found an empty table near a corner. The café was crowded, but not as much as on live music evenings. He liked the heavy scents of coffee and sugar as well as the bright paintings on the walls. The nearest one reminded him of American Gothic, only instead of a farm couple, it depicted a handsome shirtless man standing next to a wolf. They both looked happy.

  He was still staring up at the artwork when the café’s owner pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. Rhoda was a tall, imposing woman with a prominent chest that reminded Jeremy of a ship’s prow. Bosoms. That word might have been invented to describe her breasts. Somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty, she wore clothing in bright colors and bold patterns, and she kept her short curly hair dyed an improbable red.

  “Ptolemy says you had a rough day,” Rhoda said.

  “Wasn’t really that bad. Picked up a street kid and delivered him to Patty’s. I think he’ll be all right.”

  “That sounds pretty fantastic, actually. Most of us don’t get to rescue people.”

  Jeremy lifted his mug in a salute. “Ah, but your coffee is a lifesaver.” He slurped greedily.

  Rhoda sat back in the chair and lifted her eyebrows. He’d met her midway through the god-awful Donny mess, when her friendly presence was one of his few tethers to normalcy. And he’d sat with her for months when she’d grieved her husband, killed in a car wreck. They knew how to pry the truth from each other.

  “I’m tired,” he admitted. “Maybe Toad’s safe, but tomorrow he’ll be replaced by another kid.”

  “Toad?”

  “That’s what he said to call him. Anyway, it’s not just the kids or the other homeless people. It’s… everything.” He didn’t have words for the hole in the middle of him, the space where something belonged but nothing ever fit.

  “So what do you need, Jer? A vacation? You haven’t had one in years. A boyfriend? A new hobby?”

  He looked down. “Dunno. I think I just need more coffee.”

  She huffed at him but snatched up the mug and walked away. He let his eyes go unfocused while he listened to the many voices and the zhoop of the espresso machine. The noise was like a barrier—to what, he didn’t know. Thinking, maybe.

  When Rhoda returned with his refill, she looked determined. “I have a plan. Well, a plan for a plan.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tomorrow night. You and I are going to have dinner at the Bosnian place. We can fill up on chevapi, go out for a few drinks afterward, and then we’ll get your life in order.”

  “Sounds like you’re asking me on a date,” he said, smiling.

  “Nah. If it was a date I’d take y
ou somewhere fancier. This is an intervention. You up for it?”

  He wasn’t optimistic about finding a cure when he had no clue about the disease, but at least he’d have a good meal and good company. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

  “Perfect. Meet me here at six.” She stood and patted his arm. “Maybe you should get together with some of the guys tonight.”

  “I think I’ll just hang here for a while and turn in early.”

  Rhoda patted him again before leaving to clear some tables.

  For a moment Jeremy actually considered her advice—maybe he should call a friend or two. He wasn’t really all that close to anyone. He’d had a lot of pals when he’d been with the police bureau, but the mess with Donny had soured most of that. His one remaining cop buddy, Nevin Ng, was a good guy, but he’d been mysteriously busy lately. Jeremy couldn’t get too friendly with the other rangers since he was their boss. He spent most of his time working, running, or at the gym, and a good chunk of his free time with his ass parked right where it was now.

  Maybe that was his problem. Maybe he should expand his social circle or take up a new hobby. Drums. He’d always thought drummers were cool.

  He nursed his coffee until it was too cold to stomach, and then he just sat back, watching the ebb and flow of humanity. His gaze caught for a while on a man at the opposite side of the café, sitting alone with his back to Jeremy. His hair was black, shot through with threads of silver, and it was short enough to reveal a long, vulnerable-looking neck. The man wore a battered leather jacket, and he hunched his shoulders forward over his book. Jeremy wondered what the guy was reading; he certainly looked engrossed.

  After Jeremy cracked his jaw on a yawn, he decided he’d had enough Friday. He’d wake up early, have a long run. Do a little grocery shopping. Maybe hit the gym before his not-date with Rhoda. Yeah. That sounded like a decent enough day.

  He bussed his own table, earning a grin from Ptolemy, and ventured outside with his gym bag over his shoulder. Light sprinkles fell, causing the damp pavement to reflect the streetlights and neon signs. A bus trundled by, splashing through puddles, and the din from a nearby bar carried out into the street. Sounded like the Trail Blazers were winning. If he’d had a little more energy, he might have ducked in and watched for a while over a beer.

  Instead he ambled the three blocks home. Even from the street he could tell that the office workers were gone and the spa was closed; he’d have the building to himself. He could blast his music and watch Internet porn for an hour or two. Take a bath to soak out the kinks from the evening’s hard workout. Jack off in his big, comfy bed.

  He’d climbed the first flight of stairs and started the second when the smell hit him—the metallic, salty tang of blood and sweat overpowering the stairwell’s usual odor of damp concrete. He took the remaining steps two at a time, then turned the corner to the little landing outside his loft.

  A man sat slumped against the door. His torn clothing was dark with dirt and blood, and a small red puddle had formed on the tiles beneath him. He raised his head and attempted his patented boyish grin, but he was foiled by the swelling in his face. “Hey, Jer.”

  Jeremy could manage only a single word: “Donny.”

  Chapter Two

  “REFILLS ARE free.”

  Qayin Hill looked up from the pages of his book and frowned at the woman in the brightly patterned tunic. “I can pay.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They’re still free. Can I get you one?”

  His glower faded against the onslaught of her wide smile. “That’d be great. Thanks.” He watched her plow through the Friday evening crowd, stopping now and then to lay a hand on a customer’s shoulder or greet someone as she sailed by. She must be the owner, he concluded. Her walk had a proprietary set to it.

  She returned a moment later with a steaming mug. “I left room for cream,” she announced as she set it on the table. “Do you want me to fetch you the creamer?”

  By now, his slight offense had shifted to amusement. “I have money and I’m capable of walking across the room. I can get my own cream.”

  “Yeah, but you’re snuggled in here with what looks like a good book, and I’m trying to get more steps on my Fitbit. I’ll do it.” Before he could argue, she was gone again, this time heading to the wooden counter that housed the sugar, cream, stirrers, and other café accoutrements. She snagged a metal pitcher and a couple of packets of sugar, then returned to his table. “Here you go, hon.”

  “Thanks. Um, I’ve been here awhile. That doesn’t bug you?” All he’d bought was the one cup of coffee, and the place was hopping. Almost all of the tables were occupied.

  She laughed as if his question was the funniest thing she’d heard all day. “I’m supposed to be annoyed when a customer finds my shop comfy enough to make himself at home? Darling, if I wanted people to leave quicker, I’d blast annoying music. Dubstep, maybe? My son used to listen to that.” She shuddered theatrically.

  Qay poured cream into his cup until the liquid almost reached the rim, then dumped in a single packet of sugar. He didn’t stir. He liked the flavor better when he didn’t; it was layered. “Some places don’t like it if you sit too long,” he said carefully.

  “This isn’t one of those places. Plus, I always cultivate patrons who read actual dead-tree books instead of tip-tapping on laptops and phones. It gives my shop a more intellectual air.” She grinned at him before taking the cream and gliding away.

  His book was a good one—a sort of black comedy set during the gold rush—but he didn’t wade back in right away. Instead he took a cautious sip of his coffee and sat back in the comfortable padded chair. He wasn’t supposed to be reading the book anyway. He was supposed to be studying for Monday’s exam. But who the fuck was he kidding? He wasn’t going to pass the fucking class anyway, and he was never going to get his goddamn associate degree. And even if he did get the degree, nobody was going to hire him to do anything but grunt work.

  Positive thinking. Don’t talk yourself into giving up. Because he knew all too well where that would lead, and it was nowhere good.

  Fine. He’d read tonight, work tomorrow, and have all of tomorrow evening and Sunday to make sense of John Stuart Mill.

  He opened his book and resumed reading. But a half chapter later, he got that itchy-shoulder-blades feeling of being watched. He hunched his back slightly, trying to ignore the sensation but not succeeding very well. It made him feel like a mouse being eyed by a cat. His leather jacket, which usually felt like a second skin—or perhaps a suit of armor—was too confining; the cheerful din in the café was too loud. Until recently, he probably would have grabbed his book and taken off, but tonight he stayed put. Grownass man. You won’t let anyone hurt you.

  Eventually the sensation eased, and Qay dared to twist his neck around and glance behind him. Fuck. The watcher was an enormous guy, tall even when sitting, and rippling with muscle, his pale hair shorn to bristles and his hands dwarfing even his oversized cup. He wore jeans, a plain green sweater, and a jacket, but everything about the way he held himself screamed cop. He was also handsome in a square-jawed way, like a movie superhero. Captain Caffeine. Here to save the world from weak espresso and underfoamed cappuccinos.

  Well, at least Captain Caffeine wasn’t staring at him anymore. The man’s gaze shifted aimlessly around the crowd, but Qay sensed that the guy’s thoughts were far away. He looked troubled.

  Hell, even superheroes got the blues.

  QAY’S BASEMENT apartment was dark and damp and always smelled faintly of cat piss, even though he didn’t own a cat. The Victorian house perched over his head had seen better decades and looked in danger of collapsing entirely. Qay’s larger room held a kitchenette, a scarred table with mismatched chairs, a lumpy couch, and a particleboard entertainment center with an old cathode-ray tube television. The colors were wonky, but the set still worked. The adjoining room had a twin-size mattress and box spring sitting on the floor and an enormous dresser that looked as if it wo
uld have been at home in Dracula’s castle. In the 1970s, somebody had redone the bathroom, leaving orange vinyl floor tiles, a sparkly Formica countertop, and brass fixtures.

  He hadn’t lived there long, but already the small rooms were cluttered. Well-thumbed books—paperbacks, mostly—lay everywhere in precarious piles. Little knickknacks, many of them slightly chipped or cracked or otherwise damaged, filled horizontal surfaces. He’d torn photos from magazines and taped them to the walls. Mostly pretty landscapes or cute animals, but there was a liberal sprinkling of nearly naked men from underwear ads.

  As always when he first entered, Qay paused to look around and smile a bit. Home sweet home. It was safe and relatively quiet, with bus lines and a laundromat nearby. And he could afford the place, barely. If he didn’t mind eating his fair share of ramen. It’s all mine—as long as he paid the rent on time and remembered to keep the TV volume low.

  He hung his leather jacket on the hook next to the door, tossed his book onto the couch, and kicked off his sodden sneakers. He wasn’t hungry, he’d finished the book and didn’t want to begin another, and the boob tube held little appeal. Although he had to wake up early for work, he wasn’t tired either, thanks to the caffeine he’d consumed at P-Town. He felt at loose ends. In the past, that feeling had led him into trouble. God, he didn’t want to head down that road again.

  He decided he’d be less inclined to head back outside—into Christ knew what predicament—if he had to make the effort to get dressed first. So he stripped off all his clothing and dumped it into the plastic hamper near his bed.

  But that left him naked and shivering. Well, there certainly was a way to deal with that issue.

  He plodded into the bedroom and lay down on the unmade bed, pulling the blankets up to his waist. The ceiling was low and unevenly textured, with mysterious little lumps and discolorations. Without much effort, he could imagine patterns and pictures, as if they were constellations in the night sky. Or Rorschach tests—but that raised painful associations he pushed away with long practice.