Love Can't Conquer

by Kim Fielding

  He turned off the bedside light that perched on a plastic milk crate, and he closed his eyes. Then he ran through his mental porn stash. The time in Memphis he’d let two guys pick him up, and the three of them had spent an entire sweaty August weekend in bed, until they were so drained and replete that none of them could move. Or the guy on that California beach who’d led him into the public restroom, dropped his board shorts, and fell to his knees, then jacked himself while apparently attempting to suck Qay’s brains out via his dick.

  The mental porn stash hadn’t been updated lately and contained mostly scenes and images from years past. Not only that, but Qay had ruthlessly censored it, cutting out scenes involving drugs or booze. So, most of them.

  Maybe the shortage of decent material was to blame, because Qay found his mind helpfully bringing up images of Captain Caffeine. Pecs straining the cotton of his sweater, big hands curled around his coffee cup, laugh lines at the corners of his pale gray eyes. He probably wore a cape and Spandex under his clothing. Probably had a rumbly voice that rang out when he fought for truth, justice, and fair-trade arabica beans. Probably his biggest problem was whether to work his quads or lats first.

  Okay, that last part was unfair. Captain Caffeine had looked genuinely troubled. Qay knew that just because someone was easy on the eyes didn’t mean his life was all peachy keen. Every superhero had an evil nemesis or two.

  As Qay stroked his hardening cock, he imagined what Captain Caffeine would look like without the fleece and sweater, without that pair of well-worn jeans. His biceps would bulge as he propped himself over Qay, his dick—oh hell, let’s give him nine inches—would strain and slide against Qay’s, and his ass would bunch and flex under Qay’s questing hands. Qay thought about the grunting sounds Captain Caffeine would make when he finally thrust into Qay’s body, the taste of sweat as Qay licked it off his chest, the musky smell of him filling Qay’s little apartment.

  Qay’s entire body tightened with need, and he moved his hand faster, twisting hard at his peaked nipples with the other. His teeth dug into his lower lip. And then he pictured Captain Caffeine looking at him, pale eyes locked with Qay’s darker ones and shining with lust and… something more.

  Qay came with a muffled sob.

  QAY’S JOB was across the river. Getting there required either two buses or one bus plus a sizable hike. Because the buses were running on a weekend schedule today, Qay opted for the walk. A light drizzle started at the halfway point, and by the time he got to work, he was wet and chilled. He spent several minutes standing by the space heater near the front office, waiting to warm up. An apartment closer to work would have been nice, but there wasn’t much housing in the industrial zone, and the nearby neighborhoods were out of his price range.

  Saturdays were quiet at the window factory. Most of the crew had the day off, leaving just a couple of grunt workers like Qay to clean the equipment and floors, get shipments ready for Monday, and assemble the cardboard packing materials that would protect the completed products. If Qay didn’t fuck up, he might eventually move into a more skilled position, measuring, cutting, and glazing windows. Glass finisher wasn’t exactly his dream job, but it was a decently high aspiration for a man like him. With it, he’d get a better schedule, and his salary would rise too, which would be nice. Right now he made just a smidge over minimum wage. He had a much greater chance of achieving the job position than getting a goddamn college degree.

  “Hill! Move your ass and grab a broom!” Stuart was the shift supervisor, which he seemed to think put him only one step lower than God. He liked to boss people around. That was bad enough, but it especially rankled because he was half Qay’s age.

  Although Qay would have happily told the little douche bag where to put that broom, he held his tongue because he needed the goddamn job. With one last mournful look at the space heater, he made his way to the supply room, where he collected an armful of cleaning supplies and set to work.

  You had to be at least somewhat mindful while cleaning a glass shop, because shards and jagged pebbles bided their time before assailing the unwary. Even with his heavy boots and gloves and the thick safety goggles, Qay had been cut more than once. Today he tried to pay attention as he pushed the broom across the endless concrete floor, but he wasn’t very successful. First he imagined all the things he’d like to say to that prick Stuart, and when that got boring, he pondered his upcoming exam and John Stuart Mill. Over himself, the individual is sovereign. Yeah, easy for Mill to say.

  After he swept the floor, Qay took his fifteen-minute break with the other guys, sitting on plastic chairs just inside the open loading dock and watching the rain fall. “Got a smoke?” asked Barry, addressing the group at large. Nobody did. Sometimes Qay wished he still smoked, but he’d given it up during a stint in a psych ward and never took it up again.

  From an open window in the futon factory across the alley, the mournful notes of an acoustic guitar wafted out, slow and bluesy. “How come the weekend crew at the futon place gets live music?” Qay asked.

  Barry shrugged. “Probably some kinda hippie-dippy New Age shit to make ’em happier. Hell, they prob’ly sit around on their fancy mattresses smoking weed and making tie-dye during their breaks.”

  “Or screwing,” suggested another man. Rob. Or Rick. Qay could never remember.

  Everyone laughed, but Qay’s mind drifted to the one place he’d been avoiding all day—memories of last night. Jerking off to fantasies about a muscle-bound cop was stupid and embarrassing. Never mind that the guy was probably straight—and even if he was gay, he’d be way more likely to arrest Qay than fuck him. Not that Qay was currently doing anything illegal, but that hadn’t necessarily stood in the way of certain law enforcement personnel in the past. As one police officer had said after cuffing him and while slipping something into Qay’s pocket, “Yeah, doesn’t really matter if this shit isn’t yours. It helps make up for the zillion times you were carrying and didn’t get caught.”

  Something else was bothering him too, something that had tickled at the edges of his consciousness the previous evening. It was weird, but something about the big guy was familiar. Sure, Qay had seen men like Captain Caffeine before—men who were built, men who had the wary cop look, men who sat in coffee shops with the weight of the world on their shoulders. There had been something specifically recognizable about him, though, and Qay couldn’t for the life of him say what.

  “Hill! You’re back on the clock!” Stuart’s strident voice startled Qay from his uneasy thoughts. Qay took a deep breath and hauled himself to his feet.

  THE WORKDAY crawled by, interrupted by a brief sack lunch and an even briefer final break. Qay was deeply grateful when Barry gave him a lift downtown to catch a bus home. Usually Qay refused Barry’s offers out of pride, but not today. Dinner was—surprise!—ramen noodles, but pan fried with some frozen mixed veggies and some fatty ground beef Qay had stocked up on during a recent sale. He washed the dishes, put them away, and sat down at the table with his textbook and notes.

  The small basement noises became oppressive: the upstairs tenants walked around and ran water in the sink, a neighbor’s dog barked, Qay’s ancient refrigerator hummed. He kept rereading the same sentences and still they didn’t make sense. “Fuck this!” he growled, slamming the book shut and shoving it away. Fuck the exam and the class and the entire fucking community college.

  Maybe he should just go out. Find a bar. Hook up with someone and screw his brains out. Yeah, that would be… idiotic. He’d only be ten times as miserable in the morning.

  Then it occurred to him that he didn’t have to stay home and study. He could take his book somewhere else. Like to a café, for example. The owner of P-Town had given every indication that she wouldn’t mind if he parked himself there for a few hours to drill utilitarianism into his brain.

  Qay threw his school shit into a backpack, shrugged on his leather coat, and headed out into the rain.

  Chapter Three

 
DONNY WAS bleeding all over Jeremy’s bathroom. Okay, maybe not all over—it was a big space—but red was smeared on the toilet, on the sink, on the floor tiles, and on several towels. Donny sat on the closed toilet, shirtless, his pale skin blooming purple bruises.

  “Thanks for not calling 911.” He squeezed his eyes shut as Jeremy applied a butterfly bandage to a deep cut over one eyebrow.

  “Don’t need to call 911. I’ve got the chief and most of the commanders in my contacts list.”

  “That’s right. I forgot how la-di-da you’ve become, Chief.”

  “Shut up.” Satisfied that Donny’s face wasn’t going to peel off, Jeremy took a closer look at the slices on his left forearm. Defensive wounds. The bleeding had stopped, but the flesh gaped. “These need stitches. You need to go to the ER.”

  Donny attempted to smile, but the facial swelling permitted only a slight stretch of his lips. “You can do it. You’re a Boy Scout.”

  Knowing the futility of arguing with Donny, Jeremy shook his head in resignation and stomped away to gather supplies.

  The thing with Donny had been a lavish, explosive mistake, like a Michael Bay movie that lasted six years. They’d met when they worked for the police bureau. Jeremy had been single for some time, and Donny, who claimed to be straight, was in the midst of an ugly divorce. At the time, Jeremy didn’t exactly wear a rainbow pin on his uniform, but he didn’t take any pains to hide who he was, and most of the people he worked with were quietly aware he was gay. Then he and Donny worked a case together, and what started as friendly colleagues somehow ended up with the two of them in bed, Donny howling like a banshee while Jeremy plowed his ass.

  The chemistry between them had been amazing. Mind-blowing. Every time Jeremy came, he was slightly surprised to discover the Earth hadn’t actually moved. Formerly hetero Donny took to gay sex like a starving man plonked in front of an all-you-can-eat buffet. Even when they weren’t fucking, they had fun together. They went to movies and ball games, took long hikes in the Cascades, spent hours spotting each other at the gym. They moved in together. Too quickly, maybe, but with all good intentions. Jeremy had fallen hard.

  But fairly rapidly, Jeremy admitted to himself that Donny drank too much and too often. Donny also tended to stretch regulations at work. They fought about it. A lot. Sometimes Donny denied everything; sometimes he made promises to get treatment—promises he never kept.

  Jeremy ended up quitting the bureau rather than let himself be caught between loyalty to his lover and loyalty to his job. Donny resigned soon after, circumventing his inevitable firing.

  The arguments got worse. Donny kept promising to clean up his act but then would come home drunk. Finally one afternoon they’d ended up screaming at each other, and Jeremy had come so close to hitting Donny that the fingernails of his clenched fists dug bloody furrows into his palms. He’d stomped out of their shared apartment and gone for a long run, followed by a lengthy heart-to-heart with Rhoda.

  He’d come home to find Donny in their bed, fucking some girl he’d picked up at a bar.

  Now, Jeremy plunked his supplies onto the edge of the tub. “I’m not a doctor. Not even a medic.”

  “But you have steady hands and a shitload of first-aid training. C’mon, Jer. Don’t make me beg.”

  Jeremy gritted his teeth, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and got to work. He gave a small, satisfied grin when Donny winced at the application of antiseptic. “A hospital would numb you up first,” Jeremy pointed out as he held the needle in a match flame.

  “Just give me some booze and that’ll do me fine.”

  “No.”

  “Jesus, Jer. You gotta have something around here. Some beer at least. It’s medicinal.”

  For a moment Jeremy wavered. He had a six-pack in the fridge—and a bottle of whiskey and another of rum in a cupboard. But dammit, he’d spent way too long turning the other cheek while Donny trotted out excuses to get wasted. “If you want medicinal, go to the ER.”

  Donny let out a noisy sigh. “Sadist,” he muttered. But then he held remarkably still while Jeremy worked the alcohol-dipped needle in and out of his flesh, tying off the cotton thread after each suture. It wasn’t a pretty job. Jeremy’s thick fingers weren’t well suited to tying delicate knots. But it would probably hold Donny together long enough to heal—albeit with some ugly scars.

  Throughout the ordeal, they were both quiet, apart from occasional mumbled expletives. Jeremy wrapped Donny’s arm in what was probably too many bandages, then gave a few last swipes of a damp towel at some of the abrasions and dried blood on Donny’s face and torso. They looked at each other.

  “I fucked up,” Donny finally said.

  “Figured.”

  “You’re not yelling at me.”

  A bitter laugh escaped Jeremy. “You’re not my boyfriend. Your screwups aren’t my problem.” He frowned. “Except you showed up at my door. What the hell, Donny?”

  Donny couldn’t meet his eyes. “I… I needed help from someone I can trust. And the bitch of it is, I don’t trust anyone but you.”

  They hadn’t seen each other or spoken in five years. If Donny was telling the truth, his life was even worse than Jeremy had suspected. “You need to get your act together,” Jeremy said gruffly. “I don’t know who did this to you—”

  “You don’t want to know. Look. I need to sort of make myself scarce for a while, you know? I’m gonna go stay with my sister. She lives in California.”

  “I remember.” She and Jeremy had met a few times but hadn’t much liked each other. He thought she was snooty. And she, well, she was pretty much pissed that her brother’s significant other had a dick.

  Donny nodded repeatedly and pulled at a frayed thread on the leg of his boxers. “It’s kinda late, and I can’t really go back to my place. Can I stay here for the night? On the couch,” he hastily added. “I’ll be out of your hair first thing in the morning, I promise.”

  “With my clothes on your back and my money in your wallet.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  He wouldn’t, and they both knew it. And that wasn’t the issue anyway. But if Jeremy was going to turn him away, he should have done it before unlocking his front door. Now he couldn’t bring himself to shove Donny back out into the night—and possibly into the hands of whomever attacked him.

  “One night. On the couch. Gone before breakfast. And I’m not doing this again, Donny.”

  Donny closed his eyes for a moment. “Thanks. Thanks, Jer.”

  Jeremy gave Donny some things to wear since Donny’s were ruined. Jeremy was several inches taller than Donny and had always been more muscular, but even so, he was slightly shocked by the way his sweatpants and T-shirt hung on Donny’s frame. Whatever Donny had been up to lately, it hadn’t been kind to his body. He’d lost a lot of weight and had clearly given up exercising. He looked a lot older than forty.

  And speaking of older, Jeremy felt like a hundred—exhausted and just plain weary. He dug bedding out of a closet and tossed it onto the couch. “You can make up your own bed,” he growled. Donny nodded and began to unfold the sheets.

  Jeremy sighed deeply over the mess in the bathroom—dried blood, dirty towels, discarded wrappers, an open first-aid kit. He cleaned up the worst of it and decided to save the rest for the morning. At least he had tomorrow off.

  By the time he retired to his bedroom, the lights in the main room were off, the fridge humming through the quiet. Good. Donny was probably asleep already. He always could drop off almost instantly.

  As tired as Jeremy felt, and cozy as his king-size bed was, he tossed and turned for a long time. Even though he didn’t want to, he worried about Donny. Had Jeremy done the right thing in not getting the authorities involved? Hell, Jeremy was the authorities. But he didn’t feel that way tonight. He felt… well, a little lost. Like he really needed someone to pat his shoulder and tell him everything would be okay. He couldn’t entirely blame Donny for these feelings, because Jeremy had already b
een out of sorts before entering his building tonight.

  Shit. He probably just needed a decent night’s sleep.

  HE WAS climbing a tree to rescue a cat, only the cat kept turning into a teenage boy and slipping away from him. The ground was far away and possibly covered in something deadly. Hungry alligators or thousands of knife blades—he wasn’t sure which. Then some creature snuck up behind him and started licking his nape, and Jeremy began to fall… and ended with a start in his own bed, thrashing and pushing something away.

  “What the fuck?” Jeremy got tangled in the blankets as he struggled off the bed, and he almost knocked over the bedside lamp when he reached to turn it on. He squinted in the sudden bright light.

  Donny knelt in the middle of his bed. Naked. Grinning through his swollen face.

  “What the fuck?” Jeremy repeated, his voice cracking.

  “Your couch isn’t all that comfy to sleep on. And you’ve got this nice bed the size of a football field.” Even from several feet away, Jeremy could smell the alcohol on his ex’s breath. Donny must have found the cupboard with the booze.

  “Get out of my bed.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Jer. When’s the last time you got laid? I’m not saying it’s gonna be a thing—I’m still out of here in the morning, like I promised. It’s just…. Jesus. Do you remember how good the sex was with us? We used to see stars, man. Fucking fireworks. We can do that again. You’re single.”

  Standing in his boxer briefs with a cramp working through his hamstring, Jeremy was cold and hollow. He didn’t say another word to Donny. He simply marched into the main room, lay down on the couch, and wrapped himself in a blanket. The couch wasn’t quite long enough for him to stretch out his legs, but at least there wasn’t room for anyone else.