Love Can't Conquer

by Kim Fielding

  DONNY WAS subdued in the morning, his facial swelling somewhat reduced but the bruises fully technicolor. He sat quietly on a bar stool while Jeremy brewed coffee. He managed the ghost of a smile when Jeremy passed a steaming mug over the counter. “Thanks.” He took a swig and winced. Damned fool burned his tongue every time.

  Jeremy poured a splash of milk into his own cup, then added a dash of sugar from the shaker he kept on the counter. He leaned back against the cabinets, cradling the drink in his hands, enjoying the heat and aroma.

  “Last night I was—” Donny began.

  “Save it. Not in the mood.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Donny looked down at his bandaged arm. “It’s kinda throbbing.”

  “Infected?”

  “Nah. Just… messed up.”

  Jeremy put down the coffee and padded to the bathroom, which still looked like the aftermath of a disaster. He grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from under the sink. “Here,” he said when he returned to the kitchen, tossing the bottle to Donny.

  Donny caught it neatly, even with the stitches and bandage. The lid gave him a little trouble, but he eventually pried it off and shook out a few tablets, which he popped into his mouth. He washed them down with a swallow of coffee, then stared at the bottle as he spoke. “I don’t try to fuck things up, you know? Shit just sort of happens. It’s like I’m cursed.”

  Jeremy didn’t argue with him. “I have about two hundred bucks on me. Will that get you to your sister’s?”

  “Ought to. Thanks.”

  Thirty minutes later Donny stood at Jeremy’s front door, wearing Jeremy’s sweatpants and tee and his favorite pullover hoodie. Donny’s front pocket contained most of the contents of Jeremy’s wallet as well as the bottle of ibuprofen. “Leaving Portland, that’s something I should have done a long time ago. I’m gonna get my act together. I have plans. You’ll see.”

  Jeremy simply nodded. “Good luck, Donny. Be careful.”

  “Yeah.” One more attempt at a cocky grin and Donny was gone, shuffling noisily down the concrete stairs.

  A HARD run didn’t chase Donny out of Jeremy’s mind, nor did a stint at the gym. Aching yet also numb, Jeremy scrubbed the bathroom until every surface gleamed, then continued his cleaning binge throughout the rest of the loft, which wasn’t actually dirty. He washed the sheets on his bed and the ones on the couch. He found the bottle of whiskey Donny had gotten into the night before, and he dumped the remaining inch of liquid down the drain. The grocery shopping could be postponed another day.

  By five o’clock he knew he wasn’t in the mood to go out with Rhoda. He didn’t want to just blow her off, though. She didn’t deserve that. Besides, she would listen with a sympathetic ear to his recounting of the previous night’s drama. Maybe they could just sit at her café and swill coffee.

  He changed into his favorite jeans, the ones that fit like a second skin and were worn soft as suede, along with a gray tee and a forest green chamois shirt. Enough to make it look as if he’d made an effort, but warm and comforting against his skin. Like wearing a security blanket. He gave a little snort.

  He strolled to P-Town through a lull in the drizzle, taking his time about it. He liked the feel of the earth under his feet. He was still surprised sometimes to glance down and see how long his legs were, how well-built his body. Every so often he still felt like that runt of a kid who used to run home and cry over being bullied by Troy Baker and his mouth breather buddies.

  Jesus. Troy Baker. Jeremy hadn’t thought of him in years. When Jeremy escaped Bailey Springs for the softer air of Oregon, Troy was still there, changing oil and rebuilding engines. By then he’d knocked up some girl and hurried to marry her. Jeremy had no idea what had happened to Troy after that.

  Ptolemy called a greeting as soon as Jeremy entered P-Town. “Hey, Chief!” Today he wore a sleeveless black denim shirt and skinny black jeans.

  “That look’s kind of subdued for you, isn’t it?” Jeremy asked when he reached the counter.

  “Yeah.” Ptolemy sighed heavily. “My dissertation and I had a knock-down-drag-out this morning. I’m going monochrome in protest.”

  “Well, I hope you two kiss and make up really soon.”

  “Thanks, Chief.” Ptolemy poured one of Jeremy’s usual oversized mugs of coffee and slid it across the counter. “I hear you and Rhoda have plans tonight.”

  “Yeah. I was thinking of chickening out, though.”

  “Don’t. A dose of Rhoda will do you good.”

  “Maybe.” Jeremy gave Ptolemy a little wave before wandering across the shop and settling in his favorite seat near the window. He noticed right away that the guy in the leather jacket had returned, again bent over his table with his back to Jeremy. This time he huddled with a thick paperback, a large hardcover book, and a spiral-bound notebook. He was drumming his pen on the notebook, but Jeremy couldn’t tell from this angle whether the guy was deep in thought or spacing out.

  “Hey,” Rhoda said, appearing in front of Jeremy and interrupting his thoughts. Her quilted dress was bright purple, as were her stockings, and she’d wrapped a lime green scarf around her neck. She plopped herself down, mostly blocking his view of the man with the books, and glared. “Seriously? You’re considering backing out of Bosnian food? Burek, my friend. And that amazing bread.”

  Jeremy smiled at her. “Not to mention the wonderful company.”

  “So? Why not, then?”

  “I just….” He ran fingers through his closely shorn hair, then pounded the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Do you know what I did last night?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “I sewed thirty-five stitches into Donny’s arm.”

  It was hard to surprise Rhoda, but that did the trick. “Donny the asshole ex?”

  “The very same.”

  “Did you slice him up so he needed those stitches?”

  Jeremy couldn’t tell whether she was worried or hopeful that he might have been responsible for Donny’s wounds. “Nah. Someone else did me the favor. I found him at my doorstep last night, beat all to hell.”

  “Who did it, then?”

  “I dunno. I didn’t even ask. I mean, knowing him, he probably had people lining up to smack him around.”

  “And he couldn’t go to the hospital to get patched up?”

  Jeremy shrugged helplessly.

  “Oh, Jer.” She shook her head mournfully. “Tell me you just stuck a needle in him and sent him on his way.”

  “Um… not exactly.”

  He ended up telling her the entire story, including the part where Donny showed up naked and drunk in his bed and Jeremy ended up sleeping on the couch. “My body’s still kind of sore. I need a longer couch.”

  “You need to kick him back out of your life.”

  “I did. I mean, he was leaving anyway. He says he’s heading to his sister’s. I gave him some money and a jacket, and if I’m lucky, he’ll stay put in California.”

  Rhoda was silent a moment, clearly deep in thought. Then she nodded decisively and stood, scraping her chair on the floor. “You’re going out tonight, baby boy. But not for Bosnian. I have something else in mind. Let me go make a couple of phone calls.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Pshh!” She held up her hand to silence him. “No arguing. I’ll kidnap you if I have to, Jeremy Cox.”

  He fell back in his chair, groaning, although he was enormously grateful for a friend who fussed over him. “Fine.”

  She marched away like a general heading into battle. That was when he saw the man in the leather coat, twisted around in his seat, staring at him, mouth hanging open.

  Chapter Four

  IF QAY was going to be honest with himself—and he generally was—he was disappointed to arrive at P-Town and discover that Captain Caffeine wasn’t there. But the man’s absence was probably for the best, because Qay was supposed to be studying, not ogling. And with the help of a generous cup of coffee, he accomplished quite a lot. Knowledge w
as slowly seeping into his broken old brain, although fuck knew if he’d be able to pour it back onto the page come exam time.

  When he heard the conversation taking place behind him, he lost all interest in Mill’s thoughts about liberty. What caught his attention first was the man’s voice. Pleasantly deep, it carried a hint of the twangy drawl Qay remembered from his childhood. Most of his youthful memories were painful, but sometimes he missed the accent—a unique mix of the Midwest and West with a dash of the South.

  As he paid attention to the content of what the man was saying, Qay realized the guy was talking about a visit from his fucked-up ex. That was interesting for two reasons. The speaker was obviously gay, and he’d apparently done the ex a solid, even though—judging by Rhoda’s interjections—the ex was a jerk. That made the man sitting behind Qay sound like a true white hat, and it was slightly gratifying to know that Qay wasn’t the only person with a shitload of issues. At least nobody was trying to slice and dice him.

  At this point in the conversation, Qay was pretty certain who was talking to Rhoda. Who else but Captain Caffeine, right? But Qay couldn’t look around to confirm the identity without making his eavesdropping obvious. Then Rhoda called the man by name, and Qay’s heart stuttered.

  Jeremy Cox?

  A detailed memory hit Qay: a kid a couple of years younger than him, tow-haired and slightly pudgy. Quiet. The kid kept his head down and his mouth shut, but every time a teacher called on him, his intelligence was clear—he was light-years smarter than Troy Baker and his gang of morons, who used to torment the boy for sport. That boy’s name had been Jeremy Cox. He’d sat in the back row next to Qay, a little island of exiles among the other students, and he used to sneak shy glances. When Qay looked back at him, maybe spared him a rare smile, Jeremy would blush red as a fireplug.

  Surely that runt of a boy from Kansas hadn’t grown up to become Captain Caffeine, rescuer of past boyfriends and coffeehouse fixture in Portland, Oregon. Yet even back then, his face had the promise of real beauty, once he lost the baby fat and gained some experience. Qay especially remembered gray eyes, each pale iris encircled by a darker rim.

  He couldn’t help it—he turned around to look.

  Just then, Rhoda walked away and left a clear line of sight between Qay and Captain Caf—Jeremy Cox, who stared at him with brows drawn together in a frown. Qay braced himself for an attack that didn’t come.

  “Do we know each other?” Cox asked. He tilted his head slightly. “Sorry, I kind of suck at names. But you look familiar.”

  Qay almost told him. But the person Cox thought he knew was long dead, drowned in the Smoky Hill River, and Qay had no intention of resurrecting him. Especially not for Jeremy Cox, who’d grown up into a strong, gorgeous man who worried about douche bag exes and probably spent his spare time rescuing cats and helping little old ladies cross the street.

  “I don’t think so,” Qay lied.

  “Are you sure? I work for the park department, if that helps. Name’s Jeremy Cox.”

  Park department? Qay would have bet everything in his wallet he was a cop. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I’m Qayin Hill.” Then he remembered the way he’d just been staring at Cox. “I sort of overheard you talking about what happened last night.”

  “Are you twisted out of shape because I’m gay?” A slight threatening note had crept into Cox’s voice.

  Qay chuckled ruefully as he shook his head. His neck was getting sore from craning around. “Nope. Swing that way myself. I was just thinking that not many people would have put up with that guy like you did.”

  Cox gave him a long, scrutinizing look, making Qay squirm uncomfortably. Even if Cox didn’t figure out who he once had been, he could certainly see who Qay was now: used and timeworn, poor, hunched over schoolbooks in a delusional fugue. And when Cox stood with his coffee cup in hand, Qay was sure he intended to turn away in disgust. Instead, he walked around to the other side of Qay’s table and gestured at the empty seat. “Can I?”

  Fuck. Qay nodded dumbly, and Jeremy sat.

  Close up, he was even more handsome. He wore his hair very short, but not because it was thinning, and it was only a few shades darker than the flax yellow he’d had as a kid. His face had weathered a bit with time and life, developed a few crags and lines, but he was one of those lucky bastards whom age flattered. He’d probably be handsome when he was ninety. The schoolboy shyness was long gone, of course. Now he stared at Qay with a frank confidence.

  “Qayin?” he asked.

  “With a Q. It’s Cain in Hebrew. Most people call me Qay.”

  Jeremy smiled at him, wide and toothy. “I’m just boring old Jeremy with the potentially embarrassing last name.”

  Yeah, Qay remembered that from when they were kids. Another unfortunate boy in their math class was named Sonny Butt. His name came right before Jeremy’s in roll call, which meant that by the time the poor teacher got to Brenda Cummings, most of the class would be hooting with laughter.

  “You could always change it,” Qay suggested.

  “Nah. You know that Johnny Cash song ‘A Boy Named Sue’? It’s kind of like that. Made me tough. Besides, if the worst thing a person can say to me is that I have a funny last name, I think I’m doing pretty well.” He snorted. “Anyway, I consider myself lucky. My parents almost named me Richard.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Dick Cox?”

  Qay laughed so loudly he startled himself, and when Jeremy joined in, well, it felt too damn good. “It would make a pretty good porn star name,” Qay pointed out.

  “I’ll keep that in mind if I decide on a career change.” He cocked his head to get a better angle for reading the title of Qay’s books. “Philosophy?”

  “Yep. I’m the world’s most geriatric student.”

  “Hey, that’s cool! I thought about going to grad school a few years ago, but… I guess life got in the way.”

  Grad school. Fantastic. “This is just community college.”

  “It’s still really cool. Are you majoring in philosophy?”

  “Psychology,” Qay mumbled.

  “I liked my psych classes. I was a bio major.”

  “Guess that makes sense for a park department guy.”

  Jeremy shrugged. “I don’t do as much bio as I’d like. The educators do most of the fauna and flora stuff. I’m, um, a ranger.”

  Ding-ding! So Qay’s intuition hadn’t been far off after all. “A cop.”

  Jeremy screwed up his face and looked oddly uncomfortable. “Nonsworn. I do a lot more than law enforcement. And even most of the cop stuff involves things like making sure people pick up after their dogs.”

  “Do you like your job?” Qay asked, genuinely curious.

  A broad smile rewarded him. “I do. I guess there are more important things I could do with my life. Bigger things. But I like to think I make a small difference.”

  “Well, I’m sure you do better than me. I sweep up at a window factory.”

  “If you keep people from cutting themselves on glass shards, that’s making a difference.”

  Qay had no idea how eyes the color of fog could be so warm. And seriously, was there any limit to Jeremy’s perfection? Maybe he was secretly a serial killer. Or the kind of person who clipped his fingernails in public.

  While Qay was considering Jeremy’s potential hidden faults, Jeremy stared at him, his mouth scrunched up thoughtfully. “Have you had dinner?” he asked eventually.

  “Um, no.”

  “Rhoda and I—she owns this place—she and I are going to eat. Will you join us?”

  Completely taken aback, Qay was momentarily speechless. “Uh….” He swallowed. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “You’re not. And if you don’t come, Rhoda is going to try to fix my life. I don’t think I’m strong enough for that tonight. I’d appreciate a human shield.”

  He was either sincere or a fabulous actor.

  Qay glanced down at his faded long-sleeved shirt
and frayed jeans. “I’m not really dressed for anything but fast food.”

  Jeremy held out his arms to indicate his own casual attire. “We’ll find somewhere we meet the dress code. Please?”

  “But… why? Why me?”

  For a moment Jeremy said nothing. Then he shrugged. “Dunno. I swear I know you from somewhere. And I could use a distraction to get the Donny disaster out of my mind. You’re interesting.”

  First off, this wasn’t a date. And second, Qay was way too old and way too depleted to feel giddy about this. But he couldn’t hide a small grin. “If you’re sure—”

  “Hundred percent positive,” Jeremy said, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Just give me a few minutes, okay?” He took his coffee cup and walked away.

  Qay expected Jeremy to keep on walking right out the door. Maybe the invitation was some kind of weird payback for the bullying he’d endured as a child. Keith had never tormented him—but then he’d never stepped in to back him up either. Jeremy didn’t leave the café, however. He walked to the counter and entered into a conversation with Rhoda. It was a pretty lengthy chat, and although Qay couldn’t tell what they were saying, they kept glancing his way. Jeremy looked happy, and Rhoda seemed intrigued.

  When Jeremy strode back to Qay, his long legs covering ground quickly, he was smiling. “You ready?” he asked.

  Qay willed himself to remain chill and took a deep breath. “Sure.”

  Chapter Five

  HE KNEW Qay from somewhere—Jeremy was sure of it. Jesus, what if Jeremy had arrested him back when he worked with the bureau? That seemed unlikely, however, since Qay was being so friendly. It drove Jeremy a little crazy that he couldn’t place him.

  Rhoda was surprisingly agreeable to expanding the size of their dinner party, and she suggested a casual Mexican place on Hawthorne. Because the rain had stopped and the distance was only about a half mile, they decided to walk. As they did, Jeremy snuck glances at the man beside him. Qay was tall, almost as tall as him, and broad-shouldered but thin. His straight hair tended to hang in his face until he pushed it away in a habit so deeply ingrained that he probably never noticed it. He had dark hazel eyes, deeply shadowed, and a lush mouth in a slightly narrow face. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, yet he had an odd sort of fragile beauty that was unusual in someone his age—which, Jeremy reckoned, was roughly the same as his.