Transposition

by Gregory Ashe

  “Who are you?”

  Columbia drew her hand back as though Hazard had slapped it. “What?”

  “Who are you? You, in particular, and then all of you.”

  A flash of something darkened Columbia’s fox-like face for a moment, and then she shrugged. “Columbia Squire, CFO for Strong, Matley, Gross.”

  “CFO?”

  “It’s just a title.”

  “But you handle the finances.”

  “Detective, this is an awfully boring conversation. Are you sure there isn’t anything you’d rather talk about?”

  “I’m sure. Who are the others?”

  That same emotion colored Columbia’s face again, and this time it lingered. Anger was part of it—at Hazard’s rejection? He wasn’t sure—and something else too. But when Columbia spoke, her voice had its familiar mocking lilt. “Benny is CTO—the T is for technology—and Meryl is vice-president of acquisitions. Adaline is Thomas’s personal assistant, Leza came on as a consultant and wormed her way into a job as head of HR, and Ran, the little squeak, doesn’t do a damn thing as far as anyone except Thomas can tell.”

  “What is Strong, Matley, Gross?”

  “Really?”

  Hazard nodded.

  Blowing out a breath and running a hand through her long, curling hair, Columbia said, “We’re an investment firm.”

  “You’re the managers of an investment firm?”

  “No, sweetheart, we are the firm. Lean but mean, that’s how Thomas likes to describe us.”

  “Where are Matley and Gross?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Yes, so answer the question.”

  “You’re no fun at all.”

  “Miss Squire—”

  “Columbia,” she breathed in her husky tone, stretching out a languid hand. “Please?”

  “Matley and Gross are no longer part of the company?”

  “Sweetheart, for all I know they’re no longer part of the living. And if you want to know what happened to them, you can ask Thomas. All he did was give us a song and dance about moving on to better opportunities.”

  “What do you invest in?”

  “That,” Columbia said, for the first time dropping her mocking tone and taking on a slight edge of menace, “is proprietary. And I don’t care how absolutely fuckable you are, you’re not getting that out of me.”

  Hazard’s skin prickled with goosebumps. The cotton candy smell brought him close to gagging, and this woman’s attention—sexual or otherwise—made him want to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. He held his ground, though, and kept his gaze firmly locked with hers.

  “But,” Columbia said, shifting back into her thinly veiled sarcasm, “unless you’re going to carry me upstairs and ravish me, I think we’ve talked enough. We’re all about to be very, very wealthy, Detective. And I can be very nice to my friends. No? Pity. If you change your mind, I’m the last room on the left.”

  Hazard shut the door behind Columbia, and when the washing machine buzzed, he jumped, the hot sting of adrenaline rushing through him.

  When Hazard had transferred everything to the dryer, he made his way back to the upstairs room. Somers sat propped up in bed, the sheets bunched loosely around his waist, displaying a perfectly muscled chest and arms and those tattoos. He didn’t look like a Greek god; Somers didn’t have the right coloring, and Greek gods didn’t have tattoos. But he did look—

  —absolutely fuckable—

  —like a hell of a lot of trouble for Emery Hazard. And a lot of it, Hazard was embarrassed to admit, even to himself, had to do with the tattoos. They were—

  —bad-boy hot—

  —a good look on Somers.

  “Nico called,” Somers said, gesturing to Hazard’s phone on the end of the bed. “I told him you’d call him back.”

  “You did what?”

  “I told him you’d—”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yes.” A wrinkle appeared in Somers’s forehead. “He didn’t sound very happy. Did you guys have a fight?”

  “Not yet,” Hazard said, staring at the phone like it was about to bite him.

  “You didn’t—when you talked to him, you didn’t say—”

  “That we’re sharing a bed?”

  “We’re not sharing a bed.”

  Somers laughed. “I didn’t say anything. I just told him you’d call back.”

  Hazard snagged the phone and started toward the bathroom.

  “Drop the towel,” Somers called after him, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Fair’s fair.”

  Giving Somers the finger, Hazard shut the bathroom door. He dialed Nico, and the call connected on the first ring.

  “You ok?” Nico asked.

  “Stuck at this house until the weather clears up. River flooded, washed out the bridge. Somers just about drove the car into the river. Well, technically he did, but we weren’t in it.”

  There was a long silence from the other end of the line. “I don’t know whether to laugh or hang up.”

  “Don’t hang up.”

  Nico sighed. “I’m on the shuttle. I should probably go, people don’t want to hear me talk.”

  “You’re mad at me.”

  “No.”

  “You know this is my job.”

  “No,” Nico said, his voice heating. “Your job is your job. You didn’t have to work Thanksgiving. You didn’t have to pick up an extra call.”

  “Somers volunteered us.”

  “And you could have said no.”

  Hazard noticed, at the edge of consciousness, that he was holding his phone very tightly. Too tightly. He tried to ease his big fingers around the aluminum frame, tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn’t. Nico was pressing on a—

  —secret—

  —sore spot, and Hazard’s anger was irrational.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means if you like spending that much time with him,” Nico invested the word with disgust, “maybe you should be dating him.”

  It took a few seconds before Hazard had wrestled down the worst of his anger. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  The call disconnected. Hazard flexed his fingers, surprised at the stiffness and the ache, as though he’d had his hand clenched all day. Then the anger surged up inside him, snapping past his defenses. Hazard let out a low roar and hurled the phone sidearm. It struck the shower wall with a crack.

  Breathing heavily—no, worse than breathing, panting—Hazard stared at the broken phone. He flexed his fingers again because they hurt so goddamn much. He couldn’t seem to get enough air.

  “Hey,” Somers called through the door. From the sound of his voice, he was standing just outside the bathroom. “You ok?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Ree?” Somers rattled the doorknob.

  The sound of that name—the nickname that only Somers used, the one that summed up all of Hazard’s old longing—only spiked Hazard’s anger.

  “Can I take a goddamn shower, please? Without you barging in, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  “Yeah. Sure you’re ok?”

  Hazard didn’t bother to answer. He retrieved the phone; the screen was shattered, and all it showed now was a blue smear. Hazard tossed the phone on the counter, dropped the towel, and turned on the hot water. He showered, gingerly rinsing the wound on his shoulder, and wincing as the hot water swirled with his blood in pink drops. When he’d finished, he dried himself carefully and ended up looking at the broken phone.

  This was bound to happen, he told himself. Nico had been jealous of Somers from the beginning. And not without cause, Hazard knew. But it also had to do with the differences in their age, in their personality, in their history. Nico was too young, too inexperienced, and too—well, was un-wounded a word? Nico didn’t have all the scars. He didn’t know, couldn’t know, everything that had happened between Hazard and Somers.

  Hazard
carried the phone out of the bathroom. The air in the bedroom was freezing, and steam wicked along the doorframe where the hot, humid air of the bathroom was escaping. The overhead lights were off, and the only illumination came from a bedside lamp. Somers sat there, arms crossed behind his head, watching Hazard. Hazard ignored him and kicked through the pile of blankets that Meryl had brought.

  “What are you doing?”

  Hazard ignored him again.

  “Did you have a fight with Nico?”

  Getting down on his knees, Hazard piled the blanket and squared the edges.

  “Are you mad at me? Did I do something?”

  “Jesus, Somers, will you just let me be pissed off? It’s not about you, ok?”

  Somers was silent for half a minute before he said, “Can I see your shoulder?”

  “What are you going to do? You’re not a doctor. You don’t have any supplies. I know you mean well, but I’m tired, and I want to go to bed.”

  “You’re wrong.” Somers flashed a brilliant smile. “First-aid kit.” He held up a white plastic box. “Got it from one of the hall closets.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Somers snugged a towel around his waist and climbed out from under the sheets. The way he walked, the way his muscles contracted, defining the deep notches around his groin, emphasizing every leonine movement, it made Hazard’s breath tangle, and he felt a dangerous heat kindle.

  “Sit down,” Somers said, pressing on Hazard’s good shoulder. Hazard complied, and Somers sat behind him, close enough that Hazard could smell Somers’s hair and the soap on his skin and the mint of his toothpaste. With a surprisingly gentle touch, Somers probed the still-healing wound. “It’s reopened, but it’s not too bad.”

  Hazard grunted; he didn’t trust himself to talk.

  The next few minutes passed wordlessly as Somers wrapped the wound with a clean bandage. When he’d finished, his hands lingered on Hazard’s shoulder, and then he began a slow, steady massage.

  “What are you doing?” Hazard asked, trying to pull away.

  Somers dragged him back, and Hazard let it happen. He was bigger than Somers. He was stronger than Somers. But part of him wanted this, even though he knew it was just making things worse, giving Hazard a taste of something he had wanted for twenty years, something he could never have.

  More minutes passed, Somers’s fingers digging deep into muscle, his touch firm and confident, and then Hazard said again, “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t ask stupid questions.” But Hazard could hear the smile in the words. The massage continued, and Hazard felt himself starting to relax as the muscles in his back loosened. Somers’s hands moved to Hazard’s other shoulder and his neck. Another minute passed, and then Somers drew Hazard back until Hazard was reclining against him. The feel of Somers’s smooth, firm muscle woke a spark inside Hazard, but he was surprised to find that he was still relaxed.

  When Somers spoke, his breath tickled Hazard’s ear, and his voice was very soft. “I shouldn’t have answered your phone.”

  Hazard shook his head a fraction of an inch, not wanting to lift away from Somers’s body. “He would have been pissed no matter what.”

  “But I made things worse.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.” Then Somers helped Hazard sit up, and he shifted around so they sat facing each other. “Shoulder?”

  “Feels a lot better.”

  “Good.”

  Hazard knew he should say something—thank you seemed like the best bet—but the words were dissolving at the back of his head. His whole attention was caught up in studying Somers. Not just the blond man’s beauty; Hazard had spent twenty years admiring that. Right then, Hazard wanted to see the tattoos, those dark lines of ink that were—

  —so hot, so goddamn hot—

  —not what he had expected of John-Henry.

  Somers sat back, his arms coming up over his chest. Then he blew out a breath and said, “Screw it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not like I can cover them up, right? I mean, I’m wearing a goddamn towel that barely hides my balls. So go ahead and look.”

  Heat rushed into Hazard’s face. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, it’s not you. God, I’d rather it were you than anyone else.”

  And what the hell, Hazard wanted to know, did that mean?

  Somers continued, “I started getting them my second year in college. I was being a rebel. Cora and I were taking a break. We’d been on and off freshman year. I’d fooled around with—well, a lot of people. I thought I was hot shit.”

  You are, Hazard wanted to say. The absolute hottest, like the goddamn surface of the sun.

  “And then I was thinking about being a cop. I don’t know, it just interested me. I got drunk. I got this.” Somers traced a band of characters that ran around his chest. The characters were large, and the words spiraled from his collarbone, around his back, and ended just below his ribcage.

  “Hebrew?”

  “Geez, of course you recognize it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re too smart for your own good,” Somers said with a lopsided smile. “Yeah, it’s Hebrew. And no, before you ask, I’m not Jewish.”

  Hazard reached out, unable to stop himself, and traced the first character. Somers shuddered and sucked in a breath, his nipples stiffening, and his eyes slid shut. When they opened, the pupils were dilated, enormous.

  “What does it say?” Hazard asked, unwilling to draw back his hand, savoring the faint grittiness of Somers’s skin.

  “Learn to do well,” Somers said, his voice cracking slightly. “Seek judgment, relieve the oppressed, judge the fatherless, plead for the widow.”

  “Learn to do well,” Hazard said, and then he couldn’t stop himself. He was thinking of all the times they had come so close, like the locker room, like that night in Somers’s apartment, like this, right now. His thumb grazed Somers’s nipple, and Somers let out a moan.

  “Fuck,” Somers said, his fingers latching onto Hazard’s wrist but not quite pulling his hand away. “Ree, you can’t. We can’t.”

  “Yeah,” Hazard said, but he hadn’t pulled away either.

  “No, man. We can’t.” A pleading note entered Somers voice, as though he were powerless to stop whatever Hazard decided. “Please?”

  That tone struck Hazard like a bucket of cold water. Hazard had used that tone before. He’d used it with Billy, all the times he’d been unable to understand what he’d done wrong, all the times he’d wanted Billy to let him make things right. He’d used it with Alec, when Alec had hit him, when Alec had used the paddle. It was the voice of someone helpless and afraid. Hazard jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned.

  “I didn’t—” Somers struggled for words. “Ree, I wasn’t—”

  “Forget it.” Hazard dragged one of the blankets over him and lay on the pallet he’d made.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The bed is plenty big.”

  Hazard pulled the blanket over his head. It was childish. He knew it was childish. But he was so humiliated that it seemed like the only solution.

  Then, to his surprise, Somers lifted the edge of the blanket and scooted underneath, the length of his warm body snuggled up to Hazard’s.

  “Jesus,” Hazard said, ripping the blanket away. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m trying to go to sleep.” Somers blinked lazily at Hazard, projecting wounded innocence.

  “Get in the bed.”

  “No. If you’re going to sleep down here, I’ll sleep down here.”

  “What the hell is this? What’s wrong with you? Is this a game? Is this revenge?”

  “No,” Somers said slowly, as though Hazard were a bit dense. “It’s bedtime.”

  “Somers—”

  “Ree, I don’t want to argue about this. And I really don�
�t want to talk about it. Let’s just get some sleep. No monkey business.” He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “You’re a goddamn Boy Scout?”

  “Of course. Aren’t you?”

  Groaning, Hazard dragged himself into the bed, as far to the edge as possible. Somers climbed in next to Hazard, dragging the covers up. The bed was cold, and Hazard was painfully aware that John-Henry Somerset, who had filled his fantasies since he was fourteen, was lying naked about six inches away from him. But their brief interaction that night, and Somers’s abrupt rejection, stripped the thoughts of anything amorous. Rejection, Hazard thought as he tried to scoot even closer to the edge of the mattress, was about as effective as soaking your balls in ice water.

  In the darkness, the only thing that existed was the sound of Somers’s breathing, and Hazard knew the other man was awake. They lay like that for a long time until Somers broke the silence.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  Hazard knew he could keep quiet. He knew he could pretend he was asleep. He knew he could try to keep the upper hand. But instead, what he said was, “Me too.”

  SOMERS WOKE WITH ONE ARM curled across Hazard’s broad chest, and immediately a wave of conflicting emotions crashed over him. After that disastrous moment with Hazard the night before—God, Somers wondered for the hundredth time, why did I ask him to stop?—Somers had spent the night tormented by darkly sexual dreams. Most of the details were lost, but he knew they had involved Emery Hazard and his big, strong hands and his complete refusal to listen to Somers’s protests. Even now, awake, Somers felt the aching arousal that had tortured him all night. Somers forced his thoughts into a semblance of order and reminded himself that he had done the right thing by asking Hazard to stop. He had said what needed to be said. But again, as it had all night, a small, insistent voice asked Somers just who, exactly, he was trying to convince.

  As delicately as he could, Somers peeled his arm from the sticky sweatiness of Hazard’s skin and inched away from the bigger man. It wasn’t the first time Somers had woken up next to a naked man. It wasn’t even the closest that Somers and Hazard had come to sex. They had been closer in the locker room when the desire in Hazard’s eyes had almost eaten up Somers. They had been closer that night in the apartment.