Transposition

by Gregory Ashe

  An ice age, he thought, and he couldn’t finish the thought, didn’t know where it might take him. Deeper into the glass, maybe.

  When the doors opened to the fourth floor, Hazard accepted Nico’s help down the hallway. Nico unlocked the door, and together they moved into the apartment. The small two-bedroom had changed a great deal in the month since Hazard had moved in. Still sparsely furnished, the apartment now held an understated, masculine decor that was a sharp difference from its former stark emptiness. Hazard, unwilling to risk a confrontation with Billy after the breakup, had abandoned the remainder of his belongings in Saint Louis. In their place, he had begun to slowly pick out furniture and decorations that he liked—and which Billy would have hated: a fawn-colored sofa with clean lines, a glass coffee table, three Toulouse-Lautrec posters framed on one wall. Somers had added, seemingly out of nowhere, an abundance of houseplants. Hazard’s partner had lived in the apartment for quite some time without a single plant, but now the small dwelling was overflowing with ferns and philodendrons and a pair of potted rubber plants with toxically shiny green leaves. Stepping back into the apartment, Hazard felt a second rush of vertigo, and he was back in the greenhouse at Windsor.

  Laughter broke the illusion. The sound, merry and tinkling and silver, did not belong to Somers. It didn’t belong to a man, for that matter.

  “Who’s—”

  Hazard hushed him.

  Footsteps sounded from within Somers’s room, and then the door opened. Somers, dressed in nothing but a pair of black compression shorts, backed out of the doorway holding a pair of wine glasses. He hadn’t seen Hazard or Nico yet, and he spoke to someone in his room with the reckless good spirits of someone well past the first bottle of wine.

  “I told you,” he was saying, gesturing with the glasses. “I promised you it would happen. Nothing changes.”

  No, Hazard thought. Nothing ever fucking changed.

  More giggles followed Somers’s words, and then a black lace teddy flew through the air and landed on his head. Somers burst into drunken laughter; the laughter came so hard that he leaned against the doorframe for support, sagging.

  “That’s it,” he said when he had conquered his laughter. Setting down the glasses, he plucked the teddy from his head. His voice held a mock-savage note as he said, “Now you’re asking for it. I—”

  Hazard didn’t know what alerted Somers to their presence. It wasn’t a noise; of that much, Hazard was certain. He couldn’t have made a noise if his life depended on it. Whatever the cause, Somers turned. He flushed, and the last of the laughter drained from his face. In a strangely chaste gesture, he pulled an arm across his chest, as though seeking to hide the taut muscle and the curling black script of his tattoos.

  “You’re supposed to be at the hospital.”

  From within Somers’s room, the woman’s voice came again. “Who is it?”

  “Just a second. No, don’t get up. Just give me a second.” Somers shut the door and leaned against it, his arm still drawn over his chest. “Are you—is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Hazard could feel himself shaking. It was a slight tremor, but it ran from the center of his chest to the tips of his fingers. It didn’t matter, of course. Somers could do what—or whom—ever he liked. They weren’t—

  —dating—

  —accountable to each other for anything but their work. So it was stupid, indescribably stupid, for Hazard to feel this way, like someone had cut out the best part of him and left a gaping hole where it should have been.

  “Let’s go,” Nico muttered.

  “Do you want us to stay at Nico’s?” Hazard managed to say the words.

  “What? No.” Somers swiped at his face, and then he scooped up the glasses. “I just came out to, you know, top off. We won’t bother you.” The heat still glowed in Somers’s face, but he smirked as he added, “And God knows I’ve had to listen to you two more than once.”

  “We’ll go to Nico’s.”

  For a moment, Somers didn’t say anything, but a hint of that earlier, dark smile returned to his face. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”

  Whatever Hazard wanted. He didn’t want to go to Nico’s. He didn’t want to leave Somers. What he wanted, what he’d wanted for almost twenty years, was standing right there in front of him—his darkly-inked muscles rising and falling with each breath.

  No one spoke. Then Somers turned to the bar and filled the glasses. Nico, tugging on Hazard’s arm, turned him towards the door, and they made their way to the hall. As Hazard reached for the handle, he heard Somers stepping back into the bedroom.

  “Sorry about that, Cora—”

  Hazard didn’t hear the rest of it. The door’s crash ran up the hall like a gunshot.

  His wife. Somers was sleeping with his wife.

  Why the hell was that so much worse than anything else?

  BY THE TIME THEY REACHED NICO'S APARTMENT, night had swallowed all of Wahredua. This portion of town—the new, trendy developments that had grown up around Wroxall College—looked like something out of a Christmas picture: neatly shoveled walks, ropes of lights strung between balconies, warmly glowing storefronts. Even the snow was pristine, without the black patina of exhaust and motor oil that had blanketed the rest of town. When Hazard opened the car door, a swirl of air carried scents from the bakery on the next block: cinnamon, mostly, and the yeasty aroma of rising dough. God, he truly hated Christmas.

  Nico helped him upstairs and into the apartment.

  “Sorry,” Nico said, chafing his hands as he studied the thermostat. “I turned it down before I left.”

  It didn’t matter. The cold had penetrated deep inside Hazard. No amount of heat would ever get it out. This was it: the ice age, winter, endless. His breath didn’t steam, though, and that felt left Hazard feeling cheated.

  The furnace clicked, and air whistled through the vents, carrying with it the smell of a freshly-started heater. Nico shut the door and then took Hazard by the hand, leading him towards the bedroom. There was something comforting about the familiar space, all the signs of Nico’s life: a trail of socks leading from the door to the bed, the ironing board sitting out but with no iron in sight, and the bed itself a tangle of linens, as though someone had spent the night wrestling alligators instead of sleeping there.

  Nico gripped the hem of Hazard’s sweater, but Hazard shook his head. He dragged the garment off, kicked his jeans loose, and dropped onto the bed. He ached, all over, and worst of all his hand. For a moment, Nico stood there, watching him.

  “Well?” Hazard said.

  “You’re not going to say anything?”

  Another long moment passed. Hazard closed his eyes, and he struggled to open them again. Sleep, sticky as pitch, tried to draw him down. Why, why, why, why, why. Why had he been so stupid about John-Henry Somerset?

  “Thank you,” Hazard said, his eyes opening to slits.

  Then Nico was kneeling next to him, naked, and Hazard clutched Nico’s mane of dark hair and pulled him down for a kiss. The kiss was long and hot and passionate. It wasn’t fireworks; it was magma, stone brought to a boil, and Nico moaned into it.

  “You’re not—” Nico stammered before Hazard pressed against his mouth again.

  When they separated again, Nico tried once more: “I’m not—”

  He never had another chance. After that, the only sounds he made were moans, and then sharp, short cries—helpless demands that only drove Hazard closer to the edge. Their lovemaking, always slightly rough, had a new, brutal intimacy about it. It emptied Hazard’s mind and left room for nothing but Nico, and when they had finished, there wasn’t even room left for that.

  Nico, soaked in sweat, curled into Hazard’s embrace. He was purring soft sounds of contentment as Hazard’s fingers traced circles on his slick skin. Shifting, he planted his mouth on the hard line of Hazard’s cheekbone and kissed him once.

  “I’m sorry,�
� Hazard said, running his hands through waves of thick, black hair.

  Nico didn’t answer; his breathing had evened out into the slow pulse of sleep.

  For a long time Hazard lay there, entwined with Nico, focusing on the feel of their bodies, the rhythm of their breath, the tick of heartbeats. Through the curtains, the first flurries of snow fluttered against the glass.

  An ice age, Hazard thought, drawing the down comforter up to cover him and Nico. Who the hell cared as long as he had somewhere warm to spend it?

  PATERNITY CASE

  KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PREVIEW OF PATERNITY CASE, THE NEXT HAZARD AND SOMERSET MYSTERY.

  “STOP YANKING ON MY COLLAR.”

  “It doesn’t look right.”

  “Your face isn’t going to look right if you keep it up.”

  “You’re just—there. See? It’s fine. No, wait. Hold on.”

  “Somers, if you touch me again, I’m going to break your hand.”

  That threat, at least, brought an impasse. Emery Hazard gave his partner—and roommate—a furious look and, just to be safe, stepped out of reach. John-Henry Somerset, who went by Somers, crossed his arms.

  “If you’d just let me—”

  “Drop it, all right?”

  Somers let out a defeated sigh and held his hands palm out in surrender. He sank back a step, positioning himself near the sofa. Their apartment, with only two bedrooms and a combined living area and kitchen, didn’t offer much space for retreat. Somers gave a shake of his head and turned in a circle, his gaze flitting from object to object, as though the apartment’s clean, contemporary furnishings had suddenly absorbed his interest.

  “What the hell’s gotten into you?” Hazard said. He studied his partner. Somers had the slender, toned musculature of a swimmer, and the blond good looks of a swimmer who could sell a hell of a lot of Speedos. Normally, he skated by on those looks; his clothing was frequently rumpled, his hair mussed, his general appearance making Hazard want to shake him—or at least run an iron over his shirt.

  Tonight, though, Somers had tried for something more: a blue gingham shirt, a navy sports coat with brass buttons, and dark corduroys that hugged his butt and made it occasionally difficult for Hazard to breathe. The look, however, wasn’t quite working: the gingham shirt was creased across the chest, and the buttons were done up wrong, and the hem of his pants was coming out. Somers seemed oblivious to his own condition, however; he fiddled with the buttons on his sports coat, and then a flicker of apprehension crossed his face, and he took a step towards Hazard.

  “You don’t normally wear your hair like that—”

  Hazard planted a hand on Somers’s chest and shoved the blond man towards the sofa. “Sit.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “I’m being ridiculous?” Hazard didn’t bother to wait for a reply, but he did—when he thought Somers wasn’t looking—check himself in the mirror. Somers was a damn fool. His hair always looked like that.

  “What’s Nico wearing?”

  “Sweet Christ,” Hazard muttered. Then, in a louder voice, he added, “It’s one dinner.”

  “I know what it is, Hazard. I asked you what Nico’s wearing.”

  “I don’t know what my boyfriend is wearing, Somers. I haven’t seen him today. I’ve been busy working. You remember work, right?”

  “You’re just mad because I took a personal day.” Somers glanced at the door, thumbing the brass buttons on his sleeve so that they ticked against each other. “Seriously, though: is he wearing a suit?”

  Hazard shrugged into his jacket, grabbed his keys and his wallet, and started for the door. Either he left now or he might very well kill Somers, and that wouldn’t look good on their quarterly evaluation. Before Hazard could open the door, though, someone knocked. Hazard pulled it open and found Nico standing in the hall, holding flowers.

  Nico Flores, with his thick, wavy black hair and his caramel skin, straddled the threshold between boy and man. He was twenty-five, but a very young twenty-five, and his height and slender build made him look lanky when he loafed around in his ratty clothes.

  Tonight, though, there was nothing ratty about Nico—and nothing lanky either. Dressed in a stylish gray suit with a white shirt open at the throat, Nico looked exactly like what he was: a model. True, Nico was more than that—he was a theology grad student and a very smart young man. But he was, at that moment, hot enough to start a fire just by dragging his feet.

  “These are for you,” Nico said, passing over the flowers.

  Hazard kissed him, accepted the bouquet, and said, “I was going to pick you up.”

  “I know. I wanted to surprise you.”

  Hazard led Nico into the apartment, passing into the kitchen to find a vase where he could display the flowers. Somers, when he saw them, collapsed back into the chair.

  “He’s wearing a suit.”

  Nico glanced at Somers and then at Hazard. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Forget it.”

  “A goddamn suit.”

  Nico glanced down at his clothes. “I thought we were going to—”

  “We are. Just ignore him.”

  It was, however, surprisingly difficult to ignore Somers. He lurched upright and stabbed an accusing finger at the two of them. “It’s going to be hard enough with just one of you there. You get that, right? But both of you? And he’s wearing a goddamn suit?”

  Nico’s cheeks colored, and in a harsh whisper, he asked, “He doesn’t want to go to dinner with a gay couple? Why’d he invite us?”

  “He’s not homophobic,” Hazard answered. Then, in a louder voice, he added, “He’s just an insecure asshole.”

  “I heard that,” Somers called.

  “Will somebody tell me what’s going on?” Nico asked.

  “What’s going on,” Somers said, stalking towards the kitchen and stabbing another finger at them, “is that I’m trying to impress someone tonight, but you show up,” he jabbed a finger at Nico, “in a goddamn suit, and you,” a finger darted at Hazard, “are doing something stupid with your hair.”

  Nico cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Hazard.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your hair does look different.”

  “I told you!” Somer shouted. “I knew it!”

  “Jesus Christ. Would you please not encourage him?”

  Nico’s refined features twisted into a mask of complicated emotions. He didn’t like Somers—oh, he’d never said those words, but his feelings were obvious. He was convinced, for some reason, that Somers was infatuated with Hazard. It didn’t matter what Hazard said to convince him otherwise. But right then, something was warring with Nico’s dislike, and it took Hazard a moment to realize what it was: compassion.

  “I don’t get it,” Nico finally said, still directing his words to Hazard, even though his gaze never left Somers. “He knows he’s hot, right?”

  Somers, who had begun pacing, paused. His chest puffed out a little.

  “I asked you not to encourage him,” Hazard said with a sigh.

  “Well, he is. And what is this? A date? I mean, she’s not going to be looking at either of us. We’re gay, right? It’s not like we pose any kind of threat.”

  “Try telling him that.”

  “Did you at least offer to help him?” Nico asked.

  “No,” Somers said. “He didn’t.”

  Hazard threw up his hands. “The damn fool was worried about my collar. And my hair.” Nico opened his mouth, and Hazard hurried to add, “Which looks the exact same as it always does.”

  Nico, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, left the kitchen. Taking Somers by the arm, he steered him to the center of the room. Nico released him, examined him with a critical eye, and said, “Pants off.”

  “Really?” Hazard asked.

  “You could have helped him.”

  Somers gave Hazard an indignant look. “He’s right. You could have helped me.”

  “Nobody can help you.�
�

  In response, Somers whipped off his pants, standing there in a pair of boxer-briefs patterned with hearts. The underwear left almost nothing to the imagination, and Hazard felt his throat dry up.

  “You can leave those on for now,” Nico said dryly. “I’ll fix your hem. Emery, will you please iron his shirt?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Emery Hazard.”

  “He’s a grown man. He can iron his own damn shirt.”

  “I don’t know how to iron my shirt,” Somers confided quietly to Nico.

  “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard,” Hazard said. Shaking his head, he crossed the room and waited while Somers slipped out of his jacket and shirt. Underneath, he wore a white tank top that exposed smooth muscle and the dark ink of curling tattoos that ran to his wrists. At the sight of so much bare skin, Hazard felt a squeak growing in his throat. He ripped the shirt out of Somers’s hand and went to find the goddamn ironing board.

  It really didn’t take that long. Nico was back with the pants in a flash, and as he handed them to Somers, Somers said, “How’d you learn that?”

  “On the runway,” Nico said with a shrug. “You’ve always got to be ready in case something falls apart at the last minute. Emery, are you done with the shirt?”

  “Yes. I’m done with the goddamn shirt.”

  Nico took it without comment and, after Somers’s failed third attempt to button it, began to do up the buttons himself.

  “Will you stop looking so goddamned pleased with yourself?” Hazard demanded.

  Somers had the decency to try to look abashed, but he didn’t get very far.

  “There,” Nico said, patting Somers on the chest. “You look good.”