And, well, I'd always liked Damon.
He might be an ass, but he knew how to make me feel good in bed.
He didn't say anything to me in the bar, but he also didn't appear to be in disguise right now. Maybe his latest undercover job was over. When I left the bar, carefully within the legal limit, and headed for my car, he was waiting for me in the shadows.
I'd expected it, yet I was still surprised. He loomed larger there, and I felt so small and inadequate. I remembered his smirk, his superior attitude, and my heart ached.
But it would feel good to sleep with him again, even if it meant nothing to either of us.
"You're not working?" I asked, pulling out my keys.
"Between cases." He didn't move, so I had to lean close and squint in the dimness to find the keyhole of my car. He was close enough that I could feel his warmth.
He wanted me. It wasn't a specific thought or a yes-or-no thing; it just rolled off him, as loud to me now as the rumbling of a stomach in a quiet room, or a cough in the library — or as heavy and growing and steady as a train nearing on the tracks by your building. He wanted me. And that, in itself, was a heady drink.
I was already disappointed in myself, but I gave in anyway, easily and quickly, wanting this. It would feel good. That was all that mattered to me in the moment.
"Want to come over for a nightcap?" I asked, not bothering to be coy.
"I thought you'd never ask." He raised his muscular bulk away from my car and headed to his own. "I'll follow you."
Not planning to spend the night, then, and needing an awkward ride back here in the morning. That was fine; I told myself I didn't care. He was just thinking ahead, which was smart.
I felt the smugness rolling off him, but within the heat of that desire for me, it barely registered on the turn-off scale. I still wanted him.
And I had him. Or rather, he had me. He might say he was straight and liked the ladies, but he really wanted my ass that night.
It was strange to have sex with him again, able to compare before and after my certification. I had more awareness of his thoughts and feelings this time.
I was careful, now, to never ask people questions that would require their being put on the spot with a truth or lie, but I still felt such things, of course. Fortunately he didn't talk much. He just went for what he wanted, and so did I.
It lacked even the softening warmth of friendship now. Two bodies slaking lust; in one sense, it was almost repulsive to me. But I didn't care. I didn't care about anything. I just wanted things to stop hurting for a minute, and, jerk or not, it felt so good being with him.
He wasn't trying to fix me, he didn't want anything from me except this, and I didn't have to care whether he looked down on me or not. I didn't care what he thought of me afterwards.
I could almost see myself through his eyes, my smaller build, lithe and fit, driving him crazy. He didn't want to keep his hands off me; he wanted to own me completely, if only for that night. He wanted to make me scream, wanted to slake every drop of his lust inside me before it drove him insane.
Realizing he'd been wanting me was a turn-on, and I already knew he was pretty good at this.
I made sure we practiced safe sex. Other than that, nothing was off the table. He had me good — and I loved it, as much as I could love anything.
There were certainly no thoughts of love and forever in that lust-slaking night. But all the same, when I woke up alone and sore in a very, very messy bed, I felt like shit.
My head hurt — I was so thirsty — and my body was completely wrung out. Except instead of the good feeling of having made love, having someone care about me, all the good and sexy feelings were gone, and I only felt empty, discarded and used up.
He'd gotten what he wanted. So had I. No regrets, I told myself. And yet I couldn't look myself in the mirror.
I thought of Colin, and his gentle eyes, so sad and hurt and disappointed in me the last time I'd seen him. He expected more than I could give. When had I become so dead?
I showered and combed my hair carefully, and took care of everything. I even put the sheets all into the wash so they'd be done by the time I got home from work.
I was a responsible citizen. I drove safely, and when I got to the precinct, I didn't even look around for Damon.
I saw him anyway, of course. I could feel him watching me, which led to my eyes knowing exactly where to look. His gaze was hard and wary, and I could feel the hostility rolling off him.
He was one of those guys after all. It was more than just slaking lust — it was getting out, or letting out, his gay side. This morning he hated it and himself, and most of all me. For drawing his eye. For wanting him. For being weak enough to let him have me.
For a man like Damon, I would always be weak for admitting I was gay, for accepting and embracing that part of myself, and most especially for letting myself care about another man. Men were for sex, but nothing more. Damon couldn't even let himself be friends with me now. Not anymore. The hostility rolled off him, tinged with hate.
It was a hard brew to swallow, swirling around with the rest of the precinct's dark emotions.
A prisoner down the hall, brought in for questioning, was weeping. He was on something, and it made his feelings spike hard and high, filled with a greater despair than he could ever remember feeling. No one listened or cared; they just kept booking him.
It was time.
I went to my little office and sat down, feeling strange and disappointed in myself, and almost light somehow. This wasn't right. I was stronger than this.
I'd liked it better before I was certified, when I'd discarded ninety percent of my impressions like most people do — before I knew which ones were true and which false.
I hated this insight.
Oh, and here came Damon, his hatred moving towards me like a dark cloud. Here to get one over on me somehow. Oh, joy.
He knocked at the door. I looked at the window, wanting to escape, trying to keep my face steady and even. Whatever he said, it would hurt. But probably not more than what I'd already read from him far too clearly.
He came in without waiting for permission.
"If you tell anyone, I'll deny it," he said flatly.
"I wasn't going to." Giving in wouldn't get him to go away; I'd be better off fighting him. But I didn't have the spark to do it in me anymore. I had nothing left, and he hated me, and I didn't really care. Everything hurt anyway. But he hated me, on top of everything. He really did — as much as he'd wanted me last night, that was how much he despised me now.
Just a scrawny, emotional faggot. Who would want such a thing anyway? I was nothing. Not like women . . . No boobs to speak of, and far too easy, and not even very good-looking by the light of day, so sallow and sad. And wasn't I a shit, having the nerve to be sad? If anybody deserved to feel bad about last night, it wasn't me, right?
I let the feelings and impressions roll over me, blows that barely touched me, even though they were hard ones. I was getting really used to being despised and knowing I wasn't imagining it.
"Oh, don't give me that 'poor little me' face. You enjoyed it last night," he accused, scowling. I didn't know what he wanted from me, exactly, but it seemed to involve my feeling awful. If so, he was getting it.
"So did you," I said, like an accusation.
He gave me an ugly grin then. "It was all right. But you're really easy, you know. Don't think you'll ever find somebody who wants to stick around that way. You should try holding out instead."
I shrugged a shoulder. He didn't know about Colin, and I didn't really care what he thought of my relationship skills, wants, or needs. He was clearly more of a mess than I was. I wanted to hate him, but it was hard. Not because he wasn't a jerk, or because the sex was awesome, but because I could feel the rivulet of revulsion he felt for himself. He was trying to turn it onto me, but he wasn't getting rid of it, no matter how hard he tried.
Closet cases. Fun.
Maybe h
e wasn't gay, maybe bi or something like that, but if he could accept that part of himself that wasn't straight and homophobic, I bet he'd be a lot happier. Maybe I would, too.
"I'm not holding out hope for you to become my boyfriend," I told him.
It was the truth. I was surprised, because I usually did hold out some stupid hopes like that, even when I knew better.
"Good, because that's never happening."
"I know. I have work to do. If you don't mind?" I turned to the computer with a bored expression.
He left, feeling dissatisfied with the encounter. What, did he want me to break down and cry? Would that have massaged his ego?
Shithead.
Chapter five
With that out of my system, I refused to do anything else stupid, either. I began to fight back against the dark thoughts, to shut down the vague plans that formed in my head, the not-quite-a-plan thoughts along the lines of, "Wouldn't that be a quick, easy way to die?"
I began taking counseling seriously. It was easier than I'd expected. I always had had a mouth on me, and it turns out professionals are paid to listen to a client's blathering.
Whether it helped or not, I'm not certain, but that or something began to make me feel a little more in control of my life, a little less like I was in a death spiral.
I finally called the number Colin had given me, even if I couldn't bear to call Colin. I talked with the people in charge about the difficulty of working with the police, how I was finding it a very hard environment to adjust to and wondering if there was some job where I might be a better fit, even if it meant a pay cut. The money was starting to seem a lot less important than it had in the beginning.
I started jogging more seriously and cutting back on the drink. I got a trial membership at a gym. I might not be staying, but that was no reason not to work on my abs. It kept me busy in the off-hours after work, anyway. A couple of hot guys even flirted with me.
I didn't count the women anymore. Something about me seemed to appeal to a lot of women, most of them a little younger than me and pretty cute. If I were straight, I'd be a happy man.
Fortunately some guys found me hot, too. Just not the kind of hot they wanted to keep.
I didn't hook up with anybody. I was still thinking about Colin, and whether there was anything to salvage there if I could get my life back on track. I definitely didn't want to be his project. I'd also like to be able to open up with him and just be myself, but I didn't seem to be very good at that.
I'd sort of been showing off for him before, trying my hardest to charm him and keep him interested. I really liked the guy, so I'd tried too hard. And he'd been trying hard, too. What would it be like when the walls came down and we were both our ordinary, everyday selves? Would he still like me then?
He definitely hadn't liked me when I was having my breakdown.
It was still tough at work, and I had to try to distance myself mentally from it.
I think the captain realized some of it, because he did not again have me in the room with a suspect, even when it would've been more convenient. I was always behind the two-way glass from this point on.
I didn't talk about that awful case with him. He'd brought it up only once afterwards to stare hard at me and tell me I had some mandatory counseling sessions to attend; after that, nothing, even when I showed up late and slightly less than sober for a few weeks in a row.
Let's face it, I had a long leash. But I wasn't sure it was enough to keep me here. Getting out of the spiral was a help, but it was still rotten work for me, and most days I'd far rather have been going out in my crappy mini-van working divorce cases and sleeping in a flood-prone rat-hole.
I had asked about different job openings, but had heard nothing back yet. So I was surprised when the captain called me into his office and on the carpet.
"You asked to change jobs already? You haven't even been here six months." He gazed at me like it was a personal affront. "Have we actually been too lenient?" The vibes he was throwing off said, Just how much of a spoiled brat are you? He didn't like me very much just then.
Unfortunately, I'd been having a bad day. I'd fallen down on the whole sober thing the night before, and my head still hurt from having a couple drinks more than I should've. I'd been feeling like shit about myself, and the hostility of the workplace was getting to me more than usual.
If he thought this was such a great job, maybe he should do it.
"Oh, sorry, Captain, if I'd like to work somewhere where half the people don't want me dead at any given time." I was exaggerating . . . slightly.
He scowled. "You haven't complained about the workplace conditions. You're not trying at all. You're just going behind my back and trying to leave. You're being paid better than most of the workforce here, for far less work, far fewer rules to follow, and a great deal more freedom. No one has harassed you — and if they have, you haven't reported it, which you know very well you should have." He scowled at me disapprovingly. "The fact that you're extra-sensitive to perceived criticism—"
"Perceived! Oh! Yeah, that's right, I'm imagining all the hatred your cops have for me. It's not like I'm, oh, certified to know stuff like that. Silly me!" I threw my hands up. "You know what? You don't have to hear in everybody's head how much they hate you. You don't have to be a pariah while you're also spending time in the headspace of psychos. So, yes, I want to leave. I will leave." I turned on my heel and grabbed for the door. I was so angry my hands trembled, and I fumbled it the first try.
"Durphy!" snapped the captain, cold fury running all through him along with something worse: a kind of sick pity. "Do not leave this room before I've finished speaking to you."
I stopped. I'm not sure why; I hadn't planned to. But his voice held the kind of authority you just automatically obey, even me, the mouthy gay guy who'd never been able to shut up in class or curb himself around authority figures.
He'd stayed out of my way; I'd stayed out of his. I had no problem with the man personally. I could tell he'd been trying. Shit was about to get real, but I could at least hear what he had to say before storming out. I could give him that — especially since I knew he couldn't keep me here, and I didn't actually have anything against the guy.
I stood with my hand on the doorknob waiting, trying to regain some calmness, and listened.
"I recognize you haven't made friends here, but I also think you haven't tried. If you don't realize your job is important, I wonder about your priorities. Eileen's death hit all of us hard. It was terrible. You're new to this work. It's expected that it will hit you even harder. But that's no excuse to give in, to give up."
He took a breath, getting himself even more under control. "You might not be a social success here, but you must admit you've given everyone a great deal to dislike and not much chance to get to know your nicer sides. If you have them."
I looked at him. Our gazes narrowed at each other. He seemed to be pondering what else to share. He found it.
"You flout the rules, take advantage of the system, and avoid being around anyone long enough to even say hello. You show up late, get paid extremely well for it, and generally give the impression of being an asshole who's just in it for the money. None of the police officers in this precinct are in it just for the money. None of them would hate you if they thought you were giving your best and actually gave a damn. But you certainly don't leave anyone with that impression. This job is incredibly serious to most of us. We're not a perfect precinct by any means, but integrity is important here. No one is supposed to be above the law. And yet you are. You are, and it's still not enough for you."
I gazed back at him, most of my anger draining away. A dramatic exit was all very well and good, but this was real communication from a sensible man. He might even actually listen to what I had to say.
"I don't think I'm cut out for it," I told him. "I've tried really hard, although it doesn't seem like it. Being in the corner, out of sight, sitting still all day and waiting — that's li
ke hell for me. I don't do well at sitting still. As for winning friends and influencing people — I'd just make them hate me more if I tried to be buddies. The queer freak who probably reads their every thought? Yeah. I'm gonna be the mascot in no time, right? Half of them resent me for one thing, half for another, but the end result is the same. They'd all be glad to see me go, and meanwhile, I'm not a cop. I'm just not. I don't know how to deal with questioning a child's killer and feeling all his emotions. Maybe it makes me sound weak, but it's the truth: I'm not a cop. I have no idea how to deal with that. I went to a pretty dark place afterwards. And to be completely real here, I'm not out of the woods yet."
I stared at him. He stared at me.
"So that's it? You're giving up?"
"If I was giving up, I'd be dead already," I said with a little more harsh honesty than I'd meant to put into the words. He blinked, finally surprised.
Well, that's me: creating a reaction wherever I go.
"So, no, I'm not giving up," I said, pressing my advantage. "But I'm also not going to try to do something I have no way of succeeding at. I'd rather go back to my old job, if I had the choice."
"Your old . . ." He stopped, wheels turning in his head. "You were a private eye. You were legally licensed and held the job for several years." His eyes narrowed. "You miss action? Being out and about during investigations?"
I shrugged. Maybe that was it; maybe I just missed having something to do.
His face cleared. "Well, we can certainly work on that."
#
Colin drunk-dialed me.
It was about two weeks after I started riding along on patrols for at least part of every work day. It was going okay. Some days were pretty exciting, others were difficult — but almost every day where I actually did something was better than just skulking in a corner, waiting to be pulled out like some kind of machine.
The officers and I were getting used to each other. I'd had ride-alongs with three sets of police officers so far, guys who had no particular problem with me even if they weren't quite sure about me yet. The captain had picked well. We were all getting to know each other a little.
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