All in all, it was going well. I participated informally as necessary with my empath talent, did a lot of watching, and generally became the gopher who ran into a store to buy the snacks. When there were no suspects to ferry to the station, I rode in the back of the patrol car. When there were, I'd get another lift, snag a bus or taxi, or just walk back to the station.
I still needed to be on hand pretty often for interrogations, but I was also quite useful in the field, and I think maybe more useful than sitting in my little room sulking.
At any rate, things had been improving a little bit. I was learning to get along, learning about the job, and they were learning they actually had some use for me.
Then Colin called me late one night, his speech slurred, his voice sad. "I miss you, Peter. Oh, that's right. You don't want to be called Peter."
"Peter's fine," I said, surprised by the intimacy of hearing his voice again, and by how sad he sounded.
Did he really miss me? Or was it just one of those nights when everything feels unbearable? A night for remembering all the bad old things and the good lost things you'd never find again? I'd had a few of those breathing down my neck. They hurt.
"You okay, Colin?" I asked gently. I moved away from my bed, glancing back. The guy in it was snoring gently. I wondered if he'd stay the night. Probably not; he'd probably just take a quick nap and then skedaddle.
I shut the door softly behind me and padded barefoot into the kitchen where I could speak a little louder. I was naked and needed a shower.
The man in my bed was a guy I'd met at the bar. He was a gorgeous, muscular, lithe Latino young man, a year or so younger than I was and an inch or so shorter, an amazing beauty with his lively dark eyes and his dimple and his bright, cocky-sweet smile.
He could've gone home with any guy in the bar, and he knew it.
I'd felt from him the wild surge of joy and lust of a gay man newly out, newly freed, feeling his oats and feeling like he was utterly and finally alive.
That can be a tough time in its own right, especially if you don't stay safe or if you pick up some bad habits. A lot of gay guys from Latino homes didn't get acceptance at home and might go looking for it elsewhere, even if that involved risky behavior.
Still, he was an adult, and hot, and seemed to be pretty down with going home with me. I was flattered, although I knew exactly why he'd picked me.
I was the second hottest guy at the bar. It didn't always happen, but I'd been there before. It's a good place to occupy on the food chain — you're wanted, but not the biggest prize in the joint. And if the hottest guy is looking for some fun, he might just pick you.
Angel did. He was fun, with his soft dark skin and his long sexy lashes, his mix of sweetness, charm, and pure sex on legs. He had hardened hands, a sexy sculpted body from work and play and young muscle, a baby face, and an amazing way with his dick.
I had to remind him about being safe, though. It made me a little worried for him.
His eyes had popped open when he saw how nice my apartment was. (It came fully furnished; I have no decorating taste.)
Anyway, we'd had a good, fun time with no unreasonable expectations on either side. It was nice being with someone about my own size; I didn't feel like I was wrestling a gorilla. We fit together better. And he was so beautiful.
It made me sad to wonder how long his beauty would last, if he flung himself into a hard-partying lifestyle or unsafe sex. His emotional vibes were clear and sweet and calm and happy, just like he seemed to be on the surface. All worries had gone out of his mind while we were together. He had no ulterior motives, no snide thoughts, no judgment. He liked me; he thought I was hot; he had fun.
And now I was listening to Colin being sad at the other end of a telephone call. It seemed like a long time since I'd seen him, and a wave of sorrow crashed over me. Colin was the one guy who'd wanted to stay with me, maybe for as long as we both lived. And what had I done?
Run away screaming. The intimacy and honesty required had scared me to death.
He deserved someone better, anyway. But now he was almost crying at the other end of the phone, telling me he missed me, he'd been thinking about me.
"I just miss you," he said. "I think of you a lot, but . . . I feel like I never knew you at all. Why is that? Am I being stupid?" He hiccupped. "You're so hot. I love your smile. But I wanted—" He cut himself off with a choked sound. "I wanted . . ."
I grimaced. He was going to be so embarrassed in the morning. "I miss you, too, Colin, but it didn't work, did it?"
Silence.
"What do you mean?" He sounded a little more sober and almost alert now.
"C'mon, I couldn't give you what you needed. I couldn't open up when things were hard for me. And . . . and you couldn't come and visit me," I admitted. "I seem to be Kryptonite for relationships, anyway. I didn't really expect anything more. But, yeah, you were amazing. I hope you'll find someone wonderful who's good enough for you."
"But you're g—"
Just then, Angel padded up behind me and wrapped his strong, warm arms around my middle. He gave me a sound kiss on the back of the neck and humped gently against my backside as a reminder that he was here — and apparently ready. I felt myself smiling all over at the warm, friendly touch, the desire radiating from him. There was nothing complicated about this. It was sweet and easy and hot.
"Important call?" he asked in his heavy, sexy accent. He kissed me under the ear. "Can it wait?"
I bit my lip.
"Peter?" asked Colin, his voice sharper now. "Is someone there with you?"
"Uh. Yeah."
Angel stroked a hand down my abdomen. He rested his gentle, tough hand on my lower belly, over my bellybutton, and rubbed very gently. I bit my lip harder.
"Oh," said Colin. And then with his ingrained politeness added, "I'm sorry. This is obviously a bad time." He added stiffly, "You could've told me you were seeing someone new, before I made a fool of myself."
"Um."
I couldn't think. Angel's hand was travelling lower, and it felt so good. His body pressed against mine, his strength cradling and holding me as well as turning me on something fierce, his touch lazy and knowing. I couldn't resist that.
"Sorry," I told Colin lamely. We'd been having a serious conversation, but right now I could only think with one body part. "I'll . . . call you back," I managed in a strangled tone.
I hung up.
I turned around in Angel's arms, and his grin was sweet, triumphant, and very cute.
He opened his arms, took me close to him, and kissed me open-mouthed, long, and lazy. We kissed all the way back to bed, and remembered condoms before we got past the point of no return.
He was very good at sex.
#
I got some stares the first time Angel came to the police station to pick me up. He was driving an old pickup with wear, tear, dents, bits of straw and mulch in the back and mud splatters on the sides. He was wearing a straw hat to shield himself from the sun, very battered jeans, and a sweaty white t-shirt that was sticking to his gorgeous chest.
It had started out casual, this thing between us, and it still was. But we'd been seeing a lot of each other. He stayed over almost half the time now. I was very careful not to ask, to keep things from getting too serious for fear I'd chase him away.
But he seemed to like hanging out with me as well as having sex. We went out to eat, visited a fair and the local farmer's market, and very daringly held hands once in public. We also danced a lot at the bar where we'd met.
A lot of people watched. I liked that.
Angel moved like liquid smoke, or flowing water, or the hottest guy you can imagine. He danced so easily, reckless and casually gorgeous, and he kept his eyes on me, sometimes serious and dark, heavy with telegraphed heat, other times smiling and sweet and carefree.
He was amazing.
I liked holding him in bed after we'd had our marathon of sex, running my hand up his arm, kissing him softly on the
side of his face, or just keeping an arm around him, possessive and tender. It was kind of amazing to have a boyfriend — or whatever he was — who was actually a little smaller than I was, even if he was stronger.
He did odd jobs for a maintenance company and part-time work for a landscaping company. He worked hard, he played hard, and he was wonderful in bed. He made me smile, he made me laugh, and I loved dancing with him.
It hadn't gotten serious at all, and I was very aware that at any moment he could leave. But so far he seemed to want to be with me, and seemed to have the same reservations I did about naming this as a serious relationship — but at the same time, he seemed to want what I did: to be close, to cuddle and eat together, to enjoy life with me, not just sex.
When he picked me up at the station, I was so proud. I couldn't keep back the ear-splitting grin; I threw a cocky swagger into my walk. He met me in the hallway, officers staring, and pushed his hat up quick and gave me a shit-eating grin. A quick look was all it took to check, a very cursory check to see if I minded, and then he caught me in his arms and gave me a big squeeze and a firm kiss on the mouth.
Oh, did that melt me. Curled my toes, in fact. I kissed him back, then drew back enough to grin at him, holding on to his face with both hands. I fell into step with him, an arm around him and one of his around me as we walked out to his truck.
This was life.
Nobody normally wanted to be seen with me in public, everyday life. Here was a guy who seemed not only happy but proud. He was one of the hottest guys in the world, and he wanted me.
We made out a little more in the truck, not even caring if anybody got an eyeful, and then we drove off to go out to eat. We picked an authentic Mexican restaurant, kind of a hole in the wall with amazing food and very fresh, spicy ingredients. I loved the guacamole; a lot of the other food was too hot for me, but I was learning to like it. I had a great teacher.
After eating together, we went out dancing, had a couple of drinks, and enjoyed ourselves immensely. By the time we got home, it was late, and we were both ready to take it to the bedroom and make out for a long time, then have sex for a longer time.
I might be getting up exhausted in the mornings after he stayed over, but I felt great. Angel had a deep honesty about him that I felt in my bones. It made me easy with him, happy, safe.
I still hadn't called Colin back. I hadn't known it was going to be something real with Angel, but it was, whatever we wanted to call it or didn't. I could hardly stand to be away from him.
But I'd once really loved Colin, and it felt wrong to call him back. I felt like I couldn't be honest with him. He wanted more than I could give — especially now. If I admitted some of the stuff I'd been dealing with, he'd probably take me back, compassion and concern in his kind eyes.
But I'd have to tell him all the shitty things I didn't want to tell anyone, and I'd inescapably know if he only wanted to fix me. I wanted to run screaming from the invasive intimacy being with him would require from me. He needed an honest man who could open up and share his pain and struggles. I wasn't sure I was that guy.
Angel liked me anyway. It was enough for him to curl up on the couch next to me, lithe and warm and muscular and sweet, and share an evening quietly. Or to make sweet, hot love in the bedroom all night long.
#
I'd forgotten to be careful. I let myself care about Angel — a lot. When he smiled at me, his whole heart on his sleeve, mine seemed to automatically travel to my sleeve, as well.
Normally when we were out and about, we were so focused on one another that nothing else mattered.
We didn't talk a lot about our jobs, because frankly, everything was boring in comparison to being with each other, making each other laugh or smile. Not to mention making out.
But that day, we'd gone bowling. I guess we both felt like we had to butch it up a little, since the bowling alley didn't seem totally gay friendly. But something about us was still setting off rage bells in another patron. I felt his gaze on us, heavy and judgmental. I felt his anger. It made me deeply uneasy.
After the first game, I plucked at Angel's sleeve and told him we needed to go. The angry man's gaze was still on us. He was more than halfway buzzed, and clearly not a happy drunk.
Angel looked at me with a big question mark on his sweet face, but he followed me without argument. I led the way out the back entrance and hurried to the car.
"What's wrong?" He tried to draw me into his arms, but I shook my head. "We need to get out of here first, okay?"
"You upset?" he asked as we drove away. I had a rental car now, and we drove it about half the time.
I blew out a breath, more stressed than I'd realized, and glanced quickly in the rearview mirror. But nope, we'd gotten away cleanly. "Um. That one guy wanted to . . . he seemed like he might attack us."
A gentle wrinkle troubled Angel's brow. "I missed that. What did he say or do?" He touched my arm, smoothing my sleeve, wanting to offer comfort. Did I seem that upset?
"Uh . . . well, you might not have noticed. He kept looking at us, but I felt . . ." I hesitated, not sure how to put it into words when it wasn't part of my job description. "He wanted to hurt us."
Alarm flitted across his face, and I felt the beginnings of real fear from him.
"Don't worry, we got out before he could start getting serious about it."
"Yes, but — you heard his thoughts?" He looked at me like I'd suddenly sprouted antennae.
A sick feeling began to crawl around in my stomach like an angry worm. "Um, you know what I do for the police. Why does it surprise you that I'd recognize an angry, dangerous person?"
"But to read his thoughts . . ." He gripped the door handle hard and looked ahead, trying not to shudder. "I didn't know you could do that," he whispered.
"I — I can't. I'm not that strong of an empath." Fear was making my voice higher. "It's . . . it's like . . . there was like a cloud of menace coming from him, every time he looked at us. I sensed it. I couldn't hear what he was thinking — just what he was feeling."
He pressed his lips tightly together. They were trembling a little. He kept his gaze straight ahead. Fear and worry and doubt roiled in his gut — and revulsion. I couldn't hear what he was thinking, but it might as well have scrolled across his forehead like a neon banner ad. Does he know what I'm thinking? Has he been controlling me, manipulating me all this time? I thought I knew him . . .
I stayed very silent and drove, keeping my attention on the road. Any reaction I gave him right now would be bad. It wasn't hard to guess what was going through his mind, but it would be very bad if I responded before he asked me any questions. I felt his gaze on me, and fortunately, he spoke before my jaw muscles could pop from being clenched so tightly.
"You . . . read . . . me?"
"I can tell when you're feeling good or bad, stuff like that. Is that so weird?" I glanced at him quickly. It was a mistake.
He muttered something under his breath and crossed himself quickly, looking freaked out. "I — I did not know," he admitted. "I thought . . . yes, you are a human lie detector, but you aren't a . . . a spy."
"I'm not!" The accusation stung. "I'm not even very good with people. You know that. I can just get a sense of what people are feeling, more than just from their expressions. I thought you knew that! If you had questions, you could've asked."
He shook his head, still holding on to the door handle, staring at his hand. He felt like I'd lied to him, cheated or tricked him. He wanted to get away from me right now, because he was unnerved by me and what else I might know.
I wasn't going to beg. I wasn't.
My eyes filled with tears I didn't dare let overflow. How could he feel that way about me? So superstitious and frightened and freaked out and disgusted? I'd been the guy he was falling hard for just a few minutes ago — and now he wanted to run away screaming? Did he really think this was a choice, or a trick, or something invasive I was doing — anything about him at all?
Angel was such an honest person, and now he felt like I wasn't.
I knew, from his silence, from the awful way I felt, from the emotions roiling off him and pinging into my head with a dreadful pang, that the relationship — whatever it could've become — was now over.
I'd really loved him. But there was no way he'd be giving me another chance, not when he felt like his back was crawling just from being near me.
#
I was free to call back Colin now. It was hard, but eventually, I made myself do it. He deserved some sort of explanation. Not to mention an apology. And I wanted to give him one, even if I wasn't sure how to do it. So finally I just called him. "Colin?" I asked cautiously.
"Yes?" he replied in much the same way. "What is it, Pete?"
I gulped. "I wanted to say I'm sorry about everything. The way it didn't work out — and I wasn't very nice when you came to visit."
"That's true," said Colin slowly, like it was hard to talk to me at all, much less about serious stuff. His voice was very tight, and I felt sorry for him. I'd really hurt the guy, hadn't I? And I'd really liked him, so it was doubly awful for me to wound him so.
"Colin, I'm sorry. I'm not good at opening up — I mean about real stuff — and there was a case that threw me for a loop. Well. I don't want to make excuses, but I wasn't dealing very well. Still, you didn't deserve the brunt of it, and I wish I'd handled things better."
I held my breath, waiting to see how he'd respond.
"I see," said Colin. His breathing sounded ragged. "Thank you for telling me. I'm sorry things have been difficult. I appreciate the call. I — I have to go now."
Oh. Had I made him cry? I was really becoming a monster.
"I'm sorry, I just . . ." He took a deep, sighing breath and let it out roughly. "I'm seeing someone, Pete. I can't — I can't do this again." He was crying, wasn't he? Or so close that it made no real difference.
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