KEEP (Men of the ESRB Book 2)

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KEEP (Men of the ESRB Book 2) Page 9

by Shiloh, Hollis


  "I'm sorry," I said again, raking fingers back through my hair and then tugging at a handful in my distress. "I hope things work out, and that you'll be happy."

  "Thanks," he said in a suffocating sort of voice. "You too." He hung up softly.

  I paced the room, scowling, muttering to myself. I looked down at the cell phone in my hand like it was a vicious snake, and then tossed it to land on the couch. "Shit." Burying my face in my hands, breathing roughly, I wondered just what I'd expected from that call.

  Maybe for him to say that I hadn't hurt him and let him down? Maybe that he'd want me back as a boyfriend?

  But something told me that could never happen, even if he wasn't seeing someone.

  I didn't think he could handle the real version of me — the guy who was more often full of bluster than any real happiness or hope. The guy who was a real mess most of the time.

  Chapter six

  I got a call back from the ESRB contact who'd been looking into other job opportunities for me. It had taken a long time, long enough for me to conclude there were none, or else that I was underqualified. It wasn't a fun thought, but it was probably the truth. Level three-point-five was not the best ever.

  So I was frankly surprised when I heard the busy and harried voice of the agent at the other end of the line saying, "Mr. Durphy? Mr. Durphy, are you there? Did you hear me?"

  I cleared my throat, my voice going dry. "Uh, sorry. Could you repeat that?" I clenched the phone and listened tightly.

  "I said, starting salary two hundred and thirty thousand a year. It's a corporate job and would require some travel."

  Holy smokes. I could buy my own home the first year. Shit, I could become a millionaire before I retired, if I saved and invested properly. That was a lot of money. Who would pay that for my skills?

  "What are the downsides?" I asked, keeping my voice admirably steady. "Is it especially risky?"

  There was a pause, the crinkling of papers, the clicking of keys. "It appears to be straightforward corporate work. As a reliable empath, you would be giving impressions received during meetings, helping to tour factories, working behind the scenes for contract negotiation and board meetings. It would be low profile, detailed work in sometimes high stress environments. But no violent criminals, like working with the police."

  Ah, yes.

  No violent criminals with their dark feelings and evil lies bumbling around in my head. No dead children, no distrustful cops, no running into Angel if I went back to one of the places we'd gone to together.

  Homesickness hit me hard, and I had to swallow. I had, very stupidly, thought Angel was the one.

  Why? He never said anything like that, I told myself, scowling irritably at my own weakness. His sweet smile flashed before my mind's eye, and it was like a stab wound. Oh, Angel . . .

  I shut my eyes, rubbing the space between them. "Sure," I said quietly. "I'd love to take the job, on a provisional basis until I'm sure I can do the work."

  "Of course. I'll have the information sent to you by overnight mail. Do stay in touch and let us know if the job works out. It's important for us to keep track of such things."

  We said goodbye, I said thanks once again and hung up.

  I was rubbing a hand awkwardly over my chest, over my heart. I stopped as soon as I realized what I was doing and winced at the dramatic imagery. But it did hurt — it did.

  Maybe a fresh start would help. Maybe this time I'd finally get it into my stupid head that I couldn't get serious. It wouldn't work out. I had to keep lovers at arm's length. No more falling in love — no more delusions of forever and beautiful, loving, mutually exclusive relationships.

  From now on it was sex or nothing. It hurt to think about it like that — I'd always been kind of a stupid romantic at heart, even when I knew better — but it was time to grow up. Think about the new job, the money I'd earn, the places I might travel to. If I saved really well, I could quit after a few years and travel around for a while, enjoying life before I had to find another job. Or never finding another job.

  I didn't think the captain would understand, or that the precinct would be happy for me, but I had to look out for number one, didn't I?

  Nobody else was going to do it. I was just lucky there hadn't been any more cases involving little kids so far. The fact was, they'd have found her even without me — my participation hadn't made any difference. She was dead already, and it wasn't fair, but I couldn't let this job wreck me or I'd be dead, too.

  I appreciated what the cops did, and it was good work a lot of the time. But maybe empaths needed to be made of stronger stuff than I was to hack it in the police trade.

  If I couldn't make it in the corporate world either, then I'd find some other kind of job, maybe something that didn't involve my talents at all. I'd go back to working divorce cases, or become a taxi driver, or do something else where I could survive.

  And I'd be the single guy, checking out the bar scene for the rest of my life, if that was what it took to keep from stupidly having any more I-should-have-known-better heartbreaks. I'd pick myself up this one last time and get through it, and then it was over. I was done with love.

  #

  The captain's face flashed with rage when I told him. It went almost immediately impassive afterwards, but he felt the same volcanic rage underneath.

  I pretended I didn't know exactly what sorts of things he was feeling about me. I gave my notice in a flat, rote voice, and he accepted it with a cold, formal stiffness. But his eyes were angry with me, and he felt disappointed and betrayed.

  "Our best efforts were not enough after all, I assume," he said at last.

  I shrugged one shoulder. "I think it's just me," I admitted.

  "They're paying more, of course."

  "Yep. And no dead babies."

  He stared at me. I stared back, then shrugged again, too tired and sad to be able to put on the cocky exterior I needed right now. "If I can't cut that either, I'll go back to something that doesn't require an ESRB rating."

  "What a waste," he said, and it wasn't entirely sarcastic, although it sounded as though he was trying to be. "You must know you've been making a difference at this precinct."

  I could only shake my head, too tired and sad to argue.

  He stared at me for a long moment, his mouth tight. "It's mostly the money, isn't it? But damn it, the state budget won't go any higher."

  "It's partly the money, but definitely not just that. I don't think I'm cut out for police work. I'm not some kind of hero, or a selfless person who just wants to make a difference. I don't think you could pay me enough to get me into a room again with a baby-shaking asshole."

  "It all comes back to that for you, doesn't it?"

  "Maybe it was my first and worst taste of real evil. I don't know. But I don't have it in me to keep dealing with that. I don't know how you guys survive."

  Emotions flitted through him: real, authentic, and torn. Maybe he wasn't sure, either.

  "Thanks for trying to make the precinct a welcoming place," I added, a belated politeness. I really did like the captain; in his own way, he didn't pull too much bullshit. He'd talk to you like a human being, not hide behind his rank.

  He acknowledged it with a very faint nod. "I don't know how we're going to replace you," he muttered, looking annoyed.

  "Go back to the ESRB for another empath."

  "It's not that easy to get someone here."

  "Oh? I thought the pay was outstanding and the work easy," I said sarcastically, baiting him now.

  His eyes narrowed. "Don't give me that bullshit. We were on a long waiting list for you, and now we'll be back on it again. And at low priority, because we couldn't keep the first empath." He scowled. "You've made my life a lot harder, and the lives of these cops."

  I shrugged. He was trying to guilt me into staying, but I'd have done a lot more than put up with a scolding to get out of this job.

  "You hired me for a job," I reminded him. "And I stood it,
as long as I could, till a better one came along. If you think that's mercenary, you try getting all these people in your head. You don't owe me anything, and I sure as hell don't owe you. I have a talent, and you used it. I'm getting away before you can use me up. Be glad I left before that happened and you never got another empath. And don't pretend it's really a super easy job. There's no way it would pay that well if it was."

  He looked at me with frustrated dislike, but he didn't deny my words. Instead he said, with deliberate enunciation, "If the pay is higher for more difficult work, then what are you getting yourself into next?"

  "I guess we'll see," I said coldly. I wanted to toss my hair like Scarlett O'Hara, but I resisted. Tomorrow is another day. "Maybe I'll come crawling back to you and beg for my old job back."

  For all I that liked the captain, even respected him, I couldn't help pushing his buttons and pissing him off. I really, really have a bad personality when it comes to authority figures. I never seem to improve any, either.

  I was kind of sorry when I saw that the words had hit him, and he was actually a little hurt. He had tried, after all. "Well." I turned to the door, a sad twist to my mouth, feeling dissatisfied and disappointed in myself. I couldn't even quit without being an asshole.

  "Is your boyfriend going with you?" asked the captain, his bland voice covering the sharp jab he meant it to be. It struck home.

  I stopped for an instant, the pain in my chest fierce, snatching away my breath. Then I caught the doorknob, turned it, and escaped.

  His triumph was a mean little cold prickling feeling behind me. We'd both gotten in some unworthy hits. I wished I hadn't fought with him at all — and I also wished I could've smacked him across the face for getting that one last mocking dig in.

  No, I couldn't keep a boyfriend. I think we all knew that by now. He probably didn't know why Angel had left me, but I didn't expect he'd care even if he did. Not the way he said 'boyfriend' like the word itself was a joke.

  I cleaned out my desk very steadily and walked to the door, nodding a quick, tight goodbye to a couple of people who caught my eye. They looked startled to see me leaving in the middle of the day.

  I bet he'd try to make me come in again for the whole two weeks' notice and work non-stop on the worst cases they could find.

  Well, I'd be very difficult to bring in; I'd make sure of it. They could drag me in in cuffs every day for all I cared. I had no further motivation to play nice and get along. I'd mess with them so bad if they did it.

  #

  The next two weeks became a low-grade battleground between me and the precinct. When I didn't show up to work on time, the captain started assigning a patrolman to pick me up in the mornings and drive me in.

  There were no more ride-alongs, no more half-awkward friendliness from the officers trying to get along with me. They felt about the same as the captain did — at the very least, they weren't happy I was going. I had no allies or buddies. What I had were professional yet deeply annoyed colleagues.

  I had to watch and report on a lot of interrogations. Some were do-overs, things I hadn't been in on in the first place, like the captain just wanted to dot his I's and cross his T's, covering every base. Most of these weren't filled with strong emotion, since they were repeats. They weren't too bad, just long and boring. I could do them by rote, noting truth and lies easily. It was tiring, but in a different way.

  Then there were the other interrogations, the fresh investigations. They were still pretty darn hard.

  It was like he knew he had me for only two more weeks and wanted to throw all the spaghetti at the wall at once and see what stuck. The only problem was, I was the wall, and the spaghetti felt like it was still in a pot and I was now covered in hot water.

  They didn't actually do anything unprofessional, and I figured I could hack it. After all, this was supposed to be my job, and there was never anything so across the line that I could've filed a complaint, even if I'd wanted to bother with such a thing. It's just that if he'd worked me at that pace regularly, I'd have burned out in no time, and we both knew it.

  I was allowed breaks — but I had to ask for them, not just slink off behind the building or go for a run in the park. Official breaks tended to last fifteen minutes and involve lots of hot coffee and deep breaths.

  Sometimes I headed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face and stood there trying to empty out all the feelings and hurts, and the great pressing agony I was starting to feel from doing the job. Sometimes when I looked down, my hands gripping the sink were shaking. But I always got myself together and managed to be in one piece, more or less, and continue the work.

  I was professional, too. It would be beneath me to screw up the interviews — I came to that conclusion pretty quickly, after the first wave of my rage had passed — but I wasn't quick to push myself or make suggestions. I worked like an automaton, shutting off as much of myself as I could, drifting, thinking about nothing . . .

  I would've gotten through it without incident, even though it wasn't fun; I'm practically sure of that. But my dear 'friend' Damon had to return from another undercover assignment during the second week, when it was all finally nearly over.

  He was like that, drifting off and then returning in different clothes, looking like a stranger for an instant when I first saw him, but very much himself underneath. The only trouble was, to me at least, he was himself in the worst ways, sneering and superior and hateful, above me and disgusted with me.

  He wasn't my friend anymore, if he'd ever been. It hurt, yeah. A lot of things hurt in life. You get on with it, ignore them if you can, and try to make your way regardless.

  But with the pressure on me at work, and the sadness about Angel weighing me down so that between the two things I felt like shit ninety percent of the time, I wasn't in the mood to walk away and take it.

  When I saw him, he was standing by the coffee machine with a mug in his hands and a nasty look on his face, trading witty words with a couple of other officers. He saw me; they all saw me, and stopped talking.

  He had a smirk on his face that only grew wider as he looked at me, while the other officers tried to wipe all expression off their faces and look like stuffed owls. One managed a particularly glassy and distant expression. But their emotions ran clear and ugly through me. Oh, yes, I'd been the topic of conversation, mockery, and disdainful gossip.

  Fun. Nothing new, but still not pleasant. Still, I'd have walked past with little more than a grouchy expression if Damon hadn't given me that look. It was an intimate look, his eyes grazing up and down me, and he gave me a little half grin, his eyes mocking and shrewd, dancing with unpleasant glee.

  His thoughts were triumphant and ugly. I could almost hear him say I couldn't keep a boyfriend and never would. He thought I was ridiculous, weak and gay and silly, something he didn't just look down on but actively despised. There was no desire in him for me right now, but still a lascivious sort of enjoyment at seeing me taken down a few pegs, so I didn't think I was so amazing.

  Damn, he really hated me, didn't he? It could go like that, I supposed. In a more philosophical mood, I'd have figured he really hated himself; I'd have tried to put the hurt out of my mind and move on. Instead, I walked up and punched him in the nose.

  He hadn't been expecting it — none of them had — and I guess it did look pretty funny, the shortest guy in the room walking straight up to one of the tallest and toughest and pop, right in the nose.

  He spilled his coffee. And then he came for me, sputtering and enraged and too angry to think or care what happened next. The feeling was mutual. I flung myself into the fight before he could take me out with his greater strength. He was at least twice as strong as I was, and I really felt the first punch. It was hard, ringing, painful.

  I got in three punches in at the same time, ignoring my own pain, gritting my teeth against it. Rage, adrenaline, and testosterone did their work, and I hit as hard as I could. Which probably wasn't very hard.

&
nbsp; I hit his ribs, solar plexus, gut, and then when he had me in a close bear grip to squeeze the life out of me, starting with the air from my lungs, I got him in the kidneys twice more. Oh yeah, he felt that. His grip loosened a little.

  There was a lot of noise around us, but I hadn't paid attention so far. It washed over me, inconsequential waves of noise and shouted exclamations and curses and feelings. But now the world caught up with us and we were dragged apart.

  I was bleeding from the nose, and had to keep sniffing and wiping at it with tissues while I waited in the captain's office. The world spun, and I felt dizzy and weak. My body ached in a number of places, and the adrenaline crash was hitting me hard. The worst of it was that I couldn't stop trembling.

  They'd manhandled me into the captain's office and Damon away elsewhere. I thought that was a laugh. He was so much bigger than I was, but they had to protect him . . .

  But the captain didn't look like he wanted to laugh. He looked like he wanted to shank me in the gut. "What the hell did you do now?" he said.

  "Let me out or I file charges," I said. But my voice shook, and I couldn't stop it.

  He glared at me with massive dislike. I could see and feel him weighing the options, reptilian, angry. I was used up, clearly. I was stupid and irresponsible, not able to be counted on, and messing up on purpose to punish him, when all he'd ever tried to do —

  I managed to hold eye contact as he ran through it all, those negative feelings, till he announced, "All right, go home. See the doctor first if you need to. Are you safe to drive?" The words were clipped and professional, but he hated me. And in those moments I also hated him.

  How dare he blame it all on me? Had he never met Damon?

  But nobody cared about that. I'd thrown the first punch, I was the outsider, I was the asshole. Whatever.

 

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