“Ortiz,” Madrigal continued. “Remember him?”
Danny ground his jaw together, heedless of the skin clenched between, too late tasting the salty tang of blood oozing from his tooth-torn cheek. “Yeah,” he managed, finally, in a strangled voice. “I remember him.”
Madrigal shook his head, eyebrows coming together in mock concern. “Too bad what happened to him. Had to be an awful way to go out.”
Danny could feel sweat beading on his brow, his gut going loose with terror and memories, his breathing turning labored while spots bloomed like blood spatters against his eyes.
“Fuck you!” Danny lashed out, his fury blunted by the hand he was forced to bring up, steadying himself against the iron railing. The scar on his thigh throbbed with remembered pain, as though the razor had only just this minute pierced his flesh.
“Pull yourself together, Danny. Shouldn’t you be over it by now?” Madrigal laughed, cruel and pitying. “It was such a long time ago.”
“JESUS, WHO pissed in your cornflakes?” Danny asked, tugging on his running shoes.
Miller looked up from his coffee, a scowl writ large across his face. “What?” he barked.
Danny rolled his eyes. “You’ve been sitting there glaring at your breakfast for the last half hour, grunting at everything I say like a fucking caveman.”
Miller ignored him, went back to staring into his cereal bowl. Danny couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Last night on the balcony he had felt friendship taking hold, desire tangible in the air as the boundaries between them eased, giving Danny a taste of the real Miller. And, like the bourbon they’d been drinking, it made him thirsty for more. But this morning Miller was closed tight as a steel trap, his whole body stiff with resistance.
“Suit yourself,” Danny sighed. “I’m getting on the treadmill.”
Growing up, Danny had always kept in shape by helping his old man, taking care of the horses, mending fences, general upkeep. None of that stopped when the bulk of the land was sold, and those daily chores kept Danny lean and strong. Prison and fear had kept his body in top form since then. Behind bars, the boredom was mind-numbing; Danny had never passed up a chance to run in the yard or lift weights when it was offered. Staying fast and packing a hard punch were skills he needed both in prison and out. He wasn’t going to let being trapped in this apartment become an excuse for slacking off. Being able to outrun Madrigal was still at the forefront of his mind.
Five miles on the treadmill, two hundred sit-ups, two hundred push-ups, same routine every morning. Although he had to forego the sit-ups for now while his side was healing. Most days, Miller holed up in his room, ear attached to his cell phone, while Danny worked out. But today he stayed put at the small table against the wall, shoving his cereal bowl out of the way to open his laptop, typing from handwritten notes on a yellow legal pad.
“See you went to the Danny Butler school of typing,” Danny panted, raising his voice to be heard over the whir of the treadmill.
“Huh?” Miller said without looking up.
“Hunt and peck.” Danny demonstrated by tapping his index fingers mid-air.
“Yeah,” Miller agreed, glancing down at his hands. “Not very efficient, but it gets the job done.”
Not much, but at least we’re progressing beyond the one-word answers.
Danny finished his run with a hard quarter mile sprint, moving to the floor for his push-ups.
“How did… a guy from… the ass-end… of Kansas… wind up in… the FBI?” Danny asked between deep breaths of carpet dust.
“Watch it,” Miller replied. “Atwood isn’t exactly doing Kansas proud, you know.”
“I’m not arguing.” Danny stood up. “I’m the first to admit Atwood is a shit hole.” He grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, turning the chair across from Miller backward and straddling it as he guzzled down the water. “So?”
“So, what?” Miller blew out an exasperated breath.
“Sooooo,” Danny drew out the word with a grin. “How’d you end up in the FBI?”
“It’s not a very interesting story.”
“Does it look like there’s anywhere else I need to be?” Danny asked with raised eyebrows.
Miller shifted his eyes away, his neck disappearing into his shoulders. He looked very young suddenly, shy and embarrassed, the tough, controlled shell slipping away. Danny wondered if he was the first person to ever really want to hear this story, the tale of how Miller Sutton made something of himself. Something burst into life below Danny’s breastbone—tenderness, maybe? It had been so long since he had felt much beyond fear, guilt, and the basic need to survive that he wasn’t even sure how to name the emotion.
“Seriously, Miller,” he said. “I want to know.”
Miller glanced at him, closing his laptop with one hand. “My mom died when I was nine—”
“How?”
Miller looked away for a moment. “Cancer.”
Danny ran his tongue across his front teeth, made a small clicking sound with his mouth. “That must have been tough.”
“Yeah, it was. My dad never really got over it. Still hasn’t. After she was gone… he just… it’s like he gave up. He became an old man overnight.”
Danny couldn’t imagine his father giving a shit if his mother died, other than to wonder who was going to make his dinner or iron his shirts. He’d be more pissed about the inconvenience than anything else.
“But he made sure I finished high school,” Miller continued. “And when the time came, he insisted I go to college too. That had always been my mom’s dream, that at least one of us get an education.”
“K-State,” Danny supplied.
“How’d you—?”
“Your sweatshirt yesterday.”
“Oh.” Miller nodded. “Yeah, K-State. I never thought I’d be the one to end up in college. But my older brother Scott got a girl knocked up, so he couldn’t go. It probably should have been my sister Junie who went; she was always the best student. But she got married right out of high school, too, and sort of gave up on that dream. I was the only one left.” He shrugged. “So I went.”
“Bet they’re all really proud of you now.”
Miller looked up at the ceiling, tipping his chair back on two legs. “I suppose they are. But we don’t have much in common anymore. Junie’s got four kids and a husband to worry about, and Scott works the line at a plastics factory. And my dad just stays on the farm, pretty much refuses to leave. It’s like… they gave me this chance to be something more, but now I’m not really part of the same family.”
He dropped his chair back to level with a thud, avoiding Danny’s eyes.
“What was college like?” Danny asked.
“It was okay, I guess. I had to study a lot to stay afloat. I’ve never had book smarts the way some people do.”
“I always liked school.” Danny smiled at Miller’s dubious expression. “Don’t look so surprised.”
“So why didn’t you go to college?”
“Never crossed my mind. Nobody in my family ever has. And when I turned eighteen and graduated, the only thought in my head was getting as far away from Atwood as I could.”
“What’s the story there?” Miller asked, idly stirring his mushy cereal with a spoon.
Danny’s body tensed up; he fucking hated thinking about his father. “Probably nothing different than a thousand other kids. My dad and I don’t exactly get along.” Danny kept his voice bland but Miller flashed keen eyes on him, watching him for a long moment after he stopped speaking.
“How so?”
Danny squirmed in his chair. “He has a wicked temper. He wasn’t afraid to use his belt on me, or whatever else he had handy. His mouth was a pretty effective weapon too. He always made it very clear exactly how he felt about me. He could never quite put his finger on how I was different. Shit, I didn’t even know myself when I was a kid. But it didn’t stop him from trying to beat the difference out of me. And then he caught me with a neighbor kid. A bo
y my age.”
“Doing what?” Miller asked, eyes not quite meeting Danny’s.
“Just messing around. Pretty innocent shit, in the scheme of things. But it confirmed everything my dad ever suspected about me. He kicked me out that day. Haven’t seen him since. Anyway, I thought we were talking about you getting into the FBI.” Danny tossed his empty water bottle over Miller’s head where it landed with a rattling bang in the kitchen garbage can.
“Like I said, there’s not much to tell. I’d always thought about being a cop. When I was a senior in college they had this seminar about jobs in law enforcement and I picked up a brochure about the FBI.”
“And….” Danny prompted when Miller failed to continue.
“And I joined the local police force in Wichita after graduation, worked there for two years, and then applied to the FBI. I got in and went to Quantico. My first assignment was in Minneapolis and then I got transferred here.”
“Do you like the job?”
Miller’s slight hesitation told Danny more than any words he might choose to say. “For the most part,” Miller answered. “After 9/11 we all got stuck on terrorism duty for a while and I didn’t like that so much. I like the drug cases a lot better.”
“Why?”
“The terrorism cases, I was never sure who I was working against. I prefer having a specific target.”
“Like Hinestroza.”
“Yeah, like your lovely boss, Hinestroza.”
“He’s not a complete monster, you know.” Danny felt that familiar pang of loyalty rising up, that need to defend Hinestroza from outside attack, similar to the strange phenomenon that allowed a person to say something nasty about their own spouse but forbade anyone else from opening their mouth to agree.
Miller gaped at him. “How can you sit there and say that with a straight face, Danny? Who do you think gives Madrigal his orders? They’re ruthless men. They sell drugs to little kids and kill people without a second thought.”
“But he has a family who loves him,” Danny said, his eyes on the table. “That’s more than I’ve got. He must do something right.”
“You think that makes him a good man? The fact that he’s got a wife and kids who love him? They don’t even know who he is!”
“No, it doesn’t make him a good man. But it does mean he’s not all bad.”
“He’s brainwashed you,” Miller said with disgust.
Danny thought about that for a moment. “Maybe, a little. And maybe there’s more than one side to a person. You know, I’ve known a lot of cops in my time, Miller, and you all suffer from tunnel vision. You can only see one way of doing things, one way of looking at the world.” Danny eased out of the chair, peeling off his sweaty T-shirt. “It must make life awfully boring.”
“What are you doing?” Miller asked, his voice pulled thin.
Danny knew the power of his body, had learned hard lessons about how to use it. He hung his T-shirt around his neck, arms flexing as he gripped the ends. “Gonna hit the shower,” he explained.
Miller’s eyes ran down Danny’s torso, bobbing back up like a yo-yo on a string. His face remained blank but his fingers clutched convulsively at the edge of the table.
“It’s about time for those stitches to come out,” Miller commented around his clenched jaw.
Danny looked down. He’d almost forgotten about the injury since it had stopped itching a few days ago. “Yeah, it’s been ten days today, I think.”
Miller grabbed his cell phone. “Let me make some calls, see if we can get you to a doctor.”
CHRIST, YOU’D think he was trying to arrange a manned spaceflight instead of having some stitches removed. Miller had been on the phone most of the day attempting to coordinate Danny’s trip to the hospital. Finally, after half a dozen calls, they’d decided on a plan of attack: Miller would take Danny to St. Luke’s, where he’d be whisked into a trauma room and whisked back out again. But within minutes that plan had been scrapped by the higher-ups as too risky. Now Miller was trying to arrange a house call from a doctor, but the U.S. Attorney’s office was worried that plan could open up a doctor to bribery.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Miller sighed into the phone, pushing away the plate of Chinese food they’d had delivered a half hour ago. “There’s got to be someone who can take out a handful of damn stitches.”
Miller could hear Danny laughing from the kitchen.
“It’s not funny,” Miller called, trying to sound stern.
“It’s pretty fucking funny,” Danny disagreed, ambling into the living room with a couple of beers. He put one down in front of Miller. “The FBI can’t figure out how to get my stitches out? I can solve that problem in five seconds flat.”
“What? Fine, call me back,” Miller said into the phone, tossing it down in irritation. He turned to Danny, twisting the cap on his beer. “Oh, yeah? How’s that.”
“Wait,” Danny commanded, moving into his bedroom. He came out seconds later, something small hidden in his hand. “Here’s your answer,” he said, holding out his palm.
Miller looked at the Swiss Army knife. “How’s that my answer?”
Danny flicked the knife with his fingers, revealing a tiny pair of scissors and miniature tweezers. “Get to work, Sutton,” he said with a grin.
“What?” Miller choked a little on his beer. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Please,” Danny scoffed. “You grew up in the country, right?
“Right,” Miller agreed cautiously.
“Well, so did I and I know I’ve done plenty of things more disgusting than taking out a few stitches. Slaughtering a pig ring a bell?”
“What if it gets infected?” Miller asked, stalling for time.
“The wound’s healed, Miller,” Danny said patiently. “That’s why the stitches are coming out in the first place. Listen, you really want to spend half the night waiting around for some half-assed plan to get me to the hospital? Then, once we get there, we’ll have to sit around for the other half of the night killing time until a doctor can see me.” Danny held out the knife. “This can be done in ten minutes. I’d do it myself, but my arm won’t bend that way.”
Miller stared at Danny’s hand, the long fingers cupping the knife. He imagined pulling those black threads from Danny’s skin, how close he’d be to Danny’s bare chest. You don’t have to do this, Miller. What are you trying to prove? That you can? Didn’t manage that last night in bed, did you? Couldn’t exactly keep him out of your head. He’s playing a game, but you don’t have to. Get back on the phone and call a doctor.
“Fine, give me the knife,” Miller said, rising to the challenge he saw in Danny’s eyes. Too late he remembered how he’d never been able to back down as a kid when Scott called his bluff, Scott using that knowledge to drive Miller to dumber and dumber heights. Once Scott had challenged him to see how long he could keep a lighter against his palm. Probably would have burned a hole clean through his hand, but Junie had walked in and screamed the house down. He still had the scar. Taking a dare didn’t always work out so well for Miller Sutton in the long run.
“Over here,” Danny motioned, switching on the nearby table lamp as he lowered himself to the sofa. He yanked off his black sweater, the material ruffling his hair and unleashing the cowlick in front. His white T-shirt came next, revealing the row of stitches and the downy mat of hair covering his chest, trailing off over his stomach where it disappeared into a thin line inside his jeans.
Miller cut his eyes away, pretending to study his fingernails as heat bloomed in his cheeks, his neck stiff and prickly with warmth.
“Ready?” Danny asked, raising his left arm so Miller could get to the wound.
Miller nodded. He knelt on the floor in front of Danny, eyes trained on the ladder of black knots. So fucking careful not to look anywhere else. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, laying one hand gingerly on Danny’s side.
Danny flinched backward, sucking in a strangled laugh. “Cold,” he explained with a sm
ile.
“Oh, sorry, beer bottle.” Miller rubbed his hand against his thigh, bringing warmth to his fingertips. “Better?” he asked as he replaced his hand, Danny’s skin hot and silky under his fingers.
“Yeah.”
Miller held the tiny scissors, snipping tentatively at each stitch.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Danny reassured him.
Never had a space been so quiet. Miller could hear nothing but the sound of Danny’s breathing, the faint metallic snap of the scissors, his own heart galloping in his chest.
“I’m going to start pulling them now,” Miller warned. He wished Danny would crack a joke, start running his mouth the way he usually did. Anything to cut the smothering silence that was sucking up all the air in the room and making it impossible for him to breathe.
Miller began with the topmost stitch, plucking with the tweezers, pulling it out in one quick, smooth stroke. He could feel Danny’s eyes on him as he worked.
“You’re good at that,” Danny said quietly.
“You’ve had a lot of stitches?” Miller asked, hoping to break the intimacy of the act he was performing.
“My fair share. The ones in my head were the worst.”
Miller worked steadily down the row until he was tugging at the last stitch, his eyes drawn to the angry red line left in their absence.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low. “You’re done.”
Neither of them moved. Miller’s steadying hand remained glued to Danny’s side, his eyes still fascinated with Danny’s newest scar. He wanted to touch it. God, he didn’t know what was wrong with him, but for the first time in his life he was incapable of restraining his impulses, his body’s urges growing stronger than his iron will.
He leaned forward, running a finger gently down the red welt, tracing its path on Danny’s tender flesh. He could smell Danny the way he had when they’d wrestled earlier in the week, that newly familiar scent of smoke and soap and sweat. It was the best thing Miller had ever smelled; he wanted to bury his face in Danny’s skin and just breathe, let it fill him up.
Miller looked up. Danny’s eyes were serious on his, not daring him anymore, not mocking, just watching. Those eyes worked their way under Miller’s defenses, uncovering things he had spent a lifetime trying to hide.
Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits Page 50