by Rick R. Reed
“Really?” Dora rinsed her plate and set it in the sink. “What for?”
“I’m worried. He didn’t pick up when I called.” He reminded her about Cole’s concussion.
“Well, if he’s not waking up, what good will it do to go over there? He’s not gonna answer the door either.”
She had a point. But he had to do something. “I don’t know. I just have to go. Otherwise I won’t be able to do anything other than worry. You know how I am. I’ll figure something out.” He had a thought. “He lives in a big building. They probably have a janitor who lives on the premises. If Cole doesn’t answer the intercom, I’ll try him.”
Dora walked with him to the front door. She opened it for him, frowning. “Why are you doing this? I mean, I know a pretty face turns your head, and always does, but this feels different.”
“It is,” Tommy confessed. “And I’m as surprised and puzzled by it as you are. But there’s something about the guy. I just can’t seem to get him out of my head.”
Dora chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve got a bad case of love at first sight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Even as Tommy said the words, he realized she wasn’t being ridiculous at all.
He opened the door, and as he was about to say goodbye, Dora put a hand on his shoulder. He eyed her.
“Be careful, okay?”
Tommy cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“You know those dreams I told you about?”
Tommy nodded.
“There’s more. I kind of—” She looked away. “Feel him. Rory. The guy who disappeared.”
“You feel him? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know how to explain it. But I just feel like he’s alive. He may not be okay, but he’s not out of the picture. Not the big picture, anyway.” She pushed him through the open door. “Go. I’m just being stupid. I hope everything’s okay.”
Tommy thought he was inclined to agree with her stupidity assessment. He mumbled, “See you later” and headed out.
Chapter 8
COLE ENTERED the courtyard to see Tommy D’Amico outside his front door, pressing what was presumably Cole’s buzzer on the intercom. He’d press it, wait a second, tapping his toe, then press it again. Cole recognized impatience when he saw it.
Cole had just been down to the beach, where he’d sat in the damp sand—his ass was still wet—for a long time, simply staring out at the very still water. Today it was pewter gray, a reflection of the foreboding sky above. Cole woke early, no worries about his concussion, feeling restless. He thought it might calm him to go out and simply sit on the beach, try not to think of much of anything, and let the chilly air and relative peace of the beach calm him.
And it had. Until he saw Tommy.
What’s he doing here? I know he said he’d call, but I took that as a gesture, something you say. I didn’t really think he would. And I certainly didn’t think he’d show up here. Cole knew Tommy was interested in him, in a physical or maybe even romantic way. It wasn’t vanity, Cole told himself, but there was no mistaking the way Tommy looked at him, even with his stitched-up forehead. Like a heroin addict eyes a syringe or, to put it more innocently, the way his sister Elaine might eye a box of dark chocolate, her favorite.
But the last thing in the world Cole wanted was a man in his life. Not now. Not with Rory gone for over a month but still fresh in his mind and especially in his heart. The idea of another guy, dating, or even a quick down-and-dirty sexual encounter with someone was anathema to him. His main objectives in life these days were getting through the tiresome and boring hours at work, eating, and sleeping. And of course, licking his wounds and pining for Rory. Oh, he could pine with the best of them! He marveled that he didn’t bay at the moon. Sometimes, although he felt horrible guilt and shame for thinking it, he wondered if things wouldn’t be easier if Rory had been found dead somewhere instead of this awful limbo of not knowing. It was cruel to keep him in a state of despair married to hope.
He debated whether he should turn around and slip quietly back to the beach, or maybe head over to the little café on Jarvis and buy himself a cup of coffee.
But that wouldn’t be right, would it? Tommy was here, in his courtyard, because he was obviously concerned. At the very least, Cole should let the guy know he was awake and okay, his worst physical complaint a general soreness around his midsection.
He opened the gate and went into the courtyard. The clang of the wrought iron gate swinging shut behind him alerted Tommy to his presence, because he jumped a little at the sound of it and then turned. When he saw Cole, the relief on his face was apparent, even from a hundred feet or so away. A smile lit up Tommy’s features. That lopsided grin forced Cole to concede that Tommy was cute. Adorable, really. Under different circumstances, Tommy would have been just his type. But he was Cole’s type because he was a lot like Rory—the same slight but tight build, the same expression of openness on his face that expected every encounter to be delightful. And, although Tommy was a true ginger, his red hair reminded him of Rory too, even though Rory’s unkempt mop was more reddish-brown.
It was precisely Tommy’s similarities to Rory that both attracted and repelled Cole.
He’d have to ponder stuff like that later, because right now Tommy was rushing toward him, grinning from ear to ear. Cole wouldn’t have been surprised if he outstretched his arms as he ran, if a swell of violin music rose and their movements shifted into slow motion. The notion made him laugh.
“I was just ringing your janitor’s buzzer.” Tommy stood close. “I was picturing you lying comatose in your apartment. I was going to tell him to bust down your door or at least call 911.”
“You’re not much of a drama queen, are you?”
Tommy laughed. “Who are you calling a queen?” Tommy stuck his nose in the air and crossed his arms, indignant.
Maybe Cole’s gaydar had been wrong? “I’m sorry. I just assumed.”
“You assumed right,” Tommy said, raising one eyebrow. “Dora says I’m as gay as a picnic basket.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” Cole shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He wanted to get inside, not only to get away from Tommy, but because he had to pee.
“Gosh,” Tommy gushed. “I’m so relieved to see that you’re not comatose!”
“Yeah, ain’t that a blessing?” Cole laughed. “But not comatose at all. My only complaints are a little sand in the shorts, and I have to piss with a vengeance.” Cole pulled his keys out from his cargo shorts and edged by Tommy. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” Tommy said, following Cole into the vestibule. He walked with Cole to the elevator, smiling. The look reminded Cole of a puppy.
Cole turned. “Look, I’m sorry I worried you. If you tried to phone and I didn’t answer, that was my bad. I really didn’t think you’d call, but maybe I should have waited around on the off chance that you’re a man of his word.” Cole forced himself to smile. “So, I do appreciate you coming all the way over here to check on me, if that’s what you’re doing. But as I said, I need to get upstairs before I bust a kidney.”
The smile vanished from Tommy’s face. “Okay,” he said softly.
Am I being an ass? Cole asked himself and then answered, Yes, you are. He relented. “Do you want to come up?”
“Oh, would you mind?” Tommy’s smile returned like sunshine emerging from behind a dark cloud.
Hell yes, I mind. But Cole wasn’t about to say that. “Course not. I have to get to work soon, but you can come up for a bit since you’re here.” Again, Cole smiled, wondering if the forced expression looked anything like a chimp’s face.
The elevator doors rolled open, and Tommy followed him inside, too close. Cole pressed the button for his floor, wondering if he was making a mistake.
TOMMY STAYED for the rest of the morning, right up until Cole had to leave to catch the “L” to Evanston for his shift at Pier One. Cole was surprised Tommy didn’t get on t
he train with him.
Cole had to hand it to Tommy—the guy could talk. Endlessly. He’d said he was in law school at DePaul, and Cole thought his vocation choice was a good one for someone who so loved to blather on and on. And on.
Cole had barely said a word, but aside from his school, he’d also learned from Tommy that he was:
Third-generation Italian-American. “Sicilian, actually. My people come from a little village called Cianciana. It’s in the Agrigento region. And before you ask, yes, there’s mafia in the family history, if the stories I’ve heard around various kitchen tables are to be believed.”
An avid runner. “I’ve done three marathons, six half marathons, and more five Ks than I can remember. Running is my Zen. If a couple days pass and I don’t get at least five miles in, I go a little crazy.”
A frustrated wannabe writer. “Yeah, I’m in law because of my papa. He’s a lawyer, and I think he dreamed of me being one since I was in kindergarten. Someday I’m gonna have to break it to him that things like torts, wobblers, prima facie, depositions, mens rea, and so on are about as interesting to me as watching the hair on my legs grow. Speaking of hair on legs, you’re kind of like a little monkey, aren’t you? I actually wouldn’t mind watching the hair on your legs grow! Anyway, what I really want to do is write novels. Psychological suspense. Where we get up close and personal with the victims of crime, their stories, their terrors and dangers. See? Even the writer in me has no interest in police procedure or courtroom melodrama. I definitely wasted a shitload of my family’s money, and that breaks my heart. It really does. But I think if I have to settle for a life of reviewing contracts or even working on criminal cases, I’ll go fucking nuts. Eventually I’m going to have to cut the cord, to mix metaphors, with my papa and tell him the truth. But not today.”
A voracious eater. “I get it from Mama. She loves to cook and seldom leaves the kitchen. You want food that’s better than sex? Come to my house someday for Sunday supper. The best red gravy and braised pork you ever had. And when she makes her own gnocchi! God, you’ll die, you’ll just die. Little pillows that practically float out of the bowl. But I’m an equal-opportunity eater too. Sushi, banh mi, pot stickers, pancakes, BBQ, hell, just about anything you can think of—you put it in front of me and I’ll eat it up and ask for seconds.”
Gay. “I know we already established it, but just wanted to be sure you knew I am out and proud. Everyone in my family knows, everyone at school knows, and I have no interest in hiding it or in being any other way. To me, wishing you’re straight is like wishing you were a different height—it’s unnatural!”
Single. “I know you don’t care at this point. But if that ever changes….”
TOMMY HAD been yammering since he followed him in the front door. He continued throughout the shared cups of coffee Cole made, and even stood outside the bathroom door while Cole got ready for work, jabbering. It might have been funny if it weren’t so damned annoying. Was Tommy always like this? Cole wondered. The conversation—or more accurately, the monologue—continued as Tommy walked beside him to the “L” station at Howard Street.
“Well,” Cole said at the entrance to the station, “I need to be on my way. Thanks a lot for checking on me. People aren’t usually so concerned, especially ones that I don’t really know well.”
At the mention of not really knowing him well, Cole saw a little light go out of Tommy’s eyes. To make up for it, Cole gave Tommy’s shoulder a brief squeeze. “You’re a nice guy, Tommy. I’m glad we ran into each other, no pun intended.” Cole chuckled. “Well, maybe a little.” He turned. “But really, if I don’t bolt up those stairs right now, I’m gonna be late. And what with Rory’s disappearance and everything, I’ve missed a lot of work. I can’t rely on their understanding forever. I need this job! I took my apartment thinking there were two people to pay the rent.” Cole felt a lump rise up in his throat. Damn it!
“Okay. Get to work. Maybe I could see you later?” All that radiated from Tommy’s face was hope.
Cole really wanted to tell the guy “That’s not gonna happen. Look, we’re two characters thrown together by some odd circumstances, but it’s panned out as much as it’s going to. Leave it alone, dude.” But what he actually said, in deference to time and Tommy’s feelings, was “We’ll see.”
“Really?” Tommy started with him into the station.
Cole sighed. He struggled to get his CTA pass out of his messenger bag. Tommy followed him right up to the turnstiles. “Yes, call me. Whatever.” Cole could hear the rumble of a train pulling into the station overhead. It would be just his luck that it was an Evanston train. “Gotta go!” he cried and dashed through the turnstile and up the stairs.
He didn’t look back at Tommy but could imagine him standing there, watching him. Yes, he had an admirer, a not-very-secret one.
What was he to do with that?
Chapter 9
“I WAS sure I’d put him off that first morning when I went over there and couldn’t stop talking. I was so nervous! But I know I came off looking like an idiot to him.” Tommy turned in front of Dora. “But enough about me. How do you think I look?”
Dora snorted. “You mean you ran off at the mouth for, like, ten minutes straight without coming up for air? Like you just did?” Dora laughed. “If he’s going out on a third date with you, he must either be able to tolerate your diarrhea of the mouth or he likes you, he really likes you.” Dora snickered.
“There you go again, boosting my confidence. What would I do without you?”
“Honey, if anyone doesn’t need a cheerleader for his confidence, it’s you.”
Belying the statement Dora had just made, Tommy asked her again, “Do I look okay?”
Dora cocked her head in appraisal. “If you looked any better, I’d date you myself. Not. That would feel too much like incest.” She winked. “You look irresistible, even to your honorary sister.” She laughed, then added, “But just to be sure you understand, I don’t think any man on the planet ever looked better.”
“Really?” Tommy looked down at the black jeans paired with a soft emerald-green flannel shirt.
“Now you’re just fishing. But yeah, that green really brings out the color of your eyes—picks up the gold flecks. I’m sure he’ll be putty in your hands.”
“I wish.” Tommy went to the mirror on the wall by their front door, fussing with his hair, wishing he’d splurged for a cut that afternoon. The truth was this was not another date with Cole. It wasn’t a date at all. Cole had simply agreed to see him, as a buddy. And if Tommy was being brutally honest, he’d have to admit that Cole agreeing to see him was somewhat begrudging. They saw a movie once at the Music Box. They went out to Sidetracks on another occasion, on comedy night, and stood elbow to elbow in the crowded video bar while laughing together at clips from America’s Funniest Home Videos, The Golden Girls, and Designing Women. The third time they just met for coffee at a quirky little café on Lincoln Avenue called the Nervous Center. They’d ended up playing one of the board games the café had lying around—Yahtzee—and really not saying much to each other at all.
That night Cole was having him over for dinner. And Tommy supposed that was progress. Progress even though Tommy had suggested the get-together—as he had every other one—and offered to bring all the ingredients to make his mom’s pasta e fagioli for him.
It was the perfect night for comfort food like the Italian stew of tomatoes, white beans, and ham. Early October, and any pretense of summer was in Mother Nature’s rearview mirror now. Temperatures were predicted to dip down near freezing. There was a frost warning out. The mist hanging in the air had a nip to it, and it made everything feel a little damp. It was the kind of cold that chilled a person to his bones, regardless of how many layers of clothes he wore.
Tommy was beginning to think he was wasting his time. If he didn’t want to be the poor sap mooning over some unrequited love, he knew he needed to consider his options going forward. Yeah, I’ll do th
at, just as soon as I make him dinner. Tommy stepped out of the Jarvis “L” station and looked to his left before hurrying across the street. He made note, once again, of the little gay bar, Charmers, on the corner at Greenview. Maybe he could urge Cole out for an after-dinner drink later? Get him good and liquored up and bring him back home and take advantage of his fucked-up state?
Tommy shook his head as he started east on Jarvis. You know that’s not like you. You’re too nice. And damn you to hell for that. In spite of knowing he’d never get a guy drunk to seduce him, the prospect of it with Cole did cause a boner to rise uncomfortably in his jeans.
TOMMY RANG the buzzer three times, causing him to worry he’d been stood up, or that Cole was lying comatose in his apartment, before being buzzed in. As he headed up to Cole’s, he reminded himself not to talk too much, to try for once in his life to listen. Let his Italian genes guide his hands in the kitchen and not his mouth.
Cole was waiting at his door for him, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. He was grinning, and Tommy couldn’t help his thoughts. God, he’s gorgeous! I just want to throw down this grocery bag and pounce on him. It was his usual thought whenever he came within sight of Cole. One part frustration, one part romantic longing, and two parts simmering lust that Tommy, in his darkest moments, tried to accept would never be realized.
“Sorry if I didn’t hear the buzzer right off. I just hopped out of the shower. And then I had to scramble like hell to get dressed.” Cole stepped back a bit to admit Tommy.
You needn’t have bothered. Naked would have been just fine. Again, that pesky boner raised its purple-helmeted head at the thought of Cole answering the door naked, muscles slick, as rivulets of water dripped down, puddling on the hardwood at his feet. As it stood, the only thing naked on Cole were his feet, and even that was pretty damn sexy. As were the old, faded jeans, very worn, almost white at the crotch, and the inside-out sweatshirt he was sure Cole had thrown on hastily. His mop of dark hair, still damp, was also a sight to behold. And that dark stubble? Tommy imagined the sandpaper delight against his skin if Cole would ever deign to kiss him.