“Not that naïve, you mean?” I was hoping he’d grin and remember when he called me that. I was right about the first part.
“Been a long time since I was wet behind the ears, Detective. If I ever was.” He smirked, but it appeared more sad than anything else. “Anyhow, no, I didn’t mean it that way. You’re naïve. Me? I was just taken with Iss. We talked about everything.” He jerked his chin up at me. “What’s he supposed to have done?”
That was my cue to throw a question back, because it was never a good idea to answer that question. Lawyers filed lawsuits for maligning a person’s character. So naturally, I did it anyway. “He’s been charged with human trafficking involving forty-seven Mexican nationals ranging in age from eight to thirty. The feds might add charges when they take over the case. Who was he after?”
“Iss? You’ve got the wrong guy, Detective,” he replied. It was deliberate avoidance of my question.
“Sounds like someone still taken with him.”
“No. I told you I’m that boy anymore. I’m just telling you that Iss isn’t ambitious enough to do anything like that.”
The indifference in his voice was what convinced me he wasn’t a lover trying to defend his boyfriend. “What makes you say that?” The thing that had me intrigued was that there was almost a puzzle piece clicking into place with Peter’s statement. Based on Alvarado’s previous petty arrest history, he didn’t seem capable of running such a complex scheme as human trafficking on his own.
“He didn’t even deal anything stronger than weed or party favors when we were together. And Joe let him hang around after we stopped hooking up. No way he’d even let him in the door here if he was that shady. They were together just a few days before Joe died.” I locked that tidbit of information away. Something about the way Peter looked out the window again almost made me doubt his veracity. Almost.
“What about Terrelle Gaines?” Peter began laughing. I thought that was my answer. I would have been blown away by the way he brightened, but I was too busy computing how our case was going to hell.
“Terrelle? Terrelle shakes down the older trannies because he has zero game. Even the younger boys have kicked his ass. Janine once beat him over the head with her shoe. Chased him down the street hobbling on one high heel and trying to hold her wig on with the other hand. No way would Iss deal with Terrelle other than to beat his ass.”
The problem with this statement was that Terrelle had recently given us several strong leads. He’d developed a trust with Luis and me. And he had given us Alvarado. But I trusted Peter. Probably because I was so fucked in the head right now.
“Why was Joe meeting with Iss?”
“Iss was like me, way back when Joe started on Vice. Joe took him in, tried to set him on the right path.” He tapped my card a few times, read it, and then flipped it again. I waited as he fell silent, trying not to push. Yet. “Joe doesn’t give up. Didn’t. Joe didn’t give up. Even after eighteen years, he still tried with Iss.”
“But you don’t think Iss wouldn’t be into anything big.”
“Iss deals some E, sometimes the new stuff at the clubs, nothing hard. Not ever. Not even meth.” He opened his mouth to add something, but then his lips disappeared behind his teeth.
“There’s something else,” I nudged.
He nearly broke my mind again when his fingers dragged through his hair. My physical response was so intense, my lips parted to expel a harsh breath. Christ, I wanted him. “I told him some of what I heard you say on the phone Saturday.”
Oh, fucking shit hell. “About how Gaines had sold him out?”
“About how he should maybe go away, do nothing for a while. I didn’t mention Terrelle. I just told him not to meet up with anyone.”
I had to ask. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Why wouldn’t I? There’s been a few assholes here trying to… But most of the cops have been decent. And I liked Joe. He wouldn’t want Iss going down for something he didn’t do. Okay? Now, that’s as much as I know about Iss and anything he’s done. I’m done with all of this, detective. Leave me alone.”
“Give me a name. Someone that might clarify things. If it’s not Iss, then I need someone who is ambitious.”
He was already half out of the booth, but he considered my request as he stood there, flicking my card against his fingers. “I’ll ask around.” I slid out of the booth and caught his wrist as he pushed the doors to the kitchen open. He turned and regarded my hand, then schooled his expression into ice. “I said I’d—”
“Let me buy you coffee? Or loafers? Or goddamned sunscreen.”
“I thought you couldn’t—”
“Yeah, I’m also not supposed to pay for hookers or go home with guys. There’s a lot I keep doing around you that I’m not supposed to.”
“Am I going to finish a sentence on this date?”
“Depends on how often your lips are in range of mine.” Where that came from, I didn’t know. Didn’t care either, because Peter smiled. He rolled his eyes, but he did smile. Then he gave a slow, almost reluctant nod, and said the magic word. “Okay”.
“Three o’clock, Saturday. I’ll pick you up here.” I checked his feet as I released his arm. “And wear the bunny slippers.”
“Have they drug tested you recently?”
“I’ll bring the results on our date,” I winked. My grin stayed in place until I spun around. That was when I closed my eyes and took a deep, shaky breath as I headed to my car. Several minutes of deep breathing later, I was finally controlled enough to call Luis with what I knew.
After we set up an interview for the next day with Prisc and his lawyer, I drove home whistling. My case was unraveling before my eyes, but I had a date with Peter on Saturday. He might not even stab me in the face during it.
It amazed me what constituted a victory these days.
But my joviality was short-lived when I found Angelica making dinner when I arrived.
She Left With The Only Bottle of Soy Sauce
When Angelica and I took the plunge into dating, we each owned a home. I, the Victorian apartment building that I adored, and she, a two million dollar brick mansion three miles away in the most expensive neighborhood in Denver. When I proposed we had the only serious argument we’d ever had: about where we were going to live. Eight weeks before our wedding, the jury was still out.
I was probably going to give in. Move into her house and settle into our life together. I knew it, and she knew it. But it was a difficult loss for me because I’d invested so much time and energy into this little building. Angelica understood that, too. So she put up with our living apart. For now.
We almost exclusively slept at my place when we spent nights together, though it was getting harder to explain our lifestyle to our friends. We were monumentally independent. It took almost two years for her to allow me closet space and drawers at her place. But she was always able to make herself at home in mine. Go figure.
She worked as a junior partner in a law firm—my father’s law firm to be exact. Her hours could best be described as horrendous. At worst they could be called excruciating. Most of the time, seventeen-hour days were the norm for her. Thus, she came over whenever her schedule allowed.
“Hello, lover,” Angelica greeted me with a smile over the island that separated the kitchen from the living room.
“Are you cooking?” I sniffed the air. “There’s no smoke. The fire alarm isn’t sounding,” I said with a heaping dose of suspicion.
“You scoff, but what are you going to do when I actually do cook something?”
“Check and see what aliens have invaded your body and exchanged your soul for theirs.”
“You can peek under my skirt right now,” she taunted, holding up a spatula and a steaming frying pan.
My smile faltered. I concentrated on the TV, snatching the remote off the end table and flipping it on. “You did not cook that,” I accused.
Angelica’s soft laugh filled the room.
I avoided her gaze. I had been avoiding her actually, because I didn’t want to argue. And I was going to venture a guess that my wanting to bone a guy would be a big point of contention. We were going to have to talk about it.
I sat on the sofa, remote in hand and flipped through the channels. Even if something was on, I wouldn’t have noticed. The TV held no interest for me other than as an excuse to avoid her some more. She was on to me, however.
I wasn’t acting any differently than normal. I never rushed over to her and kissed her or groped her after long periods apart. I needed distance first. Distance from what I saw and dealt with on the job. At least, that’s what I told myself was the excuse. So I wasn’t sure why she instantly figured out something was up. Woman’s intuition?
“What’s wrong?” Angelica asked, flipping open two beers and setting one in my hand. She gently removed the remote and placed it on the coffee table.
Curling up beside me, she rested an elbow on the back of the sofa. Her fingers played with the hem of her skirt, where her feet peeked out. I concentrated on these small things, hoping I’d find some measure of attraction that was even close to what I felt for Peter.
“How do you do that?” I asked with a rueful laugh and a pull on my drink while I stared at her tiny toes.
“Probably something to do with being in love with you. But mostly because I’ve known you since you were sixteen.”
“That was an interesting day.” Deflect. Deflect. Deflect. I couldn’t have the conversation we needed to have.
Always able to read me, Angelica took the hint and went with the subject change. “It was. Your father had asked you to take that Testam girl to her junior prom. And when I got back from lunch, you were cowering in my office to avoid doing so.”
“He ordered me to take her.” I grinned, picking at the condensation-softened label. It peeled away in a stripe under my thumbnail.
“Lovely girl.”
I chuckled at her sarcasm. “It was your fault I took her.”
“I just mentioned it wasn’t worth fighting over. It was one dance. I was getting a little tired of the arguments between you two.”
“Arguments? I can count on my hands the number of words Desmond Glass has said to me since I was six—and most of them started with ‘Son, I’m disappointed in you’.”
“If you had spent half the energy on pleasing him as you did on the things that ticked him off, he’d start sentences off differently.” Her hand rested on my shoulder. I shook it off.
“Old news, Angel. And I took the dimwitted pest to her prom, didn’t I? See how well I can please?”
“And got caught in her bed that night.”
“Her idea to do it in her bedroom three doors down from her parents. Not mine.” I gave my best poker face. “How was I supposed to know she was a screamer?” I smiled and chuckled again. “Or her mother was too. Julia screaming in the bed, her mother screaming at the door to the bedroom. I blame you for my hearing loss from that night.”
“Mmhm,” Angelica said dubiously.
“Why do half my conversations with you end up about my father?” I sighed and set the bottle down on the coffee table, moving off the couch and into the kitchen. She didn’t follow me.
“Maybe because half of what you do is about your father.”
“Not anymore. I gave up trying to be a son when I realized he only wanted one in name.” I peered into the frying pan. “Is this Chinese food?”
“Austin, is this something to do with that?” Or another woman was the unspoken question. Given my history it wasn’t a huge leap. Angelica sounded more resigned than angry. There was an inaudible sigh somewhere in her breathing. “Is that why you’ve been incommunicado?”
The food was boiling so I switched the stove off and took a deep breath. “I think I’m gay. Did you reheat this? Because I’m not ready to try your cooking just yet.”
“It’s from Wang’s, and, yes, it’s reheated. I did make the rice.” She finally followed me into the kitchen and lifted the lid to the rice cooker.
My hands dropped to the counter, and I leaned against it, pressing my eyes shut. “I think I’m gay.”
“Microwaved eggrolls make me queasy. They’re still lukewarm though. I think we can—”
“I think I’m gay, Angel.”
“I heard you!” Something slammed against the counter. “Stop saying it.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I twisted around and pulled two plates down from the cabinet, eyeing her sideways. She was gripping a bottle of soy sauce tightly. “We’ll talk about something else.” Snatching a couple of serving spoons, I scooped rice onto the plates.
She released the bottle, placed her hand on my shoulder again and pressed her forehead into my arm. “Austin, this is just like the other times. You’re panicking. Eight weeks before the wedding and you’re panicking. This is what you do every time.”
That had occurred to me, and it was my modus operandi when relationships got serious. Granted, it was usually a woman I ended up with. “We can talk about this. Or we can not talk about it. But don’t just slip in comments.” I tossed the serving spoons into their respective dishes, stabbing one into the rice.
“There’s nothing to talk about. This is ridiculous. Gay, Austin? Gay?” Angelica’s hand clamped onto her hip as she yanked the soy sauce off the counter. “Do you hear yourself?”
“There’s a guy.”
“What?” She whispered. I felt, rather than saw, her step back from me. “Did you…?”
“No. God, no. Nothing happened.” Nothing of consequence. I crushed my hands into my hair, pulled at the skin of my face with my palms, wanting to rub myself out of existence. “Christ, Angel, I don’t know how to not talk about this with you. I don’t know how to not talk about anything with you. I’ve told you every single thing since we met. But Jesus, how do we talk about this?”
She clutched the soy sauce to her chest, twisting it in circles. “Okay. Okay. So there’s a guy. Just one?” I nodded, keeping my vigil over the counter. “So, you’ve thought about one man?” She laughed then, expelled a relieved and frustrated breath and placed her small hand over mine. “It’s normal, Austin. That’s normal.”
“It’s not normal. It’s all I’ve thought about for three days.”
“It’s one person. You’re not gay for thinking intimately about one person, Austin. You’re just panicking like you always do and searching for something. We’ll wait it out and see.”
“One person the last three days.”
“So?”
“I focused all this energy on him I think because…I didn’t want to think about the other ones,” I said quietly. She was back to hugging the soy sauce.
“You’re right. We can’t talk about this. I’m going home.” She snatched her purse up, still gripping the bottle. “Don’t touch me.” She jerked back when I reached a hand out. “What did you think was going to happen, Austin? Did you think I’d bring out the PFLAG buttons and march in the gay parade for you? Why can’t you end a relationship like a normal person?”
“I don’t—”
“It always has to be some dramatic ending. Something sure to drive her away. Sleep with her best friend, her mother, her sister. But you swore to me it wouldn’t happen with me. You swore we’d talk about it!”
“That’s what I’m doing, goddammit! That’s what I’m fucking doing.” I had never raised my voice to her. Not once in ten years. Not even when I was bitching about my father.
“Well, I can’t talk about this! It’s patently ridiculous. I can’t talk about this eight weeks before—” She was halfway to exiting when she finally stopped her whirlwind departure. I thought she might add something but two seconds after the pause she was out the door, slamming it hard enough to shake the glass figures on the mantle.
And she took my only bottle of soy sauce.
It’s Easy To Be Brave When No One But The Dead Can Hear
Leaving dinner to rot on the counters, I climbed upstairs. I sat on
the bed, pulling off my tie while staring at the dark lines between each wooden slat on my floor. Maybe she was right? Maybe I wasn’t gay, and this was just the anxiety of a groom-to-be. The stress was a familiar feeling. Not just the stress, but the doubts and the pressure. I could trace them all the way back to ninth grade.
So many students. The halls reek of bubble gum gloss, cheap hair products, and teenage sweat. Everyone, save me and a few random kids, are in jeans or casual wear. Skinny, newly acne ridden, awkward and short, I enter freshman year a mere shadow of my eighth grade self. Puberty has smacked me up and down the ugly tree and then dropped me on my face. I compound all of these problems by wearing the uniform required at my old school.
It isn’t that I prefer to wear these clothes. I watch television. I know what kids dress like. But my father insists I dress “properly”, even in public school. And what Desmond Glass Sr. wants, Desmond Glass Sr. gets. And what he gets is his son tossed in a locker before second period.
I press my head against the cool metal door, my fist pounding against it. “I’m Austin Glass! I kissed Mitzi Baylor for three and half minutes. Mitzi. Baylor. She was seventeen! I broadcasted pictures of my dick to the entire biology class. I’ve been kicked out of four prep schools. I’m the guy that spiked the headmaster’s tea with X! I don’t belong in a locker. Fuck!”
A pound on the other side of the door knocks the metal into my forehead, not hard enough to do more than take me by surprise. “What’s your combo?” The voice on the other side is laughing.
I rattle off the numbers and then stumble out of the tight space. “Thanks.”
“Mitzi? Is she even real?”
I cup two hands out of my chest and make a show of how ‘real’ she is. “Her tongue felt real.”
“Dave,” my savior says, holding out his hand.
“Austin.”
“Well, Austin, do you have any cash?”
“You’re going to shake me down now?” I tilt my chin up, mouth agape. He’s taller than me. Same mousy brown hair as mine, same brown eyes. Loads better looking, but not much heavier, considering he’s about four inches taller. I’m debating whether I can take him.
Shattered Glass Page 7