Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  “Lower your voice,” Ford snapped under his breath. “He could wake up.”

  “They can hear him from space,” Brogan replied, pausing long enough for another distant snore to echo through the walls, although he did lower his voice. “An atom bomb wouldn’t wake him up so we have plenty of time for me to point out just how stupid you are.”

  “You have no right to—”

  “It’s not about rights,” Brogan pointed out. “This is an issue of taste and, and, and public decency and...there are so many other issues. I just can’t think of them right now because I’m mad.”

  “Is this because he’s married or because he’s my boss?” Ford asked, his mouth curling patronizingly. The expression wasn’t unattractive on him, which struck Brogan as unfair.

  “Neither, although either one should have been a red flag, don’t you think? Are you so used to the way he talks to you that you don’t notice it anymore? Or do you honestly think this is okay? At the very least you deserve someone who won’t embarrass you in front of people you work with by saying he wants to bend you over a couch or fuck your mouth.”

  All condescension vanished. Now Ford stared at him, brows drawn and tight. “He’s drunk. He doesn’t...he’s not like this all the time.”

  “You don’t seem like the type to put up with this any of the time.” Brogan stepped closer, and Ford didn’t back up. In fact, his eyes dropped to Brogan’s mouth and lingered there.

  “You don’t know the first thing about me,” Ford retorted, although he didn’t sound angry. The words didn’t fit the way he was looking at Brogan, either, as if he were bewildered and mistrustful and... Brogan couldn’t be sure, but if this were anyone else, he’d say rapt. As if every cell in his body were focused on figuring Brogan out, as if he needed to.

  “I know you don’t like it,” Brogan pointed out more gently. “And that’s enough, isn’t it?”

  Ford didn’t reply. He stared at Brogan for another long moment, his lips parting slightly. Then he inhaled and stepped away, turning his back. “I have my reasons. Now leave it alone.”

  “Ford—”

  “We’re done. You’re not entitled to an opinion.”

  Brogan almost chewed through his tongue leaving it at that, but the words stayed in his head. Ford wasn’t wrong. Brogan had no right to say anything.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll call support and let them know we’re going to be here a while. Someone will have to call his wife.”

  “I’ll do it.” When Brogan shot him a look, Ford added wearily, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Brogan kept his mouth shut. With all this practice, you’d think he’d be getting used to it. He filled support in on the situation, turning back in time to hear Ford say into his phone, “Yes, he’s quite devoted.”

  Ford listened to Mrs. Henniton’s response then laughed—a pained, polite chuckle. “I wouldn’t disagree. He might end up staying all night in the office. We don’t know yet how much we’ll get done...yes. Me, too. Thanks, Alyssa.” A pause. “It was good to talk to you, too.”

  He lowered the phone, his thumb hesitating over the disconnect button before he hung up.

  “Like getting a tooth pulled,” Brogan said. “To an outside observer, anyway.”

  Ford didn’t move. “Sometimes I think she knows it’s me. That he’s fucking, I mean. Other times I think she feels sorry for me because I have to lie to her about what he’s really doing. She’s so... I don’t know the word.”

  “Hey,” Brogan said softly.

  “I do know this is wrong. I’ve always known. I chose to do it anyway, but I... I do know it’s fucked up.”

  “Do you love him? Is that why?”

  Ford’s head jerked in the direction of the bedroom. Another snore rumbled the walls and Ford slowly relaxed.

  “This conversation is over.” He slid his phone onto the counter and headed behind the breakfast bar. He washed his hands and Brogan stood there, not sure what to do or say.

  “Do you like pasta?” Ford asked, sounding stiff. “Asparagus? Mushrooms?”

  “All of the above.” Brogan fiddled with the edge of the counter. “Are you going to feed me?”

  “Well, I’m hungry, and at least if there’s food in your mouth you’ll talk less.”

  Brogan laughed and removed his jacket, draping it over a chair. “I’ll be on my best behavior. I’ll even help cook, if you like.”

  “Then get the produce out of the fridge, will you?” Ford said, gesturing over his shoulder.

  Brogan opened the crisper and squinted at the contents. “I’m gonna warn you now, my experience with cooking pasta is limited to the irradiated mac and cheese variety.”

  Ford’s nose wrinkled. “If you keep eating like that, you’ll be dead before you’re fifty.”

  “Your concern warms me.”

  “Wash those,” Ford demanded, scowling at him. “Then cut off the bottoms of the asparagus stalks and remove the stems from the mushrooms. Don’t do a shitty job.”

  It was surprisingly companionable, cooking with Ford. He was confident and quick as he prepared the water and sautéed vegetables in olive oil, and soon the kitchen was fragrant with the scent of garlic. When Ford reached for things on upper shelves, Brogan’s eyes followed the lean lines of his torso, beautifully emphasized by the fitted vest. When he bent to get a colander from a lower cabinet, Brogan wasn’t too proud to admit that he paused in slicing mushrooms so he could admire the curve of Ford’s ass without losing a finger.

  “So, I guess it’s time for me to confess that I took a peek at your music collection while I was here the first time,” he said.

  Only the brief tightening of Ford’s lips showed that he disliked the idea of someone in his apartment without permission. “And? Bemoaning the lack of Weird Al?”

  “Nina Simone, huh?”

  “Nina is a goddess among women,” Ford said shortly. “Watch what you say about her.”

  “Not gonna argue with you about that.”

  “Hmm.” Ford added a pinch of crushed red pepper to the skillet, shifting his weight to maximize the distance between them.

  Brogan realized Ford thought he was being manipulative—trying to suck up or flirt by praising Ford’s taste in music. He wondered if that was the sort of thing Henniton did.

  Brogan didn’t like the comparison—biased though it was—and added, “For about a year when I was eight, me and my siblings lived with my grandmother. She was great. She wore caftans and enormous hats and drank red wine. She...she would send my brother and sister out into the backyard and then we’d play poker and gin and blackjack while this husky-voiced woman wailed in the background. She said Nina understood the beauty in the chaos of living.”

  Ford’s hand on the spatula slowed. “Where is she now?”

  “She passed. About six years ago,” Brogan said. He’d been in Baghdad when he’d gotten the letter from his brother. He’d had to kill a man that day, too. Probably the worst day of his life, he thought now. “Here, uh, what are we drinking?”

  Ford’s fingers brushed against Brogan’s before he jerked back and made a fist. “Water. There’s lemon over there in the basket.”

  “Fancy,” Brogan said, only a little hoarse.

  “Shut up.”

  When they were seated side by side at the breakfast bar, they ate in easy silence, interrupted only by questions about napkins and salt. It was the first homemade meal Brogan had had in months besides reheated dinners sent by Mario’s mother.

  “This is insanely good,” Brogan said, getting up for thirds.

  “I’m glad you think so,” Ford replied, only now finishing up his first helping. “That’s my lunch for tomorrow you’re eating.”

  “And I appreciate it.”

  They cleaned the kitchen to
gether, Ford washing the heavy skillet by hand, Brogan putting everything else into the dishwasher and wiping the counters. Brogan crowded a few inches too close to the other man under the guise of rinsing his hands off, torturing himself with the drag of fabric against fabric when their elbows brushed, that hint of skin and bone underneath. Ford’s forearms were muscled and lightly veined beneath a spattering of dark, springy hair. Brogan’s gaze clung like a magnet to any part of Ford it could latch onto—his hands, strong and efficient as they scrubbed the skillet with warm, soapy water, his shoulders, as they rose and fell with his breath, or the fine line of his throat as he spoke.

  Although they were making casual conversation, Ford didn’t look at him. The not-looking was so pointed, in fact, that sometimes Brogan couldn’t even hear him over the sound of the faucet because Ford refused to turn his head. Which brought Brogan a thrill because it meant that he wasn’t the only one suffering from the low clutch of want in his belly. Ford might wish otherwise, but the awareness was there.

  When they’d finished cleaning up, Brogan checked in with support once more. He was due to be relieved, but they’d all anticipated Henniton being home already, consolidating the staff, and they were shorthanded. Brogan glanced at Ford—well, his back, anyway, his flawless posture on display as he unpacked his laptop—and volunteered to stay put for the rest of his shift. His offer was gratefully accepted by the support desk.

  Ford sat on the couch, pretending he wasn’t listening as his computer booted.

  “Looks like you’re stuck with me for a couple more hours,” Brogan said.

  Ford’s gaze lifted. For a long, heavy moment they stared at each other, and then Ford silently slid over, leaving room for Brogan next to him.

  After several minutes of Brogan’s aimless channel surfing, Ford ordered Brogan to pick a movie, which meant that Brogan ended up crouched in front of a cabinet, pretending to peruse the titles while Ford leaned over him from his perch on the sofa to make suggestions. Brogan wasn’t really listening; he was caught up in Ford’s closeness and fighting the urge to touch a man he had no right to touch. He should’ve been thinking about anything except how good Ford smelled—like soap and clean skin and pomade.

  “Here,” Ford said, reaching past him to make a selection, not quite touching, and when he spoke, his voice was slightly huskier than usual. “Try this.”

  “Cowboy Bebop,” Brogan read. “This looks stupid.”

  “You’re stupid,” Ford said mildly. “Put it in.”

  Because Brogan was stupid and he had a fundamental need to push, he turned his head so that his face was too close to Ford’s to pass as anything but a violation of personal space. He leaned closer still, a tiny bit, testing, and Ford’s lips parted, his pupils dilating. They gazed at each other while Brogan thought of heat and touch and yes, but then Ford’s expression closed and he sat back.

  He cleared his throat then said, “Don’t be a dick or you’ll be waiting in the hall.” He tugged his laptop onto his thighs, focused on work.

  “That’s fair,” Brogan acknowledged, and got up to load the disc.

  Cowboy Bebop wasn’t a movie at all, but an anime series about a couple of bounty hunters. As he watched, he kept a foot of empty sofa between himself and Ford at all times, although it wasn’t enough to enable Brogan to ignore the other man’s presence. He got up at regular intervals to survey the balcony and check in with support. A few times, as quietly as possible, he peered in at Henniton, who hadn’t moved from his side. The snoring had lightened, but neither the sound of the door opening nor the flood of hallway light even made him twitch.

  He started another episode, but spent most of it watching Ford.

  The man worked like a fiend and his concentration was almost frightening in its intensity. The explosions on the television didn’t faze him for a second. Ford was quick, too, typing here, reading there, copying and pasting left and right. The muscles in his forearms bunched and released as he moved. His wrists were slender, pretty.

  “What are you doing?” Brogan asked, as if he wasn’t salivating over the knob of a triquetral bone.

  “Your mom,” Ford said absently, and Brogan snickered even as he turned back to the show. That little bastard had one hell of a mouth on him. Brogan tried very hard not to find that endearing.

  Still, his thoughts wandered in a dangerous direction. What would Ford—a man who slept with his married boss in exchange for an apartment and a job—be like in bed? Prudish? Downright filthy? Against his better judgment, he imagined Ford on his knees in those expensive trousers with one haughty eyebrow lifted in challenge as Brogan opened his belt. Ford was kind of an asshole, so Brogan could picture him trying to make Brogan come with embarrassing speed just because he could. Or maybe he’d be a tease, lying on his bed naked while Brogan watched from a nearby chair. Ford would part those long thighs and arch his back as he jerked himself with a lazy hand, forbidding Brogan from touching him, smirking because he knew how badly Brogan wanted to.

  None of that should be remotely appealing but...well. Brogan surreptitiously adjusted himself.

  The point was that there’d be no talk of compensation or apartments or jobs—only honest, uncomplicated desire. In Brogan’s fantasy, Ford wanted him back, and therein lay the problem, because Ford’s gaze remained fixed on the snoring swine in the bedroom.

  He continued to stare at the television, but all of his attention lingered on lovely, scowling Ford, sitting barely a foot away. Ford, who might as well have been as far away as the moon.

  * * *

  Brogan had the next two days off.

  He did laundry and cleaned his apartment. He visited the range and put ammo through paper targets until his forearms ached, then threw himself into a workout with such gusto that it left him sick. When he’d recovered somewhat, he took his greyhound, Gizmo, to the coast to play Frisbee on the beach until Giz launched himself into the water despite Brogan’s orders and the late January temperatures. During the contemplative half hour he spent drying his shivering, pathetic, idiot dog with napkins from the glove box in his truck, he tried to pretend that his thoughts didn’t leap to Ford whenever he had two spare brain cells.

  He met his sister for lunch and let his nephew spit baby food all over him. He gave her a check despite her protestations—an old habit. She might not cash it, but he felt better knowing she had the cushion if she needed it. He lost most of the afternoon to a marathon of Star Trek: The Next Generation, then won fifty bucks—his trash and water bills check marked for the month—playing blackjack online. He made pretty good money in his line of work, but there was something irreverent about paying bills with gambling winnings, so he tried to do that as much as possible. After unsticking his ass from the recliner and making a few phone calls, he won another eighty—his energy bill—during an impromptu poker game at Mario’s that night.

  He also got rip-roaring drunk and spent the next six hours snoring in a stupor on Mario’s couch.

  Blinding sunlight woke him. His face was smashed into a cushion, dried drool coated his chin and he was wrapped in a blanket that a good Samaritan had thrown over him. Rolling over made the world rock around him like a ship on turbulent seas.

  When he heard footsteps approaching, he was as thrilled as only someone with a devastating hangover could be to see Mario bearing coffee and ibuprofen.

  “You are a saint,” Brogan said. He took the pills and didn’t even mind that he scorched the roof of his mouth. “A god among men.”

  Mario sank onto the ottoman, studying Brogan critically. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you? I’ve never seen you that blitzed.”

  Brogan took another big gulp of coffee, then sank back into the cushions and pulled the blanket up under his chin. “I might have a minor crush. I’ve chosen the route of too much alcohol in dealing with it. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
>
  Mario put his own mug down. “You don’t get crushes.”

  “That explains why I’m handling it badly.”

  “You pick up people in bars. Horrid people.”

  “They’re not horrid.”

  “That one dude stole your copy of The Dark Knight.”

  Brogan rubbed a hand gingerly across his face. Even his eyebrows hurt. “In his defense, that’s a good movie.”

  Mario considered that, and then admitted, “It is a good movie. But my point stands. You have appalling taste in men.”

  “Maybe,” Brogan said, although Ford was nothing like the amiable, empty-headed men that Brogan picked up in bars, fucked once and then discarded. Still, saying that wouldn’t get Mario off his back. “But that’s why I’m drinking instead of acting on it. I’m being mature if you think about it.”

  Mario lifted an eyebrow. “Is he taken?”

  Brogan let his head drop against the back of the couch. “Oh, yeah.”

  Mario winced. “Can you convince him to trade up?”

  “Doubtful.” Because even if Ford was looking for a way out—and he wasn’t, what with all that talk about “it’s inappropriate” and “I’m not interested” and “you aren’t entitled to an opinion”—Henniton was not a man Brogan should piss off. At the very least, he’d get fired. Judging from the way Henniton had held on to Ford that first night in the apartment, hard enough that his knuckles had whitened, Brogan wouldn’t have been surprised to find goons threatening to rip out his fingernails, either.

  “Not worth the drama,” he said.

  Mario nodded. “Sounds like alcohol was a good coping skill after all.”

  “I concur.” Brogan headed for the bathroom. His bladder was screaming at him. He shut the door behind him and considered his reflection for a moment: skin gray and pasty from dehydration, his dishwater blond hair matted to his skull on one side. His lips were chapped, his eyes bloodshot.

  He looked like a train wreck, and he’d been working on the Touring detail for just under a month. At this rate, he’d be dead before Henniton.