Fated Desire

by Noah Harris

  “You look exactly the same,” he says, with no small amount of love. Which I don’t want to hear.

  I feel different, I should look different.

  “You have a baby,” I report, and she sticks her lower lip out at me in a vengeful pout as he’s strapping her back into her sling.

  “I have four,” Christian says with wonder, but I know I can’t have heard that right. Four?

  Happily married, then. I’m so angry, for a second, I could punch him in the face. The idea of some other man touching his body, making him shudder. Making him come. The only thing I’ve wanted since I first understood what sex was.

  I hate that man, whoever he is. Hate him violently. Christian can see it in my face and he can still see into me clearly enough to guess my train of thought. He shakes his head hurriedly, as if I’ve made a huge mistake, but I suddenly feel sick. Sick enough to throw up. I guess the adrenaline is catching up with me. If I faint in front of Christian Keller…

  “Well. Congratulations. Nice seeing you, man. Have a good one.”

  He holds up a hand to stop me, but I’m already gone.

  He doesn’t even have a chance to say my name.

  There’s about three hours until my first apartment viewing, and I left my bulletin at the coffee shop, so unless I want to hunt up another one or risk running into Christian again, I’m not sure what to do with myself.

  I loop around the block, hoping to catch him leaving, but when I get back to the corner opposite he’s nowhere to be seen. I’m confused and feeling something I think is probably panic, at the idea of seeing him again. Smelling him. That body being real, after so many years dreaming of it.

  And so many men I tried to make into him, either through fantasy or careful choice. With his image still fresh in my mind, I’m embarrassed to look back through the men I’ve been with and see so many similarities. The apple cheeks, big teeth, cowlicked curly dark hair.

  I never even knew I had a type, much less what it was based on. If I think about it too long, I’ll start getting sad, and horny, and I’ll wander into the next bar I see, and I’ll end up getting drunk, or getting my dick sucked by some random guy, or getting into a fistfight, and I’ll never make it to my appointment.

  “That nutsack,” hoots a west Texas drawl, and I wheel around, still jumpy from the attack, and terrified of Christian popping back up.

  But it’s Jonesy Kirkendall, of all people. Tween bully, high school quarterback, gone to seed now with a cute little beer gut and bloodshot eyes. I wish I could say he looks like hell, but his all-American corn-fed looks are as handsome as ever. Even if he’s clearly falling apart.

  “Jonesy,” I say, hoping for a tone of hostility, but he just grins.

  “Tarrant,” Jonesy nods, and bucks at me a little bit. A familiar feint from his bullying days, but now almost friendly.

  “What do you want?”

  He’s surprised but not offended at my unwelcoming tone.

  “Buy me a beer?”

  “It’s not even noon, Kirkendall.”

  I turn to leave, but he steps closer, a pacifying smile on his wide, handsome face.

  “I know what that was. Highpoint. Nobody else in town would have caught it, but I did.”

  My heart skips a beat, and I search his face. What’s his game?

  “Jonesy. I don’t have time for…I don’t have it in me. Just tell me what you want.”

  He looks hurt, and I don’t think he’s kidding. Is it possible he’s changed? Maybe.

  I never really knew him well. I’m certainly not the same person I was at fourteen, after all. I can’t ask anybody here for another chance if I wouldn’t give them the same.

  “I’m going through a tough time, Tarrant. I’m getting divorced.”

  I look him up and down, putting the pieces together. He does seem awfully divorced.

  That lost, scared look men get when their lives fall apart, and they realize what was holding them together all along.

  “Sorry to hear that,” I say, surprised to find I mean it. “Guess things are tough all around.”

  “What did Christian say to you? I would have thought he’d be all over you. You two were thick as thieves back when we were little.”

  I shrug, hoping I sound as careless as I can. “Shit happens.”

  He nods, a serious look knitting his eyebrows.

  “I remember some kind of drama. Your families or something. It was hot gossip back in the day. But grownups kept it all hush-hush. I just figured it was gay stuff.”

  Okay, that’s enough of that.

  “Nice seeing you, Jonesy,” I say, ready to make a second run for it, but he just holds up his hand again in apology.

  “I don’t mean…Oh, hell. Dom, I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I just…well, we all thought you two were up to something. Keller always told everybody he wasn’t gay, even though he obviously was, but he said it so much it was weird, so we just assumed he was on the down low. We all knew how you felt about him, so…”

  I’m surprised by all of this. Each and every part of it. Jonesy Kirkendall having an opinion, having a single thought about my love life. Back then or now, it’s Bermuda Triangle shit. A complete X-File. I try to recall even one detail about him back then and can’t think of anything. Just dread when I saw him coming, and fantasies of his destruction once I was away.

  In one dream, I’d come back to town strong as hell. Buff and beautiful, and he’d plead for my forgiveness, and I’d pound him into the ground.

  Or more often, I’d seduce him, make him beg for it with every shifter skill I possess. Down on his knees in the old locker room, in his jockstrap and shoulder pads. Helmet and blacked-out cheeks, licking his lips with hunger, unable to take his eyes off my cock, hypnotized. Holding absolutely still until I give the word. Then, once I used him up, I’d break up his marriage or take all his money, or something. Some awful thing I could do, to get my power back from him.

  But now, he just seems familiar, friendly and pretty pathetic, and I can barely remember what it was like to hate him for so long. Jonesy Kirkendall.

  Not to mention the fact that, as bullies went, he had nothing on my first couple of years away from Salt Flats. Fifteen and sixteen were absolute hell. The nasty jokes and low-level harassment from Jonesy were a holiday party compared to the boys at military school those first few semesters. He was nothing, compared to that cruelty.

  “Are you telling me all you guys used to sit around and talk about who I was screwing?”

  He laughs.

  “We were fourteen, nobody was screwing. But we did wonder what you all got up to. Seems like everybody has a story about some kid they knew getting sucked off by a guy or getting hand jobs from somebody at camp. But it was always somebody else. A friend of a friend or somebody’s cousin. It was kind of fascinating to think about it being somebody we knew.”

  I nod, remembering exactly what he’s talking about. Everybody’s got one of those stories, but nobody ever tells it like it happened to them.

  “And now?”

  He quirks a smile, looking away slyly. I’m impressed.

  “After a certain age you can admit it. Stuff happens. Like you said.”

  I’m more confused than ever. Is this human, this idiot, looking for a hookup?

  I wonder what my younger self would think about that if it really happened and decide there’s no version of me who wouldn’t be completely grossed out by the idea.

  “Anyway, it’s nice to see you, Tarrant. I know we weren’t always the best of friends.”

  “You fuckin’ terrorized me, Jonesy. You were my biggest nightmare. Getting away from you was the best thing about leaving town. By a long shot.”

  He looks at his feet, ashamed. More than a little hurt.

  “I know that, man. I know. That’s why I had to talk to you. When I saw that guy coming at you…if I’d been closer, I would’ve jumped in. But you could handle yourself. I saw that, too. Dominic Tarrant and Christian Keller, man. D
oing that soldier-boy aikido shit.”

  When we were known as the biggest pansies in the school, once upon a time.

  I can see how that would be fascinating. Sure.

  But I’m a lot bigger than I used to be. I figured out a long time ago that boys like Jonesy needed each other’s permission to be men. If I didn’t, that made me the winner. I could be whoever I wanted, just by refusing to play their game.

  “Glad you’re impressed. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  This time, Kirkendall puts his hand on my chest, firmly. I try not to flex beneath his palm.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Tarrant. I’m bored and I can’t go home. So if you’re not going to buy me a beer, let me get you some lunch or something.”

  Up close he smells pretty sour. Things are not going well for him. I can see in his eyes that he means it. He’s bored and lonely. Lonely enough to buy me a sandwich, just for my company. I roll my eyes, and nod. He’s so cheered by it that it’s a little off-putting. So desperately needy.

  But I can’t back out now. Lead the way, you sad bastard.

  An hour later, it occurs to me that this might have been the best decision I’ve made in a while. Jonesy knows everything about everybody. He’s a one-man Weekly Sun. It’s a well-guarded secret that small town good old boys are the biggest gossips on the planet, and the things he knows could fill a library.

  Jonesy Kirkendall is an encyclopedia, dates and times, connections and family histories, all of it. It’s truly something to behold. This man belongs in politics. It’s much less mysterious now, exactly how he knew about Highpoint and the wild-haired man.

  Unfortunately, he can’t identify the man himself.

  “His suit’s way too nice and that haircut was way too good. At least back when he got it. Probably up from Dallas, or Houston. Definitely on the lookout for you. I clocked him spying on you about a half-hour before he attacked, but I figured I’d let it play out since I didn’t know for sure. Once he jumped in…I didn’t even need to hear him yell Highpoint. I hope nobody else heard it, though. Clock’s ticking. They’re going to come with pitchforks and torches when they figure it out. This town got hit bad.”

  I didn’t really think about that until he said it, but it makes sense.

  My superiors were trained to look for small-town new money. Rubes exactly like the oil boom cycle creates in Salt Flats. Reel ‘em in with high-yield investments on a short turnaround until they’re convinced you’re a financial genius, then lure them into some junk derivatives and default swaps. They’re left holding the bag, you recoup the initial razzle-dazzle tricks, and by the end of the fiscal year you’ve declared bankruptcy, changed your company’s name and gotten a new board and trustees. Half the time you don’t even have to pay taxes on the profits. Tidy little scheme.

  I’m not saying I knew about that. Any of it. But I did know we were trading on naiveté, and that the returns we were showing weren’t sustainable. I honestly just thought it was bad management and that when it all came down it would be my superiors who’d pay the price, and we’d all just go find new jobs. It never occurred to me they could know exactly what they were doing.

  Or that I’d be the face of the scandal, when it eventually broke.

  All my connections, friends, my whole network knew before I did. It was an industry secret that I would take the fall. Not legally, not for crimes committed, just the embarrassment and the fallout. I’d be toxic forever and within weeks, a life’s worth of buddies dried up and disappeared, as far away as possible before the bomb hit.

  People leave. That part didn’t bother me too much. But knowing people got hurt, and I was directly responsible for bringing them in. No amount of naiveté could make up for that. It was better for me to be alone with it, with that shame and self-loathing. For as long as it took to make it up to them.

  There’s justice in the fact that I eventually came here to hide out. Shooting myself in the foot is crucial to my personal brand, after all. But knowing they’ll come with their pitchforks, as he says, is enough to keep me here as long as it takes. I’ve got nothing to lose. A little penance might make me feel better. It’s at least more bearable than sitting in Hollywood, crying over my breakfast for no reason, numb to everything and looking for my next binge.

  “Do you think I’m a monster?”

  The second the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Not because Jonesy Kirkendall will probably be completely honest in his answer, but because there’s no answer that can satisfy me. If I am a monster, so be it. If I’m not a monster, I am something worse.

  You never ask yourself if you feel guilty enough. Do you?

  “I don’t think you’re a monster. I think you’re a cog in a machine. I think we all follow orders and don’t always think about the next guy down the line. I think you knew you were in a dirty business, but you didn’t know how dirty until it was too late. That’s what my gut says.”

  That’s insightful. Far too kind, but not wildly off-base.

  Do I have to look at Jonesy Kirkendall in a new light? I hate that!

  “What should I do?”

  In that moment, I utterly mean it. I am completely lost. No direction home and no idea how to get back to the person I was supposed to be. If the universe has put Jonesy in my path to offer his wisdom, who am I to ignore that?

  “Find out who you hurt. Make amends. Try to do better. Listen, we all love a scandal. Everybody wants something to throw garbage at because the world doesn’t give us much opportunity to say how bad we’re hurting. But everybody secretly wants to forgive, too. So find a way through that maze and you’ll be fine. Hometown hero, eventually.”

  That seems insanely optimistic, but it does have the ring of truth. All I have to do is save a local family from a falling piano or something and we’ll be good.

  I wonder if any kids have gotten trapped down wells lately.

  And it’s with that rather uncharitable thought that I realize we’ve been talking now for hours, mostly fascinating stories about people whose names I only vaguely remember, and I have a viewing to get to. I check the address and realize it’s walkable if I set out immediately.

  When Jonesy Kirkendall sees where I’m heading, he grins and looks at my face like there’s a joke I’m not getting. Then he laughs. Not unkindly.

  “I know the guy that owns that place. I think you’re going to love it there.”

  He’s being so secretive and gleeful I honestly can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, but I thank him for the insights and we trade numbers.

  If I don’t think too hard about the past, it’s exciting to think I’ve made my first friend. Even more so, how somebody knows my secret and doesn’t hate me and that I didn’t just drop dead from horror when I found out.

  I’m going to do what I can to minimize my chances of seeing Christian again. Preferably for the whole time I’m here. But as a dry-run for meeting old acquaintances I can’t think of a more encouraging example than the randomness of Jonesy Kirkendall. Who would probably still be a jerk to me if he weren’t also miserable, but I guess that’s true of most people. We all have the capacity for both.

  I just wish he could tell me about the local pack. There were a couple of times where I felt like he was almost hinting at it. Strange things afoot in the woods, vague references to mysterious groups, but that was probably just me filtering it through my own experience. Based on the last few hours of conversation, I can safely say Jonesy Kirkendall would find it difficult to sit on a fact like “by the way, werewolves are real,” not when he couldn’t even get through five minutes without letting me know he was aware of my secret shame, in detail.

  Although he did seem to know more than he was saying about Christian Keller, before he took the hint that I didn’t want to talk about it further. Anyway, there’s time for all that. I can see multiple paths by which Jonesy Kirkendall might end up being my salvation.

  If you know exactly where the mines are, is it really a minefield?

/>   This first listing is for a room in a house. Kids, shared kitchen, private bathroom and entrance. I’m surprised by how nice that sounds.

  If I can’t be part of a family, it’ll feel good to be near one, at least. To hear little kid sounds in the morning. People laughing in the night.

  And almost as fast as I can get excited, the darkness rears up too. The assumption is flawed that any normal family would want me anywhere near them. Or their kids. They’ll take one look at me and pick up on something, my brokenness, even just the shifter thing, and they’ll put on a tight, hard smile like a mask. And that will be the end of the interview.

  Which is fine. It’s only the first showing. Plenty of fish in the sea. Or the Weekly Sun, in this case. Jonesy did say I’d be happy there. If he wasn’t joking, that’s something to imagine. Happiness somewhere.

  God, he’s different now. We were so dissimilar back then, besides sports, but now it feels like we have everything in common. Is it just that we’re both sad? Or was it always true, and I just couldn’t see it? How neat that would be, to find out my memories are wrong. That this place is wonderful, that there are no monsters under the bed and there never were. The scary shadow was just a jacket on a chair.

  That vanishing from the world, from my family, the boy who broke my heart. All of it was just a slight delay.

  Real life will resume soon. Thank you for your patience.

  The neighborhood does look familiar. If Jonesy knows these folks, maybe I do too. I can barely remember ten families from that long ago. But if it’s somebody our age I might be able to recall something. If not, I’ll be in their home with ample clues and evidence as to who they are and who I’ll need to be, to fit in with them.

  It’s a big house, which is nice. When they say “single-family dwelling” it always sounds very cozy, but this one has room to spare. The lawn is dying where it’s not overgrown. A weedy yellow blanket under a million rusty tricycles, deflated basketballs and plastic junk. The yard of a very poor family, I think nastily, surrounding the house of a very rich one. But if they didn’t need money, I wouldn’t be here. So this should be interesting.