“I don’t know. I shouldn’t really but . . . oh, what the hell. Thanks.”
Jake fetched a couple of bottles from the fridge and handed one across. As he did, his fingers brushed against Graham’s hand, and he felt the thrill right down to his toes. It’d been a long time since that had happened, as well. He could get it up if someone touched his cock, but not just from a simple brush of skin on skin. Once again, he fought to keep control, but Graham hardly helped by grasping his hand and running one finger ever-so-lightly across the back. It was unexpected and good to feel someone decent touching him after enduring Frank Warren the previous night. Every last hair on his body stood up on end, and he heard the breath hissing out between his teeth, or was that Graham’s breath? It was hard to tell when their faces were so close, when his teeth were mashed up against Graham’s tongue and lips, when his breath was Graham’s breath.
“Christ, Graham, not a good . . .” he mumbled against the bristles on Graham’s chin, but the only response was another onslaught from hands and a very insistent tongue.
Their journey to the bedroom was haphazard, with both trying to rip off each other’s clothes while tangled together as though for a three-legged race. They bumped into furniture, they tripped each other up, but they made it at last and threw themselves on the bed. Not a good idea, not a good idea, Jake’s brain screamed the whole way there, but he wasn’t thinking with his brain, and besides, he was no longer the one in control. Every last shred of Graham’s first-visit nerves had gone, and he was firmly in charge, as though he were the conductor and Jake mere third violin. Along with the nerves, all trace of his likeness to Edward had vanished too. There was still some faint resemblance in his face: hair colour, cheekbones, the shape of his moustache, although even that was different now, and he was growing a neat little goatee.
It didn’t make any difference to the way Jake felt about the bloke. If anything, it helped. It was a relief not to have the constant reminder of what a shit Edward had been, and he no longer needed that reminder because he liked Graham more than enough for himself. A liking that was threatening to become something more permanent; threatening to turn, God help him, into love.
He had one hand stuffed down the back of Graham’s pants and was fighting Graham’s zip with the other when Graham stopped, half-raised his head, and said, “Shit.”
“Hmm? What?” Jake tried to pull him back down.
“No condoms. They’re in my other coat.”
“Oh, screw that.” The second the words were out, he regretted them; that really was his cock talking rather than his brain.
“No, Jake, I’m not screwing it. Or you, or you me. It’s not worth the risk. I’ve had friends who . . . well. I just won’t, that’s all.”
Jake stopped trying to eat him alive. “You’re right, I’m getting ahead of myself. There should be a spare pack in the bedside cabinet at the back of the drawer. I usually keep some there.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Jake felt a sudden loss of warmth on his chest as Graham rolled over, and heard various furtive scrabbling sounds from across the bed.
“Got one!” Graham yelled.
Jake felt the warmth and the hands and the tongue slide back.
Ten minutes later, Jake lay in a sated, glowing heap. It might have been quick, but he’d blasted off like Apollo 13, and Graham had followed suit. Nice, he thought, floating in space. I could stay like this for hours. But beside him, the bedclothes stirred.
“Gotta go, gotta go,” Graham muttered in despairing tones. “Monica’ll kill me if I’m late.”
“Don’t. Stay a bit longer.” Jake reached out a languorous hand to pull him back, but once again the warmth was gone, and the bed dipped and sprang as Graham got out.
“I can’t. You know I can’t.” The bathroom door thudded shut, and the shower began to run.
Jake turned over and buried his face in the pillow’s warm depths. He could still smell Graham on it—a mixture of musk and shampoo—and suddenly he wanted to grind his teeth and yell with the frustration of it all. The waiting, the pretence, the sheer silly tangle he’d got himself into. Monica or no Monica, he was going to tell Graham everything the minute he came out of the shower. The sooner he explained, the better it would be; Graham was a decent bloke and would surely understand. And if he didn’t? Well, Jake would have to swallow that and add it to the list of broken relationships caused by work. You couldn’t be an undercover cop and expect anything . . .
The doorbell rang, and he jerked awake, hardly aware of having gone to sleep. “Bloody hell, who is it now?” he snarled and, grabbing a robe, trailed off to find out.
Inevitably, it was Mac. Even more inevitably, it seemed Graham had left the apartment block doors unlocked, and Mac was pounding on his front door before Jake had time to think of an excuse to send him away. He’d forgotten about his partner in the sudden rush of sex; forgotten about Frank Warren and the little black book. Now he had to reap what he’d sown: a partner eager to talk about the case while a man he wasn’t supposed to have seen again was standing naked in his shower. Christ. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, took a deep breath to clear the fug of sleep from his brain, and opened the door.
Mac burst in like a large and boisterous dog. “Hey. We’re onto something with that book. The back room guys are still poring over it, but early reports are it’s a list of phone numbers, bank accounts, names—could be everything we need to put Frank Warren away.”
“That’s great,” Jake said, listening for sounds of the shower. He’d corralled Mac into the kitchen for now and deliberately banged about, filling the kettle and slamming the cupboards to find sugar and tea bags and mugs. Mac’s head came up, and Jake knew, with his mind on everything else, that he hadn’t been enthusiastic enough. There was no fooling Mac.
“What’s up with you?” Mac began, then looked at Jake properly for the first time. “Oh. I take it now’s a bad time.”
Jake shrugged, painfully aware of his tousled hair and the sweat still drying on his skin. “You could say that.”
“Not Warren? Jake, tell me you haven’t brought him back here? I thought I told you—”
“Don’t worry, it’s not Warren.” Anxious to put Mac’s mind at rest, he’d interrupted without thought. Too late he realised he’d implied it was someone else, and kicked himself hard enough to yelp. Way to go Jake. Really doing well tonight. “I’m going to put some clothes on,” he growled, and escaped into the bedroom again.
The first thing he saw was a couple more fifties on the top of the cabinet, and then the open drawer with yet more cash spilling out. Graham must have put the money there on his way to the shower and left the drawer open in his desperate condom hunt. He’d need to tidy that away before Mac saw and thought the worst. He just had to get himself decent first. Grabbing a top, he hauled it on, and the minute his head popped out again, he realised Mac had followed him into the room.
“D’you mind? Little privacy?” He tried to put himself between his partner and the incriminating cash.
The silence and the way Mac’s eyebrows rose told him he’d not moved fast enough. There was a long and horrible pause before Mac looked him straight in the eye and said, “Jake? For God’s sake, mate, are you renting for real?”
“Don’t be daft. I was going to hand it in as soon as I had time.”
“But it’s been nearly two weeks since that first punter. You’ve had plenty of time to hand it over to me. And how many more men have you seen? There must be hundreds of quid.”
“Yeah, well, there was the first bloke, and then Warren. It just slipped my mind.”
“How the hell can that much money ‘just slip your mind’? You’re not making any sense.”
Their voices had been steadily rising, and Jake realised the shower had stopped some time ago. The bathroom door flew open, and Graham came out with his hair all wet and a towel wrapped untidily round his waist. He looked good enough to eat, but he also looked thoroughly annoyed.
“Jake, what’s going on? Is this bloke bothering you?”
Talk about a bedroom farce . . . The outraged partner, the worried boyfriend—all the ingredients were there. Jake had a sudden and hysterical urge to laugh. It was flattering to have two blokes who so obviously cared about him—particularly Graham, who looked ready to ride to the rescue like a one-man cavalry unit—but it brought problems of its own, not least the uneasy feeling of being a chick between two overprotective hens.
“I’m fine,” he said, managing to squash the laugh. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I heard lots of shouting. Jake, are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Go and get dressed. I can handle this.” He saw Graham glance between himself and Mac, and saw the exact moment when realisation hit and Graham’s eyes went blank.
“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. I’ll leave the two of you to it.”
“He’s not my—” said Jake, at the same time that Mac said, “We’re not a couple,” but all they achieved was to drown each other out. Graham hardly even seemed to have heard, but continued to gather up his clothes, which were strewn like chaff around the flat.
“Graham,” Jake said, and stopped. What could he say? He could hardly express his undying love in front of Mac, and he couldn’t explain things to Mac without blowing his cover. Of all the impossible situations, this had to be the worst. He watched, helpless, as Graham threw on his clothes and collected his keys and the bunch of tulips, wilting by now. “At least take your money,” Jake said at last.
“Keep it. You earned it.” This time, Graham remembered to close the door.
Any last shreds of Jake’s happiness trickled out at the same time. He felt completely wretched and had no idea how to make things right with either of the men in his life. Graham had walked out and might never be back; God alone knew what he thought Mac was, but it couldn’t have been good. And Mac himself was propped against the wall with a face that would sour his new bottle of milk, waiting for some kind of explanation. But where the hell should he start?
Minutes ticked by as he thought up ways to explain himself and promptly discarded them again. The bedside clock’s hands had got stuck; they were still saying five minutes to when he was sure at least half an hour had passed. By eleven minutes past he still couldn’t get the right words out, couldn’t even think. And if he did it might not help. He could talk until he was hoarse and it wouldn’t alter what he’d done or bring Graham back.
Mac broke the silence himself at sixteen minutes past. “I want to know why you’re seeing that bloke again. I’m right, aren’t I? He’s the one from the car, and the Blue Baboon, and probably half a dozen other places as well. Christ, Jake, I thought you told me he wasn’t your bloody boyfriend.”
“I did. He isn’t.”
“Well if he isn’t your boyfriend, he’s a punter, and that means you brought a punter back here. For fuck’s sake, why d’you think the department got you that bedsit in the first place? It wasn’t so you could use it to dye your eyelashes.”
“He isn’t a punter either. He’s . . .” How did he explain when everyone thought Graham was paying for him, including Graham himself? “I only brought him back here after the first time. He’s a decent bloke. I didn’t want . . .” Too late, he realised he hadn’t wanted Mac to know, but he could hardly tell that to Mac.
“Go on, this is fascinating,” Mac said, and then when Jake stayed silent, added, “I’m waiting.”
As far as Jake was concerned, it was the final straw. “You’ll have to go on waiting, because I’m going to get a drink,” he yelled, and kicked the wardrobe door so hard it broke.
Mac stood aside as he shoved his way past, and followed his headlong rush at a slower pace of his own. He still seemed to be waiting, but the threatened thunderstorm had calmed. “Got yourself in a bit of a mess, haven’t you?”
The whisky Jake poured helped a bit, if only to steady his nerves. He scrubbed at his face and wondered if his partner was going to listen at last. “You could say that.”
“Go on then, tell me the worst.”
“It’s not as bad as you think. I was going to pay that money back, or most of it at least. But . . . well, you may as well know I’m in a spot of bother with the mortgage on this place. Edward took off with most of my savings, and I’ve been struggling ever since. It’s funny. I told Graham that as a cover story the first time he came round here, and I’ve just realised it wasn’t that far from the truth.”
“Go on. How much?”
“About five thousand quid. I’ve been whittling it down when I can, but there’s not that much left over from my salary by the time I’ve finished paying for everything else.” He took a sip from his glass and waved it at Mac. “Want one? I forgot to ask.”
Mac shook his head. “Why struggle? Why not just go to Personnel and ask for a loan to tide you by?”
“I couldn’t do that. Edward was involved in all sorts of things he shouldn’t have been. I could end up getting the sack.”
“Aiding and abetting a known criminal. Fair enough. But you could have come to me.”
Jake stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth and stared. “I never thought of that.”
“That much is bloody obvious, mate.” Mac’s lips relaxed into the merest hint of a smile. “You wouldn’t have got in this deep if you had. It’s what mates are for, though, isn’t it? To help each other out?”
“Yeah, but Mac . . . five grand . . .”
“I’ve got some money saved for a rainy day. Seems like this is as rainy as it gets.”
Jake took refuge in his glass. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Just for a few months to get you out of the shit. It’s a loan, mind. I expect you to pay it back. I’ll even charge interest if it’ll make you feel better. Penny a week?”
“Jesus, Mac, I’ll pay you a hundred times that if it sets things right.”
“Pound a week it is, then, sweet pea,” Mac said with a grin.
That night Jake couldn’t sleep. He lay awake in his newly made bed, the sheets smelling of lavender but his mind full of monsters and mud. He’d been an idiot, looking back, and it was only Mac’s friendship that had pulled him out of the mire with some shreds of dignity left. Mac had indeed sat down and written him a cheque. Mac had scribbled a contract of sorts with repayment terms and a dubious penalty clause. Mac had taken Jake’s ill-gotten gains to hand in at work, and Mac had phoned the inspector, at home and out of hours, to tell him the undercover op was over and done. “There’s more than enough in the notebook Jake found to hang Frank Warren out to dry,” he’d said. “Give Jake a break before the op breaks him. I reckon he’s done more than enough.”
After that, he’d made Jake a coffee and pushed him into the shower. “Get yourself something to eat and an early night, and I’ll see you at work in the morning. And, Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Do yourself a favour and get a lodger in to help pay the mortgage. There’s more than enough space.”
That had never occurred to him either, and although his head was spinning by then, he thought he might follow Mac’s advice.
Now it was gone two in the morning, and he’d been lying here wide awake since half past ten, his head a perfect storm of half-felt emotions and half-formed thoughts. Guilt, gratitude, embarrassment, guilt. Sadness that he’d lost Graham so soon but relief that he no longer had to sell himself—at least until the next crap job came along—and even greater relief that his financial worries might finally be at an end. Questions about the future and who he would find to rent the spare room.
At half past two, his mobile rang. It was Graham, sounding tired. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was just . . . well, I was jealous, I suppose. Anyway, I don’t like bothering you, but I was wondering . . . I need a place to stay. After I left, I was a bit upset, so I drove round for a while, and that meant I was late home. Monica wanted to know where I’d been, so I . . . well, I told her abou
t you. I thought she’d understand after all this time, but I was wrong. Turns out she already suspected there was something going on, and she’s thrown me out. I’ll crash on the sofa, of course, just for tonight if you think your boyfriend won’t mind.”
Jake grinned. He’d have some fast talking to do, of course, but maybe that question about the spare room had just answered itself. “For the last time, he’s not my boyfriend, just a mate,” he said. Then, thinking about everything Mac had just done for him, he grinned. “A very good mate. And yeah, come on over. You can pay me rent any day of the week.”
Byker Books:
“Rock and a Hard Place” in the Radgepacket Vol. 2 anthology
“Lemon Sour” in the Radgepacket Vol. 4 anthology
“Jack in the Box” in the Radgepacket Vol. 6 anthology
QueeredFiction:
“The Visitor” in the Queer Dimensions anthology
Pill Hill Press:
“The Other Side of Silence” in the There Was a Crooked House anthology
Haworth Press:
“Any Means Necessary” in the Men of Mystery anthology
MLR Press:
“Salad Days” in the I Do anthology in support of gay marriage
Fiona writes gritty yet darkly humorous fiction, often involving gay characters and almost always with a twist in the tail. Her work has been published in anthologies from the likes of Byker Books, Pill Hill Press, and QueeredFiction, as well as in magazines and online at sites such as The Pygmy Giant, Shotgun Honey, and Velvet Mafia.
Fiona currently splits her life between a pointy Victorian house in Birmingham (the original one in the UK) and a slate cottage within stone-throwing distance of England’s largest lake. She shuttles between the two so often it makes her head spin, which might explain the rather breathless style of her writing, but she hopes to be settled in Cumbria by the end of the year.
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