Paternity Case

by Gregory Ashe

  PATERNITY CASE

  GREGORY ASHE

  COPYRIGHT 2018

  STOP YANKING ON MY COLLAR.”

  “It doesn’t look right.”

  “Your face isn’t going to look right if you keep it up.”

  “You’re just—there. See? It’s fine. No, wait. Hold on.”

  “Somers, if you touch me again, I’m going to break your hand.”

  That threat, at least, brought an impasse. Emery Hazard gave his partner—and roommate—a furious look and, just to be safe, stepped out of reach. John-Henry Somerset, who went by Somers, crossed his arms.

  “If you’d just let me—”

  “Drop it, all right?”

  Somers let out a defeated sigh and held his hands palm out in surrender. He sank back a step, positioning himself near the sofa. Their apartment, with only two bedrooms and a combined living area and kitchen, didn’t offer much space for retreat. Somers gave a shake of his head and turned in a circle, his gaze flitting from object to object, as though the apartment’s clean, contemporary furnishings had suddenly absorbed his interest.

  “What the hell’s gotten into you?” Hazard said. He studied his partner. Somers had the slender, toned musculature of a swimmer, and the blond good looks of a swimmer who could sell a hell of a lot of Speedos. Normally, he skated by on those looks; his clothing was frequently rumpled, his hair mussed, his general appearance making Hazard want to shake him—or at least run an iron over his shirt.

  Tonight, though, Somers had tried for something more: a blue gingham shirt, a navy sports coat with brass buttons, and dark corduroys that hugged his butt and made it occasionally difficult for Hazard to breathe. The look, however, wasn’t quite working: the gingham shirt was creased across the chest, and the buttons were done up wrong, and the hem of his pants was coming out. Somers seemed oblivious to his own condition, however; he fiddled with the buttons on his sports coat, and then a flicker of apprehension crossed his face, and he took a step towards Hazard.

  “You don’t normally wear your hair like that—”

  Hazard planted a hand on Somers’s chest and shoved the blond man towards the sofa. “Sit.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “I’m being ridiculous?” Hazard didn’t bother to wait for a reply, but he did—when he thought Somers wasn’t looking—check himself in the mirror. Somers was a damn fool. His hair always looked like that.

  “What’s Nico wearing?”

  “Sweet Christ,” Hazard muttered. Then, in a louder voice, he added, “It’s one dinner.”

  “I know what it is, Hazard. I asked you what Nico’s wearing.”

  “I don’t know what my boyfriend is wearing, Somers. I haven’t seen him today. I’ve been busy working. You remember work, right?”

  “You’re just mad because I took a personal day.” Somers glanced at the door, thumbing the brass buttons on his sleeve so that they ticked against each other. “Seriously, though: is he wearing a suit?”

  Hazard shrugged into his jacket, grabbed his keys and his wallet, and started for the door. Either he left now or he might very well kill Somers, and that wouldn’t look good on their quarterly evaluation. Before Hazard could open the door, though, someone knocked. Hazard pulled it open and found Nico standing in the hall, holding flowers.

  Nico Flores, with his shaggy black hair and his caramel skin, straddled the threshold between boy and man. He was twenty-five, but a very young twenty-five, and his height and slender build made him look lanky when he loafed around in his ratty clothes.

  Tonight, though, there was nothing ratty about Nico—and nothing lanky either. Dressed in a stylish gray suit with a white shirt open at the throat, Nico looked exactly like what he was: a model. True, Nico was more than that—he was a theology grad student and a very smart young man. But he was, at that moment, hot enough to start a fire just by dragging his feet.

  “These are for you,” Nico said, passing over the flowers.

  Hazard kissed him, accepted the bouquet, and said, “I was going to pick you up.”

  “I know. I wanted to surprise you.”

  Hazard led Nico into the apartment, passing into the kitchen to find a vase where he could display the flowers. Somers, when he saw them, collapsed back into the chair.

  “He’s wearing a suit.”

  Nico glanced at Somers and then at Hazard. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Forget it.”

  “A goddamn suit.”

  Nico glanced down at his clothes. “I thought we were going to—”

  “We are. Just ignore him.”

  It was, however, surprisingly difficult to ignore Somers. He lurched upright and stabbed an accusing finger at the two of them. “It’s going to be hard enough with just one of you there. You get that, right? But both of you? And he’s wearing a goddamn suit?”

  Nico’s cheeks colored, and in a whisper he asked, “He doesn’t want to go to dinner with a gay couple? Why’d he invite us?”

  “He’s not homophobic,” Hazard answered. Then, in a louder voice, he added, “He’s just an insecure asshole.”

  “I heard that,” Somers called.

  “Will somebody tell me what’s going on?” Nico asked.

  “What’s going on,” Somers said, stalking towards the kitchen and stabbing another finger at them, “is that I’m trying to impress someone tonight, but you show up,” he jabbed a finger at Nico, “in a goddamn suit, and you,” a finger darted at Hazard, “are doing something stupid with your hair.”

  Nico cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Hazard.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your hair does look different.”

  “I told you!” Somer shouted. “I knew it!”

  “Jesus Christ. Would you please not encourage him?”

  Nico’s refined features twisted into a mask of complicated emotions. He didn’t like Somers—oh, he’d never said those words, but his feelings were obvious. He was convinced, for some reason, that Somers was infatuated with Hazard. It didn’t matter what Hazard said to convince him otherwise. But right then, something was warring with Nico’s dislike, and it took Hazard a moment to realize what it was: compassion.

  “I don’t get it,” Nico finally said, still directing his words to Hazard, even though his gaze never left Somers. “He knows he’s hot, right?”

  Somers, who had begun pacing, paused. His chest puffed out a little.

  “I asked you not to encourage him,” Hazard said with a sigh.

  “Well, he is. And what is this? A date? I mean, she’s not going to be looking at either of us. We’re gay, right? It’s not like we pose any kind of threat.”

  “Try telling him that.”

  “Did you at least offer to help him?” Nico asked.

  “No,” Somers said. “He didn’t.”

  Hazard threw up his hands. “The damn fool was worried about my collar. And my hair.” Nico opened his mouth, and Hazard hurried to add, “Which looks the exact same as it always does.”

  Nico, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, left the kitchen. Taking Somers by the arm, he steered him to the center of the room. Nico released him, examined him with a critical eye, and said, “Pants off.”

  “Really?” Hazard asked.

  “You could have helped him.”

  Somers gave Hazard an indignant look. “He’s right. You could have helped me.”

  “Nobody can help you.”

  In response, Somers whipped off his pants, standing there in a pair of boxer-briefs patterned with hearts. The underwear left almost nothing to the imagination, and Hazard felt his throat dry up.

  “You can leave those on for now,” Nico said dryly. “I’ll fix your hem.
Emery, will you please iron his shirt?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Emery Hazard.”

  “He’s a grown man. He can iron his own damn shirt.”

  “I don’t know how to iron my shirt,” Somers confided quietly to Nico.

  “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard,” Hazard said. Shaking his head, he crossed the room and waited while Somers slipped out of his jacket and shirt. Underneath, he wore a white tank top that exposed smooth muscle and the dark ink of curling tattoos that ran to his wrists. At the sight of so much bare skin, Hazard felt a squeak growing in his throat. He ripped the shirt out of Somers’s hand and went to find the goddamn ironing board.

  It really didn’t take that long. Nico was back with the pants in a flash, and as he handed them to Somers, Somers said, “How’d you learn that?”

  “On the runway,” Nico said with a shrug. “You’ve always got to be ready in case something falls apart at the last minute. Emery, are you done with the shirt?”

  “Yes. I’m done with the goddamn shirt.”

  Nico took it without comment and, after Somers’s failed third attempt to button it, began to do up the buttons himself.

  “Will you stop looking so goddamned pleased with yourself?” Hazard demanded.

  Somers had the decency to try to look abashed, but he didn’t get very far.

  “There,” Nico said, patting Somers on the chest. “You look good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jesus, he’s a glutton for compliments.”

  “Really good,” Nico said, ignoring Hazard. “Hot stuff. She’s going to fall for you hard.”

  Somers was beaming; it was infectious, which only made Hazard more irritated, and he grabbed Nico by the arm and hustled him towards the door.

  “Thanks,” Somers called after them.

  “Do not answer him.”

  Once again, Nico ignored Hazard. “See you there.”

  Only when they were riding down the elevator the car did Nico ask, “So who’s the girl? I’ve never seen him so nervous.”

  It was stupid. It was stupid and selfish and petty. Somers could date whoever he wanted. He could date anyone in the whole world, as far as Hazard was concerned. He could date a serial killer. He could date a fish-woman. He could date the woman who had broken his heart and kept him in limbo for years. Hazard tried to shove the thoughts away, and he didn’t like the surge of vicious satisfaction he felt as he answered.

  “His wife.”

  WAHREDUA WAS A MIDWESTERN COLLEGE TOWN, and like so many Midwestern college towns, it had experienced a genuine boom of culture and prosperity at the beginning of the twenty-first century. Moulin Vert was one sign of that prosperity: Wahredua’s finest French restaurant, with real candles and real crystal and real snooty waiters, as though they’d been shipped over special. At the door, Hazard helped Nico out of his coat and passed their garments to the coat check.

  As one of the black-uniformed staff led Hazard and Nico across the dining room, most of Moulin Vert’s patrons stopped to stare. In part, Hazard knew, they were interested in the appearance of a gay couple at one of Wahredua’s more conservative establishments. In part, too, they were interested in Emery Hazard, the only gay cop on the force, a local boy who had come home and made a name for himself by solving two sets of brutal and bizarre murders. A lot of it, though, had to do with the fact that Nico was just so pretty; straight or gay, every eye in the room paused and did a little private lusting over the Argentine boy.

  Their table stood at the back, with four seats and four places. As they sat, Nico said, “So they’re divorced, but they’re getting back together again?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “All right.”

  “So if it doesn’t matter, why won’t you talk about it?”

  Hazard growled, barely managing to swallow the noise. “She never divorced him.”

  “You don’t like her.”

  “I haven’t seen her in fifteen years.”

  “You hate her.”

  “I don’t have any feelings for her one way or the other.”

  “That’s a lie.” Nico smiled to soften the words, and his hand slipped into Hazard’s. “What was she like in high school?”

  “Popular.”

  Nico’s smile broadened, and he squeezed Hazard’s hand.

  “I don’t know. She was . . . she had a difficult life. We never interacted much. She was very pretty and very popular. I was—” Hazard paused and shrugged.

  Nico squeezed his hand again. “You were the only gay boy in town.”

  Hazard touched the stem of his glass; the crystal was cold, and the cold ran straight up his arm, and it made him think of how cold it was outside, of how he didn’t want to be here, in this goddamn restaurant, and how he could drive home and tear that very expensive suit off of Nico piece by piece and spend the rest of the night making his boyfriend forget he’d ever heard of John-Henry Somerset.

  “She came from a bad family,” Hazard heard himself saying. “Her father was in prison for most of her life. Her mother, well, the rumor was that her mother worked as a prostitute.”

  “Did she?”

  “How the hell should I know? Kids are stupid. They’ll say anything, and they’ll say it twice as fast if it’s mean and if it hurts someone who’s better looking or more popular.”

  “They also say things that are true.” Nico wrinkled his nose, and his eyes roamed across Hazard’s face. “Your hair is longer.”

  “God damn it. It’s the exact same as always.”

  “No. It’s definitely longer.”

  At that moment, Somers came across the restaurant towards them with a woman on his arm. She was tall—not quite as tall as Somers, but tall enough that she probably wore flats more often than not. Her hair had changed since Hazard had last seen her; it was short and artfully curled, and it accented the delicate features of her face. Seen from a distance, there was something ethereal about her, in the pallor of her skin against the dark hair and dark dress, as though she were a spirit out of the past. Out of Hazard’s past, more precisely. One thing, though, hadn’t changed: Cora Malsho Somerset was still beautiful in a way that devastated Hazard. That beauty went through him like a bulldozer. Who in the hell could compete with that kind of beauty? Not Emery Hazard. Not that he wanted to. Not even a little.

  They all stood up and shook hands and murmured polite greetings, and then they sat, and silence took over. Hazard knew that once he started looking at Somers, he would have a hard time stopping. Instead he focused on a middle space between Cora and his partner. The silence stretched out. And out. And out.

  “God, I could use some wine,” Somers said.

  Cora looked away, as though embarrassed by the comment. No doubt she was; Somers had gone through a phase of serious drinking after she had kicked him out of the house. Even now, when their fights grew too serious, Somers plunged into a bottle as fast and as deep as he could. Hazard’s face heated. And a drunk Somers, it turned out, often had far too few inhibitions.

  Nico was the one who broke the tension with a laugh. “We could all use a drink.” He raised a hand, signaling their waiter, and glanced at Hazard.

  “Whatever you want,” Hazard said.

  “Emery pretends he doesn’t care,” Nico said, flashing a smile at Cora. Then he paused. “I know you.”

  “What?” Somers said.

  “What?” Hazard said.

  Cora’s refined features eased into a smile; it was like watching an iceberg melt. “We’ve never—”

  “No, I know you. You were at Fashion Week. At the Frenzy.”

  Cora gave a helpless shrug, glancing at, of all people, Hazard. “I was.”

  “You were amazing. I still can’t believe how you handled that old man.” Nico burst into a genuine laugh; his heart-stoppingly handsome face brightened. “God, weren’t you at Maggie Grober’s
brunch?”

  A blush suffused Cora’s face. “Please don’t tell me you remember.”

  Nico, bursting into fresh laughter, elbowed Hazard. “She threw wine in Stefan’s face.”

  Cora held her napkin in front of her face.

  “Who the hell is Stefan?” Hazard asked.

  “Oh, you know. I was telling you about him and his partner, the ones with the two little dogs. Remember? How they walk them in that park we always drive by? God, you never listen. Anyway, Cora threw wine in his face.”

  Cora dropped the napkin; her face was flaming now. “He grabbed my—” She cast an embarrassed glance at, again, of all people, Hazard. “He grabbed me, and he was making this awful joke about filling out a dress. I wasn’t going to let him get away with that.” She laughed, and the sound wasn’t anything like what Hazard remembered from high school. This laugh was full-bodied, genuine, and it only made her blush deepen. Wiping her eyes, she said, “I never thought you’d remember me. I know who you are, of course. Everybody knows. But I never thought—I mean, I’m just there to help out.”

  Leaning in, Nico added in a mock whisper, “And to teach Stefan a lesson.”

  Again, Cora burst into laughter. As she wiped at her eyes, she spoke to Hazard for the first time in fifteen years. “Everyone knows Nico Flores. When John-Henry told me we were going on a double date, he mentioned Nico’s first name, but I never would have put it together.”

  “Everyone knows him, huh?” Hazard raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend.

  Elbowing Hazard again, Nico turned his attention to Cora. “You’re friends with Moody, aren’t you? The two of you are always together. She’s vicious, isn’t she? I mean, very funny, but she cuts like a knife.”

  “You should have heard her when she saw Stefan at the Trustees’ Gala,” Cora said, muffling giggles with her napkin.

  At this point, Hazard leaned back in his chair. Somers, who was seated across from him, let out a breath. Nico and Cora didn’t notice; they were too wrapped up in their own conversation. From the sound of it, they shared a surprisingly wide circle of friends—most of whom Hazard would have sworn he had never heard of.

  “Do you think we can still get that wine?” Somers asked in a low voice.