by Gregory Ashe
“Are we going to have a problem?” the second one said. They looked like they came as a matching set: bald, tall, and built like cement trucks.
“I’m leaving. Anyway, he took the first swing. You tell Bradley that. Tell Will Pirk too.” The Pretty Pretty’s manager and owner weren’t Hazard’s friends by any means, but Hazard knew he had enough status as a local celebrity to buy him some wiggle room.
“Are you walking out of here?” the first bouncer said.
“I’m walking.”
“Will might ban your ass,” the second bouncer said. “Doesn’t matter who you are.”
“Tell him not to do me any favors.”
Hazard worked his way free of the last of his clinging admirers, gave the man in the suit and tie a last glance—he was still watching Hazard, and his interest was obvious—and found his way out of the club. The February air was cold. Dead cold. It snapped into his lungs like a rubber band, and the shock doubled Hazard’s headache. At least it was cold, though. At least it smelled clean. It didn’t taste like sweat and vinyl and a hundred different colognes. It tasted sweet like car exhaust and sweet like upper-crust snow.
Nico and Marcus huddled at the end of the block, with Nico facing the length of the sidewalk, staring right at Hazard, and with Marcus between them like a bodyguard. Hazard’s steps sounded like explosions. It’s the cement, he thought. It’s frozen. That’s why I’m hitting it so hard. I wouldn’t walk like this. I never walk like this.
“Move.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus said.
“I’m not telling you again.”
“Stop it,” Nico said. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t crying. The cold, maybe. And that must have been why he hunched his shoulders, why he was practically folded in on himself.
“I’m not going to stop it. Not until he gets lost.”
“See?” Marcus said in a harsh whisper. “This is what I’m talking about.”
“Emery,” Nico said, “just stop. You’re being a jerk.”
“I’m being a jerk?” Hazard’s head was pounding. Not a drum. Nothing like that. It was bigger. Much bigger. Like somebody standing inside an abandoned freighter with a jackhammer and giving it hell. That kind of huge. “Some guy’s got his tongue down your throat—”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Some guy’s got his tongue down your throat, and I get him off you—”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And I get him off you, and somehow I’m the jerk. That’s it, huh?”
Nico didn’t say anything; he was staring out of those red eyes like he’d gone to a week’s worth of funerals, but he wasn’t crying. Marcus didn’t say anything either, but he looked pretty happy, pretty goddamn happy, like he was watching Hazard eat shit by the shovelful.
“I’m staying at Marcus’s tonight.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“No. I’m not. We can talk about this tomorrow. Marcus, let’s—”
“You’re not going home with him.” Hazard took a step forward, knocking Marcus aside, barely even feeling the impact. Seizing Nico’s arm, he yanked him a step towards his old VW Jetta. “You’re coming home, and we’re going to talk about this like adults whether you—”
The blow to his head wasn’t that hard, but combined with the headache, it felt like it had cracked Hazard’s skull. He had the dizzied worry that somehow the punch had collided perfectly with the still-healing fracture and his brains were sliding out the back of his head. Hazard lost his grip on Nico and staggered.
By the time he’d pulled himself half-upright, Marcus had an arm around Nico and was hustling him down the block. Hazard watched them go, partly because his bell had just been rung like fucking New Year’s and partly because he had absolutely no idea what to do. After fifteen yards, Nico stopped and looked back.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said, his voice so thick that Hazard barely understood the words. Or maybe that was the headache again. Or maybe something was really wrong, something inside Hazard’s head. Aphasia. That’s what it was called. When words didn’t make sense anymore. That’s how it felt, tonight. Like they were talking nonsense at each other, and Jesus, how had it all gone sideways?
Emery Hazard thought he might have an answer, but before it could fully materialize, he dropped forward and sicked up all over his shoes.
THE PHONE'S RINGING went through Hazard’s skull like a couple of inches of good steel. One minute he was asleep. The next, awake and feeling like someone had shoved a spear through the back of his head. It went on for a long time. Then it went quiet. Later, it rang again. A fragment of memory—not for us, the flashing bronze, was that Homer?—because the noise was like the blade of a fucking spear going into his brain. And then, again, blessed silence. The pillow, he thought drowsily as he tried to sink under the headache and into the gray stillness of sleep, smelled like Nico.
For a while he was there again, inside that grayness, while a part of his brain recycled the past night. The hammering music inside the Pretty Pretty. The smell of sweat and superheated lights and Guinness. Nico pressed against him—no, Nico across the room, far off, while Hazard talked to Marcus. No, to the hot guy in the jacket and tie. No, to the bouncers. And through it all, that mixture of headache and bass line, pounding, pounding, pounding—
Pounding on the door. Hazard jerked free of the tangled bedding. Immediately, he regretted it. The headache surged back to the front of his head, and he had to steady himself against the nightstand. The clock marked a bleary eleven. Whoever was knocking was really going to town.
“Just a minute,” Hazard shouted.
Pants. And a shirt. But he had no memory of where anything had ended up last night, and he came up with a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. The shorts fit. The shirt didn’t. It had to be Nico’s, but it felt like a child’s. A child’s small. Jesus, maybe an infant’s. It was choking the life out of Hazard.
And somebody was still trying to pound down the door.
Squeezed into the tiny shirt—had Nico bought it for a nephew? what the hell was it doing on the floor?—Hazard stumbled to the door and glanced through the peephole. Groaning, he turned back to the bedroom.
“I can hear you,” Somers called from the other side of the door.
Hazard kept going.
“I’ll keep knocking.”
Hazard kicked aside Nico’s empty laundry basket. His toes caught in the plastic mesh, and he swore as he ripped them free.
“I’ve got Big Biscuit.”
At the bedroom door, Hazard stopped.
Somers had gone silent. Even without seeing Somers, even with a solid door between them, Hazard knew the bastard was smug. Probably grinning. Hazard knew he should go back to bed. He should take one of those pills for his head and pull the covers over his eyes and just go back to bed, and when he woke up, he’d call Nico, and he’d figure out what he’d done wrong last night, and he’d apologize the way he’d apologized to Billy, the way he’d apologized to Alec. He’d eat the same old shit out of this shiny new bowl. That was it. He’d just get into bed and ignore Somers. He’d—
By that point, he’d already unlocked the front door.
“Took you long enough—Jesus God, what are you wearing?”
“Shut up.”
Somers, a plastic carryout bag hanging from one hand, appraised him. And it was exactly that: pure, fucking appraisal. Somers was hot. He was runway hot, swimsuit hot, blond and golden-skinned, even in the middle of winter, fuck him, and with eyes like Caribbean waters. Today, like every day, he managed to look like he’d just rolled out of bed—and like he hadn’t been alone. His button-down was rumpled, his jacket was askew, his hair had that perfect messiness that made Hazard itch to run his hands through it. And he was still standing there, still appraising Hazard like he might buy him at auction. Now there was a thought. Hazard barely suppressed a second, very different kind of groan.
“Give me the food.”
“You look like shit.”
Hazard tried to shut the door; he blamed his headache and hangover for the fact that Somers still managed to sneak inside. As Somers always did when he came to Nico’s apartment—Nico and Hazard’s apartment, Hazard amended—he made a show of considering the mess. Nico’s clothes, Nico’s books, Nico’s shoes, Nico’s latest shopping. There were about three square inches of space that weren’t covered by something that Nico owned.
Somers went straight to the table and shoved a pile of unmatched socks onto the floor. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he shoved a stack of textbooks.
“Hey.”
“I’m messy.”
“Please don’t start.”
“I know I’m messy.”
“Somers, I’ve got the worst headache, and I’m hungover, and I—”
“I mean, I know I’m messy. I know that’s why you moved out. One of the reasons.”
Hazard gave up and waited for the rest of it.
“But this,” Somers gestured at the chaos—he paused, Hazard noted, when he saw a stack of some of Nico’s more provocative underwear. Hazard shoved them under one of the sofa cushions.
“Pervert.”
Somers, smirking, continued, “But this is insane. It’s like you’re living in a dorm. Or a frat. And as much as you might have enjoyed close quarters with all those rich, athletic boys, sharing showers, dropping towels, a few playful wrestling moves turn into something not quite so playful—”
“Somers, I swear to Christ.”
“—you’ve got to admit you don’t like living like this.”
“Are you done?”
“Finished.”
“You’re sure?”
“Perfectly.”
“Because if you’ve got more jokes, get them out now.”
Somers spread his hands innocently.
“Any more comments about my—” He had been about to say boyfriend, but the word stuck in his throat. For once, his hesitance to acknowledge his relationship with Nico had nothing to do with how he felt about Somers. “—about my apartment?”
“It’s not yours.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m just saying, it’s not. It’s Nico’s.”
“You’re a real piece of work.”
“I mean, I get it. You’re living here now. But it’s not like that’s going to last forever.”
The last words struck home hard. Hazard dropped into a seat at the table, head in his hands.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Ree, I was just teasing. Well, mostly. I mean, this place is a mess, but I’m not trying to—come on. What’s going on?”
The pounding in Hazard’s head had gotten worse. He needed one of those pills, but he couldn’t drag himself out of the chair. Not yet. Just a minute, he just needed a minute.
“All right,” Somers said. “Your hair is all loose and wild and sexy barbarian, which means you either just finished banging one out with Nico or you haven’t showered yet. You’re wearing a shirt that’s about eighteen sizes too small, and those gym shorts—well, you’re going commando, buddy. So again: either you just nailed Nico the wall, or you’re—” Somers whistled. “You’re hungover.”
“I’m not hungover.”
“You are. You had a fight with Nico. You got plastered. You’re wrecked.”
“You don’t have to sound so goddamn happy about it.”
Neither man spoke for a moment. Then Somers touched the back of Hazard’s neck, at the base, and Hazard flinched.
“He hit you? That motherfucking piece of shit put a hand on you?”
“What? God. No.”
“You’ve got a bruise about a mile long back here. Doesn’t he have any fucking brains? Didn’t he even think about the fact that you’re still healing, that you shouldn’t even bump your head, let alone—and the little bitch hit you from behind, didn’t he? Where is he?” Somers hadn’t moved, hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t so much as lifted his fingers from Hazard’s neck. But it was like someone else had come into the room. It put a shiver down Hazard’s back. And deep in his brain, at the surface of conscious thought, he realized he liked it. “Where is he?” Somers asked again. “That’s all you have to say, just tell me where.”
“You’re acting crazy.”
“All right. All right. You don’t say anything. You don’t have to say anything.”
“You’re out of your damn mind. Will you stop acting like this?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll find him myself.”
“John-Henry, will you sit down and listen to me?”
Somers fell back into his seat. They sat that way for a moment, neither of them speaking, both watching the other as though seeing something new. Hazard had grown up in Wahredua. He had grown up hounded, persecuted, tormented by the man who sat in front of him. He had come back to this place, to this town he hated above all else, unwillingly, and he had found himself partnered with a man he had hated for most of his life—hated and, even worse, been attracted to. And instead of the bully, instead of the thug, instead of the cocky football star, he’d found an intelligent, funny, skilled detective who had wanted to make the past right. It hadn’t hurt that Somers had grown up to be the kind of hot that, in a cartoon, would have made the mercury in a thermometer shoot up so fast the glass exploded. Somers’s hand was still on the back of Hazard’s neck. His fingers felt good there. They raised a strip of goosebumps down Hazard’s chest.
“I’m listening.”
So Hazard told him.
“He’s just not that kind of guy,” Somers said with a shrug.
“What kind? And don’t say something asshole-ish. Don’t say he’s not the kind that’s mature or something like that.”
“Me? I meant he’s not the kind that likes jealousy.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You beat up a guy for kissing your boyfriend.”
“I didn’t beat him up. You make it sound like I’m in eighth grade.”
“In eighth grade, you were so scrawny you could barely hold a pencil.” Somers smirked. “Well, I guess you were definitely strong enough to hold your pencil, if you get what I—”
“I get it.”
“I meant your dick. That’s what I meant by pencil.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Not everybody likes jealousy. Some people get off on it. Some don’t mind—they might appreciate it, but they aren’t looking for it. And some people don’t like it. Hate it, even.”
“I’m not jealous.”
Somers fixed him with a look.
“All right, I shouldn’t have hit that guy.”
Somers waited.
“I definitely shouldn’t have thrown him.”
Somers shrugged.
“And I should have let Nico handle it.”
“Yeah, well, you definitely shouldn’t have done that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you mean?”
“I’m an idiot, all right? Stuff just comes out of my mouth sometimes.”
“You meant something. You—” Before Hazard could finish, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, and a message from Nico showed on the screen. I’m staying at Marcus’s place for a few more days. Can you tell me a time you’ll be out of the apartment so I can pick up a few things?
“What?” Somers said.
Hazard dropped the phone on the table. Picking it up, Somers read the message. His eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t say anything.
“Don’t.”
Somers put the phone back on the table.
“Don’t fucking say you’re sorry. Don’t act like you’re not thrilled. Don’t act like this isn’t what you wanted.”
It took a moment before Somers answered, and wh
en he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
And it sounded so pathetic, like such an absolute, flat-out lie, that Hazard was blushing as soon as it was out of his mouth, and he was grateful Somers didn’t even acknowledge the words.
“Let’s eat. You’re hungover. Your head hurts. You need food.” Somers unpacked the clamshell containers of takeout from Big Biscuit, and then he touched the back of Hazard’s neck again. “You’ve got to eat something. And you need a drink. Water, I mean. Lots of it. And those pills for your head, have you taken any today? Christ, of course you haven’t.”
Hazard knew he should get up. He could grab plates and forks. He could pour a glass of water. He could clean the rest of this shit, Nico’s shit, so there’s was actually a decent space to eat. He didn’t, though. He barely had the energy to turn the phone face-down so he didn’t have to see that damn message any longer.
“Here.”
Hazard swallowed the pills dry, and then a cool glass was pressed into his hand.
“Drink.”
He drank, and when he’d finished, Somers opened the clamshells. Steam wafted off home fries, eggs over easy, and biscuits the size of dinner plates. Buttery, flakey, pillowy biscuits. Hazard waited for the smell to turn his stomach, but he was surprised that instead, he was hungry.
They ate, and as they ate and as the pills took effect, the worst of the pain—both emotional and physical—started to pass. It wasn’t gone. It wasn’t even close to gone. But it got better, and the world didn’t seem like one big turd waiting for the flush. At least, not completely. Not—
—with Somers there—
—while the biscuits lasted.
It wasn’t until Hazard had dragged the last home fry through a smear of ketchup that he noticed the third clamshell. Reaching over, he popped it open, and three delicate slices of strawberry french toast met his eyes.
“Are you shooting for three hundred?” Somers asked as Hazard speared the french toast and dragged it towards him.
“Screw you.”
“You’re not going to fit into your pants.” A smile crinkled Somers’s face, and it was so boyish, so genuine, that for a moment Hazard forgot about Nico and forgot about his cracked head and forgot, even, about the french toast dripping strawberries down his wrist. “You can barely fit into your shirt as it is.”