Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love
Page 27
Sitting in one of the half–broken lawn chairs behind the house, I look across at my neighbor’s messy yard, which is filled with crap, and listen to kids screaming in the distance. The old couple who live next door are outside too, probably trying to catch a breath of cool air as the sun finally starts to go down. I know they watch me all the time. I’ve nodded to them and gotten nothing but suspicious stares in return. No doubt if they saw anything at all out of the ordinary they’d be calling the cops in a flash. Yeah, having my closeted, Native, cop fuck–buddy come calling wouldn’t be a good thing.
Taking a gulp of my beer, I glare back at the old man until he turns away, then go back to my thoughts.
I wish I could call Kyle my lover, but that just seems too intimate. I catch myself thinking of him that way and make myself stop. When we’re together it’s almost too perfect. We like a lot of the same stuff, can argue for hours about the things we don’t have in common, are still having mind–destroying, leg–trembling sex three months in, but that’s where it ends. We don’t go anywhere together. There’s been Victoria Day and Canada Day celebrations, family birthdays, social functions of various kinds that one or the other of us have been invited to and have gone to alone. Jenalyza wants me to ditch him, saying it’s not a relationship. That Kyle’s just using me, but I justify it by saying I’m using him too.
But she’s right. I always feel like I’m on call for him, since I still won’t let myself initiate our meetings, or even our text conversations. Is this how mistresses feel? Hidden away? Like they’re on tenterhooks all the time, wanting more but not being able to have it?
Occasionally I turn him down when he wants to get together, just for the sake of my own pride and sanity. I can’t let myself get subsumed by him, and I think it would be too easy to be. So I hold back as best I can, keeping whatever I can for myself.
I still won’t let him fuck me face–to–face, and I know it’s pissing him off more and more as time passes, but he’s never pushed, so I’ve been able to maintain that one piece of myself. It started out with me not wanting him to see how my face contorts when I come. I’ve never seen it, but I know it must be bad because it physically hurts, my scar tugging so hard I sometimes wonder how it doesn’t split open again. But Kyle doesn’t care about my scar. I know that, so the need to hide from him because of its ugliness faded fairly quickly. Now I hide because I don’t want him to see exactly how much pleasure he gives me when he shares his body with me. He already has a hold over me. I don’t want to strengthen it if I can help it.
But now, partway through summer, the weight of our secret gets heavier and heavier for me. Kyle seems okay with everything. Only now and then I catch him giving me his PORC stare when he thinks I’m not looking, but when I ask him why, it’s always some lame reason. Maybe he’s getting tired of the situation too.
Rass, I hope not. For all my internal whining, I still want him. I’m not ready to let go yet.
As though he knows I’m thinking about him, the phone rings and I see his name pop up on the screen. I take another swig of beer before I answer.
“Yeah.”
“Hey. What you up to?”
“Sitting outside, drinking a beer and trying to catch a little breeze.”
Kyle groans. “Sounds good. I’m melting in this fucking vest. I swear I’ve lost ten pounds in sweat today.”
I glance at my watch. He still has more than five hours left of his shift. “You on lunch?”
“Yes. Just finishing.” There’s the sound of a car door slamming, and suddenly the background noises fade out. “Listen, I have some steaks at home. I thought we could B–B–Q them on Saturday, when I start my four off. How’s that sound?”
“Like bribery,” I joke. “And you know steak always works with me.” I’d been asked to take a shift on Saturday, but knowing he’d be finishing his rotation the day before I’d turned it down. “Should I come by on Friday night?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I realize for some reason I’m holding my breath. Forcing myself to exhale, I take another sip of beer. “No. Sorry. I have choir practice after work.”
I know that’s what they call it when all the members of a squad or, in his case, when a bunch of sergeants go out together after work, and it shouldn’t bug me, but it does. Maybe it was that long pause, like he was thinking up an excuse, or trying to find a way to let me down easy.
“That’s cool.” I’m proud of how matter–of–fact I sound. “I’ll come on Saturday. What time is good?”
“Anytime you want. Stay Sunday too.” There’s a static–y crackle in the phone, and he says, “Call out. Have to go.”
“Okay,” I say to dead air, since he’s already hung up. “Yeah.”
Three more days before I see him again. Even after months of regular, crazy sex, the anticipation still tingles under my skin at the thought of being with him. Am I doing the right thing, staying in this?
Before I can start going around in circles in my head again, I call Jenalyza, knowing what she’s going to say but still needing an outsider’s view. Maybe even hoping this time she’ll be able to convince me.
Anton answers the phone. “My lovely wife has decided to take up pottery,” he says after we greet each other, and I groan in sympathy. They have at least one room in their house full of Jenalyza’s unfinished projects and the leftovers from her bursts of compulsive crafting. It’s worse because she seems to have the attention span of a gnat, jumping from one obsession to another. “Thank you, my friend, for your empathy,” Anton says, laughter in his voice. “I’m fearing her insisting on buying a kiln, which I’ll have to find a place for.”
“Rass man, I hope not, for your sake.”
He laughs. “Pray for me, Vincent. I need all the help I can get. Now, what can I do for you, or did you just want Jenalyza?”
“I just wanted to chat,” I say, feeling needy and fool–fool.
“That man–what’s his name, Kyle?–he still giving you a hard time?”
“In every way,” I retort, knowing Anton will appreciate the humor.
He chuckles. “Well, do I say, ’good for you’ or, ’that bastard’?”
“I guess either would work. No, that’s not fair.” I sigh, and scrub my hand over my face. “I knew what I was getting into. It’s not his fault. I just don’t know how much longer I can go on with it.”
Anton’s silent for a little, and I don’t say anything more. He’s quieter than Jenalyza, who’s a ball–of–fire chatterbox, but when you can get him to actually speak he often has something worth listening to.
I hear him sigh. “Listen, Vincent. Everyone has deal breakers. I don’t think you ever stopped to figure out what yours are, because you didn’t think you’d ever have a serious relationship. I don’t know if you’d classify what’s going on as serious, but I think it’s time you really think about what you want, and if Kyle can give it to you. That’s something only you can decide.”
He’s right, and makes it sound so simple. As if hearing my thoughts, he goes on. “It might not be easy, because sometimes we think a person can give us more than they can, and it takes a while to realize what we need can never be given. That’s the point when you know it’s time to walk away.”
It doesn’t make me feel better, but at least he’s given me something to think about. “Thanks Anton. I appreciate it.”
“No problem man.” He knows his attempts to sound Jamaican always make me laugh, and I’m still chuckling as I tell him bye and hang up.
And I make a decision. I need some time alone, away from work and from Kyle, to really think. I need to go to the beach. Although I really can’t trick myself into thinking of a lake as being the sea, at least it’s water, and the sound of the waves, and the sand. I can’t go tomorrow, because it’s too short notice for the people at work, but I log into my schedule and book off Friday. I’ll take a drive down to Port Stanley, or even further afield if I feel like it, just sit on the beach and think.
It’ll do me a world of good.
Kyle
“Hey Pictou. Coming to choir practice tonight?”
Glancing up from the roster I’m looking through, I nod to my old staff sergeant, who’s asking. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Good. See you then,” he says, before heading off toward the squad room.
Stifling a yawn, I try to focus on the roster again, a little annoyed at the prospect of spending the evening watching some of my fellow sergeants drink too much and trade gossip. I’d much rather be home, relaxing with Vincent, who’s taken the day off. We could be together by early afternoon if I didn’t have to go out tonight. Unfortunately I’m still too low on the totem pole to blow off these get–togethers. The senior guys notice stuff like that, and it can work against you if they think you’re being antisocial.
Forcing myself to concentrate on what I need to be doing before I hit the street is hard this morning. I’d been working an afternoon rotation but was called in to cover for one of the day guys, whose wife had to have an emergency C–section the night before. I’m functioning on only about five hours sleep, but it’s nothing unusual. Tossing the roster into my briefcase, I head down to the garage to sign out my vehicle and start patrol. There are a couple of new constables on the squad and I want to be available if they need my help. I’ll keep my route centered on the southern extent of our beat, where the newbies are patrolling, so as to be able to get to their locations as quickly as possible if necessary.
I’m excited about the weekend. Denny wanted me to come over on Sunday but I told him I had other plans. All I want is to spend two whole days with Vincent, alone, without anything to distract us. What I’ve been able to have of him should be enough, but it never is. I hate seeing him leave, knowing that with our crazy and often conflicting schedules I might not see him again for days. The reoccurring worry, that he’ll get bored and tired of my neediness and want to break it off, nags at me but I push it aside. We both know this isn’t going anywhere further than where it is, and I have to accept that at some point it’ll come to an end, but I refuse to worry about that until it happens.
Even distracted, I’m listening to the various calls going out. A purse snatching at a mall. A vehicle accident along Wellington, near the 401 highway. A BOLO for a missing teen. A drunk making a nuisance of himself on Richmond. Another accident, this time in the north end. Yep, it’s a Friday in summer. Far too many people, especially young people, with too little to do and too much time on their hands.
Then my radio crackles, and I hear Constable Perkins, one of the newbies, say, “Requesting backup at the Wellington Road accident scene.”
There’s a certain restrained panic in her voice, and then Dispatch comes on. “Twenty–eight, fourteen and thirty–two. Code Two.”
Not too bad, since they’re directing no lights and sirens. I thumb the mike. “Twenty–eight available and heading for the scene. ETA seven minutes”
“Thirty–two also heading to the scene. I’m only two minutes out.”
“Fourteen available. ETA five minutes.”
The constable in car thirty–two is an old hand, so I know whatever’s going on, he’ll be able to get it under control, probably before I get there. And there are, for a change, two officers in car fourteen, although the second one is so new he’ll probably be useful only as traffic control. As Beat Sergeant it’s my job to provide backup for the officers, advise them on statutes if they need it, calm disputes and mediate between the officers and the public. Often by the time I get to a scene it’s all over bar the shouting, and I actually miss being more hands–on. Sometimes I think I should have stayed a career constable instead of letting my ambition push me.
More details start coming in. Three vehicles involved. No life–threatening injuries, but an altercation between two of the drivers. Ambulance on the scene. Details on the vehicles…
Dark blue RAV4, license number…
Vincent’s SUV.
I’m already going Code Two, but I push it to Code One without permission, flashing my lights and using the siren as I take the wrong side of the road at an intersection to get through a traffic snarl.
What did they say about injuries? Non–life–threatening. But there are injuries. I want to ask for more details, but don’t want to distract the officers on scene. Constable Rowlands reports everything is under control, but I still push it. I’m thirty seconds out, and there’s no way I’m not attending the scene. I have to make sure Vincent is okay, find out what happened.
I’m shaking when I put the cruiser in park, and it’s only then that reason tries to break through my panic. I take in the scene from my seat in the car, not feeling in control enough to get out yet. Vincent’s SUV is on the right–hand side of the road, the left rear quarter panel crumpled, the hood down in the ditch, so the back sticks up in the air. I search for him, see him sitting sideways on a gurney, a paramedic examining him. There’s a guy in cuffs, sitting on the side of the road, lipping off to Rowlands, who’s standing over him. On the opposite side of the road, Perkins is taking a statement from a woman.
I should call for my supervisor, tell him one of the accident victims is a close friend–a lover–and therefore I shouldn’t be involved at all. But my stomach turns into a cold ball at the thought of trying to explain about Vincent without outing myself.
Getting out of the cruiser, I head straight toward Vincent, not even caring anymore. I can’t see any blood, but I have to make sure he’s okay. His face is turned away, so I don’t think he knows I’m there.
“Hey Sarg,” Rowlands says, as I get close to where he’s standing, and professional habit takes over. With one last look at Vincent, I swerve over toward the officer.
“Report, Rowlands.”
“Well, from information gathered, this gentleman here was attempting to overtake despite the double yellow lines, despite being in a school zone, despite an on–coming vehicle, and, having to swerve to avoid said on–coming vehicle, clipped the SUV he was attempting to pass.”
The sarcastic tone should be enough to tell the man on the ground to keep his mouth shut, but apparently brains aren’t his strong suit. “That fucking nig–”
I’m crouched and in his face, my glasses pulled down far enough so I’m staring him dead in the eyes, before he can go any further. “I’d advise you to stop right there, before you make an already obviously bad situation worse.”
His eyes widen, and he goes pale. Even Rowlands makes a surprised sort of hissing sound and his feet shuffle, as if he’s bracing himself. The blood’s pounding in my ears, I’m that ready to tear the asshole’s head off, my hands fisting and relaxing convulsively. When I’m pretty sure he’s got my point, I straighten and push my dark glasses back into position. Breathe, I tell myself. Keep breathing.
“There was a report of an altercation?” I ask, once I’m sure my voice will come out as something other than a growl.
Rowlands hesitates for a moment then, without the sarcasm, says, “Apparently Mr. Jaroski here accosted the other driver, accusing him of causing the accident.” He makes a sound suspiciously like a snort of laughter. “That didn’t work out so well for Mr. Jaroski.”
“I want him charged with assault,” Jaroski shouts, glaring over to where Vincent’s sitting. “He punched me.” He turns his head to show me the beginnings of a bruise. I think, with not a little satisfaction, he’ll have a nice shiner tomorrow but it’s nowhere near what he deserves.
“I don’t know, Mr. Jaroski.” Rowlands says it in that calm, take–it–or–leave–it voice all good cops know how to use. “According to the witness you dragged the other party from his vehicle and pushed him to the pavement. I’ve already added assault to your list of offenses. You may want to speak to your lawyer before you start throwing accusations around.”
Over my dead body will Vincent be charged with anything. Or over Jaroski’s, if he doesn’t shut up soon.
One of the paramedics comes over and nods at me before saying, �
��You ready for me to take a look at this guy?”
“What’s the other driver’s condition?” I ask before Rowland can answer his question.
“Stable. There’s a head contusion and danger of concussion, but he’s refusing to go to the hospital. Says he just wants someone to find his phone for him so he can call a wrecker.”
“See?” Jaroski starts yammering again. “Nothin’ wrong with him. How can you say I assaulted–?”
I walk away. It’s that or draw my weapon and shoot the fucker, and I have more important things to do.
The second paramedic is jogging across the road to speak to the woman who was driving the car Jaroski almost crashed head–on into, and Vincent’s just sitting there, his head down, his hands flat on his thighs. Even with them like that I can see they’re shaking. I want to touch him, check for myself he’s not injured, but all I can do is lean my hip against the gurney and say, “Vincent. You okay?”
He nods–just a slight up and down motion–not looking at me. “Yeah.”
He’s gray, rather than his usual complexion, and I can see a discolored patch near his temple. “Look at me.” I’m so crazy with worry, I can’t stop the words from trembling slightly, even though it’s my cop voice I’m going for. “I need to see for myself.”
For a long moment he doesn’t move, then he lifts his head and faces me. His eyes are glazed, shocked, and there’s smear of blood at the corner of his lips. “I’m okay, Kyle. I just need–”
“You just need to let them take you to the fucking hospital.”
“I have to deal with the SUV, figure out–”
“I’ll find your phone for you. I’ll arrange for a wrecker. You need to get your ass to the hospital.”
He opens his mouth, then a panicky look makes his eyes widen, and he turns away, clutching his stomach. I wrap one arm around his shoulders and hold his forehead with my other hand, helping him lean off the gurney as he loses his breakfast.