Chapter Fifteen
Kyle
I get drunk. What else is there to do?
Then, recognizing how fucked–up I’m going to be, I call the station and tell them I won’t be in for the rest of the week. I don’t even care whether they have to scramble to find someone to cover my shifts. Better they do that than I shoot some shithead because I have a hair–trigger temper and no control over myself.
I cycle through anger, disbelief, hope. But through it all is this razor–blade–pain slicing into me whenever I remember Vincent saying he’s in love with me and I can’t give him what he needs. And realizing he’s right. Dammit. He’s right. I’ve built my life on this elephant of a lie, and I can’t see a way down off its back without breaking every metaphorical bone in my body, losing everything.
Except him.
And he’s right about the rest of it too. If I ended up sidelined at work, shunted into some pissant job because no one knows what to do with a “queer” cop, I would resent it. And if any of my family turned their back on me… I’m not sure what else would happen but I know I’d resent him. Just as much as he’d resent being my fuck–buddy after a while. After a couple of years of never being seen together as a couple, of living separate lives, he’d be stir–crazy and leave anyway. Better he did it now, right?
Besides, what’s the upside of coming out at this stage of my life? I can’t think of any benefits. Except Vincent. And coming home to something so special it’s made me realize I’ve been living half a life, all my life.
Love.
Not enough. I start to shake my head and have to stop, because my brain’s sloshing around in there. Love is an illusion. Isn’t that what people always say? I believe that too. Yes I do.
If I remind myself of that often enough, I’ll feel a whole lot better.
I gulp down the drink in my hand and reach for the bottle, conveniently left on the floor beside the sofa. Bongo lifts his head from my lap and I swear he sighs.
“I don’t want any lip from you.” It would be my PORC voice, except all the words run together into one. “If I wanna get drunk because your master told me to fuck off, I will.”
He lays his head back down and licks my knee for good measure. At least he still likes me.
When my phone rings sometime in the evening, I grab it, hoping it’s Vincent saying he’s changed his mind, we can work it out, but it isn’t. It’s Mom. I almost don’t answer, because I’m shit–faced and grief–stricken and I can’t face anyone right now, but something makes me take the call. In the muddled recesses of my mind, I figure it might be important.
“Hey Mom.” I’m slurring, although I’m trying hard not to. “Everything okay?”
There’s a little silence, then a tentative, “Kyle?”
That makes me laugh. I know what she’s thinking. I never, ever get drunk. Did she dial Denny, who loves to tie one on, by mistake? “Yeah, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” Immediately she sounds panicky, a holdover from living with my father, I often think, where things could get real ugly, real quick. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little drunk.”
Silence again. Then, softly, “Why?”
“I…” What can I say? I wanna tell her, tell someone. How do you get over a broken heart without help? It’s not like she probably doesn’t know. How could she not know, when her thirty–four year old son hasn’t brought a girl home since twelfth grade, which is when I decided I really couldn’t pretend to like girls that way anymore, but would just keep it all on the down low. Better that than hearing my father call me ’pansy’, or ’queer’ in that sneering way he had and really mean it. “I just…”
“Tell me.” Now she’s pleading, and I want to cry. Something I can’t remember wanting to do since I was a kid. “You can tell me anything, Kyle. You know that, don’t you?”
“I met someone.” The liquor and the pain force the words out of me but I still keep it neutral, protecting myself like the coward I am. “And now it’s over, and I feel like shit. Like a fucking failure.”
More silence, and I try to hold it together, the scotch fumes making it harder than it should be. Don’t think I’ll touch the stuff ever again.
“Do you love him?”
“Yeah.” Fuck. Why is it I can admit that to my mother, but not to myself or to Vincent, who’s the one who probably needs to hear it the most? Because I love him but can’t do anything about giving him the relationship he wants and deserves. Because I’m a piece of shit, cowering in my closet.
“Oh Kyle. I’m sorry honey.”
It sinks in what she said. Him, not her. It sinks in and I get a spurt of panic and then a wave of relief, both so powerful they, combined, sober me up. “How long…”
“Have I known you were gay?” Mom sighs. “At least since you were twelve, but I suspected before that. I didn’t want to ask, because you never said anything, and your father…”
“Yeah.” Shit. I’m going to cry. Maybe puke too. “Mom…”
“You want me to come and stay for a few days? Keep you company?”
Yeah, I’m crying. Not like huge sobs, although those are trying to get out, but crying, and I’m not even sure why. Booze. Yeah, it’s the booze. “No. I’ll be okay.” Then I say something I know I’ll probably regret the next day, but can’t seem to hold back. “Can you tell the others for me?”
“You mean your brothers and sisters?”
“Yeah.”
Another one of those pauses, and I’m dreading her saying I should do it myself, when she replies, “Sure, but I think they probably already know.”
I hold it together just long enough to thank her and say goodbye, then I sprint for the downstairs bathroom, my stomach finally rebelling against the abuse I’ve put it through.
Hanging onto the toilet, in between retching, I play my mother’s words back in my head, and begin to wonder if I’ve really fooled anyone. Or if it’s only been myself I’ve been hiding from all these years.
Vincent
Rassclaat, the days are long without Kyle. The nights are even longer. Why the fuck does doing the right thing hurt so bumboclaat much?
I’ve been back at work for a couple weeks, after taking the rest of the week following the accident off, but I think the others probably wish I’d stayed away. Saying I’m in a foul mood doesn’t quite cover it. I try not to take it out on the people around me but I see the way they’re pussy–footing around me, so I know I’m not doing so well.
Which is why is surprises me that when I tell my boss I’m thinking of leaving, maybe moving to Windsor, she goes into a spin–wobble and begs me not to resign. Even offers me a raise. It’s tempting, but although I haven’t told her yes or no, I doubt I’ll take her up on it. There are too many memories around every corner. I’m risking arrest, or at least multiple traffic stops, by eyeballing every cop car that I come across, desperate for just a glimpse of Kyle.
Jenalyza is trying to help–telling me I did the right thing, boosting my morale by saying I’ll find someone new because I’m a wonderful person–but it really makes no difference. I hurt, bad, bad, bad, and no amount of talking will help. I’m even staying away from the sanctuary, knowing I’ll see Kyle’s ghost there.
What Anton said while I was in Windsor keeps running through my head.
“Just be sure it can’t be fixed, okay? If you’re this unhappy, it might be worth looking at again.”
I wish it were. I wish I could just be that secret lover Kyle needs, and not want anything else from him. But I want to live with him eventually. Be a part of his family and include him in what’s left of mine. Maybe I’m looking for something to replace that sense of belonging that was taken away from me, and I know–I feel it right down in my belly–I could have that with him. But I’d want to be open with it. Not have to pretend we’re just friends if we happen to go out somewhere together. Not have to sneak and hide and not have my feelings acknowledged. Hell, if I’d wanted to live
like that I would have stayed in Jamaica, not come north to freeze my ass off.
I get it. I understand his fear. I also know that just because I’m in love with him doesn’t mean he feels the same way. If he doesn’t then what reason in hell would he have to change anything about his life just for me? It’ll take time, but I’ll get over it. Nobody I ever hear ’bout dead from a broken heart.
At lunch time I go outside to one of the picnic tables and check my phone. Technically I’m allowed to have mine on all the time but the workers I supervise aren’t and, in solidarity, I keep mine off too. I guess I’ve been more of a bitch than even I realized, because no one comes to sit with me.
Whatever.
There’s a text from Pat, with a video link embedded.
Have you seen this? What the hell did you do?
What now? I wonder. Then the title of the video catches my attention.
Gay, First Nations Police Officer new liaison for…
What. The. Fuck?
I hit the ’play’ button.
The Police Chief announcing the new liaison between the Police Services and the Gay Pride Parade committee. Sergeant Kyle Pictou.
Wha’ de bumboclaat?
Kyle in full dress uniform, that usual stoic expression firmly in place, giving the reporters a full–on PORC stare. God, he’s handsome. God I miss him. I can’t hear a word the Chief is saying, because I’m so focused on Kyle, my mind scrambling to figure out how this was even possible.
Then he steps up to the mic and the reporters go nuts.
“Sgt. Pictou. How did you get this responsibility?”
“I volunteered for it. The last liaison officer has had the job for about four years, and was ready to take on a different assignment.”
“Sergeant. What made you think you were qualified for the position?”
“My eleven years in Police Services is a good start. Many of those years have been spent on the streets, dealing with the public, learning the way our city operates and seeing the dangers inherent in urban life. Being a member of the First Nations community plays a part as well, since no one can deny that there are benefits to belonging to a minority when trying to understand another minority group. There may be different issues, but there are also some that are very similar.” He pauses, and I know him so well I see the breath he takes before he continues speaking, and goose bumps fire across my chest and arms even before he says, “And of course, being gay myself gives me a perspective some of my fellow officers don’t have.”
I can’t hear anything else after that. The blood is drumming too hard in my ears. I freeze the video, catching Kyle just as he’s turning to listen to someone close to the camera recording the report I’m watching. It’s like he’s looking right at me, and beneath the stony, cop façade I can see his vulnerability, the fear he’s hiding. I don’t know if he’s done this because of me, because of something I’ve said, but I’m suddenly swamped by a rush of emotion.
He’s free.
And even if it’s free to be with someone else, someone who’s not scarred, with a suspect past and iffy future–in other words, someone who isn’t me–I’m crying, like a rassclaat baby, because I know exactly how he feels.
“Vincent.” A hand lands on my shoulder and I almost jump out of my skin. “Are you okay?”
Melanie. One of the staff members I supervise. Her brow creased with concern.
I wipe my face with my sleeves, suddenly wishing I’d listened to my grannie all those years ago and kept carrying a handkerchief.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Believe it or not, I’m a hell of a lot better than I was this morning.”
She’s standing so she’s blocking me from everyone else’s view, and it makes me want to hug her. “Okay. Wait here, let me get my bag.” She smiles. “I have tissues.”
I pass the rest of the day in a fog. I keep my phone on me, sneaking looks at that frozen video whenever I can. I can’t get over it; keep hearing him say, “…being gay myself…”
The thought of calling him to acknowledge what he’s done crosses my mind, but I know I probably won’t. Wouldn’t that be the same as saying, “Now that you’re out, can we revisit our relationship?” As far as I know, he never wanted anything permanent with me. I was convenient. Willing not only to have sex but to keep his secret. There are a lot more prospects for him now that he’s not hiding anymore. If he’s smart, he won’t look back. Not for a second.
Finally the shift ends, and I finish up my paperwork and pack up my briefcase. I’ll have to double–check everything the next day. I’m pretty sure I’ve fucked something up, being unable to concentrate worth shit.
Outside, the parking lot is emptying out, and I’m heading toward the RAV4 when I hear a bark. Immediately I turn to look, thinking it sounds familiar.
Kyle. Straightening from where he’s been leaning against the front of his truck. Bongo sticking his nose out through the part–open passenger side window, barking like a crazy thing.
For a moment I can’t move, then I get my shaking legs going, walking toward them, telling myself, play it cool, Vincent. Play it cool.
“Hey,” he says, as I get to the front of the truck. Then he reaches up and takes off his shades. “How’ve you been?”
“Good–good,” I say, hearing the lie in my own words. The tug on my scar tells me I’m twisting my mouth again, so I stop and take a breath. Then I say, “Pretty bad.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Me too. So I can’t say I’m unhappy that I haven’t been suffering alone.”
A snort of laughter breaks past the tightness in my chest. “Nice. Misery loves company for real, eh?”
“Fi real.”
His pseudo–Jamaican accent makes me snort again. My palms are sweaty, and I wipe them on my thighs. “So, I saw the news conference.”
He shrugs. “Okay. So I don’t have to tell you. Good. Because…” He hesitates, seems to be searching for the words. “Vincent, I didn’t do it for you.”
Rass. I’d have preferred him to just kick me in the stomach and get it over with. Kicking me in the balls would be even better. Keeping the disappointment and pain off my face takes everything I have. “Okay.”
“No.” He touches the corner of my lip, right where my scar starts. “Let me finish. I was sitting in that meeting two days ago, hearing the Chief say it was time to have a new liaison for the Gay Pride Parade, and I realized I couldn’t keep hiding anymore. I had to step up and accept myself–who and what I am. I did it for myself, to make my life right. To do the right thing. I couldn’t be what you needed if I didn’t, and since what I need is you, there was no other way.”
It’s hard to understand what he’s saying because I’m braced for more rejection. All I can do is stare at him, unable to answer. Kyle reaches out and takes off my shades, so I can’t hide from him, and the same fears I have seem to be reflected in his gaze.
His voice is low and strained, as if he’s struggling with getting it out. “I used to think of all the things that make me who I am as strikes against me. My status as a First Nations man, being gay. Even being a cop was an excuse not to get close to anyone, a reason to hide my feelings. When you left, I realized the only strike I had against me was that I no longer had you. I had to get over all the other shit, because without you I was hollow. Just a husk.”
He moves just a little closer, touches my arm, then my hand. “Come home with me–with us–and we’ll get this sorted out. If you want to. If you still love me. If you care that I love you too.”
If I don’t get a hold of myself, I’m going to kiss him right here, in front of my workplace, and that won’t do. Instead I nod, knowing I’m smiling like a fool, and say, “Race you there, Sarg, and I’ll try not to get a ticket on the way.”
He tries for a PORC stare, but his eyes are gleaming and the corners of his mouth are canted up, spoiling the effect. But the cop voice is right on when he says, “Make sure you don’t. I don’t fix tickets for anyone, not even my m
an.”
About Anya Richards
After living a checkered past, and despite an avowed disinterest in domesticity, multi–published erotic romance author Anya Richards settled in Ontario, Canada, with husband, kids, an adorable pup and two cats that plots world domination one food bowl at a time. Her slightly darker alter–ego, Anya Delvay, emerges occasionally to write erotica.
Interested in all things historical and hysterical, Anya describes herself as intensely curious, (although the word ’nosy’ has been bandied about) and a life–long people–watcher. Using what she’s discovered about people, places and various weird and wonderful things, Anya has written contemporary, historical and paranormal/fantasy romance novels, novellas and short stories for Samhain Publishing, Ellora’s Cave, Cleis Press and Spice Briefs.
To find out more, please drop by Anya’s website at www.anyarichards.com, follow her on Twitter or like her on Facebook.
Other Titles by Anya Richards/Anya Delvay:
Contemporary:
Night of the Cereus
Shaken Up
Fondled & Gobbled: Someone Had to Do It (Various Authors)
Fondled & Gobbled: One More Slurp (Various Authors)
Historical:
The Pearl at the Gate
Breaking Free
Glorious Enslavement
What the Mistress Did
Fantasy/Paranormal:
Awaken
Beyond Prudence
Arctic Destiny
Fleeing Fate, Unveiled Seductions Book 1
Stone–Hard Passion, Unveiled Seductions Book 2
Dragon’s Claim, Unveiled Seductions Book 3 (M/M romance)
Jaguar in the Sun, Unveiled Seductions Book 4
Anthologies with Cleis Press
Available on Anya’s website as free reads
Steamlust: Steampunk Erotic Romance
Lustfully Ever After: Fairy Tale Erotic Romance
Duty and Desire: Military Erotic Romance
Seductress: Immortal Tales of Erotic Romance
Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love Page 30