by Liv Rancourt
Heart going off like a piston, Skip didn’t trust himself to speak. He rolled to the side, bringing Russell with him, scooting and tugging until the other man lay on top of him. Still no words would come. He pulled Russell in for a kiss full of wet, sticky heat.
It was the best he could do.
Chapter 18
Russell finished his can of beer and stretched out on the bed. He’d bought a late copy of the newspaper from the rack out on the street. The small dining table was covered with want ads, and he’d even circled a few. He kept getting distracted, however, by the physical memory of Skip’s body so warm and tight around his shaft, the dense velvet of Skip’s ass under the palms of his hands.
He finally gave up trying to read the paper. He popped open a beer and settled in to wait for Skip to come home. They had some pretty big plans for Russell’s last night in town.
Skip’s Tuesday evening gig was a rarity, a midweek happy hour show, and he’d come close to canceling, but he needed the cash so he went straight from work. He expected to be back around eight. By nine, Russell began to worry.
At midnight, he called Harborview County and asked the operator if they had any new patients with Skip’s name.
They hadn’t.
By about three in the morning, anger and despair loosened their grasp enough for him to doze off.
Around eight in the morning, a delivery truck came to a stop outside the apartment building in a racket of squealing brakes and clunking gears, the perfect symphony for his mood. Still no word. He didn’t have to be at the train station till noon, so Russell gathered himself, pocketed Skip’s spare key, and went for a run. If he ran hard enough, maybe Skip would leach out of his pores in his sweat.
He traversed the neighborhood, past small shops and businesses somehow brave enough to open for the day. Childish, yes, but if Russell was falling apart, everyone else should be too. After about three miles, he stumbled over a stretch of wilderness. Good. A dirt trail disappeared through the trees, marked by a sign saying Louisa Boren Park. Dirt and brambles were a much closer match to his mood.
Russell hiked downhill through tall cedars, past shrubs covered with tiny, orange-pink berries. At the bottom of the hill, he took a seat on the trunk of a downed tree. His heart had slowed to near normal, and sweat poured down the sides of his face and between his shoulder blades. The bright sunshine they’d enjoyed since the Follies ended had been replaced by a high overcast and sodden humidity.
Physical exertion quieted Russell’s most strident emotions, allowing him to look rejection straight in the face. Anything could have happened, but Russell’s leading theory said the gig had given Skip a chance to step back. He must have decided an uptight guy from the Minnesota wasn’t worth the trouble.
Or maybe he’d run into one of his other boyfriends. They hadn’t spelled things out, after all.
Or maybe he’d met someone new.
Or maybe...Russell gripped the tree trunk so hard, he tore off a chunk of bark. Chucking it into the bushes, he rose and began jogging along the trail. Uphill was a lot more work, but he was glad because it shut his damned head up. Skip would come back, and they would talk, and then he’d see what he’d see.
***
The car door slammed, solid and heavy, and Ryker’s Thunderbird rumbled away from the curb. Skip watched Ryker drive off, pretty sure he’d lost a friend. As bad as he’d wanted to lie, he’d told the truth, and Ryker would have to choose which parts to believe.
Skip would give Russell the same story, knowing full well Russell would be more skeptical. Ryker might suspect, but Russell would know, and because he knew the truth, he might not believe the cops had acted unfairly. The painful irony clawed its way through Skip’s lineup of anger, fear and shame. What a mess.
But May Johansen hadn’t raised a weakling. Skip squared his shoulders, tightened his grip on his horn, and squinted into the silvery glare of the high overcast. More than anything else, he wanted to curl up someplace quiet, some place he could rest. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not till he’d had a hard conversation with the first guy to raise his flag in recent memory.
Goddamn that Officer Murphy.
He made it into the building and up the stairs. The hall had grown twice as long, its worn carpet covered in patches of light and shadow from the overhead fluorescent bulbs. By the time he reached his own front door, he had to stop and lean against the wall.
Gripping his key so hard the metal jabbed him in the palm, he took a deep breath. Then another. He could do this. He just needed to explain why he’d stood Russell up on his last night in town and wish him well on his journey. Skip didn’t need to get all flowery about it. Just say a few words and hang on to his temper.
Russell looked up when Skip came through the door, his expression as flat as the slate-colored sky. Skip’s heart dropped, but before he could give in to second thoughts, he ripped the bandage off.
“I...” Skip tossed his horn in the lone comfortable chair. “I, ah, got arrested last night.”
The shame could have choked him to death, and Russell’s silence made it so much worse. Nothing moved except the look in Russell’s eyes, an understanding that took Skip’s shame and thickened it, made it even harder to swallow.
“What?” Russell’s voice scratched out the word.
“Arrested.” Pain exploded in his gut, and Skip bent over the chair, resting his forehead in his palms. “For lewd behavior.” Though he really wanted to crawl away, he gulped a mouthful of air and forced himself to face Russell like a man. “Didn’t make it in to work today, so I lost my job.” He’d had hours in a jail cell to consider what that meant. He’d have to leave town. The thought made him sick.
Cars rolled up the street, black, red, white, some old, running rough and spewing dark exhaust, others new with shiny chrome fins. Russell’s mouth seemed to be bound shut, but he sprang up, crossed the room, and put his hands on Skip’s shoulders.
“Officer Murphy. He’s”—Skip paused and cleared his throat—“he’s been after me for months. Saw me parked over by the Greyhound station.” He could have avoided the night in jail if he’d just given the cop a blow job, but his pride wouldn’t let him. That knowledge fueled the nausea in his gut.
His own stupidity stung, and Russell squeezed his shoulders tight enough to make his eyes water.
“The bus station?”
“The club’s down there. I just parked.” Skip leaned away until Russell loosened his grasp. “I swear I just parked.”
Russell took control, easing Skip over to the bed. He got them both sitting down, his arm around Skip’s shoulders. There was kindness in his gesture, though his stunned silence hurt.
“So you called your boss?”
“Didn’t need to. They already told me if I was late again, they’d mail me my last check.” Skip folded over and covered his face with his hands. He was talking too much. He’d meant to just apologize to Russell and send him on his way. “Damn, Russell. What am I going to do now?”
He really hadn’t meant to wail like a girl.
Russell jumped up and went to the window, raking his fingers through his hair. He stood there for a minute, leaving Skip stranded, then turned deliberately, as if he’d made a decision.
“Here.” Russell reached into his wallet and pulled out a wad of bills. “Put it toward your rent. I owe you for driving me around all week.”
Skip felt like he’d been kicked in the balls. “What? That’s it? You think a few bills are going to help?” Rage filled the vacuum in his gut. Rage at a world that wasn’t fair, directed at a man he couldn’t afford to love. “I’ve been putting up with your nonsense all week. You think I’m only good enough to fuck when you’re not mooning over Susie or worried about your precious reputation.
“Well, I tell you what. That hurts.” Skip’s words came out in a fury, boiling over because he couldn’t yell at Murphy, who’d finally made good on his threats. “And you know what else? I’ve been playing pretty regular, but once
summer ends, the gigs’ll slow down.” Blaming Russell might be irrational, but he didn’t care. “Without my job, I’ll have to go down to San Francisco, where I can make some real dough.”
“What about your Mom?” Russell backed away, fists clenched like he wanted to hit something.
“Stop.” Skip shuddered once, hard. Russell had no right to see him fall apart. He could take that big body and all his hang-ups and go back to the Midwest where he belonged. Skip clutched the fabric of his grubby gig pants. “We had fun, but you and me are going in different directions now.”
Skip stood and grabbed his horn, desperate to get somewhere he could be alone. “Lock up when you leave. I gotta go...” His voice trailed off. He had no idea where he was headed. Someplace on a city bus, since his car was still impounded. Someplace far away from Russell, who was leaving anyway.
Someplace he could find peace.
Chapter 19
The slam of the apartment door broke Russell out of his stupor. He ran, flung it open, but Skip had disappeared.
The apartment had been quiet before, but now the silence weighed on Russell’s ears. He stood in the doorway for a moment, doing little more than breathing, and came to a realization.
He, Russell Wayne Haunreiter, was an ass, a frightened little boy. In the few days they’d known each other, Skip had been nothing but kind and generous and caring.
And Russell had met his distress with confusion.
Skip deserved better.
His moment of insight brought him to a second conclusion, one that sat him down hard on the closest chair. He couldn’t get on the train. Aunt Maude would never understand, and neither would his parents, but a real man stood up for his friends. Skip already meant more to him than almost anyone else in his life. He couldn’t live with himself if he ran out now.
If Skip were a woman, Russell would know what to do. He’d find a job and find a house and take care of him. It might not work the same way between two men, but God help him, he was willing to give it a try.
With those ideas in mind, he showered and dressed and headed for the train station. He intended to cash in Susie’s ticket and change the date on his own. Skip had to come home at some point, and he wouldn’t leave for California without seeing his mother one last time. Russell just needed a couple of extra days to make sure his lover was okay.
On his way out the door, he pocketed the tiny diamond he’d bought for Susie. He still had twenty dollars of his own, and Susie’s ticket should bring him another thirty. After the train station, he’d find a Western Union office to wire Aunt Maude and tell her he’d be late. Then he’d go looking for a pawn shop.
Near sunset, Russell caught a cab down to Pioneer Square. The cabbie teased him about slumming on Skid Road. Russell did his best not to say something rude. Short-tempered to the point of being mean, Russell had his hands full already. He didn’t need someone waving a red flag like he was some kind of bull in a ring.
The cab left him in front of the totem pole. The air was still muggy and hot, and Russell wore a pair of slacks and a suitcoat, so by the time he jogged down to the tavern, he was sweating.
The expression on Demetrio’s face when he saw Russell made him sweat harder.
“Excuse me,” Russell said, doing his best to act contrite. He extended his hand, though he didn’t really expect the doorman to shake it. “How are you tonight?”
Demetrio scowled, his brows a solid black line above his eyes. “What do you want?”
“Skip.” Russell pulled his hand back, beyond worrying about something so trivial. “I’m looking for Skip Johansen.”
Demetrio crossed his arms, resting them atop his big belly, and laughed. “Look, I don’t know what you did this time, but Skippy don’t want to see you ever again.”
Russell scratched at the back of his neck where the barber had trimmed too close. “You know he got arrested, right?” Russell dropped his hands, gut churning. “I handled things, um, badly.” If explaining things to a doorman on the street made him into an even bigger idiot, then so be it. “I’m going to hire a lawyer. I want to help.”
Demetrio gave him the kind of look that peers around inside and takes stock of everything in there. “You serious?”
“Yes.”
“Second to the last booth. Guy’s name is Jack Dodson. He’s a lawyer, and a good one.” Demetrio nodded, black eyes still calculating Russell’s merits and demerits. “Hire him, and I’ll talk to Lou.”
Russell said thanks, surprised and grateful to have found a lawyer who might understand.
He found an older man sitting alone at a booth in the back of the bar. Jack Dodson was slender, with a receding hairline and a just-get-to-the-point gaze. Russell introduced himself and dropped Demetrio’s name. Jack invited him to sit down.
Russell slipped out of his jacket and hung it on a peg at the end of the booth. “Thank you for talking to me, Mr. Dodson.” He slid behind the table. “I’m hoping to engage you on behalf of a friend of mine.”
Jack flagged the bartender. “Order a drink, and we’ll talk.”
Russell waited till he had his first sip of whiskey. Then he talked. “My friend got arrested for lewd conduct, and I want you to defend him.”
“How?” The man stirred his own drink with a skinny plastic straw. “It’ll be his word against the cop’s, and he’ll lose.”
A good lawyer could always find a loophole. “Anyone around here tried to change the precedent like Dale Jennings did in California?” Almost despite himself, Russell had made a study of the man who’d admitted in court to being a homosexual but denied he’d done anything wrong. A jury acquitted him.
Jack just laughed. “No, son, and I wouldn’t take on your friend as a test case. The cops are easy enough to manage if you’re willing to pay them off, but if a fellow did contest his arrest, he’s likely to end up in the funny farm.”
Russell fought against the tension in his shoulders, fueled by a rising sense of frustration. He’d always told himself his desires were perverted, but what he’d shared with Skip hadn’t felt criminal, and neither of them was crazy. From Senator McCarthy on down, the government, the legal system, and all of society were stacked against them. “So what happens when Skip pleads guilty?”
“Likely just a fine. Sometimes they throw ’em in jail.” Jack sipped his drink. “Who’s your friend, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Skip, I mean, Lawrence Johansen.”
“Damn.” Jack’s head snapped back, and he frowned. “I bet Murphy was the cop.”
Russell set his glass down. “I think that’s what he said.” He scraped a fingernail along the lacquered tabletop. “I figure a lawyer can convince the judge to lower the fine or keep him out of jail. He already lost his job.”
Jack’s smile wasn’t at all happy. “I can try.” He tossed down some more of his drink. “Ten dollars up front, then forty more when the case is done.”
Russell pulled out his wallet and put two twenties on the table. “Thank you. I’ll have to mail you the rest.”
“Wait a minute,” Jack said. “What’s your story? I mean, I’ve known Lawrence Johansen since he was missing his two front teeth and we all called him Skippy. Why are you helping him out?”
Because I’m in love with him. The words rang true, even though the shock of thinking them sent flames burning up his face. He took a solid pull off his whiskey, hoping the lawyer wouldn’t notice his discomfort, and began to talk. He told Jack Dodson about the Aqua Follies, about Susie and Ryker, about graduating from law school and his thoughts about Seattle. Through it all, he talked about Skip, doing his best to describe how a charming smile and an open spirit had disarmed him so completely.
“So it sounds like you’re thinking about staying here.” The lawyer summarized Russell’s story with a conclusion he had only begun to entertain.
“I would, but my parents need me back home.”
“That’s important. I always dreamed of bringing my son on as a clerk aft
er he finished his degree so he could learn my practice for a year or so before I made him my junior partner.” Jack took another sip of his cocktail, staring into some memory on the other side of the room.
His sadness infected Russell. “Didn’t he want to be a lawyer?”
“He did.” Jack’s smile was bleak. “But he left school to join the navy and never made it home from Kwajalein.” He shook himself and tossed off the rest of his drink. “Long time ago now. May’s a strong lady, and the best thing she ever did for Skippy was buy him that horn. It’d break her heart if he left.”
Russell inhaled deep enough for the whiskey to warm his belly, relief allowing him to relax some. “I don’t want him to leave either. I just need to find him and tell him he’s got a chance.”
“Good.”
Russell gulped the rest of his whiskey and slid to the end of the booth.
“Tell Skip to come by my office.” Jack pushed a white business card in Russell’s direction.
“Thank you. I will.” Russell pocketed the card and shook the man’s hand. He slid through the crowd at the bar, avoiding the gazes trying to catch his attention, and approached Demetrio. The bar’s front door guy was talking to a pair of sailors who were looking for hookers. He acknowledged Russell with a head tilt and, after some jovial conversation, sent the sailors deeper into the Square.
“Did you work something out with Jack?” Demetrio asked.
Russell took out the lawyer’s card, wishing he’d asked for another one. “Give Skip this and tell him to go see Mr. Dodson, please.”
Demetrio took the card and tucked it into the front pocket of Russell’s shirt. “He’ll know how to find him.”
Another quick handshake and Russell was on his way. He hiked back out to the totem pole in search of a cab, wondering if he should find a hotel. Reaching into his pants pocket, he fiddled with Skip’s key. Skip had just said to lock up when he left, and Russell really didn’t have the money for a hotel. He flipped the key between his fingers. If he stayed at the apartment, he’d be there if Skip came home.