by P. W. Davies
Roland didn’t let Peter respond. Walking away, he headed toward the group of people playing pool in the back, raising the hand with missing fingers to wave at them. Peter poured himself another shot, polishing it off before finishing his beer and studying the others the entire time. If anyone knew where Christian might be, it was Roland, and the man didn’t appear likely to surrender that information anytime soon. Peering over at Tony, he watched as the bartender finished drying a glass and squinted at him, the full effect of three shots working its magic on him.
“Who the hell is Mark Talbot?” he asked.
Tony snorted. Glancing up at Peter for a moment, he resumed studying the glass he was drying before securing it on the rack hanging overhead. “I’m gatherin’ that’s another serious question there...”
“Peter.”
“Right, Peter.” Tony sighed. His eyes shifted toward where Roland had walked off to before returning to Peter. “He’s right, y’know. You don’t want anywhere near that. If I said, son of a guy who has his own body count, I have a feelin’ that’s not going to instill the sense of dread I’m lookin’ for.”
“I’m dating a man who calls himself a hitman.”
“It’s cute that you think he might be kiddin’ about that.” A bemused smile crossed Tony’s lips. “Go home, Peter. The rest of us are here ‘cause it’s what we do. You’re neither a cold-blooded killer, nor a thief or some two-bit criminal. Consider this your early warnin’ signal.”
Nodding, Peter muttered something under his breath, reaching for his wallet before remembering that Roland had arranged to cover his drinks. Sliding from the bar stool, he managed his way to the front door, his sense of balance disappearing the moment his feet hit terra firma. With most of his focus directed toward struggling to stay upright, getting out to the sidewalk became a challenge and as Peter paused to regain his equilibrium, he pulled out his phone with the intention of arranging for an Uber driver to pick him up.
The messages on the screen sobered him significantly.
A phone number that had not been programmed into his address book yet had left two text messages. As Peter struggled through the haze to open them, feeling the cadence of his heart pick up tempo while his fingers conspired to draw out the suspense. Finally making his way to the appropriate screen, he frowned as he read them, from the first message up.
‘I thought you might want to know that I’ve found him. Or, I should say, I received a phone call from him,’ declared the initial message and while Peter’s mind continued to swim within the throes of intoxication, he immediately knew its source. “Victor,” he said, using his thumb to scroll up to the second text and read it as well. ‘I don’t know if you’re busy at work, but I plan on picking him up when I leave the office at seven.’
Checking the time on his phone, and seeing that it was only 6:30, Peter breathed a sigh of relief. While the initial attempts to type produced nonsensical results, at a point he settled on, ‘Please come by and get me. I’m in Northeast Philly.’ After hitting send, he continued holding the phone, walking in the direction of the other bar Tony had indicated. A brisk wind blew past, chilling Peter to the bone and forcing his hands into the pockets of his coat. When the phone in his grip vibrated, he freed his hand to check the display.
‘Need an address if you’d like a ride. I thought you had work.’
Peter winced at the thought of explaining himself to Victor. “Might have to do that anyway.” Pausing his walk, he focused hard on the keyboard, tapping each letter slowly to avoid the same problems he had with his first response. Eventually, ‘I’ll meet you at Front and Girard,’ made its way to Victor. ‘Just send me a message when you’re headed my way.’ The explanation, he determined, would wait until he’d sobered.
A coffee shop proved to be a better escape from the cold. While drinking down one cup, and refilling it, Peter worked on sobering himself up, making a trip to the bathroom before walking back outside. Continuing to sip from the disposable cup he’d been given, he took several steadying breaths, feeling his senses return to heavily buzzed from their brief visit to full-on drunk and grateful when thinking became less of a chore. Wandering his way to the corner he’d given Victor, he scrolled through Facebook and attempted to distract himself from the sense of dread overwhelming him, grateful some of the alcoholic numbness remained. When the gray Mustang pulled up, however, he realized he’d sobered too much, especially when he got into the car with Victor.
Victor stole a moment to appraise him while he buckled his seatbelt. Instead of asking further about Peter’s absence from work, his gaze turned more solemn, hand shifting gears from park back into drive. “Where’d you find him?” Peter asked, breaking the silence. “Or, rather, where did he say that he was?”
“You’re going to need to promise not to be difficult with him,” Victor said. “At least until I’ve had a chance to talk to him first. And not until we have him alone. I have to play the role of attorney first.”
Peter perked an eyebrow. Victor approached a red light, sighing as he directed his attention to Peter. “You had the pleasure of treating him. I have the pleasure of bailing him out.
“It looks like Christian went and got himself arrested.”
Sitting with his feet firmly planted on the tiled floor, elbows resting on his legs with his hands steepled in front of him, Peter took a deep breath and frowned. The alcohol had all but left his system and what little remained had faded into nothing more than a dull hum afflicting him. “Stay here,” Victor had said before leaving him alone in the waiting room of the police station. His hand had brushed across Peter’s cheek as he walked past and for a moment, Peter could sink into thinking of much happier things. Now, however, it had been a half-hour, if not longer, and the pleasant notions had followed the liquor out the door.
Suppressing a groan, Peter straightened his posture and sat against the back of the chair. His eyes shifted to the bathroom and after standing to use it a second time, he paced around the waiting room and leaned against one of the walls. The police officer at the desk ignored him, picking up his phone to read the screen intermittently while typing something at the computer in front of him. Peter produced his phone, hoping to do the same, and frowned when he discovered his battery dying. As if on cue, however, the universe determined to take pity on him.
Peter looked up to see the door of an interrogation room swing open. His wait had ended, but the first sight he saw as he peered down the corridor was Christian being led out, his wrists bound in handcuffs. Christian turned to face the detective who followed him and as Victor strode into the hallway, both he and his “client” watched as the detective unlocked Christian’s cuffs. Peter’s eyes shifted from one person to the next, looking for where to rest until finally, the two men with whom he had become involved looked up to see him.
Victor remained neutral. He directed his attention to the detective and answered whatever question the man posed to him, nodding while he spoke. Peter couldn’t hear either, and even if he stood within earshot, his focus would’ve been directed to the one who made eye contact with him, a look of defiance painted on Christian’s face. While Christian turned to nod acknowledgment to the detective, rubbing at one of his wrists, he gave the police officer only a moment of his time before strolling toward Peter.
Tensing, Peter didn’t know what to expect. The look in Christian’s eyes bore disappointment, though Peter couldn’t be sure it wasn’t directed at himself. His hands slid into the pockets of the dress pants he wore, his suit jacket hanging open with a button-down shirt underneath. Something about the way he dressed, coupled with the way he walked, suggested he hadn’t been out on a social call when arrested.
Peter frowned, watching as one lover bypassed him altogether, on his way to the exit. Victor sighed as he walked up beside Peter, holding his coat at first and threading his arms through the sleeves once Christian had walked outside. “He’s angry at me for bringing you here,” he said.
“If he’s the o
ne who got himself arrested, he shouldn’t be blaming you,” Peter said. Glancing from the door to Victor, Peter lifted a hand to smooth back the strands of his hair. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’ll be fine. At worst, he’ll be fined. I think he’s more offended that he was arrested.”
“More of a blow to the ego than to his criminal record.” When Victor didn’t respond, Peter assumed he’d guessed correctly and frowned. “I wonder if hitmen get added street cred with an arrest or not.”
Victor shot him a look of caution, lifting a hand to motion around them before allowing it to drop to his side. Nodding, Peter sighed and started walking with him to the doors, trying to let the moment wash through him without knowing what to think about the entire situation. Victor continued forward like the picture of composure while Peter kept near the other man. As they emerged from the police precinct, Peter spied Christian standing near Victor’s car, a cigarette lit with smoke wafting in the wind. He made eye contact with neither of them.
While Victor appeared nonplussed, Peter frowned with the vague sense of being the one wronged in the equation. The doors to the Mustang unlocked and while Christian obediently flicked away the barely-touched tobacco, he kept his quiet, opening the car door and pushing the front seat forward to slide into the back. Peter peered into the car as he approached the passenger side and as Victor assumed his position behind the wheel, Peter lingered outside of the vehicle for a few lingering moments.
He stared at Christian, who refused even to make eye contact with him. Glancing at Victor, Peter frowned, tempted to say that he’d walk back to the subway and show himself home. That thought made his heart ache, and exacerbated what effects remained of his short-lived, alcoholic bender. Roland wanted to warn him away from this. Victor had called him to pull him back in, though he sensed the other man didn’t only do it for his benefit. The wisdom of one met with the caution of the other and by the time Peter finally resolved to enter the car, he carried more than a small share of cynicism. He buckled his seatbelt, though, and nodded to Victor, who flashed a wan smile at him.
Peter couldn’t be sure, but he swore he saw gratitude in that small gesture.
The car started, and the drive to Victor’s condo was spent immersed in an uncomfortable amount of silence. Victor turned on the radio, in recognition of this, and though the strains of classical music brought pleasant memories of the Kimmel Center, Peter couldn’t shake the frightening amount of sobriety which had made an unwelcome visit. ‘Your boyfriend is a hitman,’ he wanted to remind himself again, but the luster had worn off, leaving him with the reality presented in front of him.
One lover was a hitman.
And the other would always be devoted to him.
Fourteen
Even with all that’d happened at that point, Peter knew the full reality of the situation had yet to impact him. He hadn’t even seen Christian attack a person, let alone kill one, and none of the tools of his trade had been brandished anywhere he could see them. Granted, Peter had met some interesting people, but aside from their stern warnings, he had yet to witness any evidence of Christian’s profession beyond an injured man in the Emergency Room.
And yet, even beyond that sense of jumping into the unknown he’d experienced that same night, walking into Victor’s condo felt like a reckoning to him; like that defining moment when he’d have to accept the truth before determining how much longer the adventure would continue. His head had been in the clouds and until that moment, the danger had been contained, but now, it threatened to spill over the banks and ebb up to his feet. For the first time since meeting Christian, Peter had the impulse to step away.
Victor hung his car keys on a wall hook and slid open the main closet, pausing to hang his coat. Christian continued wearing his jacket and while he strode to the refrigerator in search of what Peter presumed to be a beer, Peter shed his coat and handed it to Victor when prompted. Both men stood in the entryway of the condo, watching Christian as if transfixed, though Peter couldn’t be sure they shared the same reasons. Maybe Victor felt uneasy, perhaps a little worried for Christian’s benefit. Peter, on the other hand, had resigned himself to waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Passing Peter to walk into the kitchen, Victor brushed his fingertips across the taller man’s arm on the way to the other portion of the condo. Peter felt a surge of warmth prompted by the action, for as short-lived as it remained, and lingered near the door while Victor walked up to where Christian stood, digging his hands into his pockets. Christian liberated a beer from inside the fridge and opened it, casting a quick glance his statuesque lover before peering in Peter’s direction. The latter tensed, his posture straightening while Christian took a long, hard drink of his beer.
Lowering it, Christian raised an eyebrow at Peter. “Was this a test?” he asked, though Peter couldn’t tell for sure if the question had been directed at him or Victor.
The way Victor shifted his stance suggested it had been for him. “Not a test,” he said. “You had Peter worried.”
“Et tu, Brute?”
“You can insist upon being petulant, but you should remember that I never fall for that.”
Christian sighed, sipping from his drink again and shutting the door to the refrigerator. Casting a weary glance at Victor, when met with a smirk, he looked back toward Peter. “Go on ahead and ask me,” he said, this time addressing Peter. “I know you have fifty questions and none of them look pleasant. Especially if I had you worried, as Victor claims.”
“I was worried,” Peter said. Feeling bold, he ventured further into the condo, glancing momentarily at the beer Christian held before reconsidering. Returning to the land of intoxicated felt like a recipe for disaster, tempting as it was. But Peter wanted to stay this course, wherever it led him. “So worried, in fact that I went to that bar of yours to see if you were there.”
Victor tilted his chin in the background, otherwise holding back any form of reaction. Christian stared at Peter, the silence conspicuous at first, masked only by an attempt by the former to drain the rest of his beer. Once he had accomplished this, he set the empty bottle aside and leaned against the dark, marble countertop, crossing one foot over the other. “You went there without me,” he said. “I’m not sure that was a wise idea, love.” Glancing back at Victor, he raised an eyebrow. “Did you know this?”
“I picked him up in the same neighborhood,” Victor said. “You’ll forgive me if I was more focused on seeing to you than asking why he was there.”
Christian held a glance for a moment before looking back at Peter. Something in his eyes sobered dramatically. “Who did you ask about me?”
Peter sighed, struggling to think. “The bartender,” he said. “Tony, I think his name was? And Roland. He sat beside me and urged me to get out of there. I was taking his advice when Victor messaged me.”
“Thank heavens for small miracles. Did anyone else see you there?”
“Nobody else. I recognized a few people playing pool, but that means they’ve seen me already.”
“They saw you, but with me. That’s the trick there. Sounds like a small caveat, but it’s a lot more substantial than that.” Slowly, Christian paced forward, keeping his distance from the other man, but focusing on him intently. “I warned you of at least some of the decorum that comes with knowing what little I’ve told you. Whose name not to mention and all. When I brought you there, I did it to start showing you more of my life, as it seemed you wanted, but that might have been a mistake.”
Slowly, Peter surrendered to a frown. “Why do you think that might have been a mistake?”
“If you’re about to do something reckless, like snoop around without me there. The wrong person sees you and doesn’t know to mind their business, and before I know it, they’re holding you as leverage. Or threatening you and thinking they can control me because of it.” The way his eyes met Peter’s bore a level of severity to it. “Thus the mistake.”
The words formed a backh
and, slapping Peter and causing him to recoil. As the two men stared at each other, and Victor remained still in the background, Peter squared his shoulders by the slimmest margin. “I’m sorry if I put a cramp in your style, Christian. I seem to remember you were the one coaxing me out for the dates and the relationship. Isn’t the chase fun anymore?”
Christian scoffed. Slowly, he paced forward. “Is that what you hear when I say that?” he asked.
“I don’t know. What am I supposed to hear, being called a mistake?”
“Never said you were the mistake. Simply letting you into this part of my world if you’re going to trip through it without thinking.” Stopping just shy of Peter, he tilted his head to look up at the taller man. “You, walking into the bar without me. Calling off work, as it seems you did tonight. Those are careless and foolish actions. Fearless looks good on you, love, but I don’t think you understand the name of the game you’re playing.”
“Then tell me.”
Christian laughed. After casting a quick glance back at Victor – who offered him no hope for salvation – he turned his attention back to Peter and lifted a hand to skim his fingertips across his lover’s cheek. “I swear, at times, I can’t tell if you want to rush headlong into this or take things slowly. I said what I did the other morning because it seemed you needed some time to adjust, but here you are, jumping into the deep end. Perhaps I’m the one not fully grasping the game being played.”