by KC Burn
Kurt still sent a daily text, not matter how futile and foolish he knew it to be. And every time he got a text, some part of him still hoped. Prayed it was Davy.
It was his mother this time, nagging.
“Simon, you and Jen want to have Christmas dinner with my family? You said you weren’t visiting family this year.”
“I’ll ask Jen, but Christmas dinner? With all of you? Are you sure your mom wants any extra people? Or is it at the restaurant?”
“Hell, no. Mom would never condone Christmas dinner at the restaurant. But there won’t be as many of us as you think. It’s actually only the brothers and Mike’s wife and kids. The twins are taking a ski trip with Mark and Evan and the kids, and Erin will be at her in-laws’.”
“Sounds good. Jen and I had been planning a quiet dinner, but I’m sure she’d love to come.”
Kurt texted his mom with Simon’s tentative acceptance. She responded immediately, and Kurt had to answer—firmly—that he was not bringing a date. God. What would his mom do if he brought home a man? How did one even make dates with a man without getting punched or laughed at? Was he too old to learn new habits, new rules? Dating was a worry for much, much later. He was still coming to grips with losing Davy and wanting to date men, without worrying about doing it.
Besides, Christmas dinner was special. He could have brought Davy, but he couldn’t bring just anyone, man or woman.
Ian brushed a rag over the bar. “I can’t believe we got stuck tending bar on one of the busiest days of the year.”
Valentine’s Day was always busy, but this year, to celebrate their upcoming forty-fifth wedding anniversary, his parents had decided to do a special promotion. Which meant it was extra crazy.
“Hey, it could be worse, we could be bussing tables. God, I don’t miss that job.” Kurt refreshed the garnish supplies in front of him. It didn’t escape his notice that he and Ian were the only family members working tonight.
“Got a hot date tonight?” That could explain Ian’s disgruntlement.
“Are you fucking kidding? First of all, there are cheaper ways to get in a girl’s pants. And secondly, you ask a girl out for Valentine’s and she’ll expect a commitment for sure.” Ian huffed and shook his head like Kurt was the most naïve man on the planet.
Did men expect the same? Did gay men even celebrate? He didn’t know. The lack of knowledge hadn’t stopped him from buying a single red rose, which he’d left on Davy’s doorstep this afternoon. He’d carefully chosen a time when Davy wasn’t at home and there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d run into Davy’s date, on the assumption—fear—Davy had one.
Pathetic. Stupid and pathetic—both the purchase and his inability to face Davy like a man. Symbolic of his whole life. His daily texts to Davy had dropped to weekly, but he was never able to say what Davy wanted to hear—that he was ready to tell people the truth about what had happened between them.
In fact, he’d been sneaking shots all night, trying to numb the pain of watching a roomful of happy couples celebrate love and each other.
“Dylan should be here with us,” Ian said.
“I know. I was shocked when he brought a girlfriend over for Christmas dinner. Did you know about her?”
“Not a word. Probably worried I’d turn her head before he had her affections locked up.” Ian wiggled his brows and laughed.
“Dylan does like his secrets.”
“Like you.” Ian’s narrow face was suddenly serious, and the air around Kurt was too thin for breathing.
“What… what do you mean?”
“You’ve been avoiding the family, and you look… starved. Is everything okay?”
Kurt pressed his lips together. This was exactly why he’d been avoiding the family. They knew him too well. Christmas could have been worse, but with his sisters gone, only his mom had really paid attention. He hadn’t lost as much weight, then.
She’d dragged him into the kitchen and asked him the very same question.
“Baby, are you okay? Have you been sick?”
Kurt hadn’t been able to look her in the eyes. He’d been afraid what she’d see—his mom always seemed to know all of his and his siblings’ secrets. But he couldn’t let her know this one. No way.
“Oh, baby. Is it your girl? Still no luck?” His mom hugged him tightly, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. Kurt managed to wipe away the single stray tear that sneaked out before his mom let him go.
“There’s no girl, mom.” Kurt hoped she wouldn’t correctly interpret the alternate meaning to that statement. He rather thought that was the closest he’d ever be able to come to admitting how he felt.
“Well, you’d better eat tonight. Starving yourself sick for some girl who clearly doesn’t have the sense God gave her… I won’t have it. Besides, if she can’t see what a good man you are, she’s not the girl for you.”
Not for him. The words made the pain in his gut slice just a bit deeper. He ate that night, tried to be normal, but he went home, drank himself stupid, and puked it all up hours later. It was becoming an all-too-frequent occurrence, but he couldn’t find the brakes for this train speeding down the wrong track.
The sting from a damp towel snapping against his shoulder brought him out of his memory. “What the fuck was that for?”
Ian peered at him closely. Kurt couldn’t remember when he’d last put eyedrops in. Using those to hide his bloodshot eyes had become a regular occurrence too. “I asked if you were doing okay. And you totally zoned out. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on. What the fuck is wrong with everyone? Can’t I have a fucking bad day now and then?” Kurt threw the glass he was holding into the sink where it shattered. Ian’s eyes widened, and even though he knew he’d regret it later, he shoved his brother out of the way and headed for the break room. High tide for the bar had passed, as the restaurant patrons were more intent on getting home and fucking their brains out—God dammit—than they were on drinking more. Ian could close by himself, nosy bastard.
A tiny nibble of guilt gnawed at his consciousness, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the siren call of his kitchen with its newly stocked supply of vodka. At his shithole apartment, he could finally drink enough to forget. For a few hours at least.
Kurt knocked on Inspector Nadar’s office door.
“Come in.”
After shutting the door behind him, Kurt took a seat. Enough rumors were flying about the station when he arrived that he suspected he knew what Nadar was going to tell him.
“O’Donnell, I know the past nine-and-a-half months have been difficult for you.”
Kurt barely held in the contemptuous snort.
“I know how much you wanted to join the team investigating Ben’s death, but you were too close, and once we realized the motive was revenge from Ben’s former position on the drug squad, well, it was only proper to turn the matter over to them. But that’s water under the bridge.”
Kurt didn’t give a rat’s ass about that. Not if the rumors were true. He never understood why Nadar danced around some subjects and was almost painfully blunt with others.
“The team sent to apprehend Viktor Novikov late last night were fired upon, and they were forced to respond in kind.”
For half a second, Kurt didn’t realize Nadar was talking about Novi, the Russian Bear.
“Novikov died at the hospital early this morning, but there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was responsible for Ben’s death.”
Although he sat there, hopefully without expression, a dark, bitter joy filled him. Happy Valentine’s Day to him, even if it was a day late. The Bear got what he deserved, but Kurt wanted to be the one to deliver the fatal shot. But he had one important question:
“Sir, did you inform….”
“Ben’s family? Yes, as soon as I heard.”
“Thank you. Was there anything else?”
“I’d like you to take the rest of the week off, let this settle.”
Kurt shrugged and left Nadar’s office.
“Hey, man, are you okay? I just heard.” Simon rushed to meet him.
“Everything’s fine. Nadar sent me home, though, until Monday.”
“That’s probably a good thing. Call me if you need anything.”
A good thing. He didn’t want to go home. He was starting to hate his apartment, and he couldn’t go to Finn’s or any of his family. They’d smother him. At least he could take comfort in knowing Davy would have some closure and wouldn’t have to dredge up all that pain at a trial. Selfishly, the thought had occurred to him that at the trial he’d have a chance to see Davy, but that wouldn’t happen now.
Kurt fired off one additional text to Davy about the situation, although like the others, he didn’t expect a reply.
Out in the slushy, gray February day, Kurt drove to the liquor store first, just in case he didn’t have enough alcohol at home to numb him for the next few days, help him sleep. And he had no intention of leaving his apartment until Monday morning. Hell, he might not even shower until then, either.
Kurt opened the fridge and contemplated the beer for a few minutes.
Fuck it. He slammed the door shut and grabbed the vodka bottle. He added a couple of cubes to a lowball glass and poured.
He touched the phone, but he wasn’t hungry enough to bother ordering anything. Besides, once he got enough booze into him, he wouldn’t be hungry at all.
Slumped down on the couch, glass in hand, he flipped to the hockey game. He kept looking to his right, as though Davy was going to appear. But then, he couldn’t imagine Davy at his apartment, on his couch, watching his TV. Because Davy was right. He’d barged into Davy’s home and life, but never allowed Davy the courtesy of an invite into his. He was such a shit, and he hated watching the game alone.
He could always go to Finn’s, but that would require a shower. And a shave. It had been days since he’d done either, and had no intention of doing so until he had to go back to work on Monday. Besides, he wasn’t interested in his family’s company, evading their nosy questions.
On screen, a spectacular goal slipped past the goalie. Davy would have crowed and trash-talked. Watching hockey animated him, far more so than when they’d watched baseball.
Kurt stared at the screen, without seeing any of the following plays, remembering the first hockey game they’d watched together. At the first questionable call by the refs, Davy leapt off the sofa, yelling, cursing. He’d spilled his beer and looked at Kurt all shocked and embarrassed. It was… fuck… it had been so damned cute. Kurt had laughed and laughed while he helped Davy soak up the spill.
A cheer from the TV brought his attention back, and he tried to take another sip, but there was nothing left in his glass but ice. Tears wet his face, and he wiped them away.
“Fuck this.” He whipped the glass at the wall, where it shattered with a satisfying crash, ice cubes melting in the glittering glass. He grabbed a nearby beer bottle and sent it sailing, adding brown shards in with the clear.
After the game ended—he had no idea who won, and he wasn’t even sure who played—he stumbled over to clean up the broken glass.
Red mixed and swirled with the water. Kurt turned his hand over, but the deep cut didn’t hurt until he yanked the hunk of glass out. Then it hurt like a bitch.
Who came up with that expression anyway? It didn’t make any sense. The continued throbbing kept him more or less focused on his hand and the crimson dripping from it. He’d clean this shit up tomorrow.
He wrapped a mostly clean towel around his hand and collapsed on the bed fully clothed. His last thought before passing out was a hope that the cut would have healed enough by Monday that no one would comment on it.
Chapter Fourteen
Kurt had been back at work two days and was thankful that most of the furor had died down. He didn’t really want to talk about Ben or Novi or much of anything else. Pounding the streets was better than gossiping at the station. All he was interested in right now was getting the damn witness to talk. Too bad Wally was a shiftless, drug-addled little shit.
He slammed Wally up against the bricks and leaned in to hiss a threat.
Simon grabbed him by the back of his collar, hoisting him backwards and lifting him to his toes. Oversized fucker. With the sudden removal of Kurt bracing him, Wally slipped on a slushy patch of ice and fell to one knee.
“Back the fuck off, O’Donnell,” Simon hissed in his ear. To the world at large, it probably didn’t look like the bigger man was actively restraining him, but Kurt would have to put in a lot of effort to break free.
“Get out of here, Wally.” The ragged little man didn’t waste any time following Simon’s instructions. He pulled himself off the ground and ran away.
Kurt twisted in Simon’s grip, but succeeded only in almost choking himself. “What the fuck? He’s getting away!”
Simon opened his fingers and Kurt stumbled as all of his weight returned to his own feet. He turned to confront Simon, only to be met by the fierce glare Simon reserved for the most recalcitrant suspects. Which only pissed him off.
“I had him. Why the fuck did you do that?”
“If we’d taken that guy in, you’d be getting suspended.” Simon didn’t actually follow up with the words you idiot, but Kurt heard it in the biting anger.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You were bordering on brutality, and that little shit would have squealed about it the second he stepped into processing. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me! Who are you, my mother?” Kurt clenched his teeth, his fists, rocking on the balls of his feet. Adrenalin surged, and he was going to have to decide—soon—if it was worth throwing a punch at his partner.
“Jesus Christ, Kurt. Get in the fucking car.”
Simon didn’t exactly give him a choice, and muscled him into the passenger seat with his bigger bulk. Since Kurt didn’t particularly want to be stranded, or be forced to use public transit, he buckled his belt and crossed his arms.
“What about Wally?” Kurt asked as soon as Simon got in the car. “He’s still a suspect, and you let him go.” The accusation made a muscle leap in Simon’s jaw.
“He’s not a good lead and you know it.” Simon started the car and drove away.
They rode in silence, the radio crackling loudly and intrusively between them. Pulling up in front of Kurt’s apartment building smoothed out some of his simmering fury.
“What are we doing here?”
“Get out of the car.” Simon didn’t wait for him, but strode to the entrance and waited.
The red haze of anger faded, and Kurt had to admit he’d maybe been a bit out of line. But it wasn’t Simon’s place to coddle him, or protect him from his own actions. Simon was his partner, not his parent.
“Get in,” Simon said, voice still tight.
Kurt opened the door to his apartment, took off his coat, and threw himself on the couch like a sulky teenager. Simon wandered into the kitchen… and came right back out holding an empty vodka bottle. He sat on the coffee table facing Kurt and set the vodka bottle—one of several Kurt was sure he hadn’t thrown out yet—beside him.
“Jesus, Kurt.” The anger was gone, replaced by something else. Pity, maybe. Kurt didn’t want to hear it… or see it, so he averted his eyes. He didn’t think Simon would go away if he locked himself in the bathroom, though.
“How much are you drinking? What the fuck is going on?” This time, though, there was no aggressive thrust to the words to send Kurt’s hackles rising. “I’ve been watching you unravel for months, but I didn’t know it was this bad.”
Simon waved a hand toward the kitchen. Kurt dared a quick glance up, care and concern etched on Simon’s face, but he could barely look his friend in the eye.
“Kurt, c’mon. Talk to me. I’m your partner. I’m your friend. Please let me help you, because you can’t keep going on like this.”
Kurt opened his mout
h intending to say, “Everything’s fine,” like he’d been saying over and over for the past few months.
Instead, he hiccupped, his eyes filled and burned, and every single sordid, awful detail surrounding Davy spewed out. Every dark secret, his fears, his indecision, his gut-wrenching loss.
Simon got up only to retrieve a roll of toilet paper for Kurt to blow his nose. Otherwise he did nothing to stem the flood of words Kurt had bottled up since Ben died. Like any other flood, once the dam was broken, there was no stopping it until it was over, ripping out shreds of his soul for Simon’s delectation.