Chief's Mess

by L. A. Witt

  I flinched at the name, but didn’t speak. Sitting on the other end of the sofa, legs tucked up under me and a throw pillow against my chest like a kid’s stuffed animal, I didn’t need to be reminded of Noah’s existence. I hadn’t been able to get him off my mind, no matter how much I wanted to, and hearing his name was enough to make me feel even more like shit.

  Fortunately, Jay let the subject drop. I loved that about him—he’d check to see if I was okay, and maybe press so he could feel me out, but the instant I put up “leave it alone” signs, he stopped. No wonder we’d been able to live together for so long.

  Just wish he didn’t drink.

  I pushed back that stupid thought, along with the bitter taste in my mouth. There was nothing wrong with people who drank. Hell, I drank. Or at least I had before things had gone bad with Noah. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen Jay obviously inebriated, and at least two of those had been when we’d had drunk Disney movie marathons.

  Shit. Maybe I needed to go out. Have a couple of drinks with some people who could drink like adults. Remind myself there was drinking without insanity just like there was life without Noah.

  But that would mean turning on my phone, and I really didn’t want to. It had been off since I’d left work tonight. If anyone tried to reach me, well . . . hopefully they’d forgive me one night of being incommunicado.

  One night? Yeah. Right. As if I’d left it on more than once or twice in the past week.

  I’d blocked Noah, and just looking at my screen made my chest hurt. I’d had that phone for over a year, and now that Noah wasn’t in it, I wanted to toss it off an overpass and forget about it.

  It had been almost three weeks since I’d walked out of Noah’s place for the last time, and I was starting to wonder if this emotional flatline was going to be a permanent thing. I hated him for how depressed I was. What right did he have to fuck me up like this?

  I tried to remind myself that I felt this way after every breakup. The shitty, everything sucks feeling was part of splitting up with someone. I’d spend some time being pathetic and convinced I’d be alone forever, and it would feel like forever, but then I’d suddenly be back on my feet and on the prowl for someone to take me to bed and sexorcise whatever demons remained.

  Except I didn’t remember feeling like this before.

  Well, that wasn’t true. It was a lot like the deep, dark funk I’d been in after separating from my ex-wife. With her, I hadn’t just been sad over a breakup. I’d felt like a failure. Like I’d betrayed her, and also like I’d been too weak and too selfish to keep the heterosexual façade in place. For months, guilt had eaten me alive because I’d hurt her and disappointed our families. A few years and some therapy later, I’d made more sense of things, but at the time, I’d been too sad and in too much pain and too scared of the future to realize everything that had happened was for the better.

  So maybe that would happen this time too. I’d get my shit together, and I’d see that going our separate ways was the best thing for both of us. I wouldn’t feel guilty for leaving him anymore. He’d fucked up. Not me. He’d lied about his drinking. He had an enormous problem with the bottle and a bigger one with the truth, and after everything with Mandy and Clint? No way was I sticking around to watch things implode. Sooner or later, he’d hit rock bottom. He’d lose his career. Maybe he’d crash his car or do something equally unimaginable. Someone in his life might get police on their doorstep with hats in their hands.

  I shuddered, clinging tighter to the pillow like that might actually do something. I wouldn’t pretend I didn’t care about him. I did. As much as I hated him right now, I wanted him to be okay. I knew he wouldn’t be, though, and I couldn’t be there when things got really bad.

  My eyes . . . didn’t sting, but felt like they should have. Maybe that was what people meant when they said they’d cried so much, they’d run out of tears. I didn’t think I’d cried all that much. A few nights when the emptiness of my bed got to me. A couple of times when he’d called, I’d ignored him, and the guilt had gotten to me. One stupid time when I was on the freeway and passed the exit for the airport. What the hell had that been about?

  Well, whatever. Now I was just drained, depressed, and fucking pissed that I couldn’t shake him off and move on. Maybe Jay was trying to subtly encourage me to go out because if I got off my ass and put my cock in someone else’s, I’d feel better.

  Except that sounded exhausting.

  It probably made me extra pathetic, but I didn’t want someone else. I wanted Noah. Only problem was, I needed him about as much as he needed another drink.

  So, I’d be pathetic for a while. Then someday, when I was married to a rich underwear model with a penchant for threesomes, living in a chateau in Aspen, I’d look back and laugh at how ridiculous I was when I’d let a drunk Sailor break my heart. Until then, I’d—

  The doorbell rang, startling both of us.

  Jay and I exchanged glances.

  “You expecting anything?” he asked. UPS didn’t usually show up this late, but once in a while, they did.

  “No. Is it the Mormons again?”

  “Probably.” He groaned and got up. “I’ll take care of them. I think it’s my turn anyway.” He picked up the well-used bong and the tattered copy of Penthouse, and disappeared down the hall.

  I couldn’t laugh this time. If nothing else, I was grateful he was here. And that he didn’t insist it was actually my turn, which it was. Sometimes I thought I was a little old to be living with a roommate—we both made enough we could live on our own—but man, there were days when he was a godsend. Like when the fucking doorbell rang and I was too lethargic to get up and answer it, never mind sign for a package or horrify some missionaries.

  The door opened. “Oh. Uh. Hey.”

  “Hi.” The quiet voice strafed my nerve endings like someone had come in here and started shouting. What the hell?

  Jay said something. Then that quiet voice again.

  “Hold on.” Jay’s voice was civil, but firm. “I need to ask him first. So, uh, wait here.”

  Oh no. My spine slowly straightened as my stomach did somersaults. No, no, no. Please, no.

  Jay appeared and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “It’s Noah.”

  My heart slammed into my rib cage. “Are you serious?”

  He nodded. “You want me to tell him to kick rocks?”

  Yes, please.

  But . . . he was here? In Denver? At my door?

  He hated flying. Had he driven? And . . . why?

  “No. I . . .” I swallowed. “I should probably talk to him.”

  “Okay. I’ll let him in.”

  With that, Jay was gone again. Well, at least that gave me a second to collect myself and get on my feet. As if that would be nearly enough time.

  Heart thumping, I stood, and when I turned around, I was face-to-face with Noah. The air in the room was thicker than it should have been. Hard to pull in. Even harder to hold on to.

  Jay looked back and forth between us. Then he slipped down the hall and disappeared into his room.

  When we were alone, I cleared my throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “I needed to see you.”

  I gritted my teeth. There were a million responses, every one of which was snide and venomous and ended with an invitation for him to walk right back out the way he’d come.

  But he was in Denver. He’d come clear out from Anchor Point, and though he’d found his way to my front door, he looked so desperately lost, my heart ached for him.

  The silence must’ve gotten to him first, because he took a deep breath and spoke. “Look, you were right.”

  “About?”

  “My drinking. It’s . . . it’s a problem.”

  I chewed my lip. Tell me something I don’t know. But I wasn’t going to be an ass when he’d come this far with his heart in his hands, so I waited quietly for him to explain himself.

  “After you lef
t,” he finally went on, “I realized just how much my drinking was running my life. So . . . I quit. I’m quitting. It’s . . . I wish it was something that happened overnight.”

  “So you’ve still been drinking.”

  “No! Not at all. I haven’t touched any. But it’s kind of like quitting smoking, you know? You have to get past the withdrawal and the cravings and all of that.”

  Okay, that was fair. “All right. You’ve stopped for now. And then what?” I folded my arms. “You’ll dry up for a while, then start backsliding into the bottle whenever I’m not around?” Shaking my head, I sighed. “And I don’t want you to change for me, Noah. If you do, it’ll just—”

  “I’m not.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “It’s not for you.” He swept his tongue across his lips and avoided my eyes. “I don’t want to lose you, and that’s why I’m here, but the drinking . . . I’ve got to get that shit under control, or I’m going to lose everything.” Cheeks coloring, he added, “Including you, if I haven’t lost you already.”

  I shifted my weight. Had he? Because, Jesus fuck, I wanted him so bad it hurt, but I couldn’t ignore the reason I’d left.

  Noah swallowed. “Listen, I won’t lie. The day you left, I did what I always did. I jumped into a bottle. And I . . . I didn’t stop. The whole weekend. On Monday morning, I slept so late, my coworkers were about ready to file a missing person’s report.” He pushed out a long, long breath. “I woke up to my senior chief standing over me.”

  “He . . . just came in your house?”

  “Yeah. Apparently I was so fucked up that night, I hadn’t even bothered to lock the front door before I passed out. Somebody could’ve come in and robbed me blind, and I’d have slept right through it.”

  My heart skipped. “Jesus. So what did he say?”

  “That he was done covering for me.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  “Yeah. He’s covered for me a few times already. This time . . .” Noah shook his head. “This time, either I do something about it, or it’s going on paper. Which also got me thinking—I’ve already got some alcohol-related incidents. Some documented. Some not. And Senior and I, we had a come-to-Jesus moment. He basically said in no uncertain terms that if he so much as thought I was drinking again, he would end my career.”

  I set my jaw. “So you’re cleaning yourself up to save your career.”

  “I’m cleaning myself up because literally everything that’s important to me depends on it. If I lose my career, I’m fucked because every employer who interviews me is going to see that I was discharged under—let’s say not completely honorable circumstances. Realizing my career and my future were hanging in the balance? That’s the kind of wake-up call a guy can’t really ignore.” He gulped. “Realizing I’d fucked things up with you just . . .” Had he already had tears in his eyes, or were those fresh?

  “Oh,” was all I could say.

  He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I’m terrified, to be honest with you. I didn’t even know how far things had gotten, and how close I came to getting myself or someone else killed. Not to mention fucking up my career and . . . and things with you.”

  I didn’t know how to respond.

  He wasn’t finished anyway. “I don’t know if this is rock bottom. I really don’t. But it’s as close as I ever want to get. I want to get my shit together because I can’t keep living like that. I haven’t touched anything since that day because I’m scared to. I’m scared of how bad things are, and how much worse I could make them.”

  I still didn’t know what to say. The fear and the hurt in his expression and his voice were palpable. But what was I supposed to say? And what the hell was I supposed to do?

  He must’ve taken my silence as a need for him to keep going. “When I told you in the beginning that you’d raised the bar, and that everyone would have to pass an Anthony Test before . . .” He closed his eyes and exhaled, wincing like the whole thought process was painful. “I was joking, but . . . not. Every guy I’ve looked at since I met you has been measured against you. At first it was the sex, but then things got . . . I mean, it’s not . . .” Noah paused like he needed to collect his thoughts. “Now I can’t imagine anyone who could pass that test.”

  Any response I could think of to that was a minefield I wasn’t ready to cross, so instead, I said, “What are you doing to get sober? And stay that way, I mean?”

  Avoiding my gaze, he said, “I’ve already talked to a therapist and some people on base. There’s a support group in town too. And . . . yeah, it’s probably not gonna be smooth sailing.” He pushed his shoulders back. “If you don’t want to deal with it, I understand. But I guess I wanted you to know that part of my life is over—or at least I’m working on it being over—and I needed you to know that I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart, Anthony, if there was one thing I could go back and change, it would be how much I hurt you.”

  The pain in his unsteady voice broke my heart. God, he really was a wreck, wasn’t he? And, as I searched his eyes, I found that desperation, along with fear, and . . . sincerity.

  I didn’t want to be in love with a slave to a bottle, but how could I not be in love with him? And he wanted to break away from that bottle. Right?

  I stepped closer. “You’re serious? You’re really going to do this?”

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I have to. And I know it won’t be an easy or a fast process.” He swallowed. “But when I come out on the other side, and I’ve cleaned up my act, if you’d be willing to give me a second chance . . .”

  My chest tightened. Holy shit. I’d convinced myself he’d come here to win me back right now. This wasn’t what I’d expected.

  “You don’t want to get back together?” I cleared my throat. “Not now, I mean?”

  “Of course I do. But I can’t ask you to stick around while shit gets ugly. You deserve a hell of a lot better than what I am right now. So, you know, if you’re still available once I’ve got my feet under me, you’re—”

  “Shut up,” I whispered, and kissed him to make sure he did. When I broke that kiss, I took a breath. “You really are trying to do this, aren’t you? To get clean?”

  “Yeah. And I should’ve done it a long time ago, but I needed a wake-up call. Between you and my friend? I got it. So . . .” He smiled. “Thank you.”

  I held his gaze. “You’re welcome.” Leaning in, I whispered, “I love you, Noah.”

  “I love you too.” He smoothed my hair. “And I’m sorry.”

  “I know. And you won’t have to do this alone. I’ve got your back.”

  Noah drew me in for another soft kiss. “Thank you.”

  After the kiss had lingered for a moment, I gently broke it. “You know, my ex-brother-in-law lives in Anchor Point. He’s been sober for a couple of years now, and he . . . might be able to help.”

  “I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “I didn’t. We’ve . . . well, to put it bluntly, we’ve kind of bonded over what happened between you and me. With everything falling apart.”

  “Oh.” He sounded like he didn’t know how to take that.

  “The thing is, though,” I went on, “he could help. Point you in the direction of some support. Or be someone who’s been there, done that.”

  Noah studied me. “You’d put me in touch with him?”

  Slowly, I nodded. “If you think it’ll help.”

  “I’ll take any help I can get at this point.” He paused. “And thank you. For giving a shit. I fucked things up, but . . .” His voice was as shaky as the fingers he was carding through my hair. “I love you, Anthony.”

  Well, hell. Apparently I did still have tears left, and they started stinging my eyes. I swiped at them. “I love you too.”

  “If you don’t want to do this, though—”

  “I do. If you’re really serious about sobering up, I absolutely do.”

  “I am. One hundred percent.”

 
I exhaled, then looked in his eyes, blinking until mine were clear. “Then I guess we’re doing this.”

  He stared at me in disbelief for a second, as if I hadn’t already made it abundantly clear that I forgave him and I loved him. Then he smiled. And he actually laughed. “I guess we are.”

  I pulled him close again, but not for a kiss. I just needed to hold him.

  He buried his face against my neck. I slid a hand up into his hair and took in a long breath of him. The absence of any lingering alcohol settled something in me. I hadn’t always smelled it on him, but sometimes. I didn’t now, though.

  “I love you,” he whispered again.

  “I love you too.” I grinned. “Maybe we should take this into the bedroom.”

  Noah’s eyes lit up. “Maybe we should.”

  In Anthony’s bedroom, I dragged him down on top of me, and as he kissed me again, I wrapped my arms around him. We hadn’t stripped off our clothes yet, but we kissed and held on like we were already naked. Like one of us was already buried inside the other.

  This wasn’t like the reunion sex we’d had after every time we’d been apart. Or the first time when he’d come back to Anchor Point to see me, when neither of us could believe we were together again. He was no longer some week-long fling who’d come back for more. The last few weeks, I’d been convinced I’d never see him again. The separation had been unbearable and—I’d thought—permanent.

  There weren’t words to describe the relief. I’d been on ships caught up in storms that had been downright terrifying, and the feeling of being on glass-calm seas after that didn’t begin to compare to what it was like to have Anthony in my arms again. On top of me. Kissing me. Hard and breathless and hot against me.

  It hadn’t been lost on me that I had a hell of a lot to lose if I didn’t get my shit together, but I was more aware than ever of how close I’d come to losing such an amazing man. There was nothing in a bottle that could hold a candle to this. If I thought about it too much, I was liable to break down crying, and I’d done enough of that recently.

  Except it was hard not to think about it. Even as I tangled up in him, sliding my hands under his shirt and my tongue into his mouth, the reality of the situation was there at the front of my mind. And not only that, but how different this was from all the other times we’d fucked.