by Rhys Ford
Except Gus was still mostly an asshole, but that was to be expected—most of his older brothers were.
Ivo’s coffee was still warm, but the leather stool he used while tattooing was cold, even through the seat of his jeans. Ivo took a sip, trying to sort through the noise in his head. Then he finally gave in to Earl’s mumbled groans, tossing the dog a biscuit from the stoneware crock he kept at his station. Gus stood by, waiting, leaning forward to scratch at the dog’s head while Earl chomped through the heavy, crumbling cookie.
Gus wasn’t someone Ivo confessed to, not usually. They all had their roles in the family. Bear was always the levelheaded one Ivo reached out to when the world got too complicated, and sometimes Luke would step in, peeling back the layers of Ivo’s sublimated anger, digging out the hurt beneath. But never Gus. His brother had his own troubles, burdens he carried around in his soul, a darkness cemented over his heart by their selfish, violent mother. Yet there he was, framed by Ivo’s tattoo designs and drinking from a 415 Ink mug, patiently waiting for Ivo to find a few words to share.
“You weren’t there that night when the cop—this cop—brought me home. You were out somewhere. It was, like, almost seven years ago, and I’d snuck out through Luke’s window to go dancing, but some guy thought I should give him head instead of going home,” Ivo began, shaking his head when Gus began to bristle. “Nothing happened. I kind of lost it on him and got in a few lucky hits, but wasn’t like I didn’t take some myself. Nicholls was one of the cops on the scene, but he was in uniform back then. When Mace’s dad was murdered, he was one of the cops who came to the door to tell us about it.”
“So what’s with the card?” Gus pressed. “Because I can tell you, my mind is going some crazy places. Like you were too young first time and now you’re on the right side of eighteen, so he wants you to drop a line? Or did he want you to drop a line back then? My gut isn’t liking this.”
“It’s not like that. I was surprised he recognized me,” he murmured, shrugging. “I sure as fuck recognized him. He’s kind of been one of those guys you think about once in a while. Late at night. When you’re alone. In bed.”
“You’re stupid if you think people don’t recognize you. For one, you’re fucking gorgeous, and two, you’re kind of weird. People don’t forget weird. Also, I do not need to know what you’re doing under the covers in your bedroom,” his brother protested, reaching for his coffee cup again. “Tell me he didn’t touch you that night you got busted. I need to know if I have to kill him.”
“He was worried about me. I dressed a little crazier back then, remember?” Ivo chuckled when Gus rolled his eyes. “I went out dancing, and it was kind of skimpy. He wanted to take me home if I was going to get my ass kicked. Kept asking if I would be safe. I think that’s what made him hotter. He didn’t leer or shit on me. He was really worried. A little bossy, but worried.”
“So years later, he comes over to tell Mace that his asshole father is dead and hands you a card for what?” His brother frowned into his coffee cup. “What else did he say?”
“To call him because I still owed him a story about why I was wearing heels—those heels—and I think he wanted to make sure Mace was going to be okay. Maybe to see if I turned out okay? I didn’t feel like he was hitting on me. He was a cop. Professional but a little judgy,” Ivo said with a laugh. “I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to what he was saying after he told Mace his dad was dead. I just kind of stood there and updated my memory files about how hot he looked. That probably makes me a shitty person because I should’ve been focused on Mace.”
“Did you get gay off of him?” Gus grunted when Earl’s head struck his knee. “Dog, go easy. Your head’s like a brick. Did you get gay off of the cop? Because my gut says he was hitting on you.”
“Your gut says a fuck of a lot.” Ivo shook his head, trying to sort out his memories of Ruan Nicholls standing in the front hall of their house, his shoulder against the door and a simmering fire in his green eyes. “Yeah, I did, but not strong. I mean, not like he was comfortable. Kind of like how Bear is. Like there’s a lot of shit in the way before he can think about taking care of himself.”
“You going to call him?” Gus tapped the edge of the card against Ivo’s knee. “Because do you want to know what I think?”
Ivo snorted, “No, but you’re to tell me anyway. Because nobody in this family minds their own fucking business.”
“I’m going to say this because I love you, and if you tell anyone that I said that, I’m not only going to deny it, but I’m going to punch your face in.” His brother leaned forward, ruffling Ivo’s purple-streaked black hair. “You’re a lot. I mean, there’s a lot of person packed into your skin, and if you’re ever going to get with someone, they’re going to need to be okay with that. I’m not saying you and this cop are headed for happy-ever-after land, but he’s got to be somebody who not only is okay with you being a guy in heels but likes you for it.”
“I haven’t even called him. For all I know, he’s married, has a wife and seven kids, and she’s got big feet so he wants to know where he can shop for her Christmas present.” Ivo took another sip of his coffee, disliking the chill it left on his tongue. “I mean, sure, he’s hot—”
“Like how hot? Give me a range,” his brother said, tugging one last time at the ends of Ivo’s hair. “Muscular? Pretty? Can’t take him grocery shopping because the floor gets wet from women panting after him?”
“Like he’s the kind of classic, scruffed-up hot who’d not see anyone else but you. A bit rough, but the kind of pretty you just want to bite.” Ivo closed his eyes, trying to remember what Nicholls looked like that night he’d ridden through the dark to rescue Ivo from a monster he’d already vanquished. “I thought maybe I was making him more in my head, because memories are fucked-up things. But he came through the front door and I forgot how to fucking breathe, Goose. People don’t get to me like that, but he did. He does.”
“Then give him a call and see where it goes,” Gus replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “But, he fucks with you, and the SFPD is going to be down one detective.”
“I’ll be fine.” He shook his head, amused at his brother’s fierce defense. “Besides, he’s got that wife and seven kids, remember? And what the hell are you doing down here so early? You don’t even open today. I figured I could work on stuff before anyone else came in to fuck with me.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” Gus drained his coffee cup, pushing off of the counter, and tried to nudge Earl out of the way. “So I came in early just so I could fuck with you. Go get your crap done, and I’ll get the rest of the shop ready. Just don’t forget what I said. If this guy can’t celebrate your weird, he doesn’t deserve jack shit from you, and any one of us will be more than happy to show him the door.”
Four
EVEN AT one in the morning, the odorous stench of burnt cabbage lingered in the alleyway leading to Ruan’s walkup. For all of the money he’d dumped into his Jeep’s suspension, it seemed like none of it took, because it rattled and bitched every inch of the way, finding every groove and uneven bump on the cobblestone stretch.
“Getting way too old for this,” he grumbled at his Jeep. “My bones are already loose. Don’t make them worse.”
Parking the Jeep in its spot in the long, covered carport at the back of the house, Ruan rubbed at his face, forcing some of his tired out of his skin. The day hung on his bones, wearing him down. It had been twelve hours filled with blood and tears with little answers to anyone’s pain and leaving him and Maite with more questions than they started with.
The bay’s salty taint carried up with the creeping fog, adding to the already pungent perfume Ruan wished he could shake out of his nose. He’d taken the place nearly as soon as he’d seen it. Ripe with character, the fairly cheap second-story apartment had been cut out of an ancient saltbox house perched on the hills above the piers and had parking spaces for two cars. What he hadn’t taken into account was the se
emingly endless love affair some of his neighbors had with leafy greens and their inability to do anything to them besides scorch and stew them, mingled with the oily heaviness of fried fish coming up from the pier.
A raucous cry rose up from down the street—an all-too-familiar scramble of cheers and groans pouring out of the open windows of the pub a block away. There was always a soccer or rugby game being played somewhere in the world, and Finnegan’s seemed to be the gathering place of San Francisco’s rowdiest and finest. Half of its patrons were on the job, and since the owner was a member of Ruan’s boss’s family, he’d learned to let the muted roars slide by.
Not a hard thing to do since he’d spent more than a few nights of his own belly up to the bar and watching his beloved Cubs get their asses handed to them time and time again before finally flying straight into the Series.
The narrow saltbox was a throwback to the days when schooners and clippers sailed into the bay, their bellies filled with exotic goods and people from abroad. A sea captain bought the bit of property at a good price and erected a slat-covered rectangle of a house. It was edged up against stockier homes, but its staunch New England façade held its own, despite its plain exterior. Cranson, its current owner, was as crusty of an old sea dog as his so-many-greats grandfather, a seaman to the bone, whose life on the ocean had been cut tragically short by time eating away his youth and more nimble men willing to work on the hazardous seas.
A confirmed bachelor more comfortable among men, Cranson rented the upper floor more for company than anything else, or so Ruan suspected. There’d been many a time when he joined the older man on the front stoop for an evening beer and heard him give a small, wistful sigh when two men walked by hand in hand.
“Hey, Mr. Cop, ’bout time you got home,” Cranson’s raspy, deep voice called out to him, and Ruan turned to see the red ember flare from Cranson’s stogie shining through the shadows of the saltbox’s sunroom tucked under the house’s catslide rear roof. The screen door was propped open with a brick, letting wisps of pungent tobacco smoke out through the crack. “Seems like you’re getting in later and later. How many people are dying out there that you’re coming in so late?”
There was a part of him that wanted to stop and have a beer, but Ruan knew if his ass hit the Adirondack chair next to Cranson’s, he wasn’t going to be getting up anytime soon. The front of his stomach was touching his spine, food being a luxury during a long day, and the bag of chips he had in the afternoon was a long-distant memory. Still, the old man deserved more than a few minutes of his day, even if it was only to hear Cranson bitch.
“One murder is always one too many,” Ruan said, cracking the door wide enough for him to lean against the frame, using his shoulder to wedge the screen open. “Might be losing my captain to upper management. I’m hoping he decides he wants to stay in the trenches, but Morgan’s too good of a cop to stop moving forward.”
“Isn’t he the one with five hundred kids?” Cranson rasped, exhaling a plume of smoke as he spoke. “Man’s got to feed a house. Promotions put more food on the table.”
“I think most of his kids are already out the door. Half of them already wear a badge.” Ruan snorted. “If he moves up, his old partner will probably move into his place. I’d be okay with it, but that would mean one of the captain’s kids is left without a partner. I don’t know if he sees it enough to move to the senior slot, but if there’s going to be a reshuffle, I’m going to push to keep Maite. She busted her ass today, and I don’t think we would’ve nailed our guy if it weren’t for her.”
“Can’t imagine working with a woman,” his landlord coughed out. “They’re like alien things. Never worked with any on the ship and never wanted one in my bed, so I guess I just don’t know enough about them.”
“Things are changing. People are changing. The lines you grew up with are blurred now. Hell, they’re blurring for me too. I don’t think it matters anymore if someone’s a guy or a girl. It comes down to how they think and who they are.” Ruan could make out Cranson’s grimace through the shadows, and some part of him understood the frustration in the man’s expression. “I think there’s room now for people to explore the edges of who they are even if I don’t get it. Maybe I’m just too old-fashioned.”
“Back in my day, men like us didn’t ever show we liked men. Fuck, even talking about it was a surefire way to get your face broken in. Never thought I would ever see the day when I sat on my back porch, smoking a stogie and drinking a beer with a cop as we talk about men and all of that shit that goes with them.” Cranson’s cigar flared red as he sucked on its chewed end. “Now we’ve got guys wearing makeup and women cops. Not sure how I feel about it.”
The faint light illuminated his craggy, weather-beaten face, his skin roughened by years of sun and salt. He’d never been a handsome man, but according to Cranson, that hadn’t mattered much. Months on a ship led to furtive grappling, and in the dark, no one cared what he looked like. They’d talked about the dangers his generation faced and how a tough exterior often meant the difference between a fatal beating and being able to walk away from an accusation. Men like Cranson didn’t live in a closet. They existed in chasms, scurrying out for physical pleasure, then retreating back into the cold darkness, loathing their self-perceived perversions but always returning to sin again.
Or at least that’s how Cranson told it, and from what little Ruan knew about life in general, the old man was definitely telling the truth.
“Things are different for you,” Cranson grumbled. “Doesn’t matter what kind of guy you’d like, no one’s going to look twice if you hook up with some sissy boy. When I was younger, I knew a man with a lisp. Huge guy, but never said a damned word because he thought people would think he was a limp wrist. That’s how scared everybody was. Didn’t matter if you liked men or women, you went out of your way to make sure everyone knew you were a man. One night we were out drinking, and I guess he felt like he was safe with everyone, so he told us some story about him growing up in the cornfields. Some of the guys teased him about him talking like a little girl, but I didn’t pay it any mind. We’d just done a year on the ocean with each other. We all knew each other’s secrets. So, I don’t know what happened between me stumbling back to the boarding house we all stayed at, but the next morning, cops found him behind the bar with a couple of bullets in the back of his head.
“He had it bad for a sweet little girl working down in a shoe factory near one of the piers, and for all the time we spent on the boat, he never went looking for someone to take care of his itches. Let me tell you, after a few months, you get sick of your own hand and you start looking for something else, no matter what you’re into,” Cranson said roughly, his voice thickening with emotion. “Thing is, whoever did it had to be somebody from the boat. That’s all that was in the bar with us that night. They didn’t take his money, but they took his life, and I always wondered if it was because of that lisp. He should have been safe there. Ain’t nobody that night hadn’t reached for another guy on the boat except him. That’s the kind of bullshit world I lived in, and not going to lie to you, but it’s still there, pressing up against me, even as I see two men walking down the street holding hands. It’s hard to change thinking that way when hiding meant staying alive.”
“I think it’s because it’s changing so quickly in some places and not others. Hardest thing for me to do was telling my old partner I didn’t want to take his sister to dinner. He called me a faggot, and I stood there and took it for a minute, then told him he was right.” Ruan shook his head, still tasting the rush of fear at the back of his throat when the man he’d spent three good years with rushed him from across the locker room. If it hadn’t been for the other three detectives standing nearby, Ruan was pretty sure Marco would’ve killed him. There’d been such anger and betrayal in his face, rage arriving with his violence, and a few hours later, the captain informed Ruan he was being transferred to Central, not even looking up from his papers as he shoved Rua
n out the door. “I don’t want to admit it, but truth is, it’s hard to change how you think. You’re kind of having to trust things and people when you couldn’t before. It’s not easy.”
“I’m going to tell you one thing, boy,” Cranson said, pulling the stogie out of his mouth and staring through the milky darkness at the cop standing in his doorway. “You better learn to trust. Biggest regret of my life is watching people grow old with someone sitting next to them and this chair here is empty. Maybe I’m just too mean of an asshole and this face isn’t going to win any awards, but I regret what fear left me. Ain’t got nothing but an empty bed and echoes in a house I could’ve filled with laughter and maybe a few arguments.
“Maybe the world’s changing for the good or the bad, but men like us, we’ve got a better time of it, and you’re young enough to take advantage of that. So, maybe you find yourself one of those guys who make you a little uncomfortable and you go out and have a good time.” Cranson leaned forward, slowly pushing himself off the heavy chair, his bones creaking loudly enough for Ruan to hear by the door. “Elsewise, one day you’re going to be like me, waiting for some pretty Irish cop to come home so you could pretend like you’re sharing your life with someone. Now go on upstairs and feed that cat of yours. Damned asshole is probably screaming his head off because he heard your car, and I won’t be getting any sleep until he shuts up.”
“SHUT UP, Spot,” Ruan muttered, trying to open his front door around the twenty-five pound marmalade behemoth standing at the tiled entrance. The scraggle-toothed orange tomcat screamed his displeasure at Ruan’s late arrival, and the feline wailed out a surprisingly tiny air raid siren of a meow, echoing through the long open great room taking up most of the second floor’s space. “If you don’t let me through the door, you’re not going to get fed. Move.”