by Gregory Ashe
“A list is practical.”
“Right, but, see, I don’t think it’s really a list.”
“Yes, it is. I even used two columns.”
Pushing the phone away, Somers gave a soft laugh. “I think the list is your way of trying to say you’re sorry and you don’t ever want me to feel powerless in our relationship again.”
Hazard gestured again with the phone. “That’s what I said. So we’ll just print this off and put it on the refrigerator and—”
Somers shushed him. Then he watched Hazard for a moment. A grin was growing, practically splitting his face. “God, you don’t even know when you’re doing it, do you?”
“Doing what?”
For a moment, it seemed like Somers wouldn’t answer. Then his smile got bigger. “Being Emery Hazard.” He shrugged. “If you were anybody else and tried to pull this nonsense, I would probably have to break up with you. Instead, somehow it’s adorable when you do it.”
“It’s not adorable.”
“Of course not.”
“It’s logical.”
Somers nodded.
“It’s rational.”
“Of course.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
Somers shushed him again. For Hazard, in that stillness, the December night made him think of Orpheus, who had sung a song that made stones weep and driven women to madness so that they murdered in their ecstasy. That song was in his heartbeat now, the only sound in the frozen world, getting louder and louder in his ears.
“Mitchell told me something,” Hazard said—had to say, because if he kept silent any longer, the wildness of that song in his pulse would have driven him insane. “Or he said something, I guess. I was explaining Orpheus and Eurydice, the Keeper of Bees, all of it. I said maybe it has something to do with Vergil’s version. And he looked at me and said he thought of us when he heard the Orpheus story.”
Somers hooked his index finger around Hazard’s, and Hazard’s throat spasmed.
“He said that we were like Orpheus and Eurydice: walking into death because we loved each other so much.”
“Let’s talk about this later—”
“And then I realized. I’d been so stupid. I thought the Keeper was taking people I had a connection to. I thought it was a game—a sick one, a horrible one, but one that I understood. But it wasn’t a game. It was a . . .”
“A glimpse of the future.”
“No. Fuck no, John. I will absolutely not let that happen.”
“Take a breath. I’m not even sure you’re right.”
“I am right. I am. I know it. He took Rory and Phil because they were a couple. He tortured them, made them hold on to each other, and tortured them more. He used their love to drag out their suffering.”
“Ree, he took Mitchell too. And just because Mitchell compared us to Orpheus and Eurydice, that doesn’t mean the killer was thinking it too.”
Hazard blew out a breath; his whole face felt bee stung, and his throat was thick. “But it clicked, John. As soon as he said it, I knew he was right. This isn’t about me, not by myself. It’s about both of us. And that’s my whole point. The blue straggler. Vampire stars. I’m trying to say, I’m not making your life better; I’m stealing from you, and we should—” He stopped, tried again. “If we get married, you’re in even more danger. And if we don’t, you’re going to leave me, and I’ll die. John, that’s not an exaggeration. Just tonight, how much it hurt, I wanted to die. If you—”
But he couldn’t finish. He didn’t know how to finish.
“Ok,” Somers whispered, tucking Hazard’s long hair behind his ears. “Ok, just take a few more breaths. God, you really tied yourself into knots about this.” He blew out a breath of his own and said, slowly, “As I may have mentioned before, you might think you’re this big, brooding mystery, but I feel like most of the time I’ve got a handle on what’s going on in your big, dumb Neanderthal brain.” A smile as thin as starlight played over his lips. “For example, when you throw a frying pan through the kitchen wall, I know that means you’re upset and not ready to talk about something until you cool down. Or when I’m yammering while you’re watching one of your documentaries and you make me sit on your lap so you can put your hand over my mouth, I know that means you love me because anybody else, you’d just rip their head off so you could watch your show in peace. Or when you’re bending me over a sink, you’re telling me you feel . . . possessive and you don’t want to lose me. Or when I find you turned into a human popsicle and talking about cannibal stars and God knows what else, you’re really talking about marriage.”
Hazard felt the breath leave his lungs, felt his chest seize for one panicked moment.
“It’s ok,” Somers said, his hand on Hazard’s cheek, but his eyes were liquid, and when he blinked, tears spilled down his cheeks. He was still smiling. “It’s fine. Leave the Keeper out of it for the moment; forget about that psycho. I know you love me. I really do. And I don’t have to get married. I already did it once, and look how it turned out.”
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I do. But . . . but I don’t know, John, it’s a million things. Some of it’s my parents. Some of it’s . . . honestly, some of it really is the history. The patriarchy. The whole marriage-as-ownership thing. Some of it’s just the fact that people didn’t want us to get married for so long that now I just want to tell them all to fuck themselves; I don’t need to get married for everyone to know how much I love you. I don’t even understand why people do it anymore. You know I love you. I know you love me. That should be enough, I guess. If it weren’t for the Keeper—”
“We’re leaving him out of this; this is about us.”
“Then, yes. John, I’ll do it. I’ll get married if it means keeping you in my life.”
“That’s just how every little boy dreams of being asked,” Somers said, his smile a grin now as he turned into his shoulder to wipe his cheeks.
“No, I’ll do it right, I’ll—”
“I’m just being a smartass. No, we’re fine. We don’t have to get married. We’re fine.”
“Can you tell me why it matters?”
“I said we’re fine.”
“Just tell me, though. Please.”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I need the government’s stamp of approval. And I do know you love me. But there’s something about—I guess, sometimes it means something. To say something. To promise something. To be part of this bigger picture that isn’t just the two of us.”
Hazard shook his head slowly. “We can look for rings—”
“Ree, stop. If this is enough for you, it’s enough for me. I’ll stop talking about it, promise. I’ll definitely stop making jokes about it.”
Somers looked very beautiful right then: the strong, perfect features of his face, the dry salt tracks on his cheeks, the way the night washed the color away. Hazard let his hands slide to Somers’s hips. His fingers curled around Somers’s ass, digging deep.
“One thing,” Somers said, his voice a little reedy now. “Before we get distracted.”
Bending, Hazard took short, sharp nips along Somers’s neck.
“Ree, I’m serious. Ree. Hold on.” Somers planted a hand on Hazard’s chest, and that touch was like a detonation, heat and force making Hazard bite harder and draw Somers against him. “Ree,” Somers said, laughing now. “Ree, just cool it for a second.”
When Hazard pulled back, Somers’s cheeks were flushed, and he was almost panting. But his voice was serious when he spoke.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did, about the case. That wasn’t your fault.”
“I—”
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. New information came up; I wasn’t available. You had to make a decision, and I think you made the right one.”
“Following Wesley wasn’t new information.”
“Ree, you’re the best detective
I know. I don’t want you to ignore your gut. And you tried to bring me in on what you were doing. This isn’t like the Fabbri case; this isn’t the same at all.”
“If I hadn’t followed Wesley—”
“Nothing would be different. Wesley had already hired Thompson; she was already digging for dirt on Hoffmeister and this investigation before you followed Wesley. Even if you had gone straight home last night, today would have gone the exact same.”
Hazard weighed options. His standard route was still a screed of self-hate, heaping blame and guilt on himself. But Somers had told him—very clearly—that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“I’m sorry. Even though it might have turned out this way regardless, I’m still sorry.”
“Thank you.” Then Somers’s fingers, trembling, caught Hazard’s collar and pulled him down for a kiss. And then another, both of them stumbling back toward the door. The blanket dropped, tangled in Somers’s legs, and he started to fall. Hazard scooped him up before he could hit the ground. They staggered back like that, Hazard hooking his arm under Somers’s legs, drawing him up, so they were chest to chest, Somers kissing frantically at Hazard’s shoulder and cheek and lips.
Somehow they got inside, and the warmth of the kitchen made Hazard feel like he was on fire: his body prickled with the sudden heat, with the rush of hormones, with need. They made it to the living room before Hazard couldn’t last any longer. When they fell onto the couch, Somers twisted around so that he was on top, already dragging off Hazard’s shirt.
Hazard still felt like he was burning up, but his skin pebbled as the shirt slipped over his head. When Somers touched him—fingers moving slowly over Hazard’s chest, sifting the scattering of fine black hairs, following the rise and swell of muscle in Hazard’s abdomen—Hazard felt dizzy, drunk. The millimeters of skin where Somers touched him sizzled like they were star touched. He could come just like this, just from Somers touching him, kissing him, every point of contact forming a constellation of heat and need across his body.
He could hear his own breathing; he could feel how sloppy he’d gotten inside his briefs.
When Somers touched his waistband, Hazard groaned and bucked up.
“Not yet,” Somers said with a chuckle. He shimmied the jeans down, and then his hands were back, curling under Hazard’s thighs, stroking the sensitive skin there. Up again, teasing Hazard’s nipples. Back down, raking his chest.
Hazard grabbed Somers’s arm, tried to drag him closer. What he needed, more than anything, was to touch John-Henry Somerset.
Laughing, Somers slipped away. “I’ll be right back.”
“No, I—I’m right—John, get back here.”
“Think about stars,” Somers said, still laughing as his voice drifted away.
Think about stars, think about stars. Easy enough. Every inch of his skin radiated heat; Hazard closed his eyes, tried to picture dark nebulae, clouds of interstellar dust, the swirl of particles, the slow light born across millions of years.
“Keep your eyes closed.”
Familiar fingers, cooler than his fevered skin, slid under his waistband; Hazard gasped. They dragged the wet cotton down, and Hazard found Somers’s wrist. “No, I really think I’m going to—”
“Not yet. Stars. Think about how important that was. How you had to explain it to me.”
Hazard groaned; the briefs slid down again, and Hazard shuddered when his dick slapped against his belly, now free. Then the briefs slid past his ankles, and he was naked, eyes closed. Floating. Floating like a star out in the middle of space.
Cold fingers trailed through the dark clump of hair between his legs, grazing his dick. He felt himself jerk; he heard the hiss that slipped between his teeth, and his cheeks were hot now, star-hot, and he covered his face with one arm.
“That’s very cute, but I want to see your face.”
Hazard took an uneven breath.
“Now.”
He let his arm slide back to the couch.
The cushions shifted as Somers straddled him, and then those cool fingers were back on Hazard’s chest, teasing, caressing, tweaking, followed by Somers’s mouth. Everything was twice as sensitive with his eyes closed. Every point of contact flared with light and heat. Hazard felt himself trembling on a breaking point just from this, from the cascade of relief and pain and need that Somers insisted on drawing out longer and longer.
He groped blindly down Somers’s body, the smooth, toned muscle, until he was cupping Somers’s ass. “Fuck me. Now. Please fuck me. Please. Please fuck me, John. Fuck me right fucking now.”
Somers hemmed.
“John!”
Fingertips brushed the head of Hazard’s dick, and he jerked up again. Somers pressed him back down.
“You’ve got it all figured out, right?”
The fingertips moved faster; Hazard thrashed. “Yes, yes—huh?”
“You know what’s best for me, is that it?”
“John.” There was more, but all that came out was his name, over and over again. A chant.
“Is that it?”
“No.” It was a guess. Hazard wasn’t even sure what the question meant, so he guessed. The fingers tightened their grip, smooth strokes, but slow. He repeated the word. “No, no, no.”
“Oh. So it’s not about protecting me, all this bullshit you’re putting on. It’s that you’re tired of me. You don’t need me.”
The fingers slowed.
“No. No, I need you. John, please. Please. I need you so much. I need you. I need you.”
“Maybe you need me, but maybe not. You said you’re stealing from me, but I never, ever give what I don’t want to give. So maybe I should just let you finish this yourself.”
“No, please, John—”
“You need me to jerk you off? Is that all?”
“No, no.” Hazard could feel the flames under his skin; his cheeks were wet, his breath loose and hiccuppy. A part of his brain was still cataloging stars, thinking about red giants, how they burned until they exploded. “No, I need you. For everything. For my whole life. I love you. Just you—”
“Open your eyes.”
Hazard did; Somers’s perfect blond features swam in his tear-filled vision.
Somers ran his hand a few more times, hard and fast, twisting at the end, and Hazard came. His whole body contracted, and then the bliss of the orgasm hit, and it was like he was coming apart, expanding, until only a white-hot core was left. It went on and on like that, that cosmic drift, until slowly, slowly, everything reversed and he felt himself coming back together. He was shaking, he realized. Pressing his face into Somers’s side while Somers ran fingers through his hair.
“Ok?” Somers asked.
“Uh huh.”
They stayed like that for a while until Hazard peeled his face, hot and salt-sticky, from Somers’s shirt.
“Ok?” Somers asked again.
Hazard covered his face with his arm, hiding again; his whole body shook. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I’ll die if anything happens to you. Mikey took you, and I almost died then. I wanted to die. And if this psychopath—”
“Hold on. Slow the crazy train down. We don’t know anything yet.”
Somers ran his hand up and down Hazard’s chest, making quieting noise. It didn’t help. Hazard still felt loose, disjointed, like parts of him were still out floating through dark nebulae.
“I want you to be safe. You’re the only good thing in my life, the only pure thing, and this . . . this monster took that and made a mockery of it. And if I lose you, John, I’m going to kill myself, I’ll just kill myself because—”
“Ok, Ree. Stop.”
“And I don’t ever want you to feel like Nico or Billy or Alec or any of those pieces of shit. I love you. I come home and see you sitting on the couch and you’ve got your socks balled up by your feet and I want to tell you, right then, I just want to tell you I love you until the world dr
ies up and blows away like cosmic fucking dust. I roll over in bed at night and you’ve got the pillow halfway over your face and I want to shake you awake right then and tell you, shout it, how much I love you. And instead I do stupid shit like kick holes in the wall or, Christ, I don’t even know.”
And then his arm wasn’t enough anymore; the skin was slick with tears, and he couldn’t breathe, so he rolled into Somers’s side again, pressing his face into the cotton, smelling skin and salt and cologne.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” Somers said, his nails scratching lightly at Hazard’s back. “You know I love you too, right?”
He nodded; the cotton scratched his puffy, inflamed eyes.
“And nothing’s going to happen to us?”
“You don’t—”
“Nothing, Ree. Nothing’s going to happen that we can’t get through.”
Hazard didn’t know if he could believe that. Not after the Haverford. Not after falling into darkness. But he knew Somers was waiting, and so after a moment, he nodded and mumbled. “Together.”
“Together.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
DECEMBER 21
FRIDAY
7:17 AM
SOMERS WOKE EARLY, BUT as usual, Hazard was up before him. Somers decided to take things slow. He took his time in the shower. He made plenty of noise while getting dressed. He wasn’t sure how Hazard would be feeling after the intense emotions of the night before, and he wanted to give his boyfriend plenty of time to prepare.
As Somers took the steps down—loudly—he had to admit that he wasn’t really sure about anything. Although the topic of marriage had led to increasingly tense encounters—escalating from quiet avoidance to the pan-throwing episode from a few nights before—Somers hadn’t realized how much turmoil lay under Hazard’s resistance to the idea. He had thought Hazard’s objections might have been more emotional than rational, but he hadn’t realized the degree.
And to see Hazard falling apart last night, first in their fight and then after they’d made up, told Somers that maybe he hadn’t understood anything. Sure, Somers had noticed that after the Haverford, Hazard was changed. Somers had spotted how loud noises or being startled could send Hazard into a quiet, tense, rigidly controlled state that sometimes took him hours to leave. He had noticed Hazard’s reluctance to go out of the house, although he had attributed that to severe depression. But seeing Hazard lose his mind to fear and rage after an offhand comment from Mitchell—an associative leap that might be right, but equally as well might not—had shown Somers that he really didn’t know anything. It certainly showed that he hadn’t realized, not if he were honest with himself, how deeply the events of July had affected the man he loved. And what did that say about Somers as a boyfriend?