Police Brutality (Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Book 2)

by Gregory Ashe

  “Come on,” Somers said. “Sit down. Beer or wine? Wine, right?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  Once Billy was seated, Somers poured the last of the red. Then he stood in front of the refrigerator, doors open, the cold air flowing over him like a comber. He made himself think of three things he could do to feel less shitty, three things that didn’t involve a beer. He could take a bath. He could call Moraes or Foley or half a dozen other guys and pretend he was talking about baseball and really just bitch and bitch and bitch. He could go for a run. And then take a bath. And then call Moraes and bitch, bitch, bitch.

  Instead of the night Somers deserved, though—the night he had earned—he was playing nurse with Billy Rolker, while Hazard was gone, probably running blind. Somers got a Bud Light from the extra-cold drawer. He opened it, felt part of him relax just as the smell of yeast and hops and fermentation, and drank half of it standing over the sink. He tried to think backward through his list—go for a run was the only one he could think of—and then he finished the beer and left the empty in with the dishes from dinner.

  When he carried the glass of red back to Billy, Billy was curled up on the sofa, arms crushing a pillow to his chest, crying.

  Quietly. Without any fuss. But still crying.

  “You want a tissue?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  “I’ll get you a tissue.”

  When Somers brought the box back, Billy sniffled, packed a handful of tissues against his eyes, and said, the last words dissolving into a wail, “Why—why—why do you have to be so nice?”

  “Ask Emery some time when I forget to replace the roll of toilet paper.”

  That made Billy laugh again, and this time, when he pulled the tissues away, he had a small smile. He was cute, Somers though, doing the calculation he always did when he met someone new, although this time, he was more sensitive to how much it mattered. Yes, Billy was cute. Maybe even pretty; his features were soft and graceful. But he wasn’t a model. He’s not me, Somers thought, and he imagined exactly the kind of amused growl Hazard would make if Somers ever said something like that in his hearing.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” Somers said. “Do you need to see a doctor?”

  “I’m not bleeding?” Billy reached back to probe his scalp.

  Somers shook his head.

  “No,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve done this rodeo before.”

  Somers couldn’t help it; his eyebrows shot up.

  “Christ,” Billy said, ducking his head. “I shouldn’t have said that. Em never—he never really hurt me, ok? He’s just big. And he gets loud. Just, once or twice it went a little farther, but he never, ever, ever hurt me.”

  Somers stared at Billy. Inside Somers, alarms were lighting up, klaxon blaring.

  Billy took a quick gulp of wine and dashed his arm across his mouth; he couldn’t meet Somers’s eyes.

  Somers didn’t know facts, not the way Hazard knew them, but he knew people. He knew a few things about Billy from what Hazard had told him, once or twice, when he was drunk or broken hearted or both. And he knew a little more from the one time he had met Billy in St. Louis. And now, this, a third data point.

  Somers laughed. It was almost a belly laugh, but not quite.

  “Damn, you are really good.”

  Billy took a sip of wine, mopping his eyes with the tissues. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Emery told me you were good. He told me all about it. How you knew how to make him dance. How you could make him feel small. How you crushed him and kept on crushing him just because you could. And then you show up here, and five minutes after you’re through the door, you’ve got my head on backward and I’m worried my boyfriend is an abusive prick. So, one more time: damn, you really are good.”

  “You saw.” Billy set the glass down and met Somers’s gaze. He gestured to the kitchen. “You saw what he did to me, how hard he threw me against the wall, how he shook me, how he almost killed me.”

  Somers studied the other man, the way his eyes never changed. “Are you a psychopath? Or is this histrionic? Or something else?”

  “You saw—”

  “I saw what you wanted me to see. My guess? When Hazard grabbed your jacket, you threw yourself against the wall. My guess? You learned a long time ago how to make yourself be sick. You had your hands over your mouth; did you get a finger down your throat while we weren’t looking?”

  Billy’s posture changed in an instant: he dropped the pillow, straightened his back, lifted his chin. The poor, abused boy was gone. In his place was something colder. Something that slithered along dark, damp stone.

  “Does it always work?” Somers said. “Hazard’s got abuse in his past, so I bet it works like a charm. He feels like a monster. He feels like he’s just as bad as the people who hurt him. And he’s smart enough to know about cycles of abuse, so the best part is, you’ve got him convincing himself. You don’t even have to work very hard.”

  Billy shrugged, raised the glass, and drained the wine.

  “He never figured it out?”

  “He knows,” Billy said, palpating his shoulder. “That’s partly why he gets so angry, John-Henry.” He flashed a smile. “He knows I know he knows. But he can’t stop himself. And then he goes out, and he works himself into a lather. He’s got so much self-hate that after the first few times, I realized exactly what you said: he’ll convince himself. And he does. Every time.” Another smile like a klieg light. “Watch. When he comes home tonight, he’ll come home to you, but he’ll be thinking about me. Whatever you do, whatever you say, whatever you try, he’ll be thinking about me.” Billy gave a shrug. “And I’ll be back tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.”

  “You’re not coming back. Ever. You’re going to leave Emery alone, and you’re never going to bother us again.”

  “If he gets this worked up because I pretended not to know your name,” Billy said, “how do you think he’ll react when I tell him you threatened me? You hit me?”

  “Stop it.”

  “I think I’ll tell him that I told you not to worry about what happened between Emery and me, I begged you not to get involved, and then we started arguing. I’ll take the blame, of course. I always take the blame. I’ll say I pushed you again. I hit you. And then you snapped. Who’s he going to believe?”

  For a moment, the whole scene was so unreal that Somers was paralyzed.

  “Get out,” Somers said, barely recognizing his own voice. “I’m a cop, and I will fucking kill you and bury you in pieces, and no one will find you because I. Am. A. Fucking. Cop. Don’t ever come around us again.”

  “You can’t win this game,” Billy said with a shrug. “The harder you try, the more Hazard’s going to believe me.”

  “He’s smart. He’s the smartest man I know. He won’t fall for this bullshit.”

  “He already did, Johnny boy,” Billy said. “So, you can either watch me strip your life down to the studs, or you can convince Hazard to help me.”

  “Help you with what?”

  “Help me get a fresh start,” Billy said. “And I can promise you this much: if he does, I’ll never come back, never bother you again.” With a grin, he flicked the wineglass with one finger; it toppled off the coffee table and shattered on the floor. “Think about it.”

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in alphabetical order):

  Justene Adamec, for pressing me on the difficulty (and feasibility) of taping one’s own hands together; for always getting back to me quickly with her insights into how this book (and all the others) works—and where it needs help; and for providing encouragement and support when it was sorely needed (plus, sending me funny messages when I least expect them).

  Austin Gwin, for pointing out the complication of Hazard’s obsession with the Keeper of Bees; for helping me see the troubled underpinnings
of his relationship with Somers; for pointing out ways to keep a suspect on the page; and for helping me think through what it means to write a series instead of individual books.

  Steve Leonard, for his help with this book, especially the inconsistencies in Dulac’s character, and the major fight between Hazard and Somers; for handling so much (i.e., all) of the day-to-day stuff with my Facebook group; and for frequent messages of support when I was writing a difficult book.

  Cheryl Oakley, for being the first to catch and alert me to a major error in the chronology; for pointing out the inconsistencies in how Hazard treated Wesley (now changed, thankfully); and in Wesley’s own behavior; for catching a multitude of minor errors; and for her kind and generous emails.

  Tray Stephenson, for being the only one to catch the missing ligature!! And for teaching me how to insert the special character on my computer; for catching several other, minor errors, and for his fun, uplifting emails that make me laugh.

  Dianne Thies, for catching so many things like phantom beers, misplaced piles of electronics, Hazard accidentally letting something slip, and, of course, knocking over a revolving stand of mixed nuts, not to mention all the wonderful corrections to grammar!

  Jo Wegstein, for, as always, an amazingly wide range of input: Hoffmeister’s (formerly) dilapidated living conditions, distinguishing a consequence from a conclusion, explicating the effects of death on a body, and the million typos and other errors she caught.

  About the Author

  Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.

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