by Trina Lane
Frisbee: WHAM-O MFG. CO. CORPORATION
Yosemite Sam: Looney Tunes Inc.
History Channel: A&E Television Networks
Chapter One
Detective Clayton Phillips stared at the screen of his ancient desktop as the words of the report for his latest bust slowly appeared on the screen. He swore he had the slowest computer in the entire precinct. The letter keys were so stiff that each strike felt as if he were taking a gavel to a strong man attraction at the local carnival. The monitor had a purple hue, and every once in awhile, he heard grinding noises from the CPU sitting on the floor at his feet.
His frustration levels had nearly reached maximum capacity. Of course, it didn’t help that the maintenance crew was working on the air conditioning in his South Boston station, and the air in his office was currently as stifling as the dankest jungle on earth.
A drop of sweat trickled down his temple, and the cotton of his shirt stuck to his damp back in the July heat. A fresh cup of coffee sat on his desk. As much as he needed the caffeine after spending all last night on a stakeout, he couldn’t stomach the idea of drinking something hot.
He scrolled his mouse up to the top of the report and re-read everything, making sure all the details were accurate. He heaved a frustrated sigh when he finished reading the suspect’s confession.
It was entirely possible that criminals were getting dumber everyday, or maybe, with the state of the economy, more people were getting desperate enough to commit stupid crimes. Take for instance this last case. A twenty-two year old construction worker—who’d been out of work for three months—had shoplifted from a convenience store. What would have been a Class C misdemeanour had turned into a felony when the clerk had confronted the would-be thief with a gun he’d kept under the counter. As the two had struggled, the gun had gone off, killing the clerk. When Clay had brought the suspect in for questioning the man had broken down in tears, saying all he wanted were some diapers for his kid. Now one man was dead and another’s life was forever changed. He hoped the D.A. wouldn’t put the screws to the kid too badly. He had to pay for the crime, but Clay couldn’t help but be sympathetic given the circumstances.
Clay clicked the file closed and sent it off to his captain. As he did, his eyes landed on the photo of Logan, his foster brother. In it, Logan was dressed in full BDUs and field gear. Behind him was a snow-capped mountain, and beneath his feet was the arid ground of Afghanistan. On his face was a smile Clay hadn’t seen since their early college days together, before everything had changed. He touched the image in the metal frame, wishing he knew how to help Logan find that smile again.
The fact that he and Logan once again lived in the same city—not to mention the same apartment—was a miracle. When one of Logan’s platoon buddies had called Clay, saying Logan had been given a medical discharge and needed a place to stay, Clay had asked where to pick Logan up before the man had finished speaking. At the time, it’d been almost nine years since he’d seen Logan; sixteen since his admission had caused a rift in their relationship and Logan had taken off without a word. Clay had regretted his actions every day since. His life since losing the man he considered his brother had been an empty shell. Now that he had Logan embedded in his home, Clay was determined to do whatever was within his power to not only help Logan heal from his injuries but to get them back to the closeness they’d shared since they both joined the Shelby’s household at the age of thirteen.
Clayton and Logan, the deadly duo as Mrs. Shelby had once called them, had been inseparable throughout their teen years. When their individual worlds had exploded, the two teenagers had been thrown together by the system and forged a bond thicker than the blood of those relatives who’d abandoned them. Being foster brothers in a house filled with love but meagre means, it was second nature to share everything. When Clay had begun to suspect there was something different about him, it was the first time he’d kept a secret from Logan.
In high school, it had been easy to put off any unwanted advances of the female variety. They’d always been busy with one sports team or another. They’d known scholarships were their way to college since they had no family to pay the way. As much as the Shelbys loved them, there was no extra cash to pay college tuition for a couple of kids they’d taken in from social services. When Clay and Logan weren’t practicing or competing, they’d hit the books with uncharacteristic teenage zeal.
Hiding his desires within the freedom of college life had been a little harder. By sophomore year, he’d been ready for a change. If it had been as simple as just coming out of the closet, he would have told Logan. However, life is never simple, and while his dick would twitch at the hot guys in the classes or at the gym, his heart only beat for one man. Logan.
He was in love with his foster brother, and Clay knew with Logan’s history that his love would never be returned. Now, Clay’s body inhabited his cramped office, but his mind drifted through time back to that night at the end of their spring semester sophomore year…
He sat on the couch in their tiny, nearly inhabitable apartment watching a movie. He looked over at Logan, who was reading the Chapter assignment for their Policing the Urban Milieu class.
“So…I have a date this Friday,” he stated, casually.
“Really? Since when have you sought out a girlfriend?”
“I didn’t say it was a girl,” Clay said under his breath.
Logan slammed his book shut and stared in shock. “Clay?”
He shut off the TV and faced Logan. He rubbed his hands across his face several times and took a deep breath. “I’m gay. I’ve known it for a long time, but never said anything because I wasn’t ready to deal with it. Not to mention, with everything you went through, I figured you wouldn’t want to hear about it. I’m tired of sleeping alone. I’m tired of being alone.”
“I didn’t think either one of us were alone.”
Clay winced at the hurt expression in Logan’s eyes. Those smoky blue eyes that could pull his deepest darkest secrets from him with a simple look or make his heart race in a saccadic rhythm faster then the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. It was one thing to admit to Logan his proclivities towards their sex; it was quite another to confess why his breath caught every time Logan touched him. Or why his cock thickened when he caught Logan dashing into their bedroom fresh from the shower. It was completely impossible to declare, when he heard Logan jack off at night in the twin bed across the room, Clay wished it was his hand wrapped around Logan’s cock or his mouth tasting the salty essence of Logan’s cum as he found release.
“I don’t mean alone, alone. I just mean I’m tired of not having someone to touch. Someone to touch me. I love you, Logan, but that’s something we could never have.”
It was something they could never have. To think otherwise would lead both of them down a road ending in disaster, and he couldn’t put that on Logan. He couldn’t hurt the one person who’d stuck with him. His drunken father never had cared enough to feed him let alone show love; his mother had run off before he’d turned three. Clay couldn’t even remember her. But Logan had never abandoned him.
“I see. Well then congratulations. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Clay had watched as Logan opened his book and started reading again. That was it? No comment? No questions? No yelling? Oh shit…no yelling. He knew when Logan yelled he was just letting off steam, but when he went silent, watch out because he was really pissed off.
“Logan?”
“Yeah?” He didn’t take his eyes off the page of the book.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, you’re quiet. That means it’s not fine.”
“Drop it, Clay.”
He swiped the book from Logan’s hand. “Look at me, Logan.” He winced when the eyes that only a moment ago had been soft and pliant with hurt now burned with fury.
“Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.
You’re gay. You’re going out on a date because you wanna get laid, and you don’t need me anymore.”
Clay moved closer and attempted to pull Logan into his arms, but Logan jerked away and jumped off their lumpy saggy sprung couch.
Logan backed across the few feet of their living, dining and kitchen area with his hands out. “Don’t touch me!”
Clay’s heart shattered at the distrust in Logan’s voice and stance. He knew Logan had real issues with homosexuality. He wasn’t a bigot. He was a victim, and all those fears and memories were clearly rearing their ugly head. Clay tried to tell himself that it wasn’t him Logan was running from; it was the past, but that didn’t stop the pain.
“That’s not it at all! Yes, I want to date, and yeah, I wanna get laid. Don’t tell me your right hand doesn’t get tired from time to time. But to say I don’t need you? That’s ridiculous. I’ll always need you.”
“Well, maybe, I don’t want you anymore.”
A searing pain ripped through Clay’s chest as Logan stared daggers at him for a few seconds then walked out of the apartment…
Clay had taken to bed for the next two days after that confrontation. Logan had never returned to the apartment, but Clay had hoped to see him at the exam for their Sociological Methods class. However, when he’d arrived and Logan was conspicuously absent, he was informed by his professor that Logan had pleaded to take the exam earlier that day. When Clay had gotten back to the apartment, Logan’s clothes and books were gone. No note was left, and Clay had cried for hours, knowing his confession caused the love of the only person who’d ever stood by him to turn to hate.
Now sixteen years later, Logan was back, and the adult who lived with him was merely a shell of the young man he’d loved. It’d been a month since Logan had been discharged, and each moment of silence that stretched between them was agonisingly painful. He knew Logan was trying to adapt to his limitations after his injury, but God, Clay missed him.
His phone rang and startled him out of his melancholy thoughts. He glanced once more at the photo before picking up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Detective Phillips?”
“Yes.”
“This is Lieutenant Armstrong over in district A-1. We received a call from Ho Yuen Bakery in Chinatown. It appears that a man by the name of Logan Callen is causing some type of disturbance in the establishment. We ran his name in the system, and it came up that your addresses match.”
“He’s an old friend crashing with at my place for the foreseeable future. What’s going on? Logan’s not violent.”
Clay crossed his fingers for the small fib. Logan was capable of having a nasty temper if pushed hard enough, and Clay suspected the things Logan had been forced to see and do in the Rangers would make the average person hide their eyes as if watching a horror movie. However, Logan wasn’t violent by nature.
“All I know is that some patron called the police saying Mr. Callen suddenly screamed, and now, he won’t speak to anyone or move.”
“Shit. I’m on my way. Can you tell the uniform not to engage? It’s possible he’s having a flashback, or some kind of anxiety attack. He was recently given a medical discharge from the Rangers. Afghanistan. As far as I know, this is the first time he’s gone more than two blocks from the apartment by himself in two months. Also, Logan has a severe hearing loss in both ears, so he can’t actually hear someone speaking to him. I’ve taken up stock in Post-its since he came home.”
“I’ll do what I can, detective, but I suggest hauling your ass to Chinatown as fast as you can.”
* * * *
Clay rushed to his cruiser. He flew out of the parking lot of the station much faster than was safe, hitting the cherries and siren. Fortunately, Chinatown was only about five minutes from the station. He made the turn onto I-93, while trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
Logan had struggled with PTSD since his return from Afghanistan. Clay knew Logan got nervous around groups of people. The night he’d brought Logan home, they’d gone to dinner at what used to be their favourite restaurant. Hardly a word had been spoken between them, and the entire time, Logan’s entire body had been sprung tighter than a rattlesnake coiled to strike.
Last week, after Clay had taken Logan to the VA clinic in Dorchester to get his meds refilled, they’d come home, and Logan had enclosed himself in his room for the next two days. Clay had heard Logan scream out in his sleep at night, but since Logan seemed to resent having to live with Clay again, Clay hadn’t tried to confront him about the obvious nightmares.
Sometimes, it felt as if those screams in the night were the only indication Logan even lived with him. For the most part, it felt as if a ghost inhabited his apartment. The only thing that Clay had gotten Logan to talk about was the cause of his sudden hearing loss. Well, not so much talk as recite.
The day he’d picked Logan up at Fort Benning in Georgia, he was informed by Logan—in a voice with almost no emotional inflection—that an explosion had caused bilateral temporal bone fractures in his head. The fractures caused him severe sensorineural hearing loss on both sides. Logan had asked that, if Clay had anything to say to him, Clay should make sure he speak slow and face him so Logan could read his lips. Then the stoic man had turned his back and walked to the car. Not the happy homecoming Clay had dreamed about over the years, but then again, he couldn’t begin to understand what Logan was going through.
He made the left-hand turn onto Beach St. and quickly jumped from the car. The uniforms had already arrived, their black and white Challenger parked at an angle to the entrance. He showed the officer at the door his shield.
“That’s my roommate in there.”
“Yes, Sir. The Lieutenant radioed. Go on in.”
Clay stepped into the bakery and immediately was assailed by the scents of traditional Chinese treats. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he’d never eaten lunch earlier. Logan sat on the floor in front of the counter. His eyes were glazed, and he made unintelligible sounds while he managed to curl his six-foot-three-inch muscled frame into a tiny ball. His back was pressed against the counter, and his arms wrapped tight around his knees. The old lady behind the counter yelled in Chinese, waving her arms towards the door. He had no idea what she said, but it probably had something to do with the disruption of their business.
“Ma’am. Please stop yelling. Give me a moment to take care of this then your customers can come back in.”
She made a frustrated gesture and spewed more rapid-fire Chinese at him before turning around to go into the backroom. Clay heaved a sigh and looked down at Logan, who was still locked into what was clearly a flashback. There was no recognition of his current surroundings. Clay knelt on the floor in front Logan and placed a hand on his shin in an attempt to draw him away from the vision. The crisp hairs on Logan’s leg scratched against his palm. The muscled calf was firm and warm. He wrapped his hand around it and gave a gentle squeeze.
“Logan?”
There was no response.
He squeezed a little harder. “Logan?”
Nothing.
He really didn’t know what to do. He had no training in dealing with people locked inside their own traumatic visions. Suddenly, he remembered watching a movie where some Vietnam soldier was stuck in a flashback, and they had to address him as a soldier before he came out of it. Clay had no idea if this would work and, frankly, felt a little stupid taking advice from Hollywood, but if it got Logan to snap out of it, he could get them out of here. He stood up, and in his most commanding voice, making sure he yelled loud enough to compensate for Logan’s hearing loss, he snapped. “Sergeant Callen?”
The haze in Logan’s eyes remained. There was no recognition to Clay’s voice.
He tried again, “Sergeant Callen!”
Nothing.
Shit! Now What?
Clay squatted in front of Logan. He didn’t know if it was Logan’s hearing loss that prevented him for breaking free of the trance, or i
f Clay’s Hollywood trick hadn’t worked. Maybe physical stimulation would free Logan. Clay continued to rub Logan’s shins. After about a minute he was growing both increasingly worried and frustrated. Clay pinched one of Logan’s hairs between his fingers and yanked.
There was a flash of something in Logan’s eyes. Clay really didn’t want to hurt Logan, but at this point he was desperate. He pulled another hair and Logan flinched.
Clay watched as Logan’s eyes slowly came into focus. Logan’s body started to shake, and Clay dropped to his knees. He gathered the strong man into his arms and held him. “I’ve got you.”
He knew Logan couldn’t hear him or read his lips at the moment, but hopefully, Logan felt his chest vibrating and took the sensations for the soothing they were intended to be. His hand rubbed up and down Logan’s back, the shaking slowly eased. He knew this was hardly the time, but the feel of Logan in his arms nearly sent him into an altered state. Heat radiated off Logan’s hard body, seeping through his light cotton T-shirt. Clay felt the muscles of Logan’s back contracting and wished he could feel their steely strength beneath smooth bare skin. He leant back and looked into Logan’s now aware eyes.
“You with me?”
Logan nodded. Clay helped Logan to his feet, and Logan’s anxious gaze scanned the surrounding area. Clay recognised the moment Logan became aware of what had happened. His smoky blue eyes flashed sadness and resignation for a moment before turning hard with anger. Clay didn’t know if Logan was angry with himself or with Clay.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
The two of them left the bakery, and he thanked the uniforms for holding back the crowd as people gathered to find out what was happening. Logan walked in front of him and headed straight for the dark blue Dodge Charger Clay had driven over.
When he got in the car, Clay could tell by Logan’s stern face that once again there would be no talking. He retraced his path back towards South Boston. His apartment was located on West Seventh only eight blocks from the station.