by Hank Edwards
“Here we are,” Jazz announced and they climbed off.
Michael’s eyes widened at Misty’s eclectic yard. “I thought you cut the grass?”
Jazz chuckled. “She has a normal lawn in the backyard. Some of her neighbors weren’t too happy when she dug up the front lawn and planted all this prairie grass and wildflowers,” he whispered in Michael’s ear. “But I think it’s pretty.”
“It fits her style,” Michael said, his proximity and warm breath sending a shiver down Jazz’s back.
“C’mon, let’s get some grub. I’m starving.”
A short while later, plates piled high with food, and plastic cups of wine in hand, Michael and Jazz found a spot to eat and observe the party at an unoccupied picnic table.
“Ping, ping,” Jazz said when he noticed they had an audience. He lifted his chin toward Oslo, who stood in the shade of a tulip tree nearby. When Oslo caught Jazz’s eye, he quickly pretended to be watching some of the younger kids play corn hole. “We’re being watched.”
Michael had just taken a bite of his hamburger and paused to wipe ketchup from his lips before he looked that way. “Misty’s cousin’s kid?”
“He’s been pretending not to watch us since we got here.”
Michael’s eyes widened slightly. “Maybe he’s never seen a gay couple out in the open before?”
“Hence my gaydar ping.” Jazz waved a buzzing fly away from his potato salad.
“Huh.” Michael studied Oslo. “He seems a little….”
He trailed off, so Jazz offered up, “Tightly wound?”
“At least. And sad like his sister.”
Once again, Jazz was impressed with Michael’s observant nature and his compassion.
Jazz took a bite of his own burger—unfortunately, not as delicious as those at Gruff’s Grub—when Misty collapsed into the camping chair next to their table and ran a hand across her brow.
“I’m exhausted,” she said in a very dramatic tone. Her hair shimmered in the sunlight, and large white sunglasses gave her a movie star look.
“I have no doubt, after you put all of this together,” Michael said.
“Oh, I only passed around a sign-up sheet to the neighbors, no big deal,” Misty said, then sat up. “I was being theatrical. What are you two talking about?”
“Michael’s hot body,” Jazz said, then laughed when his shy mortician sputtered. He loved doing that to him.
Misty laughed too as Michael attempted to recover his decorum. After he gave Jazz a gentle glare, Michael looked between them. “How are you both doing? You each had quite a shock yesterday.”
“It was shocking,” Misty said with a grim expression. She reached out toward Jazz and he took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as they smiled sadly at each other.
“We’ll be all right.” Jazz gave Misty a nod, and then he told Michael, “Misty’s going to burn a hay bale of sage in there tomorrow, so all the bad mojo should be gone by the time we open up again on Tuesday.”
“That’s right,” Misty said, then studied the street, craning her neck to see around groups of people.
“Looking for someone?” Jazz asked with a grin. “Maybe a continuation of Saturday morning vegan waffles?”
“No!” Misty gave him a warning glare. “I’m trying to gauge the attendance.”
“I’d say your threats paid off, and you managed to scare everyone into attending,” Jazz teased.
Misty gave him a gentle pinch. “You.”
“You both plan to work Tuesday?” Michael asked. “Do you think the cleaning crew will be done in time for you to open?”
Jazz managed to avoid a sigh. As much as he adored his handsome boyfriend, Michael was far too analytical for his own good, always thinking like a business owner. He wished Michael could relax and enjoy the conversation, instead of bringing up reality.
Although, to be fair, it had been an unusual weekend for all three of them. Naturally Misty would meditate and burn sage, Jazz would ignore it and make snide jokes, and Michael would revert to his overly practical county coroner self.
“I checked with them yesterday,” Misty replied. “They were confident they could get everything cleaned up in time.”
Misty’s cousin, Dorothy, approached, carrying a pie, Beatrice following along behind like a teenage duckling. All the effort Misty put into making them look colorful and pretty, wasted. Dorothy wore a lightweight ankle-length gray dress and her hair was tucked into a bun on the back of her head. A wide-brimmed hat kept her face in shadow and long sleeves protected the full length of her arms. Beatrice was dressed nearly identically.
They have some kind of allergy to sunlight?
“Oh, hello,” Dorothy said, coming to a sudden stop as she recognized Jazz and Michael. Beatrice bumped into her, forcing an undignified grunt from Dorothy as she staggered forward a step. She managed to hang on to the pie, but now stood directly behind Jazz’s chair.
Uh-oh, she’s probably afraid she’ll catch some gay germs!
He twisted around to smile brightly up at her. “Hi, Cousin Dorothy! Enjoying the party? In the spirit of the approaching Independence Day, tell us what freedom you’re most grateful for.”
She turned up her nose and said with a sniff, “Freedom of religion, of course.”
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Jazz said, then looked at Misty. “How about you, Misty?”
“What? Which freedom?” Misty shrugged. “I guess it would be freedom of speech.”
“Another good one. I like that.” Jazz turned to Michael. “How about you, sweetie? What freedom are you most grateful for?”
“Uh,” Michael said, wide eyes moving from Jazz up to Dorothy’s stern expression and back again. “The freedom to vote as I please in elections?”
Jazz chuckled and squeezed Michael’s hand, feeling a delicious satisfaction at the sharp intake of breath the action coaxed from Dorothy. “Aren’t you cute? I’m grateful for the freedom to love who I like.”
Michael’s eyes widened even more, but Jazz wasn’t really playing things up for him. He didn’t give his word choice a second thought as he saw Beatrice peering over her mother’s shoulder, eyes big and mouth open. When her gaze flitted over her brother across the lawn, Jazz heard another loud gaydar ping. But Mama Bible-Thumper missed the girl’s telling look because she was staring so hard at Jazz holding Michael’s hand. Maybe gay PDAs were scarier than a broom?
Herschel approached, a broad-brimmed dark hat on his head and a croquet mallet over one shoulder like a lumberjack’s axe. His linen long-sleeved shirt was damp with sweat, and leather suspenders kept his black pants up to his waist.
“Mother, have you brought a pie to share?”
Ugh, I hate it when husbands call their wife Mother. How fucking creepy is that? Ring, ring, Doctor Freud calling, your Oedipus complex is showing.
Herschel came up alongside Dorothy, and his smile stuttered when he saw Jazz and Michael. “Oh. Hello.” His gaze swept them both up and down, his contempt for Jazz’s pink stripes and Michael’s flowers evident.
“Hi yourself, Herschel,” Jazz said. “How’s croquet going? Everyone’s balls behaving?”
Misty shot to her feet, arms out and voice far too chipper. “What kind of pie have you got there, Dorothy? It sure looks good.”
“Boysenberry,” Dorothy said.
Jazz’s least favorite of the berry world. Of course.
“Well, let’s get it over to the dessert table, shall we? Come along.”
Misty herded her relatives into a group and turned them toward the long table where the desserts were arranged. As they moved away, she turned back to shake a finger in Jazz’s face.
“You said you were going to behave,” Misty said in a stern whisper.
“What did I do?” Jazz asked, trying to act as innocent as possible. “I asked about his croquet game.”
“You know what you did.” Misty gave her finger a few more shakes before she hurried after her cousin.
“Some peo
ple are so sensitive,” Jazz muttered.
“You did seem to be provoking them.” Michael took another bite of his burger.
“You too? Why does everyone want to begrudge me of having a bit of innocent fun?” Jazz cast a glance to where Misty and her cousin were discussing the various desserts. “I can’t gently pester someone about their draconian views on life and sexuality?”
“Well, when you put it that way—” Michael stopped midsentence, gaze caught by something behind Jazz.
“What is it?” Jazz turned but saw only the tall wooden gate leading into Misty’s backyard. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, I guess. Thought I saw someone from the corner of my eye.”
A Frisbee floated over Jazz’s head and dropped with a clatter between them onto the wooden top of the picnic table. They jumped, then Jazz looked around, any smartass remark dying on his lips as he saw Oslo staring at them again, his face as red as a ripe tomato.
“Think it was on purpose?” Michael whispered.
“No, he doesn’t seem to follow in his stepfather’s footsteps.”
“I hope he’s not suffering any kind of abuse from that man.”
Of course Michael would be concerned and sweet about poor Oslo being bullied by his stepfather. He might be uptight in casual situations, but he had a heart of gold and an endless well of goodness and empathy.
Jazz could stand to emulate some of that.
Wanting Oslo to be comfortable, Jazz picked up the Frisbee and got to his feet. He held up the disc and gestured to the neighboring lawn. “Go long, Oslo. I’ll throw it for you.”
Oslo nodded and hurried to the lawn, then turned back. Jazz threw the Frisbee with a flick of his wrist and it drifted to Oslo in an impressive curve. The teen caught it and, with a tentative smile, lifted his hand in a wave of thanks.
“That was a very good throw,” Michael said when Jazz returned to his seat.
“It’s all in the very limp wrist,” Jazz quipped and wobbled his hand in an overly weak gesture.
“I think it takes more skill than that, but I’ll let you have that,” Michael said, and they both chuckled.
After finishing their food, they dropped their plates and utensils into a trash can and wandered across the front lawns of the cul-de-sac, checking out the different games at each house. At one of the houses farther down, a group of kids evacuated a bounce house when the hosting homeowner brought out coolers of ice cream treats.
Jazz turned to smile at Michael. “Dare?”
Michael smiled shyly. “You’re kicking off our truth or dare game here?”
“Seems that way. Do you accept the dare?”
“Just remember there are children present.”
Jazz looked around, pretending to be confused. “There are?”
“All right, smartass, what’s the dare?”
“Join me in the bounce house.”
Michael surveyed the vacated castle-shaped structure. “Don’t these things have a weight limit?”
Jazz feigned offense and patted his belly. “Did you just call me fat?”
Michael laughed, then cleared his throat nervously. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. You know I don’t think that. I meant that adults—”
“Oh, stop it.” Jazz smacked him lightly on the arm. “I’m teasing you. Now, answer the question. Do you accept the dare?”
“Yes,” Michael said with a determined nod. “I accept.”
“Good. Open those Velcro straps on your DILF sandals and let’s get in there before the mob of children return.”
“DILF?”
Smirking at his boyfriend’s confusion, Jazz leaned close to whisper, “Dad I’d like to fuck.”
Michael’s face went as red as his shorts and the hibiscus flowers on his shirt.
Jazz kicked off his flip-flops as Michael removed his sandals, and they crawled into the bounce house. Thankfully it had been set up beneath a tree to keep the summer sun from turning it into a rubberized sauna. The rubber floor felt sticky from sweaty little feet, and Jazz forced that thought out of his mind. As long as he didn’t fall over and face-plant on the nasty floor, he could deal with it.
Michael stumbled into him from behind, sending them both staggering across the bounce house and into one of the inflated corner supports. They fell together onto the sticky floor, both facedown.
“I’m sorry!” Michael said as he struggled to stand, his movements making the entire thing bounce. “I lost my footing.”
Jazz rolled onto his back and ran a hand across his lips. “If I get hand-foot-and-mouth disease because of you, I will not be happy.”
“Hey, this was your dare!” Michael wobbled to and fro, feet sinking and rising as if he were trying to straddle two surfboards.
“Fine, I’ll give you that.” Jazz pushed to a sitting position. “I may not have thought this through very well.”
“Come on, I’ll help you up.” Michael steadied himself as much as possible and took hold of both of Jazz’s hands. “Ready?”
“Not at all,” Jazz said.
“Here we go.”
Michael bounced down and up, using the momentum to pull Jazz to his feet. They held tight to each other’s hands and alternated bounces, laughing like children. Jazz miscalculated a landing and sprung up and off to the side, losing his grip on Michael’s hands. Michael bounced after him, each of them springing into walls and each other and probably looking like drunk kangaroos. Michael’s face glowed with sweat and too much sun, his eyes so bright with joy that Jazz felt a pang in his chest.
How did I get so lucky?
Jazz had a sudden urge to kiss Michael, but before he could issue another dare, loud shrieks announced the return of children. The horde of rug rats piled in through the small opening, eyes wide and voices shrill from sugar rush as they swarmed around Jazz and Michael. Their little hands and faces were gooey with ice cream, and Jazz led Michael toward the exit, where they both slid out of the bounce house. Jazz’s legs felt a bit wobbly once they reached solid ground again, and he staggered as if drunk.
Michael laughed, but it died quickly, and Jazz looked around to see what had caused such an abrupt halt to his boyfriend’s uninhibited delight. Herschel was a few feet away, glowering at them over the head of his stepdaughter standing directly in front of him. His hands were clamped on Beatrice’s shoulders and she stood stiff and unmoving, watching wide-eyed as the children ricocheted off one another and the walls inside the bounce house.
Jazz smiled, but Herschel did not return the gesture. He might as well have been carved out of stone the way he stared at them, and Jazz wondered what life must be like for Dorothy and her kids.
“Gotta have a bit of fun now and then, right, Herschel?” Jazz said.
He might have given the slightest nod, but Jazz couldn’t be sure.
“Okay, good talk.”
Jazz picked up his flip-flops as Michael grabbed his sandals. Barefoot, they strolled back toward Misty’s house. The sun had started to set and the residents were lighting up tiki torches stuck into the lawns to light the sidewalk and keep the mosquitos at bay.
“Herschel’s quite the lively character,” Michael muttered.
“Probably less so than some of your clients.”
Michael pretended to be shocked but soon couldn’t help grinning. “That’s terrible.”
“But funny.”
Jazz looked over his shoulder. Herschel wasn’t watching them as he’d expected. He’d bent down to speak into Beatrice’s ear. The sight of the man rankled Jazz. He had a problem with devout people who felt the spirit so strongly they had to push their views onto others. Not a fan of organized religion overall, he really had a problem with the pushers. A natural rebel, he didn’t like to be told what to do and really hated to be told what he should believe.
Ahead of them, Oslo stood with his head bowed and hands clasped tight in front of him. Dorothy stood before him, shorter than her teenage son, but leaning in close and whispering furi
ously, her expression stern and Oslo’s Frisbee clutched tightly in her hand.
“Wonder what that’s about,” Michael said, following Jazz’s gaze.
“Most likely the fact I threw a Frisbee for him,” Jazz said. “Probably afraid it’ll make him a gay.”
“Think we should intervene?”
Jazz arched his eyebrows. “You would do that?”
“I don’t like to see anyone bullied, especially by a parental figure.”
Jazz glanced at the bounce house, where Herschel still stood with Beatrice. “Parental figures or cult leaders? I really don’t like that guy.”
As if he’d heard, Herschel turned his head and threw a cold look their way.
Michael caught Herschel’s glare too, and he frowned. “Seems like the feeling is mutual. Maybe we should keep clear of that whole family. We don’t want to make things worse for the kids, or Misty.”
“Good point. Let’s go see if Misty’s put together the margarita bar in her kitchen. She sent me to the store because she was freaking out about having enough limes earlier for her special recipe.”
Jazz kept his gaze averted from the whole musical quartet family as they set a course for Misty’s yard. He swung the gate open wide and motioned for Michael to enter first.
“Beauty before age,” Jazz said.
“I have to keep reminding myself you’re the older one.”
“Me too,” Jazz said with a chuckle. “Especially when you’re wearing those sandals.”
“I thought you said they were DILF sandals.”
“Oh, I did.”
They stepped into the backyard and the gate clicked shut behind them. The sound was loud enough to attract the attention of a tall figure in a red hawaiian shirt. Tiki torches had been lit throughout Misty’s backyard, and the stranger stood next to a large forsythia bush in the back corner.
“Over there,” Michael said, jerking his head at the man. “The guy in the red shirt. He’s the one who followed the deputies to the coffeehouse. And he was in the crowd of onlookers at both murder scenes. Do you know who he is?”
“That’s the guy you saw? No, I don’t know him, but I saw him at the festival, watching Ally and Norbert fight. And he’s staying in my building.”