Walking Wounded

by Lauren Gilley

  Luke meets Hal’s eyes, and finds his friend steely calm. He’s in work-mode.

  “C’mon, baby, it ain’t like that,” Dex says, and reaches for Tara.

  She ducks away from him the same second Hal grabs the guy’s wrist and twists it back behind him in one effortless move.

  Dex screams.

  People scramble off the dance floor.

  “Don’t touch the lady,” Hal says, voice a growl. “Not unless she wants you to.”

  “I don’t want him to!” Tara assures, arms folded, hips cocked at a don’t-fuck-with-me angle.

  “Hey!” Dex protests. “I didn’t do nothing!”

  Hal shoves him. Though shove might be too gentle a word, because Dex trips and goes sprawling across the hard wooden floor, face smacking the floorboards.

  Tara sidles up to Luke, clutches his arm, openly crying.

  “Come on,” Luke says with a sigh. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Hal clears a path and they make their way through the club, pick up their coats, and step out onto the street, breath pluming in the frigid air. The cold hits Luke like a slap, sobers him up on impact. He reels, presses a hand to the rough brick wall for balance, and tries to make sense of the sudden change in Tara.

  She stands in the middle of the alley, arms wrapped tight around herself, dyed hair shielding her face as great, gasping sobs rattle her frame.

  “Here.” Hal, impossible gentleman that he is, shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. “Let’s get in out of the cold, okay?” He shoots an almost-desperate glance toward Luke for help.

  “There’s a decent coffee shop a couple blocks down,” Luke says. “Back where we left the Jeep.”

  Hal nods, and, task decided, loops what can only be called a brotherly arm around Tara’s shaking shoulders, steering her out of the alley.

  Luke watches, crestfallen, until Hal snags his sleeve with his free hand and tugs him along too.

  They walk three-abreast, taking up the entire sidewalk. Luke ducks back when they meet other pedestrians, ignoring their indignant glances. There’s a part of him that’s glad to be out of the club, back in the world of Normal Volumes. And a part of him that wants to march back and hit Dex (what a stupid-ass name, honestly) with his own headphones. But the largest part of him is both angry and devastated that his moment – whatever it was – with Hal came to such an abrupt end.

  Possibly for the best, since blurring the lines of the friendship had only ever ended in heartache for Luke. But still.

  The Grind appears amidst the line of closed shops like a warm beacon, drawing them in. Hal holds the door and Luke takes over Tara duty, steering her inside the warm, fragrant shop and finding them a table in the corner with comfy armchairs and a semblance of privacy. In the light, he can see that she’s cried most of her eyeliner off and that it’s run down her face. She looks young, younger even than her years, vulnerable and lost.

  “I’ll get us something,” Hal says, hand landing briefly on Luke’s shoulder.

  “And napkins. A lot of napkins.”

  Tara shoots him a glare.

  “Right,” Hal says, and heads up to the counter.

  When Luke turns back to Tara, he isn’t expecting her to say, “I hate you both,” in a rough, tear-ravaged voice.

  He shrugs. “Getting you out of there, buying you coffee. I know, what assholes, right?”

  “Ugh.” She tips her head against the chair back. “You idiots. Pining all the damn time, platonically grinding or whatever the hell, and you can’t even admit you’re, like, practically married already. Yeah, assholes.”

  There’s not a line, so Hal returns then, balancing a tray of three coffees and a ridiculous amount of napkins.

  Tara takes the napkins and uses the entire stack to mop at her mascara-streaked face.

  Luke takes a sip of his latte, which is perfect, just the way he always orders it for himself, watches Hal stare worriedly at Tara and thinks about practically married. Because he’s a moron who can’t help but throw himself back into painful situations in which he stands no chance of success.

  “What happened?” Hal asks Tara. “It looked like you really liked that guy and then…”

  “I’m an idiot,” she groans. “I did like him. But I…kinda knew he didn’t like me all that much.”

  Hal makes a soothing noise.

  Luke says, “You thought you could change him.”

  She glares up at the ceiling. “No. No, I…” A deep, tired sigh. “Okay, yeah, I thought he’d come around.” She tosses the napkins onto the table. “I knew he was a player, okay? I knew he was older, and he’d done tons of stuff with tons of girls, probably, and I was just this senator’s kid, and…” She tucks her black hair behind her ears, and she doesn’t seem the confident young woman Luke met on the deck; she’s just a kid, and probably a virgin, sad and defeated and realizing how terrible it is to lose your naiveté.

  “Hey,” Luke says, sitting forward, catching her eye. “That guy is such a fucking loser.” When she starts to protest, he says, “So he’s had lots of sex and he has stupid hair, and he opened some lame-ass club once. Big fucking deal. You’re not a loser, Tara. He isn’t cooler, or better, or more anything than you. Except for maybe stupid. He’s way more stupid than you. Okay? I feel really bad that someone like me has to be the one to tell you that. Only, not really…I never get to give the pep talks. Kinda always on the receiving end.”

  A tiny smile graces one corner of her mouth. “Maybe that’s why you’re not very good at it.”

  Luke feigns affronted, grabbing at his heart dramatically. Tara’s smile widens. And Hal…Hal’s grin is soft, and sweet, and grateful, and utterly devastating, even just a glimpse of it.

  ~*~

  “I’m gonna go in first and explain it to them,” Hal says when they park out in front of the Maddox townhouse. “Give me about five minutes.”

  “Okay.” Tara looks relieved when Luke catches her reflection in the rearview mirror.

  Lights shine in the townhouse’s windows, warm and buttery. Under the porch lamp, Hal looks both strong and gentle. A large man, and a contrite child, head bowing as Matt answers the door and waves him in with a smile.

  “Damn,” Tara says in the backseat. “He really is Prince Charming, you know?”

  “Trust me. I know.” Has always known, his whole life.

  “You don’t see it, do you?”

  He unbuckles his seatbelt so he can twist around and look at her, something in her tone raising gooseflesh down the back of his neck. “See what?”

  As the overhead dome light fades and then winks out, he catches the decades’ older look that’s come across her face. The melancholy introspection. Gone is the crying girl from outside the club; she’s all woman again, scrubbed clean, purged of her own stupidity.

  “Every one of my friends would give their entire college fund to have a guy look at them the way Hal looks at you.”

  Luke doesn’t breathe, doesn’t allow himself to think, to hope. No. Just a continuous loop of denial.

  She looks down at her lap, and her hair falls across her face, a shadow obscured by a darker shadow. “I don’t know what it’s like: being in love with someone and knowing he’s a good person. Knowing he’s my best friend. Maybe it’s not as good as I think it is.”

  It’s not, Luke wants to tell her. It’s horrible. It’s the sweetest thing in the whole world, to know someone like that, and love them too.

  She shakes her hair back, and he can just see the wet shine of her eyes. “If you kissed him, he’d kiss back,” she says, firmly, like she knows it to be true. Then she pops her door and slides out of the Jeep.

  Luke watches her go up the front steps, spine set, head lifted, hands shaking down along her thighs. She is young and stupid, but she is also sharp, and intuitive. The stunning contradiction that is every person trying to find a place in this ugly, wonderful world. He finds he doesn’t feel sorry for her, even if her parents are about to gr
ound her for a month. He admires her; wishes for a little piece of her courage.

  She enters the house and about five minutes later Hal comes back out, shutting the door soundly behind him and walking down the steps with a heaviness across his shoulders.

  Luke swallows the lump in his throat, schools his features as the driver door opens and Hal slides in. “How’d they take it?”

  “Gracefully,” Hal says with a sigh. “They’re not really yellers. And I don’t think they were even mad. Worried, sure. But…” He shrugs. “She’ll be okay.”

  “Yeah.”

  Hal sends him a tired grin. “Let’s go home.”

  Luke swallows again, pulse fluttering in his throat. If you kissed him, he’d kiss back. “Yeah.”

  ~*~

  When they step into the lobby of Hal’s building, Luke spots a familiar, skirt-clad figure waiting at the elevator bay, and the last clinging fog of alcohol-consumption clears. He grabs at Hal’s arm, protest forming, because he really doesn’t want to have whatever kind of confrontation this has the potential to be right now.

  But Kate must see them over her shoulder, because she turns and gives them a smile.

  “Oh shit,” Luke mutters. “Your ex.”

  He feels Hal shrug, the movement travelling through his arm that Luke is still holding. “It’s okay, she’s nice,” he whispers, and then they’re standing right in front of her.

  Her smile widens, touched with a coyness that makes Luke want to squirm. “Hello, boys.” Her eyes move between them, down them, taking in their outfits. “Night out on the town?”

  “Hi, Kate,” Hal says, and gives her one of his big, kind smiles. “Yeah, just checking out a friend’s club. Well…a friend of a friend’s club,” he adds with a little wince.

  “Not his friend anymore,” Luke mutters.

  “You just getting off work?” Hal asks her.

  She nods. And there’s that smile again, the one that makes Luke’s stomach tighten in a bad way. “You guys are getting in kind of early from a club.”

  “Well…” Hal starts.

  “Couldn’t wait to get home, huh?” She laughs softly, not unkindly.

  Hal says, “Uh...”

  The elevator arrives and she steps inside it. Luke doesn’t make a move to join her, and Hal doesn’t either, he notes with some relief.

  “Hal,” Kate says, smile gentling, just as the doors begin to close. “You never did have that conversation I told you to have. Shame on you.” The doors meet with a muffled sound.

  This second meeting was less rattling than the first; more cryptic smiles and suggestions. Luke can handle that stuff all day. Also, she was directing her energy toward Hal, rather than him. Hal who, now, stands rooted, hands clenched into fists, staring at his boots and deep-breathing like he’s on the edge of panic.

  “That’s why you don’t date someone who lives in your building,” Luke says. “Don’t shit where you eat, man.”

  “Yeah,” Hal says, but he sounds distracted. A muscle in his jaw jumps. His lashes flicker low on his cheeks.

  “What conversation was she talking about?”

  Hal exhales, and is momentarily saved by the elevator returning.

  Once inside, Luke says, “Hal.”

  Another deep exhale. “It’s something she and I talked about…when we were together and things weren’t going well. A conversation I should have had a long time ago,” he says to their gold reflections in the front wall.

  “Okay,” Luke says, aiming for patience. “What kind of conversation?”

  The elevator hits their floor, and the doors open with a polite ding.

  “Probably better to have it inside,” Hal says, already fishing his keys from his pocket as they walk. His hands are shaking, Luke realizes, and it takes a few tries to unlock the apartment.

  “Hey,” Luke says. “What’s the matter?”

  “Just…” The lock turns. “Just a sec.”

  They get inside, hang up their jackets, toe their shoes off and line them up just inside the door. Throughout this ritual, Luke feels tension winding tighter and tighter down the length of his spine. Hal’s starting to freak him out a little at this point. Hal’s the sweetest guy in the world, but he doesn’t have conversations.

  “Okay. So. What?” Luke presses when they’re standing in the middle of the living room.

  “What?” Hal parrots. He hooks his thumbs into his front pockets and wiggles his socked toes against the rug. Luke hasn’t seen him this nervous in a long, long time.

  “That’s what I asked you,” Luke says. It’s hard to be patient, but he thinks maybe he should be, because Hal…Hal is worried. Luke sighs – sighs patiently, he thinks. “Look, you’ve been acting weird, man. What’s–”

  Hal takes one huge step to close the distance between them. His hands dart with none of their usual grace, freezing just millimeters from either side of Luke’s face. Like he was going to cup his cheeks. Like he was going to…

  And then he does just that, eyes flicking back and forth, and back and forth over Luke’s features, no doubt taking in his confused frown. His hands are large, and full of heat and a familiar, long-known, well-loved kindness. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, just a moment, nods to himself, leans in and kisses Luke.

  ~*~

  Luke’s first on-the-lips kiss happened when he was fourteen. Eric Jennings was a second string running back, a junior, and he plead the usual: his parents were homophobic, his team might ostracize him, he was still figuring out what he wanted. A stolen, awkward kiss in an equipment closet that didn’t warrant keeping secret…but that Luke didn’t talk about, because he wanted to respect Eric’s wishes.

  He lost his virginity in bits and pieces – or, within the grip of a variety of hands – during high school. Tim, Drake, Evan. It wasn’t until college, and Patrick, that a true opportunity for a relationship presented itself. A sleeping-over, Valentine’s-celebrating, meet-the-parents kind of relationship.

  He still thinks, when the thought crosses his mind, that he might have really hurt Patrick, that day in the coffee shop, when he said he wasn’t looking to do anything serious. Patrick hadn’t loved him, no, but maybe he’d wanted to. Maybe they could have had something.

  He spent almost a year having uncomplicated, casual hookups with a fellow employee at Candid, Mark. Mark cottoned on pretty quick that Luke was pining away over someone and urged him to make a move.

  So he’s had a lot of kisses. Some were careful, some chaste, some hot and heavy. Some almost cruel. But no kiss in his life has ever compared to the kiss he shared with Hal three years ago, the night of The Incident.

  No kiss until this one.

  Hal’s lips are soft and damp, and gentle against Luke’s. A quiet clasp. Breath held, nerves buzzing. It lingers, the touch between them. Hal tips his head, slants his mouth, and opens it against Luke’s; teases the seam of his lips with the very tip of his tongue. Asking. So sweetly.

  As far as kisses go, it’s nothing. Virginal.

  But in the history of Luke and Hal, it is a question asked in a dozen languages. It is hope, and love, and an apology. Regret. And for Luke, it’s pure cocaine…and he knows he has to stop now before his addiction worsens.

  But he opens his mouth and tastes Hal’s tongue against his own. Leans into his solid chest and pulls him deeper, hungry and shaking for more, so much more, for everything.

  Hal’s thumbs sweep his cheeks, forward and back, and Luke feels the glide of wetness beneath them. Tears – his own. He doesn’t care. He grabs a double handful of the front of Hal’s shirt and holds on for dear life.

  Hal tastes like whiskey, and Coke, and there are messages in the little creases of his lips, in the pads of his fingers. An emotion that vibrates through his body, one that he pours into Luke, transferring it through the points of contact.

  Luke wants more, feverish and touch-starved, and settles for bringing their hips together, curling his spine so he can press in hard. Hal responds; he pr
esses back. His hands slip to the back of Luke’s head, fingers spearing through his hair.

  “Please,” Hal gasps against Luke’s mouth. Broken, urgent. “Oh my God. Please, baby, please–”

  Baby. The word jars Luke back to his senses. Baby. They’ve known each other their entire lives, and never has Hal said such a thing to him.

  Luke pulls his head back, breaks their connection, and sucks in an unsteady breath. His glasses are half-fogged, but he sees the tears in Hal’s eyes. Is almost distracted by the wet, red shape of Hal’s kiss-flushed mouth. Almost. “Baby?” he demands. “What–”

  Hal’s eyes widen. “Wait. Please. Just let me–”

  A chill skitters down Luke’s back, clamps tight around the base of his spine. His hands fall, limp. “Why are you doing this?” His voice comes out flat.

  “Because–” Hal starts, but he really, really doesn’t want to hear whatever he has to say.

  “You’re hard up, I get it,” he says, still emotionless. He puts pressure against Hal’s hold on him. “Hard job, long hours, no girlfriend, no booty call, obviously, so why not–”

  “No!” Hal growls at him. A low, angry rumble that lifts the hair on the back of Luke’s neck. He drops his hands to Luke’s waist and holds tight, face flushed with violent emotion. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Luke, don’t!”

  They stare at one another, breathing in ragged gasps.

  “Okay then,” Luke says. “Why are you kissing me?”

  Hal says, “Because I love you.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s great and all, buddy, but you’re the one who put the kibosh on being kissing friends. I’m your BFF, okay? But that doesn’t mean you can rub one out on me just ‘cause you don’t have any other options.”

  “No.” Hal sighs through his nostrils, long and low. He cups the back of Luke’s neck, hands so warm. “Luke, I love you.” His mouth quirks in a brief smile before seriousness takes hold again. “I’m not…not using you. God, I’m not…” His gaze is pleading. “I’m in love with you. And I know I shouldn’t even say it. You deserve so, so much better than this, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, three years ago, I…” He starts to hyperventilate. “Luke, I’m trying…” He wheezes and gasps like he has pneumonia.