Orientation (Borealis Investigations Book 1)

by Gregory Ashe

  “Get out. Right now. Before I call the cops.”

  “Fire me. Kick me out. Scream at me. Just don’t cut me out like this, Shaw. You’re my best friend, ok?”

  “All right. I’m calling the cops.”

  North surged forward, but Shaw danced back, and the fear and rage in Shaw’s face made North falter. “Shaw, please. Hit me. Beat the living shit out of me. Whatever you’ve got to do, please, do it, just don’t do this.”

  Shaw was fumbling with his phone. It was obvious that he was trying to unlock it. It was equally obvious that he couldn’t because of how upset he was. He threw a look at North and shook his head. “Jesus, North. Hit you? You think that’s the way to make things right?” He turned his gaze back to the phone. “Now who’s fucking pathetic?” He jammed on the screen a few more times and then threw his head back and screamed, “Fuck.”

  It was that sound, the devastation in it, that sheared through North. He reached out and wrapped one hand around Shaw’s, around the phone, holding on even when Shaw tried to jerk away, and said, “It’s ok. You don’t have to—I’ll just go. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  For one last moment, he allowed himself the heat of Shaw’s hand, the smoothness of his skin, the tension in tendon and bone and muscle. Then North released Shaw, who stumbled back, shaking out his fingers as though North’s touch had burned.

  North left.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he didn’t turn fast enough, and his shoulder collided with the wall. In the kitchen, he hip-checked the counter. He thought about the wheel of smoked cheddar and Shaw saying they were starting a new diet, and at that thought, something shook North so hard that he had to catch himself on the door jamb. It was just cheese. Just fucking stupid cheese. And he had to wipe his eyes because something was wrong with them, because he couldn’t even see the door.

  Somehow he made it outside. Somehow he made it to the Grand Caravan, and as he slid into the seat, as he breathed in the smell of wet upholstery and old stains, another of those tremendous quakes rolled through him, and he had to grip the wheel. He stared out. The streetlights fluttered like moth wings. At the end of the papery tunnel of light, everything ended at a wall of darkness.

  North had to go home. His husband was waiting. Tuck was waiting. And for a moment, that thought was so terrible that North envisioned driving the Caravan at full speed and crashing into that wall of darkness, he envisioned shattering against it, he envisioned a sudden, final end.

  But he waited. He waited two hours with the mothlight of the old sodium lamps playing across the dash, across the wheel, across the backs of his hands. He waited until the lights went out in the rooms above the Borealis offices. He waited, and Matty Fennley never came out. One final quake rolled through North as he jittered the key into the ignition. And then he drove home.

  Chapter 27

  Shaw stared at the space where North had stood before he had turned and stumbled down the stairs, but Shaw wasn’t really seeing anything. He was feeling. He was processing. And a voice that sounded like Dr. Farr’s—but with a static storm in the background, like the voice was playing off an old cassette—that voice was saying something about how it took time to process huge emotions. It took time, and so Shaw needed to give himself time just to feel. And the problem with that, the problem that made Shaw look around the room, the problem that made him stagger toward the dresser, the problem that made him grab the closest copy of Faust and rip clumps of pages from the binding as his breath surged in and out, the problem was that Shaw felt so terrible, he thought he might die.

  Most of the conversation with North had been transcribed in Shaw’s brain like strokes of lightning: jaggedly clear chunks, and then whole sections that had been obliterated. What he remembered clearly, what he remembered most clearly, was the disgust on North’s face, the contempt in his voice, the word pathetic. Shaw had feared that North might suspect. Shaw had feared that North might pity him. But this, tonight, staring into the full aspect of North’s scorn, had been worse than anything Shaw could have imagined.

  It wasn’t until his fingers scraped across the book’s cover that Shaw realized he had torn every page from the spine, that they littered the floor like autumn leaves. Shaw’s nail beds ached from the pressure of grabbing the pages. His pulse drummed in his fingertips. Shuffling through the spill of white leaves, which rustled around his feet, Shaw followed the hallway toward the living room. He pushed open the door.

  Matty’s eyes were red and puffy. Tears streaked his cheeks, and snot hung under his nose. He shot up off the couch when he saw Shaw.

  “Stay there,” Shaw said. He worked his jaw, trying to get some moisture into his mouth. “For now, just stay right there.”

  “I’ll leave,” Matty said, his face turned toward his feet, his voice rippling with emotion. “I’ll go away and I won’t bother you again.”

  “Is he telling the truth?”

  Matty’s shoulders drew up. Shaw waited for the denial. He waited for the mixture of outrage and pain. He waited for The fact that you can even ask that. And if Matty said anything like that, if he even hinted at those things, Shaw was afraid of what he might do. Because North was an asshole. North was a self-righteous, arrogant, gaping, bleeding gorge of an asshole. But he wasn’t a liar. Not unless it came to his own secrets.

  Matty nodded, and a sob worked his way out before he stifled it with a fist. “Can I please go now?”

  For a moment, Shaw braced himself in the doorway. He felt like he was holding up the whole building. Or maybe like the building was holding him. He wasn’t sure he understood gravity, only that he felt it pulling on him like it never had before. The only thing he could say was, “Why?”

  “Because I can’t stand you looking at me like that. I can’t stand that I—that I hurt you. And I can’t stand that you know.” Matty’s mouth opened and closed silently. “That you know who I really am.”

  “Why did you come here? Why did you hire me?”

  Matty broke into motion, his long legs carrying him across the room, and he turned his shoulder like a battering ram. Shaw shoved him back. Then he shoved him again. And a third time. He wanted to hit Matty, he wanted to bury Matty’s face under his fists. He wanted to kiss away the tears.

  Matty wiped his eyes. He tried to charge past Shaw again, and again Shaw shoved him. This time, Matty landed on the couch.

  “Answer the question. Why me? Why did you come here? Was he right? Was I just an easy mark for you to—” Shaw couldn’t finish. He didn’t even know if words went all the way to what he wanted to say.

  “I told you the truth. I came here because Mark Sevcik was blackmailing me.”

  “That’s not what you told me.”

  Another silent sob shook Matty, and he wiped his face. “I told you—I told you the rest of it because I was afraid you wouldn’t help me.”

  “It’s a business. All you had to do was pay and we would have helped you.”

  “Would you have?” Matty’s head came up. His eyes glittered—hard, wary eyes now. Eyes that Shaw had never seen in the churchboy facade. “North didn’t want to take the case. It’s blackmail, and it’s messy, and it meant getting tangled in a police investigation. If I came to you, if I told you all of it—if I told you I used to hustle, if I told you I’d been in and out of prison, if I told you the truth, would you have taken the case? Or would you have thought what most people think: that I deserve this, that I deserve to be blackmailed because I was a whore, because I made bad decisions when I was a kid, because I didn’t have anybody to help me and I was hungry and it didn’t seem like a big deal to suck a few cocks if it meant I’d have dinner and a place to sleep.”

  Shaw covered his eyes. He couldn’t breathe, and then, after air finally rushed into his lungs, he managed to say, “I guess we’ll never know.”

  “I know. I already know. You wouldn’t have taken the case. And Mark would have kept me on a leash the way he had for the last three
months. If I didn’t do the dishes. If I talked back. If I went for a walk without telling him where I was going. Anything he didn’t like, he’d wave that fucking recording in my face and ask me if I wanted to go back to prison. He’d ask me if I liked being passed around like a fucking cum rag.” Matty dashed both hands under his eyes. “You know what? I finally decided it didn’t matter. Another six months in prison, another year, I’d do it if I had to. Just to get away from him. But I thought maybe, maybe I wouldn’t have to do that. Maybe somebody would help me.”

  Peeling his hands away from his eyes, Shaw asked, “What’s on the recording?”

  Matty gave a slow shake of his head.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “He’s really dead? I heard North say that, but I didn’t—” Tension eased in Matty’s slender frame, and he hugged himself. “I didn’t really think it was true. I hoped it was, Jesus, but I didn’t really think.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “What? No. You said that other person, Regina, you said—”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “With you.”

  “All last night. Before that.”

  After a moment, Matty said, “I was here. I called you from here, didn’t I?”

  Shaw nodded.

  “Then I went home. Then those guys tried to break in, and—”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why were guys following you? Why were people breaking into your apartment? Or was that all bullshit too?”

  “Mark has videos on everybody. Fucking everybody. Do you understand that? Everybody wants that stuff. They want to destroy the stuff about themselves, and they want to keep the rest. So people are looking for me. They think I took it from Mark. I didn’t. If I had that stuff, I wouldn’t have hired you. I wouldn’t be hiding. I wouldn’t be running.”

  “And the apartment, the website, the—the whole thing—”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I lied to you, Shaw.” Tears sprang to Matty’s eyes again, and this time, he didn’t wipe them away. “You’re the only person who’s ever been good to me, and I lied to you. I hurt you. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to fall—” He stopped. He bit his lips. Tears glowed in rivers down his cheeks, and he shook his head once, trying to smile. “I hope you find somebody who deserves you.”

  Matty stepped around Shaw.

  Shaw caught his arm.

  “I’ll pay you, Shaw. I’m not running out on the bill. It might take me a while, but I’ll pay whatever I owe. If Mark’s really dead, nobody else is going to come after me. I’ll find a job. I’ll work. And I’ll pay you.”

  Shaw ran his tongue between his teeth. Hurt and confusion were pulling out of him like the tide, and in their place came a hot, baking anger. Anger at North. Anger at himself for wasting so many years. Anger, too, at Matty. His hand tightened.

  “You’re hurting me,” Matty said, but his voice was even. He had the watchful eyes of a boy who’d been hurt by plenty of men. He knew when to take it. He knew when to break and run.

  “I told you to stay.”

  “I’m not—”

  Shaw shoved him onto the couch again, and then he moved to stand in front of Matty, pinning him in place. He grabbed a handful of the unruly blond hair, forced Matty’s head back, stared into amethyst eyes. Shaw could hear his own breathing, rough and eager in the stillness.

  Matty blinked. He ran his hand across Shaw’s bulge. Shaw grunted, fighting to keep from thrusting into the touch.

  “Is this how you want me?”

  “Quiet.”

  Matty ran his hand back and forth, friction heating the fabric, and Shaw grunted again and tightened his hand in Matty’s hair. Matty let out a little sound of pain, but his hand didn’t slow.

  “Yeah,” Matty whispered. “I’ve been bad. I’ve been really bad. Show me you’re in charge. Show me what happens to bad boys.”

  Shaw slapped him. It was a light blow—meant to sting, not hard enough to really hurt. But the shock transformed Matty’s face, sent blood into his cheeks, widened his eyes, dilated his pupils like Matty had just snorted a line of coke.

  “Don’t ever lie to me again.” Shaw shook him by the hair. “Never, do you understand me? If you want to leave, go right now. But if you stay, don’t ever lie to me again.”

  Matty leaned forward, ignoring Shaw’s grip on his hair. His fingers unzipped the jacket, exposing Shaw’s bare chest, and he planted kisses on Shaw’s stomach, a line of them leading down to the scant trail of hair. Matty jerked at the fly, shoving the capris down around Shaw’s thighs, his kisses trailing into the reddish-brown bush, the tip of his tongue lapping at the base of Shaw’s dick.

  Shaw’s breath exploded out of him, and he jerked hard, pulling Matty away. Matty cried out, twisting, lunging toward Shaw, but Shaw held him at bay.

  “Say it. Right fucking now. Or get out.”

  “Never again,” Matty said, clawing at Shaw’s wrist. “Never, I promise. I swear to God.”

  And then Shaw released him, felt the warm, wet heat of Matty’s mouth, and sagged, struggling to keep himself standing. He stroked the back of Matty’s head. He felt Matty’s tears pepper his thighs.

  “It’s ok,” he whispered, and his heart was breaking for Matty, for everything that had happened to him and everything he had been forced to do. A surge of something that Shaw didn’t recognize filled him, and he rocked into Matty’s mouth. Love, he thought. After all this time, this was what love felt like. “It’s ok. It’s ok. You’re here now. You’re with me. It’s going to be ok.”

  Chapter 28

  By some miracle, Tuck had already been asleep when North got home. North undressed and lay in bed, eyes closed, and the hours rolled by in nightmare waves of waking and not-quite waking. When Tuck rose and showered and dressed, North kept his eyes shut, even when Tuck slammed the closet door, even when Tuck dropped his shoes on purpose, even when Tuck sat heavily on the bed to pull on his socks. And eventually Tucker left for work, and North plunged into the shower. He sat on the tiles, chin on his knees, until the hot water pounding his back became icy needles. And then he stayed. And stayed. And stayed. Until he crawled out, shaking from the cold, and called himself a fucking piece of shit because he deserved so much worse.

  He managed to get to the dresser, shivering so hard that the drawer rattled as he pulled it out, and then he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. It wasn’t any one thing in particular. North couldn’t do anything anymore. He had reached the end of whatever final, internal momentum had propelled him this far. And so he crawled into bed, naked, and pulled the covers over his head.

  The nightmare hours rolled over him again until his phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was probably Tuck. He wanted ribs for dinner. Or he needed North to pick up the dry cleaning. Or he’d just ordered new rims for the Beamer and he wanted North to tell him how cool they would look. Or he was telling North he’d be late that night.

  But maybe.

  North burrowed deeper into the pillow, trying to suffocate the thought. It was just Tuck with another fucking demand, and North could deal with it later. Or maybe never.

  But maybe.

  North pulled back, punched the pillow, and tried to bury himself again. It was just Tuck.

  But maybe.

  But maybe.

  But maybe it was Shaw.

  Groping blindly, North knocked a pile of books, his alarm, the bottle of lube that Tuck had left out as a silent suggestion—more like another demand—and an empty tumbler onto the floor before finding the phone. He dragged it under the covers, blinking against the brilliance of the screen.

  It was a text. And it wasn’t from Shaw.

  That fact, that single fact, asphyxiated North. His throat locked up. He had been with Shaw almost every day of his life for the last eight years. North could count the number of days he hadn’t seen Shaw, at least in passing, on one hand. And it
was over. North had gone and fucked up the single best, most important thing in his life. The fact that it was Shaw, and not Tuck, was only a bitter trace of a thought, barely even worth registering.

  After a moment, though, the words swimming in North’s vision came into focus, and he drew a sharp breath.

  I want the recordings. Deliver by end of the day, or Matthew Fennley goes back to prison.

  The brevity of the message forced North to read it again. And then again. Conclusions tumbled into place.

  Someone thought North knew where the recordings were, or perhaps thought he already had the recordings. More importantly, someone wanted the recordings. If what Barr and Reck had told North were true, if Mark Sevcik had been blackmailing important people throughout the city for years, then the recordings were immensely valuable—and it was no surprise that someone else wanted to get their hands on them.

  That all made sense. The surprise was that Matty was the object of the threat. North had already suspected that Matty had hired them to find Mark so that he could get possession of the recordings. If that were true, though, the threat didn’t make sense. If North failed to deliver the recordings and Matty didn’t go to prison, it would expose Matty as a fraud. It was too much of a risk, especially when Matty couldn’t possibly believe that North would find this particular threat moving.

  All of that was too convoluted, too twisted, and North’s gut told him that something else was happening. Someone was threatening Matty because he believed that North still felt protective of Matty—the way North ordinarily would feel protective of a client. This person didn’t know that North exclusively wanted to see Matty fucked on a broken piece of glass for the next twenty years. And this person didn’t know about the rupture between Shaw and North.

  The most likely person was Mark Sevcik’s killer: Regina Rex.

  North stared at the unknown number until the text blurred again. What was he supposed to do now?

  The easiest answer, the one that North reached for instinctively, was to wait. Let Matty get hauled off to prison. But North shook off that option for two reasons. First, he wanted to know what was really going on. The need to know the truth had driven North into this business in the first place. The second reason, the one that North couldn’t even name, was just an image: the memory of that landslide demolishing everything in Shaw’s face, the total, unspeakable pain of it. North couldn’t make up for it, couldn’t undo it. But he could try to do something for Shaw. One small, good thing.