by Lisa Henry
He was about to approach them when someone else did. A woman. A woman who fit into Tate’s arms as though she was meant to be there. A woman who lifted her hand and placed it against his cheek and said something that made Tate smile. Then Emmy raced for them, and Tate leaned down and swung her up onto his hip. They looked perfect.
A perfect, happy family, bathed in sunlight and full of smiles.
Rory’s heart constricted.
This was who Tate was, and this was who Tate was supposed to be.
No chip. No Rory.
He turned around and hurried from the park before they saw him.
eeks passed. Rory returned to work at the Hall of Justice—in Cal Mitchell’s fledgling department now. Jericho Lowell’s office stood locked but hadn’t been cleared out. Preserved, his name still etched into the door, like there was a possibility he could return to his position after his paid leave. Maybe there was.
It was a terrible environment to work in, but Rory stayed on anyway because it was better spending these anxious hours busy and productive than spending them at home, worrying and pining, and pining and worrying. It helped, too, that Alexandra was now employed there. After all, there was work to be done, a whole society and legal structure to be fixed and restructured from the ground up, and Alexandra was one of the few people that Cal, the man who’d somehow inherited the task, trusted.
Lowell’s trial was all anyone talked about in the Hall of Justice—in all of Beulah, really—and Rory hated the way those conversations ceased when he walked past. He couldn’t tell if it was out of respect for what had happened to him or because people thought he was scum for intending to testify against Lowell, who despite everything seemed as well-liked as he’d ever been. Rory almost understood that. People could believe the best in anyone as long as they didn’t have to look too closely. A part of him felt like apologizing for exposing Lowell’s true nature. And it would only get worse once Lowell’s trial began. Once all the horrible secrets came to life. Once they all revealed their individual humiliations.
Rory dreaded the thought of Aaron taking the stand, dreaded hearing even a moment of the hell he’d lived in under Lowell’s control. Didn’t want to be faced with it, didn’t want Aaron to have to relive it, didn’t want Aaron’s story to come under scrutiny by cynical bastards who hadn’t even been there. But Aaron was going to testify.
Alexandra was worried about him. She seemed to think that the only thing holding him together was the idea of testifying. That when he was done, he’d crumble. He’d refused to speak to a psychologist. He’d refused to speak to anyone, apart from Tate apparently. Rory wondered what the hell they talked about.
The first day of the trial was cool and overcast. Cal took them through the back door to avoid the pack of media out front. There was no public gallery this time, or at least no members of the public in it. From what Rory could tell, every seat was filled with a politician or a justice.
The process was interminable and excruciating, and Rory found himself sitting beside Aaron’s shell-shocked parents on one side and the woman from the park on the other. Which was horrible enough to begin with, and that was even before he had to get up on the stand and talk about what had happened that night at Lowell’s, when he and Lowell had fucked their rezzies and made them fuck each other. It seemed so pitiful, now, to explain how Lowell had gotten him drunk and convinced him it was all right, and how he knew it wasn’t but he'd refused to listen to his gut. He said this in front of Aaron’s parents. In front of Alexandra. In front of Tate’s . . . girlfriend? Wife? And the most horrible thing of all was the way none of them looked him in the eye again.
The trial lasted for six days. Rory saw faces he never wanted to see again: the doctors from the induction center and the guards, some who claimed to be innocent—and maybe even were—and some who were quick to name names in the hope of some leniency when they faced their own trials. He heard things he never wanted to hear: the testimony of Aaron’s doctors from the hospital, detailing his internal injuries, and Aaron’s own testimony, given in a voice hardly above a strained whisper as he recounted exactly what Lowell had done to him. And all the while Aaron’s mother snuffled into her handkerchief beside Rory.
How the hell could he have let it happen? All that time Lowell was bragging about what Aaron could take, why hadn’t Rory even wondered if it was safe? And, God, the doctor from the induction center had come to his house, and Tate had bled, and that had to be on Rory too. He should have noticed. He should have guessed.
Rory couldn’t stay in Beulah. He needed to find somewhere else. Somewhere away from people. Tate and Aaron had been his friends, and he’d hurt them. He couldn’t stay here and keep doing it. Not when every time they saw his face they would remember.
When the trial ended and the jury went into deliberation, Rory quit his job in Cal’s department and went to his house to pack.
He wouldn’t stay to hear the verdict. What did it matter? The fact that he was walking free meant justice hadn’t been served in Beulah. And to think Cal expected him to participate in the restructuring efforts? He was tainted. Any contribution he made would be tainted too. Even if his own actions repulsed him, he didn’t trust himself not to subconsciously re-create their circumstances.
Lowell. Give him power, give him time, and he’d turn into Lowell.
At the house, Rory threw his closets open and began to pack. He had no idea where he was going, only that he had to leave soon. When the first clap of thunder sounded from the storm that had been building all day, he imagined the angry roar was all for him. As though nature itself railed against him.
He closed his eyes for a moment. There was his egotism again. Just like Lowell.
The sound of the thunder faded away, and he slowly became aware that someone was knocking on his door. He approached it carefully, wary of reporters. He kept his foot against the door when he opened it a crack, ready to slam it shut again if he had to.
Tate was standing on the front step, soaked with rain. His curls were plastered to his forehead, and water ran down his face. Rory was shocked.
“Are you going to let me in?” Tate asked, raising his brows.
Rory was too surprised to refuse.
“You keep the towels in the same place, right?” Tate padded to the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on the floor.
He thought about following Tate, thought about asking him what he was doing here, but then turned and went to sit in the living room instead. Whatever it was, he would hear Tate out. He would apologize, they would both agree he was an asshole, and then it would be done. Over.
Tate joined him a few minutes later, shirtless, scrubbing a towel over his hair. He sat opposite Rory and stared at him. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Why?” Tate asked.
Rory shook his head and shrugged. “I just . . . I just can’t stay here. Not after everything.”
“Where else is there to go?” Tate asked. He dropped the towel onto his lap. “Nobody knows better than me how flawed this place is, but at least the air is clean here. I know that sounds dumb, but when I went back to Tophet . . . Shit, I could hardly breathe for my first few days in the city. What sort of place is that to raise a child?”
“You’d rather raise her in the place that put a chip in your head?”
“I’ll kill any fucker who touches her,” Tate said, his tone even. “But there won’t be any more chips. Things will be different. I was going to tell every politician and judge in Beulah to go fuck themselves, but what good would that do Emmy? She can go to school here. She can go to the park. She can have a better life here than anything we could give her on the outside. She’s four, Rory, and she’s already been hungry too many times in her life.”
Rory put his head in his hands. “Shit. You’re right. I’m sorry. I have no right to shame you for choosing to live here.”
“Anyway,” Tate
said, “they told me you were going to help restructure the justice system or something, and I figured that would be good. I figured at least there’d be someone I could trust overseeing things. Someone who’d give me the nod if it was about to go to shit. And then I come here, and it turns out you’re packing.”
Someone he could . . . trust? He sighed. “Why did you come here, Tate?”
Tate looked at the floor. “Mostly I didn’t want to hang around the court waiting for the verdict, you know?”
“Yeah. Me neither.” Rory’s jaw wobbled, and his lip trembled. “But why come here? I’m just as bad as him.”
“Don’t be a fucking idiot, man.”
That shocked him. The Tate Rory remembered, the one under the influence of the chip, would never speak so harshly. It stung, and then it felt warm and sweet, and he smiled. “Whoa, don’t treat me like porcelain or anything.”
Tate rolled his eyes and grinned. “Yeah, I know you’re being sarcastic, but that was actually me sugarcoating it, just so you know. For future reference.”
Future?
Tate balled up the towel and dropped it on the floor. For some reason, that made Rory want to laugh. Tate leaned forward. “Listen, you’re not like him. You were nice to me, and you didn’t know.”
“It doesn’t matter if—”
“Shut up,” Tate said. “It matters. Of course it matters. Jesus, Rory, I wasn’t just pretending to want it. I did want it. More than oxygen.” He wrinkled his nose and flushed. “You want to know why I came here today? Because a part of me is shit-scared that Lowell will find some way to weasel out of this still, and I wanted to be with a friend just in case that happens. And you’re just about my only friend here, Rory. Those times we sat on the couch and watched movies together . . . That’s when I was happy here. Happy for real, not just because of the chip.”
“Tate, I—” Rory swallowed thickly. “That means a lot to me, it does. Your forgiveness or your pardon or whatever means a lot. But I can’t be friends with you.”
“What?”
Rory twisted his hands. Forced himself to look Tate in the eye. “I’m in love with you, Tate.” There. That was that. “And yeah, I like you, too, but I can’t be friends with you and just hang out and shoot the shit and be buddy-buddy knowing you’ve got a wife and a kid at home. Maybe if all this hadn’t happened, if we hadn’t s-slept together, we could be friends and I could adjust to seeing you with a woman—or anyone other than me, I guess. But not now.”
Tate’s jaw dropped.
Rory smiled slightly. Yeah, so Tate would probably help him pack after that admission. He looked away.
“Rory?” Tate cleared his throat. “I don’t have a wife. Paula and I . . . We were only together for a little while. And not for a long time now. We were terrible together. A disaster. You know, we enabled each other, we fought all the time . . . I’m happy she’s sober now, ecstatic, and so glad that the both of us can raise Emmy together as coparents. But we’re not a couple. We’re not together.”
“Oh.” Rory’s face burned, and he tried for a self-deprecating smile. Maybe there was something he could salvage here after all. If not a friendship, than at least he could be honest. “That, um, that probably shouldn’t make me feel better, right?”
Tate stared at him intently. “Don’t do that. Don’t make fun of yourself.”
“I’m not. I’m really not.” Rory sucked in a shocked breath as Tate slid off his couch and landed on his knees on the floor. “What are you doing?”
Tate’s face was bright with embarrassment. “Making you notice me.”
“I don’t . . .” Rory murmured as Tate began to close the distance between them, shuffling on his knees. His damp jeans squeaked on the floor. “You don’t . . .”
Tate lifted his hands and put them on Rory’s knees. “I told you weeks ago we weren’t done.” He briefly dropped his gaze to Rory’s crotch. “I want to try this with no fucking chip in my skull. Just us this time.” He tapped the back of his neck, just below his hairline. “Just us.”
Rory exhaled slowly. He opened his mouth to tell Tate exactly why this was a bad idea, but those words stuck. Instead he said, “Not on the floor, Tate. Don’t be on your knees.”
Tate smiled and nodded. He bit his lip as he stood. “So where do you want me, then?”
His wording made Rory wince, but it seemed like a bad idea to point out why. “Just there’s fine,” he replied. He shifted forward on the couch, then reached out, taking the wet denim of Tate’s fly in hand. He popped the button. Pulled down the zipper. Reached in with one hand, resting his palm against the hard line of Tate’s dick inside his underwear. Hard. He was hard. Rory looked up at him. Tate’s eyes were half-closed, his head was thrown back, and he was biting his lip again. “Tell me if there’s anything you don’t like. Or you need me to stop or slow down or—”
“I’m not going to let you rape me. Relax, Rory. I appreciate that you care, I do, but can we try to have this not be completely weird?”
Rory flushed in shame. “Y-yeah.”
“Good boy. How about instead of talking, you do some sucking?” Tate tilted his hips forward, the movement a little jerky. Nervous, maybe, but his stare was challenging. “Hurry up then!”
Heat coiled in Rory’s stomach. Tate had never snapped at him under the influence of the chip, and he’d never talked dirty this way—forceful, dominant—before, either. Turned out, Rory liked it. A lot.
He pulled down the elastic of Tate’s waistband until his cock sprung free, so dark and thick and perfectly curved, then took the base of it in hand, holding it steady so he could give the tip a little sucking kiss.
“F-fuck,” Tate exclaimed.
“Still like it?” Rory asked with what he hoped was a twinkle in his eyes. Tried to make it sound at least a little sexy so that Tate didn’t get mad at him for checking again if he still wanted to do this.
“Yeah!” Tate’s chest rose and fell quickly. “I mean, it’s okay.”
Rory snorted and leaned in again. This time he closed his mouth around the head of Tate’s cock and flicked his tongue against the slit. Tate moaned, and his hips jerked again. Rory was just about to get into the rhythm of things when the thought hit him. He pulled off abruptly. “Are you gonna want to top? I mean, because when you— The chip—”
Tate shook his head. Jerked himself off absently as he spoke. “I thought about that, but you know, I want to do it the same as we were doing. To see if I like it for real. Gotta tell you, whenever I have a wet dream, it’s always your cock inside me.”
“Jesus,” Rory whispered, shivering. He wondered if Tate had called out his name in his dreams.
“I think I’ll still like it.”
“If you don’t, we can try it the other way,” Rory offered quickly.
Tate flashed him a smile. “Next time.” He shifted forward, straddling Rory’s thighs. Arching his back to thrust his cock forward. “Fuck me, man. Come on.”
Rory reached up for him and tugged his face down for a kiss. Tate’s breath was hot. Rory pressed their lips together, and Tate opened his mouth. Their tongues touched, and Rory felt a shiver run through Tate.
Tate drew back and laughed a little breathlessly. “Did you pack the lube yet? This kissing shit is nice, but it’s for schoolgirls.”
“Bedroom,” Rory said. Tate slid off him as he rose to his feet. Rory curled his fingers around Tate’s wrist and pulled him to the bedroom with him.
He was so different. So different. Rory still felt the same love for him, the same affection, but it was like meeting him all over again.
And it was exciting.
Tate peeled off his wet jeans and sprawled naked on the bed. If he was still nervous, he was better at hiding it. His cock was dark and hard, and he curled his fingers around it and tugged gently as Rory undressed.
He toed his shoes off and pulled his shirt over his head. He hesitated when he reached for the button on his fly.
“What?” Tate asked k
eenly.
Rory looked at him, lying there, unashamed and wanting this. He shoved his pants down. “I don’t know. I’m just really tired of wondering how I fucked things up so badly. And I don’t want to make that mistake again.”
“This,” Tate said, “is not a mistake. Just us, Rory.” He drew a deep breath. “Get the lube.”
Rory closed his eyes briefly. He just had to ask, one more time. Just had to know. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Tate’s voice didn’t waver. “Do it.”
Rory got the lube.
Tate wasn’t gay, but he definitely wasn’t straight, either. He knew that now, looking at Rory, looking at the masculine lines of his body, his fat dick, his big hands. He wasn’t straight, and he wanted Rory inside of him.
Now. No, not even now. Ten fucking minutes ago. And he wasn’t going to let Rory’s nervousness, or his own, derail this. He stretched on the bed, trying to remember how he should relax the muscles in his ass and worrying that he’d forgotten. But then maybe riding a guy was just like riding a bike: you never forgot how to do it. Mostly he wanted Rory closer, because lying here naked and pretending like he was completely cool and relaxed was fucking excruciating. He wanted to lose himself in sensation. He wanted to touch and be touched. He wanted to feel less exposed. Wanted to know, for sure, that this was what he wanted.
He drew his legs up as Rory approached the bed. Planted the soles of his feet on Rory’s comforter and tried to remember how to breathe.
“You know,” Rory said with a laugh, clambering up his body. “It’s different. You’re different. Before, you were . . . needy. Desperate. But you know, this time, you’re . . .” He spoke through dramatically gritted teeth, “Fucking impatient, Jesus!”
Just like that, all his tension and fear and anticipation crashed into pieces, and Tate laughed. Laughed hard, and suddenly Rory was laughing too. He tensed up for a second when he felt the press of Rory’s finger against his ass, but only for a second. Then Rory’s finger breached him gently, and Tate sighed. Yeah. This was what he wanted. He shifted to allow Rory easier access and relaxed into the sensation. It felt good.
