Welcome to Blissville

by Walker, Aimee Nicole

  “Thanks, Sunshine,” he said softly when I sat beside him. He accepted the beer and took a long drink. “Fuck, what a day.”

  “You were in such a good mood,” I said, running my fingers through his silky, dark hair that still needed a trim.

  “Sometimes, you fucking hate the answers when you find them, Sunshine. Fucking hate them. You start to question everything you know and everything you ever believed.” I’d never heard Gabe sound so distraught and it worried me. I knew he’d tell me when he was ready so I continued to massage his scalp and wait while he drank his beer. “Prosecutor Buxton needed us to find a motive for Broadman. She wanted hardcore evidence and not supposition so that she could get a confession out of Broadman rather than go to trial.”

  “You guys already tried to get a confession, right?” I asked, a little confused.

  “Yeah, but a prosecuting attorney has a lot more clout than a cop,” Gabe said. “She wanted enough evidence to threaten him with the death penalty. We had a meeting about it last week and came up with a reasonable motive for the crimes that Broadman committed. Proving it wasn’t going to be easy. We needed a miracle.”

  “And you got it,” I said, “but sort of wish you hadn’t.”

  “We were right, it was all about the land,” Gabe told me. “He knew the casino wasn’t going to happen the first time around but worried that it would the second time, especially with a new player.”

  “Nate?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Broadman hired the son of his childhood friend to try and scare Nate away from buying the land. He couldn’t be too specific about his threats for fear that Spizer, who had introduced the two men during a conference call, might get suspicious. This kid was busted for hacking into his college computers to change his grades, and his family hired Broadman—an old friend—to get him out of trouble. That bastard put a bullet in the kid’s head once he was no longer useful, Josh. He was only twenty years old.”

  “I’m so sorry, Gabe.” He didn’t acknowledge me, so I wasn’t sure he even heard me. Then he squeezed my thigh, and I knew he was just processing what to say next.

  “He killed Robertson because he figured it was just a matter of time before he sold the land to someone else. First, it was going to be a subdivision until Broadman convinced the older man that his nephews were going to get paid bonuses from the deal. Robertson backed out. He figured that was the end of it, but no, the casino deal was next. He decided not to take a chance and killed that elderly man then burned his house down in hopes that we didn’t find the letter from that Larkin guy from McCarren Consortium.”

  “What about Spizer?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t willing to risk Spizer piecing the puzzle together and sending him to prison once the farmer’s death was ruled a homicide. He went to his old friend’s house and killed him, but dressed it up to look like a suicide. I know why Broadman wanted Spizer to write the confession, but I don’t know why Spizer agreed to do it. He had to know he was going to die anyway so why hurt his wife even more?”

  “Maybe he was hoping to buy time and prayed for a miracle,” I offered.

  “Maybe,” Gabe said, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. “I think it was more like he truly felt responsible since he was the one who introduced Broadman and Nate. His note said he was responsible for their deaths, not that he killed them. Broadman probably assured him that no one else would get hurt. Maybe he even threatened to harm Spizer’s wife if he didn’t go along with it. Either way, Broadman talked him into writing that note then killed him.”

  “Sounds like you got your confession, Gabe.”

  “Yeah, I did, but not until after I had the rug ripped out from beneath my feet.” Gabe shook his head as if he still didn’t comprehend it all. “No matter how many times I connected the dots, there was always one part that didn’t make sense to me. Nate said that his harassment increased once he went to the police about the threats. Why? How’d the person harassing him know that he went to the police? Was he followed? Did the hacker also implant a virus that let him track Nate’s email communications? Or worse?”

  “Worse?” I asked because what could be… “Oh.”

  “I didn’t want to believe it, Sunshine. I asked Sergeant Dawkins to cross-reference phone numbers on the victim’s call logs to see if I could prove that Broadman was contacting them on a burner phone. He wasn’t calling them from his home, office, or known cell phone, so we suspected that he found an alternative method to contact them. Dorchester, Whitworth, and I all went to stores that sold phones and prepaid minutes to try and find a witness that could confirm our theory. None of us found the right store or the right clerk, so we thought we struck out,” Gabe said dazedly.

  “But Sonia didn’t strike out, did she?” I asked. She’d always been a girl with a sharp brain and IT skills to match.

  “She isolated the burner number and obtained a warrant for the records while we were out in the field. She ran all the phone numbers, and one came back as the cell phone for a Cincinnati police officer.” Gabe was staring sightlessly across the room, his eyes not focusing on anything as his brain struggled to comprehend. He’d once told me there was nothing worse than a dirty cop. I could tell his disappointment was on a personal level.

  “Paul?” I asked. His only answer was a brief nod.

  Gabe blinked a few times then turned his head to look at me. “Captain Reardon contacted Internal Affairs, and he was brought in for questioning. Paul said he had no knowledge of Broadman’s intentions when he passed along the information confirming that Nate had filed harassment charges with the police department. Broadman and Paul met and hooked up a few times at Nate’s club and had gotten chummy after Nate and Broadman first met regarding the casino. He said he knew nothing else about the situation, but I’m not sure I believe him.”

  “Wow,” I said, not believing it either.

  “In light of the evidence against him, Broadman accepted a plea deal to avoid death row,” Gabe told me. “It’s finally over and Nate Turner, Owen Smithson, Lawrence Robertson, and Rick Spizer will have justice.”

  “I’m so sorry about Paul, Gabe.” There was a part of me that was glad he was out of the picture, but it was teeny. “Thank you for trusting me with the story before it was released to the public.”

  “Um,” he said softly. “You haven’t had the television on, have you?”

  “No, why?”

  “It already broke an hour ago on the news. I figured you would’ve seen it while you were watching your segment on the news,” Gabe said with a crooked smile. I pinched him hard enough to make him yelp. “I realized my mistake once I got home,” he said, rubbing his aching skin.

  “I don’t watch my segments,” I scoffed. “How much of a diva do you think I am?” Gabe smiled for the first time that night. I was so relieved to see it that I almost let him off the hook. “I can’t believe you acted like I was getting some advance scoop with your ‘I shouldn’t talk about it’ speech.”

  “I said that I shouldn’t, not that I couldn’t,” Gabe clarified.

  “Oh God!” I exclaimed dramatically. “You know what this means?” I asked. “Another Internal Affairs interrogation if they find out about your fling with Paul! How will I go out in public?”

  “It was one time,” Gabe groused, “not a fling.”

  Later, I’d fuss over him and do my damnedest to make it all better, but right then he needed to be jerked back to reality. Our reality, where everything was fair game. My IA remark was exactly the wisecrack he needed because, in spite of all the heartache and disappointment he felt, Gabe looked at me like I was the brightest spot in his world, reminding me that I was his sunshine.

  It was amazing how quickly things moved when you had some money and a bit of notoriety—well, Josh had both; I just had some money. He disagreed, of course, and pointed out that several newspapers ran articles about the case and had used my image in the photos. “Above the fold is big shit in the newspaper world,” Josh to
ld me, reminding me of his years working for the local paper while in high school. In addition to print articles, there had been several news broadcasts and even some interviews with me. “I’m not the only one with a face the camera loves,” Josh had said.

  I scoffed at him, but I was grateful we got our finances situated to accomplish owning both properties as painlessly as possible. It happened in a matter of weeks. On July 4th, we sat on the balcony of our second-story bedroom and watched the fireworks explode in the night sky. For such a small community, they set off an impressive number of fireworks in a field behind the high school at the edge of town.

  The only thing more beautiful than seeing the fireworks burst in the sky was the orgasm face Josh made after I pulled him into our bedroom, pushed him against the wall, and fucked him hard until we had explosions of our own. Afterward, I lowered us to the floor and held him tight, loving the feeling of still being inside of him with his arms and legs still clinging to me like he couldn’t stand to let me go.

  We kissed long and tenderly, and I touched him everywhere my hands could reach until my dick hardened again. Josh pushed me to my back and loved me slow and gentle. He never took his eyes from mine, not even when his climax hit him, which was solid proof of how far he’d come in less than a year. He didn’t want to hide his emotions and thoughts from me anymore; he opened his heart, body, and soul to me. I was the luckiest man on the planet to have found him.

  During our financial planning meetings, we made sure certain funds would be available to renovate the home and make it truly ours, as well as remodel our former living space into a tranquil spa area for the salon. Within the next month, Josh was hardcore renovating the mansion. In reality, it wasn’t a mansion; it was just a really large house built on three or four plots so that it occupied a large corner of the block.

  “We need to call our new home something besides ‘the mansion’ or ‘Georgia’s mansion,’” Josh said one day when we were looking at fabric swatches for curtains. I wasn’t even surprised when he spoke my private thoughts out loud since it happened so frequently. To be clear, Josh was looking at fabric swatches, and I was trying to check my phone for updates on the baseball game discreetly. “Gabe,” Josh said in resignation, “just play the game on the MLB at-bat app so Marty and the Cowboy can keep you posted on what’s going on with the game. I know that you don’t want to look at these curtain swatches, baby. I just want you to feel like this is our home, which means I don’t want fabrics or furniture that you think are fussy.”

  “Can I be honest with you, Sunshine?” I asked. The mildly annoyed look he threw me was comical. “None of that stuff matters to me. Guys have been saying this since the first cavewoman—or caveman,” I added so he knew that I didn’t apply gender roles to decorating, “rearranged rocks to sit on to better see the landscape or dragged in sticks to make their cave more festive. Some guys care a lot and others couldn’t care less what they sit on or where. There’s only one thing I want to see in this home every single day, and that’s you.” I leaned down and dotted his forehead with a kiss. “I know this is important to you, so I’m making the effort like when we went to the Reds game last week.” Of course, Josh spent most of the time staring at the first baseman’s ass the entire game. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice for him.

  “And you want to be rewarded handsomely later,” Josh added.

  “You wound me, Sunshine. Truly.” I could tell he wasn’t buying it. “Since when do I have to perform parlor tricks to get laid anyway? Whatever happened to ‘you just need to keep breathing, Gabe’? I seem to recall you saying those words to me not that long ago.”

  “It’s still very true,” Josh said, but a bit absently as he returned his focus to the swatches. The doorbell rang, and I got up to answer it. “Don’t get shot,” Josh called out from behind me.

  “Funny man,” I muttered under my breath before I opened the front door.

  “Mr. Roman?” the delivery man asked.

  “Not yet, but he’s here too.” I looked over my shoulder and hollered, “Sunshine, you have a furniture delivery.”

  “It’s the porch furniture,” he yelled back. “Just have them unwrap it out there, and I’ll set it up when I get done.”

  “Okay.” I looked at the sweaty delivery man who looked a little confused that two men were buying furniture together. “You heard the man,” I said, nudging him. “Put it on the porch, unwrap it, and we’ll take it from there.”

  The man nodded silently and returned to where his partner was waiting for him at the back of the truck to help unload. They talked amongst themselves for a minute, and I could tell by the other guy’s wide-eyed expression that the guy who came to the door was telling his coworker that they were delivering furniture to a gay couple, although the term used to describe us was probably more colorful, derogatory, or both. In my head, I started thinking of them as Dumb and Dumber because our situation seemed to be more than their simple minds could comprehend. I gave them a cutesy finger wave when they both turned and looked at me once Dumb finished telling Dumber about the situation.

  They at least had the decency to at least look embarrassed at being caught. I turned and went back to Josh so the idiots could unload the furniture and get the fuck off my property. “Not Mr. Roman, yet?” Josh asked when I reached him.

  “You heard that?” I asked.

  “I’m fine-tuning my hearing in preparation to become a father to your heathen kids,” he said, never looking away from his task. “I can’t wait to see what the furniture looks like once it’s set up.” Remodeling progressed at a fast pace once they handed us the keys. There were only a few minor things that needed to be fixed before we moved in. Josh wanted the space completed and ready to go so that we had one place in our lives free of chaos. “I can tell you what it won’t look like; there will be no dark wicker furniture with blue and gray striped cushions,” he said, referencing the furniture Emory described in his premonition.

  “That’s for sure,” I agreed. We bought white wicker furniture with solid teal cushions, and watercolor printed accent pillows. I didn’t think that I was in any real danger, but why borrow trouble? “Let’s talk about names while we figure out what curtains you–we–want to hang up in our new home. The house needs a new name, and so do we.”

  “You don’t want us to keep the names given at birth?” Josh asked. He seemed surprised. “It’s the name printed on your diploma, your employee records, and the thick file IA has on you. I’m kind of surprised you want to go through all the hassle to change your name.”

  I ignored his IA jab and went straight to the heart of the issue. “You don’t want to change your name?” I asked, and yes, I sounded a little disappointed. I couldn’t disguise the fact that I wanted my name attached to Josh, I wanted it all.

  Josh shrugged. “It’s one of many things that I never gave much thought to before you came along. I never saw myself getting married or having children, so I didn’t waste time or energy thinking about those two things,” he said casually.

  “And now?” I asked

  Josh put down the fabric swatch he was looking at and gave me his full attention. “And now I want to share every part of my life with you and want the same in return. I think we should hyphenate our names like all the cool kids do these days.”

  “Like I add your last name onto mine and you do the same with yours?” I asked.

  “Mr. Roman-Wyatt and Mr. Wyatt-Roman,” Josh said, then tipped his head and pursed his lip as he considered it. “Too busy,” he said. “It’s like someone going crazy with stripes and florals in their design.” He acted like his statement should clarify things for me. Josh could tell that I wasn’t getting it, so he explained further. “You can have a mix of florals and stripes, but one needs to act as the primary, and one needs to act as the complementary accent. Otherwise your poor eyes don’t know where to focus. Our names need to be the same, so we’re either both Roman-Wyatt or Wyatt-Roman. You decide, Gabe.”

  “Me? Why
do I have to be the one to decide?” I asked.

  “Because I have a million other decisions to make on the house design then the salon remodel, and let’s not forget that little thing called a wedding that is taking place in six weeks!” His pitch rose an octave higher with each word spoken.

  I threw my hands up in surrender. “Roman-Wyatt it is,” I announced. Then I smiled because it was truly going to happen. I looked back down at the swatches on the work table set in the middle of the living room. “I don’t like this busy number right here,” I said, hoping that he found it helpful if I told him the things that I didn’t like.

  “Yeah, that wasn’t a contender and was in the pile of ‘no way’ swatches. These,” he gestured to the five other stacks of fabric, “are the contenders. Would you please go through them and tell me which ones offend you as much as that paisley print did?”

  I tried, I honestly did, but after a while, they all started looking alike. Oh my God! How many shades of brown, gray, and blue are there? I ruled several out that I wouldn’t line the bottom of Diva’s cat litter box with let alone hang from a wall or use on a pillow.

  “Why don’t you go check to make sure they delivered all the furniture I ordered. I think I’d like to have dinner out there tonight before we go back to the salon.” We’d already started to refer to the other house as the salon and our new one as home. “Think up a name for our house while you’re at it since it’s not a mansion and Georgia isn’t living with us, or at least I don’t think she is,” Josh added. I snapped my fingers and held one up as the name occurred to me. “Something besides Charlotte,” he called after me.

  I walked out on the porch with a smile on my face because he was on to me. That smile slid off my face as I stared in shock at the furniture they delivered. “Fuck!” I knew Josh was going to see that dark wicker furniture with the blue and gray striped cushions and freak the fuck out. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”