The Rational Faculty (Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Book 1)

by Gregory Ashe

  Hazard couldn’t seem to catch his breath. A dull heat ran up both arms, through his shoulders, the way he felt after a good workout. His mind turned automatically to calculations: calorie expenditures; muscle groups involved; where did smashing sinks fit into the ideal workout plan. And, a cool voice in his head noted, stress reduction. Maybe this could be a new exercise fad.

  Water ran over his bare feet, and Hazard flinched. When he looked up, Somers was standing in the doorway, his face a flat, empty mask. Hazard held Somers’s gaze for a moment and then dropped the sledgehammer.

  “There,” Hazard said. “Fixed it.”

  It was almost nothing; Somers gave a single, tiny shake of his head. Then he picked his way through the wreckage, found the shut-off, and turned the water off. He wiped his hand on his leg. When he spoke, he was looking over Hazard’s shoulder, and his voice was surprisingly even.

  “I don’t want to share a bed with you tonight.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll go to my parents’.”

  “No, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  Something winged through Somers’s face at those words, but after a moment, he nodded. The last sound between the two men, maybe the last sound in the universe, were the splashes as he made his way out of the room. Hazard let him go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  NOVEMBER 5

  MONDAY

  9:12 AM

  THANK GOD, SOMERS THOUGHT from his desk in the bullpen, today was a Monday.

  Not that today had been a good day. He had slept a few hours between fits of rage—why was Emery Hazard, above all else, such a raging asshole?—and fits of self-recrimination—why had Somers said such stupid things? Why had he kept going with the beer? Why hadn’t he just let it all go?

  He had gotten up before dawn, dressed in the dark, and crept downstairs. It had all been pointless; the sofa was empty, the house was empty, the garage was empty. Hazard was gone.

  The last few hours at the station had been pointless too. Somers had gone through paperwork. He had read inventories from Jesse Clark’s apartment and Lena Brigaud’s office and home. Several times he had gotten up, made his way to the evidence room, and forgotten, halfway there, what he was going to look at.

  A bottle of water came down on the desk in front of Somers. Then another. Then two ibuprofen. Then coffee in a fancy takeout cup slightly smaller than an oil tanker. Then a paper bag, translucent with grease, that smelled like heaven.

  “You,” Dulac said, dropping into the other desk, “look like shit.”

  Somers nodded and reached for the coffee.

  “Water first,” Dulac said. “Both bottles. With the ibuprofen.”

  Somers nodded again; he felt like he’d drained a swimming pool when he’d finished, but he did it.

  “Beefer used to look like this. Like you do, I mean.”

  Somers couldn’t take it anymore. He laid his head on the desk.

  “He was probably the best frat bro I ever had, if you wanted to have fun,” Dulac continued, his voice thoughtful. “I mean, that dude was drunk 24/7. And he really couldn’t hold his drink. He’d be pissing and shitting himself every night if we didn’t keep an eye on him. I think we all realized it was a problem, but nobody could really put it into words. We were too young, I guess. And it was fucking hilarious sometimes. Like, once, Beefer had a girlfriend, which was totally unreal, but he did, and she put up with all his drinking, and she even cleaned him up a couple of times when he got really bad. And you know what?”

  “I’ve got a really bad headache.”

  “Ah, man, I forgot what a pussy you are,” Dulac said with a grin. “I was going to tell you that this girl, Beefer’s girlfriend, she ruffled feathers. She complained about us like we were the ones who were supposed to keep Beefer in line. She said we were enablers. She said we didn’t really care about Beefer. Made a lot of the guys really mad, of course, and so they bitched and bitched and bitched. A lot of them, right to Beefer’s face. And one night, when he was wasted, he laid into that girl. Called her every bad name you could think of. Told her she was ruining his life. You know. And that was it; she was done. I never saw her again, and I don’t think Beefer did either.” Dulac sipped his coffee, his dark eyes thoughtful as they studied Somers. “You know what?”

  “I think I drank too much water.”

  “Beefer’s dead. Drank himself to death. He was twenty-three.”

  “God,” Somers said, turning his face into the desk, soaking up the cool of the particleboard. “That’s an awful story.”

  “Nah, I’m just kidding. He did AA and now he’s the store manager for a Marshall’s in Lexington. But he did fuck up his life.”

  Somers squeezed his eyes shut. “Why are you talking right now?”

  “Because I think you need to know—”

  “Listen: I appreciate the water. And the ibuprofen. And assuming I don’t throw up, I’m going to appreciate the coffee and the donuts even more.”

  “It’s a breakfast sandwich.”

  “But I don’t need a motivational speech. I’m not an alcoholic.” Somers lifted his head long enough to give Dulac a look. “I just have this hobby of fucking up my life.”

  Dulac didn’t say anything, and after a moment, Somers laid his head back on the desk.

  “See,” Dulac said. “The thing is—”

  Somers groaned.

  “—I wasn’t just telling you about Beefer because I think you might be abusing alcohol. I mean, dude, you’re not even in the same league as Beefer. What did you have last night? Like, a couple of beers? I guess at your age—”

  Somers brought his head up, and whatever was on his face made Dulac stop and swallow.

  “I just mean,” Dulac said, “I was trying to tell you about Beefer’s girl.”

  “It’s like being trapped in one of those god awful Van Wilder movies,” Somers said to no one in particular. “It’s like that, only it’s going to last for the foreseeable future.”

  “Come on,” Dulac said, flashing that ultra-innocent smile. “I know what it looks like when a guy fights with his boyfriend.”

  “We didn’t have a fight.”

  Dulac drank some more coffee.

  “Ok,” Somers said. “We had a huge fight.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  And for some reason, Somers told him. All of it. Maybe it was because Dulac had that smile like he could steal a pie off a widow’s windowsill and lie straight to the pastor’s face about it. Maybe it was because whatever Somers told him, it couldn’t be worse than hearing another story about Beefer. Maybe it was just because Dulac was a good listener, and Somers had a hangover, and he polished off the breakfast sandwich before he’d even realized he was eating it.

  When Somers had finished, Dulac shrugged and said, “I knew you were a pussy.”

  “What?”

  “You. Are. A. Pussy. Kind of a big one, actually. I mean, you’re totally boss when it comes to being police—”

  “Thank you, I guess.”

  “—but you’re being a big pussy.”

  “How is that supposed to be helpful?”

  Dulac rolled his eyes; somehow, it was adorable in that freckled face. “You’ve never had a fight before? In any other relationship?”

  “You don’t understand; this is different. What he and I have, it’s different. And it’s fragile. And what I said to him, the way I—what are you doing?”

  Dulac had slid out of his sports coat. Now, kicking his feet up onto the desk, he pulled the coat over him like a blanket and closed his eyes.

  “Just wake me up when you’re done being a pussy.”

  Somers wanted to scream. He wondered what would happen if he screamed—really screamed, loud and long. Would they lock him up? A padded cell wouldn’t be so bad, as long as they didn’t let Dulac visit.

  “Fine,” Somers said.

  Dulac wriggled a little in his seat.

&n
bsp; “I said fine,” Somers said. “I’m done.”

  “Done what?”

  “Done being a . . .”

  Dulac didn’t open his eyes, but he did raise an eyebrow.

  “Oh fuck you. I’m done being a pussy.”

  “All right,” Dulac said, swinging his feet down, eyes bright as he shook off the coat. “So, you realize no matter how hot your boyfriend is, it’s still just a relationship. No matter how fucking awesome your tragically doomed backstory—”

  “Ok, ok. I get it.”

  Dulac grinned. “So what do you do when you get in a fight?”

  “Usually, I manage to make things worse,” Somers said, rubbing his temples. “Ask my ex-wife. But I guess I should handle this like an adult. I’ll go home, apologize, take responsibility for my part, explain how I feel and why I acted the way I did. We’ll talk through it.”

  The whole time Somers was speaking, Dulac nodded. When he finished, though, Dulac gave a single shake of his head. “Fuck no.”

  “What?”

  “Fuck no. Don’t do any of that. That all sounds fucking terrible.”

  “I need to apologize—”

  “Yeah, yeah, fine. Whatever. Say whatever you’ve got to say. But the whole point of a fight is the make-up sex after.”

  Somers wanted to squeeze his eyes shut. He settled for shaking his head. “Oh my God. You’re smart sometimes and then you are really stupid.”

  “Am I? The only thing your big, brooding boyfriend wants right now is for both of you to mumble whatever shit you have to mumble and then for you to wreck him. Like, totally, truly wreck him. Own him. Wreck him so he can’t walk for a month. Or maybe he wants to wreck you. Or you guys wreck each other.” Dulac’s fallen-angel smile came out again. “Hey, speaking of which, which one of you tops—”

  “Nope.”

  “I mean, it’s just sex, man. I’ll tell you about me. I like to top when the guy—”

  “Nope.” Somers pushed back from the desk, the casters on his chair gliding over the linoleum. He grabbed his jacket and headed toward the door. “Call your frat brother while I’m gone. See if he found out anything.”

  “No joy, man. He already texted me and told me he’s got nothing.”

  “Damn. Well, it was worth a shot.” As Somers passed Dulac’s desk, he said, “How long was your longest relationship?”

  “What? Why?”

  “How long?”

  “Three months, I guess. That was the guy I was going to tell you about. He loved it when I—”

  “Figured,” Somers said, rapping on Dulac’s desk to get his attention. “You’ve got to do the apologizing right, Gray. And you’ve got to mean it. Then you wreck him. Otherwise, it all goes to shit in the end.”

  “Uh huh,” Dulac said doubtfully.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “The case—”

  “The case isn’t going anywhere; I’m worried my boyfriend might be.”

  Somers walked the short distance home; he didn’t trust himself to drive, not with the jitters this bad. He had to curl his hands into fists and stuff them inside his pockets. He had to walk slightly bent forward. He felt like he was shivering, but he couldn’t tell if he really was. Like maybe he was running a low-grade fever, because the day felt so cold and clear. When he raised his head too quickly, he felt like he had walked inside a prism: a sky of glass, sunlight splitting and multiplying until he had to close his eyes to keep from being sick.

  He opened the garage with the keypad and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the Odyssey parked inside. He let himself into the kitchen. No dirty dishes. No lingering smell of onions or bacon. He made his way through the main floor, wriggling out of his jacket because now he was hot, sweat stinging across his chest and under his arms. He let the jacket fall on the stairs and yanked on his collar, finally managing to undo the button. It didn’t help; something still choked him, making it impossible to breathe.

  But the bedroom was empty, and the bed was made.

  Somers had almost convinced himself that Hazard was just out for a run, that he would be back any minute. He dried his palms on his trousers and thought about going downstairs, watching TV, something cool to drink in his hand. Not a beer. He scrubbed his hands on his trousers again. A beer would just make everything worse, wouldn’t it? Or maybe—or maybe just one. To take the edge off.

  Then a dull thud went through the house, a sound that worked its way through the floor and up Somers’s legs. A moment later, he heard the distinctive sound of Hazard swearing.

  Somers followed his own trail through the house. His imagination ran ahead of him. Downstairs, he knew he’d find that the situation had escalated. For all Somers knew, Hazard had gone out and bought a pneumatic drill and was breaking up every inch of concrete in the basement. Or maybe he’d fired up the chainsaw and was cutting through the framing. Or maybe he was being old fashioned and sticking with the sledgehammer. Somers would go downstairs and find him bare chested, soaked in sweat, gypsum dust glued to his skin and turning his hair white. A roil of desire and fear turned in Somers’s gut.

  When he got to the bottom of the basement stairs, the door to the utility room was open. From inside came another crash, and then Hazard’s voice. Somers followed it until he stood in the doorway.

  “Son a fucking bitch fuck cocksucking asswipe fucker bitch dickhole piece of shit.”

  Somers had been wrong.

  Hazard wore a simple work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of old jeans that Somers thought he had tossed out, and boots—the kind with the steel toe. His long dark hair was held back with a rubber band, and he was kneeling, examining where the water line came out of the wall. The plastic shards from the utility sink were gone, and one side of the utility room was full of boxes now.

  Hazard did, however, have the sledgehammer. Somers had been right about that much.

  “Son of a fucking jackass dick-munching shit-faced—”

  “This is probably how Mrs. Shakespeare felt when she heard her husband working.”

  Hazard straightened and turned around. His big hands were clenched at his sides, and Somers watched as Hazard tried to force himself to be calm.

  “Her name was—”

  “Anne Hathaway.” Somers offered a lopsided grin; it was the best he had. “I went to college too, remember.”

  “I remember,” Hazard said.

  Somewhere in the house, something ticked, a sound like metal contracting.

  “I really hate what I did last night,” Hazard said, his gaze dropping. “I hate that side of me. I hate the way I treated you.”

  This was familiar Emery Hazard territory for Somers: lots of self-hate. Miles and miles of it.

  And then Hazard did something that surprised Somers, something they’d talked about, worked on, but that would probably never come naturally to him. He looked up. The soft gold of his eyes was made softer under a wet sheen. “I’m sorry. For what I did last night. For the way I treated you. I am really sorry.”

  “It’s ok.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It’s ok. I was the asshole. I’m sorry for what I said. I never should have said any of those things.”

  “No.” Hazard shook his head. “I’m glad you did. You needed to say them. And I needed to hear them.” His big hands were curling up again, the knuckles popping out under tight skin. “I know I’m not police anymore. I know I—” Then he stopped, working his jaw soundlessly.

  “Ree, it’s ok. It’s really ok. I shouldn’t have—”

  “I want to say something. Please let me say this, ok? It’s hard for me to talk about myself. To talk about a lot of things, I guess.” His jaw worked again, a silent struggle. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. No, that’s a fucking lie; I’m just a fucking coward. I know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been losing my mind ever since I stopped working. I’ve been, I don’t know, depressed I guess. It sounds
so fucking stupid out loud, and it doesn’t even really feel like the right word, but I’ve been in this place, this place without anything bright or good except you, and I feel like every day I go a little deeper and you’re a little farther away.” He cleared his throat. “It’s fucked up everything, really. My sleep—I know you know; you don’t have to say anything. And it’s fucked up my body. I touch you, and I want to feel the way I always feel, but sometimes—I don’t know. It’s like a wire is crossed. Or the fuse burned out. It’s not about you, John, I swear to God. I read that article you left me; I know I said I didn’t, but I did. And it explained a lot of what’s going on, and I don’t want you to ever think this is about you. It’s going on inside my head, and I didn’t know how to tell you, didn’t know how to . . . get out of it, I guess.”

  Somers was crying now, and he wiped his cheeks. He crossed the room, picking his way over cardboard boxes and a tool chest and a length of PEX tubing, and crashed into Hazard at something pretty close to the speed of sound. Hazard rocked back, but his arms came around Somers, drawing him close. Somers cried harder. He knew he was soaking Hazard’s shirt. He knew he was starting to get snotty from all the tears. He knew he was being ridiculous because Hazard was the one who was suffering, Hazard should have been crying. But Somers couldn’t seem to turn it off. The tears just came harder and faster until he was shaking, until he could hear himself, sounding hysterical, almost unhinged. It got so bad that Hazard had to help them both sit down, and then Hazard held Somers against him, letting Somers sob until, finally, the worst of it seemed to pass.

  “God,” Somers said when he could breathe. He wiped his face on Hazard’s chest and realized what he was doing. “God, your shirt, I’m sorry.”

  Hazard ran a hand through Somers’s hair, then again, and then the same hand down the side of Somers’s face, where Somers could feel the heat and stickiness from the tears.

  “I knew,” Somers said. “I knew, and I didn’t fucking do anything. Oh Jesus, I knew, and I wanted to do something, I needed to do something, but I couldn’t. Ree, I’m so sorry. I am so sorry. I should have—”