Bonds of Love

by Snyder, J. M.

  The cop’s smile turned disarming. “You always seem to be in the right place at the right time.”

  Her thoughts flashed through Vic’s mind like grease on a frying pan—The guys at the precinct call you Superman. The almost star-struck way she watched him made him think she liked the nickname. Vic tried to shrug her off. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  She pointed at his chest with her pen—the tip touched the frayed threads of one bullet hole. “I’d say. Witnesses tell me you took three shots to the chest.”

  Waving her pen aside, Vic assured her, “I’m fine.”

  “You’re saying he missed?” she asked. “All three times? He stood right in front of you, Mr. Braunson. What’s with these holes?”

  “Moths?” At her slight frown, Vic shook his head. “Look, I don’t know what happened, all right? That’s the truth. But I’m not the one with the gun here, lady. We just came in for a Slurpee. I’m not the one you should be after.”

  Too late, the cop realized her mistake. “No one’s ‘after’ you, Mr. Braunson—”

  “Then can I go?” Vic asked. Sensing an end to the conversation, Matt took a step away from the cop but Vic held his ground. “Because some of us have to work tomorrow.”

  She seemed determined to detain him, but after a long moment, she nodded once, curt. “Fine. That’s all for now, Mr. Braunson. But if we have anything further—”

  “I’m sure you know where I live.”

  This time when Matt tugged at his waist, Vic let his lover lead him to the front of the store. The cop watched them make their way through the other officers, but she didn’t stop them. Vic suspected she had a file on him down at the precinct, and for all he knew, the police probably drove past his apartment on a routine basis, just to check up on him. The fact that she knew his name when he hadn’t bothered to give it to her unnerved him, as did that Superman comment—even if she only thought it. No one besides Matt knew about the powers, and Vic wanted to keep it that way if he could. If anyone else knew or even suspected…

  He shook his head as if to clear that thought away. No one else needed to know.

  * * * *

  With Matt’s help, Vic managed to shove through the crowd of reporters to the car. A few cameras flashed, but Vic kept his head down. In the darkness, the flashing lights from the police cars only added to the confusion; in the midst of it, Vic backed out of the parking lot and drove away. He got as far as third gear before Matt grabbed his hand off the gear shaft to hold it in his lap. Even when the transmission groaned, Matt refused to let go. They drove the rest of the way home in silence, the car crawling along empty streets at just over thirty-five miles an hour.

  In front of the building where they shared an apartment, Vic pulled to a stop. As the engine ticked into the night, cooling down, they sat on opposite sides of the car, each lost in his own thoughts. Twice Vic turned to Matt, wanting to say something, anything, to disperse the solitude embracing them. Both times he turned away, unable to find any words that might make things better between them.

  Finally, Vic gave Matt’s hand a slight squeeze. Into the night around them, he murmured, “I love you, Matty.”

  One glistening tear coursed down his lover’s dusky cheek. When Vic reached over to brush it away, Matt shoved the passenger side door open and stumbled out onto the sidewalk. “Don’t,” he warned.

  Vic hurried from the car to follow Matt upstairs. His lover stayed ahead of him, just out of reach. At the top of the stairs inside their building Matt sped up, taking the last few steps two at a time to widen the space between them. By the time Vic reached the landing, Matt was already inside their apartment, the door not quite shut in his wake.

  When Vic closed the door behind him quietly, Matt stormed out of the kitchen, eyes wild with anger and fear. “Just what the fuck were you thinking back there?” he demanded.

  Here it was then, Matt’s concern masked in that pissy attitude that he got whenever the powers put Vic in danger. Gently, Vic started, “Matty, look—”

  But Matt was more scared than Vic had ever seen him before—hell, he was terrified, and Vic couldn’t say he blamed him. “Don’t pull this shit,” Matt said, shaking Vic’s argument away. “You deliberately confronted that punk. What, did you think he wouldn’t shoot? Didn’t you think the gun was loaded? Did you know you were…what, bulletproof?”

  When Vic reached for him, Matt turned away. ::Don’t be like this,:: Vic chided.

  Even in his mind, Matt held him off. Instead of a reply, Vic got an image of himself seen through Matt’s eyes as the bullets hit him, one by one. His arms jerked with the impact of each bullet, then his body fell to the floor like nothing more than a slab of meat. He heard the sound his head made when it cracked against the tiled floor. Fear stabbed through him, Matt’s fear, ripping through him in a breathless, anxious cry that tore from his throat to escape into the night. Before Vic could say anything, the scene replayed itself, again and again. “Matt,” he sighed, suddenly exhausted. This time when he reached out, his lover didn’t move away and Vic wrapped his arms around Matt’s shoulders to hug him close. Against the back of his neck, Vic murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Did you know?” Matt choked out. Covering his face with one hand, he sighed, a shaky sound that made Vic’s knees weak to hear it. “That you were…that he—”

  Vic kissed the soft skin just below Matt’s curls. “No.”

  With an anguished sob, Matt wanted to know, “Then why?”

  Holding him close, Vic opened his mind so Matt would feel the emotions behind his response, the love that had forced him to stand tall when everyone else fell to the floor. “You dropped those cups,” Vic reminded him, “and he pulled the gun. All I could think was that he’d aim for you first. Because you were moving around, trying to pick up those damn cups. If he shot you over something as stupid as that…”

  Vic’s voice trailed off, but into Matt’s mind, he whispered, ::I couldn’t bear to lose you.::

  “What about me?” Matt struggled to hold back tears; one escaped to trickle down his cheek and dampen Vic’s shoulder. “How would I live without you, Vic? Tell me that. How the hell would I go on after watching you gunned down?”

  Vic had no answer. Nuzzling his lover’s neck, he admitted, “I thought he wouldn’t have the guts to shoot. I wanted to distract him until I got close enough to grab the gun, maybe knock him over the head or something, sit on him until the police came. I would’ve crushed him if he hadn’t pulled the trigger, and you know it.”

  Matt’s humorless laugh told Vic that he was close to letting his anger go. Speaking low, the words barely audible, he mused, “Fucking bulletproof.”

  “Fucking something,” Vic agreed, half kidding. “Maybe it doesn’t stop there. Maybe this time you made me invincible. Bullets bounce off me, knives can’t break my skin…” He trailed off, leaving the possibilities open.

  But Matt shook his head, adamant. “Oh, no, mister. No experiments, you hear me? If you even so much as look at a knife, I’ll hurt you myself. If I have to tie you down to the bed—”

  Kissing the tender skin behind Matt’s ear, Vic whispered, “I thought you’d never suggest it.”

  * * * *

  There were three bruises on Vic’s chest, dark black spots like hickeys where the bullets had hit. As he shrugged out of his shirt, Matt ran his hand over the discolored flesh, then kissed each one as if that alone made everything better. Then his lips closed over one ruddy nipple and Vic gasped. His shirt dropped to the floor, the faint rustle of fabric followed by a smattering of sound, like coins falling to the floor at his feet. “Sounds like I hit the jackpot,” Matt said, kneeling to see what Vic had dropped.

  He picked up three thick metal disks from the carpet and held them out for Vic. “I think I found your bullets.”

  Taking them from Matt, Vic frowned at the flat, silver slugs. They had gone through his shirt to strike his chest, then flattened against his skin. He couldn’t help but wonder, was it j
ust bullets though? He imagined a knife stabbing at him only to break off at the hilt, or totaling his car and walking away without a scratch. No paper cuts, no shaving nicks, no injuries of any kind. That might be a handy power to have.

  As Vic studied the bullets, insistent hands unbuckled his belt, then unzipped his jeans. Gentle fingers probed into his open fly to strum over the start of an erection hidden in his briefs. Matt’s touch brought a slow smile to Vic’s face. “Indestructible,” he said out loud. “What do you think of that?”

  Plucking at the waistband of his briefs, Matt eased the material down to expose the bulbous tip of Vic’s hardening dick. He kissed the spongy cockhead, then licked down the sensitive slit, his tongue warm and wet. At Vic’s sharp intake of breath, Matt teased, “I think I can bring you to your knees.”

  “Every man has his weakness,” Vic started, but whatever else he wanted to say was lost as Matt suckled on his swollen glans. Passion flared between them, igniting their mental connection and setting them both aflame with desire and a sudden sexual energy that fanned their love. Vic fisted his hands in Matt’s cottony curls, and his lover tugged his briefs down farther to take his full length into an eager, willing mouth.

  * * * *

  Chapter 4

  The next morning Vic woke to an empty bed—Matt’s day at the gym usually started early, and with Vic’s double shifts in the summer, they rarely saw much of each other in the mornings. Sometimes when Vic felt that wild super energy coursing through him, begging for release, he’d join Matt at the gym for a few laps around the pool or, better yet, bench press a couple thousand pounds until he started to draw a crowd. When asked, he blamed the energy on steroids, which earned him more than a few laughs. Let people think what they would, Vic didn’t care. He wasn’t about to tell them the truth.

  Who’d believe him anyway?

  As he climbed out of bed, aches and pains from the night before ambushed him—he felt sore all over, and the three bruises on his chest beat in time with his heart. A lingering headache clung to the base of his neck. In the dawn’s light, Vic thought perhaps being bulletproof wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Why couldn’t he have drawn something more useful, like an advanced healing power, or something? So the bullets would’ve hit him and his body would’ve regenerated itself, and he wouldn’t feel like a decrepit old man the next day.

  Gingerly, he stood and stretched, listening to his various joints pop from disuse. Tiny flashes of discomfort shot through him at random. Though he had to be at work in an hour’s time, Vic wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and let the heavy covers hide him away from the rest of the world.

  Tempting as that was, Vic forced himself to stumble to the bathroom. There he leaned beside the full-length mirror on the wall and studied his naked body—the hairless chest now bruised and tender, the thick band of muscle across his abdomen that hadn’t yet begun to turn to flab, the semi-erect cock that jutted like a red handle from his shaved crotch. There was another bruise across his shoulders, probably from hitting the ground when he fell, and his tailbone hurt as well. Next time he wouldn’t go down like a sack of flour; he’d stand tall, take the hits. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel like shit the next day.

  This isn’t happening again. Bulletproof or not, the next time someone pulled a gun on his ass, he’d hit the deck, no questions asked. He’d cover Matt with his body if he had to. Why he hadn’t bother to do that last night…

  He shook the thought away. Hell, he was lucky to have a next day, and a tonight, and a tomorrow to look forward to. Quickly he used the toilet, then splashed cold water from the tap onto his face and scalp. The icy spray was bracing—it took his breath away and woke him up at the same time. Snagging his robe from where it hung on the back of the door, he tugged it on and used the flannel sleeves to dry his face. Refreshed, he cinched the robe around his waist and followed the faint scent of fresh coffee into the kitchen, where Matt had left the coffeepot on for him.

  The front page of the newspaper hung on the refrigerator door. Vic glanced at it, disinterested, then realized it was the morning paper and took a closer look. An image took up most of the page, a composite of four different pictures that Vic recognized as grainy shots from a security camera. With a dull sense of dread, he realized the camera must have come from the 7-11 last night.

  In the first frame, Vic saw the back of his head as he faced off against the gunman and his friend. The quality of the picture was horrible—he couldn’t make out any features on either guy, but there was no mistaking his own bald head and stout neck. The second frame showed a lick of flame from the gun, and Vic’s body was angled back, obviously hit. By the third frame, Vic was supine on the ground with someone huddled over him—had to be Matt. Frame four showed him sitting up, Matt’s arms wrapped tight around his shoulders in a relieved embrace.

  Beneath the image, the caption named the store’s location on Broad Street and the one assailant in custody when the paper went to print. Matt’s name was mentioned, and underlined with red pen. The same ink had been used to draw a line from the fourth frame of the photo to the margin, where Matt wrote in his thick, blocky scrawl, My Hero! The period on the exclamation point was drawn into a heart. Under that, Vic’s lover had added, They spelled my name wrong. Where are you?

  Vic looked at the caption again. Matthew diLorenza, an “a” instead of an “o,” nothing major. At least he’d been given a name…Vic read through the short article and didn’t see his own, not once. The reporter called him simply “an unidentified male who, rumor has it, works for the City’s transportation department.” Later, he was referenced again: “According to several eyewitness accounts, the City worker stood up to the robbers and was struck by a hail of bullets.”

  Three, Vic amended. Hardly what he’d call a hail. And City worker wasn’t exactly how he wished to go down in history. Couldn’t they have at least found out his first name? The article continued… “According to police reports, the gunman missed. Security footage, above, shows that the would-be hero fell when shot at, then sat up and later walked away without any serious consequences.”

  The word hero was circled in a red heart—Matt’s handiwork again. Vic thought it unusual that the police gave out Matt’s name but not his own, when the female officer he spoke with last night had known who he was. Superman, she’d thought of him, as erroneous as that was—Vic’s powers came from his lover, not the yellow sun, and he wasn’t some super demigod from a distant planet. He came from Washington D.C., an odd place to be sure, but nothing alien. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he reread the article again and decided that the cop must’ve left out his name to protect his identity, for whatever reason. He could read between the lines and see that the cops interviewed knew more than they admitted.

  But why?

  * * * *

  Despite the fact that he wasn’t called out in the paper, Vic felt as if he were on display the moment he stepped outside. Keeping his head down, he hurried to his car and refused to look around, just in case any reporters or police lay in wait. Once behind the wheel of his car, the door slammed shut beside him, Vic closed his eyes and let his mind expand beyond the confines of his skull, a trick he’d picked up while learning to master his telepathic powers. His thoughts skipped over the minds of those around him, just glancing at things that didn’t concern him as he searched for someone who might be thinking of him.

  A handful of kids playing with a basketball at the end of the block didn’t even bother to notice him. An elderly woman, distrustful, watched him as she watered scorched flowers wilting on her stoop, but she just wanted him to drive off already. Farther up the street, a young man dozed behind the wheel of his own car—Vic lingered, probing deeper into the sleeping mind, but the guy’s girlfriend had thrown him out the night before and he was catching a quick nap before he had to start his shift at the coffee shop on the corner. Nothing suspicious about that.

  You’re just being paranoid, Vic chided himself as he started the
car. The paper didn’t even mention you. No one cares that you deflected those bullets because no one knows, and no one’s waiting to jump on you for comment because you’re old news. Let’s face it—Matt’s the only one who thinks you’re a hero. Isn’t that the way it should be?

  Vic glanced in the mirror before he pulled away from the curb, and gave his reflection a curt nod. Was Bruce Wayne this worked up when he went out in public after appearing in the news as Batman? Did Clark Kent worry this much about being found out? Vic hadn’t read a comic book since his stint as a teenager years ago, but the superheroes of his youth had always seemed so confident. Maybe that developed over time?

  Vic only felt sure of himself with Matt. Without him, the day stretched out ahead of Vic, and the thought of being with his lover this evening glistened at the end of his work shift like a distant promise. As he eased the car into the flow of traffic, his thoughts drifted to when he’d see Matt again.

  * * * *

  Vic worked for the City as a bus driver. Nothing glamorous, but it paid the bills and put food on the table. For most of the year, he drove a steady route through downtown Richmond, circling around the Civil War statues on Monument Avenue and navigating through the traffic that clogged Broad Street during rush hour. But in the summertime, with a number of other drivers looking for a few weeks off to hit the beaches before their children had to be back in school, Vic took on a second shift to cover those out on vacation. Sixteen hour days cut into the free time he liked to spend at the gym, but the extra cash that the overtime brought in was worth the double route. As long as he held Matt every night, he didn’t much care how he spent the rest of the day.

  The City garage was south of the James River, and far enough off the interstate that the cars lining the narrow dirt road looked suspicious as hell. Vic ducked down in the driver’s seat and kept his gaze straight ahead, but he still saw the letters painted on the cars and vans as he drove past—call letters for various local stations, television and radio both, damn it. He didn’t even have to reach out with his mind to read the buzz-hungry thoughts of the reporters and cameramen just waiting for a glimpse of…well, of him.