Hush

by Tal Bauer

  And, why? Why, with such an amazing day, an amazing dinner date, was this happening now? What had he done? What had he said? What had driven Mike away, had made him change his mind?

  Jesus, had he been too forward? Was Mike turned off by how enthusiastic he’d been, how much he wanted Mike? That was ludicrous. But he’d asked to slow down, and the very next day, Tom had bounded up his steps like he was certain Mike was about to drill him through his mattress.

  And Mike had refused.

  Had Mike just been humoring him through the weekend? Had he ever really said anything about Tom being who he wanted? He’d never actually said that, had he? He’d kissed Tom, yes. But had he ever said he wanted Tom?

  He stared at the stained tile of the Metro, the chipped plastic seats. He was pathetic. He couldn’t see what was right in front of his face. Couldn’t see when a man was humoring him, making him feel a little rush, a little excitement, before the inevitable end.

  He’d known it would end like this. He’d known. He just hadn’t expected the dinner, Rock Creek Park, and the kisses before the end. It would have been better to have never tasted Mike’s kiss, never held his hand.

  Swiping his phone on once more, Tom flicked to his gallery. He rocked and rolled, his body loose and swaying over the rumbling tracks, the screech of the subway. Four photos were right on top of the roll, four photos from Rock Creek Park. Him and Etta Mae, him looking happier than he’d been in a long, long time.

  Him and Mike, side by side, but with about a foot between their heads. Etta Mae’s nose poked up into the bottom of the frame. She was jealous she wasn’t the center of the photo.

  Him and Mike, their cheeks pressed together. His joyous smile, his eyes sliding sideways, gazing beatifically at Mike.

  Mike kissing his cheek. The way he looked like his own heart had burst. It had.

  Would Mike delete these photos, too, like he’d deleted his ex’s?

  What would he do with them?

  Welcome back to gay life. Heartbreak, lost boyfriends, and unanswered texts. It used to be unanswered phone calls, but twenty-five years was a millennium to technology. Peter had disappeared like this, vanishing from his life after he sank into his post-professor depression. No more phone calls, no more nights spent together, just sudden, aching silence.

  He really should have kept in contact with Doug. Maybe he’d dig out Steven’s business card, try and grab a drink with him. Not at the Tap Room, though. He couldn’t go back there, risk running into Mike.

  The thought of trying to find another man was just depressing. More rejection, more kisses that went nowhere. Would he want to hop into bed so quickly with another man? Would he want Steven to take him to bed like he wanted Mike to? Would he burn as brightly for his touch? He suspected not.

  Maybe he should just forget this whole thing. Maybe he’d dodged a bullet. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. Maybe he should turn around and close his closet door. He’d done twenty-five years of this already. What was another twenty-five?

  The subway screeched and ground over the tracks, and finally reached Foggy Bottom. He trudged to the street and then up the block, heading for home. Etta Mae met him at the door, happy tail wags and wet kisses, leaping up on him as if she could somehow reach him and wrap her short paws around his neck. He always told her not to jump, but today, he needed it.

  He dropped to his knees and wrapped her up, and her short, stubby paws draped over his shoulders. Her wet nose pushed against his cheek, his nose, ruffled his hair. She licked his ear, his face, his neck, and her squat body wriggled beneath his hands. Her jumping up was like a bus doing a wheelie, and she pushed most of her not inconsiderable weight against him.

  Tom held on, burying his face in her soft fur. “Sorry, Etta Mae. I don’t think Mike’s coming back to see you again.”

  The tears started to fall.

  He drifted through Tuesday, pouring his focus into his work. He shut his door, retreating from the openness he had fostered over the past two months. There was no need to listen for Mike’s footfalls, or try and catch his smile.

  Remarkably, he managed to speed through two of the opinions he needed to finish and rule on three motions. He sent them all to Peggy and Danny for final drafting and review and then turned to the research he needed to dig into, prep work on case law, precedent, and the pre-trial proceedings for a trial due to begin in two weeks.

  Silence, perfect, heavy silence, encased his day. No texts. No knocks. No smiles. When he did venture out of his chambers, he spotted Mike’s dark and closed office. Avoidance, pure and simple.

  He left for Georgetown early, stopping to grab a sandwich on the way. He ate half and saved the rest. His appetite had fled.

  His students were polite, but they could tell he was off. One young woman wished him well after class. As he was packing up, Tom rifled through his briefcase, but couldn’t find his phone. Damn it. He’d left it in his drawer, back at court. He’d banished the thing, trying to escape its dreary pull. Confirming Mike’s continued absence of texts only shredded his heart more, turning his insides to ribbons. He’d put it away, and then forgot about it.

  He could leave it. Forget about the damn thing overnight. But, would he sleep? What if Mike did text him, and he didn’t respond? And, he really should be reachable at all times. He was a judge. Emergencies that woke him in the middle of the night did happen. Few and far between, but they were there. An emergency warrant, breaking news from the Hill, or information from the White House. With his luck, tonight would be the night he was needed, and his phone, if he didn’t go back, would be ringing and ringing in his desk drawer.

  He headed back. The Annex was lit up like a spaceship, gleaming white marble and smooth lines. The American flag flapped in her floodlight, snapping in the summer night breeze. No one was inside the Annex except for a few late-night workaholic AUSAs and the cleaning crew. He said hello to Miguel and Rachel as they cleaned and headed up the stairs. He’d been a late-night work addict once, before Etta Mae. He’d said hello to Miguel and Rachel every night when they passed through, cleaning around him like he was a potted plant.

  The fourth floor was dim, the lights turned down at night. But, at the end of the long, secured hallway, light poured from the tiny marshal’s office.

  Mike.

  Don’t do it. Don’t go there.

  Who was he kidding? Tom grabbed his phone—no texts—and padded to Mike’s open door. He stopped just outside the doorframe and tried to smile. He failed, miserably.

  Mike looked up and froze.

  God, Mike looked awful. Dark bags beneath his eyes, long stubble, like he hadn’t shaved since Sunday. His suit was rumpled. He never looked like that, so out of sorts and off. Even after his ex had thrown coffee at him, Mike hadn’t looked that bad.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were teaching.”

  So Mike had been avoiding him. Coming to the courthouse when he thought Tom would for sure be gone. Ouch. His heart flinched. “Left my phone on accident. Thought it might be important that I had it.”

  Mike’s gaze flicked back to his computer monitor. His jaw clenched, and Tom watched the muscles in his jaw bulge. “I’ll drive you home.”

  He wanted to be a bigger man, tell Mike not to bother, but the thought of spending just a few minutes at Mike’s side was too alluring. Silently, he waited for Mike to grab his keys and his phone and shut down his computer.

  Walking out together was terrible, nothing like their sojourns for dinner or drinks when they’d been happy and relaxed, chatting or laughing. A tuning fork would have sung an opera between them, rung and rung and rung. Mike kept ahead of him, not looking at Tom. Tom hung in his shadow, staring at Mike’s dark figure.

  Mike had parked his marshal’s car at the curb, in police-only parking. He normally took the Metro to and from the courthouse and kept his marshal-issued undercover cruiser parked in the courthouse garage. But, with him avoiding the courthouse, and Tom, it seemed he’d pulled it o
ut.

  The drive was deathly silent. Strained. Mike kept his eyes glued to the road and both his hands on the wheel. Tom clutched his briefcase in his lap, the only armor he had to protect his heart. I guess this answers my question. Well, part of his question. The why, the motive, was still unaccounted for, but like many crimes, he figured he’d never truly know. In any event. the motive rarely mattered, except to plead for extenuating circumstances. It was only the outcome that meant anything.

  Mike pulled up to the curb outside Tom’s home. He looked down. Said nothing.

  Guess it was all up to him. “I’d invite you in, but…”

  Mike’s jaw clenched. His eyes shut.

  “But, I take it that’s not going to happen again. Ever.”

  Mike looked away, out the driver’s side window.

  The why didn’t really matter. What was done was done. Mike had come to a decision, for some reason. Nothing Tom said or did could change that. After nineteen years as a prosecutor, he’d learned that much, at least. People did what they did and believed in their own actions. The only thing he could truly do was accept it. “Whatever happened, I’m sorry, Mike. I honestly never expected anything. I knew I wasn’t your type. I shouldn’t have…” He sighed. “I’m sorry that this has ended our friendship. I really, really do think you’re great.” He swallowed hard. Don’t tear up. Don’t tear up, God.

  He was going to survive this, survive this car ride, survive Mike. He’d survived everything else; he’d get through this, too. “You’re going to make some guy the happiest man on the planet someday. He’s a lucky man.”

  Mike’s hands gripped the steering wheel, squeezing so hard the leather squeaked. Groaned.

  Time to go. He got out, his mind a blur, and he barely managed to hold onto his briefcase and not trip over the curb. He shut the car door and turned, staring at Mike.

  What now? A hundred words tried to climb up his throat, tried to push free from his mouth, but he swallowed them all down.

  Mike jerked the car into gear, yanked the wheel over, and burned rubber as he sped into the street. His tires squealed, and he disappeared down the block in seconds.

  Goodbye.

  Chapter 15

  June 24th

  Tom drank a full bottle of wine Tuesday night and stared at the pictures of him and Mike in Rock Creek Park until his eyes finally slipped closed after two AM. His alarm went off way, way too early, and his head ached as he downed four cups of water. God, his mouth felt like something had died in it.

  Part of him wanted to call in sick and wallow, but another part of him, the part that had pushed him forward for twenty-five years, moved him through his routine. Got him showered and dressed and out the door after feeding Etta Mae. Etta Mae was grumpy, snorting at him when he gave her a goodbye kiss. She hadn’t liked being kept up past her bedtime, and she was going to drool on his couch all day as revenge.

  He was at the gym just a few minutes off his usual time, and then into the pool. Swimming helped calm his nerves, soothe his rattled heart. Routine, normalcy. His life moving on.

  At the Annex, Mike’s door was shut again, but that was to be expected. He shut his own and settled in to work. What was done was done. He needed to move past Mike, past his failed crush. That started today.

  So he was more than a little surprised when, just after four PM, knocks sounded on his door and Mike poked his head into his office.

  Tom’s jaw dropped.

  Mike didn’t wait for an invitation. He barged in and shut the door behind him.

  God, he looked terrible, even worse than the night before. Like he hadn’t slept, not at all, since the weekend. He looked like Etta Mae, all blotchy-red hangdog eyes and droopy skin. Tom stood slowly, speechless.

  “Nothing happened, Tom,” Mike said in a rush. “I’m just afraid.”

  He found his brain, but his mouth refused to work. “Afraid?” he echoed

  “Tom…” Mike screwed up his face and turned away, burying his face in his hands. “God,” he groaned, behind his fingers. He faced Tom again, breathing hard. Raw, naked pain leached from every pore. “I fell for you, Tom. I fell so fucking hard for you. You are my fairy tale. You’re everything, Jesus, everything that I’ve ever wanted. Ever dreamed of. But you’re so out of my league. You’re kind, way, way smarter than everyone, and so damn hot. Why are you even interested in me? You’re perfect. Totally perfect. But—”

  The bottom fell out of Tom’s world.

  Mike’s breath shuddered. “But… you’re my fairy tale, and you’re just coming out. You’re just giving yourself permission to be you.” Slowly, Mike stepped forward, as if drawn to Tom. “If we continue, I’m going to fall even more for you. If we keep going. If we…” His jaw trembled. “And I’m afraid you will want something different. You’re going to want to date other guys. Live the life you were denied. Have fun, like you should have been allowed to. You can’t know who you want to be with forever yet because you haven’t had the chance to look, the chance to live. I’m afraid you’re going to want something simple. Something casual. And I’m going to want everything.” He swallowed. “Everything, ever after, with you, and you alone. You’re going to break me, Tom.” He cringed, and his face twisted, his lips pressed together, his eyes squeezed shut.

  Tom opened and shut his mouth, and then opened and shut it again. A tornado raged in his heart, in his soul. Too many thoughts, too many words, clamoring for freedom. But, in the center of himself, conviction. Conviction, and certainty, a certainty he so rarely ever felt. Certainty was not something that was a part of his life. His was a life of measures, of going beyond a reasonable doubt, of just enough evidence to sway. Certainty was a rare, precious thing.

  “I know who I want,” he breathed. Like the same magnetic force that had pulled Mike to him, he was pulled to Mike. “I know exactly who I want. Who I have fallen for. And…” He tried to smile. “He’s not my first guy.”

  Mike reared back. He blinked, and then blinked again.

  “I had a boyfriend in college. And, much later, after I fell for this great guy who I knew I had no chance with, I decided to try and open up a bit. I’ve been on GrindMe. Crash and burned on GrindMe, actually.” He chuckled. “I met some men on Spark. We talked. But they all had the same problem.”

  Mike looked like Tom had smacked him with a two-by-four, had driven a car right into his gut.

  “None of the men were you. You are the man I want.”

  “Tom…”

  “I want this. I want to try. I want to try for everything with you. I can’t read the future. I can’t promise you it will work out, that it’s together forever before we even give it a chance, but… let’s try… us.”

  It was Mike’s turn to struggle for words, to struggle for something to say. His chin quivered. “If we… if we sleep together—”

  Tom cupped Mike’s cheek, stroking over his stubble. He traced Mike’s face with his gaze, mapping his exhaustion, his fears, his hopes, all written in the lines of his face and the panicked brightness of his eyes. “Come home with me,” he whispered. “Tonight.”

  Mike’s eyes fluttered closed, and he breathed out, his whole body shaking. He nodded.

  There was no way any work was happening for either of them after that. Tom grabbed his jacket and briefcase as Mike closed up his office. Silently, they met in the hallway and headed down the central stairs together. Mike kept stealing wide-eyed glances at Tom, his lips parted, breathing fast through his mouth.

  They headed for the secured parking garage where judges, U.S. Attorneys, and federal agents parked. Two security guards were smoking near a rattling box fan, and they nodded as Mike guided him toward his car.

  As soon as the car doors shut, Mike lunged across the center console and grabbed Tom, wrapping his hands around Tom’s face and tugging him close. His kiss was hungry, desperate, and Mike whimpered when Tom kissed back, equally as needy. Tom’s hands drifted down, smoothing over Mike’s chest, down and around his ribs. His finge
rs bumped into Mike’s shoulder holster, the heavy weight of his gun.

  If they kept kissing, Tom was going to rip Mike’s shirt from his suit pants and haul him into the back seat. They’d never make it home.

  Shuddering, Mike jerked back, panting as he gripped the steering wheel.

  If Tom chased him, leaned over and kissed him again, they were going to have sex in Mike’s car, in the basement of the courthouse.

  Breathing hard, Tom leaned away, curling over his lap.

  “Not here,” Mike grunted. His voice was two octaves deeper than normal, grinding and growling over each letter. He blinked, put the car in gear, and burned rubber as he pulled out of the garage. On the street, Mike switched his dashboard emergency flashers on, strobing red and blue lights screaming as the siren wailed. Once, Tom had been part of a trial where the FBI agent on the stand had been shredded as a credible witness because he’d had a disciplinary letter in his file, a reprimand for using his police sirens for personal use, avoiding traffic and getting around the city faster. It was a big no-no to misuse the emergency sirens. But getting home, getting hands on each other, finally being together—yeah, okay, that was an emergency.

  It seemed to take forever, but eventually, Mike squealed to a stop outside Tom’s old Victorian. They tumbled from the car and raced up the steps. Tom’s hands shook as he fumbled with the key in the front door. Mike hovered behind him, his hands on Tom’s waist, breathing in Tom’s hair, nuzzling just behind his ear. Tom groaned and wilted against his front door.

  And then, they were inside. Etta Mae came trotting over, and then ran when she saw Mike. Tail wagging, she leaped up, trying to get his full attention.

  Mike stumbled against the front door, off-balance from Etta Mae and blindsided by her jump. “Etta Mae, down.” Tom pulled her back, swatting her rump, and pointed to the kitchen. “Go.”

  Etta Mae stayed exactly where she was, gazing up at them, tail wagging. She didn’t jump, at least.