High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  Beck slid open the nightstand drawer, pulled out the new prescription, twisted the lid off, and spilled the contents in his palm. Narcotic pain medication—thirty pills.

  He counted out fifteen, stuck them in an empty unmarked vial, and put it in his shaving kit, then capped the bottle and tossed it back into the drawer. With the ache in his shoulder and back, a hot tub sounded pretty good. Zach naked, his skin glistening with silky water, hands moving over his body…

  Damn. He hadn’t fooled around this much since college. He finished packing, zipped the bag, and set it in the closet. Donning the shoulder holster took a minute, followed by gingerly shrugging into his leather jacket. On the way out the door, he flipped off the light.

  Now for the hard part.

  * * * *

  Zach let himself into Beck’s apartment. Tempting as it was to get a cushy hotel room, staying here in the privacy of the apartment sounded better. Who needed a hot tub and room service? The apartment had a bed, a shower, and a kitchen, and that’s all they needed. Mostly the bed.

  The talk with Marybeth shouldn’t take long; Beck would be back within the hour.

  In the meantime, Zach’d get cleaned up, wait to either congratulate or commiserate, depending on how Marybeth took the news. Either way, the items he’d bought should be cause for celebration. He dumped the contents of the unmarked brown paper bag on the bed: ultrathin condoms, flavored lube, and a couple of toys. That ought to keep them busy all night.

  Grinning, he pulled open the drawer of the bedside table to stow the supplies, and a prescription bottle rolled into sight. Zach’s gut tensed. It was none of his business if Beck took prescription meds. After all he’d endured the past few months, antidepressants weren’t out of the question.

  But these looked too big to be an antidepressant. These looked like horse pills. A surreal sense of déjà vu lifted the hairs on his neck. These looked like pain meds.

  No. Don’t read the label. Don’t. You’ll fuck up everything.

  In slow motion, he rolled the amber bottle in his palm. The pills clicked quietly against the plastic vial, shifting. He squinted at the label. John Stryker. Tylenol #3, thirty tabs, a new script filled two days ago. It was months past the shooting, and Beck was back on active duty. On field duty, damn it. Maybe he hadn’t even used the script. In bed, they’d both been careful of aggravating the injury. On the other hand, no one manned up like Beck, working through the pain and taking ibuprofen.

  With horrified fascination, Zach poured the pills into his hand and counted. Fifteen, out of a script for thirty. A little narcotic off duty here and there was one thing. This wasn’t in the same ballpark. Took a pretty good tolerance to take fifteen doses in two days and not become comatose. He sank onto the bed, funneled the pills back into the vial, and replaced it in the drawer.

  Didn’t Beck care about his career? The man had a gun, for God’s sake.

  Damn it, Beck. What were you thinking?

  Memory got Zach’s stomach in a vise. Not forty-eight hours ago he’d relived the memories of Dean’s addiction. Now the whole downward spiral threatened to cycle through again, pulling Zach into its vortex. No way in hell he’d do the whole controlled-substances scenario with Beck.

  He stared at himself in the mirror. Like an idiot, he’d fallen for Beck. The thought echoed through his mind. Fallen? As in…love? Littman, you idiot. How could he fall for yet another addict? No matter what, he refused to shepherd another lover through detox and Narcotics Anonymous, relapse, and rehab. He scrubbed his hands over his face. Discussing this with Beck wasn’t going to happen. The guy had a shrink. Zach snorted. Knowing how he felt about addiction, Beck hadn’t even bothered to hide the script.

  Zach had to get out of there.

  * * * *

  This couldn’t end well.

  Feathery flakes fell from the sky, melting on the windshield. Beck tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel as he waited for the light to turn green. On the phone, Marybeth had sounded curious—and sober, thank God. This wasn’t the sort of confession one made to an intoxicated listener. Hearing this might push her off the wagon. He hoped to hell she had a good sponsor. One who could keep his or her mouth shut.

  Marybeth had enough on her plate without hearing this. After all this time, she’d freak about the dinner dates, about this secret. Maybe she wouldn’t let him see the boys anymore. The best scenario would be acceptance. Either way, this would not be a stay-for-coffee Maxwell-House-moment kind of visit.

  This was nothing compared to what it would be at work. John Beckworth Stryker, first cop to come out in the robbery/homicide division. He snorted. Yeah. First and last. Probably end up in some small town, working security at the mall. My Brilliant Career, the Beck Stryker version.

  Zach had seemed fine with the plan, but if Beck didn’t follow through, would Zach issue an ultimatum? He’d be waiting at Beck’s apartment to hear whether he’d done the deed. At least Beck could tell him he’d made the first of the confessions. A little celebration might be in order. He put on his blinker and turned down the street toward the Halliday residence.

  Winter had turned the trees skeletal. Next door, Nance wrestled with some sort of Halloween lawn ornament. A monster? The man scowled like Frankenstein as Beck parked in Marybeth’s driveway. Despite the cold and light snow, Marybeth stood on the porch, wrapped up in Dan’s old winter coat. No smile, no wave.

  So much for bountiful optimism. And he needed the privacy of indoors for this conversation. In ten minutes nothing would be the same.

  As he psyched himself up for the impending confession, he swung the door open and stepped out of the car. In the icy night, he registered the aroma of the heater and his leather jacket, the tings of the engine as it cooled.

  Every detail demanded his attention, imprinting association with this discussion. The moisture of his breath formed white clouds, and he tasted snow in the air. Cold, overcast, silent. A hint of pine in the breeze. No bikes in the yard, no jostling boys. No choice but to do it.

  He plodded to the door like a death-row prisoner walking to his final destination. A millennium later he reached the steps. “Hey, Marybeth.”

  She squinted down at him but made no move to invite him inside. “Hello, Beck.”

  No hint of alcohol. The pumpkins weren’t on the porch, and the remnants of Mr. Hair Ball’s web floated on the lilac bush like ghostly streamers. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Where’re the kids?”

  “My mom took them for the night.” The smooth expression gave away nothing.

  “Oh.” So no last opportunity to see them if this was the end. It hurt, made his chest constrict, sent his heart through a wringer. Memories would have to do. He cleared his throat. “Uh, can we talk inside? It’s personal.” He jerked his head at Nance.

  God, this was like going to a suspect’s house and asking to come in. Except this time, he would be the one confessing.

  Marybeth shot a look at the neighbor and wrapped her arms more tightly around herself, engulfed in Danny’s coat. “Okay.”

  The door swung open on well-oiled hinges. A wall of warm air hit him, full of the familiar scent of the Halliday household.

  “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”

  He nodded, mouth as dry as the air inside.

  Marybeth kept the coat and settled in a kitchen chair near the back door. Suspects used that trick, sitting as far from the cops as possible. The emotional distance was bad enough. Instead of taking the chair opposite hers, he sank onto the one to her right. Okay. How should he begin?

  Impassive as an ice princess, Marybeth gazed at him, waiting.

  “I— How’re you doing?” God, he was such a coward. He grimaced. But how could he sit here and bare his soul to this woman?

  She looked at her lap. “If it’s about the psychologist, it’s okay.”

  Beck paused. Jay hadn’t wasted any time. The breath he didn’t know he’d been holding whooshed out of him. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I’m glad
you took the initiative.”

  Don’t get sidetracked. “I’m relieved to hear it, but that’s not it.”

  Marybeth’s brow wrinkled. “Then what?”

  “I have something to tell you. About me.” He rubbed his palms on his thighs, forced his gaze to stay on hers. “I…I’m… Shi—sheez.”

  “You’re sheez?” A smile crept out, softening her stern expression.

  “No.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and clenched his hands together. “God, this is so hard.”

  The smile faded, and she bit her lip. “Are you…sick?”

  “No.” Fuck. Just say it. “Marybeth, I’m gay.” The words flew out, leaving a hollow space in his chest.

  Her mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. The color drained from her face, and she clutched at Danny’s coat, fingers scrabbling on the canvas. The chair screeched as she pushed back.

  That look—like he was a stranger. Beck shut his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. This was a mistake. Commanding his eyes to open, he contemplated the floor. Stillness stretched like a filament between them, threatening to break and sever their friendship with the inevitable harsh words.

  How long had it been? Three seconds? Three minutes? Three lifetimes? The confession hung in the air. He coughed and managed to get air moving in and out of his lungs.

  Three words. Three more people gone from his life. Fucking three. He didn’t have to meet her gaze to get her reaction; the charged silence said it all. Shit.

  A fist squeezed inside his chest as he got to his feet. He dragged his gaze to hers. “I’ll go.”

  “No.” The word came out as a hoarse squeak.

  No denying what he’d said. “It’s true.”

  Marybeth’s hand shot out and grabbed his, her fingers cold and thin. “Don’t go.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He tugged at his hand, and she tightened her grip. For a small woman, she had a lot of strength.

  “Sit. Please.” The shocked surprise had settled into something else, something fierce.

  At least she wasn’t disgusted. He lowered himself to the chair facing her, and she pulled her hand away.

  “Did Dan know?” She chewed on her cheek.

  “Yeah. He did.” God, the honesty would kill him. Sorry, Danny.

  “Did everyone know but me?”

  “No. Only a couple of people. No one at work.” With one notable exception.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I…I couldn’t.”

  Marybeth’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  He concentrated on pressing his palms together. “After Dan wasn’t here, I didn’t know what to say. How to do it. Figured you’d be pissed.” He winced. “Uh, mad.”

  “All those women I invited for dinner, trying to get you a date.” She covered her eyes for a moment, then gazed at him. “I should’ve known something was up. God, I feel like an idiot.”

  Beck shook his head. “Don’t. You didn’t know. Dan wanted to tell you, but I asked him not to. It tore him up to keep it from you.”

  The quiet extended for an eternity. There it was, his biggest secret out on display, and Dan’s unwilling participation in keeping it hidden. No taking it back. He gripped the edge of the table. “He was a good partner, Marybeth. The best.” And damn, Beck missed him like he’d miss his right arm. “Believe me, Danny wanted you to know.”

  She seemed to think that over. Turning a sharp gaze on him, she said, “I’m not going to tell the boys. Not yet.”

  He nodded. He’d expected that. “I understand. Tell them good-bye for me.”

  “Good-bye? Are you leaving?”

  “If I can’t see them—”

  “Why wouldn’t you see them? They love you.”

  He paused. Where was the censorship he’d expected, the “bad influence” speech?

  All this time, he’d discounted the fact Marybeth and Dan had been a team. Dan had never judged—worried, yes, but he’d never shown Beck a hint of disgust or disowned him. Of course Marybeth would react like Dan. Heat moved into his cheeks. “God, Marybeth. I should’ve known you’d be okay with it. Fu—uh, jeez. I’m sorry.”

  “Guess I should’ve been inviting single guys to dinner.”

  “Danny said you’d say that.”

  A wry smile gave him the final reassurance he needed. “Don’t worry. My matchmaking days are over.”

  All Beck could do was pull her into a hug. He hadn’t lost a thing.

  * * * *

  Beck squinted at the stairwell. Empty, thank God. As he took the steps to his apartment, he felt lighter than he had in years. Marybeth didn’t hate him. Hiding his preference from her had weighed him down more than he’d realized. Now he was free. Zach had been right.

  Beck burst into the apartment, grinning as he brushed the snow from his hair. “Zach?”

  No answer. Quiet filled the space. A trace of lemon hung in the air, light and fresh, but no trace of Zach’s distinctive scent. Beck checked the bedroom. Huh. No one home, just a brown paper bag on the bed. Maybe he’d stepped out for a minute? Absently, Beck rubbed his shoulder.

  No note on the kitchen counter, the bathroom mirror, the pillow. An unpleasant premonition gripped his stomach in a vise. There must be a simple explanation. He pulled out his phone, dialed Zach. One ring, two, three… “C’mon, c’mon.”

  “Littman.”

  Thank God. “Hey. Did you get stuck?”

  “No.” No inflection, colder than a single polite syllable should be allowed to sound. The lack of background noise gave no hint about Zach’s location. Just…not here.

  Something had changed. In the ensuing silence, Beck’s heart sank into the acid bath filling his stomach. “Zach? What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t get involved with you.”

  The pain was like a cold chunk of steel, pressed against his heart and turning it to ice. Not again. Not Zach. He paced to the window; wind drove the snow into shadowy gray-and-blue drifts. The streetlight illuminated a bright wedge of whirling ice crystals, scintillating like miniature knives in the light. Beck flattened his palm on the frosty windowpane and choked out, “What the hell are you talking about? What happened?”

  “I’m not doing this. It was a mistake.”

  After all they’d shared? “Why?”

  “You’re not in a place to build a relationship.” The tone cut like a blade.

  Temper erupted, burning away pain. “Fuck that. Tell me why.”

  Deep sigh. “I found the pills, Beck.” Resignation filled his voice.

  “Pills?” Of all the things Zach could have said, this hadn’t been on Beck’s radar. “What does that have to do with us?”

  “Fifteen tablets in two days? You’re an addict, whether you recognize it or not.”

  Comprehension slammed into him. He dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “No, I’m not. I—”

  “I’ve heard it all before,” Zach snapped.

  “Zach, please—”

  “No explanation.” Zach’s voice was hard as steel. “Get some help.”

  The hollow silence of Zach disconnecting echoed in Beck’s ear. Numbness set in, blunting the pain threatening to swallow him, swaddling him in the cotton of denial.

  He’d risked his heart again and lost. Losing Zach hurt ten times as much as Van’s departure, cut deeper. Beck shuffled to the bedroom and sank onto the mattress. Darkness settled around him. With no effort at all, he’d fucked this up, taken the best thing to happen to him and destroyed it with a simple mistake.

  You knew how he felt about narcs.

  Putting half into a separate bottle gave every appearance that he’d powered through fifteen pills in forty-eight hours. The missing pills were ten feet away in the duffel bag in his closet. He took a shuddering breath.

  He ran his hands over the duvet, the fluffy down cushioning his palms. It would’ve been better to suffer through the discomfort, or confess that at times he couldn’t manage
with ibuprofen alone. Trust Zach with the information instead of opting to deal with it in secret.

  Beck leaned his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his palms.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Zach threw his suitcase on the hotel bed.

  Damn it, why had he started something with Beck?

  Things had gone so well. They’d seemed to have clicked, fit around each other’s strengths and weaknesses. All that macho bullshit about the shoulder feeling fine, not needing anything but ibuprofen. All bullshit. The shooting had changed Beck, but not for the better.

  I owed him a chance to explain.

  No. The explanation was right there in the half-empty bottle. He flung open his suitcase, pulled out shirts and slacks, hung them in the closet, and then stuffed underwear in the dresser. In the bathroom, he stripped, cranked the shower to hot, and stepped in, letting the steam engulf him. He ducked his head, soaking his hair and allowing the water to massage his back.

  What a fucking unbelievable trip this had been. The case, Dean’s assault, Velma’s murder, and intertwined with it all, Beck. Zach hadn’t had control over the first three, but he’d sure as hell had a choice about getting involved with Beck. And look how that’d turned out. At least they didn’t live in the same state—after the case, the chances of seeing him again were small. A pang of regret curled in his stomach.

  I know better than anyone how addiction sabotages a relationship. Better now than later.

  He snatched the complimentary shampoo, squirted some in his palm, massaged it into his hair, and then rinsed. The tiny bottle of conditioner was next. Cucumber melon.

  Why did every hotel seem to prefer this scent? He flipped the cap open and took a whiff, let his eyes drift shut. Locked into that smell were a thousand memories:

  Beck with powdered sugar on his lips. Beck at the Olivetti house, not making a big deal about Zach freaking out in the dark. Beck giving him everything without question after the interview with Darling. Beck’s gray eyes heavy-lidded as Zach pumped into his body.