Love Can't Conquer

by Kim Fielding

  Comparing this enthusiastic, colorful boy to the subdued one he’d recently had lunch with, Jeremy felt warmed through. “Will I get a copy when it’s finished?”

  “Sure. We’ll even give you a discount!” Toad laughed, hefted a couple of bags of potatoes, and hurried into the house.

  Later that afternoon, as Jeremy drove across town, he contemplated lost souls. There were so many of them in the world. So many just in this one city! And all he could do was offer meager help to one at a time, like using tweezers to relocate a sand dune. Even the ones Jeremy could assist might have already suffered for years. Toad was a lucky case. Jeremy had spotted him right away, hopefully before rejection and the streets could do irreparable damage. But then there was Qay. Such a remarkable man, yet so long adrift that even if offered safe harbor, he might never recognize his own worth and allow himself to anchor comfortably.

  Jeremy badly wanted to call Qay—or at least text him—simply to remind him that Jeremy cared. But Qay’s only phone was his apartment landline. Shit. Could Jeremy get away with buying him a cell phone for Christmas too?

  Once his regular work duties were completed, Jeremy returned to the hotel to shower, shave, and change into a clean uniform. Then he trudged back to the parking garage, lost in thought. He would have walked, but the weather was nasty and he couldn’t quite shake a gloomy, uneasy feeling. It was as if one of the city’s pewter-colored clouds had slipped in through his ears and parked over his brain. Normally he looked forward to his pre-Thanksgiving tradition with Malcolm, but tonight he wished he could get together with Qay instead. Not for sex—although sex would be good too—but for the company and conversation. And for the opportunity to spend a few more hours building the rudimentary structure they’d begun.

  Jeremy had met Malcolm, his first love, during their sophomore year in college when they were paired up as chemistry lab partners. Mal was a small, intense young man with enough energy to rival a nuclear power plant. He had been involved in every activist group on campus and was also a perfectionist who slaved over every assignment, dissatisfied by anything less than stellar grades. He slept only a few hours each night. He later admitted that when they first met, he’d assumed Jeremy was a dumb jock. But Jeremy proved otherwise, and he and Mal were soon head over heels. They got an apartment together their junior year. Jeremy assumed they were heading toward permanence, but then he started at the police academy and Mal joined the Peace Corps—and that was Jeremy’s first broken heart. Well, second if you counted Keith Moore.

  After bouncing around for years, Mal had ended up back in Portland, where he’d settled down to open a vegan restaurant, the Green Elf. Jeremy ran into him not long afterward—he was still with the bureau and Donny back then—and although the passion of youth was gone, they remained on friendly terms. Jeremy was too carnivorous to eat often at the Elf. But every year on the night before Thanksgiving, he joined a group of “celebrity waiters”—the mayor, the chief of police, various local media people—who served a meat-free and cost-free feast to the elderly, the poor, and the lonely. It was fun. Usually.

  Jeremy found a parking spot in Old Town close to the Elf. The restaurant was crowded already, even though the meal hadn’t yet begun, so he hurried to the kitchen to check in. Mal dashed about in the midst of chaos, directing employees and volunteers with all the confidence and authority of a seasoned general. He spied Jeremy immediately and called him over. “Jacket off and apron on, big guy. The hordes need feeding.”

  After executing a salute, Jeremy hurried to obey.

  Although free meals weren’t hard to come by at this time of year, the Elf’s was a favorite. At first Jeremy had been surprised to see street people get so excited over quinoa and chickpeas, but an old lady wearing a half-dozen ancient shirts and cardigans had set him straight. “I get tired of the same ol’ food, jus’ like rich people do. It’s nice to eat somethin’ new.” And Mal always presented an interesting menu, including items like mushroom pot stickers, millet-and-kale-stuffed pumpkin, eggplant tacos, and persimmon salad.

  By the time the guests had finished their chocolate avocado truffles, hemp ice cream, and almond-butter cups, Jeremy was exhausted, but he still had to help with cleanup. Scrubbing dishes shoulder to shoulder with a very well-known drag queen was enjoyable, and the bites of food he’d managed to grab had been tasty. But he really wanted to head back to the Marriott, order a pizza (extra cheese and extra meat), and crash.

  No. What he really wanted was to collapse onto Qay’s mattress in his dank, cat-piss-scented apartment and hold him close. Dammit.

  JEREMY WOKE up early on Thanksgiving morning feeling restless and worried, although he didn’t know why. Maybe Qay’s anxiety was contagious. When a long session in the fitness center left him sweaty and sore but no more settled, he stood indecisively in the middle of his hotel room. He wanted to go see Qay, but it was well before their appointed meeting time. Jeremy was afraid that if he hovered, he’d end up chasing Qay away. A blanket up to your chin was cozy; a blanket over your face could smother you.

  Maybe he needed a run. Not a long one, since he’d already worked out, but enough to loosen the kinks in his emotional state. But as he was reaching for his sweats, his phone rang. Frankl. Shit.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” Jeremy said when he picked up the call.

  Frankl made a grumbling noise.

  Jeremy tried to keep the tone light. “I take it you didn’t call to wish me a good holiday?”

  “Happy fucking Thanksgiving, Chief. I got bad news for you.”

  For a brief but soul-searing moment, Jeremy was positive Frankl was going to tell him something awful about Qay. His heart pounded and his throat felt tight as he pictured Qay leaping off the Fremont Bridge and being found floating facedown somewhere on the way to the Columbia River. “What is it?” he managed to choke out.

  “Laura Gifford’s been murdered.”

  The relief at not hearing Qay’s name was so complete that at first Jeremy didn’t process the rest. And then it took him a couple of beats to remember who Laura Gifford was. “Donny’s sister?”

  “Yeah. We’ve been in touch with the PD down there while we’ve been investigating the case. They called to say Mrs. Gifford was found dead in her home last night.”

  “Fuck.” Jeremy sat down hard on the bed. He’d never cared for the woman, and he’d lost any remaining respect when she refused to make arrangements for Donny’s remains. But she didn’t deserve to die. “Are you fairly certain this is related to Donny?”

  “Can’t ever be a hundred percent, but yeah. Her place was ransacked just like yours, but it didn’t look like a burglary. And look, I talked to her after we found Donny, and she sounded like a bitch. But I don’t think she was bad enough for anyone to want to murder her. And, uh, she’d been roughed up before she died. Heart attack, their ME says.”

  “Roughed up?”

  Frankl sighed. “Yeah. She was pretty banged up.”

  Jeremy propped his forehead on his free hand. “Holy fuck.”

  “We’ve been keeping an eye on Davis, and it wasn’t him. She died a couple days ago, but that scumsucker hasn’t left town in weeks. Means he’s got goons willing to travel to do his dirty work. Also means he’s still looking for that thumb drive and is willing to be real nasty to get it.”

  “You can’t bring Davis in?”

  “Not yet. Don’t have enough to tie him to this mess. If we can nab whoever’s responsible for Mrs. Gifford, that would help a lot.”

  “How can I help?” Jeremy asked.

  “Just watch your back. That’s why I called.”

  After mutual promises to fill each other in on further developments, Jeremy ended the call and lay flat on the mattress. Watch his back. How completely fucking useless. He wanted to be doing something, dammit.

  He could be doing something, he realized. He could go to his loft and see if, as the contractors had promised, it looked like it would be ready for habitation by the middle of next week.
He could make a list of what he’d need to buy besides furniture. Kitchen supplies, mostly, but he’d been thinking of a couple of area rugs as well. He could measure for them. True, visiting his place wouldn’t do anything to help solve Donny’s and Laura’s murders, but it would keep Jeremy occupied for a while instead of stewing uselessly. And when he was done, he could stop by Qay’s place early—could honestly say he’d been in the neighborhood—without being too much of a stalker.

  Reenergized, he hopped to his feet.

  In the shower, he remembered his plans for the long weekend with Qay, which involved making the most of his large, comfy hotel bed. Even thinking about it made him hard, and he ended up jerking off under the Marriott’s endless supply of hot water. Good to take the edge off, he decided as he shaved and dressed. Proximity to Qay made him feel like a horny teenager, and it would be nice to think about something besides sex while they were at Rhoda’s.

  Rhoda’s. Hmm. He’d skipped breakfast and was getting hungry. He’d jammed a few things into the minifridge in his room, but none of them appealed at the moment. He’d just endure an empty stomach until dinner, then make up for it with triple servings of everything.

  Jeremy’s contribution to the feast was nonalcoholic drinks. He’d been shopping a few days earlier and now had a box filled with sparkling cider, juices, and soft drinks. He hefted the box and headed to his SUV. The hotel garage was especially busy with drivers arriving and leaving, probably due to the holiday. Traffic across town was heavy too. He was glad he wouldn’t have to drive far to get to Rhoda’s house; she lived just a couple of miles from P-Town.

  At least he had the garage under his apartment to himself. He trotted up the flights of stairs and had a quick look around. The bedroom and living room were finished, as was the bathroom. He trailed a loving hand over the edge of his bathtub—big enough even for him—and eyed the shower speculatively. Yes, he and Qay could easily fit in there together. His hot water wasn’t as limitless as the Marriott’s, however. Maybe they could share the tub instead.

  Unlike the rest of the apartment, the kitchen wasn’t quite complete. The contractors hadn’t yet installed the sink fixtures, lighting, or appliances. None of those things should take long, though, so the place actually might be ready by Wednesday.

  Jeremy pulled out a pad of paper and a measuring tape. He noted the dimensions of the rugs he’d need, then made an exhaustive list for the kitchen. Very few of his things had escaped destruction, so instead of weeding out the good from the ruined, he’d asked the cleanup crew to dump it all. As a result, he needed everything: dishes, glassware, cutlery, cookware, and gadgets. He wasn’t actually much of a cook—it didn’t seem worth the effort when it was just him—but he liked all those obscure little items they sold in kitchen shops.

  His stomach grumbled, causing him to glance at his watch and smile. It was just after noon. Surely that wasn’t too early to barge in on Qay. He was so distracted with those thoughts that he forgot his tape measure and list until he was halfway to the garage, and he had to bound back up the stairs to retrieve them. But the dark cloud seemed to have evaporated, and his mood had lifted considerably from earlier that morning. Soon he’d be spending a long weekend with his boyfriend.

  Whistling happily, he descended to the garage, thinking about the soft skin on Qay’s belly even though the rest of him seemed so tough. Jeremy pulled the key fob from his pocket and was about to press the Unlock button when he heard something rushing at him from behind a wide support pillar. He spun around, but before he could get a good sense of what was happening, a loud pop and buzz echoed through the space, and something struck his leg.

  He bellowed and fell as his entire body clenched in an agonizing muscle spasm. When he gained partial control, he was hit again, this time in the chest. A large man dropped onto Jeremy’s rigid body, pinning him in place, and as Jeremy feebly tried to scream for help, the man slapped a thick cloth over the lower half of Jeremy’s face.

  A heavy smell assaulted him, burning the sensitive tissues of his nose and throat. Even as he tried to struggle free, the Taser hit him a third time—in the leg again. This time he could only groan as the blackness swallowed him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  STUART WAS a colossal ass. Qay had known this for some time, of course, but the days before Thanksgiving cemented it. Because the factory would be closed Thursday through Monday—paid holidays, hooray!—Stuart apparently decided Qay should do a week’s worth of work in two days. Not Stuart, of course. He mostly marched around and shouted orders like a little dictator.

  And then on Tuesday, the son of a bitch saw Qay getting into Jeremy’s SUV after work. First thing Wednesday morning, before Qay had even finished slipping on his work gloves, Stuart planted himself in his way. “Who was that in the flashy SUV, huh? Your boyfriend?”

  Qay looked him straight in the eyes. “Actually, yes.”

  That must have caught the fucker by surprise, because his jaw dropped and he blinked a few times. “You’re a faggot?”

  “Jesus, Stuart. Hasn’t anyone told you it’s 2015? Let’s pretend we’re not still living in caves, shall we?”

  Stuart sneered, but seemingly unable to fashion a response, he spun and marched away.

  That wasn’t the end of it, though. He spent the better part of the day smirking at Qay and asking him things like “Which of you is the woman?” and “Do you put on a cute pink dress after work?” Qay did his best to ignore the little prick, because as far as he was concerned, this brand of homophobia was all about Stuart’s insecurities regarding his own masculinity and sexuality.

  Qay had never come out to his coworkers, not because he was embarrassed or afraid but because the subject had never come up. He wasn’t close enough with any of them to discuss personal matters. But aside from Stuart, nobody seemed to care about his revelation. In fact, the other guys appeared more annoyed with Stuart’s antics than Qay was. When Stuart minced in front of Qay and asked him loudly if he was a size queen, Barry said, “With all the questions, I’m beginning to think you want to sleep with him, Stuart.” Everyone laughed—everyone but Stuart—and that was the end of the harassment, at least that day.

  One of the reasons Qay remained calm despite his tyrant supervisor was that he felt unusually mellow after Tuesday night. Okay, lots of good sex after a seven-year drought helped too, but just the memory of Jeremy’s calm, even presence was enough to soothe Qay’s tangled nerves.

  By late Wednesday, Qay was more than eager for a dose of that palliative. He was even a little disappointed when he clocked out and didn’t find a black SUV waiting for him near the loading dock. Then he remembered that Jeremy had an event that evening. Still, the Marriott wasn’t that far from the window factory; Qay could walk it easily. And he could wait in the lobby until Jeremy returned, and then—

  No. The poor guy would be tired. And after all those long years of waiting, Qay could damned well wait one more night.

  He took the buses home.

  QAY WOKE up much earlier than necessary on Thursday. He was never good at sleeping in, at least not when his body was free of pharmaceuticals. Too… buzzy with energy, with nerves. And this morning was especially bad because he had dinner to worry about.

  Rhoda was wonderful, and he trusted her not to invite any assholes. Still, a houseful of strangers was intimidating. What would he talk about? They might all have fascinating careers, while he swept up glass in a window factory. Maybe they’d all traveled to interesting places, whereas he’d wandered here and there and hardly remembered most of those times—and even if he did, he wouldn’t want to talk about them.

  Shit. Maybe he’d just hide behind Jeremy and hope nobody noticed him.

  He was also concerned about the availability of alcohol. He could only resist temptation so much, especially when his nerves rattled like an old jalopy. Rhoda had actually offered to declare the day booze-free, which was awfully nice of her, but Qay had declined. People liked some wine with their festive mea
l, and Qay didn’t want to be the dickhead responsible for depriving them.

  He could play sick, right? Pretend he had a terrible cold. Only then Captain Caffeine would undoubtedly—and heroically—insist on skipping dinner to nurse Qay through his illness, and Qay would feel like a bag of shit.

  When fretting threatened to escalate into an anxiety attack, Qay cleaned his apartment. Dusting was a good way to burn a little energy and keep his twitchy muscles occupied. But soon his dungeon was as spotless as it was ever going to get, and he was still trying not to hyperventilate. A walk, he decided. A brisk one.

  After leaving the house, he headed down toward the river—almost as if he were being drawn in Jeremy’s direction. Which he knew was a stupid idea. But he felt a pull, and even when he reached the river and stared across—he couldn’t see the Marriott from this angle—he yearned to keep on going. To choose a bridge and cross it, not in order to plunge into the frigid water below but to keep on going until he landed in Jeremy’s arms.

  “Fucking idiot!” he said out loud and then was glad nobody was near enough to hear him. He didn’t need a trip to a padded room. Psychosis had never been his gig anyway. Although now here he was, shivering on the bank of the Willamette, thinking that he was falling in love with Jeremy Cox. And if that wasn’t crazy, nothing was.

  The last fall he’d taken was off the Memorial Bridge—he’d never fallen in love. He wasn’t the type. Love meant opening yourself to someone else, and Qay was wound up so tightly he couldn’t even open himself to himself. He’d had temporary partnerships over the years, arrangements that lasted as long as they were mutually beneficial and then ended when someone went to jail or rehab or the psych ward, or ran out of drugs or money or patience. He certainly hadn’t loved any of those men. Hell, he barely remembered most of them, and they’d surely forgotten him.