by Anne Tenino
I’m not in this alone. That was it, right there. The irony of it was killing him—he’d only realized that being in a relationship meant working through stuff together when the issue was all his. Having a boyfriend meant he got to let somebody help him deal.
He was the one with the problem, but it affected both of them, and he needed Toby’s help. Or he really wanted it, at least.
But Toby wanted time to himself, thinking Jock didn’t . . . what? See him as an equal? Respect him?
Love him?
Of course he didn’t know that. Jock had only figured it out himself in this holding cell. And the longer he sat here, the more things kept occurring to him. Like, if being the receptive partner was so bad, why did he let the man he loved do it? Because he didn’t really love him? But Jock’s heart got pissed off at the suggestion and had a hissy fit, so it had to be something else. Like maybe he knew somewhere inside that it wasn’t a demeaning thing.
Had he really thought of it that way? Like, if it was demeaning to bottom for a guy, what did that say for girls in general? Or rather, how he thought about them? And what the guys on his hockey teams thought of them, the way they talked about the almighty power of owning a penis.
Every new thought set up a cascade of other realizations. And most of them led to him feeling like a fucking douche bag.
He sat there forever, repeating the cycle. Realization, douche bag. Realization, douche bag. Eventually he just cut out the middle man and realized he was a douche bag.
Then he was on the ice, skidding to a stop, crystals spraying up from the edges of his blades, and right there was the puck, waiting for him. He had a clear shot at the net, and no one was defending him. His teammates were keeping the opposing guys busy, even the goalie. And the crowd was screaming for him to score.
Perfect setup. He reached up and grabbed his stick—because for some reason he’d taken to carrying it in a holster strapped to his back, which didn’t sound regulation—and slapped that fucker in, watching it sail through the air . . . right over the top of the net.
Then everything rewound in high speed and it happened all over again. Over and over, just like realizing he was a douche bag.
Jock came to with a jolt, nearly pitching off the bench.
Holding cell. He’d been dreaming.
Okay, subconscious mind. I get it. Shut up already. Change the game plan or lose it all.
“Can you tell me where my boyf— the guy I was with when I was arrested, where he is?” Toby asked as soon as the spook in the gray suit walked in. He doubted this guy was actually a spy, more like the FBI at home from what he understood, but he looked like a “spook.” Or at least what the movies told him was a spook. Tall, thin, expressionless, dark suit. He just needed sunglasses and an attractive face and he’d be the questionably motivated “good guy” in the next blockbuster. They could call it Frat Boys Take Provence. It’d be half gay porno and half action flick. This interrogation room—well, that’s what Toby assumed it was called—would make a great set. It was as blindingly bright as the cell they’d had him in before, but the pale tile floor was grimy, and the single plant in the corner was dying. The table he was seated at didn’t fit, though—instead of being scarred faux-wood laminate, it was nearly pristine gray laminate.
“Your boyfriend is not being mistreated, I assure you,” the man said, sitting down across from him. He had a very American accent. “I’m Monsieur Faustin, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Moore.”
“You aren’t a cop?” Should he have asked that? But he’d decided a while ago that trying to strategize about the best way to answer questions was pointless. They hadn’t done anything wrong, so unless those same action flicks were right about most cops being nefarious, this should all be cleared up soon.
“I am an agent of the Direction centrale du renseignement intérieur. You may call me Officer Faustin, if it eases your mind any.”
“Being released with all charges dropped would ease my mind more. Speaking of which, what are the charges, exactly?” He’d already tried asking for a lawyer a few times, and was informed that under French law, they could be held for up to seventy-two hours without being allowed attorney privileges.
“Ah.” Faustin smiled pleasantly and looked down at the file he’d carried in with him, as if he needed to refresh his memory. “For now, it is as you’ve been told already: you are suspected of having committed or preparing to commit an act of terrorism.”
Toby drew a calming breath. “Does this act of terrorism have anything to do with beer? Because I think I can clear that right up.”
“Yes, maybe you can,” Faustin mused, lifting a sheet of paper from his file. “‘The frat boy’s relationship to beer is as the nun’s relationship to God,’” he read from it.
“Oh no,” Toby muttered. “I was afraid of that.” He was going to fucking kill Danny. At least then he’d deserve the jail time. “Okay, it’s really very simple. You see, the guys have this membership—”
“Mr. Moore—may I call you Toby? Merci—I’d prefer to begin with your exact relationship to these ‘guys,’ specifically the one with you when you were taken into custody, the young man going by the name of Gavin Jacques Gervaise.”
This just kept getting worse. “Um, I probably should have looked into this before, but what’s the legal age of consent here?” This was France, though. Nineteen had to be old enough, didn’t it?
Faustin tilted his eyebrow, just on one side. Toby’d never seen that trick before. “It’s fifteen, unless the sexual partner is in a position of influence over the minor.”
Oh, of course that would be the case. He was going to rot in a French prison. “What’s the age of consent if one partner is in a position of influence?”
“Eighteen. Mr. Gervaise is nineteen.” He leaned forward to whisper, “I believe you are safe.”
So utterly fitting that he’d get the smart-ass cop, wasn’t it? Toby nodded, clasping his hands on the table, gathering his thoughts. “Yeah, um, Mr. Gervaise . . . Gavin is my boyfriend, as you’ve already surmised, and the other guys are in the same fraternity as he is. Um, that’s like a—” Shit, what was the term? “—bureau des élèves.”
“I attended university in the US. I can assure you I’ll be able to follow along. Are you a part of this fraternity as well?”
“Um, no.” Toby had the distinct impression that Officer Faustin already knew exactly what his role was. “I’m the, uh, resident advisor for them during their quarter in France. They had to live off-campus, you see, and the college felt it was necessary for them to have a . . .” Jesus. He cleared his throat. “Responsible party at the place they’d made arrangements to stay.”
Faustin regarded him blankly.
“They’re pretty good at getting themselves in trouble.” He smiled tightly. “Case in point would be this arrest.”
“Yes, it would be. Unfortunately for everyone, you—the ‘responsible party’—have also been arrested.”
“I had a feeling you might bring that up.” His advisor was going to string him up by the balls. But she’d have to get in line behind his mother. “You see, I let them continue the beer terrorist thing because, after researching child psychology”—on Wikipedia—“I thought it best not to challenge their fantasies. Working on the theory that they still have some, well, maturing to do, I judged this to be a relatively normal stage of their neural development. I think in the long run they’ll be more well-rounded human beings if we nurt—”
“Let’s move on.”
Oh thank God Faustin put a lid on any further ass-talking. Toby nodded attentively, waiting for him to continue.
“Are you familiar with the term ‘beermageddon’?”
Oh no. Toby knotted his fingers together even tighter. “I might have heard it once or twice.”
“Ah. Where is it that you heard it?”
Sooo, so tempting to blame the fratbros. “Well, actually I coined the term when Jock was explaining the guys’ fascination with the
concept of beer terrorism to me. I meant it as a joke, but Danny overheard me and he may have, um, taken up the banner.”
Faustin nodded, making a quick note in his file. “And where else have you heard the term?”
Toby couldn’t claim his brain was at peak performance, but he felt pretty confident in saying, “I may have mentioned it while I was being taken into custody, but Danny was the only one I remember discussing it with.”
“Hmmm. How did that discussion go?”
“Well . . . he overheard me, and then he asked if he could use it, and I said it was fine.”
“Use what?”
“The word. Beermageddon.”
“Simply use the word? This wasn’t a discussion of how to bring about this ‘beermageddon’?”
“Um, I’d like to point out that the boys aren’t trying to bring on beermageddon, they’re trying to prevent it.” Wait, was he seriously arguing this?
“So . . .” Faustin leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “You are familiar with their plans?”
“If by ‘plans’ you mean ‘delusions,’ then yes, I’m familiar with them.”
“Let’s talk about the taverne in the village.”
Toby sighed. “If you’d like.”
“I’d like.” Faustin smiled.
“What do you want to know?”
“Did the ‘boys,’ as you call them, visit it frequently?”
“A few times a week for the last few, I suppose.” He wasn’t sure it was relevant, but he thought he’d save time, since Faustin would invariably get to this detail. “I told them they’re not allowed to visit it alone. At least two guys have to go together.”
“To watch each other’s backs against threats?”
He crossed his arms and sat back to view Officer Faustin more completely. “I understand it’s your job to find out the truth by whatever means, but I’d think deliberately misunderstanding me is counterproductive.”
“Not at all.” Faustin waved off the comment. “I’m not misunderstanding you, I’m asking you ‘leading questions,’ as they say. Now, why exactly did you incorporate this buddy system?”
Toby pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out the most concise way to explain. Just start. “Okay, you see, Noah had a bit of a crush on Turbo—um, his real name is Graham Libutzki—and one day his hormones got the better of him, and even knowing Turbo is straight, Noah kissed him. I talked Noah through it at the bar—”
“What about this Turbo? No one talked him through anything?”
“Oh.” Toby sat back a second, blinking. “That was an oversight on my part, wasn’t it? It’s just that, when they have a problem they need my help with, they come to me. I mean, you’ve met them, I’m sure you can understand I can’t go chasing around after their problems.”
Faustin folded his brows into a V, frowning.
“For example,” Toby went on quickly. “When Danny and Madame Bouvinet began their relationship, and Danny had some confusion over his feelings for her, he came to—”
“Pardon?” The officer’s eyes had gone wide, which Toby had a feeling was the closest the man ever came to gaping. He bent his head, riffling through his papers, then pulled one out. It looked sort of like a curriculum vitae, with a picture of Madame B on the corner. He pointed at the picture, holding it right in front of Toby’s face. “This is Madame Bouvinet?”
Toby cleared his throat. “Yes.”
He let that sheet flutter to the table. “The Madame Bouvinet,” he began, madly shuffling through his pile again, “who this man—” he yanked out an image of Danny that looked remarkably like a mug shot “—is conducting an affair with?”
“Well, um, I sort of think you should be asking him about this, I mean, it’s not really my news to share . . .” Even though he’d already done so.
“Merde.” Faustin dropped the picture and sat back, gripping the edge of the desk as if holding on, but at the same time shoving the rest of his body away.
Toby nodded. Fascinated repulsion. He understood that ambiguity very well.
It took a few seconds, but Faustin settled himself again, clasping his own hands and resting them opposite Toby’s, mirroring him. Was this some kind of interrogation technique? If he’d had any idea how much he’d come to depend on the stuff he’d failed to learn in that psych class—
“I’ll be straight with you,” Faustin said.
In spite of the gravity of the situation, Toby couldn’t suppress a smile. But seriously, the dude had said “straight.”
“I could quite easily present a case to the court wherein you are the mastermind of a group of student activists.”
Toby opened his mouth, but Faustin stalled him with a palm in the air.
“Let me finish, then you may voice objections.” When Toby nodded he went on. “Using the somewhat farcical idea of ‘beer terrorism’—”
“Somewhat farcical?”
Faustin tipped his head, conceding that point. “After the interviews we’ve conducted with your ‘boys,’ it begins to look almost like a cover for an attempt to further the—as your politicians call it—‘gay agenda.’”
“What?” Toby shot up from his chair.
Now Officer Faustin had both palms out. “I’m not saying anyone investigating this case thus far believes this is true. After all, we’ve met these boys, as you said, and I find it hard to believe they have the necessary intellect. However, we’re legally obligated to present these interviews to the judge, who will make the decision whether to continue the inquest. It would help your case very much if you could give me some specific details to clear up some discrepancies. Please sit down again.”
Toby did, muttering to himself. “This is utterly insane.”
“Quite,” Faustin agreed, nodding. “However, shall we begin?”
“Bring it on,” Toby sighed.
“No,” Jock said firmly for the hundredth time, or around there. He clenched his jaw before going on, trying not to lose his temper. “We were sitting on a hill overlooking Glanum, talking, and Toby saw Gomer—James Nierada—scare a bunch of nuns while he was playing, you know.” Jock waved his hand in the air, because this is where his story got weak. Factual, but weak.
The officer—whose name Jock had totally forgotten—said something to the interpreter (whose name he’d never been told). “Beer terrorist?” she asked Jock.
“Okay, it’s not like it sounds. The guys are, like, abnormal, you know?” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, for no real reason since they were in here alone. “We kind of think some of them are a few IQ points short of average.”
“Who is ‘we’?” the officer asked through the interpreter.
It couldn’t be good that he’d already mentioned Toby’s name so many times, could it? “Um . . .”
“Toby Moore?”
Jock squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.
“Mr. Gervaise, could you please explain the nature of your relationship to Mr. Moore?”
Jock’s eyes popped open, glaring. “He’s my boyfriend.” If they wanted to make an issue out of it, he’d show them issues. Both the officer and the translator lifted their eyebrows and nodded in unison. Jock lowered his and crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that illegal or something?”
“Of course not, we’re just trying to understand. It is imperative that we have all our facts in a row. This college you attend, Calapooya—”
“Cal-ah-poo-yah,” Jock corrected her, just because it made him feel like he had a tiny bit of control.
“Oui, bon. Calapooya. From this institution, who funded your term abroad? Was it this Greek organization, Theta Alpha Gamma?”
“It’s not actually Greek,” he tried to explain again. “It’s called a Greek letter organization because the name is made up of Greek letters. It’s a student association.”
They nodded in unison again. Jock got the distinct feeling they weren’t that interested. “Your funding, Mr. Gervaise?”
It went on and on, Jock explain
ing things that didn’t mean much to anyone but that the DCRI wanted to know the minute details of. Yes, the idea of “beer terrorists” began in the United States, but it wasn’t an official group or anything, and it wasn’t sanctioned by TAG. “It’s a bunch of maturity-challenged guys who bought into the college fantasy,” he said in exasperation at one point.
That led to questions about who bought what from whom for how much. They seemed to want to follow the money. “Okay, just . . . can I just start from the beginning, you guys take notes and then you ask me questions afterward? Please?”
The interpreter had a long discussion with the DRCI agent. Jock had the feeling the officer understood most or all of what he was saying, but used the interpreter to make certain there weren’t any miscommunications. A few times he’d asked questions directly. Jock couldn’t follow their discussion, though, just little bits and pieces here and there. Both of them said, “I don’t know,” a few times, and there were lots of words such as “incroyable, bière, très stupide,” and he could swear the translator said “wankers” once, followed by stifled laughter from both of them.
By the time she turned back to him, Jock could actually see his annoyed brows hovering at the top of his vision.
“Please.” She waved her hand. “Share your story with us.”
About fucking time. He sat up, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders with a couple of deep breaths. It would be good to not start out by biting their heads off. “Some of this happened before I was a member, so you’ll have to talk to the other guys to confirm it—not Toby, he’s not a member of Theta Alpha Gamma at all.” He’d told them that already, but he was as interested in keeping their facts in nice, neat rows as they seemed to be. And protecting his boyfriend.
