Heat
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“I rather like that position in your life. It makes me feel like I’m worth something.”
He patted my knee, worked his palm and fingers up to my left thigh, and squeezed its tight muscle. “We should take a run in the morning. What do you say?”
“We should run every morning. It’s good for us.”
“I’ll make a mental note of that,” he said, squeezing my thigh again.
I became quiet and distant. I recalled the day of Bruno’s attack. I couldn’t stop thinking about my hour with Laura Monigal and how she claimed that I failed as an investigator. I couldn’t help from still being pissed at myself that I hadn’t checked into Bruno’s history better and learned pertinent details about the man. Laura had been right, of course. The arsonist and killer had been right under my nose, and I hadn’t deduced those facts. The situation ate away at me, causing strings of silence.
“Where are you, Axle Dupree? You just became really quiet on me.”
I didn’t keep secrets from Casey and never would. “Laura could be right. I’m a bad detective.”
“Nonsense, babe. Stop pitying yourself. It’s not flattering.”
“I should have learned more about Bruno, but I didn’t.”
He guzzled half of his beer down, making a glugging noise. “You didn’t learn anything more about him because you were afraid to. Do I have to remind you that you thought I was having an affair with the man? You certainly didn’t want to direct all of your thinking and attention on him. You had a job to do and did it. Bruno wasn’t even in your scope as an arsonist and killer.”
I sighed. “He was right under my thumb.”
“Whatever. You’re not a bad detective,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Have another drink of your beer and forget about what Laura Monigal said. Never listen to an arsonist, that’s what I say.”
I took a sip of my longneck beer, felt it flow down the rear of my throat, and said, “I’ll try harder on my next case.”
“It’s good to know you’re not giving up. I’d have to kick your ass if you did that.”
“I’m not giving up,” I said. “That hasn’t even crossed my mind.”
“I’m proud of you, Axle, even if Laura’s hired detective learned more about Bruno Grigade than you did.”
“That’s salt in my wound.”
“You know what I mean,” he clarified.
I did, pleased to be at his side in the new darkness.
We held hands on the widow’s peak, seated side by side.
One of us said, “I love you,” and the other one repeated it.
Night became darker, and the moon shined with a smiling brightness. Both of us were happy, together, just the way we wanted to be. I squeezed his hand, coupling its mass in my own.
“What do you say I lead you downstairs and have my sexual way with you?”
“That makes me sound easy,” I replied.
“You wear easy well, babe.”
“Then do what you want with me, Casey.”
I followed him down the ladder and into our bedroom for a night of long sex.
THE END
ABOUT R.W. CLINGER
R.W. Clinger is a resident of Pittsburgh. He has a degree in English from Point Park University of Pittsburgh. His writing entails gay human studies. His work includes Just a Boy, Skin Tour, Skin Artist, Soft on the Eyes, Pool Boy, The Last Pile of Leaves, The Weekender, Cutie Pie Must Die, Frat Brats, Panama Dan, Spoil Me So, The Shower Police, Splash Boys, and several stories with Starbooks Press. For three years he has held the position of managing editor for the literary magazine The Writer’s Post Journal. Visit him online at rwclinger.com.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
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