by Andrea Speed
He thought about calling Holden a thousand times and never did. Yeah, he broke it off with him, and he knew it was the right thing to do, but he still missed him. He could see Holden as the thing he was addicted to that was so bad for him, it’d cut his life short by twenty years.
Scott was determined not to get Jessie mixed up in this. It wasn’t fair to ask her to play therapist for him.
But he went out to dinner with Jessie at the Rainbow Grill, waiting for Grey to join them after one of his grueling workouts, and one IPA was all it took for him to start spilling his guts to her about Holden. And Scott felt he’d done so well.
Scott honestly wasn’t going to tell her about the superheroing or sidekicking Holden did. That would sound crazy, and trying to explain Roan to someone who hadn’t seen him in action was difficult. “He’s a normal guy who can sometimes become a half-lion guy who can punch through doors, shrug off bullet wounds, and roar loud enough to be heard clearly over five city blocks. The lion also comes out sometimes without his body changing, and the only way you know you’re dealing with the virus/animal and not Roan is he looks at you like food. And he growls a lot more than usual.” Yeah, that sounded sane and not at all made-up.
But Jessie had been staying at the house with him and Grey, which was astounding. Most women didn’t want to spend any time in a hockey guy’s domicile, and it wasn’t all about the smell. Okay, it was mostly the smell. It probably helped that there was no sexual tension whatsoever, because Grey wasn’t interested in any of them, and Scott and Jessie had already done that. They could do it again. It wasn’t off the table, but both of them kind of hungered for new things. It was easy between them since she knew his big bi secret, and that was kind of nice. Fucking around might fuck it up.
Anyway, Jessie had found their small collection of “Roan items” on the bookshelves, including the interviews he’d done with that infected magazine and that arty one. Having seen the pictures, Jessie agreed he was sexy—surprisingly so for a redhead (her words)—and totally Scott’s type. Presumably she had read the articles too. Did she read between the lines? Roan had never confirmed anything about his unusual viral expression, certainly not in public, and it was only hinted at a little in that article where the reporter seemed to have a crush on him. She’d heard some of their stories about him too, including how they all met. (Beating the shit out of skinhead assholes in the parking lot of the arena. Boy, that was fun.) Maybe she would believe him if she suspected the truth.
They split a platter of the Grill’s fancy version of poutine, and Jessie leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Are you telling me he’s a real-life superhero?”
“Yeah. I can show you some videos on YouTube to prove it.”
Jessie sat back, frowning. “But if that’s true, why isn’t everyone talking about it? That’d be a big fucking deal.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Tank and Fi have a compelling conspiracy theory about this. It basically boils down to Roan being too gay, too infected, too loudmouthed, and too flamboyant to be the clean-cut, all-American superhero everybody wants. He’s a grumpy bastard with a bad attitude who is more than happy to let everyone know he’s as gay as fuck, and if you have a problem with it, you can shove it up your ass. What corporate sponsor would hitch their wagon to him? And Holden is somehow even worse.”
“Your ex was a superhero too?”
“Yes and no.”
She paused, taking a french fry from the pile. “You know you’re not getting away with just that.”
“He’s kind of… um. Understand I have no actual proof of this. Just his word and some rumors.”
“What, did he kill someone?”
“Maybe.”
She froze with the fry halfway to her mouth. Her expression suggested he’d just hit her with a frozen fish. “What the fuck? Are you serious?”
“He freely admits he’s a vigilante, but how far that goes….”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Scott! Are you crazy? Don’t walk away from that guy—run.”
“But it’s not…. I know how it sounds. But he’s not a maniac.”
She kept giving him that look. Once she’d given it to him when he voiced his opinion that their cute Mormon classmate was kind of hot. She thought his religious family and their indoctrination of him would be a big problem. Scott didn’t think so. In the end she was right, in that infuriating way ex-girlfriends usually were. “Scott. Sane people don’t go out vigilante-ing.”
Scott started picking at the label on his beer bottle. It was times like these he wished he was Tank-level articulate. “But he’s not a maniac. I realize I’m making him sound that way, but it isn’t true. He’s really just trying to help people.”
“Help people with violence? That really doesn’t help.”
“In some cases, it does.” Jessie rolled her eyes, and he felt himself getting defensive on Holden’s behalf. “I know how it sounds, I really do. But he’s a good guy. I think this is a way of rewriting the past for him.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I think something happened to him once, and since there was no one there to protect him when he needed it, he goes out of his way to do that for others who might not have anyone. I think it helps him work some shit out.”
Jessie was continuing to eye him skeptically, but he knew the logic of what he was saying was getting through to her. “What happened to him?”
Scott shrugged. “Damned if I know. He pretty much refuses to talk about anything that happened before he became Fox.”
Now she leaned back as if he’d tried to backhand her. “He has a superhero name?”
“No. That’s his street name from when he was a prostitute. I told you he was a hooker, right?”
Jessie suddenly burst out laughing and slapped the table. “You bastard, you had me going there for a minute. I know the Roan guy is real, but come on now. What’s Holden actually like?”
“Jess, I’m not kidding. He used to be a sex worker.”
It looked like she was holding on to hope that he was kidding, clinging to it like a shipwreck victim to a scrap of wood. But their waiter came by then and put their entrees on the table—a tuna burger with sriracha sauce for her and BLT macaroni and cheese for him. Scott saw her expression collapse in on itself in stages, so by the time the waiter left, she had settled into grim acceptance. “Dude, this is… wow. Not only is it a good thing you broke up with him, you shouldn’t have dated him in the first place. It sounds like he has a shit-ton of issues. And hey, Mr. Closeted NHL Player, should you even have been seeing a guy who has a street name?”
He shook his head as he picked up his fork and stabbed it into the bowl full of gooey mac and cheese with chunks of cherry tomatoes and bacon in it. It smelled great, and he could almost see Grey shaking his head at such a calorie-dense dinner. But goddamn it, he could take at least one night off training. You had to sometimes. What were they, machines? “Holden isn’t like that.”
“Ha! Nobody’s like that until they break up with you and realize their story is a gold mine to a tabloid somewhere.”
“That goes against his personal code of ethics. He didn’t rat on his clients, and he’s not going to rat on me.”
“Were you a client?”
“No. But the same agreement applies. I trust him.”
Jessie rested her forehead on the table beside her plate and very lightly banged it on the surface before raising her head again. “Scotty, you’re not dumb. This seems really dumb. And dangerous.”
“You don’t know him like I do. As I said, I know how this sounds. But I know him. He’d never hurt me, and he’d certainly never sell me out for cash.”
She kept shaking her head, unconvinced. And again, he knew, on paper this sounded terrible. But on paper and reality were two different things. On paper, Roan was a bad cop and as sick as hell. In reality, he was a good guy who cared enough about humanity not to turn on it entirely and tear it to pieces, which he could’ve done at
any point. He could probably still do it now, even though his body was finally starting to show the strain of trying to straddle two worlds at once. And on paper, Holden was a former hooker who may have been a vigilante on the side. Which was true, sure, but he wasn’t as mentally or emotionally unstable as that seemed to suggest. He had a code, and it meant something to him. Holden didn’t sell anyone out, just like he didn’t go after those who didn’t deserve it.
Scott thought Jessie, of all people, would be able to understand. But maybe he’d gone about this all wrong. Maybe she needed to meet him first. Maybe then she’d understand that Holden wasn’t a total psycho nutjob. But would Holden even want to meet her? He was going to have to figure out a way to make that happen. Grey had been talking about getting a barbecue so he could do some grilling. Maybe they could have a barbecue party? Sure, he’d have to throw a hell of a charm offensive to get Holden to agree to come, but he bet he could do it.
“And here I was afraid you were gonna get into the NHL and turn into one of those spoiled rich bros,” she said, cutting her burger in half. “I should have been worried you were going to go into a somewhat delayed bad-boy phase. As in, you’re really into bad boys.”
“I am not,” he protested. Scott chewed a forkful of the mac and cheese, which was delightfully rich and chock-full of fat, and finally conceded, “Well, maybe a little….”
“Scott?”
It was a man’s voice, and he looked around, wondering if he might have actually encountered someone who recognized him as a hockey player. (Occasionally that happened. More in Canada than the States, but there was a first time for everything.) But to his surprise, it was Gareth who came up to the table. He wasn’t in his cop drag, just wearing a regular light blue button-down shirt and dress pants, his brown hair neatly combed back. He looked like he was about to pose for a family photo. “Gareth. Hey, man, what are you doing here?”
The British cat cop shot an uncomfortable look toward Jessie. “Sorry to interrupt. I was just surprised to see you here.”
“Consider it mutual. Uh, Gareth, this is Jessie. Jessie, Gareth.”
They shook hands, which amused Scott since it seemed so formal, and Jessie asked him, “Where in England are you from?”
“Just London. North Kensington, in fact. Not very thrilling.”
Jessie nodded and smiled like that meant something to her. “Nice to meet you.”
“So why are you all dressed up?” Scott asked. “Got a date?”
He scoffed and turned a little red, which was kind of adorable and kind of unsettling. It was always a little uncomfortable when a grown man blushed. “Um, no. It’s a small engagement party for a couple of cat-squad members.” Gareth gestured to a sectioned-off corner of the restaurant that had been a little noisy, but nothing Scott hadn’t found easy to ignore. Although to be fair, anything short of an arena blaring rock music and screaming fans telling you that you were shit was pretty easy for him to ignore. You learned after a while. “Thought I should look presentable.”
“Good job,” Jessie said, giving him a wink. That seemed to fluster Gareth a bit more, and Jessie grinned away, like she’d met her goal.
“Don’t let us keep you,” Scott said. “Congratulate the couple for me.”
“Thanks,” Gareth said with a slight nod. “See you around.” He gave Scott an awkward wave before turning away toward that side of the restaurant.
“Holy shit,” Jessie hissed in a kind of whisper. “That’s the cat-squad guy you mentioned earlier?”
“Yep, that’s Crumpet.”
“He’s fucking hot. Why aren’t you breaking off a piece of that?”
He grimaced at her phrasing and started digging around his mac and cheese for a good-sized piece of bacon. “It’s weird. I don’t think he’s come to terms with his sexuality. He’s clearly in love with Roan still, and it’s just weird.”
“Nope.”
“What the hell do you mean nope?”
“Those are great excuses, Scott, but you’re holding something back,” she insisted, taking a drink of her margarita. “So come on, what aren’t you saying?”
This was why it was vital he stay friends with her. She had this uncanny way of getting under his skin and staying there like the world’s most tenacious tick. If she ever decided to be rid of him, she’d write a tell-all book that would put him to shame—especially since she would probably know things about Scott that even he wasn’t sure about. He had no idea how she did it, but she did it enough to be scary. Scott sighed and ate a forkful of pasta, trying to buy some time. She stared at him, taking dainty bites of her burger, pretending to be someone other than the girl who did the keg stand at Madison’s party. “Fine. He’s not Holden.”
“Aha, I knew it. Dude, didn’t we just go over this? That’s a point in Crumpet’s favor. He’s not your scary, possibly psycho ex-boyfriend. That’s great.”
“He is not a psycho.”
She waved her hand like that was a quibble. “The point is, if you’re looking for a rebound roll in the hay, he’s perfect for that. Nobody’s saying you have to date the guy.”
At least he felt like he was on more solid ground here. “That’s the thing. He screams clingy to me. Even if I could coax him through such a thing—and believe me, he is so repressed he needs coaching—I don’t think he’d be a one-night stand kind of guy. Unless his gay experience freaks him the fuck out and he goes completely the other way, throwing himself into womanizing with abandon. And he’s a cop, so, could happen.”
Jessie kept watching Gareth until he disappeared into the clot of bodies in the party section of the restaurant. “What about a threesome?”
“Pardon?”
She pointed to Scott and herself. “We could double-team him. He’ll think he’s in for funsies with me, and he could tell himself that, but then he gets you too. It’s a gay experience with training wheels.”
Scott had to swallow back a smile. “You wanna bang him.”
She shrugged, not quite selling it. “I probably wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating Pocky. That accent’s hot.”
He shook his head, both not quite believing her and totally believing her. She was a little on the wild side, which is why they got along so well.
Scott glanced across the room and wondered if it would be worth it.
10—My Head Is Full of Ghosts
HOLDEN CALLED Kevin but got his machine. So he left a message, letting him know what he’d learned, even though he wasn’t sure it was helpful. But a little info was better than nothing, right?
Holden ordered pizza, hit the gin, and wondered if he should call someone, see what they were up to. Was he lonely? He wasn’t a lonely type of guy. He valued his privacy and alone time, especially since that was rare on the streets, but he felt restless. He thought about bugging Chai, but that seemed pathetic. Maybe he just needed to get laid.
After eating two pieces of pizza and feeling underwhelmed, Holden got dressed to go out. He decided to go a bit rough trade and stuck to a T-shirt Roan would have approved of—a unicorn with a rainbow mane and an extended middle finger as its horn—jeans, and biker boots. He would have worn a leather jacket, but it was unseasonably warm still. He stuffed his lucky butterfly knife in his usual front pocket but had to hide his telescoping metal baton in his boot, as there was no other place for it. Holden told himself he wasn’t going to go looking for trouble, but if he wasn’t, if he just wanted to get laid, why the hell was he tooling up? He was lying to himself, saw it, and yet kept doing it. That was a form of insanity, right? If he didn’t watch it, he was going to go full Mr. Robot.
Holden wasn’t going to go to the Jungle, mainly because it was a long walk, and he probably shouldn’t visit so soon after giving Eddie and CrossFit a shakedown. So he just started wandering. He had no exact destination in mind, but he didn’t live in the greatest neighborhood and figured he might find some trouble.
It was strangely crowded on the sidewalks, maybe because it was so warm, and
all the trouble he could see was of the pedestrian variety. It occurred to Holden he probably needed a few groceries, and he needed to make a stop before he went home. Not yet, though.
Holden walked around for a little while, watching the crowds without being watched in return. One thing he’d learned while living on the streets was how easy it was to become invisible. When people didn’t want to see you, you could evaporate like mist. It was more difficult when you looked like you had a home and money and anyone found you attractive—or monstrously ugly—in any way. Both could get you attention you didn’t want. But Holden had learned if you met every glance your way with a challenging, angry glare—like you were itching for a fight or were as unstable as hell—you’d become invisible soon enough. You just needed to be dismissed first. Trying to hide made you stand out.
There were drunk people out, as always at this time of night, but he didn’t encounter anything too troubling. Some half-assed arguments that were easy to ignore, because they wouldn’t add up to anything. But he saw terrible proof of the continued, troubling broification of Capitol Hill as a drunk frat bro in cargo shorts, a tank top, and backward baseball cap—the stereotypical bro getup if there ever was one—yelled at a lesbian couple, “I love pussy!” Was that a come-on of some sort? Holden didn’t understand what that was supposed to accomplish, beyond poorly thought-out harassment. As the bro walked past him on the sidewalk, lurching and reeking of tequila, Holden “accidentally” bumped into him so hard he sent the guy crashing belly first over a fire hydrant. Like Holden anticipated, he started barfing almost immediately. It was hard to yell while vomiting, so Holden was happy to leave him that way.
He really didn’t want to stereotype anyone. That way did madness and Donald Trump lie. But straight guys really were the fucking worst. There wasn’t anything they didn’t destroy, deliberately or by mistake.
Holden wandered until he found a bus-stop bench, and he sat on it, watching the streets, pedestrians, and traffic alike. He then started to wonder exactly what he hoped to accomplish.
