"You mind if we sit outside?"
Angel shrugged. "Sure, why not? Lemme grab the beers and I'll meet you in the backyard."
Michael felt his heartbeat slow a little once he got outside and felt the cool night air. Sometimes he wondered if he really wasn't losing his mind. Why else would he stare at Angel's junk so blatantly? Am I crazy? All he needed was for more rumors to start and it would really be all over. The incident, the shooting, the kid getting mowed down… It kept Michael at the forefront of many peoples' brains, and the last thing he needed was to have a sexual scandal erupt around him. He had to pull his shit together
"You all right?"
He didn't hear Angel until the man tapped him with a cold bottle of beer.
"Huh? Yeah, I guess I was just thinking." He took the beer then handed Angel the empty one he'd been holding.
"I can only guess about what," Angel said, dropping his and Michael's empties in the plastic trash barrel Angel had set up next to the deck.
"It isn't ever gonna go away," Michael said, and for a second he wasn't entirely sure he had spoken until he heard Angel's voice.
"It will, though. It will go away if you let it. It wasn't your fault, Mike. The investigation proved it." Angel took a seat in an old Adirondack chair opposite Michael and looked him in the eyes.
"The investigation proved it." Michael repeated Angel's comment, his voice low and bitter.
"Can't that be enough?" Angel asked.
Michael felt Angel reach over like he was going to put his hand on him. Michael instinctively pulled away.
"Geez, Mike." Angel looked from his hands to Michael as he spoke. "You really can't go on like this; I don't want you to go on like this. You were proved—"
"It proved that I didn't kill the kid on purpose, proved that I did my job and killed the asshole who grabbed him and used him as a human shield. The investigation, the incident, the interrogations… What about my life? My sanity? My brain can't take the weight anymore, man. I can't take the pressure. It won't go away." Michael's voice sounded strangled, as if someone had his hands around his throat. "Why won't it go the fuck away?"
"Mikey…" Angel started to say, then stopped.
Michael could see concern in Angel's eyes and it was more than he could stand.
"Don't, Angel. Don't look at me. I can't take it," Michael said as he quickly stood then went to the end of the deck, needing to put distance between his mouth and Angel's ears. Taking a deep drink solved the urge to keep talking.
"What's up with you?" Angel asked, the drunken slur Michael had heard on the phone now strangely absent. "You afraid of what I might see? Man, I've already seen it all. Michael, I was there. I saw what happened. I saw that there was a split second or less between the time you shot and when that asshole grabbed Georgie."
"God, don't say his name, Angel, I can't fucking stand it!" It felt as if by saying the name, Angel would invoke the ghost of the dead child. It sent razor-like chills down Michael's back. He gripped the railing of the deck until he felt his hands go numb. He breathed deeply but could already feel the cold sweat of panic begin to roll down his back. He could hear the gunshot. A bird called out and made Michael jump. Michael looked up at the sky. "You see any bats yet? They usually come out around dusk, right?" He was shaking and his voice was low and sounded far away.
Angel didn't respond but Michael heard him slam the screen door.
"Angel?" Michael called out, but his tongue felt thick and heavy.
No response. Nothing. It was the nothing that Michael feared, because behind the nothings were the sounds, smells, memories of that night. He went and sat down quickly in the Adirondack where Angel had been and began taking some quick breaths to quiet the panic he felt rising in the back of his head.
There had been so much light, cop car lights—bright, so bright—sirens blaring, voices calling out… Angel could make the noise in his head go away. That was what he wanted. He was about to call out again, but it was then he realized his eyes were closed. Don't open your eyes. Don't, don't, don't…
Chapter 2
"Hey man, you all right? You passed out on the deck last night. I had to drag your ass in here and put you to bed."
Michael looked up and there was Angel, staring down at him, still wearing those damn shorts, his bulge temptingly evident.
"Yeah," Michael sputtered over his fuzzy tongue and tried to sit up, but the room suddenly spun down then up again. He fell back with a loud groan. "Shit, I'm hungover."
"I bet," Angel said as he pushed Michael's legs over then sat down next to him.
"What happened?" Michael asked as he tried again to get into a semi-vertical position. Angel's couch was so comfortable that Michael fell back into its softness each time he struggled to get up. Since he felt as if the world was spinning in reverse, this was a particular problem.
"You drank and drank and drank some more, I guess. Shit, I thought I was hammered, but you, my friend, took it to another level."
"What do you mean?" Michael stopped breathing. The memory of Angel's tongue in his mouth was almost too much for him to cope with right at that moment. He wiped his hand over his mouth, telling himself it didn't happen. It didn't!
"You just sat outside and mumbled and drank until you passed the fuck out. You really don't remember me dragging you in here? Had to be around three am when I laid you on the couch."
"What time is it?" Michael asked, looking around. The pounding in his head only grew worse, so he shut his eyes against the light and the memory. He was definitely losing his mind.
"Just after ten. Come on. Let's go get breakfast. We'll hit Drake's for some pancakes and coffee so strong it will put hair on your chest and some spring in your step, you drunken ass."
Michael was about to protest but couldn't put it all together in a coherent sentence. He remained where he was, even after Angel got up then left the room, his heavy tread on the stairs echoing in Michael's head.
*****
"You boys look like you could use some coffee." Drake didn't bother to wait for an answer; he simply filled both men's coffee mugs to the point where some spilled on the flimsy paper placemats that he'd been putting on the tables for years. Drake was an older man, former military, with thick, tattooed arms, a full beard, and dark eyes that stared down at the cops with a mixture of amusement and knowing.
"Mike slept a little heavy is all," Angel said.
Michael caught his eye and saw Angel's mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Yeah, I can tell," Drake called from somewhere behind Michael's shoulder.
"Ignore 'em, D," Michael shouted louder than he anticipated. A couple with their kid glared over at him with curious looks.
"This is when those sunglasses really come in handy," Angel whispered.
"Did we even order yet?"
"No, what do you want?"
"A hammer to crack my skull with. Maybe it will stop this fucking buzzing. That German beer always fucking kills my head," Michael said as he managed to dump way too much sugar in his still black coffee.
"Yeah, it's the beers' fault, Mike," Angel said before calling out to Drake. "Hey, D, how about a couple of combos? Eggs scrambled for Mike and over easy for me, both with bacon." Angel paused to look at Michael. "Right?"
Michael nodded.
When the food came, Michael found it hard to eat. He watched Angel dig in and couldn't help but feel envious of his carefree nature. His stomach turned. It was unbearable being so close to Angel and wanting him more than he could stand. He swallowed the food, wishing with each bite that Angel's lips and mouth would nourish his hunger and calm the fluttering in his belly.
Michael had felt those butterflies before and behind the fluttering, he heard the cruel voice of his father. He never forgot the day his father had caught him, pants down, cock out, just on the verge of climax. He'd had an old catalog, which he'd taken from his grandmother's house, open to the men's underwear section on his bed. It was bad enoug
h to be caught beating off, but to be caught beating off to the men's underwear section of a catalog was humiliating, not to mention it had been Christmas Day. Michael could hear his father's voice now as he swallowed another bite of food.
"Are you a fucking faggot?" His father's voice had cut the air like a knife, the words sharp and cruel.
Michael remembered fighting back the shame and, in doing so, felt hot tears burn the corners of his eyes.
"You clean yourself up and get out to the table for dinner," his father had said, in a drunken slur. It was what he said next that had thrown a leash around Michael's nature and yanked it painfully back into the shadows, where it remained, starving, aching for a chance to be freed from the ropes of degradation his father had so cruelly tied around it. "You ever do this again and I'll kill you."
"Hey, you gonna eat or what?"
Michael looked up from his plate to find Angel staring at him.
"Yeah, sorry. Guess I'm still a little fucked up," he added quickly, taking a heaping forkful of food and forcing it into his mouth.
After they ate, Michael dropped Angel off then headed home. They had barely spoken during the meal and the drive back to Angel's was strained. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Ever since the incident, Michael's ability to connect had become almost nonexistent. The shame he felt made him feel unworthy of any sort of kind words, compassion, or friendship. Every time someone approached him, he withdrew behind the protocol of being a cop. Michael let the badge stand in for his soul and Angel worked overtime to keep Michael connected to the rest of the force. Connected to life was more like it. How would he ever make it up to Angel? The idea of being a burden to his partner ate at his pride like a parasite.
A small-town police force had its advantages, but it was also glaringly apparent when one of the team was not holding both ends of the chain that held them all together. Michael knew Angel worked hard to keep both Michael's and his hands firmly attached to that chain.
Michael thought about that as he navigated the streets. It was quiet, very little traffic. The weather was warm and sunny, perfect weather for being outside, Michael noted. However, it was darkness and solitude Michael craved. He couldn't wait to get home, turn off all the lights and forget about everything, especially Angel, his desire for Angel, a desire that overwhelmed him and often drove him to drink.
Angel had been protective of Michael since the incident. Michael could remember how Angel had deflected and shielded him in the days immediately following the shooting. He had acted as a barricade against scandal, hungry reporters, zealous locals, and even well-meaning friends and family. Angel had stayed with him, and even though they hadn't spoken much during that time, Michael could clearly see Angel looking at him, his eyes kind. Brothers wouldn't have done as much, Michael thought, cold guilt clawing at his heart.
His place was a dump compared to Angel's house. It was a small two-family that his sister Becca owned that looked like two oblong boxes stacked on top of one another with a perilous-looking staircase barely attached on the side. She'd offered him her apartment when she got divorced and took off to California for a fresh start. He lived upstairs and a harmless hippy couple lived below him.
Becca owned the building, so he didn't have to pay rent. Before she had left, Michael had tried to insist on paying something, but she wouldn't have it. "Are you serious? Look at it? Everything is half done. With the amount of work you'll have to do, it would be shitty to charge you anything to live here. Just collect the rent from Steve and Ooni and we'll call it even."
She had been right. Her husband had been excellent at starting things, but bad at finishing them. Michael was reminded of this every time he climbed the steps that led to the apartment. Sure, there were stairs, but no railing. This was particularly fun in the winter, when they were covered with ice and snow. Michael had always meant to fix the stairs—both Angel and his mother harassed him about it all the time—but Michael wasn't the type who cared much where he lived. Michael had lived in the dumpy house for five years and more than once heard the comparison between his ex-brother-in-law and himself, mostly from his mother. Michael would occasionally bite back, saying something about how it wasn't laziness on his part like it had been with Becca's husband. It was more that he didn't give a shit. It wasn't his home, not the way he imagined his home would be. When he thought of home, he thought of Angel. Angel's easy warmth, his crazy woody smell, and the hominess he felt when he was over at Angel's house… That was home.
"Shit," he mumbled as he made his way up the precarious stairs and saw the stray cat that roamed the property waiting for him at his door. He tried to shoo it away but it managed to sneak in behind him. "You should go downstairs," he said, looking down at the cat as it continued to rub against him. Despite this request, the cat ran in ahead of him and stood waiting in the tiny kitchen, its tail twitching in earnest.
Michael gave up and opened a can of tuna for it. He drained the juice then placed the meaty chunks on a small Christmas dish his mother had used to send him cookies. Christmas had been months ago, but he doubted the cat would care.
Christmas… His breath caught. Lights on the houses, the cop cars, blurry, hot blood melting cold snow, voices shouting things like, "Murderer," and "How could you?" And the worst? Him saying, "Sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over again…
How many apologies, confessions, and admissions would wash away that much blood? It was a question Michael hoped one day to answer.
It was the heave of his chest that made him come back to reality. Michael blinked rapidly then jumped when the cat moved against his legs.
"Fucking cat," he grumbled as he made his way to the bathroom where he immediately turned on the shower and let the water run until steam began to rise.
The shower was separated from the sink by a thin wall on which Becca had installed several cheap shelves that Michael now used for his shaving things and clean towels. He closed the shower curtain then went over to the sink. He turned on the tap, grabbed a washcloth off one of the shelves, and soaked it in the hot water. He leaned against the sink, eyes closed, then draped the hot cloth across his face and focused on the vacant sound of the shower. He kicked the bathroom door shut and stayed there until visions of the incident began to fade.
After about five minutes, he relented and let the washcloth fall off his face into the sink. He stripped down then stepped into the shower. The sting of the hot water felt good and made the pain of the memories seem distant—not gone but somewhere else. He withstood it until he gasped and was present again. He increased the cold water a bit to lower the temperature. His mind was quiet, the memories burned away, his breathing calmed, and his pulse slowed.
Michael's thoughts turned to Angel and he couldn't help but smile. When he found himself growing aroused, he let his desires soothe the ache the memories left behind. He dropped his hands to his sides and pressed his chest against the shower wall. His cock was hard and it felt good when he pressed its rigid length against the tile. He wanted to be touched. His need was so great, so urgent, that it startled him with excited feelings he'd thought were no longer present. He cupped his balls with one hand, feeling their weight. Michael was hung thick and as he stroked, he could feel the pulse of the fat vein that ran the length of his shaft. What would it feel like to have Angel suck him? For him to suck his partner? He pictured Angel's mouth—rough, unshaven—taking his dick between his lips. The thought of Angel sucking him off pushed him over the edge.
"Fuck!" He cried out as he pulled his head away from the wall then back under the flow of the water as he let loose. His orgasm was so intense that his breathing had become ragged and it felt like his body was on fire. He took several deep breaths and finally his heart slowed and the heat of his orgasm cooled under the water. It was just as he was feeling calm that another wave of emotion gripped him. How could he ever have Angel? It would just be more torment, more of something he wanted but couldn't have. Tears stung his eyes. He was in the shower, alone, so he let t
hem fall.
*****
His hair hadn't even completely dried before he found himself staring at the bottle of whiskey he kept in the cabinet over the stove.
Michael poured some whisky in some random shot glass that Angel must have left there one night, changed into his favorite sweats and was about to fall into the huge recliner his sister had left behind when Michael heard Angel's voice on his machine.
"Hey man, how you doing?"
"He ain't here, Angel. Call back later, beeeeep!" he yelled at the machine, not bothering to pick up.
Why'd you have to call? Michael thought. Just one fucking day with no noise in my head and you gotta fucking call!
"I just wanted to make sure you were all right," Angel's voice continued from the machine.
Michael heard Angel's genuine concern and it pulled at his heart. He stood for a moment, hand poised above the phone. He wanted to reach down and grab it, put it to his ear… No, he wanted to pull Angel close, but before he could, Angel had stopped speaking. Michael downed the whiskey and was about to pour another when he heard yet someone else calling his name. He looked longingly at the recliner and hoped whoever it was would just go away.
"Michael?"
He heard knocking. He just wasn't sure if it was inside or outside his head. "Yeah?" he called out.
"Mike, it's your mother. Who are you yelling at?"
"Hold on. I just got out of the shower!" he lied as he began frantically searching for a shirt to throw on. He could just imagine her standing out on that rickety staircase getting more aggravated and suspicious by the second.
She knocked again.
"Hey, Ma, I didn't know you were in the neighborhood," he said a little breathlessly, opening the door and hoping she couldn't hear the slur in his voice. "You wanna come in?"
"No, I want to stand out here on this lovely deathtrap of a staircase that idiot left and you're too busy to fix," she snapped. "Who were you yelling at?" His mother, a short but formidable woman with dark, wild hair and quick eyes tried looking around him to see if she could see anything unusual behind her son.
The Incident Page 2
