by Kim Fielding
“We fought for what we have. It was really hard for a while, but worth every bit of effort.” Jeremy leaned back in his chair, making it creak in protest. “You could have told me you were gay, back when you were in the bureau. I wouldn’t have told anyone else.”
“I know.”
“And now you’re comfortable with it?”
Wes nodded. His sexuality was one of the few things about himself he was comfortable with. He’d abandoned his childhood dreams of a straight Future Wes, replacing him with queer-but-single Future Wes. Maybe not as rosy an outcome as his imaginary family and ranch home, but a lot more realistic. “Nobody cares if I’m gay.” Because nobody cared what the hell he did. Except maybe Parker, but that was brand-new and fragile.
“If I’d known then, maybe…. Well, doesn’t matter.” Jeremy leaned forward, his handsome face serious. “Do you remember Donny Matthews?”
The name rang a faint bell but was nondescript enough that it didn’t carry any associations. But Jeremy thought Wes knew the guy, which meant he was probably connected to the bureau somehow. Somebody they’d arrested? Wait, no. “Was he that jerk from the East Precinct?” Loudmouthed and bossy, always cutting corners in his work. Even as a rookie, Wes realized he shouldn’t emulate that officer.
Jeremy groaned softly. “Yeah, that was him. When you were in the bureau, I was dating him.”
Wes gaped. “I thought he was a homophobe.”
“Not really. He was just messed up. And newly divorced and ready to admit he wasn’t as straight as he thought.”
Maybe so, but Wes couldn’t picture the two of them together. Jeremy had been so honorable and upstanding that some of the guys used to call him Dudley Do-Right behind his back, while Matthews could have been voted most likely to get caught up in graft charges. “You, um, never mentioned that back then.”
“We were quiet about it for a long time. Mostly because he wasn’t out. After you left we went more public. We stayed together for six years.”
“Wow.”
“Not sure that’s the word I’d use. The whole thing was pretty much a disaster. He drank. And later, toward the end, he was using other stuff too. That’s part of the reason I left the bureau—I was caught where I didn’t want to be.”
Six years. It was hard to imagine Jeremy putting up with that kind of crap for so long, but then love did funny things to a person. Or so Wes had been told. “Sorry.”
Jeremy flapped his hand. “Walking away from the bureau turned out fine. I love being a ranger. But Donny, that part didn’t turn out fine at all. Five years after we broke up—he’d been fired long before that—he showed up literally on my doorstep, all beat up. And the day after that, he showed up dead.”
“Shit!”
“He got caught up with the wrong crowd. I ended up involved too, in some pretty unfortunate ways.”
“Jesus, that’s—”
“Hang on. I’m not telling this because I want sympathy. The opposite, actually.” Jeremy leaned forward, his expression earnest. “I made some bad choices. It’s not my fault Donny got murdered—he did that on his own—but there were lots of things I could have handled better. Including how I interacted with Qay when we were first together. I was arrogant, I guess. Figured I could magically fix everyone. I can’t.”
It was clear this admission was difficult for Jeremy. Strong men often found it difficult to admit weakness. But Wes couldn’t grasp the moral of this tale. “So… you learned your lesson?”
“God, I sure hope so,” Jeremy said with a bark of laughter. “And I bet you did too.”
Ah. “Does this speech constitute my official pardon?”
“I’m in no position to pardon anyone, Wes. You’ll have to do that for yourself.”
Wes raised his eyebrows and considered a smartass comeback about people who disclaimed their efforts to fix others while simultaneously handing down nuggets of Obi-Wan Kenobi-like wisdom.
But just then Parker returned to the table clutching a tall drink with a frothy top. “Mom is dying to know what we’ve been talking about,” he announced as he sat.
“You didn’t tell her?” Jeremy asked.
“Nope. She’d only want to get involved. She’d start bossing everyone around.”
“Yes, probably.”
“I don’t want her to. This is my problem.” He took a hefty swallow of his drink, which would have added to his show of firmness if he hadn’t ended up with a little foam mustache.
Jeremy and Parker chatted for a while, mostly about a P-Town customer Parker thought Rhoda should consider dating. Jeremy seemed to think it was hilarious that Parker was trying to set her up with someone—apparently because Rhoda had spent years trying to find a perfect partner for Jeremy. Wes watched and listened, quietly pleased by the obvious affection between the two men. Anyone who had Jeremy on his side was lucky. Ditto with Nevin, actually.
And speak of the devil…. Nevin came marching out of the kitchen with phone in hand and his jaw clenched. He threw himself into his chair with enough melodrama to put a teenager to shame. “Fucking pendejos!”
“Bilingual insults. Stellar achievement, Nev.” Jeremy raised his mug in a mock salute.
“Bureau pays extra if I pick up a second language, cabrón.” Nevin turned his attention to Parker. “I talked to Detective Saito. She’s a stubborn shithead who didn’t want to tell me anything, but I finally got her to cave.”
“It must have been your tact and charm that did the trick,” said Jeremy.
Nevin flipped him off without even glancing his way.
Parker ignored that entire interchange. “What did she say?”
“Blathered all kinds of bullshit first about confidentiality and chain of custody, like I’m some kind of wet-behind-the-ears newbie who doesn’t know his Glock from his asshole. But eventually she sent me a photo of the suicide letter.” He poked at his phone a few times. “There. It’s all yours.”
As Nevin spoke, Parker’s phone buzzed. He took a quick peek at the message, set the phone facedown on the table, and inhaled and exhaled deeply several times. “Okay,” he muttered. He picked up his phone and turned it over.
Everyone at the table sat very still while Parker read the note. Wes wondered whether Nevin had already read it and, if so, what his thoughts were. His face gave nothing away. Jeremy’s hands were curled into loose fists on the table. All around them, people talked and laughed and ate and drank as if nothing could possibly be wrong. As if Parker wasn’t facing something terrible.
Parker had his lips pressed between his teeth and his brow furrowed. He didn’t say anything, and the note didn’t occupy him for long. When he was finished, he handed the phone to Wes without looking at him. Then Parker bowed his head.
The note was written with a thin black marker that was drying out or running out of ink, but the writing, blocky print letters that leaned all over the place, was legible.
Parker,
I can’t do this anymore. I thought we had great plans together but now their all busted. That’s ok. I want you to go on and live your live like you want to without me to drag you down. Good luck. I guess I’m going to a better place anyway, right? When I was a kid my mom and dad used to tell me how someday I’d go to heaven if I was good. I don’t know if I’ve been good enough, but I hope I’m gonna get that halo and harp now. And no more pain.
Goodby.
Love,
Logan
The signature was bigger than any of the other words, a scrawled and slanted scribble that lacked finesse, as if the writer had never written it before.
“He always was a crappy speller,” Parker said, barely above a whisper. “We had to write daily report cards for the dogs at work, and he was always asking me how to spell things.” He took his phone from Wes and slipped it into a pocket of his hoodie. For just a moment he looked for all the world like a lost little boy.
Then he firmed his jaw, straightened his back, and raised his chin. “That note’s not right.”
>
“Logan didn’t write it?” Jeremy asked.
“No, that’s his handwriting. It’s just…. He never called me my real name. Ever. The day we met, he called me Portland Boy. After that I was always PB.”
Parker turned and looked straight at Wes. “I don’t think Logan committed suicide at all.”
Chapter Eleven
WES PLANNED to sleep in his van, and Parker thought that was stupid. He could have slept in Parker’s bed, which was big enough for two people who didn’t mind some closeness. And it wasn’t as if they hadn’t done it before. Slept side by side on the same mattress, that is. They’d had that one scorching kiss, but they hadn’t done “it” at all. Anyway, his bed could have worked, but Parker felt a little weird about that in Rhoda’s house. Not that Rhoda was under any delusions her son was a virgin. But still.
Rhoda finally solved the problem by hauling a stack of sheets and blankets out of a closet and dumping them on the couch. “You boys can make this up yourselves. I’m heading to bed.” It was early yet, but she’d put in a full day. They all had.
Wes opened his mouth, probably to protest again about not putting anybody out, but she turned and swept up the stairs.
“You can’t argue with my mom. You’ll never ever win.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble.”
“You’re sleeping on our couch. That’s not trouble. And you’re hardly the first.” Rhoda had a habit of taking in temporary strays—people she knew from P-Town who needed a place to crash for a night or two. They usually ended up in Parker’s vacant room, but when he was in residence, they stayed on the couch. The last one Parker met was a college student who remained for an entire week because her dorm was closed for spring break and she didn’t have any family to go home to. She turned out to be a really good cook who enjoyed having temporary access to a kitchen. Rhoda and Parker were sorry when she and her delicious food went away.
Now Parker unfolded a sheet and began tucking it into the cushions. It was from one of his childhood bedding sets. Cartoon robots rather than Tarzan. He smiled as he remembered lying awake in bed and pretending he was a robot too. He and his mechanical buddies were gathering to plan a coup: no more bedtimes and no limits on the numbers of desserts a person could eat.
Wes pitched in to finish getting the couch ready. Robot sheets, purple fleecy blanket, pouffy duvet with a turquoise cover. Plus three pillows, which was definitely overkill.
“There are towels in the cupboard next to the bathroom,” Parker said. “Do you need anything else?”
“No. Thanks.”
For a moment they just stood there. And then Parker threw himself at Wes, plastering their bodies together and holding him tight. Wes made a soft sighing noise and returned the embrace.
“I’ve been wanting to touch you all day.” Parker kept his voice low because Rhoda was upstairs. And also just because.
“Yeah.”
Did that mean Wes wanted that too, or was he simply acknowledging Parker’s desire? Ah well, time to blunder onward regardless. “I’ve been missing you since I came back to Portland.”
“I’m not such great company.”
“You totally are.”
“I should go.” But Wes’s voice lacked conviction, and he didn’t unwrap his arms from Parker.
“I won’t let you.”
They remained like that for a long time, leaning into each other. Parker noticed for the first time that Wes was a couple of inches shorter than him. Well, he’d noticed that before, but now he felt it, and for a little while, Parker felt big and strong and capable. It was 100 percent bullshit, but it was nice anyway.
They couldn’t stand there forever, but Parker didn’t want to leave yet. He tugged Wes to the couch instead, and they sat together in the middle, their thighs barely touching. Wes had his hands clasped in his lap, as if he were still trying to be a guest on best behavior, and that triggered a thought for Parker. “When’s the last time you had a sleepover?”
“What?”
“I’ve crashed at friends’ places a lot over the years—including yours. I was wondering how often you did it?”
Wes glanced quickly at him, his eyes haunted, then away. “Never.”
“Ever?”
“I hook up sometimes. Nobody stays over on those.”
“But what about platonic sleepovers? Like maybe you stayed up too late watching movies or partying and you’re too tired or too wasted to go home. Or your lease is up on your old apartment and you can’t move into the new one yet. Except you own the bus, so no problems there. But you know what I mean. Visiting someone who lives far away, maybe.”
With his gaze fixed on the floor, Wes gave a little head shake. “Never.”
“Not even—”
“The last time I spent the night at a friend’s house was in eighth grade. Craig Stephens. His mom took us to see The Mask, and then we had pizza and I slept in a sleeping bag on his bedroom floor. It was great. We made plans to do it again, except a week or so later my dad decided he’d had enough of me and shipped me off to my mother in Roseburg, and that was that.”
The realization hit Parker as heavily as a physical blow. Wes had nobody. No family, no friends. Nobody to do him a favor when he needed one—or to send him dorky texts just to make him laugh.
“I’m glad you’re here tonight.”
Wes slumped a little in his seat, perhaps implying he was more relaxed.
“Hey, Wes? How busy are you with work?”
“You want me to make something different instead?” Wes pointed toward the stairs to clarify his meaning.
“No! God, she’s going to love it. I was just hoping maybe you could stick around a little longer to help out some more with the Logan thing.”
“I haven’t helped at all. That was Nevin, remember?”
“Yeah, Nevin made the phone call. But you’re the one who brought up the topic and confirmed my idea that the detective’s story didn’t feel right. And you sat with me and gave me moral support, which I still really, really need.” Parker grabbed one of Wes’s heavily callused hands and held it in both of his.
It took a while for Wes to answer, and Parker was sure he was going to refuse. But finally he nodded. “I can stay for a day or two.”
Parker squeezed his hand. “Good. Maybe together we can figure out what to do next. ’Cause dude, that note didn’t make any sense.”
“Because he didn’t call you PB.” Wes didn’t sound skeptical, just curious, as if he truly wanted more details.
So Parker gave them. “It’s just… it didn’t sound like him. Halos and harps? He always told me he thought religion was bullshit. And we didn’t have great plans together. We didn’t have any plans. I couldn’t even get him to decide what to have for dinner most of the time, not even when it was past eight and we were both starving. And we’d just had this huge fight because he stole my rent money and was getting us evicted, remember? I think he’d be a lot more likely to write Fuck you, PB than anything about love and good luck.”
Since Wes continued to listen intently, Parker warmed to his subject. “Logan was never mushy or sentimental. He could be funny, but he was never really all that nice. He was… well, he was a lot better at dealing with dogs than people, actually. All the dogs loved him. There was this lab mix who used to come once a week, and all she wanted was to snore in a corner. She was, like, ninety in people years. But when she saw Logan, she’d bounce around and fetch toys like a puppy. Shy dogs would climb into his lap. Hyper ones that barked too much would calm down as soon as he started petting them. But human beings? Not so much.”
Wes hadn’t tried to pull his hand away. Now he stroked his chin with the free one. “But you said you thought he wrote the note.”
“Yeah. I know that shitty handwriting and even shittier spelling. But why would he write an inauthentic suicide note?” It was a mystery, and Parker always sucked at those. He didn’t have the patience to collect clues and puzzle out who shanked Colonel Mustard in
the billiard room.
“Maybe you should talk to Detective Saito,” said Wes. “Express your concerns.”
Ugh. Parker didn’t want to talk to cops—except the ones Rhoda was friends with. But it was probably the smartest course of action. The most adult option. After a moment’s consideration, he nodded. “Yeah, okay. But will you go with me?”
“Go where?”
“Seattle, of course.”
THEY STAYED up late. First Parker had to convince Wes that meeting with Saito in person was better than calling her. A phone call would feel distant and impersonal, and Parker wanted to converse with her. He wanted to see her facial expressions and posture as she responded to him. And if this gave him an excuse to spend a little more time with Wes, away from Rhoda’s prying eyes and sensitive ears, so much the better.
Once Wes was on board, Parker texted Nevin and asked him to set up the Seattle meeting. That dragged on longer than expected, mostly because Nevin insisted he could take care of confronting the douchecanoes in Seattle. But Parker held steady, and eventually Nevin caved. That was a red-letter occasion in itself.
After that Parker had to wait for Nevin to contact Saito, worrying the whole time it was too late at night or she’d blow him off. But apparently Nevin overcame those potential barriers. It was almost eleven when he texted:
3pm tomorrow. Sveglio Cafe on Spring St. I’m going too.
Smiling, Parker replied:
Thanks, and no, you’re not. How about if I just call if I need you?
After a long pause, Nevin sent the eggplant emoji. Parker decided to take that as acquiescence.
Parker and Wes could have gone to sleep at that point, but Parker had the munchies. They crept into the kitchen, giggling like a pair of misbehaving schoolboys, and pigged out on crackers, cheese, and Rhoda’s not-so-secret stash of Oreos. Parker could replace the cookies after he returned from Seattle. They whispered to each other while they ate. Well, mostly Parker whispered, telling Wes the entire drama of how Jeremy and Qay got together and how Jeremy was kidnapped and tortured by a psychotic but dumb drug dealer. It was an epic story.
