Death of a Bachelor

by M. A. Hinkle

  A NineStar Press Publication

  Published by NineStar Press

  P.O. Box 91792,

  Albuquerque, New Mexico, 87199 USA.

  www.ninestarpress.com

  Death of a Bachelor

  Copyright © 2018 by M.A. Hinkle

  Cover Art by Natasha Snow Copyright © 2018

  Edited by Elizabetta McKay

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at the physical or web addresses above or at Contact@ninestarpress.com.

  Printed in the USA

  First Edition

  October, 2018

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-949909-09-8

  Print ISBN: 978-1-949909-17-3

  Warning: This book contains the off-page death of a side character.

  Death of a Bachelor

  A Cherrywood Grove Novel

  M.A. Hinkle

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  First Prologue

  Second Prologue

  Third Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  This one is for Shannon, because you loved them first.

  First Prologue: Cathal Crushes Olives and Damon’s Dreams.

  DECEMBER 31ST, 1997

  The man sitting at the end of the bar was older than Damon, maybe twenty-four. He had a thin, foxlike face and long, dark hair that he twirled around a finger as he wrote on a napkin, and he was wearing a Cherrywood College shirt under his suit jacket. A martini sat untouched in front of him, and his eyes were lost in thought. Definitely gay, but he wasn’t…intimidating. Unlike every other man who wasn’t on the dance floor or making out with someone else.

  Damon sat next to him and gestured to the bartender for a beer. He was already a little drunk, but if he wanted to relax, he’d have to get a lot drunk. The other patron continued writing out a math problem. He finished his equation, considered it, and then scribbled the whole thing out, his brow furrowed. Scowling, he drank the martini at one go. Only then did he glance in Damon’s direction. “Fuck off,” he said, biting the olive from the swizzle stick. “I’m not looking for company tonight. I came here to get drunk.”

  Damon colored, but he kept the embarrassment from his voice. “Why’d you think I came here for anything different?”

  “There’s plenty of room, but you sat by me.” He looked at Damon, taking him all in, and his eyes narrowed further. The scowl fit his face too well, and Damon didn’t appreciate his scrutiny. “And guys like you don’t come here for the conversation.”

  Damon didn’t care for the man’s tone. But he was the first to admit he didn’t know what he was doing—and, anyway, he was drunk enough not to care. “I wasn’t aware anyone came here for conversation.”

  The man snorted. “It’s not the fucking sixties anymore. Gays can have meet-cutes as easily as everyone else.” He gestured to the bartender for another martini, rubbing his forehead.

  Damon didn’t know what he meant, and he wanted to ask what kind of guy this man thought he was. But he had a feeling that would piss him off, and he was looking for a good time. Instead, he took another drink of his beer. “I’m Damon,” he said, without expecting much.

  The man accepted another martini from the bartender and sipped it, looking at Damon over the top. “Cathal.”

  Damon drummed his fingers on the bar, wondering if he ought to cut his losses and head to a straight bar after all. But he settled for finishing his beer in one long drink.

  Cathal watched him. Not friendly watching. At this point, Damon didn’t know how to leave, so he signaled for another beer. “What were you working on?”

  Cathal glanced at the napkin and made a face. “Bullshit. It doesn’t matter.”

  Damon screwed the cap off his second beer and took a drink. “Who comes to a bar and does their homework?”

  Cathal raised his eyebrows. His face was dangerous, but he couldn’t be that bad. Too scrawny. “Who comes to a bar already drunk?” He tilted his head to the side and smiled. Not a nice smile. Damon was starting to wonder if he had a nice smile, or if he always looked like someone had pissed in his drink. “Oh. I know. Guys like you.”

  Damon frowned, feeling the first stirrings of anger. “You said that before. What do you mean?”

  Cathal leaned toward Damon. His voice was calm, unhurried, but his eyes were full of fire, the sort that burns unnoticed and then flares up to take a tree down in seconds. “Guys like you. Guys who are maybe straight, maybe not, who come to one of our places for a little fucking fun and then go home to their wife or girlfriend or whatever. Never mind that it’s guys like you—guys with enough gay in them to be scared when they see one of us—who cause the goddamn trouble in the first place, because you’re not man enough to face down what’s inside you.” He drank the rest of his martini and bit off the olive again, viciously. “Don’t say you play for both teams if you’re only going to bat for one side.”

  Damon blinked. It wasn’t only that he was surprised by the onslaught. He was hurt, too. “Are you this much of an asshole to everyone, or just me?” His temper was throbbing now, but he wasn’t drunk enough to punch Cathal. Even though he wanted to be, because he could never match him with words.

  “Everyone,” said Cathal, like he was proud of it. He got up. “If you want a fuckbuddy for the night, that’s fine. So do plenty of guys here. But go find someone who doesn’t care if you’re throwing the rest of us under the bus, because I do.” He reached to tuck the napkin into his pocket; Damon grabbed his wrist, even though he had nothing to say. Cathal shot him a look that promised every possible bad thing in the known universe. And some unknown things.

  Damon let go of him, scowling. “I’m not like that. I’m not.”

  Cathal smiled that prim, insipid smile again. “Yes, you fucking are.” He walked off without another word.

  Damon sat there, stunned. Then he turned around and finished his beer at a go.

  Second Prologue: Jane Austen Never Swore, but Cathal Reads Stephen King.

  JULY 24TH, 1998

  “So are you nervous?” Era asked, sweeping her skirt out beneath her legs as she sat across the booth from Damon.

  Damon couldn’t make his eyes settle on her face, even though the perfect calm he always found there would have made him calm, too. “Nope. Everything’s great.”

  She seized his wrist before he could bite off a hangnail. “I thought you quit biting your fingernails.”

  Damon turned his hand so he could hold hers. That helped, a little. Era held his hand like she was ready to catch him if he fell. But she treated everyone that way.

  “Your palms are clammy, too,” she said, running her thumb over his. “You are nervous. Whatever for?”

  Whatever for. She actually talked that way, like she’d strolled out of a Jane Austen movie. Damon studied the
wallpaper, even though he’d seen the pattern of stripes and dots a million times. Smithson’s was his favorite restaurant. It was supposed to make him comfortable. His voice came out rough. “I’m only meeting your best friend.”

  Era clucked and squeezed his hand to make him look at her. “I’ve told you already, he’s going to act horrible and not mean a piece of it. He’s—guarded.” She traced the lines on Damon’s palm. “He was only a teenager when he came out, and his family disowned him for it. We’re all the other’s got, so naturally, he’s protective. But he’s kind under the surface. Only there’s…rather a lot of surface. It’s why I haven’t talked about him.”

  Damon looked at their linked hands and wished he could tell her why he was really nervous. Era had somehow convinced herself that Damon was good enough for her, but the moment someone else saw them together, the illusion would shatter, and she’d leave him. She was too good, and he knew it. How she didn’t, when she knew so many things, was beyond him, but he wasn’t going to question good luck. He lifted her fingers to his lips, and she favored him with a smile.

  Then her best friend arrived. Although he was terrible with names, Damon never forgot a face. This one was sharp, and foxlike, and closed off—the man from the bar. You could mistake him and Era for siblings: they had the same glossy black hair and blue eyes, although his eyes were like ice, not the soft forget-me-not blue of Era’s. For a minute, Damon wanted to run the other way. Then he remembered, bad meeting or not, this was Era’s best friend, and however she laughed it off, she wanted them to get along.

  So he got to his feet and held out his hand to shake, hoping he didn’t look like he’d been hit in the face with a shovel.

  Cathal, for his part, gave no sign he remembered Damon. His eyes were cool and thoughtful and as untouchable as the permafrost in the Arctic Circle. His hair was longer, and he was wearing a nicer suit, but otherwise, he didn’t seem to have changed. As Era introduced them, he shook Damon’s hand without any hint of a smile.

  Era huffed. “I asked you to pretend to be nice. Just this once. Just for a change.”

  “I’m not insulting him, am I?” He looked Damon up and down, more obviously. Damon stifled the urge to scowl, despite a prickle at the back of his neck. Cathal was good-looking. But also like a king cobra as it reared up to strike.

  To Damon’s surprise, Cathal’s expression softened. “He’s—different than your usual man, Era. I’m trying to decide if this is a trick.”

  “It’s not a trick. I like him, and you’re going to hush.”

  A blush crept up the back of Damon’s neck at Era’s words. He wasn’t expecting much more than like from her, even though he was already so in love it made his knees weak.

  Cathal slid into the booth next to Era. She offered her cheek to kiss, and he did so. He asked polite questions about Damon—college, he was giving it a shot; army, navy, actually, but not long; job, still at the diner where Damon had met Era six months ago. Damon learned a few things about Cathal in return: he was an adjunct physics professor at the local state school, working on a doctorate in astrophysics.

  “I’m not sure I’m smart enough to be at this table,” said Damon, forcing himself to smile. Era was also working on her doctorate, though hers was in some specialized branch of English literature that Damon still didn’t understand.

  “Most people aren’t,” said Cathal. From someone else, it might have been a joke, but Cathal was serious. Damon searched his face, wondering if he did remember. Then Cathal yelped. “Don’t kick me! It’s the truth. Sheesh, we’re not sixteen anymore.” So maybe he just said that kind of thing. Probably, if their last meeting was any indication.

  When they were finished with dinner but before the check arrived, Era went to the bathroom.

  Cathal had maintained a neutral expression, softening only when he spoke to Era. Now, his eyes narrowed. He did remember that night at the bar. “Listen quickly. I need to know something, and now.”

  Damon bristled at his tone, like he had all that time ago, but he tried to keep his cool. “What?”

  “My best friend loves you.” Cathal said it like someone else might say the sky is blue. Damon drew back, heat coming into his cheeks. Cathal ignored this, his eyes not wavering from Damon’s face. “I need to know now—can you love her back? And I don’t mean in the emotional way. I mean all the way.”

  Damon blinked. “I—what?”

  Cathal spoke as though explaining addition to a child. Did he ever blink? “Does the pendulum swing both ways, or are you looking for a beard? I realize I may have given the wrong impression before. I want to make it clear that I was being an asshole because I am an asshole and not because I don’t think bisexuality exists. But some men marry women because they think they can hide it. Then twenty years later they come out in a loud and messy fashion, breaking their wife’s heart. I’d kill you before I let you do that to my best friend.”

  Damon blinked again, this time at the audacity of the question. His hands were fists under the table; he made himself relax, though his voice was still flat. “I wouldn’t date women if I wasn’t interested in women. What kind of a person do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know what kind of person you are. It doesn’t change the fact that plenty of my friends messed around with girls so their parents wouldn’t find out.” Damon opened his mouth, but Cathal waved his objections away. “Never you mind, though. I can tell you’re not lying.”

  Damon’s belly was full of fire, and he had no way to let it out. “So—”

  “So we’re fine,” said Cathal, cutting him off. “I don’t like you, but don’t take it personally. I’m sure Era’s already told you I don’t like anybody. She’s taken hell out of me for chasing her other men off, but that’s because they didn’t treat her right. You will, and that’s all I care about. Never mind I have no idea what she sees in you.”

  That, at least, they had in common.

  Thankfully, Era returned from the bathroom before Damon could calm down enough to say something stupid. She looked from Damon’s flushed face to Cathal’s cool smile and frowned. “If you were mean—”

  “No more than usual, my love.” Cathal looked like he’d stepped out to pick daisies, not like they’d almost come to blows. “You know me. I’m good at getting under people’s skin.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” Damon muttered, trying to rub the blush away.

  Era looked him over, still frowning. Then she sat, this time next to Damon so she could put a hand on his knee. He resisted the urge to hide his face in her shoulder. “Perhaps you weren’t impolitic after all. I’m impressed.”

  Cathal just shrugged, expression unreadable.

  Third Prologue: Cathal Makes a Promise, not a Joke, for Once in His Miserable Life.

  FEBRUARY 20TH, 2016

  Cathal made himself march right into the hospital room. If he lingered in the lobby or outside the door, he’d never get the guts to go inside. He’d been to visit Era before, when she first got sick, but this was different. The doctor had been very clear: the options they had would slow things down, but they couldn’t stop it, and they all needed to accept that every day was one closer to Era’s last.

  Accept it. Like you could come to terms with death the way you memorized flashcards.

  He managed to keep a smile on, though it was nearly impossible. He’d only been away for a few weeks, getting everything set up for the semester so his graduate students and his replacement teacher wouldn’t be left floundering, and he’d spoken every day with her on the phone, but…she’d lost so much weight, even in that short time.

  She, of course, saw right through him. Her own smile was tight and quiet, and she patted the space on the bed beside her. They settled next to each other, shoulders and hips touching, like they had twenty years ago when they were teenagers sharing secrets.

  “Where’s Damon?” Cathal asked because the silence was smothering.

  “He’s out getting lunch with Felix. I wanted to talk to
you for a bit.”

  Cathal laced his fingers together instead of saying anything. He didn’t want to admit it, but talking with Era these days was easier with Damon around to distract them. How exactly was one supposed to say, You’re dying, and it’s also killing me?

  “For God’s sake, Cathal, I’m not going to drop dead this instant.” He flinched, despite himself, and Era sighed. “I’m sorry. But I need to talk to you about it.”

  “Do we have to?” It came out as a whisper; Cathal closed his eyes, ashamed.

  Era picked up his hand, and Cathal squeezed it. “Yes. Just this once, and then we’ll go on pretending, all right?”

  He nodded but only opened his eyes when he was certain he had himself under control. Damon was already an emotional mess. She didn’t need that from Cathal. Not that he had ever been her rock, but he could pretend, for her.

  “Good.” Era turned her head so they were almost nose to nose, another familiar position. He could pretend they were children, except for the noise of the hospital machines. “So. You’ve never liked Damon.”

  Cathal opened his mouth to object. Era just looked at him. Cathal rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “All right, no, not really, but you can’t expect me to think anyone is good enough for you. That’s my job. And it’s not like I have anything in common with him.”

  “I know, and that’s been fine. You’ve respected my choice, and you’ve been civil to him, which is all I ask.”

  “He’s been good for you,” said Cathal, and that was true. “I know that. But I don’t like people.”

  “I know, and I’m all right with that.” Era let out a breath. “I’m not asking you to change. But I need you to promise me something.”

  “Anything,” said Cathal, turning to face her again.

  “I need you to look after him for me when I’m gone.” Her eyes were solemn. “He’s already letting himself go—we’re lucky enough he didn’t need to keep his job, but I wish he would have, because I have no idea what he’s going to do without me, and that thought scares me more than dying.”