The doorbell echoed through the empty house, and sighing in irritation, David set the soda pop on the floor.
When he opened the door, it took everything he had not to slam it again.
“So this is where you are.” Trevor gave him a scowl. “That little queen who works for you wouldn’t tell me anything.”
David went back to his chair. “The ‘little queen’s’ name is Michael.” He sank into the recliner and reclaimed his drink. “And he didn’t give you any information because I told him not to.”
“Nice, David. And Diet Coke?” His supercilious expression encouraged David to salute him with the can. “You know aspartame is bad for you.”
David’s lips twisted. “That which does not kill us and all that.” Trevor gave him a derisive look and came into the living room uninvited, standing with his hands on his hips, looking around with distaste.
“This is lovely, really. What do you call it? Ghetto chic?”
David glared at him. “How did you find me?”
Trevor looked at him like he was an idiot. “How do you think? I followed you.”
“You followed me?” David gave him an incredulous look. The idea that Trevor followed him home, then sat in the dark watching him while he talked to his neighbor, sent a chill down David’s spine. “And you’re in my office, going through my desk. Stalker, much?”
Trevor crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, if you’d stop acting like a child and answer my texts or take my calls, it wouldn’t be necessary.”
David stared at the man he’d lived with for five years and thought he’d loved. He took in his slick dark hair and patrician profile, his expensive clothes and designer shoes, and wondered if he’d ever known him at all. Somehow he didn’t think he had. “Fuck you.”
Trevor’s tweezed brows lifted. “Charming. Developed a new vocabulary? And that’s hardly like you.”
“I don’t think you know the first thing about what I’m like. And I believe I began developing a new vocabulary the day I came home to find you getting your prick sucked by someone in my living room.”
Trevor sighed. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
David took another drink of his pop. “No, I don’t believe I am. I know you don’t see it the same way I do. But to me, getting head from someone other than me constitutes you cheating. And it makes me wonder how many times it happened before.” Trevor gave him a baleful stare. “Are you going to stand there and tell me that was the first time?”
“Yes.” It was said without hesitation, but David studied his face and knew he was lying. Trevor had probably been cheating on him for years, and he’d gone blithely on, thinking they were in love. He’d even convinced himself that Trevor’s insistence they always use condoms was a personal idiosyncrasy, that he’d wanted to be sure. He “didn’t trust the tests.”
Suddenly too tired and heartsore to spar, David set the pop can carefully on the floor near his foot. “Why are you here, Trevor?”
“I’m here,” he said, his voice glacial, “because my lawyer apparently heard from your lawyer. I didn’t know you had one.”
David shrugged, his shoulders shifting against the ancient upholstery. “You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”
“It didn’t have to be this confrontational. That’s your doing.”
David eyed him balefully. “So, I should ignore what I walked in on and blithely go on paying the bills?”
“You chose to leave.” David huffed out a bitter laugh and Trevor’s jaw hardened. “I will not agree to sell the condo.”
“I didn’t instruct my attorney to ask you to sell the condo,” David replied. “I told her to tell your lawyer that if you wanted to stay, you can refinance it and take over the payments.”
“You know I can’t afford to do that.”
Anger broke through David’s exhaustion. “You can if you stop eating out and buying expensive wine. Not to mention those five-hundred-dollar shoes.”
“I won’t change my lifestyle and I won’t be forced out of my home.” He took a threatening step forward and David felt a jolt of fear, but wouldn’t allow himself to back down.
“Then refinance the mortgage and take my name off the deed. I’ll let you have the furniture and everything else I paid for. But I’m not going to make payments on a place where I’m not living.”
“This whole tired wronged-party routine you’re playing is getting really old, David. You know that when the condo is eventually sold, you’ll clear a decent profit.”
“So because I’ll eventually see a profit you want me to pay your way now?” David shook his head. “No, Trevor, I won’t do it.” Trevor looked startled. He took a step toward David, who stiffened. “That’s close enough. I won’t explain bruises away for you, ever again. Touch me, and I call the police.”
Trevor stayed where he was as if testing David’s resolve. Finally he retreated, and it was all David could do not to sag in relief.
“I’ll take you to court.”
“And say what? That after you fucked around on me I refused to pay your bills? We aren’t married. You don’t get alimony.”
“My lawyer might disagree with you. There is a little thing called domestic partnership.”
“So because we lived together, you think that argument is going to work? We never registered as domestic partners.” David sighed in exasperation and leaned over, snatching up his soda. “Your lawyer can talk to my lawyer. Let’s let them sort it out. That’s the civilized way to do it, isn’t it?” He held the can up and saluted Trevor. “By all means, let’s be civilized.”
“When did you turn into an asshole?”
David huffed out an incredulous, bitter laugh. “I’d say it probably coincides with realizing I’d lived with one for five years. Finding you with your pants around your ankles and a kid attached to your cock was the icing on the cake.”
“I won’t even dignify that with a response.” Trevor turned toward the door.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” David said to the back of his head. “Were we going for dignified? Hate to break it to you, but I think that ship has sailed.” God, the words felt liberating. He could scarcely believe he had the nerve to say them.
Trevor didn’t respond. He stomped out through the front door, leaving it standing open behind him. David watched him walk away and was surprised by how little he felt other than weariness. There went five years of his life, and all he felt was… empty.
“That the ex?”
The voice startled him and David turned as Trevor roared off down the street in his Mini Cooper. Another luxury David helped pay for. Apparently his level of gullibility knew no bounds.
Jackson was in the kitchen doorway, staring out through the front door. He was wearing a tight T-shirt, this one black, and worn Levi’s with a tool belt slung low on his hips. His protective clear goggles were pushed up into his sawdusted hair.
“Yep,” David said finally. He could feel Jackson’s gaze even though he tried to avoid looking at him. “Trevor Blankenship.”
“He’s kind of a jerk, isn’t he?”
Jackson crossed through the dining room and walked past him, closing the front door almost carefully, stopping the cold air that was drifting through the room. He leaned against it, crossing his arms and surveying David.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said. “But I heard voices….”
“It’s all right.” David blew out a breath and let his head fall against the headrest. “We weren’t exactly quiet.”
There was a long silence. “David,” Jackson said finally, “can I say something, even though this is really none of my business?”
David looked up to find clear blue eyes steady on his face. “Sure.”
Jackson’s hand curled around his own bicep, long fingers pressing into his arm. “I don’t know you very well, but everything I’ve seen tells me you’re a nice guy. A bit impulsive, maybe, but I think I get why you bought the house the way you did now. But you’re
a good person. No one deserves to have their partner cheat on them. And no one deserves to have their partner put hands on them. No one.” After a wave of embarrassed heat surged to his face, David stared at him, feeling sadness roll off him in quiet waves.
“Speaking from experience?” For some reason the idea of Jackson feeling anything like he did made David’s throat tight.
“No one has ever touched me in anger, but let’s say I can commiserate.” His gaze lifted and David felt the kind, direct stare like a caress. “Remember something: this isn’t something you did. This is on him.”
“I know. I keep telling myself that. But I thought….” He shook his head. “I guess it doesn’t matter what I thought, but it’s certainly made me question my judgment.” He gestured wryly around the room. “About everything.”
“Well, this particular decision might actually work out for you.” Jackson stepped away from the door and reached into the back pocket of his jeans. “I did some research.” He withdrew a small square of paper and unfolded it. “This is a list of all the houses Andrej Janic designed here in town.” He handed it to David. “Fourth down.”
Sure enough, fourth from the top was a small black-and-white picture of his house, along with the address. “Where did you find this?”
“Online at the local historical society.”
“What does it mean?”
“Well, considering that almost everything inside of it is still original, all of the woodwork and everything, I’d say it’s probably worth about three hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Seriously?”
“That’s conservative, actually. One not far from here sold for closer to four last year.”
David felt a giddy laugh building. “That’s… amazing.”
“It certainly ought to make you feel better about buying it. And when you finish doing the necessary upgrades, it’ll be worth even more.”
David grimaced, rubbing his lower lip. “Now I wonder if I cheated the old lady I bought it from.”
Jackson laughed. It was a wonderful sound, a deep rolling chuckle that raised gooseflesh over David’s shoulders.
“What?”
“Haven’t you been thinking you paid too much for it?”
“Well, yes, but….” David felt his face fill with heat. “She was nice.”
“And she left you a mess to deal with. I doubt she could afford the upgrades necessary, and the value would have continued to decrease the longer she owned it. You did her a favor.”
David looked at the built-ins he loved and the beautiful hardwood and he smiled slowly. He already felt more at home in the house than he ever had in the condo. “No, I think she did me one. Now I just need to buy an entire house full of furniture. No big deal.” He laughed wryly.
Jackson hooked his thumbs in his tool belt. “There’s a possibility I might be able to help you out with that too.”
David arched a brow in interest. “Seriously? Who are you, Santa Claus?”
Jackson laughed again. It was a nice sound, and David wanted to hear it again and again. He pushed up from the chair. “Let me get you a Coke, and you can tell me about it.” He picked up the empty can from the floor and found Jackson watching him, an odd expression on his face.
“I’m sorry,” David said quickly. “You must have somewhere else you need to be—” Jackson was usually headed out the door between six and seven, and it was long past that.
David let the words dangle and waited. After what seemed a long time, Jackson slowly shook his head.
“Not tonight. And a Coke sounds great.”
“Excellent!” David led the way, accompanied by the soft sound of Jackson’s boots on the hardwood floor as he followed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ON FRIDAY morning, David walked out of his house early, planning to make a stop at Starbucks for the last time. He liked their pumpkin spice lattes, but buying one every day felt indulgent at a time when he wasn’t sure he could afford to be. Determined to stop at Target after work and pick up a Mr. Coffee, which he could pay for by not going to Starbucks for a week and a half, he pulled his scarf snug around his neck and locked the front door. After jogging down the steps, he headed toward his shiny, pomegranate-red Yaris and froze, staring at the little car he’d owned for barely two months. Cold rushed over him, like someone had drenched him with ice water.
The driver’s side window was gone. Shards of tempered glass littered the driveway, gleaming in the bright morning sunlight, sparkling like diamonds. Remnants clung to the frame like sharp snaggleteeth. Scrawled on the door in white paint was the word FAGGOT, with a small symbol scribbled beneath it. It looked like an egg with a lightning bolt through it, but David couldn’t make sense of it. He couldn’t make sense of any of it. It didn’t seem real. He was still staring at the car, hand over his mouth, when Jackson’s truck pulled up out front.
The slam of a door echoed over the yard, and David watched as Jackson circled around the back of his truck.
“David, what’s wrong?”
“I was going to go to Starbucks because I don’t have a coffeemaker….” He realized how ridiculous he sounded. “My car….”
“What….” Jackson stopped next to him and David saw him register the damage to the door.
“Son of a bitch.”
Jackson dug in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, yanked his glove off with his teeth, and scrolled through his contacts.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling the police.”
David looked back at the car, feeling dangerously close to tears. He knew it was dumb; it was just a car. But it had been years since anyone had used that word when referring to him, and looking at it made him feel like he might throw up. When Jackson wrapped his arm around his shoulders, David leaned into his hard side.
“Detective Mitchell,” Jackson said into the phone. After a few moments, a faint, deep voice responded. “Jackson Henry, sir. I’m calling to report another hate crime.”
David stiffened and looked at Jackson’s implacable profile. This was a hate crime? His gaze went back to the defaced door and he realized that yes, it was. A shudder passed through his body and Jackson’s arm around his shoulders tightened.
Jackson spoke for a few more minutes, giving the detective on the other end of the line David’s address. When his call ended, he gently turned David toward the house.
David looked at him.
“Aren’t you cold?”
David realized for the first time that he was trembling. Whether from delayed reaction or cold, he couldn’t be sure, but going inside sounded like a great idea.
“Did you touch anything?” Jackson asked as he took out his key and opened the front door. David frowned. “On the car, David. Did you touch anything on the car?”
“Oh, no. I found it before you pulled up. I was going to go to Starbucks, and then….”
“Yeah. Come on.” He steered David toward the recliner, crouching in front of him. “Do you have tea bags? Anything I can make you that’s warm?”
David looked into the level blue eyes, trying to think if he did or not. “I… think so?”
Jackson rubbed David’s knee, his long fingers caressing the boney cap. “I’ll find something.”
Jackson walked into the kitchen, and David heard cupboards opening, then water running. He stared at the front door, trying to wrap his head, once again, around the damage to his car.
Who would do that? And when had they done it when he wouldn’t hear it? After Jackson left the night before, he’d nuked a frozen dinner, most of which he’d thrown in the trash. Then he’d grabbed a bag of chocolate chip cookies and retired to bed to watch Law and Order. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on it, however. He’d probably fallen asleep about ten thirty, and even then he’d been restless. He was still too angry at Trevor to settle.
Trevor.
David stiffened. Could Trevor have done that to his car? David had to acknowledge Trevor might do anything when he didn�
��t get his way. Yes, he could have bashed in the window of his car.
Jackson returned, holding out a mug. David took it with trembling hands, and the homey scent of hot cider lifted from it. He wrapped his hand around the hot mug gratefully.
“It’s the packaged stuff.” Jackson shoved his hands in his back pockets. “It was all I could find.”
“Thank you. I think my mom gave me that box when she was afraid I would starve to death if left to my own devices.”
“How’re you doing?”
“The shock is fading. Now I’m mostly pissed off.”
“Good. That’s the appropriate response. You should be pissed off. I know when someone hit my truck, I was good and furious for a week.”
“I’ll bet. I… hate to even say this, but I wonder if it was Trevor.”
Jackson’s brows arched. “The ex?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know, David. I mean, he’s certainly asshole enough to break the window, but he’s gay. Why in the world would he write faggot on your car if he’s gay too?”
David felt his face heat. Explaining would be embarrassing, but Jackson’s steady gaze was compelling.
“Trevor always felt words like faggot applied more to gay men like me.”
“Like you?”
David looked down into his cider. “You know, more… flamboyant.”
Jackson didn’t say anything for several seconds. When he did speak, his voice was stark. “And how would he describe himself, then?”
“He doesn’t have a problem with gay or queer. He said, you know, words like pansy and faggot….” He shrugged awkwardly.
“I get it.” Jackson’s voice was clipped. “Christ, he’s an idiot.”
The doorbell rang and Jackson answered it, then introduced David to a tall, balding man named Detective Mitchell.
The rest of his morning was taken up with the police investigation. They took dozens of photos, opened the door and checked the connections to the engine and the electrical system. It never occurred to David that someone might have tampered with his engine, but everything appeared to be in working order. The detective seemed particularly interested in the small symbol under the scrawled slur, and he took several close-ups of it.
David, Renewed Page 6
