“I guess it’s independent?” I sighed.
“She. And yes. She sleeps a lot, too.” His hopeful lip-bitten smile drew a resigned shoulder—slump from me.
“Keep her in the guest room?”
“Yessir.”
He looked so happy. I wanted to roll my eyes. “She has a carrier?”
“Yessir, in Peter’s room, under the computer desk.”
“And stop calling me sir?”
“Yessi— Austin.”
“Kid?”
“Yes?”
“You’d better fucking cure AIDS or something.” I got up to leave.
“Austin, sir.” He stopped me again. I gave up on getting him to stop calling me sir. And nearly abandoned the prospect of leaving.
“You have a dog, too?” I asked. “Maybe parakeets and a family of illegal aliens in the basement? Or genetically engineered humans that you’ve created to answer everything in the form of a question?”
He blinked and stared. I was either not funny, or he felt very guilty. “Don’t snoop?” He said—or asked—even his commands were questions.
“The ‘key to Peter’ is just out there in the open ready to be seen?” I answered dubiously.
“Did you know Peter didn’t finish school past seventh grade?”
Rubbing my face with both hands, I decided Cai was going to parcel out information in bundles of riddles. He would be a great teacher, though, if he went that route; he would always lead the students to discover the answer rather than being told it. “No, I didn’t,” I replied. The knowledge made an awful sense and brought back my protective feelings toward Peter.
“Even back before we left home, he had a lot of trouble with school. I think he was glad not to have to go to class. But Joe made him and Darryl both enroll in high school. He was sixteen, and they put him in remedial classes because he was so far behind and didn’t read well. He just couldn’t catch up. He never asked for help. After a few months, he dropped out. But Joe made him get his GED.”
“Whatever you’re trying to tell me is not computing. Are you saying Peter isn’t smart, Cai?”
“No. I’m saying Peter hated school because he couldn’t do most of the work. And he only let me help him with a few college courses when he was near failing. He won’t ever ask for help for himself. But he’s smart. A different kind of smart than you or I. He doesn’t think like we do.”
“Cai?”
‘Yessir? Um…Austin, sir?” He winced again.
“No one thinks like you.” That brought on another blush. I hesitated. “Anything else before I try to leave, again?”
He shook his head no, and became immersed in the blank wall. I grabbed the remote and flipped on the television.
Just for fun, I clicked until I saw a cartoon. Cai’s attention slowly drifted to the screen. I left him watching Scooby’s and Shaggy’s fearful run from a zombie.
Demons
I decided to do my morning run by jogging to the house the boys shared. I estimated it to be about two miles, not even close to my usual workout. By the time I arrived, I’d barely broken a sweat. To prolong the run I did a few laps around the nearby park.
Cheesman Park had a haunted history involving unmoved graves and ghosts. That sordid tale was nothing compared to the rumors about the park now. This century it was known more for gay cruising.
Much like the bar where Darryl worked, rumors abounded of casual sexual encounters in parked cars or in the clusters of trees encircling the park. My first lap revealed they were more than rumors.
As I rounded a corner, a guy in his mid-to-late thirties zoomed toward me with his shirt off. My pace slowed as we made eye contact. I made the mistake of following the curve of his neck down his chest and over his sculpted stomach. It was the first time since meeting Peter that I’d allowed myself an open admiration of another man. The breath I held released when he passed, and I picked up my pace. Seconds later, he joined me at my side.
“Hey,” I said, hiding my surprise behind a smile. Dark hair, hazel eyes, very muscular. Hot body. My cock seemed to agree. I was embarrassed by my attraction. Maybe I hadn’t fully embraced the gay.
“Hey, yourself. I haven’t seen you here before.”
“First time.”
“That so?” Other than his body, he wasn’t gorgeous. Not ugly in any sense, just a regular guy, like me. “Well, First Time, I’m Interested.”
Don’t say it, Austin. Don’t say it. “Where?”
A white set of teeth and small crinkles at the corners of his eyes said he approved of my answer. “My car’s on the east end of the park.” He pointed directly across from where we were. I kept running. Thinking. Running.
Fantasizing.
My heart beat more rapidly from envisioning his mouth wrapped around my cock than the physical exercise.
It was established that Peter and I weren’t exclusive. He’d given me the same idea. We barely knew each other. But I wasn’t ready for casual hook-ups if I was embarrassed by just admiring a guy. Instead of letting my cock lead the way, I mentally kicked myself and said, “I think I’m taken, man, sorry.”
Mr. I’m-Interested just smiled and jogged on as I slowed.
Goddamn Peter for being the one I wanted.
My eyes never strayed from the path after that. I stretched my usual hour run into nearly two hours. Thirty minutes of which I sported a woody capable of impaling anyone who ran into me. It was not a comfortable feeling. At least my sweat cooled against the summer sunrise. When my legs began to protest, I turned out of the park and walked the remaining blocks to the townhome. Letting myself into Joe’s house, I returned the key back into my sock and took a look around.
For three young men living together, the house was remarkably clean. Cai’s paint cans were the only clutter in sight, and even they were semi-neatly stacked in the far corner. The TV was maybe a 32” screen, at least five-to-ten years old. The furniture was threadbare, and bits of paint dotted its pilled, green-plaid surfaces. On the battered coffee table, a fan of men’s magazines was on display next to a stack of cork coasters. I hadn’t noticed these things the first time, because I had been so blown away by Cai’s artwork. Now that I could see the furnishings, I was puzzled.
With as much money as Joe had supposedly pulled in, his belongings would have been rejected by secondhand stores. Weird. If Joe was raking in money from his illegal activities, it wasn’t spent anywhere in his home. I had to check out the diner’s books. Which meant I needed to get out of there quickly.
I stopped in the kitchen briefly, picked up a box on the counter and tilted my head at the aroma of cinnamon. It was strong enough to seep through the foil covering the pan on the counter. When I lifted the aluminum out of the way, a tray of cinnamon rolls answered every question I had about Peter’s scent. I grabbed one, polishing it off before reaching the bank of doors in the hallway.
I opened each one, trying to find Peter’s room. It was in the far back, connected to the yard by a large picture window. The room was spartan—a desk with a computer, a simple double bed, a dresser and a bookshelf. All had seen better days. Standing at the threshold, I considered spying—because that’s what cops do. It would have been creepy though. Looking for evidence was not the same as prying into Peter’s personal life for my own edification—which I would have been doing. And which I deeply longed to do. I’d have to settle for what was out in the open.
The paintings on Peter’s walls, which I could attribute to Cai, danced with a purity of colors. There were no scenes or discernable images. Just bright swirls of green, purple, red mixed with indigo and black. I likened the murals to the backgrounds of a children’s book. Cai had painted joy on these walls.
Other than Cai’s paintings, the room was bare of personality. No pictures. No vases. No memorabilia—unless one counted the unfinished liquid near Peter’s computer. Some dark-twisted evil percolated in that coffee cup near the keyboard. I steered around it, while shaking the box of cat treats I’d found
in the kitchen.
The moment I opened the box, something crawled out of the depths of the crumpled comforter. I immediately backed up and stared at the thing.
Demons should not be that small. Were demons small? Or gargoyles. Was it a gargoyle?
I was being facetious, but really, seriously, “What. The. Fuck?”
While I debated whether to leave it here, Begone stretched onto her back and fell off the side of the bed. She grappled wildly until one claw saved her from an ass-meets-floor encounter. The thing dangled there far too long for me to believe she could figure out how to extract her claws on her own. But I didn’t want to touch it—her— it, to help.
For one thing, the…cat?—looked maimed, or burned. Her random tufts of fur were indiscriminately stuck between bits of pink skin. It was like a four-year-old had used dust bunnies from under the bed to create a collage of fur on a burlap canvas.
Begone also reeked. The thing was a walking biohazard of stale tuna seeped in sun-soured milk.
As if the smell, scarred flesh and bent tail weren’t enough, the poor creature had an ear missing, and a marbled white and grey scar from the top of its head down to its black nose.
“I’m supposed to take you home,” I told the thing. Begone continued to grasp at the comforter to keep Peter’s thin carpet from devouring her. Then she started purring and batting at…nothing. There was nothing there.
“You couldn’t just smell disgusting and look like an ad for animal cruelty? You had to have the crazies, too?”
Purr.
My brain launched an immediate argument about the beast.
You’ve already ruined your career, your marriage, possibly your partnership, definitely your reputation, and most likely your house. Are you really going to draw the line at taking a cat home?
It’s not a cat.
It means something to Peter.
Everything that belongs to, is about, or has even a cross reference to Cai, means something to Peter.
While I carried on my internal discussion, the cat pushed its back claws into the side of the bed and back-flipped onto the mattress. It finally yanked free from the covers, sticking a furless ass in the air and flopping on its side—without incident this time. While it bedded down, I got to the real reason I was in Peter’s bedroom.
Indebted to a Fucking Hairball With the Crazies
The cheap bookshelf reached from floor to ceiling, where it leaned in the direction of the eastern window, as if the wood was still trying to reach for the sun; or the books shoved into it were too much of a burden. They were piled, stacked, stuffed and crammed between college notebooks and packets of computer printouts. Most shelves contained textbooks on Japanese, Russian, Chinese, Italian and Spanish, accompanied by dictionaries in each language. I pulled a few out and flipped through them, discovering Peter had highlighted in each book and written marginal notes.
The notes were vast and detailed. Words circled and the definitions in ballpoint on both sides. I traced my thumb over his writing, feeling the dips in the paper.
The highest shelf contained a different selection of books. These were on parenting, teenage behavior and more than a few on Bipolar Disorder. My heart twisted as I summoned an image of a teenage Peter, suffering through these textbooks, learning how to take care of Cai. It was both heartbreaking and poignant. Reluctantly, I closed the book and checked the other shelves.
How fluent was he in all these languages? As I sat down to flip through the notebooks, the thing—I refused to say ‘cat’— rubbed its head against my elbow.
“I’ve been at homicide scenes that smelled better than you,” I told it.
Purr.
“Dogs are okay, but I don’t like cats.”
Blink.
“Do you know why I like dogs and not cats? Because when you’re talking to dogs, they don’t walk away in order to rim themselves.”
Begone continued to orally pleasure itself, while I did my creepy, stalker impression and read through Peter’s notebook. I told myself it was only one, and that wasn’t too much nosy digging. Then guilt knocked on my conscience. With a sigh, I returned the notebook to the shelf and gave the masturbating cat a grimace.
“You’re like a self-published pet porno.” It ignored me. “I don’t want to see this again,” I warned it, flapping a hand at the self-gratification show.
Begone looked up at me from her pretzeled position and blinked.
“Christ,” I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair. Why had I agreed to this?
On my way to fetch the cat carrier, I bumped into Peter’s desk, jostling the mouse and knocking the screensaver out of function. Up popped a newspaper article with a small picture of Angelica and me, taken at a fundraiser a few months ago.
Detective Austin Glass, son of criminal defense attorney, Desmond Glass Sr. Esq…
I rolled my eyes at my father’s title as much as the fact that he was mentioned, prominently, in an article about my medal.
…was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross today. Detective Glass entered a convenience store with his partner…
And that word ‘partner’ would take on a whole new meaning once the press got hold of the new gay Austin. I skipped reading the rest of the article. I knew the story. I now also knew that Peter was nosier than I.
My fingers tapped against my thigh during my not-so-brief time staring at the screen. They were as anxious to check Peter’s computer history as I was. The physical effort it required to turn away from the screen was excruciating.
I took a hard look around the room and tried to decipher what it was that I knew about Peter. The fact of it was, I didn’t know much. I knew about Cai. I even knew about Darryl. But I barely knew anything about Peter. Except that Peter had no self-identity beyond Cai. He obviously had ambition to do something, if the bookshelves held any clue. He was proud that he spoke other languages, as I remembered him almost bragging on our first date.
My fingers began to tap faster. That certain ‘something’ was tickling my brain, telling me I had the picture, I just needed to fill it in.
“Why? Why did you say you owed Cai?” I asked his bookshelf. “Why is everything in your life about Cai? You ask me to help Cai. You give up everything for him. You rescue him, protect him, parent him.”
I had just started mentally going through my previous conversations with Peter, searching for clues, when a metal clank from the front room diverted my attention. I assumed two things incorrectly: first, that it was Peter or Darryl; and second, that I had nothing to worry about.
Surely either of the guys would have known I was here. Cai would have told them. No one called out to me. There was only silence and then what sounded like a loud bowl of Rice Crispies. I had closed the door earlier, to keep the cat corralled, so after confirming that it was still sleeping on the bed, I opened it just long enough to slide through.
What greeted me in the living room wasn’t Darryl or Peter, but flames swarming over the sofa and across the front door like white water rapids. Moments later, a sea of smoke rose up and curtained the room.
Coughs leaked out of me, then became a constant rhythm. With the front door blocked, I peddled backwards until I felt the wall. Bending to where the smoke was thinner, letting the walls guide me, I started to make my way toward the bedroom. A paint can knocked into the toe of my sneaker and disappeared before my watering eyes. I sunk lower to the ground.
Not being familiar with Joe’s home, I floundered into the hallway, getting twisted and turned around as smoke fogged the narrow corridor. Fire sizzled against wood and cloth, breathing out heat against my skin, making me grateful for the sweat from my run. On my belly now, I snaked across the floor, blindly searching for any door that wasn’t open to a room filled with smoke. I needed Peter’s room where I had closed off the cat.
And wouldn’t it have to be the fucking cat that saved me?
Begone’s howls rose above crackling plastic, while paint cans exploded like popped corn, their lids
bursting off, then flying out to smack the walls. One teetered to a rest near my hand. More howls. I followed them while smoke coated my tongue with every cough.
Movies don’t capture how quickly smoke follows fire or how swiftly it spreads. It was instantly overwhelming. The heat intensity was like a Miami summer turned up a thousand, smothering degrees. All I could think about was opening that door and trying to fill my lungs with something besides black, hot air. I struggled to get to Peter’s room, solely focused on getting out the window.
My chest hurt, and I knew from training that heat inhalation was just as dangerous as smoke, so each inhale was a practice in Lamaze breathing. In, in, in. Out. Out. Out. My fingers walked up the door, dragging my torso and head into the smoke as I fumbled for the handle.
I tested the knob for heat, in case a fire raged on the other side. It was warm but manageable. And by the sound of that cat, there was an ample supply of good air in that room.
A river of smoke followed me as I collapsed inside, slamming the door shut while coughing and spitting out black phlegm onto Peter’s carpet. Smoke continued to slither under the door. Displacing Begone, I seized the comforter and stopped the flow. I grabbed a t-shirt from the nearest drawer and wrapped it around my fist, smashing out the window. There was no stopping the coughing, even as fresh air flowed in.
The cat’s howls were like claws on a chalkboard. Jesus, shut up! I instantly regretted my instinctual inhale. A fresh set of coughs twisted my lungs dry. The roar of fire grew closer.
In a graceful sweep, I scooped up the cat, coughing my own howl as it nail-gunned its claws into my chest. Planting a foot on the bed, I launched myself out the window and into the backyard.
Frankenstein Ass
My shoulder ached from the landing, and for some reason my ass did, too. However, nothing was as agonizing as the fucking cat claws that now ravaged my chest in Begone’s attempt to scramble out of my arms. I fought the animal, along with the urge to scream, while my oxygen deprived lungs attempted to suck down air through their pain. Slow breaths, Austin.
Shattered Glass Page 23
