by Andrea Speed
The truth wasn’t going to do for an explanation, though. If Roan said he wanted to find this asshole and keep him from hurting any other cat ever again, Franco might like it, but he might not. Roan couldn’t fuck up what had been his best lead to date, so he decided to follow the theme. Roan said he wanted to find the guy because he had a kink for cat fur—real cat fur. He mentioned the phonies on craigslist, trying to sell cat fur they claimed was real and wasn’t, but didn’t go into detail, because only liars spelled everything out for you.
Franco had to consider this, and while he was, he took out a large capsule and popped it beneath his nose, inhaling and then shuddering as the drug hit his system. It was a popper (aka amyl nitrate), which Roan knew from the sharp, acrid scent wafting over the table. How people did those he had no idea, to him it was the drug version of absinthe. After he took a minute to enjoy the popper, Franco finally said he might be able to hook him up with a guy who had the real deal, but he was really careful, and picky, and he’d want hard cash up front. Roan gave him the number for a cheap, prepaid cell he kept around for undercover purposes, and Franco indicated this discussion was over by asking one of the heavily tattooed waitresses for another rum and cola.
As Roan stood up, he saw Zack pinballing around the crowd in his frantic run for the bathroom, and he seemed to make it. He caught up with Grey and Scott as they made their way back to the bar. “What happened to him?” Roan asked.
Grey, smirking, told him, “We saw a guy getting his dick pierced.”
“Better him than me,” Scott added. “God, my dick still hurts from just watching it.”
“I’d think it’d be hurting from your constant abuse,” Grey retorted.
“Hilarious,” Scott replied, with no humor whatsoever.
After a moment, Roan said, “Not that I’m casting aspersions, but should you leave Zack on his own in that bathroom?”
Scott and Grey exchanged concerned looks before Grey heaved a martyr’s sigh, and said, “Fine, I’ll go keep him from being ass raped by a congressman.”
“I don’t know,” Roan replied. “Those closet cases are incredibly strong.”
This made Scott chuckle, although since he was a bit of a closet case himself, Roan wasn’t sure why. As soon as Grey was gone, Roan had a chance to talk to him alone. “You know, I wanted to thank you for that pep talk.”
“Huh? Oh, that was nothing.”
“No, it helped. I need a kick in the ass sometimes. But I was thinking that whole trailblazer thing was so well rehearsed… that’s what you’ve told yourself, isn’t it? Trying to convince yourself to come out.”
Scott grimaced and looked away, many different expressions playing across his face, his jaw clenching and unclenching, before he said, “I can’t. I mean, I know someone has to be first, someone has to be brave enough… but it’s not me. I’ve played hockey all my life, and I want to have a career in it. Is it fair that my admitting I’m bi might impact my career chances? No, it isn’t, but it’s the way things are right now. Maybe if I get into the NHL, maybe then I’ll come out… but I can’t right now. I can’t risk it. I know it’s chickenshit, but there it is.”
Roan didn’t know what to say. He should probably tell him he wasn’t being a coward, that it was all he could do right now, but he didn’t, because he didn’t see how hiding your true self could be healthy for anyone. Yeah, Scott might not have a professional career, but personally he’d probably be a lot happier. Still, it was his choice to make, and Roan had no room to make judgments, as much as he wanted to.
Tank was having too much fun. Mainly because he was now dancing on the bar, waggling his ass in an exaggerated manner. He took off his shirt and started swinging it around, much to the cheers of the crowd. His astounding six-pack abs got a round of applause. Fiona was egging him on and laughing at the same time, enjoying the show.
“Was the absinthe that good?” Roan asked Scott.
He shook his head. “Tank just does this sometimes. Wait—when he strips down to his underwear, they’ll be novelty shorts, with cartoon characters on them or something.”
“So all goalies are like this?”
“Nobody’s like Tank. That’s probably for the best. I don’t think the world could take two of ’em at once.”
Truer words had probably never been spoken.
34
Run It Through the Dog
THE night turned into a minifiasco, as it was bound to.
It started when a drunk Zack started chatting up a woman dressed like a Halloween version of a dominatrix (black vinyl bra top, matching tight skirt, heels high enough to stake a vampire with), who had a fairly realistic Chinese dragon tattoo running from her stomach to the base of her throat, curving around like an apostrophe, peeking out of her bra like it was taking a measured gaze at the crowd. She didn’t look that into him, but humored him because he bought her a drink. Then an angry boyfriend showed up, a muscle-bound behemoth who looked like he had just walked off the set of The Road Warrior, with a brand (not a tattoo, an actual brand burned into his upper arm, like a cattle rancher had been at him) and a flat strip of a Mohawk on his otherwise shaved scalp. He grabbed Zack by the back of the neck before throwing him off his bar stool. Dallas shouted that he was out of there, and summoned what passed for security, but Grey got there first. Grey grabbed the man by the arm and all but threw him out onto his ass on the dance floor, telling him to back the fuck off. (Mohawk had about fifty pounds on Grey, but Roan would still give this fight to Grey, because fighting was in his job description. It was how he made a living, and he did it well.)
Mohawk snarled, genuinely snarled, and the woman pushed Grey from behind and told him to back off, but he easily ignored her. Meanwhile, Tank came up behind Mohawk, and as he was getting up, Tank put a foot in his back and kicked him, sending him falling face forward onto the floor. He was drunk or surprised enough that he never got his hands up in time, and faceplanted directly onto the wooden floor. Even above the noise of the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, you could hear the crunch of his nose shattering as it impacted the ground.
By this time security had shown up, and Tank and Grey backed off, used to refs putting an end to the fights, but Mohawk was furious, and screamed as he struggled to his feet, blood pouring down his face from his misshapen lump of a nose. He tried to go for Grey, but the bouncers were bearish men who looked like former Marines (and very well could have been), and they each took an arm as they started dragging him toward the door. He started screaming, “You’re dead! You’re fucking dead!” but it wasn’t clear if it was directed at Grey, the bouncers, or both. No one looked too alarmed by the threats at any rate.
The woman, surprisingly, wouldn’t back off. She got right up in Grey’s face, telling him he had no right to hurt her boyfriend, using all sorts of choice curse words, but he wasn’t reacting whatsoever. Grey wasn’t going to fight a woman, which was smart, because even if she was Dropkick-level tough, he could hurt her way more than ever intended. Dallas was telling her to get out, but she wasn’t listening, so Roan went to intervene before she could do something really stupid. (Tank and Fiona were on their way over, and Fi was going to kick her ass down one side of the bar and back up another.)
She just about did it. The woman pulled her hand back to slap Grey, but Roan grabbed her wrist. She spun, other hand raised to hit him, and he growled. Not a small one, a big one, a loud “I’m a hungry lion and you smell like dinner” sort of noise, like gravel was being pulverized in his throat as someone started up the cement mixer. His hand wanted to tighten, the muscles in his hand twitched and flexed of their own accord, and he knew it wouldn’t be anything at all to crush her bones like a baby bird. Her eyes, watery blue with a black ring, widened, and he could smell fear as she realized, through her haze of vodka and Dexedrine, that there was Something Not Right about him. People didn’t make that noise; people didn’t have bones in their face shift, like something beneath was getting ready to shed the mask of its humanity.
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One of the bouncers returned and grabbed her, saying, “Come on, sister.” Only then did Roan realize he had a slight lisp, but it didn’t take away from the fact that he could beat up most of this bar. He dragged her out, but she went fairly willingly as Roan let go of her wrist (so close to just crushing it; his fingers hurt from his own refusal to close them completely), and she said, “What the fuck is he? Did you see that?”
The bouncer didn’t answer, but he wouldn’t; he hadn’t seen anything. Grey had, Scott had, Tank and Fiona had, but it wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before in some respect. Zack hadn’t, though, but he shook his head, and announced, “I’m fucking wasted.” Roan was relieved he’d just decided to chalk it up to drunkenness, as it spared him any explanations.
Dallas didn’t blame them for any of this, but indicated it would make his life a lot less complex if they skedaddled, so they decided to call it a night. On their way out the door, Scott looked around, and when Roan asked what he was looking for, he shrugged nonchalantly and said, “I thought Holden was coming with us.”
Okay, yeah, something was up there. Man, that didn’t sound promising at all.
Dylan didn’t drink much or often, so he was a little tipsy from his two margaritas, and as such he was giggly and unusually chatty. He told him he’d invited Ethan over to dinner next week, as he’d been lamenting the lack of home-cooked meals, and Dylan really wanted to try his madras curry on a fellow vegetarian. Roan had no problem with this, although he had no idea if he’d be joining them—it depended on what happened that day. Roan teased him, saying that if Ethan wasn’t straight he’d so do him, and Dylan laughed, blushed slightly, and finally said yeah, if he wasn’t with him.
Since Roan was driving, Dylan snuggled against him all the way home, putting Roan’s arm around his shoulders and resting against his chest. Roan couldn’t imagine it was very comfortable for him, but Dylan didn’t seem to mind at all. Being half-drunk probably helped.
Dylan did many random things, including singing along with the radio and telling him, totally out of the blue, that sometimes he wasn’t sure he could live with him, but he also knew he couldn’t live without him either. Which made Roan realize that they probably were just like any other married couple, which was actually kind of disappointing. Did this mean they’d soon be cheating on each other and secretly loathing one another?
Fuck it. He’d been a detective too long.
Once they got home, Dylan broke down into sloppy mode, crying as he told him he didn’t want him to die. Roan comforted him, told him he wasn’t going to die, he would be fine, it wasn’t in the virus’s best interest to kill him, and Dylan said he wanted to die. Whether he would or wouldn’t wasn’t the point; he didn’t want him to feel that way. Roan said he didn’t, but even as he said it, he wondered if it was a lie.
He didn’t even know anymore. How sad was that?
AS SOON as Holden came home, he peeled off his too-tight tank top and threw it on the couch before heading to the kitchen, kicking off his boots along the way. He was glad he’d decided not to wear his clip-on nipple ring, because that shirt alone had started to feel like a corset after a while. It probably would have shoved the end through his nipple and made him bleed.
He poured himself a couple of fingers of gin, added a healthy splash of cranberry juice, and collapsed on the sofa to put up his feet and decompress. He had just been arm candy tonight, playing a rough-trade kind of role, but sometimes it was hard to pretend to be an idiot. It was counterintuitive, it should have been a breeze, but after a while it was a chore to pretend you didn’t have a thought in your head beyond when you next highlighted your hair and went for your spray tan. He really didn’t know how some people did it.
Holden gulped down his drink, aware he could have just had his client furnish him with drinks, but alcohol might have let his guard down, and he didn’t do that while working. A job was a job, and it was never a good time to coast.
Because he’d gulped the drink and hadn’t eaten since earlier in the evening, the booze hit harder than usual, and an ember of warmth opened up in his stomach and slowly bled out into the rest of his body. He was seriously thinking about a new line of work, but what could he do?
Ooh, write a male version of The Happy Hooker. That idea amused him for a couple of minutes. Maybe he could just write a tell-all biography, changing the names of his clients. His dad would just die, and wasn’t that a point in its favor? But how much of a writer was he? Had he ever written anything? He didn’t even blog.
Holden was at the fridge, trying to determine if a piece of cold pizza was still good, when there was a knock at his door. He shoved the remaining piece of pizza in his mouth and wiped his hands on his pants before realizing they were leather and they didn’t work well as a substitute napkin. He figured it was Roan, probably with more questions about Franco. He didn’t even ask for money, but that only meant he’d demand twice as much when he set up the meeting with the cat pelt guy. Franco was one of those guys who liked to think of himself as a genius, even though he was lucky to remember to put his pants on before going outside. The world was way too full of people like that.
He opened the door, ready to ask Roan if he had his hockey team with him this time, except he stopped, because he was looking at a member of the team. It wasn’t Roan, it was Scott.
“You again,” Holden said, and there was no playfulness in his voice. He was tired. “Didn’t I ask you not to come back?”
Scott looked briefly baffled. “Umm, no, I don’t think so.”
“Fuck. Oversight on my part.” He sighed heavily and turned away. “If you want to make an appointment, I prefer over the phone.”
“I didn’t… um, that’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh. Why are you here?” He didn’t care much, but it seemed polite to ask.
Scott closed the door, and he stayed by the door, still looking confused. His eyes had the bright, blown-pupil clarity of someone who’d been hitting the absinthe. Holden had had it once, but he didn’t see what the big deal about it was. It tasted weird, and it made you feel slightly intoxicated but slightly sober at the same time, and there were no hallucinations, which he had been looking forward to. Scott probably didn’t know what to do with his weird feeling, which was fair enough, as Holden hadn’t at the time. If he remembered correctly, he’d ended up talking shit on a message board, which seemed like a waste of a good buzz. “I’m not sure. I keep trying to figure you out.”
“Well stop. You won’t.”
Scott looked at him with his weird eyes, still husky-dog blue, but now looking larger thanks to his comical pupils. “I’ve tried. I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t know why.”
“Oh my god,” he snapped, and he probably shouldn’t have been pissed off, but he kind of was. He just didn’t have the patience tonight. “You’re not a total virgin, are you? You’re horny.”
“I’m not. I mean, kinda, but that’s not it. You know what I mean?”
Holden glared at him a moment, aware it would do no good at all, not in the state Scott was in. “No, and I really don’t care.” He walked back to Scott and grabbed his arm, reaching for the door behind him at the same time. “Call me when you’re totally sober.”
Scott surprised him by grabbing him by the back of the head and kissing him almost violently, He shoved him back against the door, pinning Holden against it with his body, reminding him that while Scott looked like a string bean, he was almost all muscle. Still, Holden shoved him away, sending him stumbling back until he hit the sofa and sat down violently on the arm. “Don’t,” Holden warned.
“You’re strong.”
“What, didn’t expect that from a cheap whore?”
He stood, chuckling faintly. “You’re not a cheap whore.”
“Okay, I’ll grant you I’m not cheap.”
“You’re not a whore either.”
“How much absinthe did you have? Do you know who you’re talking to?”
&n
bsp; Scott approached him, looking a bit more lucid than he would have expected. “I’m not sure what you are, but you aren’t a whore. Sure, you sell yourself for money, but whore’s a state of mind, and you’re not there. You know it too, why else do you not know what you are?”
Holden stared at him a moment. “How wasted are you?” But what Scott had said was deeply strange, mainly because Holden didn’t expect it. Where the fuck did that come from? Scott couldn’t know him that well.
He gave him a lazy smirk. “Not nearly wasted enough.”
“You don’t know me.”
“No, but I know me, and I’m all kinds of fucked-up. So are you.”
“Fuck you.” He really didn’t like be psychoanalyzed, even in a half-assed way, by a bi jock closet case, and certainly not tonight. Holden wasn’t sure if he was more angry or exhausted, it all got tangled up, and he realized, for the first time in a long time, he wanted to get falling-down drunk. He wanted to go numb and not think about anything, which he didn’t allow himself the luxury of doing that often, because it was oh so tempting to just go into that state and stay there. Life was lived a lot easier numb.
When Scott got close, heading for the door, Holden grabbed him and threw him against the wall, kissing him and pinning him with his body, just to see how he liked it. From the way he responded, he liked it a lot. He smelled like beer and soap, which wasn’t as unpleasant as Holden would have assumed, and he had faint stubble he could feel more than see. As kissers went, Scott wasn’t too bad, and of course he was as hot as hell, a continual mark in his favor.
Scott’s hands felt lightly callused on his back, which Holden found a little surprising. Scott tangled a hand in his hair and pulled, just hard enough to be mildly painful, but not hard enough to really hurt. Holden did it to him, and Scott groaned in pleasure. So he liked it a little rough, huh?
