by Josh Lanyon
But Adam was preoccupied with work. Not a big case or anything like that. He was just trying to fit in with his new team, his new boss, his new coworkers, his new partner. The truth was, Bend was overjoyed to get him, thrilled Adam had opted for their satellite office rather than Portland, but Adam couldn’t see it. He was in high gear all the time. And given the fact that he was by nature an overachiever…Adam giving that extra 110% was frankly exhausting. But Rob got it. Adam had given up a lot—everything—to move to Nearby and be with Rob. Rob was determined to make it as easy for Adam as he could.
Adam jumped in his SUV, hit the automatic garage door opener, and zipped out into the wintry morning. Rob walked slowly back upstairs.
* * * * *
He was digging Jack Elkins’ pickup out of the snowy slush and mud when his cell phone rang.
Adam.
“Howdy.” Rob leaned the shovel against the tailgate.
“Hey.” Adam sounded funny, almost self-conscious. “I think I forgot to say good-bye this morning.”
Rob wiped his forehead, squinting at the white sun through the dark branches of the towering pines. What time was it? Two? Three?
“No worries. You can make it up to me when you say hello.” He was smiling, anticipating that moment. He definitely preferred their hellos to their good-byes.
“Rob. About Christmas. Whatever you want is fine.”
“Same here,” Rob said. “It’s one Christmas out of all the Christmases we’re going to spend. Who cares whose family goes first?”
There was a sharp silence. Had he said the wrong thing? How could promising to compromise be the wrong thing?
Adam said something gruffly.
“What?” Rob asked.
Adam said clearly, “I just want to be with you.”
Rob’s heart lightened. “Yeah, me too.” A sudden thought occurred. “What if we don’t go anywhere? It’s our first Christmas together. What if we stay home, just the two of us?”
“No, I’m not saying that,” Adam said. “You want to see your family, of course.” He added in that carefully neutral tone that Rob was getting to know meant he cared a lot, “Unless that’s what you want?”
Rob grinned inwardly, but he was touched too. “Hm. I don’t know,” he mused. “What would we do? I mean beyond cook and eat and sleep and…you know, make snow angels.”
He could hear the smile in Adam’s voice. “Snow angels, huh?”
“Welllll, unless you have a better idea.”
“Oh, I have a couple of ideas,” Adam said softly.
Blue Cheese, Bacon, and Balsamic Onion Burger
Burgers are definitely Rob’s food. The blue cheese and balsamic vinegar is Adam’s contribution.
Ingredients
½ medium red onion
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
Kosher salt
Pepper
1½ pounds lean ground sirloin
4 ounces blue cheese
4 brioche hamburger buns
Lettuce
Tomato
Cooked bacon slices
Directions
In a small bowl, toss together the onion, vinegar, and ¼ teaspoon each salt and pepper. Let sit, tossing occasionally, until ready to use.
Heat grill to medium-high. Gently form the beef into 4 balls. (Don’t overwork the meat—this can result in a tough, dry burger.) Flatten each ball into a ¾-inch-thick patty. Using your thumb, make a shallow 1½-inch-wide indent in the top of each patty. Season the patties with ½ teaspoon each salt and pepper.
Place the patties on the grill, indent facing up, and cook until the burgers release easily from the grill, 3 to 4 minutes. Flip and cook to desired doneness, 3 to 4 minutes more for medium. During the last 2 minutes, top with the blue cheese and grill, covered, until gooey.
To do this right, grill the buns until lightly toasted. Serve the burgers on buns, and top with the balsamic onions, lettuce, tomato, and bacon, if desired (and how would bacon ever NOT be desired?).
FADE TO BLACK: Ghost and Gene
Off-season they were both broke—that was the reality of island living—so Ghost offered yet again to fix that blowout tat he’d carved onto Gene’s chest twenty years earlier, and Gene declined yet again for sentimental reasons, but this time Ghost put up a fight.
“Yeah, okay, dude, it’s part of you now, but that would be the cool thing about this. I’d be building on the past, but it would be something totally new. It would be about…flying into the future. Together.”
That was probably the most romantic thing he’d ever said to anyone ever, and he actually got a little choked up on the word future. Because for someone whose life philosophy was based on the conscious decision of living one day at a time—of neither borrowing trouble nor putting off till tomorrow—it was pretty damned close to a vow of commitment.
Terrifyingly close.
Maybe Gene saw it because after a moment he cocked his head like a thoughtful Rottweiler and shrugged. “Okay, G.”
He didn’t like to call Ghost “ghost,” and Ghost didn’t answer to Gordon—was deaf to the name—so Gene called him “G,” which was funny since it was his own initial too. It was pretty typical of the way they were together. Goofy, sure, but easy. Very easy. In fact, Ghost had never been with anyone as easygoing as Gene.
So for Christmas he replaced that monstrous, evil-looking stapler on Gene’s chest with a vintage China Clipper. It was really gorgeous. One of the nicest bits of art he’d ever done. Gene was flatteringly surprised and complimentary.
“Flying into the future together,” Gene quoted, preening bare-chested in front of the mirror on the closet door.
Ghost got very red hearing that aloud and in daylight, but Gene kissed all the embarrassment away.
On Christmas Day Gene took Ghost for a private helicopter tour of the island, a long, leisurely flight. The kind of thing tourists paid a lot for. He’d been floored when he’d learned Ghost had never had an aerial view of the place he’d lived in for fifteen years.
It turned out to be a rougher ride than expected—a storm was blowing in from the south—but Gene remained cool and capable, and aside from a bit of queasiness from being tossed up and down in what felt like a tin can, Ghost found the whole experience kind of exhilarating.
As a matter of fact, he found life with Gene in general kind of exhilarating.
Safely back home, they had one of those turkey loaf things with Stovetop Stuffing and mashed potatoes and frozen corn (only not frozen, of course).
They split a six pack of Corona, and Ghost said, “Should we toast to something?”
Gene grinned, gold incisors showing, and clicked the bottom of his bottle to Ghost’s. “Here’s to our next fifty Christmases together.”
“God bless ’em, every one,” said Ghost.
THE MERMAID MURDERS: Jason and Sam
He didn’t expect to hear from Sam on Christmas Day.
By now Jason understood enough to know anniversaries, holidays, and family get-togethers were problematic for his…well, what were they exactly?
More than friends and less than lovers.
Any time he thought about it—something he mostly avoided—he was reminded of that scene in Young Frankenstein where Frau Blücher declares, “He vass my…BOYFRIEND!”
Except Sam wasn’t. Was he?
As a matter fact, Halloween was the last time they’d really talked. Coincidentally, he’d heard from Dr. Jeremy Kyser too. That was after he’d spoken to Sam, though.
Anyway, it wasn’t like Jason was sitting around waiting for newly appointed BAU Chief Sam Kennedy’s phone call. Those months were pretty damned grueling for Jason too. The part he had played in Massachusetts ended up giving his own career a nice boost. He was flying all over the country to consult with museums directors and art gallery owners.
No one was shooting at him. That was nice.
It was natural enough, given how much they were both traveling, that they hadn’t actually ever had ti
me for that now legendary date. In fact, they hadn’t seen each other since the summer.
Well, no. It wasn’t natural.
But it was partly the job and partly—
Yeah, no. It wasn’t natural.
But Jason didn’t have anything to lose. He liked talking to Sam, liked looking forward to what they might do when they eventually hooked up again. In a way, there were advantages to not seeing each other. They could talk more honestly, more openly—like to a pen pal or a radio talk-show therapist.
Let’s be clear. Jason vassn’t renouncing…DATING! His schedule didn’t leave a lot of time for anything other than his schedule.
Which pretty much explained June through December. There was no phone call on Thanksgiving and only one very brief call mid-December.
So no. Jason wasn’t expecting a phone call from Sam.
Holidays were a BFD at Stately West Manor. Not Jason’s favorite thing, frankly. The BFD, not the holidays; he enjoyed holidays. Anyway, he believed in picking his battles. Every year, since time immemorial, his parents had hosted a Christmas Eve party for the movers and shakers of the City of Angels. Attendance, while not mandatory, was strongly encouraged. And being ambitious, Jason understood the importance of networking over the wassail.
When his cell phone rang, he figured it was work. Something about the holidays brought out people’s worst instincts. But Sam’s number flashed up, and Jason’s heart flashed up with it. He excused himself to his brother-in-law the congressman and stepped out onto the terrace.
The chilly—for Los Angeles—night was scented with orange blossoms (the ornamental trees having been artificially forced into bloom) and lit by hundreds of tiny star-shaped lights strung everywhere you could possibly hang a fake celestial body. From the other side of the French doors he could hear a big band version of “’Zat You, Santa Claus?”
“Hey,” he said, and he could practically hear the champagne bubbles warming his tone. But he was glad to hear from Sam. No point pretending he wasn’t.
“Hey,” Sam said as terse as ever. But Jason could now recognize the gradations of terseness, and this level of brevity was Sam practically oozing holiday charm.
“Where are you?”
Sam seemed to hesitate, and for one crazy—and, admit it, thrilling—moment, Jason thought he might be about to say he was actually here in town.
What if this was the night? Light me up with me on top, let’s fa-la-la-la-la-la…ahem.
But no. After that odd pause, Sam said, “Vegas.”
“Ah. Too bad. What are you doing in Vegas?”
Sam sighed, and it was a weary, weary sound. “The Roadside Ripper.”
Right. The night air was suddenly frosty, bitter cold. The Roadside Ripper serial killings were one seriously ugly case, and Jason was very glad he had no part in it, although a lot of the L.A. field office was involved. The taskforce was one of the largest ever formed.
“How’s that going?”
“It’s not.”
In the background Jason could hear the chink of ice and clink of glasses and a lot of too-loud voices. A bar. A Vegas bar on Christmas Eve. Come to think of it, he preferred Stately West Manor.
“You okay?” It wasn’t what he meant to ask. But he didn’t know what to ask Sam, and the fact was, he did wonder if Sam was okay. He worried about Sam, although that was probably ridiculous—Sam would think it was ridiculous.
“Yeah.” Sam sounded different. Almost…soft. “Are you having a Merry Christmas?”
“Sure. It’d be merrier if you were here.” Now that was definitely the champagne talking.
Sam laughed that low sexy laugh that Jason so rarely got to hear. “I don’t know. I’m not exactly a party guy. I’d do my best to warm you up, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmhm.”
“I’m still waiting for that date.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” A jingle of ice sliding down glass and the sound of swallowing. “So what’s Santa bringing you for Christmas?”
And just like that the tone changed. Still warm, still friendly, but the distance wasn’t only geographic. It made Jason a little melancholy because he was beginning to suspect that date was never going to happen. Still, there had to be some reason Sam continued to phone.
They chatted for a few minutes, and then Sam said, “I’d better let you go.”
And Jason made himself reply cheerfully, “Yeah. It’s good hearing your voice, Sam.”
There was another of those funny pauses where he thought he was about to hear something important.
“Jason?”
“Yep?”
He could feel his heart thumping with an uncertain mix of unease and hope.
Sam said very gently, “Merry Christmas.”
It sounded…like something else. Jason said huskily, “Merry Christmas, Sam.”
That little click of disconnect felt like the loneliest sound in all the world.
Blue Mermaid Cocktail
Which is obviously going to be better than a green mermaid.
Ingredients
1½ ounces gin
1 ounce blue curaçao (a bitter orange liqueur)
½ ounce dry white vermouth
½ ounce lemon-lime soda
Crushed ice
½ cup caster sugar or fine salt
1 anchovy
Directions
(LOL, really?!)
Put ice in your shaker
Put booze in your shaker
Shake your shaker
Pour contents of shaker into martini glass
YOU DID NOT THINK I WAS SERIOUS ABOUT THAT ANCHOVY, DID YOU?
NIGHT WATCH: Parker and Henry
“I don’t do Christmas,” Parker said.
“Really?” Henry had answered. “I do.”
That’s where they were by then. This was the emotional odyssey from April to December.
Anyway, it wasn’t even completely true. Once upon a time Parker had done Christmas. He’d had a friendly, affectionate relationship with the holidays, even if he hadn’t always given them a lot of time and attention. That was another lifetime. Remembering how hard he’d worked to make up all those missed Christmases for Ricky… Honestly? Nowadays the idea of the holidays turned his heart cold.
At first Henry had tiptoed around Parker’s…call them sensitivities. Because he definitely had his weak spots, blind spots, sore spots. He knew it, and he did try to push past them. He appreciated the fact that Henry did not dole out kindness in measured doses. Henry was not a scorekeeper. Nor did he sweat the small stuff. He was a guy who had his priorities straight. Maybe that came from being a cop. Maybe that came from losing the love of your life.
Also, Henry had a built-in bullshit detector like nobody else. Sure as hell unlike Parker who, as everyone knew, was one of the biggest suckers in town. Or he had been until he stopped believing in true love and Santa Claus.
But that wasn’t true either. He did believe in true love. He just knew it wasn’t for him.
Except sometimes when he was with Henry he thought maybe it was.
Maybe there was an element of guilt to Parker’s turning into the Boyfriend from Hell. He’d been working all autumn on an exposé of the investigation of the investigation of the investigation into the death of Police Officer Tori Sykes, and he knew Henry was taking a lot of heat from the, well, heat. He never asked Parker to cool it, never asked him to back off. The only thing he’d ever said was, “Are you sure of your facts?”
Reasonable enough, except Parker was a fanatic about his facts. Sometimes he felt like his facts were all he had left. He’d blown up. That was the first real argument they’d had.
It was not the last.
Once they crossed that line—the line of arguing about one thing when they were really pissed off about something else—it was hard to go back.
But at least with Henry, Parker always knew where he was. And there was something liberating about being able to yell openly and loudly, and b
e yelled at back, and know he wasn’t going to be stabbed for it.
They weren’t moving closer, but at least he knew Henry wasn’t going to kill him when they broke up. Which they clearly were going to do.
Over Christmas.
“Okay,” Henry had said, “I’d like to have Christmas with you, but if you’ve got other plans, so be it.” He’d already assured Parker all he had to do was show up, and Parker had already declined to make the effort, so no wonder Henry sounded like, Suit yourself, asshole.
Henry had tried very hard to make it work. And Parker, who probably wanted, needed it to work more than Henry, had barely tried at all.
So Henry spent Christmas with Jared’s family, and Parker spent Christmas at home working and pretending it was like any other day.
But it was not any other day. It was the day he had finally managed to push Henry away. And for the first hour or so after he woke up with no Henry in his bed—and no word from Henry as to the next time they might see each other—he was relieved.
Thank God. The pressure was off. At last.
The truth was this had been destined from the first. Parker was damaged goods, and Henry was just too damned nice. So. Big Relief. Merry Fucking Christmas.
Except it didn’t feel like relief. In fact, he felt sick with disappointment. Like he’d applied for a job on the New Yorker, got it, and then hadn’t had the nerve to pick up the phone and accept the position. What was that about? He had never been like this before Ricky. He hated this frightened, angry guy he’d become. But he didn’t know how to stop. And if he couldn’t stop for Henry, then it was safe to assume this was who he was now.
By lunchtime—which Henry would be having with his late partner’s family, who would no doubt be encouraging him to dump this neurotic, unappreciative, loser journalist he’d saddled himself with—Parker was questioning his fatalistic acceptance that his relationship with Henry had always been doomed. Parker had worked his butt off to make things work with Ricky. Couldn’t he have at least tried a little for Henry? Given that, unlike Ricky, Henry would have met him halfway. Hell, Henry would have met him on the welcome mat, if he’d ever made any kind of real effort.
