Fortitude Smashed

by Taylor Brooke

  “Don’t forget the pie,” Marcus said and patted Aiden on the cheek.

  Aiden walked up the stairs to find Shannon leaning against his front door with a quart of vanilla ice cream in one hand and his cell phone in the other. It’d taken Aiden twenty-five minutes instead of twenty to get to his apartment, which meant Shannon had beaten him there.

  Shannon flicked the kitchen lights on. Aiden fed Mercy. They didn’t bother with plates, but piled ice cream on top of the pie that was left in the tin and took it into the bedroom. Aiden listened to Shannon ramble about Karman’s delicious tamales and the cases they’d been working on. Shannon listened to Aiden talk about Marcus’ fiasco with the yams, how the marshmallows caught fire in the oven and almost burnt the house down. They laughed and laughed and laughed, sitting in bed half-dressed and barely awake.

  “I don’t let people feed me, Wurther. You should know that,” Aiden said, opening his mouth for another forkful of apple pie. “This is a disgrace. I’m ashamed of myself.”

  Shannon poked Aiden in the chin before he gathered a bite for himself. “I’m scared you might bite my hand if I’m not careful.”

  Aiden bared his teeth.

  “This is taboo for us to talk about, but have you been out lately…? I haven’t heard of any artwork going missing—”

  “No,” Aiden said, teeth snapping down. “I picked up more hours at 101 to make up for it. You assume you’d know if I’d taken anything, Shannon? There’s a reason I haven’t been caught.”

  “It’s because you’re good at avoiding security cameras,” Shannon slurred around a mouthful of pie. “You also weren’t dating a cop at the time, which probably made things easier.”

  “Yeah,” Aiden scoffed. “It did, actually. Why are we even discussing this?”

  “I have to know these things for when I arrest you.” He held another forkful of pie in front of Aiden’s mouth. “Obviously, that’s still the plan. Feed you pie, cuff you in your sleep, haul you down to the station, and charge you for the seven open cases you’re a suspect in.”

  “Seven?” Aiden blurted, covering his grin, mouth stuffed full of food. “That’s all they got in my file? Seven?”

  Deep-set blue eyes slanted into two slits. The playfulness dissipated. Sarcasm faded into surprise and then into anger. Shannon stared; his mouth squirmed before it pressed down and flattened. A hot blush burned his cheeks. His knuckles whitened around the pie tin as he set it on the nightstand atop a growing pile of tattoo magazines.

  “Don’t,” Shannon warned, holding up his index finger. Aiden opened his mouth, and Shannon hissed, “Don’t say one word.”

  Shannon flopped on the mattress near the foot of the bed. Aiden tried to stifle his laughter and dropped his hands into his lap, watching Shannon’s jaw move side to side. The hollow points on his face were sculpted, shadowed by the miniscule lighting. Aiden saw the dark spaces below his cheeks, the tension that cut grooves between his brows, and lips twitching along syllables he couldn’t put together.

  “Sixteen,” Aiden whispered.

  “Shut up!” Shannon hit the bed with a closed fist. “Aiden, don’t tell me. Do not.”

  He pushed off the wall and crawled over the length of Shannon’s body. Aiden’s hands rested on either side of his head; one knee pressed between his legs. “Sixteen,” he said again, nose brushing a dimple. “Three of them are in my living room.”

  Shannon’s lips parted. He closed his eyes, slow and deliberate. “I should report you.”

  “You should.” Aiden nosed at Shannon’s jaw; light evening stubble scraped his lips.

  “Technically, I should arrest you. You’re not making my job any easier.”

  “I’m not the one who brought it up, Detective. I’m just being honest.”

  “No, you’re being smug,” Shannon snapped. His hands ran up Aiden’s spine until they rested on the sharp wings of his shoulder blades. “You’re proud and cocky and fearless, and that’s not a combination of qualities most people would throw around as carelessly as you do.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  Shannon hummed in response. Cheek cushioned against the comforter, he glanced past Aiden’s shoulder. Aiden didn’t know what captured Shannon’s attention. His own hungry focus was on the flexed tendon that curved from his earlobe to the inside of his collar bone. He traced it with his lips. Shannon’s breath changed from even and quick, to labored and weak.

  “Where’d you get that one?” Shannon mumbled. He tilted his head back, giving Aiden more room.

  Aiden’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  Shannon touched the back of his head, a gentle encouragement.

  “That one, the photograph above your bed. I’m assuming you stole it from somewhere.”

  “You and your assumptions.” Despite a wave of exhaustion, Aiden traversed every path between Shannon’s chin and sternum. He paid mind to his shoulders, and the tip of his tongue played lazily with an earlobe. Shannon gripped the back of Aiden’s neck and craned into his mouth. Once Aiden was sure he’d left more than a couple lingering marks, he slid next to Shannon and draped his arm across his chest. “I took that in high school for a photography project. Daisy drove us to Venice one day, and I had my camera, so,” he gestured lazily at the wall, “that’s where it came from. Marcus had it printed on a matte canvas a couple years ago for my birthday.”

  Shannon sat up, and Aiden grumbled as his cheek slid off Shannon’s chest to land on the bed. He blinked, too tired to convince his arms or legs to move.

  “You took that?” Shannon cocked his head. “That picture right there?”

  “No, the other giant photograph of Venice Beach.”

  Shannon swatted him. “That’s really good, Aiden. People would pay a ton of money for photos like this.”

  “It’s not that good.”

  “It is, though!” Shannon poked him in the thigh and then in the arm. “You should be a photographer. People would love it, especially the people out here. I mean, look at where you live—Laguna Beach, tourist haven, beach city, wedding destination. You have a perfect opportunity.”

  “It’s a class I took in high school; it’s not a big deal. It was fun, but I’m not serious about it.”

  “You should get serious about it.”

  Aiden grunted and scooted to the top of the bed. He reached for the lamp, missed, reached again, missed. He cursed under his breath and stretched until his finger finally swiped at the switch. He snaked around Shannon and arranged his arms this way, pushed his legs that way, until they were properly tangled. Shannon’s restless fingertips played on Aiden’s nape.

  “You should buy a nice camera.”

  “Shannon.”

  “You should, Aiden. You should invest in your skill set.”

  “Shannon, be quiet.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “And I’m tired,” Aiden snapped, shoving his face in Shannon’s chest. “This is probably the only time I’ll ask you to stop talking about how gifted I am, so please. Sleep. Now.”

  Shannon’s breath was warm on Aiden’s temple. “You can get a nice one cheap at one of—”

  “Shannon!” Aiden curled around him and squeezed. “For the love of god, be quiet. You know I have a fucked-up sleep schedule, just…” He finished his statement with a whine and covered Shannon’s mouth with his palm.

  Shannon licked his hand.

  Aiden bit his chest.

  “Fine,” Shannon grumbled, tossing Aiden’s wrist away. “But you should do it; you should be a photographer.”

  Aiden closed his eyes, focused on the rise and fall of Shannon’s chest against his cheek, and felt Mercy curl up against his foot.

  He remembered the click of the camera the moment he’d taken the picture: Daisy’s graceful twirls down the boardwalk; Vance hot on her heels; Jonathan’s skateboard, its wheel
s on the asphalt, an iconic sound; and Aiden’s camera, solid in his hands—one, two, three, a half-circle, and that was all it took.

  Aiden fell asleep with his thigh thrown over Shannon’s waist, thinking of what it used to feel like, capturing moments.

  How would this one look?

  18

  Carver clasped his hand over Aiden’s shoulder. “New girl needs to train up front; you good for the night?”

  “Yeah, I need to pull some glasses from the back, but other than that everything should be stocked. I’ll probably stick around for a while after I clock out.”

  “Sounds good. First drink’s on the house. You’re gin, right?”

  “Bourbon.”

  “Ah, gentleman’s drink, that’s right.”

  Aiden liked his job. He was good at it, Carver now let him bartend when it was busy, and 101’s atmosphere—bouncing between a sense of urgency and general fluidity—felt comfortable. The bar was crowded for a Sunday: two bodies deep along the bar, booths overflowing, music blaring from the speakers overhead. Aiden glanced around the corner to see if the pool table in the back was being used, and to his surprise it was unattended.

  He tidied the shelves in a hurry, restocked the open cabinets below the bar with glassware, and then clocked out. Carver slid a short glass down the bar to him; amber liquid sloshed up the sides. Aiden tipped his head, slipped around the corner, and snatched a pool stick off the rack.

  December was carefree and expensive and rich in forgery. People pretended that shopping for gifts was a pleasantry rather than a chore; they filled out Hallmark cards; drew hearts over the ‘i’ in Merry Christmas; doodled on Starbucks’ seasonal red cups. But somehow, under all the falsities and manufactured kindness, December felt like coming home.

  “Need a partner?”

  Aiden glanced up as he was taking a sip of his drink. A man watched him. Dark green eyes scanned Aiden’s face and traveled down his chest, then settled too long on his waist. The man wasn’t shy, and Aiden wasn’t in the mood to play games. He wasn’t behind the bar and he wasn’t trying to get something from someone, so there was no need to acknowledge whoever he was.

  “No,” Aiden said curtly, curling his hand around the pool stick to show the blank square of his thumbnail: no numbers, no Clock, an obvious denial to whatever invitation the tan-skinned, green-eyed Laguna Beach local was handing out.

  “You sure? We could have fun.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He finished his drink, placed his pool stick across the table, retrieved a second drink, and then played a game of pool by himself. The stranger was with his friends out of Aiden’s direct line of sight, which was appreciated.

  Once, Aiden would have bypassed introductions and answered that man with a kiss. But that was months ago, and Aiden wasn’t the same Aiden. He was Aiden Maar who belonged to Shannon Wurther, and this Aiden was satisfied. No more teasing people he had no intention of going home with; no more fishing for compliments from wide-eyed women and flirting roughly with men outside concert halls; no more bloody knuckles and bloody make-outs and bloody nothings. Aiden had something. And that something was a good something.

  He finished his second drink too quickly. His head spun.

  “Okay,” Aiden mumbled, a little embarrassed by his lack of stability after a meager two drinks.

  He reached for his phone.

  Shannon Wurther 12/5 8:08 p.m.

  im not off for another hour, gotta file some paperwork and take karman home. whats up?

  Aiden Maar 12/5 8:09 p.m.

  nothing just saying hi

  He’d been hoping for a ride, since December was a cold, cold month. But he wasn’t going to say that, because if he did, Shannon would stop whatever he was doing and rush over. Aiden would walk. He racked his pool stick, grabbed his empty glass, turned, and gasped.

  Warm, slick lips smacked against his. Aiden jolted back. He was hyperaware of his surroundings. His heart thudded. He shook his head, looking the green-eyed man up and down.

  “You just don’t take a fucking hint, do you?” Aiden wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “You look like fun,” the man said. One thick brow quirked, and his smile was lopsided.

  Aiden shoved his index finger at the man’s chest. “You’re lucky I fucking work here, or I’d break your jaw.”

  “Come on, don’t be like that.” The stranger sighed; his eyes were far away. He was drunk, piss drunk. Aiden almost felt sorry for him.

  “Where are your handlers?”

  “What?”

  Aiden rolled his eyes. “Hey!” He stood on tiptoe and scanned the room. “Who does this belong to?” He picked up the man’s wrist and forced him to wave his arm, a noodle of a limb.

  Within seconds, a stunning woman with midnight skin and long braids was hauling him away to a group of blushing hipsters at a high table by the restrooms. She apologized profusely, using words like ‘breakup’ and ‘heartbroken’ and ‘fucked up’ to describe her drunken friend.

  Aiden didn’t say a word. He ordered a Manhattan to wash away the taste of whatever fruity drink that uninvited kiss had left in his mouth. “Extra bitters,” Aiden said.

  Carver gave him extra bitters. He also told Aiden it was fine to chain his bike to the back door for the night, for which Aiden was grateful. He finished his drink, put his helmet in the back room, walked outside, and started to lock up his bike.

  It didn’t happen the way Aiden had thought it would.

  When the red and blue lights lit up the asphalt beneath his feet, he ignored them; they weren’t for him. When a gruff voice told him to stay where he was, he didn’t listen—the command couldn’t be for him. He latched the lock around the chain and made sure his bike was under the awning. A heavy hand settled on his shoulder. A brave and stupid thing to do.

  “Son, we got a call concerning an intoxicated youth. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”

  “Nope.” Aiden yanked away. “I’m going home. I’ve had a weird enough night as it is. Got kissed by some idiot, long night at work. I’m exhausted, I have to feed my cat, and I don’t need this shit. And I’m not a youth.”

  “You sure about that?” The officer was short and round with a bald head and a groomed goatee. He had one hand on his belt, the other stretched in front of him, a warning. “I’m going to have to ask you to take a seat on the curb.”

  “Am I being detained?”

  Aiden didn’t wait for an answer. He walked away, disregarding whatever the officer shouted. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was going home.

  The officer grabbed his arm and pulled. Aiden turned; his knuckles cracked the edge of the officer’s brow. The officer cursed and stumbled. Something long and cold—a black baton—struck Aiden in the mouth. He saw a white flash. High-pitched ringing blasted in his ears. Handcuffs bit into his wrists.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Aiden shouted, spitting blood on the ground and stumbling as he was tossed against the car.

  Deputy Barrow shoved him into the back seat. “You’re going to jail, punk.”

  “Not the first time, asshole.”

  00:00

  Shannon got the call while he was driving home from Karman’s.

  It went something like: Wurther, we’ve got an Aiden Maar here who says he knows you. Assaulted Barrow. Description matches an open case.

  Rage simmered in his veins, sudden and blinding. It turned to shards of glass, splintering in every direction. His heart plummeted into his stomach. He tried to put his finger on it, on the feeling itself—anger with the volume turned up, worry flipped inside out. Shannon was completely unsure of his ability to keep it together.

  He stormed into the station, unaware that his anger and topsy-turvy worry played on his face like light glinted off a sharpened knife. He didn’t acknowledge Cindy at the front desk, nor did
he stop when Barrow tried to step in front of him. He walked straight to the holding room, where a thick glass window allowed him to watch Aiden pace back and forth like a caged tiger.

  “What’d he do?” Shannon spat out.

  Barrow stammered. “He… He was outside a bar, angry, violent. I was responding to a call about some teenagers and found him, thought he was messing with someone’s bike.”

  “Bring him out here.”

  “Wurther, that’s—”

  “Now.”

  In the cell, Aiden locked onto Shannon. He swiped at his mouth and walked back and forth, shoulders poised, ready for battle. Shannon was reminded of Aiden’s potential. He was a dark, thundering, aggressive force, barely contained by the frayed shreds of his self-control. He surged against Barrow’s arm when the officer gripped his shoulder. Shannon heard the snap of Aiden’s teeth when he said, “get the fuck off me,” saw the glint in his eyes that said if I could get my teeth in you I would; if I could rip your throat out I would, and Shannon believed it.

  A wide red bruise encircled Barrow’s swollen left eye socket. Broken capillaries dusted his temple and the bridge of his nose.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Aiden said, jerking away from Barrow. “Shannon, I didn’t fucking do anything. Ask him what I was doing!”

  “Barrow, what was he doing?”

  Officer Barrow’s face darkened. He trembled, huffing in frustrated breaths. “He was messing with someone’s bike, drunk outside of a bar—”

  “Which bar?” Aiden asked.

  “Shut up,” Barrow snapped.

  “Which bar?” Shannon took a step forward.

  “That grimy one up north, 101.”

  “Yeah, the place I work!” Aiden exclaimed. Wide eyes pleaded with Shannon from across the room.

  “He says he works there,” Barrow mumbled.

  “He does work there,” Shannon said icily, “and let me guess, the bike you saw him messing with was a black Triumph, right?”