Jumping In

by Cardeno C.

  “I’ll, uh, see you later.” He paused and wondered whether that comment could be misconstrued. “Next time you’re here, I mean.” He gulped. “If I’m working, which I probably will be because I have the weekday shift and that’s when you come here for…” He had no idea what the deputy mayor did when he was at the station or why he came there. “Sorry.” He dragged his hand through his hair. “It’s been a rough day.” And he needed to stop rambling like an idiot. Disgusted with himself, he raised his hand in a wave, said, “See you,” and turned on his heel.

  “Clint?”

  He twisted his head and looked at Black over his shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing to apologize for. Let me know if you need…” Black quirked one side of his mouth up in a lopsided grin. “Anything.”

  Grateful his back was to Black so his now barely repressible hard-on wasn’t visible, Clint dipped his chin in thanks and then uncomfortably walked out of the building. He’d go home, beat off, take a shower, beat off, find something to eat, beat off, and then, maybe, his mind would be clear enough to figure out if the deputy mayor was flirting with him. Whether or not he’d come up with an answer, at least he’d be distracted from thinking about Ewan Gifford’s upcoming nuptials.

  Chapter Two

  As if being relegated to a dirty little secret from the man he…liked, most of the time, and returning to town only to hear his ex was engaged to be married and starring in the town’s most exciting social event hadn’t been bad enough, Clint came home to more bad news.

  When he’d lived in Detroit, Clint’s apartment window had faced a dilapidated church. When he’d looked at the crumbling building, he’d thought about the war-ravaged neighborhoods he’d been in during his time abroad, but as he stood next to the mailbox in front of his current apartment, it was the fading sign painted on the flaking church wall that he remembered. The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions.

  He had intended to come home and stay there. He had intended to have a quiet night putting a dent into his bottle of lube. Unfortunately, his intentions didn’t last because he was being evicted.

  Reading the letter a second time didn’t change the facts. His landlord was selling the building to a developer who was going to tear it down, which meant Clint was being evicted. The thirty-day notice had arrived on the same day Clint had left so he now had two weeks to find a new place to live. He tried to shake off his frustration at the latest knee to the nuts.

  Short on distractions, he flipped through the mail as he walked to his door. Solicitations, bills, and a heavy cream envelope.

  No. There was no way he was holding what he thought he was holding.

  His fist itching to punch a hole in the wall, he tore open the paper and saw another envelope inside. A gold one. Had Ewan Gifford lost his damn mind? Who invited a person he’d been fucking to a party celebrating his engagement to the other person he’d, it now seemed, been fucking?

  The pain hit Clint before the realization that his foot was inside the stucco wall. Kicking a hole in the side of his house was better than kicking Ewan’s ass and getting fired, but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying. Plus, he was sure to lose his deposit.

  “Damn it!” Clint wiggled his foot free and tried to find his way back to calm.

  The cause was hopeless anyway, but when he noticed the rip across the top of his boot he fell deeper into the abyss. He loved those boots.

  “Fuck!” he shouted. And there went another hole in the wall.

  After counting to ten three times, Clint decided he could walk into his house without scaring his dogs. He shook off his only-slightly sore foot—those were damn good boots—and put his key in the lock while making a mental list of everything he had to do. He’d washed his truck on the way home from the station, but he still had to do laundry, go grocery shopping, find a new home, pack, possibly fix the holes in the wall, and repair his boots.

  His hard-on was well and truly gone. He could probably resurrect it if he focused on Hawk Black for thirty seconds because the man was that hot, but right then, Clint was pissed as hell and the only logical course of action was to get pissed as hell. He’d skip dinner and go straight for the beer. Getting off would have to wait.

  With his evening plans laid out, he pushed his front door open and tossed his keys and mail on the chair slash coat rack slash everything-holder. Waiting for him inside was good news and bad news.

  Excited puppies rushing up to greet him were always a welcome sight. Fluffy wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but nobody had ever been happier when he came home. She whined and wiggled, her entire back end shaking from side to side. Speedy was on her tail, nosing Clint’s thighs in a combination greeting and request for scratches.

  For a few seconds, Clint’s bad mood started to lift, but then he saw the white poof from the corner of his eye. Not understanding what it was at first, he squatted low and petted his dogs. He noticed another white something, and then another.

  Squinting across the narrow portion of the living area he could see from his position in the small walled-in entryway, he straightened and said, “What is that?”

  The answer became clear when he took one step and got a view of the entire room. The entire destroyed room. Clint’s jaw dropped. The source of the white fluff, also known as his sofa, was spread around—the frame was close to the original location and what once were cushions were strewn everywhere else. The coffee table top was flat on the ground with the legs splintered and, if he was seeing right, chewed. He took a moment to be grateful that he had chosen to spend the extra money for the wall-mounted plasma television. But then he saw the cord, which he’d had to plug into the outlet near the floor because the rental house didn’t come with an outlet at television height.

  “You ate the TV cord?” he asked his still wagging dogs. “Why?”

  He walked toward the television, at first carefully moving over the debris and then giving up and stepping right on top of it. The occasional crunching sound was both disconcerting and oddly satisfying.

  “You did,” he said when he reached the TV. “You two never destroy things.” He paused. “Almost never.”

  Squatting down, he picked up the cord.

  “Why?” He shook the cord at his dogs.

  They ran over and licked his face.

  “Stop.”

  They didn’t.

  “Cut it out.”

  After coordinating a dual-jump where three paws landed on his chest, they did. Unfortunately, he had toppled backward by then.

  “What is it Sally says about bad things?” he asked himself. “They come in threes, right?” The dogs didn’t answer. “So we have Ewan’s a fucker, I need a new place to live, and my furniture is destroyed. That’s three.” He shoved himself up. “But my boots make it four.” He brushed his hands down his sleeves, trying to get the various sofa and table particles off, when he encountered something sticky. “What the…?” He moved his palms to his face and sniffed. “What is this?”

  The dogs still didn’t answer.

  “Fuck it, never mind.”

  He shook his head, stomped into the kitchen, and yanked the refrigerator door open. Not surprisingly given his day so far, the top hinge snapped and the door started tilting toward the floor.

  “Damn it!”

  He tried to catch it but then his heel slipped on something—not the sticky substance from the living room, because this was slimy—and he went down, taking the door with him. The refrigerator followed but, in what might have been the only good thing to happen that evening, it hit the floor directly beside him instead of landing on top of him.

  “Is this a joke?” he shouted as he jerked his gaze around the room. “This is a joke, right?”

  The sound of shattering glass followed by the sight of amber liquid seeping out from underneath the destroyed appliance told him there was nothing funny about the situation.

  “Not the beer!”

  He scrambled to his knees and, with a g
runt, flipped the refrigerator onto its side. He hadn’t gone shopping since he’d returned home so there wasn’t much in there: condiments, baking soda, bottles of water, and beer. Everything except the beer had survived. The only thing he wanted was beer.

  “You know what?” he yelled to the still empty room. “I know where to get a drink.”

  He stood up and marched toward the front door.

  “Biggest party in town, huh? Bet that means an open bar.”

  He scooped up the mail he’d left in the entryway along with his keys and walked out.

  “Ewan thinks it’s funny to invite me to this bullshit? The least that asshole owes me is a beer.”

  ***

  The engagement party was being held at the golf course country club. Clint had been there once for a wedding and another time for the animal shelter’s big fundraiser. Neither event had valet parking but when he turned to pull into the parking lot, he was thwarted by orange cones and a sign reading Reserved for Valet. Why people would have trouble parking themselves in a lot not thirty feet from the front door, he didn’t know, but the orange cones gave him no other alternative. With a sigh, he changed course and went to the circle drive in front of the entrance where a handful of men wearing bright blue vests stood around a temporary podium.

  “They’re closed today for a private event, sir,” said one of the valets when Clint pushed his truck door open with a squeak.

  He added oiling the hinges to his to-do list.

  “I’m here for the—” Clint ground his teeth, “—event.”

  “Oh!” The valet looked at Clint’s clothes and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Are you sure because you’re not dressed like—”

  “I’m sure.” Clint leaned back into the car and retrieved the invitation from the mail pile he’d tossed onto the passenger seat. “See? I have the golden ticket.”

  The valet leaned forward, looked at the envelope in Clint’s hand, and then flicked his gaze up to Clint’s face.

  “It isn’t open.”

  Looking down at his own hand, Clint remembered that he’d opened the cream outer envelope and, once he’d seen the shimmery gold one, assumed he knew what was inside. But given the if-it-can-go-wrong-it-will day he was having, he suddenly worried that if he looked inside the inner envelope, he’d find something else entirely. Like a letter from the bank foreclosing his truck, even though it was a 1990 he’d bought used for cash.

  “But don’t worry about it. I recognize the envelope.” The valet leaned forward and, in a quieter voice said, “I heard other people say they want to keep the invitation in good shape too, sir.” He glanced down at Clint’s hand. “It really does sparkle.”

  After carefully examining the valet’s expression, Clint decided the guy wasn’t fucking with him.

  “Here.” Clint thrust the envelope at him. “Keep it.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” the valet said but he looked at the envelope longingly.

  Clint arched his eyebrows and shook his head “Consider it a tip.”

  “The valet services are free for guests, sir. The happy couple arranged it.”

  At that moment, Clint fully expected someone to walk up and admit that he was being recorded for a reality television show aimed at seeing how much insanity you could throw at a man before he lost his damn mind. Sadly, no such miracle occurred, which meant he was, most likely, experiencing real life.

  “Well, I like you and I want to tip you extra,” he said as he pushed the envelope against the valet’s chest. “It’ll be our little secret.”

  “Thank you so much, sir,” the valet said in an excited whisper. “I won’t tell any of the others.” He quickly darted his gaze around, presumably to make sure nobody would run over and snatch his prize. “And I’ll make sure to park your—” he glanced at Clint’s still-creaking truck, “—uh, vehicle in a great spot.”

  As long as he got his ride back at the end of the night, Clint didn’t care where they parked it but he said, “Thanks,” and even managed an almost-smile before he stepped away from the truck and toward the country club entrance.

  The restaurant was in the back of the building, with an attached patio overlooking the golf course. For the last two events he’d attended at there, he’d walked down the green carpeted hallway, passed the dated seating area, turned left next to the doors leading to the restrooms and tiny gym, and then reached the restaurant. The route from the entryway to the restaurant hadn’t changed and if Clint looked carefully at the edges of the hallway, he thought he could see the green carpet peeking through, but otherwise, the space felt entirely different.

  The walls and ceiling were covered with a gold and silver balloon archway. A gold fabric runway lined the floor, with rope lights along its edges, highlighting the sparkle in the fabric while silently directing guests in the right direction. The hallway started in one spot and ended in another and the doorways were hidden by balloons, so there was in fact only one possible direction people could go, but logic, like the budget for this party, was apparently irrelevant.

  Internally patting himself on the back for not slamming his entire body against the balloons just to hear them pop, Clint put one foot in front of the other and hoped that some dirt, drywall material, and unidentified sticky or slimy substance from his house was on his boots and being smeared onto the runway. He dragged his feet a little to help the cause.

  Piano music greeted him as he left the balloon hallway and stepped into the restaurant. Though this space was slightly more identifiable, the decorating had still been taken to an extreme.

  A silver disco ball hung from the middle of the ceiling and gold fabric streamed from it to the outer walls in every direction, like a giant Liberace flower. The fabric then slid down the walls in flowy rows spaced at exactly the right intervals to avoid the wall sconces lighting the room. The normally nondescript chairs were covered in a similar silky fabric with thick gold ribbon wrapped around the bases in bows. The tablecloths, of course, matched.

  As Clint stood at the entry to the room, his jaw hanging open and his eyes unsure what over-the-top item to focus on, a waiter in a tuxedo walked by holding a round tray of champagne flutes.

  “I’ll take one,” Clint said hurriedly.

  The man stopped, turned to him with a smile, and then frowned as he dropped his gaze to Clint’s clothes.

  “Make that two.” He snatched two flutes from the tray before the waiter could make a run for it with the alcohol. Speaking of alcohol. “Where’s the bar?”

  He slammed back one drink and then the other.

  “There’s a bar in the north corner and another on the patio.” The man paused. “Sir.”

  “Thanks.” Clint put the empties on the tray and picked up two more flutes. “I appreciate it.”

  Before he finished speaking, the waiter rushed off. Good call, really, because if he’d stayed there, Clint would have skipped the bar and downed the whole tray of champagne. Speaking of which, who drank this shit? He was on his third and it wasn’t tasting any better. That didn’t stop him from downing the fourth, but why couldn’t they have beer? It was gold colored, like the rest of the décor and, if the sparkling glitter covered candles on the table told him anything, it was that Ewan had seen that particular decorating decision through to the last detail.

  His ex always had been a detail-oriented guy. Clint had actually admired that quality when it came to how hard Ewan worked and how nicely he kept his home. He hadn’t liked it as much when Ewan fixated on any possible way their relationship could be discovered and then used those reasons as excuses to keep from being seen together. In fact, he’d disliked it enough to break up with the now about-to-be groom.

  Just then, he heard Ewan’s familiar voice. Clint stepped to the side so he could see around the crowd that was already filling the room and found Ewan, standing next to a table, his arm around a pretty brunette’s shoulders. He was smiling and chatting with the people at the table and he looked…happy.

/>   Fair enough, Clint thought. Everyone deserves to be happy.

  If he were being honest, he and Ewan had never been happy together. Content sometimes, but not happy. About the only thing they had in common was a mutual desire to get their rocks off. Thinking of their relationship in those terms, Clint wondered if he’d made such a fuss about hiding the nature of their relationship because he wanted to take Ewan out in public or because he didn’t like being told he couldn’t. The wind of righteous indignation blew out of his sails and he sighed.

  Coming to this party was a bad idea, but he was there and Ewan had invited him, so the least he could do was wish him well. Then he’d get his truck from the special parking space, stop by the drive-thru liquor store, and go home. He remembered the state of his house and decided a bar might be a better destination. Speaking of bars, he needed to visit the one there to get a little more liquid fortification before he could bring himself to do the right thing and congratulate Ewan.

  With one more sigh, Clint dragged his fingers through his hair and made his way to the north corner, weaving through the crowd. The line was half-a-dozen people long but he eventually reached the front and handed the bartender the empty champagne flutes.

  “I’ll have a beer, please,” he said. “An amber or a lager if you have them. Otherwise, anything cold’s great.”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have beer.”

  Clint blinked a few times, thinking over the sentence and, after coming up with no alternative meaning said, “Is this the bar?”

  It looked like a bar, there were wine bottles and glasses behind the bartender, but a bar meant beer.

  “Yes.” The bartender smiled at him.

  “Oh.” He furrowed his brow in thought. “Did you run out?”

  “With the amount they ordered, we’re never running out of anything.” The bartender laughed. “Besides, the guests have been here less than an hour.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The customers wanted to portray a certain atmosphere and they felt beer didn’t fit.”