He is Mine

by Mel Gough

  With one last look at Damien’s sleeping form, he squares his shoulders and tiptoes from the room.

  22

  Brad has the next day off. It’s a Saturday, but since it’s his only day off between two workdays it doesn’t feel like a weekend. He finds it difficult to settle to anything, his mind straying back to last night again and again. Brad sees Damien’s pale, drawn face before his eyes, but more often, his imagination conjures up the wide shoulders, the smooth fold of buttock skin he squeezed between his fingers, and the gray eyes that sparkled and held his gaze fast.

  After a quick session at the gym, Brad boots up his computer and logs into his Netflix account. As the opening music of Gaukur starts streaming from the speakers, a heat creeps up his face. Checking out Damien on his show feels both exciting and a little pathetic.

  The scantily clad, muscular figure on screen bears only fleeting resemblance with the pale man Brad looked after the night before. Brad soon realizes he prefers Damien in the real world to this fictional warrior, even the vulnerable and helpless version he just encountered. The hero Bard is nice to look at, though, and Brad stays in front of the screen for three full episodes. Soon, he’s caught up in the story. He remembers watching at least one of these episodes before, but he didn’t notice anything about Bard then beyond his physical appeal. Now, after the first few minutes, he looks out more for Damien’s mannerisms than the warrior Bard’s bicep. The tilt of the head, the crooked smile, the way his eyes fix on the other characters, all of which Brad remembers from firsthand experience.

  As the credits start rolling on episode three, he powers down the computer. Enough of that. Curiosity is one thing, but fantasizing about Damien to the point of arousal feels wrong. Brad busies himself elsewhere in the house for the rest of the day, feeling the slight blush creep up now and then and hoping that Damien feels better.

  The next day at work is quiet. Brad tries to concentrate on his paperwork, but the thought of Damien just won’t leave him. Now it’s more concern that attraction that diverts his attention from the case files. Brad tells himself that the reason Damien hasn’t called is because he’s doing much better and doesn’t need help. But the urge to return to Chinatown won’t dissipate. In an attempt to distract himself, Brad closes the case files and spends the rest of the morning doing research. He pores over crime statistics and patterns involving Manhattan’s Chinese community going back ten years. After a couple of hours he’s even more convinced than before: This murder doesn’t fit the organized crime pattern.

  Then, when the urge to rush off to Chinatown to check up on a virtual stranger has almost dissipated, Brad’s phone rings. The number on the display is unfamiliar, but as it’s still within regular working hours that’s not unusual.

  He takes the call. “Detective Moretti.”

  “Err, hi, Brad.” The voice is familiar, but Brad can’t place it right away.

  “Who is this?” he asks.

  “It’s Damien, Damien Thomas.”

  “Oh, hey,” Brad says, embarrassed that he didn’t recognize Damien, when he’s thought of so little else all day. “Sorry. Unknown number, and…” And what? Get a grip, he thinks, and takes a deep breath. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Much better. I slept away the whole day yesterday. Not sure when I last did that. It was quite relaxing…” Damien breaks off, as if embarrassed about oversharing. Then he continues, “I was wondering, well…actually… You’re not at work, are you?”

  “I am,” Brad confirms.

  “Oh,” Damien says, sounding disappointed. “I was thinking I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee. But maybe another day—”

  “I’m finishing early today,” Brad interjects. He hadn’t planned to do any such thing, but has a lot of overtime stored up and nothing very pressing to do until the forensics report comes back on Monday. “I can meet you around three?”

  “Great! You know Caffé Roma, on Mulberry?” Damien asks. “Or we can go somewhere a bit closer to where you are.”

  “Caffé Roma is fine. It’s not that far,” Brad says. He doesn’t want Damien traipsing all over the city if he doesn’t have to.

  “Perfect!” Damien sounds happy. “See you then!”

  The café is only twenty minutes’ walk from Police Plaza, where Brad and Eric are stationed for most of their desk work. Brad walks the distance easily, enjoying the more pleasant weather that has replaced the humidity of the previous few days. He looks forward to seeing Damien again, maybe more so than he should. He tries not to have any expectations. At least he’ll be able to reassure himself with his own eyes that Damien is well again.

  When he gets to the café, Damien is already sitting at a table in the back. Brad orders an espresso and a biscotti, then sits down opposite Damien on the spindly silver chair. He notices that Damien chose a seat well shielded from the light streaming through the café’s glass front and reflecting from a multitude of shiny surfaces around them. Brad surmises that his head still feels tender. Damien wears a baseball cap again, and a pair of sunglasses is tucked into the front of a clean T-shirt.

  “Hey,” he says, smiling at Brad. His eyes are clear, and he’s no longer pale and clammy.

  “So you really are better,” Brad says, and an actual weight drops from his chest. “I was worried about you.”

  “And so you should, as a good cop and all that.” Damien’s eyes glint with amusement. Brad is sure he’s flirting. He grins back, not minding the obviousness at all.

  “Exactly!”

  “Seriously, though,” Damien says, dropping his voice. “I’m really grateful to you. I don’t like to bother people with the migraine, it gets so boring because it happens a lot.”

  “I’m sure your friends or family would want you to bother them,” Brad interjects. Damien gives a shrug, not looking at Brad.

  “I’m usually fine on my own. And I would’ve been on Friday, had I stayed home. I just thought if I used the pen it’d go away faster.” A shadow crosses over his face. “I’ve got a lot on right now. I guess that was my body’s payback.” He shakes his head as if to will away the subject. “Anyway, glad you could squeeze me into your busy day.” The flirtatious smile is back.

  “Sure thing,” Brad says. “I’m in Chinatown a lot at the moment.”

  “Interesting case?” Damien asks.

  “As interesting as murder on an innocent bystander ever is,” Brad says drily, then regrets his snappish tone. Damien’s eyes are huge.

  “You’re a homicide detective?” he says. “Then why did you come to take Viv’s statement?”

  “We were in the neighborhood,” Brad says. He won’t explain Eric’s weird guilt trip with the chief.

  Damien sighs. “I should’ve never let her call the cops. She….”

  Brad is sure he wants to say that Vivienne made it all up. But Damien doesn’t continue. Brad wonders again what the story is with those two. But he finds that he’s not interested enough to ruin their encounter by forcing Damien to talk about her. “Never mind,” Brad says eventually. “No harm done.”

  Damien’s grateful smile is radiant. He holds Brad’s gaze for so long, Brad feels his stomach flutter a little.

  “Well, I want to thank you properly for helping me like you did,” Damien says. “I ruined your Friday night, and all.

  Brad is about to protest, but Damien carries on, “I’d like you to come to a charity gala on Wednesday. It’s for a good cause I support. There’ll be a dinner, and a raffle, and…I’d really like it if you came.” He looks at Brad with hopeful eyes.

  “Yeah, course I’ll come,” Brad says. “Thanks for the invite.”

  “Great!” Damien says, delighted. “It’s at the Bowery Hotel. I’ll text you the RSVP later.”

  They talk of nothing in particular for a while, just the chitchat of two people getting to know each other. Damien buys another round of coffees, and Brad feels himself relax into the other’s company. Damien is amusing, with a quick wit and easy charm, and neither of
them tries to hide their attraction very hard.

  Just when Brad starts to wonder if coffee might merge into dinner, Damien looks at his watch. “Damn,” he mutters. “I hadn’t realized how late it is. I have to rush. I’ve got a plane to catch in a few hours.”

  “A plane?” Brad asks, bemused.

  “Yeah,” Damien replies, sounding glum. “I’m due in LA tomorrow morning.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Brad inquires before he can stop himself. “You’re not a hundred percent recovered yet.”

  “It’s probably a terrible idea,” Damien agrees. He looks tired and drawn again all of a sudden. “But I have no choice. I’ve got an…appointment.” He doesn’t meet Brad’s eyes any more. He throws twenty dollars on the table and gets up. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.” He hovers by the table for a moment, then leans down, putting his hand on Brad’s, and Brad’s skin starts to tingle. “I’m looking forward to it,” he whispers near Brad’s ear.

  Before Brad can say anything or try to catch his eye, Damien has turned toward the exit and is striding away.

  23

  At almost noon on Wednesday, Viv is still in bed, trying to get the resolve together to start her day. There isn’t anything waiting for her; she’s done all the shopping and rearranging in the apartment she can stand for now. The housekeeper was just in yesterday and isn’t expected back until next week. She thinks of sacking the woman, anyway. Viv is sure she goes through her things. And something might very well be missing. Nobody has been at the apartment in months, but the housekeeper comes every three weeks when the place is empty.

  She’s been in New York almost a week now, and the novelty has already worn off. Sometimes, she almost misses Victor. He tried to call a few times, but Viv always lets it go to voicemail. She doesn’t know what to say to him. Why is she in New York? Until she can get hold of Damien and straighten things out with him, she and Victor are in limbo.

  And just as she didn’t take her husband’s calls, Damien has evaded her so far. Viv has sent one text and called twice; she doesn’t want to appear desperate, as if she has no life. But when her phone buzzes now on the bedside table and Viv sees that it’s Damien, all her dark thoughts disappear.

  She takes the call and says as casually as she can, “Hello?”

  “Hey, Viv,” he replies.

  “Damien, hey!” Viv tries for surprised but cool. “How are you? I tried to call and check on you, but you must’ve been busy…”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I was out of town. I’m much better, though, thanks. Listen,” he adds, then says nothing else for what feels like a long time. Viv hates it when people do that. She is listening, why’s he not talking? It’s not like she’s got nothing better to do than wait for him to collect his thoughts.

  But she bites back her anger. She’s yearned for his call, and she wants to do it properly this time. She has big plans for them, after all.

  Finally, he says, “Viv, we need to talk.”

  “Yes, we do!” she agrees. It comes out more forceful than she had planned. “I want to apologize for leaving you alone like that.” It’s true, she’s thought about it a lot. Even though she’d been grossed out by him being ill, she should’ve stuck around. She knows that now. She wouldn’t have liked it if he’d walked out on her in that situation.

  “Hey, it’s all right,” he says. “Not important. I have a charity gala to go to tonight, but—”

  “Oh, what’s that for?” Viv interrupts. Whatever he needs her to do now, she’ll agree. She’ll make it up to him that she ran away without a word.

  “It’s for Little Sparks,” he says. “Our charity for children in Somalia. Idil and I set it up, back when…” He stops again. Mention of his ex-wife must to be painful. “Anyway, I’m still a patron, and she can’t be there today, so I’m going.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Viv says. She is excited. Finally, an opportunity to go out with him on a proper date. One of the first things she bought this week was a hideously expensive Elie Saab dress, from the new fall collection. It’s not even in the shops yet; she’d read about it in a newsletter her agency sends around, and she had to have it. “Is it an eight p.m. start?”

  “Yes, but…” Damien says, but Viv cuts him off.

  “If I call the salon now,” she muses, “they can probably fit me in.” She does a quick mental calculation. “If I come to pick you up at seven, we can make it to Midtown in good time…”

  “It’s at the Bowery Hotel,” Damien interjects.

  “Even better!” Viv says, beaming. She sits up in bed, tallying all the things she has to do to prepare. Her nails could do with a work-over, too. “So I’ll be at the penthouse by half past seven?” She gets out of bed and hunts around for her address book, to look up the hair and beauty place she uses when she’s in the city. The New York numbers haven’t all made it into her new phone yet.

  It takes her a moment to realize Damien hasn’t replied to her question. “Damien,” she prompts. “You there? I asked if seven thirty sounds good?” Again, she dampens down her impatience. Maybe he’s still not totally recovered from his migraine. She should make allowances, though the thought troubles her.

  “Sure,” he says after another moment. “That’s fine.”

  He doesn’t sound very enthusiastic. Viv frowns. He’s the one who invited her, shouldn’t he be a bit more excited?

  “Great,” she says, her mood subdued now. “I better go, or I’ll never get everything done.” And before I snap at you, she adds in her mind.

  “All right,” he says. “See you then.” The line goes dead.

  Viv puts the phone on the dresser and goes into the walk-in closet. There, on a hook on the outside of the open wardrobe door, hangs the Elie Saab dress, made from green velvet and tulle. She smiles to herself as she opens the zipper on the transparent protective cover and lets her hands glide over the soft bodice.

  She’ll outshine every other woman at the gala in this, and Damien won’t be able to take his eyes off her.

  24

  Damien’s charity event—an auction to raise money for a children’s charity working in Somalia, as Brad finds out in a quick Google search—takes place at the Bowery Hotel. Brad’s never been there, or any celebrity charity auction, and over the next few days his mind grows more and more uneasy.

  Right after their coffee meeting, Brad was sure that Damien asked him to go as his plus one, but on Tuesday morning he isn’t so sure anymore. Apart from looking up the charity, Brad did more googling and found a few mentions of old gossip around an affair Damien had with a male ballet dancer. There’s nothing concrete—no pictures, not even any hint as to who the dancer had been. And it was years ago, before his rise to fame, and before Damien’s marriage to Idil Phoenix. And now Brad is more confused than excited.

  During the day, which is filled again with slogging through statements relating to Mr. Liu’s murder, Brad finds his attention wandering. Around lunchtime, he stands before the big whiteboard in the incidence room that holds all the open cases for so long that Eric eventually comes up to him.

  “Are you all right?” he asks in a low voice.

  Brad turns to him. “Hmm? Yeah, sure…”

  Eric gives him an appraising look, then jerks his head toward the door. “C’mon, I’m buying you a corned beef sandwich.”

  Aware of what having lunch with Eric will entail, Brad gets his jacket with some trepidation. They go to the delicatessen on the nearest corner, where the servers all know the cops and always have a booth open for them.

  “So,” Eric says, as soon as they’ve ordered. “What’s up?”

  “What do you mean?” Brad asks. Maybe, if he plays dumb, Eric will leave him alone. His not very high hopes are shattered by Eric’s raised eyebrow.

  “You got boy trouble,” Eric declares. Brad gives a snort.

  “Is that what the kids call it these days?” he asks wryly.

  “Maybe,” Eric says, spreading the napkin across his lap.
“I don’t know many kids.” He lowers his voice. “Is it about Aiden?”

  Brad gives him a pained look. “No.”

  “You went to see him, didn’t you?” Eric asks.

  Brad hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, I did. Thanks again, for kicking my ass over that.” He doesn’t want to talk about seeing Aiden. His feeling are still too raw. “This isn’t about Aiden,” he clarifies again

  Unfazed, Eric makes another educated guess. “You’ve been asked on a date?”

  Brad hesitates again. But then, what is there to be gained from keeping it all inside? “I’m not sure,” he admits.

  “Ah,” Eric says, sounding almost smug now. “Have you by any chance been asked out by a bisexual?” His expression would be fatherly if his smooth face didn’t look so ridiculously young.

  “Maybe, I can’t decide.”

  Eric gives a knowing smile. “That’s always confusing.”

  Brad refrains from voicing the sarcastic remarks that pass through his head and merely says, “It is.”

  “Well, are you going on that maybe-date?” Eric says as their plates arrive, heaped high with huge sandwiches and fries. Brad takes a couple of fries and chews slowly, to give himself time to think.

  The fact that Damien is a celebrity factors in his conundrum, of course. If he goes to a public event as Damien’s date, then there will be gossip and pictures. Brad isn’t sure he wants that, or even understands what it means. But he doesn’t think he should start that gossip himself by revealing who’s asked him out. When he doesn’t speak for a while, Eric finally adds, “They’re the same as us, really. Except the competition is twice as big.”

  “You’re really cheering me up,” Brad grumbles.

  Eric grins. “I always try.”