Michael, Reinvented

by Diana Copland

  Michael growled and sat up, pushing at his hair, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Gil reached out again and grabbed one of his arms.

  “Michael.” Gil pulled on his wrist. “Look at me. Please.” Michael sighed but turned to look at him. “What’s going on?”

  He studied the wide hazel eyes, the broad, handsome face, and some of Michael’s stiffness softened. “I don’t want you to think this was more than it was.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning… I know you’ve been making noise about finding someone and settling down permanently, but that isn’t me, Gilbert. I’m not capable of that kind of commitment. Last night was fun—”

  One of Gil’s brows arched. “Fun? Just fun?”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Fine. Really fun.”

  Gil grinned. “Thank you.”

  “But it doesn’t mean anything more than that. I’m not a ‘settling down permanently’ kind of guy. I don’t want you to expect more than I’m capable of giving.”

  Gil’s smile faded slightly. “How can you be sure you aren’t a ‘settling down permanently’ kind of guy?”

  Michael sighed. “Trust me, I know.” He scooted away and stood up. “I like you, Gil. But you can’t expect anything more than that. I told you last night….”

  “I know,” Gil said behind him, deep voice soft. “You were clear. I shouldn’t expect more than you were willing to give.”

  Michael nodded, not sure he could trust his voice any longer. Gil sounded so sad, and Michael hated that he was hurting him. But he’d told Gil….

  He turned away, pausing long enough to separate his clothes from Gil’s, then scooped them up off the floor. He felt Gil’s gaze on him until he was out of the bedroom door. It was hard to be dignified while completely naked, but he thought he managed.

  He didn’t let the façade drop until he was behind the closed bathroom door. Then he leaned against it, his head back against the wood and his eyes closed. He’d thought scratching the itch might make it finally go away, but now he knew he’d made a huge mistake. This was only going to make it worse.

  What the fuck had he done?

  VERNON AND Manny were right on time, and by then Michael had showered and started the coffee, fed Scooter, straightened up the living room, and stripped and remade the bed while Gil was in the shower. He even started a load of laundry before joining the others in the kitchen.

  “Well, look who’s just a little energizer bunny this morning,” Vern teased when Michael finally entered the kitchen.

  “Oh, fuck you, Vernon,” he snapped, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “A cranky bunny.”

  Michael shot him a venomous look.

  “Maybe drop the bunny jokes, okay, old man?” Gil muttered. He shot Michael an apologetic look, which he chose to ignore.

  “I’m going to McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin.” Michael put his mug down on the counter hard enough that some of the steaming coffee sloshed out on the counter. He grabbed a paper towel with a jerky motion and wiped it up. “You have exactly two minutes to place an order. Then I’m leaving without it.”

  “I’d like the burrito breakfast.” Manny offered Michael a tentative smile. “No hot sauce.”

  “A Mexican who doesn’t like hot sauce.” Vern shook his head. “That’s just unnatural, man.”

  “I’m Puerto Rican, you Neanderthal,” Manny shot back. “And not all of us like hot food, okay?” He looked at Michael and shrugged. “It gives me heartburn.”

  “Me too.” Michael turned to the others. “Anyone else?”

  “Two sausage biscuits,” Vern said. “With hash browns.”

  “Fine.” Michael looked at Gil, managing not to meet his eyes. “Gilbert?”

  “Two Egg McMuffins.” Gil dug in the pocket of his jeans and held out his keys. “Take the truck.”

  “Why?”

  “Your windshield is broken, remember?”

  “Oh.” Michael sighed. “Right. Okay.” He took the keys, then turned and left the room.

  “Jesus, who shit in his Wheaties?” he heard Vern say behind him.

  “Shut up, Vern,” Gil grumbled. “Drink your damned coffee.”

  THE MEN had eaten and prepped the trim by the time the neighbors began to arrive, and Michael was pleased to see that most of them seemed more than qualified with a paintbrush. As the bright cranberry color cut into the beige and the mossy green, the house came alive. He walked out to the curb several times, huddled in his bulky coat because it truly was cold as hell. He remembered hearing David’s dad call it “brass monkey weather” once, and smiled faintly as he recalled the explanation.

  “It means it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, Michael. Pile on the layers!”

  He’d envied David the relationship he had with his father, right up until he’d shared his grief when the man died. Maybe his decision to keep his distance from people was the only way to function.

  He kept his distance from Gil all day, and was grateful when Gil didn’t press it. He painted trim on the other side of the house from where Gil directed the neighborhood troops, and he chatted with Beverley and Jordyn when they brought trays of sandwiches around noon. He handed out cans of soda pop and small bags of chips, and he tried to be as friendly as possible to their volunteers as the work seemed to get done almost by magic. At three o’clock the house was painted, and the equipment was cleaned and loaded into the back of Gil’s truck. A guy from a windshield replacement company was using a small hydraulic lift and handheld suction cups to take out Michael’s shattered windshield and drop in a new one. It was costing him more than a hundred bucks, but it was worth it not to see the horror on David’s face when he saw the shattered windshield. Jackson called at four, and Michael was relieved to be able to tell him that everything was done.

  “It really looks great. He’s going to love it.”

  “That’s good.” There was a pause on the other end of the line, and it was like Michael could hear Jackson thinking. “Michael, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered blithely.

  There was another pause. “You sure?”

  “Yes, Jackson. I’m sure.” He knew he sounded more irritated than the simple questions warranted, but he couldn’t seem to help it. “Just—bring him home before dark so he can see how great it looks, okay?”

  Jackson hummed, and Michael hated that even Jackson’s murmurs were too knowing.

  The neighbors left when the work was complete, but Manny, Vern, and Gil remained, waiting for David and Jackson to arrive. Anxious not to be trapped in the house with just the four of them, Michael offered to make a run to the store for beer and snacks while the guys turned on a football game. Gil gave him a level look that told him he knew exactly what Michael was doing, but Michael ignored him, running out the front door with his car keys in his hand.

  He stalled at the grocery store, but there was only so much time one could spend in an Albertsons. He bought Fat Tire, now a convert to the beer, and added chips and pretzels. He even bought a bouquet of flowers to put in a vase on David’s dining room table. But eventually he had to return to the house. He was standing in the kitchen, arranging the bright spring flowers in a vase, when heavy hands fell onto his shoulders. He jumped.

  “Jesus Christ,” he fumed when he turned and found Gil standing behind him. “I’ve got a knife in my hand.”

  “Sorry,” Gil said, but he didn’t look particularly regretful. He removed the knife from Michael’s hand and set it next to the crystal vase on the counter.

  “I need to finish that.” Michael crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

  “You can spare two minutes to talk to me. You’ve been running from me all day.”

  “No, I haven’t,” Michael countered, but he had been, and Gil had him.

  Gil gave him a wry look, not even bothering to argue the point. “I just wanted to tell you that I get it, okay? You never pretended you were interested in forev
er. It was fun, but it’s cool, all right?” He caught Michael’s upper arms in his hands and squeezed. “Just… don’t turn weird on me, okay? We have to be able to work together.”

  Michael studied Gil’s earnest face, the muscles that had been rigid since he woke that morning slowly softening. “Yeah, okay.”

  Gil smiled. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? We can be grown-ups.”

  He winked and walked away, just as easily as that. Something contrary inside of Michael was mildly insulted that it seemed so easy for him. Recognizing that it made no sense, Michael jammed small red lilies in the vase and carried it to the dining room table. He was setting it down when Manny spoke from near the front window.

  “They’re here.”

  They all exchanged a look, then opened the door and piled out onto the porch, Scooter in the lead, yipping happily.

  David was already out of the truck, standing on the front walkway, his hands stacked over his mouth. When Scooter came to dance around his knees, he bent long enough to greet her, his blond hair soft and blowing in the breeze and his eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses.

  “Oh my God.” David straightened, staring at the house. Jackson got out of the truck and scratched Scooter behind her ears when she ran to him, smiling as he joined his fiancé on the sidewalk.

  “You like it?” he asked. David turned to him, hands going to his hips.

  “You did this?”

  “The hell.” Vernon scowled. “He was too busy doing you. We did this.”

  David looked between Jackson and the men on the porch, then did a little dance, jumping in place and doing everything short of squealing, making them all laugh. He ran to the front porch, hugging each of them in turn.

  “It’s so beautiful!” he cried, throwing his arms around Michael. “Did you pick the colors?”

  “No, actually, Gil did that.”

  “They’re perfect,” he gushed, moving on to Gil, who hugged him with a laugh. Vernon allowed himself to be hugged with an indulgent eye roll. Even Manny accepted a hug with good grace. Then David had to walk around the entire outside of the house. It was overcast and near dusk, but there was enough light for him to see everything, and he was so excited that it almost made up for the reasons his house had to be painted to begin with. Almost.

  Eventually they were all inside, sitting around the fireplace with the football game muted on the large TV. Michael got David a glass of wine and Jackson a beer, they asked about their weekend and their cabin and the lake, but he knew they were all just stalling. Finally, he gave Gil a look he hoped said Can we just do this? Gil nodded once, and Michael could only assume he read his intent. Then David gave him the perfect opening cue.

  “Did you always plan to paint the house this weekend?”

  Jackson took David’s hand. “Not exactly. I’ll let Michael explain.”

  David turned to him, and Michael had a sudden urge to tell Jackson Gee, thanks, pal. Instead he leaned forward in his corner of the couch. Unnoticed by any of the others, Gil, seated next to him, touched his back fleetingly. It helped.

  “About four hours after you guys left Friday night, I heard a noise out in the driveway. I remembered what you’d said about raccoons getting into your trash, so I put Scooter on her leash and went out to chase them away.” He paused, hating that he was going to have to wipe the happiness off David’s face. “It wasn’t raccoons.”

  As he’d feared, the further into the explanation he got, the paler David became. When he talked about the man who chased him into the house, David covered his mouth with his hand, and Jackson encircled his shoulders with a steadying arm.

  “Michael.” David reached out and curled his hand around Michael’s forearm. “Oh my God, Michael. You’re okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m all right.”

  “He didn’t hurt you?”

  “No, I managed to get back in the house and the door closed and locked.” David looked down at his little dog, who was all but sitting on his feet. “She’s okay too.”

  David’s trembling hand went to her head. “But how terrifying. My God.”

  The worst part was when they told him about the graffiti. He wanted to see it, of course. Gil had taken photos with his phone and he handed it over, cued up to the images. Michael’s heart ached as David’s eyes filled with tears.

  “I don’t understand,” David murmured. “What have we ever done to anyone that they’d want to do this?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart, and that’s the hell of it.” Vern’s deep voice was ragged. “You didn’t do a damned thing. You’re alive, and you’re young, and you’re in love. And for some people, us being any of those things is enough.”

  “They called the police, and Mitchell is already on it,” Jackson said.

  David turned to his fiancé. “You knew about this?”

  “We weren’t going to paint your house without getting someone’s permission,” Gil teased. “You should also know you have some amazing neighbors.”

  David wiped his fingers under his lower eyelids. “We do?”

  Gil told him the story of how the neighbors had gathered, offered to help, and basically created a neighborhood watch group to help keep an eye out.

  “That is nice.” Michael could see David trying to pull himself back together.

  “Oh, and David—” He leaned toward his best friend. “—it wasn’t Trevor.”

  David inhaled, then let it out slowly. “You’re sure?”

  “Oh yeah.” Michael would never forget the black eyes so close to his. It would be so much easier if they had belonged to Trevor Blankenship. “I’m sure.”

  “I don’t know if that makes it better or worse,” David said, mirroring Michael’s thought. “It’s better that it isn’t someone I know. But it’s worse because that means… we have no idea where it’s coming from. Do you suppose they thought no one was here?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Gil answered. “Jackson usually parks his truck in the driveway, and it wasn’t there. Maybe he did think the house was empty.”

  “But my car was in the driveway,” Michael countered. “And David and Jackson had only been gone a couple of hours when I heard the noises.”

  “What’re you saying, Michael?” Manny asked.

  Michael looked at the faces gathered around him, their expressions solemn. “I think,” he said carefully, “that whoever it is had been watching the house, and he figured doing this when I was here alone was simpler than possibly coming up against Jackson.”

  David sagged against Jackson’s side. “But… why do it at all?”

  No one seemed to have an answer for that.

  “The police will figure it out.” Michael wished he felt as sure of that as he sounded.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AFTER A nearly sleepless night, muscles so tight they ached from jerking awake at every sound outside the window and out in the hall of his building, Michael left his downtown studio apartment at eight fifteen for his usual six-block walk to A.F.I., leaving time for a side trip to Starbucks for the largest coffee he could get. That morning he wondered if half a gallon would be enough. He let himself out through the main lobby door and drew up short when he saw the large man in a knit Seattle Seahawks hat and black jacket leaning against the shiny blue pickup parked at the curb.

  “You’re running late.” Gil studied him in amusement.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The big man gave him a lopsided smile. “Holding the parking place. What do you think I’m doing here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’m going to give you a ride to work, Michael.”

  Michael stared at him, aghast. “What? Don’t you need to be at work? I thought you were starting up at the O’Banyon house this morning.”

  “I’ve been there since six, but I’m on a break.” His grin grew cagey. “I have an in with the boss.”

  “Gilbert, what the hell? I can walk to work by myself. I’m a big boy.”

&n
bsp; Gil waggled his eyebrows. “I seem to recall.”

  Michael huffed in exasperation, but he was very much afraid he was blushing. “I can walk the six blocks to work without an escort.”

  Gil shrugged. “That’s up to you. I’ll just follow you.”

  Michael glared at him. “Go. Away.”

  Gil shook his head slowly. “Not on your life.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Gil straightened away from the truck and sauntered toward Michael, his hands going into his deep pockets. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but emphatic. “Michael, whoever hit David and Jackson’s house Friday night saw you. Up close and personal. Until the cops have a lead on him, I’m going to be your new very best friend.”

  Michael sighed loudly. “And what if they never get a lead on him?”

  Gil gave one shoulder a lazy shrug. “Then we might as well get married, babe, because I’m always going to be here.”

  Michael gave him a sardonic look. “You’re an idiot.”

  “And you’re wasting my break. So, are you going with me, or am I following you, cuz daylight’s burning.”

  “Fine.” Michael stalked to the passenger side door, waiting for Gil to unlock it. Instead, Gil reached around him and opened the door, holding it wide. He gave an expansive gesture with his arm, and a bow, then winked when Michael sent him a baleful look. “My mom always told me to be polite. How am I doing?”

  “You’re an asshole.” Michael stepped up into the cab.

  “Okay, so needs work, then.” He shut the door, and Michael pulled on his seat belt as Gil jogged around the front of the truck. He opened the door and got in, pulling on his seat belt before starting the engine.

  “I stop at Starbucks,” Michael informed him archly as Gil pulled away from the curb. “Are you going to let me get out and walk in?”

  “See, I’m betting since you always walk, you’ve never noticed”—he turned and looked at Michael—“it has a drive-thru window.”

  Michael huffed. “You’re obnoxious.”

  Gil’s grin widened. “So I’ve been told.”