by Gregory Ashe
He took Hazard in his hand.
“John, no,” Hazard said, groaning.
“Yes,” Somers said, timing his hand with his thrusts.
“Not yet.”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“John,” his voice splintering, “I love you.”
And then he came, bellowing, his whole body tightening with the climax. Somers pulled out and finished himself off, and then he slumped forward, exhausted. One of Hazard’s big arms flopped around him, and they both lay there, exhausted. After a while, his hand came up to pet Somers’s hair.
“I love you so much,” Hazard said. “I wish I could say it better. But you know, right?”
Somers snuggled into his husband. “Of course.”
“I love you, John. I never thought I’d get to have this, any of it. I love you so much. If I don’t say it enough, I want to say it right now: I love you.”
“I love you too,” Somers murmured into his chest. “Happy honeymoon.”
VI
OCTOBER 31
THURSDAY
11:26 PM
THEIR FLIGHT OUT of St. Thomas was delayed, and they had to run through Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson, Terminal I to Terminal S, to make their connection.
“Noah and Rebeca called,” Somers panted as they ran, phone in one hand.
“What’d they say?”
Holding the phone to his ear, Somers made a face. He didn’t seem to see the custodian with the trash cart ahead of them, so Hazard snagged his elbow, detouring both of them toward a bakery. The aroma of cinnamon pretzels. Then the unmistakable fragrance of cheese dip. Hazard’s stomach rumbled.
“Something kind of weird is going on,” Somers said, parroting the words from the voicemail. “Could you give us a call back when you have a chance?”
“That’s all?” Hazard asked.
“That’s all.”
They reached the gate, where a heavyset young guy had six kids on a leash and was taking advantage of the family boarding.
“What if it’s about Evie?” Somers said.
“Evie’s with Cora.”
“I know, but what if it’s about her.”
“Call them before we take off,” Hazard said.
“It’s almost midnight there.”
“Then don’t call them.”
“But what if it’s about Evie?”
“John, if it were about Evie, they would have left a detailed message and said it was an emergency. It’s something weird. That’s it. That’s all. Maybe somebody broke a window. Maybe there’s a package on the porch.”
“Yeah,” Somers said, smiling, the line of his shoulders softening. “Ok.”
Hazard slept on the flight to St. Louis, and he was groggy as they waited for their bags and rode the shuttle back to the parking garage. Their driver was the same ancient man Hazard had tried to help with his whiteboard diagram; he noticed the old man hadn’t taken any of his advice. Tonight, he was wearing a t-shirt that said MY OTHER CAR IS A GO-KART. After they’d gone up and down every aisle on three floors at an average speed of five miles an hour, Hazard would have been happy to trade for a go-kart.
Somers kept checking his phone.
“Did they call again?” Hazard asked.
“No.”
“Did they send you a message?”
“No.”
Hazard studied his husband.
“What?” Somers asked.
“Normally I’m the one who worries.”
Somers’s grin flickered in and out. “I guess I’m just tired.”
“No,” Hazard said slowly. “That’s not it.”
“Ok, I don’t know. I just feel weird.”
“Is it your tummy?”
Somers put his face in his hands.
“Are you gassy?” Hazard asked.
“I think it’s actually worse,” Somers groaned, “that you’re a hundred-percent serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. The digestive system is one of the major invisible factors affecting our overall health. And many people experience some sort of irregularity after traveling outside the country. Do you need to—”
Somers put a hand over his mouth.
Before their flight had gotten delayed, they had planned on driving straight back to Wahredua; when Hazard asked if Somers wanted to get a hotel, he shook his head, so they hit I-70 and went west. The highways were deserted, and they made good time. A few hours later, they were pulling into their neighborhood. The Arts-and-Crafts homes were dark, and the streets were quiet. A possum shot out in front of the Mustang, and Somers tapped the brakes, and then it disappeared beyond the headlights.
When the house came into view, Somers let out a breath.
“It didn’t burn down,” Hazard said.
Somers laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh.
The garage door rattled up, and yellow light made an apron on the driveway. As Somers turned in, the headlights bounced across the porch, and Hazard saw someone sitting there.
“John.”
“I saw him.”
They parked in the garage next to the Odyssey, and Somers shut off the engine.
“Gun?” Hazard asked.
“Locked up inside.”
“Go get it,” Hazard said, reaching for the door.
“No.” Somers shook his head. “Let’s just see what’s going on. It’s not like he was trying to hide; he could have been waiting inside the house if he wanted to hurt us.”
Hazard nodded, but he still grabbed a baseball bat from the pile of sports gear before heading out to the front of the house. Somers walked at his side and then took Hazard’s free hand and squeezed it once. Hazard gave him a look, but Somers just shook his head.
“Hello,” Hazard said.
The guy was sitting on the porch steps, his knees pulled up to his chest; at Hazard’s voice, he stood, and Hazard realized his first impression was wrong: this guy was really just a kid, probably still in high school, and he was tall and lanky. His hair was buzzed short, and his eyes were a dark amber that glittered in the distant light from the streetlamp.
“Can we help you?” Hazard asked.
The kid’s eyes went to Somers first, held there for a moment, and then followed their joined hands to Hazard. This time, his gaze lingered.
Somers drew in a sharp breath. “No fucking way,” he muttered.
“What?” Hazard asked.
Somers didn’t answer, but he was clutching Hazard’s hand hard enough to hurt.
“Who are you?” Hazard asked the kid.
“You’re Emery Hazard?” the kid said. He had a low baritone voice, smooth and assured.
“That’s right. Who are you?”
The kid smirked, displaying a crooked eyetooth. “I’m your son.”
-
The guys will be back in Hazard and Somerset: Arrows in the Hand.
About the Author
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.
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