Hellion

by Rhys Ford

  A text had taken care of sending an excuse for his lateness, but Ivo replied he was running behind as well. There was still a crowd on the sidewalk, a bit boisterous but without the edge of trouble riding it in. His attention drifted from face to face, a habit he picked up from years of wearing a badge. There was always one instant when things changed, a slight shift in mood or even the wrong eye contact being made between two people walking too close to the line of their tempers. It was a habit that served him well on shift but impossible to break once he clocked out.

  But then, feeling the weight of his weapon at his back, Ruan supposed he never really truly clocked out.

  415 Ink’s door had an old-school tell of bells dangling over the frame, suspended by a hinge. They rattled and shook when he swung open the door, drawing everyone’s eyes to the front of the shop. Ruan didn’t pay much attention to the others. He recognized the flamboyantly dressed Asian man tattooing in one of the stalls, one of the victims from an assault case and Mace Crawford’s boyfriend. A bubbly young woman asked him if he needed any help or if he was there for an appointment, but Ruan shook his head, muttering a thank-you or something as he went by, and headed toward Ivo’s stall.

  Today Ivo was a mix of styles, pairing an oversized white T-shirt with a long dark plaid kilt, but his deep blue eyes were embellished with a smoky ring of kohl. His dark hair with its oil-slick streaks was messy, falling around his face, and for some reason, Ruan’s eyes were drawn to the elegant line of the back of his neck, its pale bent arch touched with something colorful Ruan couldn’t make out past the collar of his shirt. Ivo’s legs were bare, his powerful calves bunching and flexing as he moved gracefully around the massage table in the middle of his stall. The black high-top Converses on his feet were scuffed, and there wasn’t a sign of a sock beneath them, but Ruan knew from experience those sometimes slid down.

  He was gorgeous and wild, a fanged hummingbird among sparrows, and not for the first time since he’d seen Ivo, Ruan felt completely out of his depth. He felt old—not Cranson old but definitely worn around the edges. He didn’t know when he’d ever been that young or even that courageous. It took everything he had to come out at work, and even that was more of a slither than throwing himself into the universe and daring anyone to challenge him. It could have been there was too much of his grandmother’s Catholic guilt woven around his mind or the promise he’d made to himself not to end up like his mother, her desperate crawl to find someone to attach herself to shaping his views on relationships.

  Ruan had never had a successful thing with anyone, but since most of his encounters were fleeting and usually physical, he didn’t expect much. Coming up on Cranson at one in the morning was getting to be a habit, and as much as he liked the crusty ancient sailor, he was unsatisfied. Ruan would even go so far as to say he was unhappy. The day-to-day slog was becoming a way to pass the time. Even as fulfilling as closing an investigation was, it was as if he went home and hung himself up in the closet, falling into a numb stasis until it was time to strap on his gun and badge again.

  Ivo threatened that existence, just as he challenged Ruan’s idea of what it was to be a man. Ruan didn’t know if he was ready for that. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready, but something drew him to Ivo, and deep down inside, if he walked away, Ruan sensed he would regret it for the rest of his life.

  It was obvious Ivo had just finished a tattoo. There were tiny pots of paint everywhere and several odd-looking machines with bristles of needles laid out on a rolling medical tray. The young woman bounced a few steps behind Ruan, calling out to Ivo that he had a visitor, as if he couldn’t see Ruan approaching.

  “Yeah, I’ve got it, Moni. Why don’t you start the cleanup, and I’ll break down my machines so they can go into the ultrasound and autoclave.” Ivo stepped forward, caught in the moment of something, and Ruan realized he didn’t know how to greet the man. He was pleasantly surprised to get a brush of a kiss across his cheek, Ivo’s light stubble scraping his skin. The touch was extremely masculine and sent a bit of tingle and alarm through Ruan’s senses. “Hey, let me get my stall broken down and stuff put away, then we can go. Grab a seat if you want. I’m gonna need a few minutes.”

  There was something different about Ivo—not that different, just different. Picking up a blue pencil sketch on transparent paper, he smoothed out its edges, then tacked it to the wall and ran his finger down the spine of the mermaid-ish horse he’d drawn. As loose of a drawing as it was, there was a vitality and movement to it—a sense of power—and from the look on the horse’s face, a dash of cunning. From the array of inks laid out on the counter, he’d been working on something colorful, and Ivo grinned when he caught Ruan’s perplexed look.

  “I was just supposed to do line work and shading tonight, but she was a really good sit, so I was able to get some preliminary color work done.” Ivo turned his attention back to the machine in his hand. “She and her husband came over from Scotland, and I’m only going to have another session with her before she goes back. The more I get done on the first pass, the less she has to sit for before she gets back on the plane.”

  “She came all the way from Scotland for a tattoo?” Ruan shoved his hands into his jeans, rocking back on the heels of his cowboy boots. “Really?”

  “I’ve had people come farther,” Ivo said with a chuckle. “I’m damned good at what I do.”

  “No, he doesn’t have an ego,” the Asian inker in the other stall called out, the buzz of his machine stepping up as he did something to the man’s arm he was working on. “Problem is, he isn’t lying. So the asshole is nearly impossible to live with.”

  “I think you have me confused with Mace. You know, the asshole you really live with?” Ivo shot back. “Don’t pay attention to Rob. He’s jealous. We just got him graduated up from flash a couple of months ago. The guy he’s working on now? We had to pay him to sit for that.”

  “I’m getting paid for this?” The blond with his arm exposed for Rob to work on laughed. “Shit, I would’ve gotten something bigger, then.”

  “Both of you shut the fuck up,” Rob grumbled, dipping his needles into a pot of red ink. “Don’t be a smartass or you’re going to be wearing a Hello Kitty tattoo instead of this lion.”

  “Like he’s going to be able to tell the difference when you’re done?” Ivo teased, bursting out into laughter when Rob stopped working long enough to flip them off. “But yeah, she came from Scotland for the tattoo. And probably Dungeness crab. Maybe even dim sum. Because let’s face it, if you’re going to go someplace for a tattoo, it definitely should be San Francisco so you can get some great food too. Oh, speaking of food, let me change my shoes and we can go grab something to eat, because my hands hurt and I’m fucking starving.”

  “Why do you have to change your shoes?” Ruan glanced down at the black sneakers. “They look fine.”

  “I put them on so I could ink. I can’t really tattoo in heeled boots, not for as long as I went. Tears up your ankles worse than walking on them.” Ivo sat down on a wheeled stool and began to unlace his shoes. A pair of red-soled black boots sat next to the cabinet nearby, their heels a delicate spindle barely as wide as a pencil. “I hate these socks. They stay up for everything except for high-tops, and I don’t know why.”

  “Do you really need to wear those?” Ruan frowned, the words pushing out of his brain and down his tongue before he gave them much thought. “Don’t you think it’s just a bit… much?”

  IT WASN’T the first time Ivo’s heart stopped. Of course, there was that one time when it literally stopped in midbeat and he’d fallen into a tortured darkness, hoping never to wake up, but fate or destiny refused to let him go. And neither had Bear.

  There were smaller times. Smaller hurts. Lesser times when his heart skipped but the pain was just as intense. It was knowing the stream of his life had shifted and there was nothing he could do to dam it up and change its course. This was one of those times, and the pain was quick and sharp, needling
through his heart and then down into his stomach.

  “A bit much.” Ivo stood, his shoes half untied but his heart pounding unevenly. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a statement. It was more of a reaching out of his thoughts, trying to sort out how he felt. Cocking his head, Ivo leaned against the counter, resting his weight on the heels of his hands. “What did you mean by that?”

  To his credit, Ruan didn’t prevaricate or shrug Ivo off. Instead he looked down at the ground, his brow furrowing as he gathered his words together. “I don’t know. I think I just… this isn’t where we should be talking about this.”

  “This is exactly where we should be talking about this, because I live here. This is who I am. Moving me into another space isn’t going to change things.” The edge of the counter bit into his palms, but the pain was a welcome sting. Ivo used it to anchor himself, focusing on keeping his voice steady. “I don’t like guns, but I don’t say anything about the one you carry around with you all the time.”

  “That’s different. I’m a cop. A gun is a part of that.” Ruan looked up, his handsome face tightening with emotion. “So is the star.”

  “That’s my point. It’s as much of a part of you as anything. I can’t change that no matter how much I hate it.” Ivo let out the sour breath he had brewing in his lungs. “And I fucking hate guns. Tell you what. I’m going to find my own way home tonight, and you get back to me when you figure out why you said that. You know where to find me.”

  It was hard staring into Ruan’s conflicted green gaze, but Ivo held his ground. It fucking hurt like hell, but he kept his chin up, refusing to let the lump in his throat steal his breath. He hadn’t realized how much he’d hoped for something, how much he’d wanted Ruan to be someone he shared things with. At some point between seeing the cop on the porch of their house and him walking into 415 Ink after a long grueling day, Ivo had hung the stars and moon on Ruan’s shoulders.

  And now they’d all fallen to the floor, their lights flickering and their edges turning to dust.

  “Okay. So this is it?” Ruan’s jaw clenched.

  “No, I meant what I said.” Ivo finally trusted himself to swallow, but he still couldn’t get around the thickness in his chest. He was too old to cry. They hadn’t even had anything really between them, so it didn’t make sense for there to be so much pain. He’d gone through these kinds of things before. He’d lost count of how many guys he’d turned away because they couldn’t see past the shit they carried in with them. Ruan should’ve been different. Even though Ivo knew Ruan existed in a much tighter world than he did, he’d hoped it would be different. “It’s up to you, Ruan. Think about it. Then come talk to me, because this muchness isn’t going to go away. It’s who I am. It’s not something I play with. Just like you don’t play with your gun. So, take some time and then you let me know.”

  For a moment Ivo thought Ruan wasn’t going to leave. He stood in front of Ivo, studying him as if he stared long enough, he would find something to say to break the tension between them. It seemed like a lifetime before Ruan nodded, then wordlessly strode out of the shop, letting the wind storm in from outside, casting the bells over the door into a frenzied cacophony.

  At some point in the conversation, Rob had stood up, but Ivo hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t until he saw Rob in the corner of his eye that he realized his brother’s boyfriend had stepped up, willing to enter into the fray. Frowning, Rob tugged at the black gloves he wore on his hands, probably not wanting to get ink on anything he touched.

  “I’m sorry, man,” Rob said, gripping Ivo’s left shoulder, squeezing gently. “I know you liked him.”

  “I do like him,” Ivo whispered, patting Rob’s arm. “I’m just also really disappointed in him. Get back to work and finish up the piece. Looks like you and Mace are going to be taking me home.”

  IVO MADE it through the front door.

  He gave himself credit for that.

  The family room seemed so far away, and Ivo had some sense Mace was hounding him, a large bulky shadow taking up air a few feet away. His hands still hurt, cramped from hours of holding the vibrating machine, and his eyes stung. Ivo wanted to blame anything for that sensation along his lashes except for the bitter pain he nursed beneath his heart.

  Earl greeted him in the kitchen, a shaggy harbinger of joy and wagging tail. The dog smelled grubby, much like Gus’s kid, Chris, and with the exception of the cat poop he found in the backyard from the neighbors’ tabby, probably had about the same diet as anyone else, plus whatever looked good, no matter if it was edible or not. Ivo was too tall to use Earl as a brace to walk, but the dog wasn’t going to let that stop him. He slammed against Ivo’s bare calves, his massive hard head nearly knocking Ivo off balance when he hit the back of his knee. Ivo didn’t mind. The dog in his own bumbling way helped him eventually find his way to the family room, because for some reason, the lights were wavering a bit and he was having a hard time breathing.

  Ivo found his place on the couch mostly by feel and memory. They all had their places on the large sectional, including the dog. It varied depending upon who was home, but there were always spots Ivo found more comfortable than others. He liked the corners. He liked being able to sprawl out and sometimes fling his feet onto the oversized ottoman they used as a table while watching football games or movies.

  The family room was the epicenter of the house. It was where Mace fell asleep when his nightmares chased him through his past and where Ivo and Chris built forts out of cushions and blankets, defending their territory with rolled-up magazines as swords when Bear and Gus attacked. Its bookshelves held the debris of their lives and stacks of well-worn novels the brothers passed around. There were trophies and medals as well as diplomas scattered here and there, their accomplishments thumbtacked into their lives by bits of cheap metal and paper they’d fought hard to bring home.

  There was always a hint of dog in the air with a whiff of boy. The sectional dominating the center of the room showed signs of wear, most recently dotted with a bit of green lacquer from an ill-fated Saturday nail polishing application when their three-year-old nephew, Chris, chose Mace but their brother lacked the skills to keep the polish on the kid’s nails and not the couch. Since this was something that doomed his career as a tattoo artist, the brothers weren’t surprised and left the green glitter alone, not wanting to risk the fabric by trying to scrub it out.

  Ivo’s fingernails found glittery specks, picking at them as he tried to toe off his Converses. He dropped his boots somewhere near the door, hating that they now were stained with a bad memory when he’d loved them so much before. The sneakers were proving impossible to take off, or at least not without actually tugging them free, and Earl seemed intent on getting in the way, shoving his head in between Ivo’s face and knee when he pulled his leg up to get at his laces.

  “Seriously, get out of the way, dude.” Ivo lightly shoved Earl back, turning his face when the dog’s tongue danced furiously in the air, flinging spittle about like a sumo wrestler salting the ring. “You’re making this impossible.”

  “Let me help you,” Bear said, coming around the couch’s side. “You know he can tell when you’re upset. He just wants to make you feel better.”

  His brother ate up most of the light coming from the stained-glass art deco lamp set near the wall-mounted big-screen TV. Cast in silhouette, Bear emerged from the shadows with a startling quiet, probably something he picked up while raising four headstrong young men. Sitting down on the ottoman, Bear winced and moved one of the trays they used to hold drinks and snacks, pulling it out from under him and setting it aside.

  “I don’t need you to take care of me, Bear.” Ivo leaned his head back, shouting toward the kitchen, “And I sure as fuck don’t need Mace telling stories about me.”

  “Actually, it was Rob, and it was about you changing into your boots. Why are you still wearing these, then?” Bear asked gently, reaching down and grabbing Ivo’s right foot. “Talk to me about the cop.
Tell me what happened.”

  Ivo hated being the youngest. He hated being the weakest. No matter what he did, he was always going to be the one they watched closely, waiting for him to stumble. He was tired of being the fragile one, the brother everyone tiptoed around when things got a little rough. He knew he was loved. He knew they just didn’t want him to disappear from their lives, fractured beyond saving and falling away into the darkness. As much as Ivo didn’t blame his brothers for hovering over him, he chafed at being hemmed in.

  “I don’t want to turn this into a family meeting or something huge. I’m wearing these ’cause it’s raining and those damned boots are expensive. That’s all that counts,” he muttered, fighting Bear slightly for control of his own foot. “Stop that. I’m not a kid. Shit’s going to happen and I’ve got to deal with it. I am dealing with it.”

  “If you’re dealing with it,” Bear said, pulling the sneaker off, “then why don’t you want to talk to me about this cop?”

  “Because I don’t know what to fucking say,” Ivo hissed, wrestling off his other shoe. He wanted to throw it. He wanted to damage something, but everything in the room was too dear, even the damned television. “I thought he saw me, Bear. I mean, I knew we were going to have some problems because for fuck’s sake he’s a cop, but it’s not like he didn’t know who I was. The first time he met me, I was dressed like a damned Sailor Scout. I’m not a surprise. It just hit me too hard.