Hellion

by Rhys Ford

  “You just like ripping that bandage off, don’t you?” The detective’s short chuckle was on the edge of bitter, but Ivo paid it no mind. No matter how hard his brothers worked at being stable and open, pride often got in the way and thickened their tongues. He didn’t expect Ruan to be any different. “Okay, here goes.”

  “I am all ears.” Resting his feet on the edge of the coffee table, Ivo settled in to listen. “Where do you want to start?”

  “I think I can only talk about how I felt the other day. I’m going to be really honest and say I don’t understand about the heels.” Ruan’s voice broke, a bit of humanity creeping past the stony façade he wore.

  “Do you think you need to?” Ivo asked, holding his breath, then forcing himself to relax.

  “I kind of do. Not because it will make me more accepting of them but because I think it’s more than just you wearing them,” Ruan murmured. “But I think that’s something we probably shouldn’t get into, because right now it’s not about why you wear them but about me not wanting you to. After I left and went home, I talked it over with Cranson, my landlord—”

  “The old guy who whistled at me when I walked by that night? He laughed when I told him to fuck off.”

  “Yeah, that’s him, and he’s definitely from a different time, even more crusty than me. If it makes any difference, he thought you were pretty hot.” The detective quirked his mouth into a sly grin. “He’s got a lot of things to say, and most of the time he’s usually right on the money.”

  “And this time?” Ivo asked cautiously. There was a lot brewing beneath the surface, and he needed to step carefully around the situation.

  It seemed like both of them were in uncharted waters, adrift in the middle of the storm they’d created and now searching for something to hold on to. If they’d been in a stronger place, Ivo imagined they would have reached for one another, but the threads between them were too tenuous, too flimsy to hold up the weight of two men struggling not to drown. It was hard to remember the situation really wasn’t about him. The barbed wire wrapped around both of them had been forged by Ruan, his words, and whatever toxic thoughts were stewing inside of him.

  For the first time in Ivo’s life, he truly understood what Bear went through while raising them. There was no way to pull out an explanation when someone couldn’t see why they’d done something. He could only sit and be patient while Ruan gathered up his feelings, and it felt like he was waiting for an ax to fall, bracing himself for the glut of pain and blood soon to follow.

  “Cranson’s a lot like me in some ways. Or maybe it’s more like, when I look at him, I see who I could end up being if I don’t do something about my life. He touched on a lot of things I hadn’t really thought about and left me with a lot of questions I had to answer. About you. About me.” Ruan shrugged. “But mostly about where I wanted to be in my life and who I wanted in it.”

  “Come up with anything?” Ivo took another sip of his coffee, contemplating the man sitting across of him. “And I’m going to tell you, no matter what happens between us, I’m going to sue for joint custody of your cat. Just so you know.”

  Ivo got the laugh he was hoping for—a small one, but it was good enough to loosen the shadows clenched around Ruan’s body. He relaxed, rolling his shoulders and settling into his boxer’s frame. The tendons on his hands loosened, and he flexed his fingers, keeping a hold on the mug and his eyes on the floor.

  “He’s kind of a whore, so I don’t think you’re going to get much of a fight from him,” Ruan conceded. “He was good company this weekend, because I spent a lot of time thinking about you and trying to figure out how to tell you how terrified I am inside.

  “I think a lot of it has to do with that I’m not around many people who aren’t cops. I’ve been to a couple of clubs and picked up a guy here and there, but that was a long time ago. I guess I’m still trying to figure out what gay means and how I fit into it, because I see you and you’re so fucking comfortable doing things that scare the shit out of me,” he whispered, shifting his large hands around his cup and staring into its depths as if it held answers to the questions of the universe. “I’ve never held another guy’s hand in public, and I sure as hell have never kissed one where anyone could’ve ever seen me. Hell, I never even told my grandmother I was gay, and I kind of regret that, because she died not knowing who I was.”

  “Would she have been okay with that?” Ivo set down his coffee, then inched closer to Ruan until their knees nearly touched. “What about your mom?”

  “My grandmother was hard-core Catholic, so I think it would’ve disappointed her. That’s just the truth of who she was. My mom? She spends her entire life trying to search for something she’s never going to get, because she thinks someone else is going to fill the emptiness inside of her.” Ruan stroked Ivo’s cheek, then traced down his jaw. “I think I’ve always been afraid I’m like her, because I feel like I’m running away from facing down who I am, and then you showed up into my life, and boom! I hit a wall. I’ve got to choose between a man who intrigues me and defies everything I am comfortable with or crawling back under my rock.”

  “I’m not going to stop wearing heels. And some days I’m going to wear skirts with them. And some days I am going to wear hiking boots with my skirts.” Ivo broke through the tension as gently as he could. “You’ve got to ask yourself if you’re going to be able to be with me in public like that, because I can’t change who you are and I shouldn’t. Just like you can’t change me. Not saying we can’t become better people, but that’s not going to happen if we’re shoving down who we are for somebody else.”

  “I know that,” Ruan whispered. The anguish in his voice was thick, tortured, and heart-wrenching. Unable to stop himself, Ivo slid a hand up Ruan’s arm, clasping the tight muscles he found there. Ruan looked up—finally—and the trouble Ivo felt in his own soul reflected back at him, muddying Ruan’s green eyes. “I also know I need you in my life because I need to make a lot of changes. And I like the guy, but Cranson probably shouldn’t be the only gay man I know. So, want to help a cop get through some of the shit he’s carrying around? Even if it’s just to get joint custody of his cat? Because I need to be better. And I know that I should be better for myself, but I just want you near me—with me—while I try.”

  Twelve

  THE LAST thing Ruan ever expected was to feel Ivo’s mouth on his, but the moist warmth invigorated him, a welcome gentle rain sweeping across the parched desert of his soul. His mind raced to take it all in, savoring the taste of Ivo, the feel of his skin on his palms when he cupped Ivo’s face, drawing him in. They were at an awkward angle, and the ache of his shoulders and knees grumbled past the sensual joy pouring through him. Shifting threatened to break their contact, but Ruan had to chance it.

  It was an ungraceful scramble, made more so when Ruan’s foot got caught on one of Ivo’s heels. Kicking it aside, he mumbled out a hasty apology and pulled Ivo closer. The kiss slowed, and Ruan teased Ivo’s lips with a long nibble, assured of Ivo’s arousal when he could feel Ivo’s heart beat a thundering report in his chest.

  There was so much he wanted to say, to do, but there wasn’t time, and they needed to move slowly. Still, he longed to strip Ivo bare and lay him down on a bed, even if it was simply to drink in the beauty of the man’s body. Ivo’s thighs rippled beneath Ruan’s hands, and he caught himself before he ran his palms up to cup Ivo’s ass.

  His fingers found the tears in Ivo’s jeans, a spot of flesh in a sea of tattered denim. His thumbnail caught on a frayed white thread pulled tight over Ivo’s knee, giving way when Ruan slid in, stroking at the spot. It was contact, a burst of relief after being penned up in his own head over a long weekend filled with death, doubt, and more than a few beers shared over a space heater, sitting next to an old man who mirrored his own bleak destiny.

  Before Ivo, the last time he’d kissed a man sure as hell wasn’t in front of a bank of frosted windows looking out onto Fisherman’s Wharf,
and try as he might, Ruan couldn’t even remember when that was or even who he’d been with. The thought faded away, too wispy to grab on to. Then any remnants of the bittersweet memory rushed away, caught in the slide of Ivo’s mouth against his.

  “Getting too fucking old to make out wrapped around like a pretzel,” he muttered, coming up for some air. “Fuck, you taste… shit. I’m sorry. I… this is pushing. I shouldn’t… I’m going to let you go, because—”

  “Take a breath there, Nicholls. Then shut up and let me go. This was supposed to be a quick sweet kiss to make you feel better. I’m the one who pushed,” Ivo murmured, biting at Ruan’s lower lip. “You’re ruining this, you know. All this talking. Now I’ve got to get back to work, and you’ve got to go save the world. Next time we do something like this, I’m thinking maybe your gun needs to not be on you. Kind of a surprise when I go to grope at you.”

  “Deal.” Ruan exhaled, disappointment replacing the heat in his belly when Ivo slowly extricated himself. The shop was cold, or at least the air felt chilly on Ruan’s Ivo-warmed body. He ached for more. His dick certainly was hard enough, far stiffer than the morning elevation he woke up to on those nights when he got more than four hours of sleep. Ivo seemed steady on his feet, and Ruan wanted to have another go at his mouth, longing to see the artist be as wobbly as Ruan felt. He called out to Ivo before he got too far. “I want to see you. Tonight. Take you out. Talk a bit.”

  “Don’t know yet,” he replied, leaning over to tug at the back of one of his sneakers. Ruan caught a glimpse of Ivo’s hooded blue eyes through the fall of his dark rainbow-streaked hair across his face. Ivo looked up quickly, pinning Ruan with a narrowed gaze. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Ruan’s mouth still stung from Ivo’s teeth, and he lay back, wondering how the hell he was going to keep up with the energetic artist. “I’m asking a lot from you, but I appreciate the kiss. It shouldn’t have gone that… passionate. You and I’ve got to work on boundaries. Because I don’t know where they are sometimes. That all can wait until you’re in a better place to talk—”

  “Actually, no. Telling you I don’t know yet is stupid, because I know. I knew when you came in.” An intensity lingered in Ivo’s beautiful eyes, bleeding over to a face so heart-wrenching gorgeous, Ruan was sure Lucifer wore it once. “Putting you off? That’s shitty of me. That’s a fucking game people play with each other, and we’re not going to do that. So yeah, tonight. What time?”

  “I don’t know. Um, probably late.” Thrown further off his game, Ruan struggled to get up off the couch with some semblance of his dignity intact. He’d somehow gotten his coat wrapped around his knees, and the damp seeped into his back, the drops of water in his hair finding their way down his neck. “Stop moving. Let me think. You kiss like Spot eats.”

  “He stole shrimp off the table.”

  “Yeah, well, you fucking stole my brain, and I’m having a hard time thinking,” Ruan shot back. “How about seven? I’ll call if I’m later. It all depends on if we catch a case. So far, Maite and I are golden, but you never know.”

  “Maite, your partner?” Ivo stopped fussing at his shoes, drawing himself up to his full height. Ruan wasn’t small, but even in sneakers, Ivo seemed to tower over him, despite only having a few inches on him. “She nice?”

  “Yeah. Young. Third-generation cop. Maybe even fourth.” He finally got himself into some semblance of order, smoothing down his peacoat. “I’ve got history with her family. I like her. Probably one of my best friends.”

  “I’ll have to hook up with her for lunch sometime,” Ivo said, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Sure she can tell me all kinds of shit about you.”

  “I’d rather you learn all kinds of shit from me instead of a woman who I’ve had to share a car with for five hours after she’s powered down two bean-and-cheese burritos.” Ruan held up his hands when Ivo gave him an admonishing look. “She belches. You should hear her. She can also recite the alphabet and sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.’”

  “That’s the same song,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “Out. I’ll see you at seven. Wait, what do you want to do for food? Mexican? Chinese? Pancakes?”

  “How about if we figure that out at seven?” Ruan adjusted his holster, making sure his gun was secure and hidden beneath his coat. “I commit now and you might change your mind later and want something else.”

  “Hey, so long as you’re on the menu,” Ivo remarked, opening the front door to let Ruan out. “I don’t really care what we actually eat. Now seriously, get out before I wrestle you to the floor. And then I’ll have nothing to hold over Mace’s head when he gives me shit about wearing heels in the shop. Oh, and one other thing—try not to get shot. I’m fucking sure as shit not having dinner in a hospital cafeteria. I’ll eat almost anything, but that’s like choking down roadkill.”

  “OF ALL the fucking times to catch a homicide,” Ruan grumbled, pulling his car into its spot behind the house. Maite’s little sports car sparkled from the streetlight hitting the raindrops covering its sleek paint, and she grunted something at him, either in sympathy or tired of hearing him complain. “Tonight. It’s like God is laughing at me. At least we caught the asshole, but I’d really like people to stop murdering each other.”

  “I could definitely do with less murder. You know what kind of crime I would like to try to solve?” His partner reached for the leather jacket she’d thrown onto his back seat. “I would like a rash of break-ins where someone goes into people’s houses and does their laundry. Maybe even vacuums. That’s the kind of shit I’d like to see hit our desks.”

  “I think that’s called your mother coming over and wiping your ass for you,” he replied. “Do you want to come up and see if I have anything in the fridge to eat, or are you going to head home?”

  “You know I love you, man, but it is midnight, and we’ve got to be back on the street in seven hours. I’m going to go home, pour a glass of wine, and try not to drown when I take a bath, because I’m that fucking tired.” She got out of his car, then stopped short, looking up at his place. “You left the lights on.”

  “I didn’t turn them on this morning. Maybe Cranson went up to feed Spot. He does that sometimes,” Ruan said with a chuckle. “The old man says he hates the cat, but it’s funny how often I go upstairs and I find Spot passed out in a pile of catnip and smelling like sardines.”

  “Want me to wait until you check it out?” Her hand drifted to her side where her gun rested at her hip. “I don’t want you walking into something.”

  “I’ll be okay. I’ve got nothing to steal but the cat, and it’s not like he’s going to put up a fight. But lugging him down the stairs is a bitch and a half, so I don’t see that happening.” He waited while she got into her sports car, lifting his hand up in a goodbye wave when she started the engine and began to ease out of the space. “See you tomorrow.”

  She was gone within seconds, and Ruan sagged into the fatigue cloaking him. His text to Ivo had been short and apologetic, promising he would make it up to him tomorrow or the day after. The reply back had been desultory if not a bit curt, but that also could have been Ruan reading it wrong. It was hard to get inflection through words scrolling over the screen, and as soon as they’d walked into the victim’s apartment, Ruan’s mood went sour.

  It’d been brutal, and as often as he’d picked through blood and the remains of someone else’s life, he never got used to it. Even the deaths of people society thought were the dregs struck him hard. He understood how impossible it was for some to pull themselves free of the quagmire they lived in, but with a life snipped short, he always wondered if they would have found some kind of salvation, some kind of elevation out of the filth.

  He hadn’t lied when he said he was tired of people murdering each other. The missed dinner with Ivo was a disappointment, but it wasn’t a tragedy. He was a cop—a murder cop—and he walked and spoke for the dead. And since the dead didn’t operate on a reliable schedule and rarely we
re their killers standing next to their bodies holding a murder weapon, the pursuit of justice took not only long hours but also a toll on its investigators.

  They had a small victory tonight, hunting down the man who’d broken into an elderly woman’s house, surprising her in her kitchen and then killing her with one of the knives she had in a block on the counter. It was the perfect storm of witnesses and evidence, leading him and Maite to the guy’s front door. The takedown had been swift and clean, but the older woman was still dead, and now a man who could have chosen a different path in life sat in a small cell, waiting to spend the rest of his years behind bars.

  “Unless the prosecution fucks it up,” Ruan mumbled, crossing the back lot. The scent of cigar smoke reached him, and he heard Cranson cough, nearly hidden in the darkness. The screen door was open, propped by a brick lodged in between the frame and the jamb. Stopping at the edge of the walk leading to the stairs, he called out to the old man, “I’m guessing you went up and fed the cat? Lights are on up in my place. You paying my electric bill now?”

  “Fuck you,” Cranson muttered without any heat. “You’ve got company. That long-legged pretty thing who came by that one time. I gave him my key. Make sure you get it back to me.”

  “And you just let him in?” There was only one long-legged person in Ruan’s life, and he couldn’t imagine Ivo showing up at his apartment knowing he wouldn’t be there. Frowning, he glanced up as if he could somehow see what was going on inside his second-story home. Cranson grunted something Ruan took as a yes, and he scowled harder. “How long has he been here?”

  “Couple of hours. Maybe three.” Cranson lit a match, running it over the end of his extinguished cigar. The light splashed over his face, picking up the silver flecks in his scraggly beard. “Sat with me for about half an hour. Maybe more. Ended up asking about my tattoos so got to talking. If I were you and I had someone that pretty waiting for me upstairs, I wouldn’t be giving an old man a ration of shit. I’d be taking those stairs two at a time and getting on with my night.”