by V. L. Locey
“Yes, I knew. I just assumed you’d actually let me know when and where and then, maybe, come back to see me once in twenty years.”
I dropped my brow to the cool glass. “Dave, I meant to come back, I did. There were just too many things going on every summer. I was young and stupid and…Dave? Davy? He hung up. You hung up, didn’t you?” Yep, he had. I threw the door open and bellowed “Fucking fuck fuck fuckery fuck fuck!” to the wet night. Nothing but a lonely frog replied. How was I ever going to fix this mess with Davy if I couldn’t get the man to even talk to me? I asked the night but nothing answered, not even that lonesome frog. You know you’ve stepped into deep shit when frogs don’t have anything to say. “Fuck,” I groaned once more, shut the door, chucked the phone to the tiny end table, and went to bed to leave the mess I’d made of things. Shame my dreams weren’t cooperating.
They carried me to some obscure warped-up spacy place where I stood on one side of a shimmering wall of water, or glass, or maybe it was energy and Davy stood on the other. Surrounding me were all the women who I’d dated over my years in the pros. Lovely ladies all of them but they were faint glistening flickers of people, their faces wavering in and out, their names slipping away from me as I focused on Davy. He was seventeen, wiry and smart, smiling, eyes glowing with affection. I pushed on the wall with both hands. The energy/water undulated but held me back. Davy grew up, got married to some stupid schmuck from a couple of counties over. I’d blocked the jerks name from my mind, but I saw his face clearly. Dunny had been kind enough to send me the newspaper clipping. Big news when the only gay man in the county—or so they thought—tied the knot. What’s his face was a big man, handsome as sin and a dead ringer for young Billie Dee Williams, a county controller, and all-around great guy.
Why they split no one knew, or no one deigned to tell me. I hammered on the springy barrier to no avail. Davy went off with his husband, and I was left on this side with the now faceless women I’d hidden behind. They all turned and reached for me, long painted nails clawing at me, pulling me from what I wanted more than anything—Davy and the truth of who I was.
I shot up in bed, neck and back covered with sweat, morning a long way off, rain pelting the windows, and choked out one of those gasping coughs that escape when you fall out of a freaky dream. Right. This was real. I patted the mattress. The faceless women were nightmare figures, not at all real.
“Jesus and all the fucking saints,” I panted, flopping back to my bed, heart hammering in my chest. “You really need to figure your shit out, Kye.”
Right after an all-night binge of ice cream and old Doris Day movies. Screw sleeping. Who needed rest anyway? Not me. I was a fucking beast. Kye ‘The Terminator’ McLeod. I’ll be fucking back, baby. Just not back in bed because ex-fake girlfriends trying to claw your eyes out was scary shit.
I woke up on the couch, melted peanut brickle ice cream coating my belly. Blinking awake, neck aching from the odd angle my head was in, I pushed the empty ice cream container that had been lying sideways on my gut to the floor, rolled to my side, groaned as the bones in my neck grated, and stared at Doris having a gay old time romping with Rock. Little did we know that Rock enjoyed gay romping with non-Doris type people. I sighed heavily. Poor man. Locked into a closet by society’s miserable rules about who can/should love whom. As Lover Come Back ended, I lay there coated with brickle and asked myself why I was still lurking in that airless vacuum of a wardrobe. Coming out shouldn’t be this hard. I was done playing. Lots of retired athletes had done it. Why was I lying here in brickle pouting over my first love while Doris and Rock were being all cute in that rom-com sixties kind of way?
Maybe because you’re a coward.
“Hey, watch your mouth, me. I can still knock the stuffing out of me even if my knees are shit and my neck is stiff when it rains.”
Fuck you, loser ass coward hiding in tubs of brickle and Doris/Rock love.
I was sorely tempted to kick my own ass ala Jim Carrey in Liar, Liar. Maybe I should have watched some of his movies instead of two people falling in love movies. Perhaps a manic pet detective or a Rhode Island state trooper with a split personality would have been better choices.
The morning was a complete drag. Dunny was in a mood. The painting was almost completed in the kitchen, so I was setting up in the hall to work on that when I discovered a water stain hidden under a painting of a goose that hinted of a leaking pipe in the wall.
The temptation to use my head to knock a hole in the wall to peek at the pipe was strong. Then Dunny passed by, cane cracking the worn hardwood floors.
“Don’t even be thinking of taking me to them damn fireworks,” he tossed at me then disappeared into the kitchen.
Fireworks. Fuck me with a fiddle, tomorrow was the Fourth of July. I loved that holiday! Fireworks, beer, cookouts, music. The next county had an amazing display of fireworks that they set off over Killings Lake at sundown. Man, how long had it been since I’d been to the lake with my buddies?
Twenty years. It’s been twenty years. Moron.
“Ah sure, right.” Man I was sassy to myself of late. “Dunny, you sure you don’t want to go?” I shouted then poked at the brown spot on the wall. My finger went through the soggy plasterboard. “Sure, why not?” I sighed then hung the ugly goose painting back up.
“I’d sooner pour Clorox in my eyes. Bunch of drunken assholes.” Dunny slammed around the kitchen, pots rattling and glasses clinking. “Might better watch it on TV.”
“Okay, well if you change your mind, let me know because I’m going.”
“Like I care where you go? Just don’t get drunk and drive home. Last time you did that I had to go and haul your ass home from the lake.”
I snorted at the memory. Davy and I had bummed a ride to the lake for a party and proceeded to get shit-faced drunk. We’d been sixteen. When our ride left without us, we got mildly worried but were still slamming down beers. When we got lost wandering around the huge man-made lake, we grew a bit more worried but not enough to stop walking blindly through the woods singing Mott the Hoople songs. When we woke up on a boat with people we did not know but suspected were drug cartel due to the massive amounts of weed all over the place, we sailed right into panic mode. Dunny had come to get us, let us wash up and sleep our hangovers off in the second bedroom upstairs. Hell, Rose had baked us oatmeal and raisin muffins to help with our tender tummies when we’d returned to the land of the living that evening. Dunny, to my knowledge, had never ratted us out to my father who would have blown a gasket.
“I’ll keep my consumption to mature levels, no worries,” I informed him as a wistful mood settled on me.
“Mature hockey player level. Great,” Dunny loudly mumbled. “Don’t see no chance of making an ass of yourself with that high bar.”
I chuckled and dismissed his foolishness. Then I fished out my phone and began looking for a local plumber. With the holiday upon us, none could be lured out to the house until next week, so I booked one dude from the far side of the county and prayed for the pipes not to burst before the plumber could get here.
Dunny settled in for a nap after lunch, and I was out of paint, so I decided to make a trip to Alf’s Hardware and get more. I was halfway to town, slowing down near the hogback that makes a sharp turn by the Painter Swamp when I rolled up on a big green truck with the logo of the Maine Department of Fisheries and Wildlife on the door. There alongside the road stood the world’s sexiest game warden so being a kind native son of this great state, I pulled up behind the truck, got out of my car, and ambled up to Davy. He gave me a flat over-the-shoulder look.
“Having trouble?” I asked, hands in the pockets of my paint-speckled jeans. “I can give you a lift.”
“No trouble. Just getting ready to go investigate a possible crime scene.” He pulled a latex glove on then walked off, leaving me staring at his ass in those crisply pressed trousers. Still tight as a bongo drum those cheeks were. He climbed over the guardrail then disappeared
from view. I jogged over, threw a leg over then the next, and slid down the embankment to join him. The look I got could have incinerated concrete. “Get back up there and go along your way. This is game commission business.”
The wind shifted and the stink of decay blew into my face. I gagged and threw a hand over my nose and mouth. My gaze flew to the forty or so acre wetland area that trappers, hunters, and waterfowlers all loved. There were small open spaces deep in the wetlands, but those weren’t visible from here due to the thickness of the white cedar, yellow birch, and fir trees. Mosses coated many of the tree trunks. Ferns and feather mosses grew well under the tall trees. The ground varied from firm soil to peatlands to open waters rich with muskrat, beaver, and other wildlife. As kids we’d fished on the small ponds along the eastern side of the swamps, so I knew the area pretty well.
“I can help,” I said into my palm. He shook his head. “No, I can. I know the swamps as well as you do.”
“Kye, get your ass back up to your fancy car and move along. This is a possible crime scene, and I do not need some clumsy hockey player mucking up evidence.” He pointed up the rocky incline. I folded my arms over my chest. His plump lips flattened into the width of a dime. “Go. Now.”
“What if there are bad guys in there?” I threw a hand in the direction of the stinky swamp.
“I’ll handle them.”
“I can help.”
“Do you have training in basic law enforcement?” I shook my head. “Firearms training?” Another shake. “Search and seizure? Self-defense? Arrest procedures?”
“No, but I can throw a hell of a haymaker,” I countered with a winning smile.
Davy was not impressed. “Get the hell back up there and drive off. I mean it. Go.” He barked that last command. It was gruff and firm and turned me right the hell on. Back in the day Davy had been the meek one in our couple, and I’d been the burly aggressive one. Looked like he’d gotten some grit when he’d been handed that badge and gun. It worked well for him.
“Got any back-up coming? Hollywood maybe?” I winced internally at how petty that comment sounded. Davy’s one eyebrow rose.
“If you’re referring to Officer Petty, then yes, he is coming. Now, I am ordering you to leave this scene. If you don’t I do have the authority to arrest you.”
“Fuck, okay, man, I was just trying to be nice.”
“And I’m just trying to do my job. Go. Now. Before I get pissed off.”
He looked plenty pissed off already. “Fine, you and Officer Heartthrob have fun.”
I spun on my heel and climbed up the incline, going to my face more than once in the loose gravel and dirt. While scrambling to the top, I glanced up and there stood Officer Petty. Form-fitting uniform, the bright smile, the golden locks, the firm jaw, and the sparkling blue eyes.
“Hey there, need a hand?” Pretty Boy called down.
“No! I’ve been climbing up and down this bank since before you were born,” I ground out, pushing with my mighty skater legs to crest the top and leap over the guard rail. “I was down there helping my old friend Davy out.”
He smiled at me. Fucker damn near blinded me with his shiny teeth. “You mean Officer Aguirre?”
“Yes, Officer Aguirre. We go way back. Like way back.” I hoped that sounded as territorial as I had intended. Time to let this pup know that old Kye was staking his claim.
“Cool. Thanks for assisting but now I’m going to have to ask you to return to your vehicle while we go about gathering information.”
“What are we looking at down there?” I jerked a thumb at the swamp. A pickup truck sailed past, the driver honking. We both waved in reply.
“Possible multiple poaching violations. You live nearby?” My but he was polite. And blond. And young. So damn young. I wasn’t sure his testicles had dropped yet to be honest. How was he old enough to be a game warden? Didn’t they have to be twenty or something? This kid was lucky if he was fourteen. Christ. I shook my head. “Ah, well if you hear of anything that might have any impact on this case, please give us a call. Now, please move along.”
“Let’s be safe out there,” I joked and got a blank look. “That’s from Hill Street Blues. You know that show, right?”
“Never heard of it. Have a good day.” Officer Petty smiled sweetly then motioned to my car. I stalked off mumbling to myself like Dunny had not all that long ago. Great. I was now officially an old man. Stupid millennials.
Chapter Four
Killings Lake was packed when I arrived around four in the afternoon.
Boats trolled along the placid waters. The shore was wall to wall people, and the parking lot was crammed to the hilt with cars and booths from local businesses and organizations. A stage had been set up at the far end of the main parking lot and a bluegrass band was playing. I parked the Tesla as far away from all the door rammers and bikes as possible and walked down to the crowds. People I knew and plenty that I didn’t came up to me, looking for an autograph or a selfie. I was always happy to oblige the hockey fans. While I was talking to the wife of someone I’d gone to school with, my gaze flitted over the tents and booths, locking onto one manned by men in sexy game commission uniforms.
“Tell Craig I said hi and I hope his hernia surgery goes well,” I said to Ellen, gave her my most gracious smile, and slipped away, intent on reaching the game commission tent.
As soon as I grew closer I saw that Davy wasn’t one of the two wildlife officers manning the tent. Pretending to be interested, I picked up some brochures and looked over the stuffed beavers, bobcats, turkeys, and rabbits on display. Hollywood came over, smiled so brightly my corneas withered, and handed me a sticker.
“Nice to see you again,” Officer Petty said then folded his arms over his crisp uniform shirt. “You know I didn’t know who you were until David told me. I’m not much of a hockey fan. Nice to meet a big leaguer.”
He offered me his hand and I had to take it. Being polite is part of the hockey player’s code. Be polite, humble, and kind. Unless you were on the ice then you could whack guys with sticks. Hockey. It’s a game of gentle balance.
“Nice to meet you too…”
“Oh, Kirk. Figured David would have mentioned my name to you,” he said as we shook hands.
“Oh? Why would he?” The kid shrugged then got called away by an older game warden with thinning hair and a paunch. I wiggled around a gaggle of kids poking at the glass eyes of the beaver and leaned over the tables of stickers, pins, pens, and flyers to poke Kirk in the back. “Is he here?” I got a confused look. “Davy…is he here?”
“Oh! I think he’s coming a little later for the classic rock band at seven then staying for the fireworks. Did you need him for something? I can call him.”
Say what now? He could call him didn’t sound like a professional relationship. Was Davy on Kirk’s speed dial? Number one on the contacts list? Were they hooking up? If so, I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of winning Davy back. How could this beat-up, creaky body compare with the hot bod of a twenty-something twinky boy. Ugh.
I schlepped off to find the food booths and buried my depression in copious amounts of grilled sausage sandwiches, French fries, and cold beer. I found a small picnic table down by the lake that rested in the shade, and I dropped my weary ass to a bench, sipped on a tasty New England IPA from a nearby brewery. People came and went. Some stopping to talk hockey or catch up with the small-town boy who’d made it big. Sunset was about an hour away when Davy appeared out of the crowds of families picking spots for the firework display by throwing out blankets on the grassy shores or setting up lawn chairs. I’d gone back for another IPA not long ago, and so had the pleasure of seeing him stalking toward me in shorts, a tank top, and sandals. Fuck me Sally but the man was still the sexiest thing I had ever seen.
I lifted my plastic glass of beautifully blended hops and grains. The closer he got the angrier he looked. Well shit, what had I done now?
He sat down beside me with a huf
f of aggravation, tore off his sunglasses, and turned on the bench to glower at me.
“What the fuck did you say to Kirk?” I took a sip of beer, stalling because I had no clue as to what I might have said to Hollywood that would have twisted Davy’s shorts into such a knot. I was generally pretty affable and easy to get along—“Did you tell him that we go way back?”
Oh. That. I smiled crookedly. “Yeah, because we do. So what?”
“So what is how you said it. Kirk seemed to think that we had some sort of torrid affair going on. He said you were pretty damn emphatic on the way back part of your lie.”
“Okay, before you blow a ventricle or something, I never said anything about a torrid affair, but if I had it wouldn’t have been a lie. You popped my cherry and I popped yours. I remember the night well. You were spread out over a sleeping bag in Dunny’s tent, your legs on my shoulders, and you were begging for more dick in your ass. So, you know, that kind of fits torrid.”
The tendons in his tan neck stood out. Kids ran past with sparklers. The classic rock band was halfway through a ZZ Top song about tube snakes.
“How the fuck dare you insinuate there’s something between us?” he growled, his voice low to keep the fight out of the ears of innocents. “You walked away from me, this town, and any future we might have had. And now you come strolling back into town acting like you own the fucking county and start dropping not-so-subtle hints to my co-workers that we’re dating? Your ego knows no bounds.”
“Hey, just stop right there.” I slammed my glass to the top of the picnic table, not caring about the suds that slopped over the sides and wet my fingers. “My ego is not the issue here, mostly because it’s a tiny thing.”
“Not unlike your brain.”
