by J. P. Oliver
And then we’d have sex. I tried to love him as tenderly as I could. Sometimes he made me wild, but I wanted to move as slowly as I could, to make sure I gave at least as much pleasure as I took.
I was so proud of him, though. His sweet blue eyes looked less haunted every day. He made silly jokes. He asked and answered questions. He initiated sex. He was doing well.
I’d considered, a couple of times, asking him about his past. As open as he was becoming for me, he’d slide around any topic touching his origin story. But our weekend had been so perfect, I couldn’t make myself do anything to hurt him, even temporarily, even if the pain was a healing pain. There will be time later, I thought. Or maybe, I thought in my braver moments, I can make him happy enough today that all his dark yesterdays won’t matter.
Tonto, I thought to myself in my squad car. Fool.
Something would have to be done. I’d have to crack the case, with or without Eli’s help. The past is never really the past.
Eli had given me some useful information, though. He’d called me on Sunday night, during my desolate drive back to Denver. Ace was almost moved out. “Maybe a week,” Eli had said. “I’ll text you his landlady’s number. Give her a call. And,” he’d continued after a pause, a thoughtful, teasing pause, “one of my guys just told me he’ll be retiring by summer. We might have a spot for another good cop in little ol’ Harlan.”
The news had buoyed my spirits, at least a little. Beck was in my rearview mirror, but the road back to him was growing smoother.
I wondered, as I parked my car, if I was being stupid. If I was moving too fast, expecting too much. But before I’d gotten out of Beck’s tiny bed for the last time to dress and drive back to Denver, he’d asked me, with downcast eyes and ruddy cheeks, if we were boyfriends.
“Ask me again, Beck. Fuerte.”
He did, my brave little angel. He searched my face and wetted his lips, and asked, “Are we boyfriends now?”
I’d laughed with pleasure and pride, then drowned him with kisses, and told him yes.
“Remember, mi tesoro? I am here for you, as long as you want me. Even when I leave, I am here,” I touched his naked chest, over his beating heart, “and you are here,” I took his hand, flat-palmed, and placed it over my heart, “and I will come back to you.”
“I’m here for you, too,” he’d whispered, and getting out of his bed became the hardest thing I’d ever done.
The memories of Beck helped salve my irritation with my uselessness on my last call of the night, but I was still eager to wrap up my paperwork, go home, shower, and call my man. I walked briskly toward the glass doors of the station, head down, gravel crunching under my feet.
“Papacito!”
I froze. That voice, that tone—somehow finding the perfect combination of pleading and commanding—stopped me. I squeezed my eyes shut; counted uno, dos, tres as I inhaled and exhaled, then turned to face my ex.
Slim. A little shorter than I. Sculpted blond hair and curious green eyes. His smile managed to look both shy and slutty as he walked toward me. Under his tailored gray suit, I knew there was a tight, wiry body with pale skin begging to be bruised.
He was a beautiful man, but after the last several months—the increasingly dangerous demands in bed, the exhausting emotional carnage of our breakup, and his refusal to stop-calling-stop-texting-stop-showing-up-at-my-house—I couldn’t see anything attractive about him.
“Noah.”
He approached, gravel crunching under his shoes, too, for all they’d probably cost three hundred dollars or more.
“How are you?”
“I’m tired, Noah. What can I do for you?”
He looked like I’d slapped him. No. When I slapped him, he writhed and grinned and pleaded for more. Tonight, he stopped in his tracks, a few feet away from me, looking like a wounded doe. He opened his mouth and almost spoke, then closed it, then tried again.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Jamie. But I…I need help. Papí, I’m scared.”
I couldn’t help feeling a little tug at my heart, but I stood firm.
“Scared of what?”
“There’s a man.” He looked down, and again, I felt the tug. But I knew Noah was good at performing whatever emotion he needed to. “I met a man on Grindr.” He looked up at me then. “You’re not upset, are you?”
“I broke up with you, Noah. Before Halloween. I’m not upset.”
He flinched again, but went on, a bit of an edge to his voice. “I met a man and we…hooked up. You know. A few times. He’s…we’re into the same kind of stuff, you know?”
I knew too well. Things that felt a little dangerous, but also exciting. Fantasies that edged right up to the limits of my comfort level. But also fantasies that avalanched past it. Things that worried me. Frightened me.
“Yes,” was all I said.
“It was…” He shrugged, looking sad and lost and needy. “It was fun, for a while. But then things got…intense.”
“Too intense for you?” There was a tone in my voice that I didn’t like, and I silently chastised myself for it. For all he’d put me through, attacking him wasn’t helpful.
His eyes flared briefly. “Yes, Jamie. Even for me.” A long pause. “Sometimes I wonder what you must think of me. What a piece of trash you must think I am.”
“Things got intense with this guy,” I said, not taking the bait.
“Things got intense,” he repeated, his tone clipped. “So I called it off. It was never meant to be serious, so I thought I could ghost him. But he kept contacting me, and…I don’t know. It got scary. He wasn’t being rational.”
So now you know how it feels, I thought. I said nothing.
“I haven’t heard from him since Friday, and I started to relax. Breathe again, you know? But today, when I got home from work, there was a car with tinted windows parked across the street. I didn’t recognize the car but…but it didn’t look like it belonged in my neighborhood, you know?”
He meant the car looked like it cost less than a small house in the suburbs. I nodded.
“Well, I got scared, but I also thought maybe I was being stupid. I went inside. But as soon as I locked the door behind me, I got a call. A blocked number. I ignored it, poured a drink, you know? But then I got another call. Then another. Nine total, in less than two hours. I was scared, Jamie.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No. I was panicked. I was paralyzed.”
“But you’re here now.”
“I turned off my phone. And around ten, the car pulled away, without its lights on. I was watching from my bedroom window. Once he was gone, I came right down to the station.”
“And waited for me?”
He swallowed. “You know me. You know…things about me. Things I couldn’t tell just any cop, you know? I’m a lawyer. I don’t know when I’ll have to cross-examine one of you. I…I’m scared, papacito. Scared of this man, but also scared to just…blurt out how we met. How he knows me.”
“Please, Noah. Don’t call me that.”
He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Jamie. Of course you’re focusing on what I’m doing, not how to help me.”
“File a restraining order. You’re a lawyer, remember?”
“I have. Or, I will, first thing tomorrow. But you know people violate those things all the time. Someone who’s truly obsessed isn’t going to let a piece of paper stop him.”
I fought a smirk. I’d never gone so far as to take legal action against Noah, but aside from that, he was describing himself again.
“What I need,” he continued, then paused. Suddenly he was next to me, his hand on my chest, looking up into my face with his big green eyes. “Jamie, spend the night with me. We don’t have to do anything. I’ll sleep in the guest room. But just…can you protect me? Until I figure out what to do?”
I grabbed his wrist, probably harder than I should have, and removed his hand from my body, then stepped back.
“No.”
“Jamie, please? I’m scared.”
“See over there?” I pointed toward the precinct house. “There’s a building full of cops. If you need protection, go in there and ask. They probably won’t do anything unless they really believe there’s a threat, but I find it a little hard to swallow you haven’t done anything before now if you are frightened. You’re a lot of things, Noah, but you’re not stupid and you’re not shy about taking care of yourself.”
“Jamie, I’m scared for my fucking life.”
“Check into a hotel for a few days. File a restraining order in the morning. You know how this works better than I do.”
“Fucking bastard.” His voice was low, but harsh. Dangerous. “Big fucking Officer Jamie Fucking Flores, protector of the people. Breaking his goddamn neck to save everyone in the world but me. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
“Noah—”
“No. Fuck you, Jamie. You’ve never taken me seriously. You used me, and when you got sick of me you threw me away. You’re probably hoping this fucking psycho finds me and slits my throat.”
“Noah,” I said, louder, risking contact and putting my hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me. Carefully. We started this conversation with me telling you I’m tired. I don’t have a fight in me right now. But there’s nothing I can do for you officially, and there’s nothing I will do unofficially. You passed the bar, man. You’ve worked with cops for thirteen years. You know how all this works.”
“You’re a fucking monster, Jamie. Everyone thinks you’re a hero, but you’re a fucking monster.”
“Noah,” I said, feeling my blood finally boil, “you’re acting out. You think if you’re bratty enough, I’ll discipline you, and give into you. Like always.” I sighed, fighting for calm. “I don’t know what’s going on with your stalker, but I don’t buy it. You’re not acting like the Noah I know, and you haven’t given me much reason to trust you.”
He slapped me. Hard. Across the cheek. Instinctively, I balled my fists, but managed to fight my impulse.
He must have seen something in me. He stepped back, looking even more scared than he had a moment before. “I’m sorry, Jamie. Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry.”
I took another second to sort through my emotions. Finally, I said, “Be careful, Noah. I’m on duty. I’d hate to make you safe by sticking you in a cell. Now, go home. Or to a hotel. Or wherever. Just go away.”
I started walking away, toward the blessed light of the station.
“Jesus, Jamie, I said I’m sorry. Please. Please protect me.”
I walked. I put my hand on the door.
“Something bad is going to happen, Flores. Something bad is going to happen, and then you’ll be sorry!”
And then the door closed behind me, and there was quiet.
15
Beck
At first, things were nice. Not perfect, maybe, but better than they’d ever been.
They would have been perfect if Jamie hadn’t been so tired. We’d get up before 5:00 a.m., and get ready together. He’d drop me off at work before 6:00, and I’d let myself in through the stockroom door and wait for the day to start. Jamie would drive to Denver.
After my shift I’d go back up to my apartment, which I now thought of as my old apartment, and wait. Sometimes I’d nap a little, so I could be alert in the evenings.
Jamie would pick me up outside the Sit and Sip, usually around 7:00 p.m. He’d requested day shifts, and so far he’d been getting them.
We’d go to his place, his new place, just a couple of miles north of downtown Harlan.
Sometimes he was too tired to talk much, and he was often too tired to have sex. On nights like that, I’d do my best to take care of him. I’d cook for him. I’d rub his neck or shoulders when he was sore from driving. I’d sit on the couch and stroke his hair while he told me about his day, or I told him about mine.
I told him he didn’t have to come back to Harlan every night, that the weekends were enough. I felt a little guilty that he spent so much of his life at work or on the road, just to spend a few waking hours with me at night. But sleeping with him beside me, his big hand on my chest or hip—I don’t know. I’d never felt safer. I’d never gone so long without bad dreams.
“No, mi tesoro. I am here for you, ¿recuerdas? As long as you want me. You still want me, don’t you?”
I think he was teasing when he asked that. I’d never wanted something so much.
My toothbrush hung in the bathroom next to his. I had space in his closet. Every so often, he’d bring me books, and I had my own little bookshelf in the living room. (Although when he was with me, I never felt like reading. I’d store them at his—at our place—and take them by ones or twos to my old apartment and read them while I waited for him to come to me.)
And sometimes during the week, and always on the weekends—a lot on the weekends—we’d have sex.
I didn’t let myself call it making love. I think making love must feel a lot like what we were doing, but it almost felt like calling it that might jinx it.
It was strange, living in two places. And it was hard, seeing him tired so often. But mostly, things felt safe. Safe and good.
But then, after we’d been sort-of-living-together for three weeks, the phone calls started.
We’d be eating, or cuddling, or having sex, and Jamie’s phone would ring.
He’d look at it, and frown, and answer it. No one would answer back.
After a day or two, he stopped answering them.
I asked him what was going on, and he tried to laugh about it. “A prank,” he said. “Or a wrong number.”
I worried anyway. Maybe it was a bad person, a criminal he arrested.
He’d shrugged. “Maybe, but don’t worry, mi ángel. Gato maulador, pobre cazador.”
I’d asked him what that meant.
“Something my abuela taught me. A yowling cat makes a poor hunter. If someone wanted to hurt me, they’d hurt me. They wouldn’t waste their time calling me if they had nothing to say.”
I still worried, though. And I could tell he did, too.
The next day, his phone stopped ringing.
I waited till he was in the shower. I snuck into the bedroom and took his phone out of his pocket. He’d put it on airplane mode.
We went to bed after that, and I waited till I could feel his heartbeat slow and the rhythm of his breathing was deep and gentle.
I disentangled myself from him and crept to his clothes. I took his phone again.
I felt bad for sneaking, for violating his trust. But I couldn’t talk to him about it. He knew I was worried, but not how much. I couldn’t put that on him, not with him so tired, and fighting so hard not to let me know he was worried, too.
I couldn’t ask him for more than he was already giving me.
I went into the laundry room, the farthest point in the house from my sleeping boyfriend. I closed the door behind me. I sat down on the floor, my back to a wall, and turned off airplane mode.
Within seconds, notifications began coming in. A text from his sister, and another from his friend Eli Mack. I didn’t read those. But there were also calls. Seven of them. From an unknown number.
I set the phone down in front of me. I felt a panic attack coming. By now, I knew how to ride them out. I grabbed a towel, clean but not yet folded, from a laundry basket and clutched the fabric, concentrating on the textures.
The tension started to pass.
And then the phone rang. I yipped, startled, staring at it like a rearing cobra.
It rang again. A third time.
I reached out for it. I touched it. It didn’t bite me.
I took the call. I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
My voice sounded weak, even to me. Stupid boy.
There was a gasp, then a pause. The line went dead.
I sat there for a long time, playing with my towel, kneading it in my fists.
The phone didn’t ring again.
I
turned airplane mode back on, and went to bed. As I lay next to Jamie, I felt guilt start to seep in, even as my panic ebbed.
You touched his phone.
He’d see, maybe. All those messages that had come through when I’d turned it on. And then he’d ask me, maybe. I thought about going back through his pocket, deleting everything, even the text from his sister.
Do it. He’ll think you don’t trust him.
No.
He’s going to be so mad.
No.
You stupid, stupid boy.
I shifted, almost getting up. Jamie had never been mad at me, and I didn’t want to see what he’d be like if he was.
But deleting the messages wouldn’t be fuerte, wouldn’t be valiente. I’d done wrong, but I didn’t have to do worse.
Maybe he’d think his phone messed up. Or just that he’d been tired. He was tired a lot. Maybe he wouldn’t ask.
If he did, I’d tell him. But if he didn’t…
That wasn’t the same as lying to him. Not exactly. If it were lying, I should be mad at him for not telling me the calls were still coming, but I wasn’t. He hadn’t told me because he didn’t want me to worry. I was sure of that.
If he knew I knew about the calls, he would worry. He’d be sad. Maybe he’d be embarrassed that he hadn’t told me.
It could just be a secret. A little one. That would be okay, right?
I didn’t feel entirely good about not telling him, but I didn’t feel bad, either. It seemed like the best option I had, anyway.
I pushed my body up against Jamie’s and felt his weight and warmth. I was tired. I closed my eyes and tried to match my breathing to his.
I had almost fallen asleep when the alarm on my phone went off.
...
And then the calls started coming in at work. I didn’t know it for a while, because I never answered the phone. But I heard Gavin complaining to Jay about it one day at lunch.
“A couple times an hour, sometimes. Just these random phone calls, and then when I answer it, they hang up on me. At first I thought something was wrong with our line, but…” He shrugged.
