Wayward

by Gregory Ashe

  Nico was nibbling on the tank again, exposing the planes of his lean, hard stomach. “You mean, you did?”

  “What?”

  “You had to do this?”

  “Yeah. It’s a long story, but yes. I owed his dad something. I’d made a promise.”

  Nico dropped the sodden cotton again and frowned. “Why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, Emery. I know all your tells. Why are you lying?”

  “I’m not lying.” Hazard gritted his teeth; when Nico rolled one bare shoulder, Hazard spat out, “He was paying a debt too. But it was a totally different situation.”

  This time when Nico stood, he ran both hands through his mass of shaggy dark hair. And then he loomed over Hazard, hands on his hips, shaking his head.

  “This is why I pay a therapist a hundred and fifty dollars a week,” Nico said, stabbing a finger at Hazard. “This. You. All this Emery Hazard craziness.”

  Hazard tried to hold his gaze, broke, and looked at the ratty sneakers instead.

  “Fine,” Hazard said. “Fine. I know . . . I know it’s not rational. I know it’s not logical. I know it’s not even fair. I know he was in a bind, just like I was, and he agreed to this for the same reasons. I know all of that. I can talk myself through all those things, I can line it all up so it makes perfect sense. But it doesn’t help. There’s this part of me that’s furious with him; it’s kind of frightening how mad I am with him. It’s like my brain is stuck on repeat. I keep saying the same things. I keep thinking the same thoughts. And I don’t know how to turn it off.”

  “Yeah, well, you probably need about thirty years of therapy,” Nico said drily, and then he rapped lightly on the crown of Hazard’s head until Hazard growled and batted his hand away. “You want the thirty-second quick answer? You’re mad because you’re hurt.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you are. You expected him to tell his dad to fuck off. He didn’t. And you think that means he doesn’t value your relationship as much as you do.”

  “No. That’s a double standard. I know he was in a bind just like me. I would never . . .” He couldn’t finish, so he settled for adding weakly, “It’s totally irrational. It’s just in my head.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Nico said. “Know what? It hurts just as much as the real stuff.” Hazard glanced up in time to see a smile twist Nico’s lips. “I figured that part out myself, by the way.”

  Hazard kneaded the sofa cushion between his knees, his gaze dropping back to the floor, his eyes burning now.

  “I should go,” Nico said.

  Hazard nodded, unable to look up.

  “I guess I just made things worse,” Nico said.

  “No,” Hazard said thickly. “No, I needed to hear that. I just don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Well,” Nico said, “don’t do what I did.”

  The first line of tears spilled over, and Hazard had to wipe his face once, roughly. He opened his mouth to say something—goodnight, maybe. Or thank you.

  But the door that led out to the garage flew open, and Somers stood there, framed by the Mustang’s headlights for an instant before they flicked off.

  “Oh,” Nico said. “Uh. Hi, John-Henry.”

  “Nico.”

  “I was just leaving.”

  “Do that.”

  Nico’s steps moved toward the front door; his voice came back soft and low: “Night, Emery.”

  Hazard nodded and wiped his face again. Part of him knew what was coming, the lead up to another epic fight, the fury and pain that had been boiling under the surface for days breaking the thin crust of civility and spilling over. He wanted to stop it; he didn’t know how. Just the sound of Somers’s voice had turned up the heat, raising everything inside Hazard to a simmer. He knew it was irrational. He knew it was unfair. He just didn’t know how to stop hurting so much.

  So he wiped his face again, did his best to erase any trace of expression, and waited.

  Somers’s footsteps clipped as he came through the kitchen. When he stopped in front of Hazard, all Hazard could see were the designer jeans, the new running shoes.

  “So,” Somers said. “You invited Nico over for dinner. That’s nice.”

  “Just because Dulac is carrying tales doesn’t mean you have to act like a jealous little bitch.” Hazard heard himself, couldn’t put on the brakes. He looked up. “You’re the one who decided to move out.”

  Somers’s hair was even more mussed than usual; he’d thrown on a hoodie, zipped up halfway over his bare chest. Dark ink swirled across exposed muscle. He nodded slowly and then spoke.

  “I don’t want to hear you talk the rest of the night. You’ve been horrible to me. For days. You’re not being fair, and I’m tired of it. So I don’t want to hear you talk tonight. Nod if you understand me.”

  “Go home, John.”

  Hazard had barely gotten the words out before Somers was in his space, crowding him back onto the sofa, and then a hand tangled in Hazard’s long hair and tugged, forcing his head up and back. Exposing his throat. A submissive position. A vulnerable position. Hazard was suddenly aware of his pulse pounding in his carotid, of the stretch of tendon and muscle.

  “Do. Not. Talk. That’s simpler. Nod if you understand me.”

  Somers was hard, the bulge inches from Hazard’s face. And Hazard was hard too. Hard and furious and not sure if he wanted to fuck. Maybe he wanted to fight. Or fight first and then—

  “Nod, God damn it.” Somers shook him by the hair, and it went through Hazard like electricity. “Nod.”

  Hazard nodded; his breathing was shallow, his brain suddenly empty. He felt like he was floating an inch above his body.

  “Go upstairs. Get undressed. Wait for me.”

  Somers released him on the last word, turning the movement into a kind of shove, and then he stepped aside. Hazard got to his feet. Everything felt loose—joints and ligaments unknotted—and he felt awkward, gangly, the way he’d felt growing too tall too fast as a teenager. He moved toward the stairs, casting backward glances at Somers, but the blond man didn’t move except to tug down the zipper and shrug out of the hoodie, exposing the ink and muscle of his torso and arms.

  “Ree,” Somers called after him. “Don’t you fucking dare touch yourself.”

  Hazard didn’t recognize the emotion that was thick in his throat, the sound he made as he stumbled up the steps. He got to the bedroom. He stripped. He was so hard that he ached, and he hadn’t been thinking about jerking off before Somers’s words, but now all he could do was bunch the sheets in big handfuls and try to control his breathing.

  Footsteps moved through the old house. Then the sound of running water from the hall bathroom. The shower. Hazard wasn’t sure why, but Somers making him wait like this, taking a shower just to show that he could, only made it all hotter. He was leaking. The minutes that ticked by should have dulled the edge of the moment; instead, they whetted it until his legs were shaking.

  The shower turned off. The wet slap of footsteps came down the hall. Somers stepped into the room, his blond hair dark with water, the smell of Dove soap floating around him, every inch of him lean and taut and perfect. He was still hard too, Hazard thought with something like relief. He came across the room to stand at the foot of the bed. Then he raised an eyebrow.

  “Get on your hands and knees.”

  Face heating, Hazard did.

  “No, facing the wall.”

  Hazard shuffled around; the flush had moved into his chest, radiating through his back, his whole body prickling with humiliation and arousal.

  Somers moved closer and made a disappointed noise. Then he rummaged through the drawer where they kept the lube, and the mattress dipped under his weight. His legs bracketed Hazard’s, but that was the only part of them touching, and then his hands started moving, cold with lube, penetrating and scissoring with controlled, almost mechanic
al movements.

  “You’re always making such a fucking show of things,” Somers said as he worked. Hazard tried to pay attention, but his body was betraying him, responding to Somers’s nearly clinical touch with such a flood of arousal that Hazard knew it was only a matter of time before he moaned or gasped or otherwise gave himself away. “With Dulac. With everybody. This big fucking show about how you own me. You think you own me?” The fingers—more than one now—curled, and Hazard let out a low grunt, his toes clenching. “Oh yeah? You like that? Answer me. Nod or shake your head. You like that?”

  Tears prickled at the corners of Hazard’s eyes; he nodded, and then he grunted again and bucked as Somers repeated the movement.

  “You’re always doing it. Always marking your territory, always pissing, always measuring your dick. To show you own me. Is that it? Do you think you own me? Nod your fucking head if you think you own me.”

  Fingers curled and pressed; Hazard shouted this time, an “Oh fuck” that he tried to hold back and that escaped him anyway.

  “Nod your goddamn head,” Somers said, shouting over him. “Nod your fucking head.”

  Hazard was past the point of conversation. He understood, at some level, what Somers wanted: he wanted Hazard to nod his head, so he nodded. What that gesture meant, what any of it meant, was beyond him.

  “Yeah,” Somers growled. “You think you own me.”

  Somers withdrew his hands, and Hazard slumped forward, face in the pillows, shaking.

  “No,” Somers said. “Up.”

  He dragged on Hazard’s hair again, pulling him away from the mattress. Then the sound of lube slicked on flesh filled the room, and then Somers was pressing against him, breaching, entering.

  The fuck was slow, hard, and relentless. Somers took his time. He talked dirty through a lot of it, but whatever the words were supposed to mean, Hazard couldn’t have said. All he knew was the drag of pleasure interrupted by little constellations of white-hot intensity. He knew Somers was doing it on purpose—the angle, the speed, the rhythm—to keep Hazard from getting off on it. But he was getting off on it anyway. Never, in over a year together, had Somers ever taken him this way. Hazard had long since given up trying to control the moans and little yelps of pleasure that escaped him. He knew he was crying, knew he was hurting—emotionally, not physically—but it felt so good not to have to be in charge of his own pain for a few minutes.

  Something penetrated the fog of pleasure; words, insistence, a demand.

  “Who?” Somers grunted, the pace of his thrusts increasing. “Who do you belong to? Who do you fucking belong to? Who? Say it, God damn you. Say it.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He hauled on Hazard’s hair, dragging him up so that only his knees met the mattress. They were both upright, Hazard’s back pressed against Somers’s chest, sweat sticking them together. Somers drilled up into Hazard, holding Hazard tight against him, and this new angle changed everything.

  “Who?” Somers was shouting. “Who? Who do you fucking belong to?”

  Hazard didn’t know if he was trying to answer or trying to warn; he only managed to get one word out, a choked, “John.” And then he was coming, hands flailing, desperate to touch himself and still hearing Somers’s earlier command. For a moment, there was nothing, and then Hazard came back to a frenzied fuck, and Somers grunting, and then a wild sound in the blond man’s throat as he came and humped frantically into Hazard.

  Then it was over. Somers’s hand came free from Hazard’s hair, skated down his neck and across his shoulder, the touch cool against superheated flesh. Hazard sagged forward onto the mattress; Somers fell to lie next to him. Their breathing was syncopated, and then even their breathing evened out. Hazard became aware of the dull ache in his scalp, the wrung-out exhaustion that felt dangerously good, the smell of sex in the room. Through a missing slat in the blind, he could see night, a roofline, a streetlight.

  All of Hazard’s walls had crumbled. He needed to speak. He found himself thinking of how to tell Somers about all of it: the unfairness of his anger, his own regrets, the fear that Somers would see how much better his life was without Hazard in it.

  Springs creaked as Somers sat up, squirmed to the edge of the bed, and got to his feet. His footsteps moved down the hall, and the shower started again.

  Hazard put an arm over his eyes. Then he thought Somers might come back and see him like that, so he got into the master bathroom, started the shower, and faced into the spray. He ran a bar of soap around in blind circles, and he turned the water down by degrees until he had ice water in his blood. When he let go of the soap, his fingers had dimpled the bar along its sides.

  Toweling off, Hazard went back into the bedroom. Somers sat on the bed, lacing up his sneakers, already dressed. His hair was water dark again; a patch of his cheek and throat were still red from beard scratch.

  At the dresser, Hazard dug through clothes, lifting each t-shirt by a folded corner, then the next, then the next. When he hit bottom, he ran his thumb up the side as if they were a deck of cards, and then he started again.

  “I can’t stay,” Somers said. “Obviously.”

  Hazard nodded; he grabbed one of the tees at random, shook it out, and pulled it on. Underwear next. That was easier. He grabbed the first pair he touched. Then he started looking for shorts.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” Somers said.

  Hazard nodded again, grabbing a comfortable, well-worn pair of mesh shorts he liked to sleep in, pulling them on. How long did it take to put on a full suit of armor, Hazard wondered. That would be an easy Google search. Hell, he would have been happy with a Kevlar vest.

  “Goodnight,” Somers said as he moved toward the door.

  In the mirror over the dresser, Hazard watched him go. When Somers was in the doorway, Hazard asked, “John, are you ok?”

  Somers shook his head. “No.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  MARCH 29

  FRIDAY

  7:42 AM

  THE PHONE CALL CAME as Hazard was getting Evie ready for school. She wanted pigtails, and he was trying to learn from a YouTube video. betsy_braids1973, though, was being a fucking tease and stopping between every step to shill hair products and encourage Hazard to buy them through her affiliate link.

  Evie wasn’t in any rush; she was enjoying a huge bowl of cereal that was mostly marshmallows, sugar-coated puffs of grain, and artificial coloring. Somers had bought it for her.

  Hazard didn’t recognize the number, but that was common in his career; he answered.

  “You might not like it,” said a woman’s voice. “But you owe it to him. And to Dennis. And, for that matter, to me. It’s the least you can do.”

  Hazard adjusted the phone against his ear. “Mrs. Engels?

  “You’ve been screening calls. You’ve been avoiding him. I know you don’t want to do this. That doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to—”

  “Nine A.M., Mr. Hazard. Word of Life Cemetery. I assume you won’t get lost on your way here?”

  He let the question hang for a moment and then said, “No.”

  Margaret Engels disconnected the call, and Hazard went back to learning how to do pigtails.

  He didn’t get it perfect—it was a first try; normally, Somers took care of her hair—but he thought he’d managed well enough. By the time he’d had a bite of breakfast himself, changed into his only black suit, and gotten Evie loaded into the car, he was cutting things close. He got Evie to preschool, and then he drove across town to the Word of Life Cemetery, which was new, with all sorts of upgrades and updates: a columbarium, prefabricated mausoleums, a facility called the Living Memories building where videos about the dead who were interred at Word of Life played in a continuous loop like some kind of ghastly visitors’ center.

  Hazard found a parking spot and walked under the big oaks that had been spared when the cemetery was put in. The gra
ss was green and thick; the access roads and walking paths well kept. A few hundred yards away, people in black clustered around a coffin; Hazard thought he recognized members of the Van Sant clan. He steered wide around them and kept going. He didn’t need to look at a map. He didn’t need to ask anyone for the plot number.

  When Hazard got to Rory Engels’s gravesite, the gathering was small: Sheriff Dennis Engels and his wife Margaret. Mitchell Martin arrived a moment later, walking the same path Hazard had come. Mitchell looked better than he had in a long time; his color was better, and on that bright spring day, his fiery hair on top of that skinny frame made him look like a match that had just caught. Mitchell had been Hazard’s first paying client as a private investigator, and he had been taken by the same demented killer who had murdered Rory Engels and his boyfriend, Phil Camerata. Mitchell had survived—barely, with terrible injuries. Rory and Phil had not.

  Phil was buried outside of Columbia, a couple of hours’ drive. Hazard could have gotten there blindfolded.

  The sheriff was an older man, beefy, with a trim, white mustache and silver hair bright with pomade. He wore his khaki uniform and carried his hat under his arm. Margaret Engels was a whipcord, tall, with a shock of short pink hair. Rory had taken after her; that much was obvious at a first glance. Her face was hard and blank as she looked at the grave. She was wearing track pants and a quarter-zip top. Mitchell had on a nice sweater and chinos, but even he looked casual. Hazard felt his face heat. Dressing in a black suit like an asshole. Somers wouldn’t have made that mistake.

  At the gravesite, Hazard took his place, pulling the loose triangle into a square. The sheriff nodded at Hazard. Mitchell reached out and squeezed Hazard’s arm. Margaret stared at Hazard for twenty seconds before she looked away, her hand coming up to play with the zipper.

  “Thanks for coming,” the sheriff said to Hazard and Mitchell. “I know it would mean a lot to Rory. He’d have been twenty-four today.”

  Mitchell started to cry; he shuffled closer to Hazard, leaning against him, turning his face into Hazard’s shoulder. After a moment, Hazard patted his back.