Page 27

The day was so hot I felt like the car was floating as I drove. The steering wheel was greasy under one hand. My other hand held the photo, taken from the body count wall. I had it between two fingers, barely any pressure at all. I didn’t want to crumple it. I couldn’t crumple it. But I also had the strangest thought that if I let it go, it would disappear in a puff of smoke.

Darnell and Tip.

Sun flashed on glass and chrome, and I had to close my eyes for a moment. That was worse, though; it felt like the world was sliding out from under me. My eyes snapped open, but the car was still in its lane. Nothing had changed. It was so bright outside.

Some residual section of my brain told me to call it in. I had to use the steering wheel controls because I didn’t trust myself to let go of the photo and take out my phone, but after navigating through the car’s Bluetooth system, I managed. The phone rang on the car’s speakers.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Red Alvin said. “That asshole Sunny Sharp called and filed an official complaint about you. The sheriff’s thinking about having someone pick you up.”

“Jordan Hodge just confessed to assaulting Tip.”

The hum of the tires measured out the silence.

“What?” Red asked.

“You should probably go pick him up and get him to do it again, properly this time.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Red Alvin’s volume rose. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“He didn’t kill Tip. Go easy on him.”

“Go easy on him? Get your ass over to the sheriff’s station right now, and you’d better pray to God I don’t book you on interference—”

I disconnected. It’s just one button, and it’s right by your thumb.

Darnell and Tip.

Darnell and Tip. In our house. In our bed.

The phone rang, but I used that same little button to send it to voicemail.

My brain played out its own, home-theater version of what must have happened. Tip had shown up at the house looking for me. Darnell had answered the door. Cue the pretty little twink—no, the pretty little damaged twink. The little twink who just needed to talk to someone. Who just needed someone who understood. Who just needed to be saved. It was like I could see every single moment of it. Darnell sitting with him on the sofa, patting his back as Tip cried. And Darnell making tea or some shit like that. And then, oops, my dick went up your ass by accident.

And that little faggot had taken a picture of them in bed together. In our bed. In our house.

By the time I pulled into the driveway, the air conditioning was going full blast. It was arctic. My face had a strangely pleasant ache. My eyes were so dry they burned. I sat there, the car running, still floating. And then it was like everything fell into place—the jumble of rage and hurt and confusion clicked together like one big jigsaw puzzle. And I was fine.

I turned off the car. I got out. I went into the house through the back, like I always did.

All the lights were on. Coffee on the warming plate—long enough that it was starting to smell the faintest bit burned. From the front of the house came Darnell’s voice. His office. He was on a work call; I could tell by the familiar cadence.

In my room, I changed. A cute pair of nylon booty shorts that were barely long enough to cover my ass. No underwear, obvs. A super slutty tank. I checked my hair in the mirror. And then I padded down the hall.

“All right,” Darnell was saying. The door to his office was ajar. “Why don’t we jump to Robin next?”

I stepped inside. I hadn’t been consulted on the layout of the room, but it was perfect: Darnell had set up his desk so that it faced the door. He spotted me over the top of his monitor, and his eyes widened in a way that was still—even after everything—absurdly gratifying. Isn’t that what we all want, I thought as I smirked at him. To be seen. And, when we’re seen, to be wanted. I put a finger to my lips as I crossed the room.

He must have muted himself because he said, “What’s up? I’m on a call.”

I shook my head. Then I got onto my hands and knees and crawled under the desk, pushing my way through the kneehole. Darnell was a big guy, and he hadn’t left me a lot of space, but I made it work.

“Gray,” he whispered.

He was wearing jeans I’d bought for him. They looked good on him. Made his legs look good. I ran my hands along his shins. I cupped his knees. And then I rubbed higher, my thumbs dragging against the inside of his thighs.

“Gray,” he whispered. “Knock it off.”

“If you’re on mute,” I said, “you don’t have to whisper.”

“This is an—this is an important call!”

His dick was already starting to harden when I touched him. I worked his zipper down, and he grabbed my hand in one of his own.

“This isn’t funny.” He squeezed my fingers—not quite enough to hurt, but trying to send a message. “I’m telling you I’m uncomfortable—”

I wrenched my hand free and reached through his fly. His dick was stiff now, and it took some finessing to work it out of his jeans, Darnell alternating between labored breathing and hissing the whole time. That was the thing about Darnell: you had to keep pushing and pushing until you got to the place where he wouldn’t give any more. He wanted you to. He liked it.

He had a nice dick. Not huge, but a decent length. Cut. Fat. He tasted salty and slightly musky when I took the head in my mouth. I closed my lips around him and let my tongue go to work.

“I’m sorry,” Darnell said; to me, he sounded strangled. “I’ve got to jump off this call. I’m really not feeling well.”

Some frantic clicking followed, and then he said, “Gray, stop. Gray! Gray, that was a big meeting—”

I pulled off with a pop and ran his dick along my cheek. I hadn’t shaved that day; I didn’t have much of a beard, but he whimpered at the contact with my faint stubble. I buried my nose in his bush and drew in a deep breath. His hand came to rest on the back of my neck, fingers digging into muscle, and then he pulled me back and thrust into my mouth. He grunted with satisfaction. He shifted his grip to my hair and began dragging me back and forth. His own personal jack-off toy. A little fuck doll. The Halloween edition, I thought and almost laughed again. With the bloody eye and the scars.

His sounds of pleasure changed, deepened. He began to thrust into my mouth. His dick hardened even more.

I pulled off again, ignoring the discomfort as his fingers tightened in my hair. My voice sounded wrecked, just the way he liked it, when I said, “I want you to fuck me.”

He was flushed, and sweat dappled his forehead. “You interrupted my meeting.”

I ran his dick along my cheek again, kissing lightly at the shaft.

He moaned, “Gray.”

Twisting free of his grip, I backed out from under the desk. It wasn’t until I stood that I realized I was hard too. Hard, and leaking, a wet spot showing against the thin nylon of the shorts. My balls ached like I was backed up, like I hadn’t come in—in forever, maybe. He had fucked him in our bed. In our house. I smiled as I touched myself through the shorts and backed toward the door.

“I’ve got to work,” Darnell said.

“We’ll be quick.”

“I need to get back on that call and apologize.”

“That’s not what your dick thinks.” Somehow, I kept the smile on my face. “This can count as our check-in. It’s basically homework. You don’t even have to enjoy it.”

Darnell gave me a look, but he was already getting up from his chair. As he came around the desk, he tugged his polo over his head and let it fall on the floor. He was a big guy. Strong, but with a nice, soft bod that was great for cuddling. Hairy arms. Hairy chest. Even a little hair on his shoulders. I let him catch me at the door. He ran his fingers under the straps of my tank and tugged me closer, and then his hands moved down, following my arms, slipping around to my back, cupping my ass through the tiny booty shorts. He’d always loved my body. Even now, after everything else, the old, familiar rush of having him touch and look and want made it hard to keep my head straight.

“Why are you being so naughty?” he asked huskily as he bent to kiss me.

He kissed me on the jaw next, then on the side of my neck. His beard scratched pleasantly at bare skin as he slid my shorts down. The fabric pulled tight against my dick in a way that hurt, but it was pleasant too . His dick was still hard and rubbing against my bare thigh. He followed my crack with one finger and toyed with my hole. After a moment, his other hand came around and freed my trapped dick. He held it loosely, his thumb playing with the slit, as he kissed along my collarbone.

I shuddered and let out an unsteady breath. Then I grabbed his arms and pulled him into the hall, toward our bedroom. He came with me, chuckling at our uncoordinated movements—me because I had a hand on my dick and my shorts halfway down my thighs, and him because I was dragging him with me.

In the bedroom, I dropped onto my knees again and undid the button of his waistband. I yanked his jeans and boxers down until they puddled around his ankles, and then I leaned in again, pressing my nose up under his dick, lapping at his balls. When I tried to take him in my mouth again, he stopped me.

“Slow down, sweetheart.”

I shook my head. “Take these off.” I got his foot up and slid the jeans and boxers free. Then I repeated the process. I tried to swallow him again, but he was still trying to stop me, so I licked the tip and gave him a push toward the bed. “Lie down.”

“I already dropped out of the call. We don’t have to rush.” He ran his hands over my shoulders and played with the tank’s straps again. “I miss spending time with you.”

After a deep breath, I managed to say, “I know. I just want you really bad right now.” I took another breath; the taste of his dick lingered in my mouth. “I need you. Lie down.”

He let me nudge him toward the bed, and while he made himself comfortable—propping himself up on the pillows, lacing his fingers behind his head—I grabbed the lube. It was where it always was. Where it had been the last time we’d used it, however long ago that had been. I wondered if this was what he’d used with Tip, but I couldn’t remember how much had been left. Maybe the little faggot had come greased for action. Or maybe he liked it rough.

I climbed up to straddle Darnell, warming lube in my hand.

“Come here,” he said in that rumbly whisper. “I want to kiss you.”

If I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure what would come out, so I shook my head. I wrapped a hand around his dick, stroking him as I lubed him up. I swiped a little more around my hole.

“Come here, sweetie.”

I scooted backward and lowered myself onto his dick. I was going too fast, and I was still tender from Sunny; the stretch and burn were more intense than I usually liked. Right then, though, I wanted it. I dropped down onto his dick, and the pain went through my head like a red wave. I heard myself make a noise.

“You okay? Here, ease up—”

But I shook my head again and settled with him fully inside me. I was flushed. My chest was pink, and I could feel my heartbeat in my face. Darnell was saying something, but I couldn’t process the words. He ran one hand over my belly. I thought he was telling me it was okay.

By moments and by degrees, my body relaxed. Then I started to move. At first, I thought the rawness and the sensitivity were going to be too much. But when I shifted position and he started to hammer my bitch switch, I moaned. I heard myself as though from a distance and thought, I sound like a real whore. And then, even more clearly, I guess he likes that.

He did like it, because he gripped my hips so tightly that his fingers bit into my flesh, and once he could tell I was really going, he started to move with me—thrusting up and pulling me down hard, coordinating our movements so that it felt like my body was one raw nerve being pounded over and over again.

His color was high, and even though he wasn’t doing most of the work, he was sweating. He muttered, “Oh shit,” and his fingers tightened on my hips.

I squeezed around him as tightly as I could, and I rose and fell faster. He rolled his head back. I saw his O-face. I wondered if Tip had seen it too.

Then it was over, and he was blinking rapidly, huffing for breath. He was trying to keep going like a good little soldier, but I stopped moving and settled down on him again. I was surprised my dick was hard, but I guess he was being a good little soldier too. I hadn’t expected to come. That was kind of a bonus.

I jerked myself off and came on his belly—a shallow pool that spilled to roll down his side and onto the bedding. I was breathing hard. I could smell my own sweat now and the reek of our sex, and pinpricks ran across my chest and face.

When I got off him, I couldn’t help a wince and a soft sound.

Darnell steadied me, hands still on my hips. “Are you okay?”

I nodded.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

I shook my head.

“We were both so revved up.”

I was suddenly tired. So much for post-nut clarity; this was post-nut exhaustion. I was more tired than I’d ever been, and instead of my original plan, I found myself lying down, letting Darnell pull me against him. He was sticky with sweat, and my load was already cooling. He rubbed my belly a few more times, and then he pulled me even more tightly against him.

“I miss you,” he whispered, and I could hear in his voice that he was on that sleepy edge that came for so many guys after a fuck.

I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to say anything.

Sleep washed in and out like a dark tide, and I lay there with the painstaking clarity that came, as I’d learned this last year, during the midnight hours—the unreal sense of being hyperawake, even as I drifted and dozed.

What are you doing, I asked myself. What do you think you’re doing?

Something stupid.

And then I really did sleep. I knew, because the nightmare was an old one. At one point in my life, not so long ago, I thought I’d finally outgrown it.

The kitchen floor was filthy under my cheek, dust and crumbs sticking to my face. He didn’t care about that, thank God, or it would have been one more thing for them to fight about, because neither did she. She was screaming now. And broken up between those screams were his shouts, and the sound of flesh slapping flesh. For a disorienting moment, I wondered, Why isn’t the radio on? They always turn the radio on when they fuck.

His steps came back. He stood over me. My eyes were open, and I could see his boots, his jeans, everything from Kmart. Kmart Kid. Jalen McDowell had started that in fifth grade. But I wasn’t in fifth grade anymore. The thought was muzzy. I was in high school. Nobody had called me Kmart Kid for a long time.

He was shouting down at me. “No son of mine—”

Then he kicked me, knocking the wind out of me, and I couldn’t hear the rest.

She was screaming at him. And he was screaming back. The crack of another blow. She stumbled. The table skittered. One of the microwave dinners we’d been eating flipped onto the floor. It was one of the Michelina’s. Cannelloni. The red sauce splattered across the floor in a widening stain. She was still screaming, and these weren’t the screams I was used to. These weren’t routine. These weren’t part of the script. But we’d all been off script tonight. It had all gone off script the minute I’d said, I need to tell you something.

A shockingly loud clap rang out in the kitchen, and then she wasn’t screaming anymore.

She needs you.

I started to push myself up. I planted one hand in the sauce. But it was cold, slightly sticky. And it was too far from the dinner that had fallen. I smelled something metallic. Coppery. My hand slipped out from under me, and I hit the floor again.

She needs you.

Somehow, I got my hands under me again.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he said.

I drew my knees under me.

“Stay down!”

The blow cracked against the side of my head. The world went one way, and I went another.

Shuffling movement. The table jarring again. A glass rolled, fell, broke against the linoleum.

I raised my head, but something was in my eyes.

She needs you.

I found the table with one hand.

This time, he sounded exasperated. Almost like he didn’t believe it. “What the fuck did I just tell you? Stay the fuck down.”

The kick caught me under the ribs, driving the breath from me again. I felt something flex in a way it was never meant to flex. And then I felt it snap, and the pain was like someone sticking a knife in my side. I didn’t even remember hitting the floor. But the glass pricked at my bare arms and legs. It was summer. I’d thought, later, I’d be going out.

“I’ll deal with you in a minute, you little faggot.”

Steps moved away again. And another sound. One I couldn’t let myself visualize because just the sound itself was too horrible: the whisper of something soft and heavy being dragged across the floor.

Their door slammed shut.

The radio came on.

It was The Clash. “Should I Stay or Should I Go.”

I was fifteen, and every breath was like someone twisting that knife in my side.

The glass bit into me as I dragged myself to my hands and knees. I crawled until I got to the counter. Then I used one of the cabinet doors to drag myself upright. I still couldn’t see very well. From the bedroom came the unmistakable crack of the belt, audible even over the radio. The silence—or what felt like silence—between the blows was a kind of punctuation. We’d had to do a review of that last year. A comma means a pause. A period means a full stop.

She needs you.

We kept the broom in the cramped pantry, not that anybody ever used it. Somehow, even with my hands shaking, I got the door open. I found the broom. I had to lean on it like a cane, the bristles giving every time I put my full weight on it. That knife in my side got sharper and sharper as I limped down the hall. Their door was shut. And the radio got louder and louder.

I woke with a start, covered in a flop sweat, my heart racing as I gulped down air. For a moment, I only knew that I was trapped, that something held me. Arms grabbing me. Stopping me. Stay down . I fought my way free.

Then Darnell made a sleep-soft noise, and I remembered.

“Sorry,” I said thickly. I patted his arm. “Bathroom.”

He settled back again, his breathing already evening out.

In the dark, with the door shut, I splashed water on my face and then stood there, dripping over the sink, shaking. It had been a long time. It was a dream. It always ended that way. In real life, I reminded myself, I’d just about knocked his fucking block off with that broom. Put him in the hospital. He’d told everybody he’d gotten jumped, and the doctors and nurses had taken one look at me and Mom and known. The police had known too. One of them, an older guy with a handlebar mustache, had pulled me aside and said if it happened again, to give him a call. Not 911, he said. Him. But it hadn’t happened again. He’d never touched either of us again. And it was just a dream.

I stood there for a long time, eyes squeezed shut, hands clutching the vanity so hard my hands hurt.

Eventually, I pried myself free and showered. I dressed in my room; I couldn’t stand the thought of going back to the tank and shorts. I carried the photograph and my vape out to the patio, and I sat and vaped. A cricket chirped steadily toward the back of the lot, and a breeze rose and fell, stirring the soupy summer air. I pinned the photo to the wrought-iron table with one finger.

Ten minutes later—maybe fifteen—the door opened, and Darnell emerged from the house. He’d pulled on a T-shirt and his boxers, and he looked the way he did Saturday mornings. The way he used to. Hair sticking up in back. Eyes still sleepy. He was scratching his side as he looked around, squinting against the day’s brightness.

“What’re you doing out here?” he asked.

I hit my vape and raised my eyebrows.

In a tone straddling serious and playful, he said, “Uh oh. Are you going to put that in your log?”

“Maybe,” I said and hit the vape again.

He took one of the chairs. He still hadn’t noticed the photograph. Plucking at his shirt, he glanced around again. “It’s hot.”

The cricket sounded louder. More insistent. Frantic.

Darnell leaned back in the chair, and the metal frame squeaked. “Do you want to go inside? I’m starting to sweat.” And then: “What’s that?”

I pushed the photo across the table to him, but I kept my finger on it so it wouldn’t blow away. The confusion on his face changed to surprise. And then color rose under his beard. He leaned back again, arms folded across his chest, and finally managed to look me in the eye.

“You want to say anything?” I asked.

“Not really.”

That made me smile. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” But he spoiled it by adding, “We’re in an open relationship, Gray. We agreed to be in an open relationship. And we agreed that we weren’t going to ask each other questions.”

I set down my vape and angled my chair to face him. The sound of the metal scraping across the concrete raised the hair on the back of my neck.

“How did you get this?” Darnell asked. “Do you have cameras in my room? Because that’s really invasive. That’s not okay. Maybe we should revisit this whole idea of an open relationship—”

“You fucked a boy who was found dead in this house.” I didn’t shout. I didn’t raise my voice. Darnell cut his eyes away. “Fuck agreements. Fuck rules. You didn’t think you needed to tell me?”

It took him longer this time to strike the right note. “No. It was one time. And it was a mistake—I knew it was a mistake.”

“You’re goddamn right it was a mistake.”

“I don’t appreciate that tone—”

“You are a suspect.” In the wake of the words, the afternoon had a hot, crushed stillness, like every other sound had been flattened into nothing. The breeze lifted sweat-damp hair off the back of my neck, but that was silent too. Or maybe it was me, because I felt like I couldn’t hear anything. “Do you understand that? They think you did this. Or that we did it together. I don’t care that you were throwing it to some stupid kid.” But a part of me thought, In our bed. “I don’t care if you go out and find every fucked-up twink between here and Kansas City. But how fucking stupid do you have to be not to tell me about this?”

The change, when it came, was strangely familiar: the way he straightened, the tension in his body easing, shoulders opening. And then I recognized it. He’d been doing it for a year. No, I thought. For a lot longer.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “They don’t think we did anything to that kid. Not really. You’re dysregulated, and you’re not thinking clearly. Let’s go back inside—”

“Don’t do that.”

He shifted slightly, as though I’d slipped out of the frame somehow and he was trying to get a better view of me. “When was the last time you—”

“Don’t do that. I’m done doing that.”

“Gray, you’re upsetting me. Do you need a Xanax?”

“No, I don’t need a Xanax. Maybe you need a fucking Xanax.”

But I grabbed my vape and hit it. Maybe I had slipped out of the frame. Or he had. Or the day was too bright, or—or something. Because he was sitting right in front of me, and I couldn’t see him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this,” Darnell said slowly. “But it didn’t matter. I didn’t do anything, Gray. I mean, my God, do you think I had something to do with what happened to him?”

I almost said no. Instead, I said, “It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is that this looks bad. Really bad. And you lied about the hotel too. What else have you been lying about?”

“What do you mean the hotel?”

“I called them. You never showed up. Do you think those detectives haven’t checked? They’ve got shit for brains, but they’ve been doing this for a long time. They probably called the same day you told them that bullshit story. Where were you really?”

Darnell stared at me. The loving concern was gone. The gentle patience had been scoured away. His face was stony. Angry.

“Where the fuck were you?”I asked.

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’d—you’d check up on me. That you don’t trust me.”

“Where were you, Darnell?”

“After everything I’ve done—”

“Don’t give me that! Where the fuck did you go that night? What were you doing? Who were you with?” I tried to stop there, but words exploded out of me. “Everything you’ve done? What, like this is for me?”

He curled his hands around the arms of the chair. Big hands. Because he was a big guy. In a flat, empty voice, he said, “After everything I’ve done for you —”

“Bullshit. That is fucking bullshit. You’re not doing this for me. I don’t know if you were ever doing this for me. You’re doing this for you because you love it.”

When the words had finished racing out of me, I found myself trying to draw a breath. It was like my lungs had shrunk, though, and all I could manage was to suck in thin, reedy gasps. Black spots fizzed at the edge of my vision.

“I love it.” He sounded like someone else. “I love not knowing where you are. I love watching you fall apart. Freak out. I love watching—” He had to stop. “—watching you fuck up everything good in your life. I love being treated like shit because you feel sorry for yourself and need somebody to take it out on.”

I stood, pushing the chair back, and it skittered across the cement.

His hand lashed out and caught my wrist. He was breathing more harshly now. His color was bad. “Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”

I still couldn’t breathe. My voice was barely a wheeze. “Get your hand off me.”

“How fucking dare you? Do you know what this last year has been like for me? Do you have any idea?”

His fingers bit into my flesh.

“It’s been hell! It’s been the worst fucking year of my life! Watching the man I love turn into this—this ugly fucking excuse for a human being, no matter what I tried, no matter what I did. I’m sorry you got hurt, Gray. I am. But have you ever once thought about what this has been like for me?”

Each heartbeat felt like a minute. The cricket was blaring again, and when the breeze lifted again, the little photo of Tip and Darnell fluttered up from the table and tumbled into the neighbor’s yard. I forgot about that, I thought numbly.

I broke Darnell’s hold. He stayed in the chair, looking at me. His face was ashen. He was breathing in those horrible gasps.

“This was the best thing that ever happened to our relationship,” I said. “So you’d have someone to save. Someone you could keep saving. Forever. Just like before I got hurt, all the times you thought you could fix what was wrong with me, make me better, love me into being okay. And before me, just like those girls, when you sat in the fucking trailer, all alone, and played To Catch a Predator . So yeah, Darnell. You love this.”

It felt like a long time before he said in a low voice, “You’re sick.”

I nodded and started toward the side of the house.

He called after me, “You’re a joke, Gray. Fucking everything that moves in this town to make yourself feel better. Pretending nothing has changed. That’s pathetic.”

When I turned around, he had one hand curled into a fist and pressed to his chest. The sun made it hard to tell if he was looking at me. “More pathetic than letting me do it?”

Only the rough sounds of his breathing answered.

“Everyone in this shithole town would have felt sorry for me if I’d stayed home and acted like my life was over, but nobody can stand it that I won’t shut myself up in this house and be a fucking recluse. Nobody can stand that I just want to live my life.”

“Your life is over!” Darnell struggled to sit up in the chair. His lips looked chalky. “That part of your life is over. And you won’t let it go. You won’t move on. You’re not even trying to get better.”

“I don’t need to get better!” It was a scream, and it left my throat raw. “I’m fine! This is who I am!”

Darnell ran his hands through his hair and looked down. He didn’t look back up.

Shaking, I turned for the side of the house again.

But once more, he called after me. Pain—or something more—blunted the edge of his voice. “I’m sorry you feel this way. I’m sorry it happened to you. And I’m sorry you hate yourself so much.”

“See, that’s what you never got, Darnell.” I made myself walk, and I didn’t look back. “I’ve hated myself for a long, long time.”