Page 8

As I sat outside Tip’s apartment, the car idling, the air conditioning struggling to keep up with the swampy heat, my phone buzzed again with another message.

I recognized the number. I hadn’t saved it in my phone, but I’d gotten enough messages from it that I knew, now.

The content of the messages made it pretty easy, too.

The first one was innocent enough, coming out of the blue not long after my first visit: heyy.

I’d ignored the message because Darnell and I had been watching America’s Got Talent . And because fuckboys—since that’s clearly who this was—need a little winding up sometimes.

The second message came a few minutes later: what up?

And I’d ignored that one too.

The third one said: This is Rory .

It didn’t take Emery Hazard to figure out how he’d gotten my number; I’d given Tip and Jordan cards, and my cards had my number. Looking back, it was kind of obvious Rory could have gotten the number if he’d wanted it. And apparently he had wanted it.

Want to come over?

Darnell looked at me.

“Turning it off,” I said.

And I did.

But a couple of days later, as I was brushing my teeth before bed, my phone vibrated, and there was the number again. This time, it was nothing but a picture: one of those awkward shots guys took of themselves lying down, the phone held near their head so that you could see their torso and, in theory, their dick. In this case, Rory’s chest was exposed, but a thin sheet had been pulled high enough that only a hint of dark, trimmed hair showed below his navel.

Another photo came through; the same pose, but now his free hand held the sheet—teasing, suggesting, stroking.

I went to bed.

The next time, it was another pic. It was the middle of the day, and he was clearly in a public restroom of some kind. A gym, I thought, to judge by the tank that hung around his neck and the shorts pushed down around his ankles. He’d taken a picture of himself in the mirror, one hand on the wall, looking back over his shoulder so that his ass was on display.

Miss u.

And I’d texted back: hot.

It went on and on like that for weeks.

The problem wasn’t just that it had been stupid the first time. It had been beyond stupid. I mean, sure, technically it wasn’t my investigation, and I wasn’t involved in any official capacity. But I had, for all practical purposes, fucked someone involved in an ongoing investigation. The first time I’d met him. Why? It was one of those questions I didn’t want to look too closely at. Because he was cute. Because he’d wanted it. Because of the way he’d looked at me. Because he’d been there. Why didn’t matter. Why didn’t tell you anything useful.

No, the problem wasn’t just the first time; the problem was that for some fucking reason, here I was again, sitting outside his apartment. Even with the AC on, I felt flushed. The tee I’d put on was damp with sweat under my arms and across my back. My balls felt full and tight, the way they felt when I was horny and knew the next fuck was going to be a good one. The part of me that had dragged my ass out of that shitty little house in Springfield was watching me now and telling me I was an idiot.

I was reaching to turn off the car when the door to the apartment flew open. Jordan stumbled out. He spun around, shot the bird at someone through the doorway, and shouted, “Fuck you!” Then he came toward the parking lot so fast he was almost running. Tears glistened on his face.

It was one of those decisions that wasn’t really about my brain. My dick, more often than not, got me into trouble, but my gut was usually right. My big bust the year before, when I’d found those women and children being trafficked in that van—that had been my gut. Working with my boy John-Henry, on the best cases, I’d followed my gut. And my gut had told me something was fucked the day I’d gone in ahead of Palomo and flipped that light switch.

Jordan was already in his car, backing out of the parking stall.

I shifted into reverse and went after him.

This part of Wahredua was all about the college: apartments, bars, strip malls with cheap food and dollar stores. There were nicer areas too. Streets with big, expensive old homes where faculty lived. Nice restaurants scattered throughout. And, more and more, up-and-coming condos and mixed-use buildings where young people—and even young families—were choosing to live, to take advantage of the neighborhood. It was trendy, if anything in Wahredua could be considered trendy. It was also where most of the young gay guys lived. I’d gotten to know the area well, especially in the last year.

As I drove, I tried to think. What had I seen back at the apartment? The end of a fight, definitely. With who? Tip? That seemed likely. About what? Well, Rory said Jordan didn’t like it when Tip hooked up with other guys. So, that seemed like a strong possibility. I mean, it had been weeks since the attack. Tip was healing nicely. The surgeons had done a good job, and aside from his eye, where he still wore a bandage, the cuts on his face weren’t actually all that bad—the difference, I guess, between someone blowing up a lightbulb in your face and, on the other hand, getting hit with a bottle. So, maybe Tip was ready to get back out there. And why shouldn’t he? He was young. He was horny. He wasn’t dead. I mean, didn’t he have a right to have a little fun?

None of that answered the question, though, of where Jordan was going. Not a hookup—at least, not right now. He’d been too upset, and his departure from the apartment had looked more like an escape—or a dramatic exit—than anything else.

He turned at the next corner, passing a Domino’s, then a store called Pop Up! (a gourmet popcorn store that was new and looked like it was already halfway to going out of business), and then Smokin’ Aces, which had bars on the windows and where I was one hundred percent sure you could score some weed.

Maybe an evening class? The summer session had started—Rory had dropped that tidbit after sending me a video of him playing with himself, when I’d asked if he didn’t have anything better to do and he’d told me, Nah, I finished my homework .

If that doesn’t make your balls dry up.

So, where was Jordan going ?

Half a mile later, when he turned on a familiar street, I knew.

Shepherd Park was, according to my boy John-Henry, the park to cruise in Wahredua. He’d laughed when I asked how he knew that. Patrol work was the answer—he’d been too deep in the closet when he’d been growing up, and when he’d come back, he told me, he’d hadenough brains not to shit where he ate. Which wasn’t exactly true, it turned out, since he banged Big Booty Judy.

So, yeah, Shepherd Park was where Jordan was going. I knew even before we could see the entrance to the park, and when Jordan turned down the drive, I had my confirmation.

It was a big chunk of green space that seemed to spring up out of nowhere among the neighborhoods and bars and busy streets. The land had been set aside for the park almost a hundred years ago, when Wroxall had been a tiny new liberal arts college and land had been cheap and plentiful. The college’s drastic growth, especially recently, had spurred a rush of new construction in the area, but Shepherd Park had defied recent efforts by developers to turn it into more condos or more strip malls or more of whatever they thought would make them the most money.

Like the best cruising parks, it was big enough for privacy, with lots of winding paths and old-growth bushes and trees that provided plenty of hidden patches so you weren’t tripping over each other. Twenty or thirty years ago, from what my boy John-Henry had told me, the Wahredua PD had made a habit out of hunting queers here, even going so far, at one point, of having some of the younger officers act as bait. The charges were never anything serious—public indecency, usually. The point was to humiliate the men they caught. And, of course, reassure the fine, upstanding straights that something was being done about the town’s moral decay.

Part of me wanted to know if Norman and Gross had ever been enlisted for a vice sting. If they had, I wanted pictures.

Jordan parked in the lot. It was mostly empty, but I pulled in next to him. He glanced over at me in annoyance; he looked even worse than when I’d seen him at the apartment, his eyes red, his nose puffy. With the sun mostly behind the mix of tall oaks and pines, I couldn’t tell if the dark spot on his cheek was a bruise or simply a stray shadow. His gaze moved away again automatically and then jerked back to me.

I got out of the car and said, “Hi, Jordan.”

“Are you following me?”

“Yes.”

For several long seconds, he stared at me. At first, I thought it was confusion. And then I realized it was something else. A challenge. An invitation. He was trying to tell me something, he just didn’t know how. He turned and headed down one of the walking paths.

I followed.

Either he’d done this before, or he’d talked to someone who had, because we didn’t walk far. After a few dozen yards, he pushed through a thick clump of honeysuckle. The leaves felt strangely cool on my skin as I copied his movement, and the sweet smell of the flowers clung to me even after I stepped into the small clearing on the other side. Jordan was waiting for me. As soon as I stepped free of the honeysuckle, he got his hands on my waistband. He dropped to his knees, pulling my shorts with him, and my dick popped out. I was still soft when he pressed his nose to the root and inhaled. His face felt hot against my skin. The air was hot and humid and close inside the screen of brush; it made my skin feel gritty. Then his lips parted, and he kissed his way back to the tip.

He messed around for a few minutes, not really trying, until I figured out he was one of those guys who wanted someone else to take charge. I got my hands around the back of his head and started working him. It took him a couple of tries, but then he hit his stride and took me all the way down. Sweat made rivers down my chest, under my arms. My cheeks felt flushed, and my hair was damp at my temple, along my nape. A mosquito whined in my ear.

Footsteps came from the other side of the honeysuckle. Jordan must not have heard them; he was moaning and gurgling, making all the right noises, his face shiny with spit and snot. I wasn’t sure why it set me off. Or maybe I was. I mean, that was the whole reason people did this kind of thing. I unloaded down his throat.

When I let him rear back, gasping, he wiped his face and coughed. His pretty pink lips were puffy, and his eyes were shiny in the gloom. I thought he was going to cry, but then he didn’t. He worked his shorts down and jerked off, coming on the ground in a few hard squirts. Then his whole body softened, and he sat back on his heels.

“What happened?”I asked.

His look was dazed. And then a little insulted.

“Back at the apartment,” I said. “Why’d you storm off?”

“Nothing happened.” He got to his feet, but he spoiled it by wiping his nose. His voice took on an edge as he said, “Rory’s telling everyone you fucked him.”

I nodded. “Who were you arguing with?” He stared at me. “I watched you leave. You were fighting with someone. Who?”

“Nobody!”

“Were you fighting with Tip?”

His jaw dropped. He was going to catch a mosquito like that.

“Here’s the thing,” I said. “I know the story you and Tip fed me was bullshit. And I know you probably think you’re helping him. But you’re not. Somebody hurt Tip. And if you and Tip keep lying to me, that person is going to get away with it. That’s not right. I like you, Jordan.” Nobody ever said policework was always about telling the truth. But, as it usually did, the comment had an effect. The boy relaxed a little. He brushed at his wings of blond hair. “I don’t want to see you get in trouble. That’s what’s going to happen if you keep lying; that’s called interference, and you can get arrested for that. Do you want to go to jail?”

He sniffled. And then, slowly, he shook his head.

“I know you want to do the right thing,” I said. “I know you care about Tip, don’t you?”

“I love him,” he said. His voice trembled, and he wiped his eyes.

“And you want what’s best for him, right?”

He was trying to wipe his cheeks, but the tears were spilling too quickly for him to keep up as he nodded.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened at the party?”

“We split up. I don’t know.” His voice had a screwed-down bitterness, like it was taking all his control to keep from dissolving into sobs, as he added, “He wanted me to leave him alone.”

“What’s going on, Jordan?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”

“You got in a fight. You came running out here. Were you going to cruise the park? Is that how you were going to pay Tip back?”

“No.”

“What were you and Tip fighting about?”

I got that goggle-eyed stare again, his jaw dropped, the whole thing.

And I realized something was wrong.

“What?” I asked. “What is it, Jordan?”

He started crying again. “Tip is gone.”