Page 148 of Hush

“DC local?”

“He was at the time. He intended to move to New York right after graduation, but said he wanted to return to DC sometime later.”

Barnes nodded. “We’ll start looking.”

Ballard sent Tom a sour glare. “How long will the court be in recess for, searching for some long-lost boyfriend?”

Tom flinched, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mike step forward. “Agent Barnes, if I recess the court until Monday, will that give you enough time to search for Mr. Baryshnikov?” The rest of the day and Friday, and the weekend if they needed it.

“More than enough, Your Honor.”

“Then we’ll recess until Monday morning at nine. If it’s him, we will address moving forward on Monday. If it’s not him, then we will resume with Kryukov’s testimony at nine AM.” He nodded to Renner and ignored Ballard. “I will see you all then.”

As they filed out, Tom grasped the back of his chair, squeezing the leather until his fingers burned. Finally, the door shut, and he pitched forward, almost collapsing.

Arms wrapped around him from behind. “Hey.” Mike’s soft voice rumbled behind his ear. “Tom.”

Turning, he buried his face in Mike’s neck. Mike held him.

“That was brave,” Mike murmured. “That was really brave. Revealing that.”

“I had to. If he’s a witness. If he knows that Kryukov is being set up… If he can prove that Kryukov didn’t send that text…” Tom pressed his face against Mike, cheek to cheek. “My secret is not worth another man’s life.”

“This isn’t how you wanted to come out, though.”

He shook his head. “No. Is there ever a right way, though? I just want it done. I just want to be free of this.”

“This?”

“Living in the closet. Hiding. Having this secret.” Secrets and lies, cover-ups and denials, always circling around the truth. What was true? What was really true?

Mike kissed his cheek, his nose. Pulled back, and cradled his face in both hands. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I shouldn’t have closed down like that. I was being stupid.” Tom frowned. Mike tried to smile. “I… thought about asking you if I could get a tattoo that matched yours. A rainbow and crown onmyass, too. I thought…” Shrugging, he sighed. “Doesn’t matter. Someone beat me to it.”

Tom’s bruised heart didn’t know what to do. He ached, in every way. “He wanted to cover up a prison tattoo. He’d been thrown in jail for having sex with an older man in a park in St. Petersburg. He was a teenager, but they still sent him to some big Russian jail. His first day, he was held down and attacked.” Tom closed his eyes. One night, Peter—Pasha—had told him the story. They’d been huddling in Tom’s bed, one stubby candle on his desk the only light in the room. Pasha had spoken softly, describing the horrors of the Soviet Union. How much freer he was in America. How freedom tasted like Tom’s kiss.

“After the attack, they tattooed him on his ass. It was a playing card. The ace of hearts. He said it was a prison sign, telling everyone that he was gay and that they could use him if they wanted. For anything they wanted. He had no say at all. I’ve never forgotten that.”

“How could you?” Mike stroked his arms, and looked like he wanted to puke. “Jesus…”

“He wanted to cover it up. We kept joking about what to cover it with. He decided on a rainbow and a crown. He was the king of his own life, he said. When we went to get it, he asked if I wanted to get one with him. Be a king, too. His king. I thought…” A shaky inhale. “I thought I was going to spend forever with him. I thought this was our version of a proposal, or something young and dumb like that.”

“I get it. I… wanted to get a matching tattoo with you for the same reason.” Mike looked like he was collecting the shards of his heart in both of his hands, like he was swallowing back his own bitter pill. “Why didn’t you guys stay together?”

“I broke.” Tom squeezed his eyes closed as a sob tore through him, a lightning blast that shattered his heart. “I thought I was strong enough to love him—to love myself—but I wasn’t. And I broke apart.” Whatever else he wanted to say, whatever else he needed to say, he couldn’t get it out. Not past his tears, the sobs that ripped apart his heart, made his soul bleed down the inside of his ribs. His knees buckled, and he pitched forward, collapsing against Mike and clinging to him like Tom’s own bones would betray him where he stood.

Mike pulled him closer, as close as he physically could, until if they pressed any harder their cells would merge. “You’re not broken.” His words fell on Tom’s hair, slipped down the curve of his neck. “You’re not broken, Tom. You’re not.”

They stayed wrapped together until Tom’s tears ran out and his soul had scraped itself raw against the wreckage of his past.

Tom spent the rest of the day in a daze. The jurors were sent home and reporters buzzed all over the courthouse, trying to wheedle information out of anyone and everyone. Barnes disappeared to FBI headquarters. Ballard disappeared somewhere. Mike stayed close, but he gave Tom space in his chambers, stepping out and leaving him alone for several hours.

Tom spent each of those hours with his head in his hands, trying to comprehend theMöbiusstrip shitshow that was his life.

Eventually, it was time to head to the Hyatt. Mike slid into the back with Tom, even though Villegas spun all the way around in the driver’s seat and stared at him for a solid five seconds before putting the SUV in gear.