Page 16 of Hush

He already felt exposed, allowing feelings he’d ruthlessly squashed for decades to bubble up, attractions he never allowed himself to acknowledge given free rein this morning. Panic clawed at the base of his spine, scratched up his neck. What ifeverybodyknew? What if everybody saw, that morning, what he’d hidden for forever? Eyeballs on him, hundreds of eyeballs, thousands, millions when it hit the news. When the papers screamed “gay judge” and the news shows talked about his outing, dissected his life, and his creepy old professor rose from the grave, his bones rattling as he pointed a skeletal finger at Tom and shrieked, “I knew it!”

Tom took a slow breath and closed his eyes. He could forget all of this. Shut his office door, not listen for Mike’s voice, or look up when Mike walked down the hall, passing by. Not catch his glances, his smiles. Not dream, or hope, ever again. He could go home to Etta Mae and his empty house and lock all his doors, barricade his closet higher, build a Great Wall to repeal invaders wielding flags of hope, rainbow banners held by shirtless men who smiled, who laughed, who were proud of who they were, and wanted him to rappel from his prison tower down to them.

But his tower was in a lake, an ocean, an ocean made of tears, tears of all the men in all the years, decades, centuries before him, who had their dreams crushed, their lives destroyed, when someone found out their Secret.

History was a cruel mistress, a harsh teacher.

He thumbed at his coffee cup, playing with the plastic lid. The sounds of the courthouse coming alive began to fill the hallway. Peggy coming in, unlocking her office. His law clerk, Danny, skateboarding down the hall. He could only get away with that if he came in before Chief Judge Fink. Judge Dana Juarez, down the hall, calling good morning to Peggy.

Mike’s voice, saying hello, striding past his office. He was heading for Judge Juarez, probably chatting with her about her high-risk trial coming up next week.

Mike glanced into his chambers, smiling. He still had Tom’s coffee in his hand. He raised it, saluting Tom again.

Tom nodded back.

He left his office door open.

In his mind, he imagined himself slowly taking bricks down, one by one, and peering through the crack.

Chapter 4

May 9th

Simultaneous knocking—banging, like an invading horde was at his door—and a ceaseless rattle of his doorknob broke over his radio belting out Britney Spears on Saturday morning.

Mike threw open the door with a glare, leaning against the heavy wood.

Kris Caldera, his best friend, stood in the entrance, his perfect face curved into a pout, lips pushed out, long eyelashes batting slowly. He held up a key like it was an indictment. “My key doesn’t work.”

Mike held up another key. “I changed my locks. Here’s your new one.”

Kris snatched it out of his hand as he strutted into Mike’s townhome. He was dressed for Paris, for Milan, anhaute couturefashion model gracing his apartment with color and style. Shining boots, polished to a high gloss, pointed at the toe and with a heel that was just on the wrong side of scandalous. Tight twill pants, a sunny button-down. A skinny tie, shades of blue competing for dominance. A long Gucci trench coat, and Gucci sunglasses perched on his perfectly spiked hair. Mike swore Kris accented the harsh angles of his face with makeup, dusted his cheekbones with bronzer until they looked like they could cut diamonds. He knew Kris wore eyeliner and mascara. Kris was two years older than Mike, a year away from forty, but he’d cut Mike if he ever said that aloud.

Kris was a walking stereotype. He knew every Tony-winning musical by heart and could belt out Bette Midler, Celine Dion, and Idina Menzel. He was sass on heels, deadly with his tongue, and went through men like a ravenous black widow. Mike had met him his first week in DC, after he’d transferred out of the hellhole he’d been working in before. They’d spent the whole evening at a bar trading barbs, verbal repartee that tried to draw blood. Mike wanted to take him home, wanted to unwrap him and devour him, wanted all that sass to shred him to pieces. He’d practically begged. Kris had refused. “You’re too young for me, sweetie.”

They were best friends from that moment on.

Kris stopped in Mike’s foyer, staring at his living room as his perfectly sculpted eyebrows slowly rose. He flicked a hand out to Mike, pushing one slim hip out. “Did you forget to tell me you’re moving?”

Everything from Mike’s kitchen was in the living room, stacked in boxes and bags and piled in haphazard stacks. Half his shelves in the living room were bare, emptied of Silvio’s crap. His hall closet looked like it had been ransacked, jackets and clothes heaped on the floor and spilling onto the hardwood.

“I moved Silvio out.”

Kris pulled his head back, just slightly. His lips pursed. He was being good, so far. Holding his tongue. Waiting.

Mike sighed. Kris would let him have it eventually. “I came home and found him banging some other dude in the kitchen.”

Kris’s manicured hand flew to his neck, his long fingers spread over his throat and across his collarbone. His eyes flared, Spanish fire blazing bright. He blinked, ridiculously long lashes fluttering over his creamy cheeks. “I never liked that bitch,” he snapped. “I told you he was no good.”

“I know.”

“Itoldyou he was a fuckboy.”

“I know.”

“Itoldyouyou have the shittiest taste in men.”

Mike grinned. “I know.” He reached for a sledgehammer, leaning against the wall of his entranceway.