Page 44 of Hush

“Mike… I’m telling you. He looks at you like you hung the moon personally for him.”

Sighing, Mike shuffled to the living room and flopped onto the couch. He sagged sideways, lying with his head in Kris’s lap, eyes screwed closed. “Trust me, Kris. I know what I’m saying. I know these background investigations. They findeveryskeleton. Every sideways thought. Everything about a potential federal judge. Presidents don’t like to be embarrassed by their nominees in the Senate.”

Kris was quiet. He stroked his fingers through Mike’s hair and rubbed his thumb over the frown lines furrowed in Mike’s forehead. “So what did the fuckboy say to you onGrindMe?

“He sent a picture of his hole and told me to come fuck him.”

“No class. These youngsters have no class.”

“What about you?” Mike pushed his head into Kris’s touch. “No silver foxes for you tonight?”

“Well. Tom was yummy.”

Mike’s eyes shot open.

Kris laughed softly. “Don’t worry, Romeo. I’m not who he wants.” He winked. “But I’ll still flirt with him.”

“After tonight, I don’t think we’ll be hanging out again.”

“You let him know you went home alone tonight. Apologize on Monday for this. For what happened at the bar. Hold your dick in your hand and say you are sorry.” He tapped Mike on the nose. “Bad boy.”

“Are you going to hold me when I’m a mess? When this all ends up the way I said so, and I’m crying ‘cause you told me to chase him?”

“I won’t need to. Tom will hold you. He’ll never let go of you, either.”

Mike rolled into Kris’s lap. He hid his face in Kris’s belly, pressing his cheek and his nose against his button-down. Kris kept stroking his hair, over and over, until he fell asleep.

Mike woke alone, face down on his couch.

Kris had started his coffeemaker before he left, though, and the little pot was gurgling away on his living room floor beside his bookshelves. His kitchen crap was still in refugee status in his living room, scattered in boxes and pushed around the room. He sat on the floor, sipping mug after mug, and let his mind go, imagining wild possibilities and what could be.

Eventually, though, he got up, put his cup in the bathroom sink, and changed into his running shorts. He’d run this out, sweat out these feelings and ideas, hopes and dreams that were out of place, out of touch with reality. Shirtless, he stepped out into the DC heat, the early summer mid-morning already making his skin sweat.

He ran up 14thto U Street and turned west, then ran down Florida Ave and turned south on 22nd. He passed by cafés flying the rainbow flag, and men out for their morning strolls with their fluffy little dogs. Whistles and “hey hot stuff” floated past him, but he kept running until the rainbow flags faded away and the gingko and sugar maples started crowding along the streets, marching in orderly rows and shading the manicured block of old Victorians and turn of the century DC brownstones.

He slowed to a stop, bending over with his hands on his knees, huffing in deep gasps of air. Tom lived nearby. Maybe be was out with Etta Mae, walking her over to Rock Creek Park. Or having brunch in Georgetown. Most likely, he was working at home, reading legal opinions and case law and drafting notes for his own opinions he had to write, decisions to be handed down on motions, evidence, and appeals.

Tom, certainly, wasn’t wasting any time thinking about Mike.

Monday morning, Mike went in to the courthouse early. He bought two coffees—his drip with cream, and Tom’s fancy, sugar-filled mix—and waited on a bench outside the federal employees’ plaza gym.

He berated himself the entire time. This was stupid. Tom was going to think he was ridiculous. At best, a stalker, at worst, a princess drama queen, imagining something that wasn’t even there. Was he just reading into the situation, projecting his own discomfort onto Saturday night? Was he just uncomfortable with this whole thing, and that feeling was now pushing out into everything else? He crossed his leg and bounced his foot, clutching both paper cups as he stared at the gym doors.

Right at seven AM, Tom strode out of the gym, staring down at his phone. He was dressed in his suit, his briefcase and his gym bag slung over his shoulder. The sun caught on his hair, freshly styled, and light splintered over bits of silver scattered through the dark chestnut.

Mike stood and froze. He could turn away and forget this whole thing. His heart hammered. He could just back off and forget whatever friendship, whatever-whatever they’d fumbled into. It was ludicrous anyway. A judge andhim? He was just a marshal, a bruiser with a badge and a gun.

But Tom looked up, looked right at him, and stopped in his tracks. His jaw dropped.

He could read everything in Tom’s eyes. They were so expressive, so filled with everything that Tom was. Mike loved it, loved seeing his eyes light up, squint, narrow as he focused, go wide when he was blindsided. Tom would be a shitty poker player. He broadcast nearly everything in his coffee-colored gaze. Now there was shock, surprise... but not anger. Not frustration. There was a light to his eyes, the look of happy surprise.

He’d take that and run a marathon with it.

Mike pasted a smile on his face and held out Tom’s coffee. “Good morning. I wanted to thank you for picking up the tab on Saturday. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I was happy to. I like your friends. I had a good time.” Tom took the coffee and chuckled when he saw the order. “So, my secret is out. You know my taste in coffee.”

“Would you like some actual coffee with all that sugar, Your Honor? If I had that much sugar, I’d blast off into orbit.” Mike fell in beside Tom, and they strolled across the plaza to the doors of the Annex. “I… also wanted to apologize. For Saturday.”