Page 28

28

MICHAEL

A fter getting home from the hospital the next day, I feel weak and emotional. I've never come that close to being killed in the line of duty, and with no one at home to talk to about it, I call my mom.

"Honey," she says as she answers the phone. "Is everything alright?"

"What makes you think something's wrong?"

"Mother's intuition. Now, spill it."

I clear my throat a few times before I start, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice. My mom is already on high alert, and I don't want to panic her. The last thing I want is for her to jump on a plane and arrive at my doorstep in the middle of the night.

"It's been a couple of bad days at work. Nothing to get too worked up about," I say. "Just felt like talking."

"Well, you've come to the right place. There's so much to tell you. Your cousin, Deborah, is getting married, and I have absolutely nothing to wear. And that's not the worst part. She's marrying a guy she met online. Can you believe that? Online? Who does that? Desperate people? She's gorgeous and kind. Why can't she meet a nice young man at church like the rest of us?"

I don't have the heart to remind her that most everyone in the world meets someone either at work or online these days. Personally, I've had to use the online and dating apps because the chance of meeting a nice, young, gay man who isn't under arrest would be a long shot—although I did somehow manage to find Patrick. And as far as church goes, Deborah is an atheist, and I haven't been to church since I came out of the closet. Not that I couldn't find one that accepted me, but it's too much effort at this point in my life.

My mom drones on about the upcoming wedding, dropping hints about how much she would love to see me walk down the aisle before she dies. How did she just transition the conversation from my cousin getting married to me making her grandchildren? I have no idea. But there's something to be said about my mom; she's a master at taking my mind off my own problems.

There's an unexpected break in the conversation. The last thing I remember her saying is that my father is getting too fat for his suit, and they'll need to go shopping before Deborah's wedding.

"Honey," she says. "Is there something bothering you?"

I don't answer right away, but I sigh.

"I can hear it in your breathing, Michael. Tell me what's going on. Did you get shot at? I swear to everything holy in this universe if you get shot, I'm coming down there and making you quit your job. You know how I worry. There're too many bad people out there. Honey?"

"Don't be silly, Mom. Nothing like that."

"You promise on your great grandfather Boone's grave?"

"I swear I was not shot at. There'd be no way I could keep something like that from you. I promise."

"Okay," she says, her tone betraying her skepticism. "What's the problem then?"

"There's a guy I've sort of been seeing." What in the hell am I doing? The only thing that could get my mom on the plane faster than if I got shot is if I started dating someone.

"What?" Her screech is just below a dog-whistle.

Here it comes. A million questions. Demands for details I don't even know yet, and I did it all to avoid telling her I was in the hospital. What was I thinking?

"Bill? Come in here," she calls out to my father. No doubt he's in the living room reading the newspaper like he always does at this time of day. "Our son has some good news for a change. Get in here."

"Mom," I say, frantic not to hash out what I still am not sure about. There's something truly special about Patrick, but again, I still don't know him that well. Could I be imagining how deeply he feels for me?

"What? Your father is going to want to hear this firsthand, so I don't have to repeat it line for line to him later. I'll certainly be parched after telling your cousin Deborah, who will need to put another place setting down for your special someone."

Oh, shit. It's already happening. She's imagining us married. Probably in a large home with a white picket fence, two-point-five kids, and a dog. I need to get off the call before it's too late.

"I have to go; my boss is calling," I say.

"Tell him you're in the middle of an important family discussion. He can call back later. Bill," she hollers again to my dad. "Get in here."

"Sorry, it doesn't work like that. There's got to be something really important going on, or he wouldn't dare call this late."

Silence meets me on the other end of the call. My mom is mulling over the cost of plane tickets and if it's worth it to get them before she's heard the entire story first. "Fine," she says. "I expect a call as soon as you're free."

"For sure, Mom. Would I leave you hanging?"

"Momma loves you," she says. "I'm so happy I could cry. There are so many things I need to plan. Please tell me the wedding won't be destination. It has to be here."

"Got to go," I say. "Love you."

I disconnect the call before I hear her response, as she has not stopped talking about flower arrangements. My mom has been wanting me to get married since I turned eighteen years old, regularly referencing the fact that she wants to be a young, healthy grandmother. Not one of those little old ladies, sitting on a rocking chair, knitting cat fur into a shawl.

My phone rings, startling me out of my day-nightmare.

"Hello, Joe," I say, answering the call. I can count the number of times we speak on the phone about something other than work. It doesn't mean we aren't close, but since we spend more time together than he does with his wife, we have plenty of time to chat in person about other things. "Everything okay?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing, buddy. My wife wants to bring you over some baked ziti and wine. When would be good?" he asks. "And if you don't want it, you'd still better say yes because she's adamant since you saved my life."

Laughing into the phone, I feel my spirits rise. "She's such a good woman. You're so lucky to have her as your partner."

"I really am, and she will remind me of that whenever possible." We both laugh again. "Honestly, super glad you're okay, man. I couldn't imagine doing this job without you."

"Man," I say. "You're going to make me cry. Stop it. I'm fine. Plus, you’re the one who was shot. You’re the hero here."

"Great," he says. "When should I bring the ziti?"

I laugh and bring my emotions back under control. "Not really that hungry today. Maybe tomorrow? I won't be back to work for at least a week. You know how the higher-ups want to look into everything before they let us come back."

"I heard you're going to be put into department-mandated counseling since you were assaulted on the job."

“I think we will both be seeing the same therapist. Maybe we can go together?” I joke and then sigh. "Better than desk duty."

"Couples therapy,” Joe says. “As for desk duty, that’ll depend on if they think you're crazy or not."

"You'd better put a good word in for me then," I say. "Please tell Madalyn I said thank you for the ziti and wine. I'm looking forward to seeing you both tomorrow."

"Sounds good," he says. "Get some sleep." Joe hangs up the call.

Sitting on the sofa in the living room, I turn on the television and begin scrolling through the seemingly endless channels. The only problem is, nothing catches my attention. My mind keeps drifting to the attack and Patrick. How close I came to losing him before we even had the chance to get started.

My cellphone rings.

It's Patrick.

"Patrick?" I say. "Are you okay? Are you still at the hospital?"

"I'm home. Got home this morning. I've been sleeping all day but feeling great."

"Oh, that's so good to hear."

"I've been thinking about you." There is a long pause, but I know he wants to say more. "After you came to see me at the hospital, I haven't been able to get you out of my head."

Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

"Same here." Taking a chance, I add, "I'm so glad you called me. Not to sound pushy, but I have a few days off work and would love to see you… if you're okay with that."

"It's like you read my mind." There is a short pause before he continues. "My place? Tonight?"

Now we're talking. My heart skips to life, and my brain races with the possibilities. It's a nighttime meet-up at his house. Is tonight the night? To be safe, I'll have to prepare as if it will be.

"I'd love to," I say. "What time works for you?"

"Eight?"

That gives me enough time to clean up and get ready for whatever is about to happen. "I'll see you then."

Disconnecting the call, I hurry into the bathroom and start the shower. Stripping off my clothes, I look at myself in the mirror. I've seen better days, that's for sure, but considering I've been in the hospital after being assaulted, I don't look too shabby.

Sure, there are a few bruises on my face, chest, and back, but overall, I'm pretty sure I will clean up nicely. I hop into the shower and begin scrubbing the hospital smell off me, along with the excess glue and tape from all the machines I was hooked up to when I first got there. The hot water flowing over my body feels so good.

I close my eyes and think about tonight and the possibility Patrick and I will go all the way. My legs shake a little, and my knees feel weak. I rub soap over my chest and stomach and down onto my fully erect cock. Oh, damn, that feels good. I stroke the shaft a few times and moan, forcing myself to stop before I take it too far.

Turning off the water, I towel dry and get dressed. My watch indicates I have thirty minutes to get there, which is just enough time to drive the speed limit. Hurrying out to my car, I hop in and start the engine.

Taking a second to double-check my appearance in the mirror, I smile. I put the car into gear and peel away from the curb. I can't wait to see him. My belly flutters with nerves to even think about him, let alone see… or touch.