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FORTY-FIVE

DON’T SAVE ME - TWENTY THREE

I stare at the text my mom sent me.

Mom: Your friends called. They seem nice. Why don’t you ever introduce me to these people?

After I woke up on the bathroom floor, I was confused. Couldn’t figure out what happened for a while, then puked in the sink. A sink that had streaks of pink in it.

Slowly, things came back to me. Ronan and Logan. The body. Them leaving. I had grabbed my phone to call the department when I saw that text from my mom.

They weren’t kidding.

I fucked up. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up.

I’m currently sitting at work, staring at my computer with Ronan’s information pulled up. I found the other guy—Logan—too.

My gut is roiling. I shouldn’t be here, silently researching. I should be in the chief’s office. I should be sucking his dick and begging to keep my job.

But I have no doubt that’ll cost my mom her life. And it’s not like my mom and I are close. I’m still bitter at her for not saving me from my dad. I never told her what happened, but she also never paid attention. I feel like she should have paid attention. I was her kid.

My throat closes up, and I shake my head. That’s in the past. Right now, I have to figure out a way to protect her.

Ronan talked about Apex. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the term thrown around. I’m not stupid—I think that’s what the chief dick-suckers call themselves. But I always thought it was some stupid half-ass club for people with small-dick energy.

I click through the paperwork again. I knew the guy on the bathroom floor—Dillon. He used to be a defense attorney for us, and he sucked balls. Rude fucker who got all kinds of people off on all kinds of charges. Particularly sex offenses.

Report it.

My inner rule follower is screaming at me. I’m a cop, for fuck’s sake, and I watched people leave with a body and didn’t say anything?

Not good enough. You’re disgusting. Look at what you’ve done.

My father’s words echo through my head like he’s speaking to me all over again.

“No.” I shake my head. Something isn’t right here, and I’m tired of turning my head. I click on the file we have for Logan. Turns out Logan’s made a police report with our agency before. As I look through it, I realize he made a sexual abuse allegation not for himself but for his friend.

I turn away from the computer, my stomach suddenly in knots, the flaming hot Cheetos turning sour. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to fucking look. There’s a reason I’m a general detective and not a sex crime one. I can’t fucking stand that shit.

I just sit there, staring at my sand clock. It has purple sand and glitter throughout and makes little mountainscapes when you flip it.

Suddenly, I remember something.

I’m eleven again. It's late, way past my bedtime, and my dad is here for one of his…lessons. My eyes are full of tears, and my body feels…wrong. Always so wrong and yet so good. And that’s what makes me a bad boy.

“Have you prayed today, son?” Dad is kneeling by my bed. Where he always is.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want this. I don’t want it. But Dad always makes me sin.

“Fucking nasty boy. I see you haven’t learned.” Dad is talking, but I’m trying to zone him out. Like I always do. “You like when a man looks at you. Being gay is a sin. I see I’m going to have to teach you again.”

My eyes are closed, and I’m thinking about my guitar. I just came up with a new song, and I have almost all of it figured out.

Dad starts his lesson, and I try my best to shut it out.

I just need the last part of the song. I’m not sure how I want it to end. It’s in a minor key, and it sounds lonely. Lonely and sad. Like all my songs do.

Suddenly, there’s a ringing. Dad’s still doing what he does while calling me dirty and disgusting and filthy. The ringing doesn’t stop, and I glance over at his phone, which is lying on the bed beside me. There’s a name on the caller ID, followed by something I’m not sure about: Apex.

Dad cusses, grabbing the phone and answering. His tone is gruff. He listens for a bit, then gives me an angry look. I think he’s going to hit me, but then a miracle happens: he gets up and leaves.

I lay there, frozen for a little. Is this a test? Dad never leaves before I pee.

I hear the downstairs door open and close, and then the car turns on in the garage. I jump up, pulling my PJs back on and darting to the window. Sure enough, Dad pulls down the street and disappears.

My heart is racing. This has never happened before. I feel so awake and so tired at the same time.

What if he comes back?

I can’t sleep. Instead, I get some Cheetos from downstairs and then figure out the rest of my song. I end it on a dissonant note. And I call it Apex.

I jerk out of my memories, sweating and staring at my Cheetos bag. And fuck, now I want to puke.

Instead, I glance at the computer. Logan’s information is there, mocking me.

I didn’t remember that Apex detail until now. Is Apex really a thing? Is it more than just old-school cops who get away with anything?

My head pounds. I know the answers to those questions. I think I’ve known for a long time. I just didn’t want to look into it. I wanted to be one of the ones who tucked their head in the sand, collected a paycheck, and didn’t get bothered by admin. One of the ones who made a difference and went home. Who helped people and stayed out of the politics.

I stare at Logan’s face and his report.

I have to read it. I have to know everything about these people who threatened my mom.

So I do. And the report that I read makes me want to puke all over again.

Logan reported that his friend Greyson had committed suicide because he was being raped by his grandfather. He sent in Greyson’s suicide note, and as I read it, my own father’s voice echoes in my mind.

You're disgusting.

Something’s wrong with you.

I fucking hate you.

Wish my son wasn’t defective.

My throat closes, and for a horrifying minute, I think I’m going to cry and vomit at the same time. My dad never got prosecuted. The case was dropped with insufficient evidence, and somehow, he still kept his job. And then, I grew up and took the same job. Because for some stupid fucking reason, I still wanted him to be proud of me.

I need to go home. It’s thirty minutes before the end of my shift, but I don’t care. The overwhelming urge hits me, and I stand straight up, barging out of my office and closing the door. I mutter something about being sick and head out.

Too much. This is too much. I’m going back to sticking my head in the sand.

I can’t do this. I fucking can’t.