SHATTERED GLASS
BY
DANI ALEXANDER
Shattered Glass Copyright 2011 Dani Alexander.
All rights reserved. Published 2012.
ISBN:
ISBN-13: 978-1470005863
Publisher: Dani Alexander
Cover art: Dani Alexander
The right of Dani Alexander to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of Dani Alexander's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or somewhere in between; businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Dedication
I dedicate this book to Troy and Gene. Two men who have always accepted the crazy, weird and often abrasive person I am, but who have had to fight to be accepted by the world despite being the most loving, kind people anyone could hope to know.
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks to Tim, Sara, Sian, Anke and my husband, without whom I would have crawled under the table and covered my head. Even as a writer, there aren’t words enough to express the depth of my gratitude for the help and support you gave me
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Fucking Bunny Slippers
Colorado’s Finest Diner was ugly. I had an excess of time to study it in the two hours I waited for my no-show informant. Brown booths. Yellowed walls and floors. Yellowed tables, for that matter. The window on my right displayed beat-up Fords and Volkswagens that were roasting on pavement and swimming in refracting light. The inhabitants of the diner were more interesting. Teenagers mostly, snacking on fries and chicken fingers. Baubles bounced from their eyebrows and black-painted lips while they chatted energetically. My gaze hopped from one table to the next. With all the boisterous laughter and the rapid fingers texting, it was the quiet, methodical busboy who caught and held my eye. He was wearing bunny slippers.
Dingy pink and brown ears languished against aged linoleum, making a soft sh-sh sound as the man gathered used dinnerware and placed them in a tub at his hip. Curious about the wearer, I skipped over the ripped pajama bottoms and stained tank top, to his face. My breath caught.
Model beautiful, with thick red hair and millions of freckles, the man was as incongruous to the setting as those endearing slippers.
“Gaines says he’ll get Alvarado there,” Detective Luis Martinez relayed into the cell phone tucked against my ear.
“Uh huh,” I replied. Vice busts weren’t that interesting right now. Bunny Slippers was pierced. Lots of places. Little rings, nipple high, were outlined under his tank top and the ones in his ears and eyebrow glinted. I immediately began to speculate where else he was pierced.
“Glass?” Luis huffed into my ear. “Glass, get your head in the game.”
Blue eyes. No, not just blue, blue like glacial waters, like romantic poems, like heavens and moonstones. Cornflower blue. And—
Blue like romantic poems? What the ever-living fuck? I turned away quickly and tried to concentrate on Luis’s voice.
“What? Oh.” I gave my head a shake, scattering the strange thoughts. “If Gaines says Alvarado will be there, we go with that. My guy is a no-show. Gaines is all we have now.” I hoped that was the response Luis was waiting for because Bunny Slippers was coming my way, and I lost all ability to think.
“Can I take that for ya?” He had a deep drawl. Not Texas, like my mother, but perhaps Alabama or Georgia. I was so wrapped up in the voice that it took a moment to follow the long, slim finger pointing across the table at my syrup-filled plate. My attention snapped back to the busboy.
Up close Bunny Slippers was even more gorgeous, and older than I’d originally assumed. Freckles dusted his skin from forehead to fingers. A colorful tattoo of the god Hermes covered the right arm from shoulder to elbow. A busboy with an interest in mythology?
“Glass?” Luis growled.
My brain had left the building. “Huh?” I replied brilliantly, to the busboy, not to Luis. I could barely hear Luis. Cold blue eyes. That was all I could concentrate on. Cold but captivating. I had always thought freckles went with innocence, but there was nothing innocent about those eyes.
“Glass? ¡Carajo! Glass!”
What was someone who looked that good, doing working as a busboy in a place this ugly?
“GLASS!” Luis blasted into the phone, a stream of Spanish invectives following the shout.
The yell snapped me out of my daze. “What the fuck, Luis? Someone is talking to me here. Settle your dick down.” Great, I had now acknowledged that while I knew slippers-boy was speaking to me, I had just been staring at him. The slight smirk spreading across the man’s perfect lips told me he had noticed the gawping, too.
With considerable effort, I flicked a glance to the plate, knowing there was a question in there somewhere.
“Your plate?” The busboy motioned once more, this time leaning across the table. The scent of tobacco, soap and cinnamon made my mind go blank again. I closed my eyes and inhaled, unconsciously lifting a hand to brush my knuckle on the underside of the man’s reaching arm.
Apparently this was an awesome time to not only discover I had a bunny slipper fetish, but to violate someone’s arm in public. Some guy’s arm.
“Yeah,” I said stiffly, dragging my offending appendages into my lap before they did something stupid, like tweak a nipple ring. Luckily, the guy hadn’t noticed the knuckle-assault, or else he was choosing to ignore it. Please let it be the former.
I felt twelve again, those nervous flutters in my stomach appearing for the first time since I had let Mitzi Baylor tongue kiss me in eighth grade. Okay, let is probably the wrong word. More like forced her tongue into my mouth while I tried to protect my tonsils from unexpected removal. The memory was enough to jar me back into reality a second time. I checked my phone. Luis had hung up. With a sigh, I tucked the cell into my pocket. I’d deal with Luis at work Monday.
Bunny Slippers had long since grabbed my plate and was making his way back to the kitchen without a single backwards glance. He hipped the swinging door and disappeared into the back. It was only then that I managed to exhale.
Get a grip, idiot. This is a bad time to ogle teenagers.
Is there ever a good time to ogle teenage boys?
All these weird thoughts were giving me a headache. The guy was just interesting. That was all. Like spotting an exotic flower in a field of—
I really needed to stop thinking like my eleven-year-old poetry-writing cousin. Actually, I just needed to leave. Stop thinking about this and leave. After paying the bill, I slid sunglasses over my eyes and pushed out into the summer sun.
Little beads of sweat popped up on the bridge of my nose, tempting me to remove the offending eyewear. But the light bouncing off my side mirror convinced me that dealing with irritating sweat was better than being blind.
Colorado heat didn’t blast so much as bake. It was a deceiving warmth, slowly building like a preheating oven and just as dry. The other trick of summer in the Mile High City of Denver—breezes. They moved lackadaisically, intermittently dying out and then ambling back, providing little in the way of their supposed function: cooling. By the time I had walked across the small parking lot and opened the door to my Jag, my hair was hot enough to fry an egg, and I dearly wished to be wearing shorts rather than full length khakis. I pinched the fabric of my cotton shirt and waved it while the single breeze that rolled through offered only a tumbling brown paper bag and no relief from the warmth. Across the street, a bank marquee announced the date and today’s temperature: ninety-seven degrees.
Ignition on, A/C maxed, I left the door open while waiting for the air to cool. Maybe another breeze would surprise me and suck the staleness from the car. Sitting half-in, half-out, I heard the door opening in the alley beside the restaurant. I saw him in the rearview first, then swiveled in my seat to check the back window.
Bunny Slippers leaned against the wall, dragging a foot up to brace behind him and cupping his hand over his face. I fixated on the tattoo marking the web of his fingers, my pulse jumping. When the hand dropped to his side, he took a long drag of his cigarette. His mouth puckering and blowing a cloud of smoke toward the sky was sufficiently erotic enough to ignore the nag of the tattoo and focus on his lips.
I hated smoking. The smell alone was enough to nauseate me. But right then, more than anything, I wanted to be that cigarette.
I was unsettled by an onslaught of unbidden fantasies, which ranged from pressing my lips against the guy’s neck to grinding our hips together. I wasn't sure how long I watched him, but I knew it was long enough for my neck to cramp. Sweat accumulated under my glasses, spreading to my forehead and upper lip and eventually dripping down my temple. The cool air blowing from the car created a stark contrast to the heat outside, but I wasn’t at all sure it was what made me shiver.
His head swiveled slowly against the wall, turning to my Jag. No smirk this time, but those eyes were no less beautiful for being empty. The pit of my stomach clenched.
I had seen that look before—abuse victims, prostitutes, dealers, pimps, they all carried it. Grief, sudden and powerful, poured over me in waves, making me avert my eyes. Broken boy, was all I could think. Broken people were dangerous. I swung my legs in and slammed the driver’s door, backing quickly out of parking spot. It took every ounce of my will to avoid glancing into the rearview mirror as I pulled onto the street.
I aimed the Jag downtown where my tuxedo was getting fitted.
The tuxedo you’re getting married in, Austin. The tuxedo you’re marrying Angelica in, Austin, I reminded myself.
Not a Cock Sucking Fixation
Downtown was a maze of cross streets which, like slippers-boy, were incongruous with the rest of their surroundings. While most streets across Denver ran vertically and parallel to each other, some cruel genius decided to build downtown streets diagonally. Although I had lived in the city all of my adult life and had been made to study every street when I had patrolled as a rookie, downtown still remained the most frustrating area to navigate. I usually ended up making at least one wrong turn. And since the streets alternated one-way, whenever I missed one, I had to drive a few extra blocks to get back on track; which meant running into a gazillion traffic lights and waiting for the Light Rail trolleys or shuttle buses to pass. Which also meant that today I was later than I otherwise would’ve been, and I had to call my fiancée.
“Mm, you’re late. What have you been up to?” Angelica’s soft voice, filled with amusement, was about the only thing that could make me smile right now.
“Ogling young, pretty boys in diners,” I replied. As predicted, she laughed.
“Long as it’s not pretty girls.” Static told me she had covered the mouthpiece. “Jeffrey wants to know how long it’ll be until you get here?”
“If I can find a parking spot, and a street that doesn’t lead one way to hell? Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“You said that an hour ago,” she reminded me.
“I’m downtown now. Looking for a parking spot.”
I flipped off a street sign that didn’t conform to my need to go right, earning a glare from a misunderstanding motorist who yelled, “Cocksucker!” as I passed. I briefly considered rolling down my window and explaining that I was not, in fact, a cocksucker; that it was just that one fantasy. And besides, I was fairly sure I had a bunny slipper fetish, not a cock sucking fixation. That seemed like a lot of information to impart in the second and a half we had before he pulled ahead of me, so I let it slide.
The fact that I was more comfortable owning up to the slippers thing and not the cocksucker thing was mildly disturbing. I’d rather have a footwear fetish than a sudden attraction to penises? Yeah, that sounded about right.
“Just park anywhere. You can afford the ticket.” Angelica had no logic when it came to money. Her idea made complete sense to her. Paying for a ticket was infinitely easier than finding a legal parking spot. And as a trust fund baby, I could just as easily pay it. The only problem was that downtown also enjoyed a healthy respect for tow trucks. And no one was going to tow away my beloved Arturo—so named after my training officer.
“I see an open lot. Be there in fifteen. Love you.” I hung up after hearing her reply in kind and then pulled into a garage parking structure. After parking and paying, I walked the half block to the 16th Street Pedestrian Mall.
The mall stretched, coincidentally, sixteen blocks, straight down into the heart of the business district. Large granite sidewalks extended six feet out on either side of the shuttle bus lanes. Restaurants, office buildings, outdoor cafés, street vendors, shopping centers and upscale boutiques huddled together on each block. The tailor was at the far end of the mall—not a long walk, but, with the crowds, an annoying one.
The only vehicles allowed on the two-lane road between the sidewalks were police cars, vendor trucks and environmentally friendly shuttle buses. Otherwise, the mall was strictly foot traffic. On weekdays, it teemed with businessmen and women, as well as tourists. In the evenings and on weekends, suburbanites bustled past street performers and the homeless. Almost half of the dirty outstretched hands belonged to teenagers. They were the ones that I had difficulty ignoring. Especially today, with the image of that broken boy still haunting my conscience. My gaze kept wandering down to feet, checking for bunny slippers.
I jammed whatever bills and change I had into their hats or hands, until, when I ran out of cash, I had to jump on the overstuffed shuttle. The shuttle wasn’t air conditioned, so I arrived at the tailor shop baked and glazed with sweat like the main dish at a luau. Angelica was too engrossed in a gold tie to notice my disheveled appearance.
Pricks and Bunnies
Angelica was, as always, elegant and beautiful. Her brown hair fell into soft waves at her shoulders, and her summer halter dress glowed bright with white polka dots.
“Austin, I’m rethinking the gold,” she said when the bell over the door announced my arrival. Her lips were pursed in deliberation as she held up the gold tie with a navy print, tapping her patent high-heeled shoe against the marble floor.
Grateful for something new to think about, I pushed the weirdness of redhead fantasies out of my head and gave my attention to Angelica. Propping an elbow on a nearby shelf, I rested my chin in my hand, basking in the air conditioning. “We could make a rainbow of all the colors you’ve run through, Angel.”
Her lips pursed for a moment then slowly curved upward. “Bit political,” her hand waved, “But I’d go with that. We could have a gay wedding. Rainbow suits and ties? Jessica would be pleased.” She regarded the ceiling in contemplation. Only her teasing smile gave away she wasn’t serious.
“I refuse to make such a suit, mademoiselle!” Jeffrey, of Jeffrey’s Custom Tailor, was a small man with long pointed nose, frizzy grey hair and a constantly furrowed brow. Though that last descriptor might be due to our presence, rather than a permanent state. Not that I could blame the tailor. With each of our six visits, Angelica decided on a different style or color. So far, poor Jeffrey had been commissioned for three different suits: one black, one brown, and most recently, one navy; as well as two tuxedos.
“I don’t really think she wants a rainbow suit,” I reassured him, hiding my grin. To Angelica I raised an eyebrow. “Is your sister gay now? I’m losing track of her sexuality. One week bi, one week straight. It changes faster than our wedding colors, and that’s saying something. What are they now, by the way?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s still testing the waters. She told mom she was going to Pridefest and ride a Harley naked with some woman called…” She tapped her perfectly manicured nail against a pile of shirts, “I don’t actually remember what she was called. Something that sent mom into fits because it was definitely female.” Putting down the gold tie, Angelica held up a grey cravat dotted with dark flecks for my inspection. “Navy and silver? Can we see that navy suit again, Jeffrey?”
“Great. I wouldn’t even need Jeffrey. I could just wear my dress uniform.” Jeffrey threw me a look bordering on murderous and stomped to the back room. Actually, wearing my dress uniform would have been preferable. The idea of wearing another tuxedo for any occasion made my skin itch.
“Mm. You are yummy when you wear your costume.”
“Uniform,” I corrected with a rueful grin and chuckle.
“Whatever,” she replied airily and laid the grey tie atop a stack of white button-down shirts. She didn't mean to be flippant about my job; she was just preoccupied with wedding planning.
“Exactly,” I said. “Whatever you want.”
“You’re not helpful,” she said and shook her head, smiling absently.
“Because I want to live to see twenty-seven. You’re on the wrong side of crazy with this wedding planning.”
“Pah,” Angelica huffed. “You’re exaggerating.”
I really wasn’t. Angelica was one of the kindest and most uncomplicated women I knew; but since she’d started planning this wedding, I was a little afraid. And I dealt with drug dealers and crack whores for a living.
She had fired the caterers when they didn’t “condescend to make a buffet style dessert table”. The florist had quit after Angelica had said she wanted the roses to match the bridesmaids’ dresses, and then promptly changed the wedding colors two days later. She had asked me to tell Mark, one of my groomsmen, to wear heels because he was shorter than all the bridesmaids. I refused and she blamed me for all of the bridesmaids wearing ballet slippers.
Later she would apologize and promise to do better. We forgave her because, in all honesty, the girl who apologized was “our Angelica”, not the crazy bride.
Angelica was the barracuda lawyer to whom I could send troubled kids and expect her to defend them vigorously from prosecution. She routinely tried to cook dinner and laughed harder than I when it ended up smelling like an outhouse. She dropped her head and snored loudly when I talked about sports. She burped and watched Saturday morning cartoons.
Angelica was not flakey or indecisive. Until she had to pick chiffon or silk, or roses or chrysanthemums.
Truth be told, I didn’t recognize her during wedding planning. So I preferred to steer clear of it.
“Should I stay for another fitting, or have we determined my uniform will work? Or maybe the navy suit he already made?” I asked. Jeffrey, carrying said suit, was approaching us. The sound that echoed in his throat conjured up images of choking cats.
“We’re going with the navy suit,” Angelica decided with a perfunctory nod and wrinkled her nose at the bundle the tailor held. “Oh, not that one, Jeffrey, the one with the mandarin collar,” she clarified.
The strangling cat sound erupted as a screech. “That was black, mademoiselle. Not navy!” I stifled a grin.
“Mm. Oh, Jeffrey, calm down. It’s basically the same suit, just in navy.” She patted his wiry hair and walked toward the back rooms. Jeffrey’s face was red enough to sub as a police light. “Don’t disappear, Austin,” Angelica called over her shoulder. I watched the way her ass moved under the halter dress. “And stop leering. It’s unnerving poor Jeffrey.”
“Wouldn’t dream of leaving.” Or of stopping my leering. “But I’m reasonably sure you’re the one unnerving him.” The little man made another choked sound and tensed so hard he shook. Being fitted for another suit while a pin-wielding Jeffrey was in the apoplectic throes of agony, officially made me a masochist. By the end of the day I’d have enough pricks to prove it.
I should stop thinking about pricks. And bunnies. And pricks fucking bunn—
“Please, I beg of you, stop her, Monsieur Glass,” The tailor’s nervous eyes twitched from Angelica at the back of the shop, to me. I couldn’t blame him for his plea; she was now investigating a beige suit jacket. “I haven’t completed one suit!”
“Now, now, Jeffrey, eight more weeks and we’ll both be put out of our tailoring misery.”
Douchebag of the Year Award
Two hours later, Angelica twined her fingers with mine as we walked toward my car. We would split up for the day before arriving there, as she had “things to do that would only annoy you, Austin.” The wedding colors had been officially changed to navy and silver; though by the next week I expected them to be red and gold, or even pink and black. I was relaxed enough that my mind wandered back to slippers-boy as we moved quietly through the mall. Which relegated me to Biggest Asshole on the Planet.
I needed to stop thinking about it. Him. I felt like such a jerk. Especially since I was so lucky to be with her.
“Austin?” Angelica prodded me out of my musings. “What are you thinking about?”
I offered a guilty smile at her furrowed brow. “How lucky I am,” I said, touching her hand to my lips while wiggling my brows.
She laughed musically and leaned into my arm. The bump was too soft for any effect other than to cause me to look at her. I winced when I compared her tanned shoulder to freckled skin. I was a bastard. Angelica was beautiful, both inside and out, and to compare her to some grungy man-child was Grade-A douchbaggery.
“My dress came in today,” Angelica sighed blissfully, her green eyes glazing over. Unbidden, I pictured eyes the color of the sky.
“Can I come in your dress today?” My brows waggled again, earning another bright laugh from her.
“Mm. Maybe later this week. Oh, and don’t forget we have the gala next Sunday.” We stopped at a nearby hotel, using their taxi stand to get her a ride home. With a quick kiss and a gentle wave, she climbed into the first cab that pulled up and they drove off.
Continuing the Douchebag of the Year theme, I walked the half block, got into Arturo and drove thirty blocks out of my way to pass slipper-boy’s diner.
I honestly had no idea why I was there, or why I couldn’t keep my mind off him. Him. I even had to keep reminding myself it was a him. Not a her. No breasts. And, I guessed, no vagina. Definitely a him. And my fantasies were filling with images of his mouth on naked things of mine.
Naked things. With a guy. Naked things with a guy. Surreal.
I sat outside for half an hour with those words buzzing in my ear, before giving myself a mental slap and driving home. I resolved to forget about Bunny Slippers.
A block later the resolve crumbled as I began picturing those slippers’ ears flopping around with the guy’s feet in the air while I pounded into—
Jesus! Okay, that’s just disturbing.
We Played Football Together, They Can’t Be Gay
Back at my apartment, I sat at the computer and shuffled through websites. The moment I found myself downloading the wrong kind of porn, I figured I should go out. I needed to get my mind off sex. It was nearly an impossible feat, so I settled for keeping my mind off sex with a guy. Seriously. What the fuck?
I wasn’t gay. You don’t go twenty-six years before the gay gene suddenly just kicks in. It didn’t work like that. I was sure of it. Not that I knew that much about being gay. I had one friend with same-sex orientation, and Dana hadn’t spoken to me since I asked her to describe her honeymoon in graphic detail—and then made vibrator noises. Actually, I would have called Dana anyway, but she was out of town until the end of the month.
Obviously Angelica’s sister came to mind. But Jessica had about as much figured out as I did. And if she was a lesbian, well, I probably would be less interested in that aspect of gay life than my current dilemma. I decided to call my best friend.
When I was in eighth grade, I used a self-timing camera to take nude pictures of myself in various stages of erection. I then exchanged my biology teacher’s slides with the images. The teacher, in a state of panic, kept rapidly pressing the ‘next’ button. It was like a pornographic flip-book. That was the last straw in a very heavy pile of straws. I was expelled, and I ended up transferring mid-year from boarding school to a public school near home.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have included my grinning face in the pictures. With a thumbs up next to my penis.
Having spent the previous years at an overseas coed Catholic preparatory school, I had no idea how to cope with students who were not rich and privileged. I went from being one of sixty students to one of fifteen hundred plus. On my first day of class, I wore my former school uniform: tie, blazer, tan pants, button-down shirt. I don’t remember much except dark lockers and so many wedgies that even at age twenty-six I couldn’t see a thong without cringing.
By the end of the day, a sophomore named David Buchanan had rescued me and taken me under his wing. We had been getting in trouble ever since.
Dave was now married, and his wife was pregnant with their fourth child. He was the first person I went to when the world confused me. Which it often did. “Do you know any gay guys?” I asked when he picked up the phone.
“Why? Are you switching teams?” I heard the low chuckle on the other end.
“I’m not sure. Maybe,” I answered sincerely. He laughed again, because that’s what everyone did when I told the truth. It was a little disconcerting.
“Yeah, I know some gay guys. And you do, too.”
“I know some gay guys?” News to me.
“Jake and Terry.”
“They’re not gay,” I argued.
“Yeah? You better tell them to stop sleeping together, then.”
“We played football with Jake and Terry,” I maintained. “They can’t be gay.” They were also cops, like us. I was sure I didn’t know any gay cops. The stationhouse didn’t have the most gay friendly atmosphere.
The silence on the other end was either him covering the phone to laugh, or him waiting for me not to be stupid. Usually it was the latter.
“This for a case?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. I pulled the phone away and studied it, unsure of how to answer that question.
“No. I need to know about ass-sex.” Dave choked, ended up in a coughing fit and, from the clunk on the other side, I guessed he must have dropped the phone. I grinned, having already figured that would be his response. When the coughing had subsided, I attempted to change the subject—before he took me seriously. “How’s Marta?”
“Beautiful,” he answered.
“Am I still banned from Sunday night dinners?” Marta was Swedish, tall, and always pregnant. But I should have asked David if she was pregnant that last time I saw her, because Marta was also a very large woman—rotund, my grandfather would have said. And I was very congratulatory.
“Next time, ask me first. She was barely three weeks along. Not showing at all.” This sent us both into nervous laughter. Not only because we were ashamed. If she heard us laughing about it, she’d stop making those awesome Swedish brownies.
“I plan on it. Give my love to the rugrats. And tell her if it’s a boy, she should name him Austin.”
“I’ll skip that recommendation. You’re not at the top of her favorite people list.”
“Tell her I’m sorry.” Again. I sighed.
“Send her a pair of baby sneakers. She goes nuts for baby things.”
“She’ll have them by Friday,” I promised.
“Gotta go,” he replied, and in the background I heard screaming which sounded like their two year old, Petra.
“Go,” I laughed.
After we hung up I considered calling Terry or Jake, but I needed a game plan first. I didn’t really want another set of friends banning me from their houses—or house. I really should have asked Dave if they lived together. Terry’s cell was programmed into my phone. I made a mental note to call. Later. Tomorrow. Next month. Or January.
On another note, now that I thought about it, I seemed to get banned from a lot of friends’ homes.
Tapping my fingers against the computer desk, I considered what to do next. I was avoiding the computer because of the gay porn, avoiding Angelica because I was guilty of wanting to watch gay porn, and avoiding my friends because I had to ask them about gay porn—or being gay, same difference. I could have called my father, but it would be too tempting to piss him off by telling him I might be gay. Which I wasn’t.
I settled on a beer and ESPN.
By the time I crawled into bed, I refused to acknowledge the last few minutes of beating off while watching the Duke/Notre Dame lacrosse match. I rolled over and forced myself to go over my Sunday routine of workouts, sports bars and what to do in the absence of my normal Sunday dinner at Dave’s.
Denial. How fucking works it?
Sunday morning I opened my eyes and immediately went into denial.
I was not gay. I was engaged. To a woman. I wasn’t gay. And I backed up my denial with some sound reasoning.
First, I masturbated to images of women. I fantasized about women. Sure, there were men in my fantasies, but they were always doing women. Everyone did that. There were never solo men in my fantasies. Or my porn—discounting the previous night’s anomaly. Therefore, I wasn’t gay.
Second, people didn’t suddenly wake up gay. Being gay wasn’t like changing eye colors; you couldn’t just get contacts and “Whammo!”—gayness. Point two for me. Not gay.
Third, I had sex with women. Six women, in fact, since I graduated from high school. I had even been engaged to women before Angelica—who I’d been with for three years now. A man didn’t date a woman in her mid-thirties without realizing commitment was going to be on the table—very prominently, lit up with flashing lights, stacked above everything else, on the table. If I was that eager to get into a committed relationship with a woman—point three in the ‘not gay’ column.
And finally, being gay would seriously piss off my dad. Something I enjoyed immensely. The fact that I was debating if I could possibly be gay, and not driving over there to watch him keel over in shock as I announced it—another tick for ‘not gay’.
That settled that, then.
“I’m not gay,” I told my ceiling.
Taking a deep breath, I crawled out of bed and grabbed a pair of track pants. After getting dressed, I tried to avoid all internal discussions and zoned out watching ESPN while running on the treadmill. That plan was shot to shit the moment I turned on the TV.
There was no way gay men watched as much ESPN as I did—another check to the 'not gay' column. My confidence was returning; that made five ticks in column ‘not gay’, zero ticks for column ‘gay’. I felt immeasurably better. Until I entered the shower.
Why were men, who weren’t me, figuring in my fantasies at all? That was the first question that popped up in my mind. My subconscious, not-so-covertly, slipped into my head, You’ve cheated on every woman you’ve been with.
Yes, but with other women, I answered it.
Because you didn’t want to get married, it said.
The relationships weren’t working.
Shut up.
I didn’t even need my subconscious to argue why the relationships weren’t working: Sex.
It had never been exactly perfect. I had never felt that burning sensation in my stomach when I was around women or when I met someone new. But I was twenty-six. Kids got that feeling, not adults.
Mitzi. That was the last time I had felt that sensation. She was a girl.
That was your first kiss, though, and twenty-some other kids were watching.
Stop thinking about this! Easy to say, impossible to do.
That wasn’t the last time, now that I was thinking about what-I-wasn’t-supposed-to-be-thinking-about. I paused in the middle of soaping up my chest.
It wasn’t Mitzi. It was Jesse Chambroy, and I had been fourteen. I exhaled sharply and collapsed against the tile wall. After standing under the spray, in shock, for a good ten minutes, I climbed out of the shower, carefully, and braced my hands against the counter top, dripping onto my bathmat. I stared up into the mirror. My stunned brown eyes staring back at me.
Jesse Chambroy, the captain of the varsity football team. Muscled jock who’d had a smile like Tom Cruise. How could I have forgotten that? How could I have forgotten him?
Austin or Alex or Idiot
“I’m not gay.” That wasn’t what I meant to say. At least not so bluntly. It had just become a mantra as I drove across town. Repeated over and over so many times that, by the time I stood in the diner, confronted once again by this visceral attraction to a perfect stranger, the words tumbled out.
“Congratulations. Would you like a medal?” Bunny Slippers asked.
“I already have a medal. For bravery, not for being gay. I think you made me gay.”
“I made you gay?” He set down the napkin he was holding. “Is that better or worse than the person who made you stupid?”"
“Worse,” I answered automatically. Then I computed what he said. Ouch. “I have a degree.”
“What are pointless and obtuse bits of information, Alex?”
“Austin,” I corrected.
“Right now, you’re Alex.”
“What?” This conversation wasn’t going at all like I planned.
“This is Jeopardy, right? You give all the answers, I tell you the questions?”
“You’re confusing,” I answered. Confusing and beautiful. Jesus. So beautiful. His eyes were bright and angry, framed by thick copper lashes. Another white t-shirt wrapped itself tightly against his chest and stomach, showing off his lean body. I might have drooled.
Bunny Slippers watched my appraisal for at least a full minute before clasping his hands and resting them on the table. “You stand in the doorway, clothes sticking to you like you just got out of the shower and didn’t dry off.” I hadn’t dried off actually. “Your hair is wet like it’s been raining, but it’s near ninety outside. You glare at me for a good ten minutes before you come over. Sit across from me in my booth, without an invitation. Don’t introduce yourself. Don’t say hello. You announce you’re not gay, but that I made you gay, and I am confusing you?”
Well, when he said it like that. “I’m not gay. You just made me think I was gay,” I clarified. I was frustrated and needed answers. Somehow I figured he had them. Logic: not one of my finer points today. Considering the last twenty-four hours of intense internal debate, I thought it understandable that I was being confusing, and feeling confused. I just wanted to stop thinking about him. Then I could go back to being not gay.
He let out an annoyed breath, blinked and grabbed another set of silverware from the tub to his left. “Go away, little boy,” he said as he rolled the utensils up into a paper napkin.
Teenager calling me little boy. Ouch again. I pulled a napkin from the stack and fiddled with it. “I might need to kiss you.”
He grabbed the napkin from my hand. “Because you assume I’m gay.” Once again, this conversation was not going where I thought it should, or where I needed it to go. I had just assumed he was gay. Or, well, I hadn’t actually thought about his side of things at all. I just wanted these new feelings and thoughts to coalesce into something that made sense.
“I don’t think anything is wrong with being gay. I even have friends who are gay.” Now I did, anyway. Yesterday I had a friend who was gay, until I talked to Dave.
“Why are you here then? You expecting me to fix it? Something you don't even think is wrong in the first place?”
“Not fix it.” Yes, fix it. “Just, people don’t discover they’re gay at twenty-six.”
“People have found out at fifty they were gay,” he pointed out, concentrating on his work. I wanted to take that tub of silverware and toss it through the plate-glass window, so he could give this crisis the attention it deserved.
“Yeah, but those are repress—” Oh. I rubbed the bridge of my nose and then gave him what I thought was my most sincere smile. “I have no reason to repress it. I really, really don’t think there’s anything wrong with being gay. In fact, if I were gay, I’d probably take out an ad. It would piss my dad off. I live to do that. There’s even a motto to that effect tattooed on my ass.” Wanna see?
“Listen, Alex—”
“Austin.”
“Austin, Alex, Idiot. Whatever. I don’t care. Not about your name, not about your gayness or not gayness, not about your parents or your friends. I don’t care about you perio—” I leaned across the table and parked my lips a hair’s breadth from his. Bunny Slippers took a shuddering breath mid-sentence as his eyes blinked to my mouth, and then his lips parted. I wanted to take advantage of that, but the fucking table was busy cock-blocking me.
By the time I maneuvered close enough for our mouths to meet, he was glaring at me and pulling away.
Then he flicked my nose hard enough to make my eyes water.
“Ow! Shit.” I sat back down, rubbing the stinging skin and watched him slide out of the booth. He disappeared behind the kitchen doors without so much as a ‘fuck off.’ Not that I would have done anything even if he had stuck around. The fact that I had tried to kiss him at all had stunned me into a motionless blob. I had wanted that kiss. I had wanted to kiss a guy. Badly. Then another thought leapt into my head before I had the opportunity to weasel my way back into denial.
Why had I gone directly to gay? Not bisexual. Not a passing interest in someone of the same sex. Straight—so to speak—to gay. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Gay.
I wandered out into the parking lot in a daze, sat in my Jag, staring ahead. Cars zoomed past. I began counting them in order to avoid thinking. It didn’t work. I drove home thinking about it, thought about it while eating dinner, through another ESPN marathon, when ordering a truckload of baby stuff for Marta online. And when I climbed into bed, it was still the only thing I was thinking about.
What Monday would be like at the station with this new found information? Would I suddenly start checking out guys? Would someone see something different about me?
I still had no answers when I fell asleep, just one more question. What about Angelica?
Booyah!
My tie flapped behind me. My dress shirt soaked with sweat under my suit jacket. “Suspect heading north on Josephine, crossing 19th. Over,” I huffed into the radio. Blood pounded in my ears while I panted each breath. My shoes lifted off the sidewalk as I twisted, dodging pedestrians and hopping over parked cars.
I was gaining ground, pushing myself to go faster when Prisc Alvarado stumbled into the intersection ahead of me. The toes of my shoes nearly collided with his sneakered heels before I leaped onto his back, both of us falling in a heap.
Alvarado’s elbow smashed into my ribcage as he threw his head back. I jerked away just in time to stop him from smashing my nose into my brain. “Fucking,” I panted, “stay,” huff, “still, asshole.”
Digging my knee into his ass, I scooted it up to the small of his back, fingers wedged into his neck. I pushed his face into the cement while reaching for my cuffs, trying to see what I was doing while sweat blurred my vision. My hundred and seventy pounds of muscle fought every inch of his two hundred plus pounds. Adrenalin at an all-time high, I laughed euphorically while slipping the steel over Alvarado’s wrists. Two patrolmen pulled up and rushed over to assist. I jumped off my suspect once he was cuffed and did a small victory dance, still panting merrily.
“What was that, thirteen blocks?” I looked to both uniformed men for an answer.
“Seventeen,” Fitzpatrick answered with a chuckle, lifting the suspect onto his feet.
Officers Kelly Fitzpatrick and Jason Dillon were affectionately known as Mick and Dick. The names derived from some very serious racial stereotyping in Mick’s case. And Dick? Dick resembled a walking penis. Not that either of them complained. Dick, a tall, skinny, dark-skinned man with all of seven hairs on his head, clearly won in the nickname department, as far as I was concerned. Mick, by contrast, had a full head of salt and pepper hair and was built like a truck.
“Booyah!” I pumped a fist to my hip, wearing my goofiest grin. This was a good collar, and I was going to milk it.
Luis pulled our unmarked piece-of-shit (read: police issued car) to the curb beside the patrol car and got out shaking his head. The two patrolmen led our suspect to their vehicle. Then Luis smacked me upside the head.
“Knock that shit off,” he said, nodding at my dance of triumph. My dance halted, but my grin didn’t fade.
“Fucking cracker,” Alvarado hissed as he was shoved into the patrol car.
“Aw, that’s discrimination, right there.” I feigned hurt. “See, I see you as scumbag first, Alvarado. Or dick-cheese. Scum-sucking pedophile. Asshole. The fact that you’re Hispanic doesn’t even factor into it.” I aimed my stupid grin at Luis.
“Lawyer,” Alvarado spat as the door slammed shut.
Well, shit.
“Nice bust, kid.” Luis laughed. My grin widened at the compliment.
Still high from my Superpowers of Awesomeness, I pushed off the sidewalk and slid across the hood of our car on my back, landing neatly on the other side. The heat from the car’s metal hood clung to my suit. “Let’s catch some more bad guys.” Throwing open the passenger door, I flopped in the seat, pulling the door shut.
Luis stayed outside, talking to Fitzpatrick and waving happily at Alvarado, who was probably giving us the finger. I scrambled out of my suit jacket and prayed for air conditioning.
“You kids today,” Luis commented as he slipped into the driver’s seat. Neither of us mentioned the way my hands shook as they drummed against my knee. “See what you did? Now we have to go and fill out goddamn paperwork for the rest of the afternoon.”
We turned to each other and chuckled. After a six-hour stakeout and then a manic chase, we were both counting on some mind-numbing paperwork.
At fifty-four, and two hundred and thirty pounds, there weren’t many foot pursuits that ended in arrests for Luis. Which was, I assumed, why they had paired us. Well, that, and the fact that he had the highest closure rate in Vice and Homicide combined, and I needed experience. But, while I was the rookie detective, I could hold my own—especially in situations like today, when one of our arrestees threw himself out the open patio doors and booked it down the street.
In the world of dirtbags, Prisc Alvarado was aiming to be the king. Like most seasoned criminals, Alvarado’s arrest record began small with petty theft, dealing and pandering. It was as a pimp where he found his calling. His arrest, we hoped, would severely slow the expansion of his growing human trafficking business. The case of a lifetime in a city not known for high profile organized crime. It was a good day for Luis and me. Hell, it was a good day for humanity.
“We gotta go back to that dirtbag’s house and watch them complete the search,” Luis told me.
“What’s it look like?”
“It looks like one of Vice’s biggest busts in three years.” He laughed, lighting a cigarette and rolling down the window. I grimaced and rolled mine down, too. To reiterate, I hated smoking. And much as I liked Luis, I didn’t want to be his cigarette. With an extra thirty pounds around his middle, he was definitely no Bunny Slippers.
And now, of course, I was thinking about him.
Luis did a one-eighty, and we were both silent as we headed back to Alvarado’s house. I got lost in thoughts about freckles and hostile youths, while trying to hold my head out the window and avoid the smell of smoke. Luis, I presumed from the silence, was contemplating the mounds of paperwork we were going to be doing until late tonight.
“You bringing Angelica by this Sunday?” Luis said.
“Sunday?”
“Yeah. The barbeque.”
I regarded him blankly for a second and then remembered that he’d invited us to a cookout a few weeks ago. We always had a good time with Luis and his family. But I hadn’t seen my fiancée in two days, since the tux fitting, and I didn’t relish the thought of talking to her anytime soon. My stomach knotted just thinking about it. Better to not think about it. Always better to not think about it.
“Can’t do, sorry. Parents having a fundraiser. Just found out the Chief’ll be there.” I waggled my brows.
“Kissing some ass, then?”
“Whatever it takes,” I replied. Luis knew about my FBI plans. Everyone in the division knew. “Kissing ass, sucking cock.” I blanched at the words as I said them. I had been trying to not to think about that very thing all day. My stare settled outside my window where rolling green lawns sparkled with sprinklers.
Now I was thinking about jizz.
“Hey, you don’t need to kiss ass, kid.” I didn’t mind the nickname, though it was condescending. He could’ve called me a lot worse than ‘kid’.
Way back when I started the force, I got a lot of flak from the other officers. My family was rich—I was rich. A lot of the guys assumed, rightly or not, that being a cop was just some flakey rich kid’s rebellion. I was going to college at night back then. My days were spent on patrol. I joined the police force early so I could get the required experience before I applied with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Rich kid joining the police force for kicks? That was bad. Rich kid using the police force for his own ambitions? That, other cops could understand, even if they didn't approve of it. Ambition meant that I was going to work my ass off. And I did.
“I gotta kiss ass, Luis. You know it, and I know it. My record’s good, but when the hiring freeze is over, applications are going to pile high. I want mine to rise to the top.” I batted my lashes at him, adding in an affected feminine voice, “Like lovely clotted cream.” This earned me another swat to the head.
Whatever. I still felt on top of the world, even though I was going to spend the rest of my shift doing nothing but cataloging evidence and filing paperwork.
We left the station around midnight, exhausted, but still on a high from our bust. Although Alvarado had lawyered up, we had good evidence: Mexican passports and I.D.s; pictures of men, women and children along with names and ages; paperwork on various warehouses in the city and a hefty sum of cash. I waved goodnight to Luis, fully intending to head home and sleep—or, more likely, blackout. But once out on the road my car seemed to steer on its own.
Neutral Schmeutral
Throughout my crazy day, I had failed to keep my mind off Bunny Slippers, but at least they were neutral thoughts. Was he a college student, working as a busboy to pay his tuition? Did he live at home, or in a dorm? What did he taste like?
Maybe not so neutral.
This obsession was terrifying. I couldn’t go one hour without thinking about him. I was sick of thinking about it. My sexuality shouldn’t be an issue at twenty-six. I had to do something. To prove…Prove what? I didn’t know. My answer was inside the diner; I had somehow convinced myself of that much.
The thought of even possibly being gay terrified me. I worked hard to prove myself on the force, and soon I'd have enough experience as a detective to apply to the FBI. Law enforcement careers weren’t particularly conducive to being gay. And fuck it, I’m not gay. Goddammit.
I’m bunny-slipper-sexual?
Not gay, but there I was, sitting in my car, parked in the diner’s lot, watching the alley through my rearview mirror. My stomach twisted at the thought of seeing him. It was becoming more and more difficult to swallow with the knot in my throat. And I had barely thought about Angelica all day.
“You’re an asshat, Austin,” I said to myself.
Shit. Hell. Damn.
Go home. Call Angelica. Or go to a shoe store and buy the boy some loafers.
I switched the car on and prepared to pull out. The dashboard clock blinked at me. I had been sitting here three hours arguing with myself over whether to go in or go home.
Three hours.
Oh, Christ. This was getting creepy.
Reaching for the stick shift, I got ready to pull out. The side door to the restaurant opened.
I froze as the lighter illuminated his cheek and lips. He took a long drag, billowing smoke out into the night. My heart beat erratically. I sat there, same position as last time, same neck ache, same inability to leave. He was about fifteen feet from my Jag. Fifteen bunny-slippered feet.
Even this late, the parking lot was full of battered cars, probably from club-goers getting a last meal before passing out. But mine was the only car idling. Which was why I wasn’t surprised when Bunny Slippers propped his shoulder against the wall, cocking his head slightly as he looked toward my car. My breath halted. I was sure he couldn’t see me through the darkened windows, but somehow, it felt like he was seeing right into my slipper-obsessed soul.
The bunny slippers, a different pair—and how many did he have, for fuck’s sake?—appeared under the street lights as he walked toward my car, cigarette flicking from his fingers and bouncing across the pavement. I followed the trail of red sparks until they burned out. “Fuck,” I whispered.
I stared in horrified fascination as he made his way to the passenger side door. My pulse jumped at each tap of his knuckles against the window. It took several seconds to decide whether to roll it down or just unlock the door. I chose the latter.
Pulling his apron off over his head, Bunny slippers climbed in the passenger seat and shut the door. Scents—his scents—filled the car: tobacco, soap, and something herbal that reminded me of my college girlfriend’s incense. I detected cinnamon and sugar as well, and I wondered if he had been baking.
“Hey,” I said lamely. I didn’t know what else to add. I just want to get to know you? Buy you loafers? The longer I sat, the faster my heart worked. Say something. Say something. Say some—“How was your day?”
“Who gives a fuck?” His voice was as cold as his glare. Not that coldness detracted from his beauty; quite the opposite. It only complemented the sharp angles of his face.
I didn’t know how to respond to his aggressive declaration, and apparently he wasn’t adding anything else to the conversation, so the two of us sat in silence.
I guess I thought he’d give a fuck. He had, after all, climbed into my car. Though now he seemed to be debating whether to leave or talk or, well, judging by the way his fingers were opening and closing on the door handle, there was some debate about something. I was about to ask him to coffee—because I was the lamest guy ever—when he spoke up.
“Fifty bucks for a blow, twenty for hand. You don’t touch me or kiss me. And I don’t fuck. Payment up front. Got it?” His head tilted, those dead eyes watching me like he could give two shits whether I took the offer or left it.
I should have expected it. Shit, I was a vice cop, I should have fucking expected it. But the thought hadn't even crossed my mind. And the clenching ache in my gut was ten times worse because of my ridiculous idealism. I blamed those damn slippers.
Of course, I couldn’t take him up on it.
But Jesus, I wanted to.
Our eyes met as I heard myself ask, “How much to touch you?” Jesus Christ. What the hell am I doing? A giant sign in my head kept flashing: “Career ending! Career ending!” in bright neon red.
I knew what I was doing, though, and I just had to take the risk. Him touching me could leave doubts. But if I willingly put my hands on another man, and I enjoyed it, then some of my questions would be answered. I needed this debate resolved to function normally again. And better with a whore than some random stranger who could get attached. Or with whom I could get attached.
His shoulders dropped for a second and then tensed. He set his jaw and chewed his lower lip. He was calm. By contrast I was a mess. My nails dug into my thighs, my breathing heavy and clipped, and I couldn’t stop staring at him. Was he gauging my desperation? It had to be obvious just how desperate I was. The sad part was, it wasn’t even desperation to fuck him. Well, it was and it wasn’t. It was more than that.
“Two hundred.” He turned to the scenery outside my window.
“Do you want to wait here while I go to an ATM?” Did I actually just say that? I was oddly excited, vaguely nauseated and terrified. I didn’t even know how old he was.
And…I kept staring at his feet. What would his reaction be if I offered to buy him sneakers? Big, ugly, pink-checkered sneakers. The kind of footwear that even I couldn’t find attractive.
Bunny Slippers reached behind him and pulled the safety belt across his chest. I mentally laughed at the gesture. For all he knew, I could be taking him off to murder him, and he was putting his seatbelt on, making it easier to hold him hostage.
Wrapping my arm around the back of his headrest, I twisted to check my blind spots and pulled out of the parking lot. I kept my hand on his seat while I drove. Delicious sprouts of auburn hair almost touched my skin. Almost. If I just stretched my finger…
Think of something to say, Austin. Nothing came to mind except that flashing sign that kept changing its marquee. FBI career over! Arrested! Underage Prostitute! Prostitute! Male Prostitute!
Half a block away, I pulled into an ATM kiosk and emptied five hundred dollars from my account; all the while I tried to talk myself out of, and into, this insane plan to pay someone, a guy, for sex.
Not sex. You’re not having sex with him.