Hush by Tal Bauer (2)

Chapter 9

“Yes, yes, I know you do not like it here.” Vadim Kryukov sucked down his cigarette and rolled his eyes. The voice on the other end of the phone kept bitching, whining about the heat, the humidity, the bugs. It was never this hot in Moscow, never.

“Look, it is only for a little while longer, yes? Until we finish. Then you can go home.” Vadim spotted his date striding up the sidewalk. He needed to end this conversation. “Look, I will give you something to make you feel better, yes? I will give you something special.”

The voice grumbled, snapping his displeasure about America and Americans, and everything he was forced to endure.

“Is not much longer. I promise.” Vadim waved to his date. His date smiled and waited, coy and eyeing him up and down. The promise of a long, breathless, glorious night lay in that gaze. He was done with this conversation. “I will be in touch. You know what to do until then.”

A Russian curse and a snap, and then the line cut out.

Vadim slipped the phone in his back pocket and headed for his date. “Hello, gorgeous. Are you ready for a great time? I have everything we need to play all night long.” A little cocaine, some poppers, booze, and smokes. They’d watch the sun rise as his date fucked him again.

“I can’t wait,” his date purred, voice low and husky.

Vadim smiled slowly. “What are we waiting for?”

Chapter 10

June 13^th

Tom straightened his polo, trying to smooth the pale blue fabric. He turned left and then right, inspecting his khaki shorts, the lay of his shirt. How did his ass look? He’d tried to keep it tight over the years. Were the shorts too baggy? Did he look good? Or old? Or did he just look pathetic?

He didn’t have anything hip to wear, and he’d feel stupid if he tried anyway. He couldn’t even imagine trying to put on a pair of skinny jeans or squeeze his way into a metallic shirt. He had his normal—boring—straight leg jeans, his button-downs, his polos, and his khaki shorts.

He was a regular fashion model for the forgettable mid-forties guy, blending into obscurity.

Tipping his head back, Tom sighed, closing his eyes. Why was he doing this? Why was he even trying? Twenty-five years of solitude, and he’d been… well, not fine. Not great. But not terrible. He’d done twenty-five years of this life already. What was another twenty-five?

He didn’t have to tiptoe out of his closet. He didn’t have to change anything.

His empty house seemed to swell around him, silent, eerily so. It felt, suddenly, like a tomb. His coffin, an empty crypt to his empty life. He was going to die in this house one day, and no one would know. Someone, eventually, would complain about the smell, and the last anyone would hear about him was some local headline buried on page seven about a former federal judge dying and decaying alone until he putrefied on his floors.

His bones would be buried and no one would ever know him, truly know him.

He was going to die in this house, and that day would come sooner rather than later if he had to endure this aching loneliness for another twenty-five years. He should never have fantasized. Never let loose the shackles on his dreams. Never tasted hope, or imagined what could have been.

But he had and now he had to make a choice: keep going, keep tiptoeing out, or turn around and slam that closet door shut again.

He took a breath, and then another.

“Etta Mae! Are you ready to go for a walk?”

From fast asleep, lying on her back with her four paws spread wide and limp, Etta Mae leaped to her feet, spinning until she found him. She stared him down, as if challenging whether he was serious or not, while her tail wagged and wagged.

“C’mon. Let’s go get your harness.”

Howling, she took off, bounding down the stairs, her fluffy butt wiggling and tail held high. He heard her paws scratching at the wall below where he kept her leash and harness on a hook. If she could have, she’d have readied herself.

“I’m coming, missy.” He wrangled her into her harness—always a challenge when she was wiggling and excited—and then clipped her leash on. She bolted for the door, unspooling the retractable leash as he slipped into his low-tops. Etta Mae stuck her long nose into the seam of the door and sniffed, exhaling out in long snorts, as if she was counting the seconds he was delaying her by not opening the door immediately.

Finally, they were out, setting off. Etta Mae trotted ahead, wagging her tail, nose high, sniffing the scents of the city. He followed behind, steering her gently toward the National Mall.

Celebrate your fabulous life, the advertisement had said. Come out and party!

He needed to do this. He needed to take this step, at the very least. Be among his people. Be in solidarity with himself. Walk in the sunlight as a gay man—if only to himself—for once in his adult life.

Maybe after, he’d message Doug again. See if he wanted to grab a glass of wine at one of the patio bars. Or take a walk through the monuments, circle the World War II Memorial, or walk up the hill to the Washington Monument. See if they could keep their banter going in person. See if he could be a gay man with another gay man.

But first things first. He had to get there.

What did a celebration of gay life look like? He didn’t even know. He’d carefully excised everything gay from his world, purposely shuttered his eyes and his heart. His last encounter with any of his own people was back in 1991. The memories were still washed in hate, and, to this day, he could taste the tears and cigarette smoke, the future that felt like ash and decay.

He was walking into the unknown, but damn it, he was going to do this.

He could hear the celebration before he got close. Drums, street drums, plastic buckets turned upside down. Music, club pop and pop hits. Britney Spears, Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, all waxing and waning, voices twining together and pulsing to a thrumming bass, far away. He turned east on Constitution Ave and passed the Ellipse, and then ducked onto the hill, jogging with Etta Mae up the grass to the rise around the Washington Monument.

And then, he saw it.

Spread before him, below him, stretched the National Mall. The green space of Washington DC, home to monuments, museums, and the city’s picnics, festivals, and parties.

And now, home to DC Pride, the celebration of their lives.

A rainbow arch of balloons rose over the entrance to the National Mall at the base of the hill. They fluttered and floated in the breeze, stretching for the sky, fifteen feet tall. Bright, brilliant colors, a bold statement, a declaration. His breath hitched.

Rainbow flags were staked into the ground along the edges of the Mall, flapping proudly, another vivid declaration. As far as he could see, all the way to the U.S. Capitol, rainbows waved and shimmered, the colors of his people, proudly flown for all to see.

The Mall was busy. Flamboyant dancers spun and twirled in one corner of the lawn, near the National Museum of American History. Farther down the grass, by the Smithsonian Castle, a drum circle beat out a fast and furious rhythm. At the far end of the Mall, by the National Gallery of Art and silhouetted in front of the Capitol, a stage had been set up. Rainbow balloons billowed overhead and banners flapped as music poured from the speakers. Even from where he stood, he could still hear the music, the songs, floating on the breeze.

Scattered on the lawn, people gathered on blankets and under trees, picnicking, playing soccer, walking hand in hand. Men and men. Women and women. His people, laughing, smiling, out in the open, having a great time.

Celebrating their lives.

Twenty-five years really was a long, long time.

Tears pricked his eyes, and he swallowed hard, trying to force back a choking panic that seemed to rise within him, a swell of grief that nearly knocked him down. What had he missed? When had all this—all of who he was—become something to celebrate?

Etta Mae pulled at her leash, wanting to run and dive in. “Me too, Etta Mae,” he whispered. “Me too.”

They headed down, passing under the balloon arch on 14^th and into the green. Couples smiled at Etta Mae, and a pair of women crouched and scratched her ears, cooing at her floppy face. Three young men passed by and one laughed. “That dog is everything,” he snapped, his voice lilting and full of warmth, of life. “Everything.”

Rainbow flags were sticking out of backpacks and back pockets. Pride screamed from t-shirts and shorts, body paint and rainbows and slogans screaming in defiant joy and painted in vivid colors on bare skin. Music danced on the tree branches, rose and fell through the laughter and the happy voices of everyone talking, shouting, calling out to each other. Waving, smiling, laughing, singing. Drums pounded by the Smithsonian Castle, happy beats, proud beats.

The last time he’d heard bucket drums had been years ago, blocks away in front of the Capitol. The Second National March on Washington DC, in October 1987.

The day had been crisp and clear, an autumn day that hovered between the start of winter and an Indian Summer.

A cold wind and a hot sun, like the world had been those days.

President Reagan, leading society on a frigid indifference to the millions and millions of dead gays, and the fiery passion of a people refusing to die quietly.

In the South, the meeting and mixing of heat and ice birthed storms that created tornadoes, tragedies that killed and wrecked lives, destroyed the present and the future.

That sunny autumn day in DC, the storm had come in the form of bucket drums, skinny sick men shouting at the top of their wrecked lungs, and people who gave their all because that was all they had left. Supporters—so few they could be named and counted in a single list—marched arm in arm with dying men.

He’d sneaked out of his house, telling his parents he was going to a friend’s, and instead went to the Capitol on his own. He watched the protest in front of the Supreme Court, protesting Bowers v. Hardwick, a ruling which criminalized sodomy between two consenting men, even in private spaces, even in homes, and kept his existence—his desires, his life—a federal crime. Breathing in and breathing out, and dreaming his dreams at night, he was a felon-in-the-making, a man destined to go wrong, destined to break the law, and, of course, die for his sins. Wasn’t that how it worked in the movies? The bad guys got it in the end.

Seventeen-years-old, old enough to know, in the marrow of his bones, that he was one of them. He was one of the gay men his mother tsked about and his father shook his head over. He was one of the forgotten, tragic millions, destined to die by a thousand sad sighs and averted eyes. He wanted a man’s hands on his skin, his lips on his lips, his body moving over and around and into his own. There was nothing he wanted more, the summer he turned seventeen, than to drop to his knees and suck a dick, suck it and suck it until he feasted on the come while some man ran his hands through his shaggy haircut, the rage of the late 80s grunge culture.

He watched the AIDS quilt be spread out for the very first time on the National Mall—on this very lawn—in 1987, and felt like he’d soared out of his body. Flying high over the Mall, over the panels and panels of names and faces, the only headstone some men would ever know. He thought he was looking at the future, one long stretch of names and faces, a history of gay men that would lead to the end of their existence. The panels on the quilt, the names, the faces, were all that was left of so many men. They had died, their friends had died, their lovers, their partners, their families. Whole communities, erased.

When would he be on the quilt?

His soul had yo-yoed, then. He was gay, he was one of them. Surely he was destined to die. What would he do with his life until then?

No, he wasn’t going to go out like that. Look at this march, he’d thought. Listen to the drums! Change is in the air! I’ll be fine. I’ll go to college, to law school. I’ll be the change in the world.

When had his back been broken? When had his seventeen-year-old passion been snuffed? Was it his professor’s words? Or was it the hundreds, thousands, millions of side-eyed glares and breathless sneers, the looks that promised a beating, a killing, if he only waited around for the pleasure. The news that told him every day he was worth less than all others. He was expendable. He wasn’t worth saving. His life was measured in statistics, in timescales and chances and tsks and sighs.

He wanted to live and he wanted to die, and he was so fucking terrified of his own soul. His own existence. Too many hormones and too little frontal lobe development of his early adulthood. He’d been a shooting star that burned too bright, breaking apart in the upper atmosphere of life.

He’d given up.

And he’d missed the road to this.

He was a refugee of his own existence, and he walked through the crowd, the pulsing, vibrant, celebration bursting with life that surrounded him. The sun was warm on his skin, on his face, like that autumn day three decades ago. But this was purely warm, warm with life, with future, with happiness. The cold wind, the terror, was gone.

Tom tipped his head back and smiled, his face to the sun. Let osmosis work its magic, let the happiness, the heat, the life seep into his skin and into his bones. Soak this up, this day, this moment, the rainbow colors and the laughter, until his skeleton was wreathed in rainbows and each individual fiber in his muscles pulsed with pride.

Like a sailor lost at sea, he swam furiously for the shore, for this shore, which he never, ever imagined could be.

Etta Mae’s tail kept wagging, and her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth. He pulled her into the shade and poured some water into a collapsible bowl for her. She drank greedily, making a mess, flinging water from her jowls as she looked up at each new sound or passerby. She was too excited to drink much and spilled most of it by the time she was impatiently done, trying to drag him down the path to the next group of people who cooed at her.

A group of men and women were flying kites off to his left, and ahead, a small group was tossing a frisbee back and forth. It looked like a game, like football without tackling mixed with basketball moves to block throws. Two of the men playing were tall and slender, their long legs pumping out of short shorts. One was larger, bulkier, and shirtless, his shoulders muscled and a light pelt of fur grazing his chest and marching down his belly to his low-slung waistband.

He watched, his eyes wandering over the shirtless player. He had on a backwards ball cap and sunglasses, and he laughed as he flung the frisbee over the head of one of the slender defenders. The defender slapped him on the belly, and he doubled over, grinning, and then wrapped his arms around the other man. The skinny guy, in tiny shorts and a tank top tied in a knot just to the side of his belly button, slapped his arms, but blew a kiss over his shoulder.

Desire slammed into him, like he’d been tackled from behind. God, he wanted that. He wanted a man to wrap his arms around him, smile into the side of his cheek, freely love him in public under the sun, in public in the nation’s capital. He wanted, so badly, so strongly. He wanted someone—a man—to love him.

He really should message Doug. See if he could resurrect that fledgling connection.

The man in the backwards ball cap let go of the other and spun, beaming, laughing, radiating happiness. He turned, facing Tom.

He stopped dead and his jaw dropped. He froze, staring.

Tom looked over his shoulder. Was someone naked behind him? Was there someone stunningly hot walking by, something that could have earned that response?

He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just the same groups of happy couples and partners picnicking on the lawn, men and men kissing as they shared cheese cubes and glasses of wine, women and women cuddling or playing with young children on their blankets.

When he turned back, the shirtless man was jogging toward him.

Oh shit. It was Mike.

His insides went slippery, his guts like a thousand wriggling jellyfish trying to escape. Mike, beautiful Mike, coming toward him shirtless. God, he was breathtaking. Those shoulders were just as perfect as he imagined, as he dreamed, and—yep, Mike had a perfect stretch of chest hair, marching down his flat belly and forming a trail that disappeared under his waistband. His board shorts were tied low, and his hip bones angled out from his slim waist, tanned skin stretched taut.

Tom’s blood seared his bones, desire like a frisson, a bomb going off in his chest and sparking through him. His mouth went dry, parched, as he imagined running to Mike and sinking to his knees, yanking his shorts down—

“Judge B?” Confusion strained Mike’s voice, and he spoke softly, once he was close enough to be heard over the music and the drums and the clamor of happy voices. He shook his head. “What are you doing here?”

Tom’s gaze fixed to Mike’s chest, to his perfect pecs. Words fled, the ability to speak a forgotten skill of a higher mammalian being. His mouth opened and shut, opened and shut.

Etta Mae barked, howling up at Mike and wagging her tail. She would not be ignored.

Mike crouched and grinned, ruffling her ears and scratching behind her collar. Etta Mae beamed and gazed up at Mike with soulful eyes, full of love.

Another devotee to the worship of Mike. Great. Jealousy flared. Etta Mae had known Mike for two seconds and his hands were all over her.

Jesus, he was jealous of his dog. He was losing it, big time.

Mike looked up, and then seemed to realize he was shirtless. “Uhh, sorry.” He grabbed his t-shirt, hanging out of the back of his waistband, and pulled it over his head, quickly shoving his arms through the holes and tugging it down.

“You don’t have—I mean, it’s fine—I don’t mind—You’re—”

Shut your mouth. Shut your mouth right now. Nothing you say will fix this. Tom’s jaw clamped shut. He swallowed and tried to smile. Tried to buy time. Mike’s t-shirt, at least, had seemed to gift him back some of his brain cells. “I’m just out for a walk. Beautiful day!”

“Yeah.” Mike still stared at him, and even though his eyes were covered, Tom could feel the questions. Of all the parks and all the walks he could go on in DC, and he ended up on the Mall in the middle of Pride?

His confidence, his joyous optimism from moments before, fled. The cold wind was back, sliding up his bones. Words stuck in his throat, crashing into each other like trains piling up, the tracks from his soul to his voice long derailed. He wanted to say I’m here to celebrate, I’m here to party, I’m here because I’m just like you, I’m here because I’m gay.

But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“I saw a flyer for this last night,” he said quickly. “Wanted to check it out.” Not quite a lie. Not the truth, though, and his soul shriveled.

Mike smiled. “Cool.” He nodded back to the group playing frisbee. “My friends and I came out together. I take it this is Etta Mae?”

Etta Mae was staring up at Mike like Tom wanted to, mouth open, tongue hanging out, panting and wagging her tail, obviously enamored. “Yeah, this is my princess.”

Mike crouched down and petted her again. Etta Mae rolled over and spread her legs, begging for a belly rub.

Tom was jealous. He was so very, very jealous.

One of Mike’s friends, the one Mike had wrapped up in a hug, peered at them. He had a bandana rolled up and knotted around his forehead and his brown hair was artfully spiked on top of his head. Effortless athletic chic. Sophistication. He looked great, so much more amazing than Tom’s boring polo and khaki shorts. His ass also looked stunning, unlike Tom’s. God, he was old.

Mike’s friend jogged for them, his long legs gleaming in the sunlight, sun-kissed skin winking beneath his knotted tank top. He pulled up next to Mike and leaned one arm on his shoulder as Mike stood. “Hey,” he said, looking Tom up and down. His voice, his tone, said so much more than hello. “I’m Kris.” Kris held out his hand, delicately.

Tom took it, smiling politely. “Tom. Nice to meet you.”

“Trust me, the pleasure is mine.” Kris winked.

Mike elbowed Kris in his ribs and turned sharply to his friend. He shook his head, quick, violent shakes that said no, no, stop flirting. Kris frowned at him and pulled his chin back, arching one delicate eyebrow.

Mike spoke quickly. “It was nice seeing you—”

“Are you a friend of Mike’s?” Kris talked right over Mike, stepping away from him and toward Tom. “Cute dog. He’s a hoot.”

“She.” Tom grinned. Etta Mae was back on her butt, watching everything around them, sniffing the air. “And we work together.”

“Ooo, are you a lawman like him? Big, bad U.S. marshal?”

“Kris—”

Laughing, Tom shook his head. “No, I’m—”

“He’s a lawyer.” Mike jumped in, answering for Tom. “We work at the courthouse together.”

Kris’s gaze bounced from Mike to Tom and back again. “Well, you must be one of the good guys, then,” Kris said slowly. “Mike only likes the prosecutors.”

Mike sighed and shook his head, his hands on his hips. Tom smiled. “That’s good to know. And yes, I was in the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”

“Definitely one of the good guys.” Kris winked, a saucy little smile playing on his lips. “Want to join us? We don’t have enough for a full game, but we’re making do—”

“I’m sure he doesn’t want to play with us, Kris—”

“I’d love to!”

Awkward, awkward silence. Kris turned a droll stare to Mike, arching both eyebrows high on his forehead.

“Kris, could you give us a minute?” Mike crossed his arms and stared at his friend, a silent glare hidden by his shades.

“Yeah, sure…” Kris waved, a little wiggle of his fingertips. “Nice meeting you, handsome.” He trotted off, his ass pushing out just a little bit.

Handsome. Huh. Tom puffed out his chest, just a bit. He hadn’t been called handsome… ever. There’d been no one to say it to him. Something tickled his soul, though, some kind of light and pride. Someone, some man thought he was attractive. Kris wasn’t his type, but he wasn’t going to turn down a compliment.

“Sorry,” Mike sighed, groaning. “Kris can be incorrigible. He’s a maneater. He doesn’t know you’re straight. He’s just making assumptions.” He shook his head. “Please don’t be offended.”

I’m not straight. I’m not straight at all. I loved that, that was the first time I’ve felt like a real man in years— Mike’s words caught up with his misfiring brain. “I’m not offended.”

Mike smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Thanks.” He chewed on his lip. “You’re… welcome to stay, I mean, you can totally play. I just didn’t think you’d want to.” He shrugged again, lopsidedly. “We’re all gay, I mean. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

He’d never wanted something more in his life. A group of gay men, friends, a day in the sun. Could he make friends with these guys, join in the effortless fun, the happiness? Could he steal some of that joy for himself? “I’d love to stay.” A new worry chewed on his brain, munching at the base of his skull. “If that’s okay with you,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to intrude.” His eyes searched Mike’s group of friends, clustered around Kris now, chatting and making no attempt to hide that they were watching him and Mike.

Which one of those men was Mike’s boyfriend? Which one had he been ditched for last night?

“You’re not intruding. C’mon.” Mike beckoned him over to the group. “Etta Mae can chill with Aaron and Carlos.” He pointed to a blanket stretched out on the lawn, set away from their game. Two men were laid out, shirtless, their skin gleaming with a sheen of oil, shorts hiked up to show off all of their thighs. They were obviously tanning, soaking up the sun. Mike introduced them. “Carlos,” he said, pointing to the shorter of the two, a Hispanic man with a close-cropped haircut, tight, slender muscles, and no body hair. “And Aaron.” Aaron was taller, a runner with grasshopper legs and arms, pale as cream, with a few sprigs of chest hair valiantly trying to poke their way out of the center of his chest. “This is Tom.”

They both eyed him, Aaron even raising his sunglasses to get a better look. Etta Mae trampled them both, crawling over the two men like they were puppies she was destined to play with. Carlos sputtered, but Aaron cooed, baby-talking Etta Mae as her tail went wild.

“Watch her for us while we play.” Mike took Etta Mae’s leash and tossed it to Aaron, then pulled Tom out to the others. He did quick introductions. Kris smirked, Jon—short, but muscular like Mike—squinted, and Billy—tall and slender with delicate features—nodded to Tom.

“He’s on our team,” Kris said, grabbing Tom’s arm and pulling him close.

“Oh, come on. It’s already three to one!”

“Deal with it, Captain America. He’s ours.” Kris flounced away, dragging Tom with him.

Kris, Jon, and Billy force-fed him the rules of the game—like flag football: no touching, no tackling, no running with the disc, and block all throws like you’re a tentacle monster—and their strategy. It was simple. Hem Mike into his end zone and make his life hell. Mike’s end zone was the rough patch of grass between the lime-green cooler and the end of Carlos and Aaron’s blanket.

“You’re about Mike’s size…” Kris eyed him up and down. There was something else in that look, something that made Tom fidget. “You should go play man on man D.” Kris winked slowly after he spoke, grinning, and Billy and Jon snorted.

Cheeks burning, Tom trotted down the grass, heading for Mike.

“They decide to be merciful and let you play on my team?”

I’m so on your team. We are the exact same team. I’m captain of your cheerleading squad— “I’m supposed to block you.”

Mike grinned. “Good luck.”

He never knew Mike was such a squirmy bastard. He was practically a dancer, wiggling and hopping on his tiptoes, flinging the frisbee over Tom’s head, around his waist, spinning away from his blocks. Tom kept his distance, politely keeping to the rules of no contact, but Mike stepped into blocks, throwing him off balance. He could smell Mike’s skin, his sweat, the sun on his hair. Could practically taste his laughter, the joy rolling off Mike every time he hurled the disc into their end zone.

Since Mike was a team of one, all he had to do was throw the frisbee into their end zone to get a point. He had a worryingly high number of points.

Kris was the de facto captain of their team. He called a huddle, and they all leaned in in a circle, hands on their knees, asses sticking out. “All right, Tom, you go long. You are a catcher, right?” They were on the offense again after another of Mike’s scores.

He flushed at Kris’s pointed words, breathing hard. He nodded.

“Mike will get all up in your business to try and intercept. Just shove your ass in his crotch. Works every time.” Kris winked as Tom’s jaw dropped.

They spread out, and then play began. Tom took off, jogging down the field into Mike’s end zone. Mike darted his way, watching him, watching Kris with the frisbee, watching him again.

Kris flung the disc, yellow plastic soaring into the air. Billy and Jon ran down the grass behind him, backups in case he fumbled. But the frisbee was coming right for Tom, and so was Mike.

Mike leaped, reaching for the frisbee over Tom’s head. Tom jumped too, twisting, pushing his body into Mike’s, and he ended up right in the circle of Mike’s arms, wrapped up in his hold, his hip and leg brushing against Mike’s, their crotches almost-but-not-quite coming into contact.

Flailing, Mike forgot the frisbee as shock broke over his face. His arms pinwheeled and he tried to twist away. Their legs tangled, and then their arms, and the ground came up fast.

At the last moment, Mike wrapped Tom up and twisted, taking the impact. They kept rolling, Mike’s spin propelling them along the grass until Mike ended up on top of Tom, practically straddling him. He pushed back, palms flat on the lawn, sunglasses missing somewhere in the crash, and stared down, worried panic making his eyes go wide. “You okay?”

Tom laughed and laughed. He wanted to reach for Mike, wrap his hands around Mike’s jaw, stroke his thumbs over his stubbled cheeks, and pull him down for a kiss. “I’m great.”

Mike smiled.

And then Etta Mae bowled Mike over, tackling him and pouncing on Tom, licking him ferociously as she checked him everywhere for bruises and bumps. Aaron came running after, shouting and trying to catch her trailing leash. Etta Mae turned to Mike and licked him too, slobbering all over his face. Kris howled from the end of the lawn, falling over as tears poured from his eyes, and Billy and Jon both just shook their heads.

The game wound down after that, and they ended up on Aaron and Carlos’s blanket together, now in the shade in the late afternoon. Bags of chips, a container of guacamole, and bottles of lite beer went around. Etta Mae begged for chips with her big brown eyes, and wheedled Aaron and Kris out of a half dozen. The guys started talking about their friends, people they knew from their expanded circle, and Tom caught names and references to clubs, an art museum, and the volleyball league Mike had mentioned.

Mike lounged by Tom, leaning back on his elbows, ankles crossed. Tom sat cross-legged, Etta Mae flounced across his lap, fast asleep as he massaged her ears.

“I’m glad you stayed.” Mike grinned up at Tom. His sunglasses rested on top of his head, perched on his ball cap. “Even though I thought I killed you.”

“I’m tough.” Tom winked. “But you’re fast. Jeez, you were hard to block.”

“Well, I might have been showing off a bit.”

“Hey!” Kris snapped his fingers. “Are we going out for dinner and drinks, or what?”

“Yeah.” Mike rolled up and checked his watch. “Yeah, happy hour starts soon.”

“I need to go freshen up.” Kris hopped to his feet and stretched, rolling his neck. “I smell like dirty balls and stank ass.”

“That’s ‘cause you have dirty balls and a—” Jon laughed and rolled away as Kris tried to kick him. They squabbled, Kris snapping at Jon and Billy as Aaron and Carlos gathered their things.  

Mike stood and held out his hand for Tom. Etta Mae woke and shook, and Tom reached for Mike. His hand was warm, and fit right in his grasp, his skin soft and rough in all the right places. A shiver ran down his spine, imaginary fingers that ghosted over his skin. He tried not to show how weak his knees went. “So, where are you guys going?”

“The Tap Room. It’s a chill place to kick back. It’s off K Street, by Dupont Circle.” Mike slung a backpack over his shoulder.

“Sounds great.”

The rest of the guys bled away, Kris leading them toward Constitution Ave, but Mike stayed behind. He fidgeted, his hands playing with the strap of his backpack. “I’d invite you to come along. I mean, you’re not not invited,” he said quickly, rolling his hands as he spoke. “It’s just— It’s a gay bar.” He sighed, his expression tightening. “And, I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable with that. I mean, you’re a judge, and…” He rolled his hands again, gesturing like he was signaling to invisible pieces of evidence, exhibits A through Z of Tom’s Potential Bad Decisions.

He was a judge. That was the reason he was in the closet, right? He couldn’t be both gay and live his life. His old professor, and society, had made that abundantly clear. He couldn’t appear…

Couldn’t appear what? Like he was alive? Like he was a man? Like he was a living, breathing human being with wants and desires and dreams of his own?

There were ten other openly gay judges.

Why couldn’t there be eleven?

Fear crawled up his bones like roots sprouting from the earth, spewing rationalities and excuses that flayed his trembling courage. This was too fast, too much. An afternoon in the sun, hanging out with Mike. That was more than he deserved. Anything beyond that was pushing the boundaries of good sense.

But… he could test the waters, perhaps. Go and step into a gay bar again. Be among his people. Get a lay of the land. And, if he was spotted, if he was asked, if his name appeared in the papers or was spoken about in hushed voices, he could say he was there with friends. Just there with friends.

He was a shitty person, thinking the thought. Using Mike and his friends and this offer as a way to test his extremely pathetic courage. Just call him the cowardly lion. He was a man with training wheels still attached. Did he have floaties on his arms, in case he went into the deep end of life?

Mike stared at him, biting his bottom lip. A question hung in his perfect blue eyes, the color of the sky above their heads. The corners of his eyes were pinching, and he started to look away.

“I’d like to go with you guys.” Tom swallowed. “I had a great time. I haven’t had this much fun in…” He blew out, losing count of the years, the decades. “I like your friends. I’d love to stick around, if that’s okay?”

Nodding, Mike smiled, exhaling like he’d held his breath. “Yeah, ‘course. They like you, too. I think Kris has a little crush on you.” He pushed his shoulder into Tom, a gentle, playful nudge, and started walking.

Tom laughed, his cheeks burning. Etta Mae trotted ahead, tired after her day at the Mall. She didn’t pull as hard on her leash. “I need to drop Etta Mae off at my house first. She needs dinner and I know she wants a nap.” Etta Mae turned her head, as if agreeing.

“I’ll walk you.”

He couldn’t say anything that would convey the warmth in his chest, the feeling of the sun rising rose gold in the sky just for him, so he said nothing at all.

He invited Mike in when they got to his place. Mike whistled as he walked up, eyeing the old DC style, the Victorian trim and historic neighborhood. “I wanted a place like this. Alas. Government salary.”

“I understand completely. I saved for years.” Tom let Etta Mae off her leash and she trotted inside, heading straight for her water bowl. “Bathroom is there, if you need it.”

While Mike ducked into the hall bathroom, he poured ice into Etta Mae’s bowl—she was waiting expectantly; she only drank chilled water—and then started prepping her dinner. By the time Mike reappeared, his face washed, hair wetted and combed, and sporting a zip-up hoodie that was obviously two sizes too small, Etta Mae was halfway through her dinner.

Tom looked at Mike and then down at himself. “Should I change?”

“What? No, you’re fine.”

Tom arched both eyebrows at Mike, slowly. “You look like you’re about to break the seams on that hoodie and I…” He waved his hand over his rumpled polo.

Mike’s cheeks flared crimson, and he looked away, looked down, coughed and shoved his hands in his hoodie’s front pockets. “You look fine, Judge B.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll be right back.” He headed for his stairs. “Let her out when she’s done, please.”

He sprinted for his bedroom and his closet. Jesus Christ, what should he wear? He ransacked his shirts, pulling out t-shirts and polos and discarding them as quickly as he tore them from their hangers. A pile appeared behind him, more shirts on the ground than on the rack. Cursing, he grabbed a long-sleeve gray pullover, a cotton shirt from an amateur swim competition he’d participated in years ago. It had shrunk a bit in the wash. He squeezed into it, and stared at himself in the mirror.

Well, it showed off his shoulders, and if he pulled up the sleeves, his forearms looked decent. It hugged his hips, too. At least he’d never developed a belly.

The door downstairs opened and shut, and he heard Etta Mae’s nails on his hardwood. Time to go. On the way, Tom grabbed a ball cap and plunked it on his head, and then thundered down the stairs. “All right, I’m ready.”

Mike smiled, gave him two thumbs-up, and gestured to the door.

“Etta Mae, get some rest.” She was already climbing the couch, ignoring him completely. “I’ll be back later.” She flopped onto the throw pillows with a sigh, her eyes drooping closed. “Don’t go crazy while I’m gone.” A huff, and then she went boneless, already asleep.

Tom rolled his eyes and followed Mike out the front door.

His stomach knotted as they walked, and he eyed Mike with a sidelong stare. Oh. He should have realized— “Is your boyfriend coming tonight?” He’d already figured out that Mike’s boyfriend wasn’t one of the guys from earlier.

Frowning, Mike spun. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“The guy from last night? Who you were meeting?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Tom wanted to shove them right back in, grab them out of the air and swallow them whole. He probably wasn’t Mike’s boyfriend, but that didn’t mean Mike wasn’t late for their scheduled rendezvous. “Right now”, as GrindMe called it.

“Oh!” Mike laughed.

Shit Shit Shit

“No, that was just Kris.”

“You and Kris are…”

“Friends,” Mike said firmly, fixing him with a look. “Best friends. But friends only. I told him I’d go with him to an art exhibition last night. He was really looking forward to it, and I forgot all about it.” He cringed. “I was a little late. But he had a good time.”

“That’s good.” He didn’t know which part he was talking about: Kris, the art, or Mike not having a boyfriend. God, he was ridiculous.

“I’m sorry I had to leave like that. I felt terrible. I didn’t mean to ditch you. We can try again tonight.” He grinned, that one-sided dimple coming back, carving into his tanned cheek.

And then they were at the Tap Room, and Mike guided him in through throngs of men. A rainbow flag billowed by the door, and globe lights bathed the patio in a warm glow. A gas fireplace shivered in the middle of the patio, flames rising from a copper bowl filled with black sand. Wood and wicker chairs were scattered, men lounging in groups and sipping beers and cocktails.

Inside, high tops and tables crowded the wooden floor, and a line of men hung out at the bar. The din was loud, voices rising and falling, laughter carrying over everything. Dartboards hung on the side wall, and two pool tables clustered together in the back. Tom spotted a younger man flirting wildly as he played against a businessman in a suit with his tie pulled loose. Both were grinning and practically undressing each other with their eyes.

“Over here.” Mike leaned close and steered Tom with one hand on his hip to a table against the wall. Kris, looking stunning, like he’d just stepped off a runway in Milan, batted his eyelashes and pursed his lips, blowing them a kiss. Aaron, Carlos, Jon, and Billy clustered around Kris, all drinking beer. Kris had a pink Martini in his hand. He passed it to Mike as they came close. Mike took a sip and passed it back.

There was only one barstool and Mike gave it to Tom. He perched on the edge as Mike leaned close. “What would you like?” Mike’s breath tickled Tom’s hair.

“What’s good?” He turned into Mike, their cheeks nearly brushing.

Kris watched them, his gaze burning holes in the side of Tom’s face.

“They have good mojitos and their Mexican Martinis knock guys on their asses all the time.”

“I’ll try one of those.”

Grinning, Mike headed for the bar. Tom watched, and spotted one of the bartenders making a beeline for Mike, ignoring five other guys who were there first.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Kris rolled his eyes and sipped his cocktail. “I always make him get our drinks. He’s got that masc thing going. The boys go crazy.” Kris folded his arms and leaned forward, bracing on the table. His shirt, silk, puffed open, unbuttoned like he was Prince from the early days. “So, Tom. Tell me about you. You’re a lawyer?”

Everyone was looking at them, now. All of Mike’s friends, turning and listening and watching him. He shifted, straightened. “Uh, yes.” Mike had kept that he was a judge from them. Was that to protect him? Protect his image? Panic bubbled in his belly. Did he need to protect his image? Should he get out of there, right now? “Yes, I’m a prosecutor.” He’d rewind time just a little bit. Just over a year ago. “Assistant United States Attorney. I work in the criminal division.”

“So you prosecute the murderers and the gangbangers and the drug dealers.”

“Yes.” Tom blinked. “Are you a lawyer?”

“No. I work at the State Department.” He sipped his Martini again. “But I keep up-to-date on current politics.” His eyes bored into Tom’s. “How long have you known Mike?”

Shit. “About a year. He was assigned to one of the high-risk cases I was a part of.” Where was Mike? Kris was going to shred him. He was under cross-examination, and his alibi was as flimsy as tissue paper.

“He’s a great guy, isn’t he?”

Something he didn’t have to lie about. Tom smiled, his shoulders unclenching. “He really is.”

Kris lifted his Martini and raised it to him, a tiny toast, and then took a sip. He never took his eyes off Tom’s, and as he drank, he winked.

“Here you go!” Mike reached over and dropped a Martini glass in front of Tom. It was filled to the tip-top, and some sloshed over the edges. “Sorry!” Mike sucked Mexican Martini off his thumb as he leaned against the table, facing Tom. Kris rolled his eyes.

“Thanks.” God, he needed this. He needed about ten.

Kris and Mike started talking, bantering about a volleyball game coming up. Tom listened and then tuned them out as he took in the bar, the people around him.

He’d done it. He’d come to a gay bar. He was back among his people. Of course, no one knew he was truly one of them. No one knew that he was home, that he felt more comfortable here than he did walking around in the mask he wore every day. Men flirted at the bar, and he watched the signs, the play of a man making a move on another man. A gentle touch to his chest, a caress. A show of wrist. A bat of the eyelashes. Sweet, coy looks. God, he remembered that, remembered having another man look at him like he was something to be desired, something that another man craved.

He jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder. “Whoa!” Mike smiled. “Just me. You okay?” Mike watched him carefully, as if trying to gauge whether Tom was about to bolt.

“I’m great.” He turned back to their table. Kris had disappeared, and Jon and Billy had their heads together. Aaron and Carlos were heading for the darts and checking out every guy they passed. They were clearly on the hunt.

Mike slouched against the table, his back to the wall, facing Tom. Tom turned toward him, and his thigh brushed Mike’s. The bar was cramped, and they were so close, closer than they’d ever been before. Well, except for when Mike had straddled him on the grass.

“Not too crazy for you?” Mike nodded to the bar, to the men, and the music.

If only you knew. A part of him clenched, knowing that he was keeping something big, something huge from Mike. Something fundamental. It wasn’t right, but… He wasn’t ready. Not yet. “It’s great. This is a wonderful place.”

It was. It was so happy, so vibrant, so full of life. So unlike the dark bars he’d known, the anonymous places where you could find anything from a dancing partner to a dark room in the back, and a silent, anonymous body to hold. Or the neon clubs, filled with enough drugs to reanimate the dead. There’d never been a place like this, where people were so plainly happy with their lives, with their place in the world. With an open patio and starlight shining down on them, and the content feeling that they had a place in the world.

He could see men eyeing Mike up. Mike was the most gorgeous man in the bar, and other men knew it.

“So, Mike.” He slid his Mexican Martini across the wooden table, leaving a wet trail behind his fingers. He had to talk to Mike, hold his attention for at least a little while. Until someone else came and stole him away. “I saw in the paper this morning that the Russian president has agreed to come to the U.S. Finalized the travel plans and everything. The great thaw is coming, apparently.”

“Yeah, it’s crazy.” Mike spun his mojito. “I thought for sure we were headed for a new cold war.”

In 1991, the Soviet Union was in its death throes, and Russia, the fledgling federation that was emerging from the USSR’s tumultuous death, was reduced to a second-rate power and a crippled empire. The world’s laughingstock. Their economy stagnated, crime flourished. The military was a husk of its former glory, best symbolized by the Russians’ only aircraft carrier needing to travel with a tug boat for its inevitable loss of power. But, the world changed, and catastrophe followed catastrophe. Oil—of which the Russians had plenty—soared.

And the great Bear was roused. First, brutal dealings with rebels in Chechnya, and the installation of a puppet government in Georgia. They took a chunk of Ukraine, strumming the strings of NATO, and watched as the finely-tuned orchestra of the European Union and NATO fell to squabbling and passive apathy of Russia’s renewed aggressions. And then, Russia tried their hand in the Middle East, picking the opposite side to the U.S. in the bloody Syrian civil war that pitted faction against faction against faction, and the lines were only ever blurred to incomprehension.

Past presidents had stirred rhetoric against Russia, playing the diplomatic game of censure and insult on the world stage. This president, President McDonough, wanted a face-to-face with his Russian counterpart, President Dimitry Vasiliev. Gossip on the Hill was that McDonough wanted to look Vasiliev in the eye when he told him to go fuck himself, and that the missile defense shield was staying right where it was in Europe.

“Are you going to be involved in any of the security for the visit? When the Russian president comes to DC?”

“No, thank God. That’s Secret Service, FBI, and Diplomatic Security Service at the State Department. They have enough giant personalities and butting heads in that mix. They don’t want any other players making a mess of things. The Secret Service will run the show and push everyone else out, be the big bully on the block. The others will piss and moan about it, but do what the Secret Service says. And then there’s the Russian security services. They’ll demand to be in on the security planning, and the Secret Service hates planning anything with foreign nationals on our soil.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.”

“It will be. I’m glad I have nothing at all to do with that.” Mike grinned. “I’ll just read about it in the paper and watch the headlines on TV.” He squinted at Tom. “Do you think anything will come out of this meeting?”

“Well… Nixon did go to China.” Tom sighed. “Russia locked up tight after Putin kicked the bucket. No one knows how that ended up actually happening. Heart attack, according to half the news outlets, assassination according to the other. This new guy, Vasiliev, is a mystery. But he’s not doing anything that would make me feel comfortable about Russia again. I don’t see that new Russian dawn everyone was talking about, after Putin died.”

“Me either. If anything, Russia is putting more forces on the border with Ukraine, and staging ‘training’ in Belarus. And building up in the Baltics, outside St. Petersburg, too.”

“I saw that. I hope it’s just posturing. But, whatever is coming, it’s going to be a mess.”

“You think Russia and the U.S. could ever be allies?” Mike squinted at him.

“We were once. We won World War Two together. But it would take a lot, I think, to make it work again. A total shift in Russian policy. What do you think?”

“I’m withholding judgment.” Mike spun his mojito again. “Right before Putin died, most guys I knew in the intel community said it was only a matter of time before we were in a shooting war with Russia in a proxy somewhere again. Or multiple somewheres. But everyone has been really quiet about President Vasiliev. The intel community can’t figure him out yet.”

“You have a lot of friends in the intel community?”

“A fair few.” Mike grinned. “I started in intel in the Navy. Did my four years and then got out. But I kept in touch with a bunch of people.”

“That’s great.”

The rest of the bar was fading away, and it was just him and Mike and their little bubble in the world. They talked about Mike’s days in the Navy, his deployments to the Mediterranean and the Middle East. Mike asked about his funniest case and the craziest day he ever had as a prosecutor. Kris appeared and disappeared, listening and watching with eyes that were far too shrewd. Tom kept waiting for Mike’s gaze to wander, for his attention to wane, but Mike kept looking into his eyes, kept smiling right at him.

Either Mike’s smiles or the Mexican Martini were starting to mess with his mind. The boldness of his twenty-one-year-old-self came crawling back, a shadow of who he’d once been coming out of the past, resurrected by the bar and the men around him. He leaned his thigh against Mike’s and left it there.

Kris reappeared again with another pink Martini. “Tom,” he said, his voice a little looser, a little deeper than before. His eyes were shining, bright and tipsy. “Tell me. What’s your opinion about international development organizations?  You think they’re effective?”

“Oh, here we go,” Mike muttered under his breath. He winked at Tom, but stayed quiet.

He and Kris went back-and-forth, him arguing for international relief in all cases and sustainable development projects in certain cases. Kris listened, his eyes flashing, and then jumped in, cross-examining each point he made like an expert attorney. They bantered, Mike’s eyes bouncing between them like he was watching a tennis match.

And then, Tom heard it. An electronic drumbeat, a pitter-patter sound, close by. He knew that sound. From where—

Mike slipped his phone out of his hoodie pocket and swiped it on.

GrindMe’s icon splashed on his screen.

Tom couldn’t help it. His eyes darted to Mike’s phone, and he watched as Mike’s message window popped up. Kris was still talking, gesturing as he waxed on about the benefits of sustainable local workforces as opposed to propping up long-term relief missions. He sipped his Martini every other sentence, and his gestures grew wilder.

Mike’s message opened.

A picture splashed across the screen, a young, smooth, naked man on all fours, spreading his ass.

Come fuck my hole baby, the text read. I’m so horny for you.

Holy shit. Tom stared, his mouth dropping open, his eyes boggling.

Kris stopped talking, going silent mid-word.

Mike looked up and angled the screen away, hiding it against the zipper of his hoodie, but it was too late.

Shifting, Tom turned back to Kris, trying to pick up their conversation again. Kris wasn’t having it. He stared at Tom, and then at Mike. Mike had palmed his phone and slid it back into his pocket like nothing had ever happened.

Well, hello, reality. The text was a slap to Tom’s soul, a wake-up call for his delusions. Of course Mike was on GrindMe. Of course Mike was looking for hookups, for men who were his type—young, beautiful, and confident about who they were and what they wanted. Oh-so-confident. That was Mike’s type. He wasn’t looking for a boring middle-aged man, too scared of his own shadow to do anything.

“What?” Mike frowned, staring at Kris. Kris’s expression had soured, going frosty. His pouty lips pursed and his eyes slitted, and he glared at Mike like he wanted to fight.

“Excuse me. I’ve got to use the restroom.” Tom smiled, as best he could and slipped away, moving through the crowd. Behind him, he heard Kris’s voice rise and carry over the din, but he couldn’t make out the words.

In the restroom, two younger guys were making out against the back wall while everyone else did their business. He watched them from the corner of his eye, smiling. Another man caught his gaze and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, too. Young love. To be so young and free.

He headed for the bar and found a slice of room between two groups of gabbing friends. He smiled politely at a younger guy, college-aged and skinny, who gave him a long, lingering once-over as he drank his colorful cocktail through a tiny straw. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked.

Tom looked away, flushing.

“How can I help you, daddy?” The bartender leaned across the bar top, smirking.

“Uhh…” Jesus, the last time he’d been at a bar, he’d laughed at the older men, the daddies, and said he’d never end up like that. Oh boy. “Uh, that table over there?” He pointed to Kris, sulking as he stabbed his pink Martini, and Mike, who stared down at his phone. A pang of jealousy hit him in his chest, and he sucked in a quick breath. “I’d like to pay their tabs.”

“Mmm, that’s sweet of you. You want to pay my tab, too?” The bartender leaned in a little closer, pushing his shoulders back.

He held out his credit card and kept his mouth shut. Sighing, the bartender snatched it and flounced away, one hip pushing out in a pout as he worked the register.

“You look familiar…”

A deep voice rumbled beside Tom, just over his shoulder. Cold panic washed down his spine, the combined fears of twenty-five years hitting him all at once. He stared at the man who’d spoken, a middle-aged businessman leaning against the bar beside him, a gentle smile on his patrician face. His brown eyes were warm, his full head of salt-and-pepper hair swept to the side, like Tom’s.

The businessman wagged his finger at Tom, smiling. “I know…” he said, “You were in my dreams last night.” He winked.

Relief broke like a wave against a rocky shore. Tom laughed, helpless release and a little bit of guilt.

“I hoped you would be the kind of guy to laugh at that terrible line.” The man held out his hand. “Steven.”

“Tom.” He shook Steven’s hand, still smiling. “Does it work for you often?”

Steven’s thumb stroked down the back of his hand. “It let me see your smile.”

Tom shook his head, still chuckling. A burn started in his belly, an ignition on a long, long thread he’d tried to bury. Desire, and the almost-forgotten feel of being wanted by another man, sparked.

“Are you here alone?” Steven’s attention was laser-focused on him. He didn’t blink as the bartender dropped Tom’s card and a pen and flounced away again, bitter at his attentions being rebuffed.

“Here with friends.” Tom scribbled his signature and nodded toward Kris’s table. There were all still there, and, for the moment, ignoring him. Which meant he was free. Free to take down his mask, hold it in his lap, and try to be the man he’d hidden for so many years. “You?”

“Just came to unwind and have a good time.” Steven’s smile was honey-slow, seductive.

“And are you having a good time?” Steven wasn’t exactly his type, wasn’t anywhere close to Mike’s level of attractive good looks, but he was handsome and fit and his eyes shone with good humor. He was smooth and polished, and probably had what his Spark app liked to call “shared life experiences” for men in his age range. And, with a Mexican Martini sloshing in his veins and only chips to soak up potentially bad decisions, Tom hovered between stay and go, good decision and bad. His breath shook.

Steven winked at him. “I might be on the way to a great time.” He waved for the bartender. “Can I buy you a drink? Let’s go outside and chat. Sit by the fire for a little while.”

“There you are!” Mike bulldozed his way beside Tom at the bar, practically knocking the young college guy from his chair and hip-checking another man out of the way. They sent him sour looks but stepped aside, muttering under their breath. Mike’s arm wrapped around Tom’s shoulders, and he sent him a wide-eyed, questioning look. “You okay?”

He felt his mask snap back into place. “I’m good.” He crumpled his receipt, hiding it from Mike. “I’m actually going to head out, though.”

Steven’s lip pushed out for a half-second. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a crisp card. “If you want to grab a drink, give me a call, Tom.”

“Thanks.” Tom slid the card into his shorts. “I hope you have a good night.”

Steven sighed, and Tom felt Mike’s stare on the side of his face. “Well, it will all be only second-best now.” But, he moved off, disappearing into the crowd and walking away from the bar.

Mike guided him toward the exit, pushing and winding his way like a salmon moving upstream. The music was louder, and the place was packed. The crowd had easily doubled. The patio was full, and clusters of men smoked outside the door and along the curb.

“I’ll walk you home.” Mike shoved his hands in his hoodie’s front pockets and fell into step beside Tom.

“You don’t have to. You were having a good time. You should stay with your friends.”

“I was leaving soon anyway.” Mike shrugged and didn’t look at Tom.

Oh. Right. His GrindMe message. He was on the way to a hookup.

They walked together, not speaking, for several blocks.

“Are you… okay?” Mike frowned, spreading his elbows and biting his upper lip. “I mean, did something happen? Were you uncomfortable, or…?”

“No, I’m good.” Tom smiled, forcing a lightness into his voice that he didn’t feel. Mike was walking him home, dumping him off, and then going to have a good time with a guy he really wanted. He’d never felt older or more discarded in his life. Maybe he should call Steven when he got home, invite him over. Throw caution and twenty-five years to the wind. “Just a long day.”

“Yeah.” Mike went quiet again. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Tom’s teeth gnashed.

Eventually, they arrived at Tom’s place, and Tom hurried up the steps to his door. Mike hung back at the street, wearing a deep frown with his hands still fisted in his hoodie pockets. “I’ll see you Monday, Judge B.”

“Yeah.” Tom turned, his key in the lock, and gave Mike a quick smile. “See you Monday.”

Mike started to walk off, keeping his eyes on Tom’s as he moved. Sighing, he turned away after he passed the second maple tree. His shoulders hunched and he looked down at the sidewalk.

What could he say? What could he possibly ever say that would change reality, or change history? Mike was Mike, and he was himself. He knew his fascination was doomed from the start. It was always going to end like this, with him watching Mike walk away, swallowing down his disappointment as Mike kept on with his life, his happy, proud life.

At the corner, Mike turned back, and for a moment, their eyes met. Mike stopped, going still, and seemed to wait.

Tom stepped inside and shut the door.

Chapter 11

Mike’s cell phone buzzed again.

Another text from Kris. Where are you? Tom picked up our whole tab.

[What!? Omg] He stopped on the sidewalk, closing his eyes. He should go back. Knock on Tom’s door. Apologize. Thank him, berate him, tell him he shouldn’t have done that—

WHERE ARE YOU?

[I walked Tom home.]

Are you with him?

[No]

So where the fuck are you??

Mike sighed. He scrubbed his face and turned off Dupont Circle onto P Street. [I’m going home.]

I’ll be right there.

He shoved his phone back in his pocket and kept walking. When he got to his building, he didn’t go inside, but waited on the steps, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging limply between his legs.

Kris stormed up the block ten minutes later, his low heels clicking, his hair sticking up, the artfully messy spikes nearly a mile high. Auburn highlights wound through his strands, catching the street lights. His bronzer had faded and his eyeliner was smudged, but Kris didn’t seem to care. First time for everything.

He stopped in front of Mike, crossing his arms loosely as he shoved out one hip. His pants were rolled at the cuffs, showing off his slender ankles and low-heel leather boots.

“Want to tell me what the fuck that was all about?”

“I think Tom’s upset. I don’t know what happened.”

“Your little GrindMe message probably did it.”

Groaning, Mike scrubbed his face again, squeezing his eyes closed. “He wasn’t supposed to see that.”

“And you’re not supposed to be on GrindMe. Aren’t you taking a break? Didn’t you say you were deleting the app?

“I did. I just wanted to see… I dunno. What was out there. We haven’t been out in a long time, Kris.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause you’re supposed to be on a fuckboy cleanse.” Kris’s head bobbed as he spoke, and he pointed one long, manicured finger at Mike. “GrindMe is the home of the fuckboy. Do you want to find another Silvio?”

“No.”

Kris threw his hands wide and glared.

“What do you want me to say, Kris?” Anger flared, and his words turned sharp. “I’m fucking lonely! Even when I was with Silvio, or Don, or Brad, I was still fucking all alone! I want…” He sighed explosively. “Somebody, God, I just want one good man. Someone who actually likes me and I don’t have to play games with! I’m looking everywhere for him! So yeah, I opened GrindMe again. And you know what? It was fucking depressing. I already deleted it.” He tossed his phone to Kris.

Kris, the bastard, checked. He clenched Mike’s phone after, folding his arms again. “So what the fuck is going on with Tom?”

Mike buried his head in his hands and didn’t look up.

“Who is he, really?”

“He’s a judge.” Mike’s voice was muffled against his hands. “He’s one of my judges in the courthouse.”

Kris’s delicate eyebrows arched sky-high.

“He’s always been cool, but when Silvio fucked me over, he was…” Mike shook his head. “Beyond amazing. He’s a great guy. We’ve gotten to know each other. We’re kind of friends, I guess.”

“And, you have no idea that he’s crushing on you hardcore?”

“What?” Mike reared back, scowling. “Kris, fuck off. He’s not. He’s not into men.”

“He’s not into men?” Kris’s chin jutted forward, like he was hammering nails. He counted off the evidence on his perfect fingers, slapping them against Mike’s phone. “He was at the Mall today. He hung out with all of us and never batted an eye. He came to a gay bar and was pretty chill about it. He was enamored with you. One hundred percent focused on you, until your little GrindMe message wrecked him.”

“Doesn’t matter! He’s not into dudes!”

Kris spun, walking away from Mike, down the block as he cursed and muttered under his breath, moving smoothly from Spanish to English and back again.

“I have a file on him that’s four inches thick, Kris. Background investigations from every government agency there is, going back to when he was a toddler in kindergarten. There’s nothing in there, not a single thing, about him being gay, or bi, or ever having anything to do with a man.”

“I’m telling you. He likes men. He likes you.”

Mike pushed himself to his feet and trudged up the entrance to his building. “He doesn’t.”

“Why are you fighting about this? Why don’t you just make a move and know for sure? I guarantee you he’ll be open to it.” Kris followed him, his heels clacking with every step.

Mike tore open the door, the glass rattling as it shook in his grasp. “It’s not that easy,” he growled. “He’s a judge. I can be friendly with him, but anything else is… It’s never been done. A judge slumming with a marshal?” He shook his head. “Judges are untouchable. They’re up there in the ivory tower. I can’t go near him.” He stomped up the steps to his apartment, Kris on his heels.

“These sound like excuses. You going to let something get in the way of what you want?”

“I never get what I want.” Mike glared as he shoved his key in his lock. “You know that. Jesus, even you shot me down.”

“You didn’t really want me.”

Mike snorted and stormed into his home.

“You wanted a warm body to hide your heart in and a teddy bear to hold you through the night, Mike. That’s not a relationship. That’s you running away. I didn’t want to be another man who left you because you were only half-real.” Kris slammed the door shut behind him.

Finally, after all the years they’d been friends, they were having the fight they needed to have. Mike’s blood boiled as he stared at the partially rebuilt kitchen he’d stalled out on. The frame of cabinets hung on his wall, bare wood that looked like a tree’s skeleton.

“Half-real?” Everything in him shook, his hands, his voice, his vision. “How fucking dare you—”

“You’re too scared to open yourself up! You attract the flakes and the fuckboys because that’s all you show to the world! You play the game, being what they all want you to be. Mr. Muscle. Mr. Meathead, Mr. Masc. But you hide yourself, Mike, and you wonder why they end up not liking you when you try to open up later. They don’t want the real you, and they never did! They only want the fake guy you throw out there!”

“And who are you to talk, huh?” Mike roared. “You eat men alive and kick them to the curb before they catch their breath! Who of us is actually scared of being real?”

Kris’s eyes narrowed, going cold, deadly sharp. “I loved a man more deeply than you will ever know. I will never find another love as deep, as intense as what we had. Never,” he hissed. “And I never want to. I buried my heart with him, and he will keep it.”

Mike swallowed.

Sighing, Kris rested his hand on his forehead and closed his eyes. He marched to Mike’s couch and flopped down, sagging against the cushions. “You’re different with Tom,” he said softly. The tension in Mike’s tiny home vanished, fizzling out of the air. “You aren’t putting on a show with him. You are just you.”

“He’s a great guy,” Mike said softly. “And way, way out of my league.”

“You’re right about that.” Kris snorted. “He’s far more intelligent than you are, witty, kind, sweet, gentle, so, so handsome…” Kris counted off Tom’s features, flaring out his fingers. “Running down your list of what your Prince Charming needs to be like, he seems to fit all the boxes.”

“’Cept he’s not into dick.”

Kris threw his head back against the cushions, glaring at him upside down. “Do you just not want an older man? He’s maybe ten years older than you?”

“Nine years older.”

“Is it the age? You freaking out about a little silver? You’ve chased the twinks for years. Is he just not getting you going?”

Mike fidgeted. “He’s… he’s really hot,” he said, like he was admitting he’d murdered twelve people. “I always wondered why he was single. He could have anyone he wants.”

“He wants you.”

“Stop, Kris. Stop. Please. He’s not like that. I promise you. He’s not. These background checks… you can’t hide from them. Everything comes out. Everything.” He shook his head and kicked a piece of wood, sending it spinning into the bare concrete wall of his kitchen. “Don’t give me false hope. You think I don’t know he’s everything I want? This fucking sucks.”

“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 find every skeleton. 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 on GrindMe?

“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 14^th to U Street and turned west, then ran down Florida Ave and turned south on 22^nd. 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 and him? 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.”

Tom frowned at him. His expression said he was confused, but his gaze was guarded.

“I… think you may have seen a message on my phone. From this… stupid app. I don’t even know why I was on that app on Saturday. It’s terrible, and I deleted it. I’ve deleted it a bunch of times, actually.” He sighed, and jogged ahead, holding open the door for Tom. He was getting nowhere fast, and Tom was still frowning.

“You don’t have to justify anything to me. Your life is your own. I don’t judge—”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I’m not— I mean—” He bit his lip, forcing himself to stop.

Tom turned to face him in the bright, open entryway of the courthouse. People passed them right and left, attorneys racing to and from meetings with judges and law clerks and clerks of the court, families and friends arriving to watch their loved ones at their arraignments, hearings, and open trials. Defense attorneys barked into their cell phones, and harried AUSAs juggled bulging briefcases, manila folders, their phones, and paper cups of coffee. But Tom stared right at him, soft frown on his angular face. His eyes were guarded, emotions locked up tight.

“I was having a great time,” Mike said carefully. “And I am sorry the night ended like that. I would have liked to have spent more time talking with you.” He snapped his jaw shut.

Tom’s smile was a breaking dawn, and his stomach flip-flopped like he was in an elevator that had dropped out from beneath him. “I had a great time, too, all day, in fact.” Tom shrugged. “We’ll just have to try again.”

Relief was a physical thing, a weight lifted from his shoulders. “I’d really like that, Judge B.”

Did Tom have any idea that he sounded like he was asking Mike out on a date?

“Hey. I want Judge Brewer’s felony murder case.”

Deputy Marshal Rob Villegas gave Mike the hairy eyeball, glaring at him over his computer monitor in his tiny second-floor office. “Good morning to you too. And why the fuck do you want that?”

Villegas always got his hackles up. He seemed like he was one of the cowboys, a marshal who just wanted to go out and hunt down fugitives. Being a U.S. marshal was the only legal way to hunt a human being, one of his old coworkers on the task force had told him. Villegas would have loved it out there, would have loved the thrill of hunting a man.

But, Villegas was stuck at the DC federal court, and was a miserable cuss who hated every minute of it. He took it out on everybody—the defendants, the attorneys, and, especially, on Mike.

“I don’t want to trade anything, and I don’t want to fucking fight, Villegas. I just want to take Judge Brewer’s upcoming trial off your hands.”

Villegas’s eyes narrowed to slits. His lips flattened. “Yeah, right. You want to get something in your back pocket and then make me take some kind of shit later on.”

“No!” Mike forced his hands to unclench. “Look, I know Judge Brewer’s style. He’s on my floor. I should have this case.”

“But Winters gave it to me.”

“Why are you fighting me on this? I want to take the case.”

“’Cause I don’t trust you, Lucciano.”

He blew out a breath, cursing hard. “Give me the damn case, Villegas. I’m not trading anything, and I’m not giving you any shit later for it. I just want it.”

“Well, when you ask so nicely.” Villegas smirked. “Sure, you can have my work. I’ve been meaning to get down to the range and put in some time.”

Mike grabbed the file folder labeled Brewer off Villegas’s desk. “Go have a real great time, asshole.”

“You wanted this.”

“I’ll be so Goddamn happy when you’re gone, Villegas. So Goddamn happy.”

“You and me both.”

He knocked on Tom’s doorframe a couple hours later, poking his head in the open door. “Hey, Your Honor. Got a minute?”

Tom looked up from his computer. His reading glasses were pushed down on his nose, he had three law books spread across his desk and two yellow legal pads filled with scribbles. But he left it all and stood, smiling. “Come on in.” He gestured to the small conference table by the door. “Have a seat.”

“I took your felony murder case off Villegas’s hands. He had some things to take care of this week.”

“Oh.” Tom smiled politely and folded his hands in his lap as he sat. “Jury selection begins this afternoon. Danny is managing it with the attorneys. Do you need to be involved?”

“I’ll need the juror information after they’re all seated, but I don’t need to be in the courtroom unless the defendant is there or the proceedings are open to the public. And when you’re in there. I reviewed Villegas’s plans and they’re all right. I made a few changes. I’ll be escorting you to and from the courtroom, as per our usual practice.”

“Villegas doesn’t like escort duty.”

“Villegas… doesn’t like much.” Mike tried to stay professional. He cleared his throat. “Are you still trying to convince the defense attorney to come to a plea agreement?”

“I’m trying to convince the AUSA to accept a more lenient plea agreement.” Tom sighed. “I think Ballard told them all to be hard-asses specifically on my cases.”

“But you’re the judge. Doesn’t what you say go?”

“I’m the arbiter of the law. The U.S. Attorney is the representative of the state, and if the state wants to pursue a hard justice, that’s what they’ll do. They’ll take the case to trial if they want to prove a point. To the community, or to me. That they want to toe a hard line.”

“Do you think it will go all the way?” Even though they were picking a jury today, if the AUSA bent, a plea agreement could still be finalized before Tom’s gavel fell on the first day of trial.

“I don’t know. Ballard is really pushing. He thinks he can make a statement with this one. Or he just wants to make my life miserable.”

“Okay. This is a case in flux.” Something turned over in his belly, and he squirmed as he pulled out his cell phone. “Can I get your number, Judge Brewer? We should keep in close contact about this case.”

Tom blinked, but he pulled his cell out. “Sure.”

Smooth, Mike. Real smooth. He berated himself as he punched in Tom’s number and sent a text. Tom’s phone buzzed, and then a text appeared on his own phone’s screen from Tom.  A single smiley face.

“I’ll reach out to my contacts in the marshals and see if they have any insight into what’s going on. If they know anything from the detention center.”

“Thanks.” Tom stood, and Mike followed. Silence hung over the office.

He couldn’t ask Tom to lunch, not so soon after bringing him coffee and stealing his case from Villegas. There was coming on strong and there was being crazy, and he was verging on full-tilt crazy. “I’ll… leave you to your work.” He headed for the door.

“I’m glad you took over for Villegas.”

Mike stopped and turned back. Tom smiled at him, and he couldn’t help the goofy grin that spread over his face. “Me too.”

Tom brought him coffee Tuesday morning and stayed in his closet of an office to chat for thirty-seven minutes, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe and grinning the whole time.

Mike’s heart fluttered for two hours after.

His marshal friends at the detention center were a bust. No one knew whether Tom’s case would go to trial or not. It seemed stuck in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, like Tom said.

On his way back from grabbing lunch at the food trucks in the plaza, Mike spotted Tom and the law clerks all clustered together in the fourth-floor law library, laughing. Tom had a way with the young law grads, somehow able to make them smile and laugh, even though by now they should be ground down and dead-eyed. Tom was the only judge who could pack the law library full of clerks. The other judges got their own clerks to stick around for lunch, since that was good for appearances, and maybe their friends. But it seemed like most of the clerks actually wanted to be with Tom.

Well, not Chief Judge Fink’s law clerks. They were hard-asses like Fink.

Mike hovered in the doorway, watching as Tom told a story about one of the craziest cases he saw from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, when he was an AUSA.

“I watched a South Dakota man bring a lawsuit against the federal government—which brought the case here—because the FBI in South Dakota had raided his paleontology laboratory at the university. He, over the course of three years, dug up dinosaur bones for his university on a university-funded dig. Turns out, he was digging on federal land, and didn’t exactly fill out the paperwork perfectly. The FBI went and took the government’s bones back, years after the dig was through, and the bones were on display at the university. They charged him with violating federal law, trespassing, conspiracy, and theft, and wanted him to serve time in jail and pay a giant fine. He countersued, saying they were way out of line, and that since the dig was public for so many years and they didn’t do anything at the time, they lost their right to come crying about it after the fact. Way back when, the federal government even sent park rangers out to take photos of the dig, which were still up on the U.S. Park Service’s website at the time of the trial. It was Keystone Cops meets Three Stooges.”

The law clerks hung on his every word, captivated by the legal intricacies of dinosaur bones and the obstinacy of the federal government. It was like he was telling ghost stories by camp light.

Tom caught his gaze before he launched into the rest of the story. He smiled, before Mike beat a retreat. Tom’s voice followed him down the hall to his office.

Right at five PM, Tom appeared in his doorway, shrugging into his suit jacket and holding his briefcase.

“Leaving early tonight, Judge B?”

“Class at Georgetown is at six.” Tom smiled. “Have to get over there to teach.”

Oh. Right. Tom taught a law class at Georgetown. Was there another more obvious example of how out of his league Tom Brewer was? “What class do you teach again?”

“Constitutional Law.” He checked his phone and winced at the time. “I do have to run, but I wanted to ask you: when is your and Kris’s next volleyball game?”

“Tomorrow.” He swallowed. Ask if he would like to come. Ask if he’d like to check it out. Hell, ask if he’d like to heckle Kris at the very least.

But Tom smiled and disappeared down the hallway, heading for the stairs.

It was his ‘turn’ to buy coffee Wednesday morning, according to the ritual they’d begun.

He could do the same thing he did Monday, buy Tom’s coffee and wait outside the gym.

Or… he could go into the gym early and work out. Run into Tom, perhaps. Maybe even check him out a bit in the locker room.

He was pathetic. Thirty-seven-years-old, and he was acting like a sophomore in high school.

Still, Mike went to the gym. He was too jumpy, and he dove into his weight routine with gusto, burning through his upper body routine in half the time he normally took. Sweating, panting, and finally burnt out of his nervous energy, he headed for the pool.

Four men and one woman were swimming laps in the lane pool. He picked Tom out after a few seconds, watching his long legs and his smooth movements in the water. He swam a simple breaststroke, ducking and turning at the walls and beginning again, back and forth across the pool. He was a machine, a dolphin with feet. Mike’s breathing slowed as he watched, but his heartrate stayed up.

Eventually, Tom stopped at one end of the pool and hauled himself out. Water sluiced off his body, rolling down his chest and his hips. He wore jammers, the just-above-the-knee skintight swimsuit favored by serious swimmers everywhere.

And, they left nothing to the imagination.

He was a deputy U.S. marshal, but here it was, the true test of his life—could he keep himself contained in front of a soaking wet, mostly naked, skintight-swimsuit-wearing Judge Tom Brewer?

Tom tore off his goggles and shook his head. His hair puffed out, fluffing into dark chestnut and silver spikes. Water clung to his sparse chest hair, running in drops down his chest and stomach, racing for his jutting hipbones and smooth thighs.

“Hey.” Mike hoped he didn’t look as utterly ridiculous as he felt. “Morning.”

Tom stopped dead, his jaw falling open. Shock poured from his chocolate eyes. He looked Mike up and down, as if he didn’t honestly believe Mike was truly there.

Shit. He shouldn’t have come to the gym. He shouldn’t have barged in and invaded Tom’s private time. He was way out of line.

“Mike?” Tom’s mouth worked slowly, searching for words. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d give the plaza gym a try.” He shrugged. “You said good things about it.”

Tom smiled. “What do you think?”

I’ll never work out anywhere else again, as long as I can watch you climb out of the pool like that. “Not bad!”

They walked to the locker rooms and then separated, heading to different lockers in different rows. Thank God.

The plaza gym’s facilities were of a higher caliber than he was used to. Private shower stalls and individual toiletries. Blow-dryers provided at a counter in front of a long line of mirrors. He met up with Tom at the mirrors as he was knotting his tie and sprucing his hair.

Mike asked Tom about his class and about Georgetown and his students as they walked across the street to the Annex lobby and the coffee shop. He batted Tom away when Tom reached for his wallet. “It’s my turn today.”

Tom smiled.

He wanted to ask if Tom wanted to go to his volleyball game tonight. He wanted to casually bring it up, throw it out there as a friendly invite. Just if Tom was interested, or didn’t have any plans already.

But he kept his mouth shut and listened to Tom the whole way up to the fourth floor.

[Any lunch plans? I’m going to run out and grab something off the Lebanese food truck. Want anything?]

After an hour and ten minutes of internal debate, Mike sent Tom his first text message. He hoped Tom would say I’ll come down with you or Bring it back up to my office and we’ll eat here.

Instead, Tom said Getting a haircut, actually.

[Okay. No prob.]

Damn. He grabbed a protein bar out of his desk drawer and leaned back.

He was pushing too hard. He was coming on too strong. Tom was polite and kind and considerate, but he was pushing the envelope way too hard. He needed to take a giant step back. Tom wasn’t even interested in men. Kris was wrong. Kris was never wrong, but there was always a first time for everything.

His cell phone, face down on his desk, buzzed. Flipping it, he froze mid-chew as he read the message.

Hey, I was wondering if I could come watch your game tonight. Is that allowed? I’ve never been to those courts before, and I’d like to check them out. And cheer you guys on.

Damn it, this didn’t help. This didn’t help at all. He was supposed to be backing away from Tom, not turning to a puddle of goo. His cheeks ached. God, he was smiling like a loon, just beaming as he stared at his phone screen. His inner teenage girl was jumping up and down, shrieking, and Britney Spears was playing in his mind. Hit me baby one more time.

[Yeah! Would love to have you come by!] Were the exclamation points too much? [Kris would love to see you again. :) ]

I’ll be there!

Okay, but what if Tom was into men?

Mike’s gaze kept wandering, drifting to the locked file cabinet where he kept all his judges’ background investigation files. He had everything. The results of every background investigation done on Tom Brewer. Supporters of Tom—the Senator who nominated him, the president’s staff, and members of the American Bar Association, who had given him a strong recommendation for his appointment—had all conducted background investigations. Seemingly everyone had. They’d also paid private investigators to act like opposition party members and to try and dig up any dirt they could on Tom Brewer.

The opposition, and members of Congress who did not support Tom’s nomination, also paid for background investigations.

And then there were the official ones, the investigations run by the FBI, the U.S. Marshals, the White House, and the Senate Judiciary Committee.

He had a copy of every single one.

Mike had read through them before, when Tom was first confirmed and Winters dropped his background binder on his desk with a heavy thud and said, “Here’s another one.” He kept the binder on hand in case he needed to reference something from Tom’s past. A threat made in prison from someone he’d put away as a prosecutor, someone who came up from the darkness and claimed such and such against Judge Brewer, or a political slight that came out of left field. To do his job correctly, he had to know all the skeletons in everyone’s closet.

Trouble was… Tom Brewer didn’t have any skeletons. He was a picture-perfect nominee, which made some people extra nervous. There had to be something on the man. There was always something.

Tom had a few extra background investigations done by his nominators, just to make sure.

Nothing. He’d been a straight-A student in college and law school. He’d worked through law school as a law clerk and lived in the basement of a retired couple who had nothing but the best things to say about him. His college professors had either retired and fallen off the face of the planet or died. He lived alone his junior and senior year in college, thanks to a job as a paralegal that paid handsomely, and his roommates from freshman and sophomore years said he was a rule-following, classic nice guy. One of his roommates was now a colonel in the Army, and the other was a multi-kajillionaire in New York.

His high school teachers knew he was destined for greatness. His parents, sadly, were deceased.

After law school, he’d landed at the DC United States Attorney’s office and stayed there for his career. He had the usual complaints against him from bitter defendants who lost their cases, but nothing ever panned out. No major investigations. No accusations of impropriety. Award after award after award for superior professionalism, adroit legal strategy, above average conviction rate.

His coworkers said he was polite, professional, and extremely competent. They knew he had a dog and a house in DC, but didn’t know anything about his personal life. When Tom was questioned by the FBI, he stated he was single and had been for some time, and wasn’t looking to change that. The questions on a background investigation were invasive and pervasive. All questions about relationships were ticked “no” or “not applicable.” He’d never had a relationship with a foreign national, he said, and the FBI agent had made sure to note that Tom had laughed at that. No relationship with a foreign national, his background investigation notes said, because no relationships at all.

He had no social media accounts, nothing that could be hacked or used against him. Smart man.

He was a homebody and a workaholic. A typical Boy Scout. He was, on paper, flawless. He sailed through the Senate, appointed to his bench by vocal affirmation with no opposition.

There was nothing at all to suggest that Tom was hiding a secret sex life.

No hint of a scandal, or a cover-up. No headlines about Tom Brewer hanging out at parks or rest stops or cruising spots around the city. No insinuation from male colleagues that he preferred them over the women he worked with. No money paid in a settlement to hush a sensitive matter up. Not that Tom would behave like that, but Mike had seen other men dish out revenge in petty ways over the years. Tarring and feathering a man’s reputation because of a spat was a nasty thing, but he’d seen it happen.

Nothing at all to suggest he was hiding anything.

And nothing at all to suggest he wasn’t.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t try to read into things, say the absence of proof meant that in itself was proof. The law didn’t work that way, and neither did human beings. If he presented his findings to Tom and then asked for a kiss, Tom would probably smack him with his gavel.

What would it mean, though, if Tom was into men? His brain raced through the obvious—maybe a kiss, maybe something a whole lot more interesting—and then squealed to a tire-screeching halt.

It would mean Tom had lied to him. Maybe not directly, but certainly of omission. He’d hung out all Saturday playing the part of the chill straight friend, and he’d had ample opportunity to set the record, well, not straight, per se.

So the fact that he hadn’t was in itself a kind of proof, then. Right? Tom wouldn’t keep something like that, something huge about himself, a secret. Especially not when Mike was open and out and proud. Tom wouldn’t need to hide. Not from Mike.

Mike didn’t care for liars. There was never a good reason to lie, and people always got hurt.

Mike chucked his phone across his desktop and leaned back in his chair. He scrubbed his hands over his face and groaned.

He had to take a step back, for his own sanity. He was going to lose it.

And, he had to text Kris, tell him Tom was coming tonight. And beg him to behave.

Kris, of course, didn’t behave. And neither did anyone else.

Tom showed up right before the sets began, dressed casually in shorts and a t-shirt. He and Kris were playing second out of the night, facing off with their co-team against two other teams from the league.

Of course, it was a gay men’s league, and Mike hadn’t thought about that when he said it was cool for Tom to come by. The first teams up to play were Butt Sets versus Sliding Deep. The ref, a gay cop who could ham it up to the ever-loving stars, made a show out of calling the team names, side-eyeing Tom, hanging out with Mike on the sideline, with a smirk.

Tom flushed and coughed into his shoulder. Kris, stretching, grinned wolfishly.

“I… forgot to mention that it would be kinda crude.” Mike cringed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Tom laughed. “When do you guys play?”

Mike explained the game setup and the rotations, and then stretched while Kris chatted with Tom. Kris wore his team tank top with pride, the rainbow letters boldly screaming their team name, Multiple Scoregasms, across his flat chest. He had on neon yellow short shorts and a sweat band. His hair, of course, was artfully coiffed skyward.

Mike kept his hoodie zipped around Tom. His shorts were a bit longer than Kris’s, but he was showing a lot of leg. He kept bouncing, jiggling, trying to bleed off his nervous energy before the match began.

Their team partners, Butt Sets, won, and then they were up. Kris leaned in close as they hit the sand. “Gonna be able to perform with your man watching?”

“Shut the hell up.”

He ditched his hoodie at the last moment, tossing it back toward the bench. He missed, and it fell on the grass.

“Aww, Tom is picking up your hoodie.”

“Shut up, Kris!”

“You’re so obvious. So, so obvious, Romeo.”

He tried to breathe before he served, tried to clear his mind. His first serve went too far, though, and then they were on defense.

The game went fast after that, and he was sweating in no time. Kris and he moved in sync, long used to each other on the court. They kept up with their opponents, and then moved ahead.

At a break in the game, Mike ripped off his tank top and tossed it aside, not thinking. He downed half a bottle of water and poured the rest over his face, and then froze when he saw Tom walking over.

“You guys look great.”

“I always look great.” Kris winked at Tom. The bastard was hardly sweating, even though they were working their asses off out there. Mike was drenched, in sweat and half his water bottle.

Tom smiled at Mike, like they were sharing a private joke, and took his empty water bottle when the ref blew the whistle and called for the end of the time-out.

The whistles and catcalls started then. Everybody had seen that, had seen Tom and him on the sideline. Mike had played with most of these guys for over two years, and they knew him pretty well. They’d seen him after Don and before Silvio, and knew his ways.

Him showing up with an older man, for any reason, had never, ever happened.

“Someone found a sugar daddy!”

“Showing off for daddy, hmm?”

“Be a good boy for your daddy!”

“Bend over and hit the spread, your daddy’s watching!”

He flushed, burning alive. Where was quicksand when he needed it? If he could dig his way out of the court, disappear and reemerge in China, he wouldn’t be far enough. He couldn’t look at Tom, Jesus. He could barely set up for the serve.

“Here daddy, daddy, daddy…”

He pounded the ball just to shut them all up, and he, naturally, missed.

“Ooo, get your daddy to soothe that burn, baby!”

“Don’t worry, babycakes, daddy will take care of you tonight!”

“Daddy, your baby needs a kiss-kiss!”

“Bite the pillow, I’m going deeper than your daddy!”

It only got cruder from there.

He and Kris eventually beat Top Me Hard, but they had to work for it. The heckles faded, and for the last half hour, just their play calls, grunts, and shifting sand broke over the courts. Cars passed by, the hum of tires, and lapping water on the Potomac. The moon rose, hovering over the city, but it was still hot. In the final play, Mike set Kris up for a spike, and Kris slammed it home, beating the guard by inches. Kris collapsed to his knees, screaming, and Mike tackled him into the sand as he laughed.

They shook hands with the other team—Mike gritting his teeth through the last of their friendly heckles—and then jogged back over to Tom.

Tom beamed at him, caught between laughing and cheering. “You guys were so good! That was amazing!”

“We were amazing, weren’t we? Especially Mike.” Kris sucked on his water bottle, hollowing out his cheeks, and stared at Mike.

Mike kicked sand and licked his lips. “Thanks.” He met Tom’s gaze for a half-second and then looked away. “Um, do you have my—”

“Oh, yeah. Here.” Tom passed his hoodie over, and Mike shrugged it on quickly, zipping it all the way up. He was hot, still sweating, burning up, but he couldn’t just stand in front of Tom half-naked.

“Hey, I’m sorry about what the other guys said. They were just trying to heckle me—”

Kris rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. He fussed with his hair, staring at them both. He could not have made it more awkward, acting like a dad or an obnoxious chaperone watching their every move.

Tom shoved his hands in his pockets and scrunched up his face. “Honestly? I’ve never been complimented that much in my life.” He gave Mike a bemused kind of smile, a helpless shrug. “They were backhanded compliments. But I’ll take what I can get.”

Kris jumped in while Mike tried to find his tongue. He couldn’t figure out what to say that wasn’t a blatant come-on, wasn’t flirtatious. “We’re all grabbing drinks after. Do you want to come? You’re not allowed to pay this time. Mike’s paying.”

“I can’t.” Tom actually seemed disappointed, not like he was bowing out due to politeness. “I have some stuff I need to do tonight, before tomorrow. I got emails during your game that I need to take care of.”

Almost ten at night, but sometimes, the work never sleeps. Mike knew how that went. “Everything okay?”

“Hope so. Maybe a signal that there is an opening for a new plea agreement. Tell you tomorrow over coffee?”

“Deal.”

Kris stuck out his hand, a delicate gesture, and cocked his head. “Too bad. We’ll miss you tonight. It was good seeing you again. You’re always welcome here.” He smiled when Tom took his hand, and then winked.

Tom flushed. “See you guys later.”

Mike watched him walk away, heading for 23^rd Street. Kris hovered just behind his shoulder. “He’s going to turn around and smile. Just wait.” Kris’s voice was soft, a whisper in his ear like the devil on his shoulder. “He’s going to turn around and smile at you.”

Please, please, please…

And then, Tom did.

Mike beamed, and Tom waved before disappearing across Rock Creek Parkway.

But, coffee together the next morning turned into Mike finding a cup of coffee and a sticky note with his name on it in front of his office door. Early morning meeting in chambers. Going to be a crazy day!

He barely saw Tom, only when Tom was ducking in and out of his office or striding down the hall, head tucked together with Solórzano, who was working the stubborn felony murder case. If nothing broke today, the trial began tomorrow afternoon.

He and Kris were going to a movie that night, so he couldn’t stick around after hours waiting to see if Tom would finally have a few minutes to spare for him. The rest of the night he was grumpy and in a fit, and Kris snapped at him before the movie started. He walked home alone, Kris bailing on his bad attitude as soon as the credits rolled.

Friday morning, Winters called him and Villegas into his main office in the big courthouse to review threat assessments against the whole DC federal bench. Threats from prisoners, rumors flying in the detention center, snitches who told of revenge plots against the judges who had sentenced gangbangers and mafioso types to years and years in prison. Only nine percent of the threats made each year were serious, but it was finding the nine percent that really wanted to seek revenge or crazy fame that made the job difficult.

Mike didn’t get back to his office until after lunch. Tom’s door was shut.

But at three PM, Tom appeared in his doorway, suit jacket off, tie loose, and a huge smile splitting his face. “We did it.”

He pushed back from his desk. “The felony murder case? You got the U.S. Attorney’s Office to accept a plea?”

“And a good plea at that.” Sighing, he slouched one shoulder against the doorframe. “Solórzano wanted to focus on another trial she has with Judge King, and wanted to make an eleventh-hour deal. I held a firm line since they wanted to play games until it suited them.”

“Nice.”

“He gets twenty years, which is better than forty, and better than facing the possibility of the death penalty.” Since the death had occurred during the commission of a robbery, capital murder charges brought the death penalty onto the table. “The kid is terrified and knows he screwed up. I’m sentencing him to a prison with a good education center and trade school. He can finish his high school degree and learn a trade.” Tom shook his head. Wrong friends, wrong place, wrong time. “When he gets out, he’ll be in his mid-forties. Hopefully he’ll have a life set up for himself when he does.”

“Well done, Judge B.” Mike couldn’t stop his smile, and he didn’t try. It was the best possible ending for the kid. The very best. “So now your trial calendar has opened up. Going to take a vacation next week?”

Tom scoffed. “Yeah, right. That will be the day. I’ve got hearings on motions for other trials all next week in the afternoon, and I’ve got to finish my opinions and briefs.” He made a face, as if he were a superhero in a bad comic book. “Justice never rests.”

Laughing, Mike threw his head back. “You’re too much, Judge B.”

“Let’s celebrate. It’s after three on a summer Friday in DC. The weekend started hours ago.”

“For other people. But like you said, justice never rests.”

“We’re the only ones still here on the floor.”

“Really?” Not that he was surprised by that. Summer Fridays bled DC workers like a bad head wound. If someone didn’t have to be in DC for the sweltering weekend, they often booked it out of the city.

“Come on. Let me buy you a drink.”

Did Tom know that sounded exactly like he was asking Mike out?

They headed out of the near-empty courthouse and went across the street to the same Mexican restaurant. Their Mexican restaurant, as Mike thought of it. It was full, packed with people for happy hour and celebrating the end of the workweek. Mike steered Tom through the crowd to the patio, and they parked in a corner underneath a fan that helped scatter some of the summer heat. They both shucked their suit jackets and rolled up their sleeves.

Tom ordered a margarita, and Mike asked for a beer. This wasn’t the time to lose his wits.

He managed to keep up the small talk for a while, running through the threat assessments from the day before and then listening to Tom retell the negotiations he’d been through with Solórzano and the U.S. Attorney’s Office all day Thursday and Friday morning.

From there, Tom started talking about the game. Mike squirmed. He’d rather not remember the hot wash of humiliation he’d faced all night long.

“You guys really play well together. You and Kris are a good pair.”

“Yeah, we’re good together. We’re a regular Bonnie and Clyde.” 

“Is he seeing someone?”

“No. Kris is a widower.”

“Oh.” Tom’s eyes went wide. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. It was a while ago. He’s dealt with it, in his own way.”

Tom wanted to ask, he could tell, but his eyes shone, bright with grief and hesitation. He took a sip of his drink and changed the subject. “Is the game usually so… ribald?”

Mike groaned. “They were trying to screw with me. I’ve never brought a friend to a game.”

“Your ex never cheered you on?”

“I… never brought a friend. I’m sure they thought we were hooking up.”

Tom flushed and reached for his drink. He wouldn’t look at Mike.

Heart hammering, Mike tried to figure out the right thing to say. Was Tom’s blushing a tell, a giveaway? Or just a normal reaction for a straight guy? “I’m sorry. Did it make you uncomfortable? I told them all at the bar that you’re just a friend. They know we’re not— I mean, they know you’re not into dudes.”

It was Tom’s turn to squirm. “It didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

He didn’t say anything about not being into men.

“It was kind of flattering. I mean, they think that you’d go for a guy like me?” Tom snorted, and tried to laugh. It sounded forced. “I’m not your type.”

“Not my type?” Mike boggled. “Yeah, I don’t go for super smart, kind, funny, attractive guys at all.”

Tom’s flush was a permanent thing, staining his cheeks, his ears, his neck, bright magenta. He clutched his margarita like it was a shield. He shook his head, looking beyond Mike, over his shoulder with a slight frown. “Aren’t I a little old for you?”

“Hypothetically, or for real?” Mike swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “What are we talking about?”

Tom bit his lip. His eyes flicked to Mike’s.

Mike hissed, inhaling. Tom’s eyes, his open, expressive eyes, were bleeding raw, hungry desire. Terror wound through his gaze, but the want, the hope, burned bright.

“Tom?” It was the first time he’d said his name to his face, and Tom gasped. “What’s going on? What’s happening here?”

Tom took his time answering. He set down his margarita, mostly just melted ice, and swallowed. He sat back, avoiding Mike’s gaze, and his fingers clenched on the metal armrests of his chair. “Have you ever had a secret?” he said softly. “Something so huge you buried it where you thought it would die?”

Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. Mike’s jaw fell open.

Finally, Tom looked up. “I…” His lips pressed shut, and he looked pained, for a moment, like he’d been stabbed. “I really want to take you to dinner.” His voice was soft, his words fast.

Fucking Kris. His first thought was blind anger, surging through him like a geyser erupting. Anger hid everything else: shock, confusion, a mix of depression and elation. Tom was into men! He did want Mike!

But to what end? Dinner and a fuck? What was this building between them? How had Tom managed to keep this hidden from a four-inch-thick binder of background investigations?

Tom was waiting, though, for an answer. His eyes, that seconds ago had been full of hope, were dimming, shuttering, boards going up in the depths of his gaze like he was preparing for bad news. “It’s all right, Mike. I knew it wouldn’t happen.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Tom frowned.

Mike nodded. There was something here, something between them, and damn it, he wanted to know what it was. Maybe it was just Tom’s very, very careful playbook of seduction. Maybe Tom wanted a quick, hot fuck and nothing else. But maybe it was something more. Tom wanted to see him, had sought him out, and his smiles were enough to make Mike’s stomach tie itself in knots.

He couldn’t just walk away from that without knowing what was going on.

“Okay. Let’s do dinner.”

Tom went bone white, his eyes boggling. He didn’t think I’d say yes. “Uhh… Okay. Yeah, let’s.” And then Tom smiled, beamed, radiating happiness and surprised shock as he stared at Mike.

“When?”

“Tomorrow night?” Tom answered quickly. “I… Can I cook dinner for you?”

Jesus. None of his exes knew how to cook, and they’d all made him serve them. He was the one who made romantic dinners at home and planned special date nights for the two of them, things that weren’t out to a bar or a club. Was Tom a romantic, like him?

Or was this a way to get Mike to his home, get him up to bed as quick as he could? Fast seduction, nothing more?

Or was this to stay out of the public spotlight? Was there a deeper secret behind the missing information from his background binder?

Mike nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Tom seemed undone, and he kept staring at Mike, blinking like Mike wasn’t really there. He took a deep breath, and then another. Nodded. “I, uh. I should go.” His hands shook as he grabbed his briefcase and his jacket and stood. Mike stayed sitting. “I’m… I’m really looking forward to tomorrow.” He smiled, weakly, and then left, striding away, almost running away.

Mike watched him go.

He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, and groaned. What the hell was going on? Just who was Tom Brewer, anyway?

Chapter 12

June 20^th

Holy shit.

He’d done it. He’d asked Mike to dinner.

So… was that it? He was out now? Partly, to one man. Mike knew, at least. Mike knew he was interested in him. And, that he wasn’t straight.

Elation took him home, and he wore a ridiculous grin for nearly the whole Metro ride.

Mike hadn’t answered his question about being too old for him, though. He’d accepted Tom’s dinner invitation and had agreed to come over, but he’d seemed… Well, of course surprised. Shocked.

Hesitant?

Doubt crept in, slipping from the dark corners of his mind like curling smoke. Old fears followed, skeletons rattling their creaking chains. What was he doing? This was never going to work. Mike would probably cancel. Which would be for the best, really. What was he thinking? He couldn’t do this!

When he got home, he let Etta Mae out to the backyard and sat on his deck, gazing out over his small patch of grass and plot of roses. Etta Mae sniffed every square inch of the yard, just like she did every day, and then did her business and flopped at his side.

He stayed on the deck, stroking her fur as the sun set and the streetlights winked on, and the hum of the city faded away.

No matter what happened tomorrow, he’d at least done something. He’d taken a chance, reached out to Mike. Cracked his closet door a little bit wider. Whatever happened next, it wouldn’t be because he hadn’t been strong enough to try.

He was up early, walking Etta Mae around the block and to the grocery store. The manager knew him by name and loved Etta Mae, so Tom handed her Etta Mae’s leash while he ran around, grabbing what he needed for dinner. He almost forgot the coconut and had to run back for a loaf of bread, but finally, they were on their way back home.

He was only a little frazzled.

Time seemed to crawl. He cleaned his house, vacuuming, mopping, scrubbing tiles and washing windows. Cleaned his bathrooms. Changed his sheets, somewhat optimistically. Ran out to the corner store and bought a flurry of paper towels, toilet paper, toothpaste, condoms, and a new bottle of lube. He tried to hide his purchases in the mundane, but the bored checkout clerk didn’t seem to care that he was buying condoms for the first time in twenty-five years, and was so nervous he dropped his credit card four times. He was worse than a high school student.

And then, time sped up, and he raced from the store back home to shower and put himself together. He’d obsessed over what to wear the night before, tossing aside pants and shirts until he found a baby blue polo and some low-slung jeans he’d bought years ago on a whim, when he wanted to feel sexy at least for himself, at least at home, before his soul shriveled up and died.

Now, he was going to try and look sexy for Mike.

God, the thought was ridiculous. And amazing. How had this happened?

His phone buzzed about an hour before Mike was due to arrive.

[What are we having for dinner?]

He grinned and bit his lip. Bounced on the balls of his feet. That’s a secret. I want to surprise you. :)

[That doesn’t help me pick out a wine to bring.]

Oh, his heart shouldn’t flutter over something so simple. Mike was just being polite. But he was bringing a bottle of wine to their dinner date. This was really happening. A nice crisp white will go well with what we’re having.

[K]

Tom exhaled slowly, trying to center himself.

An hour later, his phone buzzed again. [I’m outside.]

Come on in! Tom smoothed his shirt, ran his hands through his hair, and closed his eyes. This was happening. This was really, really happening. His heart raced, pounding, as his stomach fluttered and clenched.

But the door stayed shut.

He padded to his front door, frowning.

Outside, Mike paced at the base of the steps leading up to his front door. He held a bottle of white wine in one hand and had his phone clenched in the other.

“Come in. You don’t have to wait outside.” Mike looked amazing. Dark jeans, a light gray long-sleeve shirt. His hair tousled. Something zinged through him, desire so scorching hot he thought his bones would melt.

Mike took a deep breath and faced Tom, squaring his shoulders as he stood on the sidewalk. “I’m not sure if I should.”

“What?”

Exhaling, Mike’s shoulders bowed. “What’s going on? What is this? Were you… were you lying to me? Why didn’t you tell me—” His lips clamped shut.

Shit. “Please, come in. I need to explain myself, I know. Give me the chance to?”

Mike waited, staring at him.

“Mike… please.”

Nodding stiffly, Mike headed up. He held out the bottle of wine and gave Tom a thin smile.

“Let me put this on ice.”

Silently, Mike headed for Tom’s kitchen, Tom trailing behind. Etta Mae hopped off the couch and trundled across the hardwood, her nails clacking as her tail wagged. Mike focused on her, dropping down and ruffling her ears, scratching her neck, as Tom set the bottle of sauvignon blanc in an ice bucket.

How did he fix this? How did he explain himself? He knew, God, he knew last Saturday night that he was wrong to keep this secret from Mike. He let Mike think he was something he wasn’t, and now… He didn’t blame Mike for being upset.

Tom gripped the edge of his kitchen counter and watched Mike play wrestle with Etta Mae. Etta Mae was getting into it, bouncing and making her Basset noises. Half barks, half snorts, and she flopped from sitting on her butt to lying on her back to leaping to all four paws and barking. Tom’s fingers tightened on the granite. He wanted this. He wanted this, exactly this. He wanted it so, so badly.

“Mike…” His voice trembled. “I’m gay.”

There. He’d said it. Out loud. Tom’s nails dug into the counter, scratching on the gray surface. Panic swelled inside him, waves and waves of shrieks and all his nightmares, his fears suddenly erupting like popping balloons. His old professor’s voice rang in his ears, over and over again.

Mike stared at him, still ruffling Etta Mae’s ears. His face was stone, closed off, but his eyes searched Tom’s. “Have you ever said that before?”

He couldn’t speak. Tom shook his head. “Not like this,” he whispered. “I’ve always known. But—” His throat closed, choking his words.

“Have you ever…” Mike stood and headed for the kitchen. He stopped in front of Tom, though not touching him. But he was close. Close enough that Tom whimpered. “Have you ever allowed yourself to be gay?”

“Once.” Damn it, he wasn’t going to choke up. But, heat was building in his eyes, and his chest went tight. He breathed through clenched teeth. “Once, I wanted to live my life. I wanted to be me. But…”

Mike laid his palm on top of Tom’s shaking hand gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles went white. “What happened?”

He told him. Everything.

When he finally stopped talking, his throat was hoarse and he’d cried, tears falling down his cheeks like waterfalls. Mike brushed them away as he choked out his story. 1991, and the first year he’d let go of the total reins he’d kept on his life. The chance he’d taken, wanting to live his life, wanting to be himself, wanting to not live in fear. The world back then, the atmosphere, the day-to-day he lived in, the times, the way society portrayed him and all gay men. His professor, torpedoing his life before it had even begun, just after he’d let himself taste the life he truly wanted. Fear, so much crippling fear. Fear that had pushed him back into the closet and hammered the door closed. Fear that kept him living a monk’s life, lonely and celibate.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to you. I’ve never said anything. I’ve never—” He sniffed, rubbing the back of his hand over his cheek. “I’m sorry. This is ridiculous. I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Mike’s arms wound around his shoulders, and he pulled Tom close, molding him to his body. “It’s okay. I never realized—” Mike sighed, his breath ruffling Tom’s hair. “I had no idea.”

“You’re younger than I am.” Tentatively, Tom touched Mike’s hips. His heart screamed, and fresh tears silently rolled down his cheeks. “You grew up in a different world.”

“Yeah.” Mike’s arms tightened. “Even in the Navy, even before it was allowed, no one cared that I was gay. I had a lot of support.”

“I’m glad you did.” He could only whisper. “Living like I have, I don’t recommend it.”

Mike pulled back slowly, his hands on Tom’s shoulders. He searched Tom’s gaze, his expression unreadable. “Why now? Why are you doing this now?”

He squirmed. “I… fell for a guy,” he breathed. “I fell for this guy, this amazing guy. I think he’s worth it.”

Mike looked like Tom had just kicked his puppy. “Tom…”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect anything. I never have. I know I’m not your type. But you are amazing, Mike. Just this. Just… telling you.” He squeezed his eyes shut. Licked his lips. “Feeling your hands on me. It’s worth it.” His eyes fluttered open.

“You need to stop saying that,” Mike grunted.

“Saying what?”  

“That you’re not my type.” Mike swiped his thumb over Tom’s cheek, brushing away the river of tears. “I met this amazing guy, too. He’s…” Mike sighed. “He’s so brave. So, so brave.”

God, the tears were coming back. He didn’t feel brave, he didn’t feel brave at all. “Tell him I said hi, and that he’s a lucky guy.” He tried to smile.

If life were a movie, this would be when they kissed. Mike would smile at him in adoration and lean in, press his lips gently to Tom’s for their first careful kiss. Tom would wilt—or, honestly, maybe faint—and Mike would sweep him into his arms, shielding him from everything. Life, his bruised and battered heart, his fears, the world.

This wasn’t a movie, though. Mike opened his mouth, as if he were about to say something.

The oven beeped, the timer going off.

“That’s dinner.” Tom slipped from Mike’s hold. “I was supposed to make a salad. Um.” He stood at his farmhouse sink, gripping the edge.

“I’ll make the salad.”

They worked in silence, Tom pulling the fish from the oven and the salsa from the fridge as Mike tossed a spinach salad. He ducked into the bathroom for a minute, splashing water on his face and drying his eyes. He looked like hell now, but there was nothing for that.

Strangely, he felt weightless, untethered. His secret was out. Mike was still here, at least for the next minute or so. Whatever happened would happen. Maybe he’d just torn up the best parts of his life, shredded his façade and tanked whatever he’d built with Mike. But he’d stood in the sun last week and he’d said the words tonight. I’m gay. Baby steps.

When he came back, Mike was bringing their plates to the table, fish steaming on top of a bed of rice with a rainbow salsa on top. He’d poured two glasses of wine and brought the sauvignon blanc to the table. The candles Tom had lit an hour ago were still burning, flames flickering low in their silver crescent holders.

“This looks great. What is it?”

“Toasted coconut tilapia with a pomegranate salsa.” Chopped pomegranate, cranberry, tomato, orange, and lime sat on top of the flaky filets.

“Sounds delicious.” Mike pulled out Tom’s chair and smiled.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. The TV was on, streaming music, soft, bluesy jazz. Lonely saxophone notes lingered on and on, and soft bass thrummed. Tom reached for his wine, practically gulping it down.

And then, Mike’s palm covered the back of his hand, squeezing gently. He launched into a story from his early days in the marshals, his post to a Podunk town in the middle of nowhere where every marshal did every job, and he saw it all. Bootleggers, white supremacists, religious revivalists, and felons on the run. Fresh from the Navy and still a bit wide-eyed at the small, inner world of rural America, Mike had been out of his depth in the hinterlands.

Tom laughed, and nearly snorted wine at one point.

Mike held his hand the whole time.

“Then I was transferred to the regional task force for the Whitmore hunt.”

“You were on the Whitmore search?”

Paul Whitmore, leader of a sect of sovereign citizens, suspect in three bombings of federal facilities, and a white supremacist who was practically a god to neo-Nazis across America, had hidden in the Appalachians after his last firebombing of a federal courthouse in North Carolina. U.S. Marshals, FBI, ATF, and DEA agents had scoured the mountains for the man.

He was a ghost.

“I was. That was the task force.”

He squeezed Mike’s thumb, tangling with his own. “You didn’t like it.”

Mike shook his head. “That part of the country… the tension. The pain. The anger. I felt like an alien on my own planet. This is a big, big nation. We have so many different people in it. Sometimes, I’m amazed we’ve managed to stay united this long.” Mike frowned, clearly uncomfortable. “Some divides are deeper than red versus blue. They go deeper than deep. How do West Virginia and New York City belong to the same nation?”

“We’re all American. Somewhere deep inside, that means something. We all believe in the same freedoms.”

“I don’t think everyone wants the same freedoms for everyone else.” Mike’s hand clamped down on Tom’s.

Well. That was true. He turned his hand over, laced their fingers together. “America is a dream, more than anything else. It’s a dream made of hope, for everyone, here and around the world. Hope that one day we will all be equal, and free. The country was founded on hope. On looking at the horizon and thinking, one day, maybe me too. Everyone can relate to that, in some way.”

Mike was quiet. “You are an optimist. Even after…”

“I have to be. I would have died if I thought things wouldn’t, one day, be better. Maybe not better for me, but… I always hoped the world would change.”

“Do you think it has?”

“I look at you, and yes. I do.”

“Me?”

“You’re my hero.” He grinned, his face heating. “You’re everything I dreamed about. Living a proud, happy life, respected by everyone. You’re amazing, Mike.”

Mike had a weird smile on his face, like he was forcing it, almost. “I’m not that great.”

“You are to me.”

He could hear Mike’s swallow, could see his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “Are you finished?”

“Oh. Yes, I am.” He started to stand, but Mike put his hand on his shoulder and stood instead. He cleared their plates and refilled Tom’s wine glass before sitting again. “So, are you not an optimist?”

Sighing, Mike reached for Tom’s hand again. “I’m a dreamer.”

“A dreamer?”

“I want a fairy tale.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“The original fairy tales all had terrible endings. They were horror stories. Warnings. They weren’t nice.”

Etta Mae scratched at the back door, and glared over her shoulder. Mike rose to let her out.

“Let’s go out to the deck.” Tom brought Mike outside, to the small deck he’d built off his living room. He had a grill and some tiki torches and a stone fireplace with a wicker couch in front of it. Mike sat, and held out his arm for Tom to cuddle close.

Yes, please. Tom probably embarrassed himself with how fast he snuggled into Mike’s side. Etta Mae did her business and then proceeded on her sniff, her daily perusal of the yard. They watched her, silent.

Mike pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He breathed deep, inhaling Tom’s hair, before kissing him again.

Slowly, Tom shifted, twisted. Turned his face up, until he was looking up into Mike’s gaze. Mike’s lips hovered above his, less than an inch separating them. Twenty-five years, twenty-five years since a man had last kissed him. He ached, his bones crying out, his heart screaming, yearning for another kiss. For Mike’s kiss.

Mike didn’t blink. He stared into Tom’s eyes as if he was searching them, searching him. Tom reached for Mike, winding his fingers up Mike’s neck, running them through Mike’s sandy hair.

“Tom…”

God, he could still count on one hand how many times Mike had used his first name. It made his blood burn, his skin light on fire. Another man was looking at him like he wanted him. Another man was about to kiss him.

“Tom, what do you want?”

“You. I want you.”

Something passed deep in Mike’s gaze, but then it was gone. He leaned in, closing the last half inch, and pressed their lips together.

Soft, and gentle. Warm. Hungry. Mike moved over him, his kiss starting slow, but capturing Tom completely. He clung to Mike, hanging on as his heart sang and his soul went electric. Twenty-five years he’d waited for this kiss. And what a perfect kiss it was.

Mike pulled back, jerking free. “Shit,” he whispered.

“Wha—”

But Mike’s hand rose, cupping his cheek, and then Mike tugged him close for another kiss. Time stretched, lengthened, measured in slow nibbles and gentle sucks, the press and push of their lips against one another. Mike sucked on his lower lip, and Tom’s spine arched. He pressed into Mike, rolling in his hold, and cradled Mike’s face. Mike sighed, his breath shaking. Tom slithered into his lap, straddling Mike, never breaking the kiss.

Mike’s hands ran down his body, down his shoulders, down his back, and squeezed his hips.

God, this was really happening. This was finally, finally happening. He rocked forward, pressing against Mike.

Mike hissed. His hands clamped down on Tom’s hips. Yes, yes. Tom surged against him, rocking his body against Mike’s, cupping his hands around Mike’s face.

Moaning, Mike ran his hands up Tom’s back, his shoulders, and into his hair. “Tom…”

“Yes. Yes, Mike. Yes. Please.” Squirming, Tom pressed against Mike as he sat in his lap. He couldn’t think, couldn’t put thoughts together. He just wanted Mike’s hands on him, on his skin. Wanted Mike’s body to push him back into his mattress. Or the couch. Or the floor. He wasn’t picky, not right now.

But Mike gently pushed him back. Put inches between their bodies. Tom leaned forward, trying to keep their kiss going.

“Tom… Can we… go a little slower?”

Ice-cold water drenched him. His passion blunted. The curl of humiliation, uncomfortably familiar, rose in his belly. “Yeah.” Tom slid off Mike’s lap, standing unsteadily. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

Mike stood, grabbing his hands. He kissed his knuckles, pressed his cheek to the back of his fingers. “Nothing to apologize for. I want to treat you right.” Another kiss to his knuckles, and then a light touch of Mike’s lips to his. “And I said slower. Not stop.”

Damn it, his passion was flaring again. He was a sun about to go supernova.

Etta Mae padded up the deck and wagged her tail at them both. Her tongue lolled out, the heat of the summer evening sapping her energy.

“Let’s go inside.”

Etta Mae pushed her way through first. Mike chuckled, holding the door open for both Etta Mae and Tom. Jazz hit Tom, a slow saxophone and trombone duet. He needed to get away from Mike, get himself under control.

But, Mike reached for him, laced their fingers together. He spun Tom gently and brought him close, one hand landing on his waist. He started to sway, leading Tom with his hips.

And now they were dancing. They were dancing in his living room as Etta Mae slurped her water, making a racket in counterpoint to the soft music. Mike pressed his cheek against Tom’s, laid a kiss to the center of his forehead.  Tom trembled, shaking in Mike’s hold.

The song bled into another, and Mike spun him, pulled him close again. Kissed his closed eyes. Hummed along with the music, nuzzling Tom’s cheek.

Eventually, Tom pulled away, shaking from his head to the tips of his toes. “I need a minute.”

Mike steered him to the couch, where Etta Mae had flopped in her spot at the end, draping herself over the throw pillows and the couch arm. Her soft snores floated through the living room. Mike sat, and pulled Tom down, cradling him like they’d sat outside. “You okay?”

“Overwhelmed.” Tom exhaled slowly. Mike threaded their fingers together again. He squeezed, and didn’t let go. “This is more than I ever imagined.”

“Should I go?”

“No. I never want you to leave.”

A kiss to his hair, and then Mike rested his cheek on top of Tom’s head.

“Tell me more about you, Mike. Talk to me.” Talking to Mike had always been easy, been fun, but it was like a spell had been cast, and their hands and lips were doing the speaking now. Their bodies were aligning, Tom’s craving Mike, his touch and everything about him. But there was something in the air, in the room with them, something unspoken and dark. Tom wanted everything, wanted to roll in Mike’s arms and start slowly stripping, but…

Mike told him story after story. Him in high school, figuring out that he was different than the other guys. He liked his fellow football players more than he liked the cheerleaders. Fooling around with one of them, his first time, a teenage fumble. Joining the Navy. He’d been in a supportive command. There were two lesbians who were very open about themselves, and no one on the ship gave them any crap. He never had to come out, because he was never in. He was just himself, and he had hookups in different ports, a few encounters out at sea with fellow sailors. He saw the world, learned the intel trade, and grew a little bit, as a man. And then, the marshals. He grew a lot more as a man, there.

“I love your life.” Tom stroked Mike’s hand, his thumb tracing the bones under Mike’s skin. “It sounds great. You’re a great man.”

“I’ve had missteps. I’ve made mistakes. I don’t think I’d pass a Senate confirmation. You’ve lived a better life.”

“I’ve lived a sterile life.”

“What would you do, if you could do anything?”

He stroked Mike’s hand again, tracing a scar that led up his arm. “Anything? I’d…” He’d find someone. He wouldn’t be alone. He’d wake up smiling every day, go to sleep smiling every night. He’d have arms around him, kisses on his lips. They’d travel, walk Etta Mae together, cook side by side. Live life. “I wouldn’t be alone.”

Mike touched his cheek, cupped his chin. Turned his face gently, until they were eye to eye, noses brushing, little Eskimo kisses. A gentle, chaste kiss of the lips, and then another. And another. And then it lingered, stretched. Tongues slid together, gentle nudges, sucks.

Time stretched again, going thin. Tom shifted in Mike’s hold, reclining half on the couch, half on Mike. One leg went over Mike’s lap, and Mike’s arms wound around him, holding him close. Tom’s hands ran through Mike’s hair, cradled his neck. Their kisses stretched on, and on, and on.

Eventually, breathlessly, Mike pulled back, a single millimeter. His hot breath ghosted Tom’s kiss-swollen lips. “I should go.”

“You don’t have to.”

Mike grinned. “If I don’t, I won’t behave.”

You don’t have to behave. I don’t want you to behave. But, a part of Tom’s mind knew he couldn’t just rush into this. Couldn’t take Mike to bed, not with the dark something hanging in the room. There was something there, something they hadn’t spoken about yet. Mike had been strangely guarded, unusually reticent since Tom’s confession. Even though they’d kissed, there was still a pull, a drag of fear, that made Tom hesitant.

He stood slowly, untangling himself from Mike. He was instantly lonely, wanting to crawl back into Mike’s arms. But, Tom smiled. Put on a strong front. He had enough practice with that. “I’m really glad you came tonight.”

Mike smiled. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

They walked to the front door together, Mike reaching for his hand for the short walk. “I’ll pick you up for brunch?”

“Sounds great.”

“We’ll go somewhere with a patio. We can bring Etta Mae.”

Tom’s heart ached, just ached, for this man. His smile grew, widening until his cheeks hurt.

At the front door, Mike kissed him again, a long, soft kiss, his face cradled in Mike’s palms. His knees went weak, turned to jelly, and he nearly sagged against Mike. But, he stayed strong, even when Mike kissed his nose and grinned. “See you tomorrow.”

Tom couldn’t speak, not after that, so he just kept smiling like a loon and watched Mike drop down his steps, turn up his street. He waited, and then waved when Mike turned and gave him one last look, one last grin.

After he shut the door, he leaned back against the warm wood, sinking to the floor with a sigh. Etta Mae, woken by the closing door, trotted into the hallway and then jogged to him, clambering into his lap as she licked his face. “Etta Mae, it’s fine. I’m okay.” She checked him anyway, sniffing him everywhere, licking his face, his chin, his ears. Tom scratched her ears, kissed her head. “What do you think about Mike? Do you like him?”

Her tail thumped on the hardwood and she collapsed in his lap, half sitting on his chest.

“I really like him. I like him too much.” He ruffled her ears, pulled her skin forward, making her face squishy with wrinkles. She tolerated it, licking his face in retaliation. “I’m afraid this is going to hurt, Etta Mae.”

His good mood fled, a sudden weight that had nothing to do with Etta Mae crushing his chest. Tonight had been amazing, and he was going to see Mike again tomorrow morning. Mike knew his secret, and knew what had led him down this path. He’d never, ever, been more exposed. Been more known. Mike knew everything now, and he’d still kissed Tom. Still wanted to see him again.

So why did he feel like he was about to lose everything?

Chapter 13

Brunch was perfect.

Mike picked him up promptly at eleven AM, and they walked to Georgetown, Etta Mae trotting in front at the end of her leash. She napped beneath the patio table as he and Mike drank mimosas and ate French toast. In public, Mike didn’t reach for him or hold his hand.

He missed Mike’s touch.

Mike was livelier than he was the night before, smiling often, telling Tom stories about Kris, about their volleyball league, about Aaron, Carlos, Billy, and Jon. The other guys were investment bankers and lobbyists. They’d all met through volleyball or volunteering, and then saw each other out at the bars. They gravitated together, friends first, wingmen and supporters and now brothers.

Mike’s life was fuller than Tom’s. He had friends, hobbies, things he did outside his house. Tom had a well-worn track from his house to Home Depot, and a circuit he walked with Etta Mae. Befriending Mike was his first risk in a long time.

But Mike asked about his house, and he launched into story after story of his renovations. The kitchen had been a nineties throwback, flower wallpaper and oak cabinets, and he’d changed everything. Laid new scraped hardwood throughout, ripped out the cabinets and painted them white. Installed granite. Painted in shades of gray with pastel accents, and put up crown molding. Redid the bathrooms and the closets. He’d loved doing the closets, installing tiers and shelves and pullout drawers and baskets. God, he was a nerd.

Smiling, Mike hung on every word he said, oohed and aahed at the right times, and shared in his commiserations at his stumbles and foibles.

And Tom fell that much more for him.

“I’m redoing my kitchen right now, too.” Their plates were gone, and they were just finishing up their mimosas, the bottle of champagne and a carafe of orange juice between them.

“Oh? What are you planning?”

“I don’t really know yet. I tore it all out and then…” Mike shrugged. “I don’t know what I want to put in.”

“You tore it out without any plans?” Tom laughed. “What on earth?”

“It had to come out.” Mike topped off Tom’s champagne, and then his own. “I found my ex and his new boyfriend in there.”

“Oh.”

Mike grinned. “Felt really great smashing it all to bits.”

“I bet it did.” Tom drank, trying to stall. “Are you… okay, after all that?”

“I am.” Mike smiled, really smiled. “I am good. We needed to break up. Maybe not that way, but it got the job done and it made it a clean, definitive break. I needed the time apart, and I needed to be a little more reflective.”

More reflective. Huh. What did that mean? He wanted to ask, but didn’t know how.

Etta Mae snorted and woke up, shaking herself silly before looking at Tom expectantly. Napped, she was ready for their next adventure. Mike chuckled and slipped the waiter his credit card while Tom wasn’t looking.

“Any plans today?” Mike looked at him as he signed the receipt.

“None. Just gearing up for Monday.”

“Want to go to Rock Creek Park?”

“Sure!”

Rock Creek Park wasn’t far from Georgetown, and they followed behind Etta Mae as they wound through the streets. She picked up her pace once they entered the park.

“She loves going off-road. She’s an adventure Basset.” Tom grinned as Mike laughed. True to his word, Etta Mae poked her nose in flowers and snuffled at the dirt, tracking squirrels and rabbits into and out of the brush. She leaped low-lying logs and picked her way over wooden bridges, her tail happily wagging away.

On the trails, Mike reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. He squeezed back, and held on tight.

The park was gorgeous, tall, dark trees shading the looping dirt trails, the creek running through the underbrush, and birds twittering above. It was cooler in the park, an escape from the heat, and joggers, bikers, and other couples had the same idea as them. Parts of the trail were crowded, and they passed through politely, pulling Etta Mae along when she wanted to stop and say hello to each and every person.

Tom held Mike’s hand, but dropped it every time they heard someone else on the trail.

At a bend in the trail, under a shady overhang of pine and maple, and above a slope that led to the creek, Mike pulled Tom to the side. He held up his phone. “Lemme get a picture of you and Etta Mae?”

Tom crouched down next to the slobbering, sweaty, smelly Etta Mae, and beamed as her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth, and dirt clung to the ends of her long ears. “Can we take one together?”

For a half-second, Mike seemed to hesitate, but then he crouched alongside Tom, Etta Mae between them.

The first picture was just the two of them smiling, heads almost together. “Let me take another one.” Mike shifted, squatting over Etta Mae, and pushed his cheek against Tom’s.

The second picture captured Tom’s surprise. The third, his face-splitting smile and sidelong gaze, staring at Mike like he was a rock star, the hero of Tom’s life.

The fourth picture, Mike sneaked a kiss on Tom’s cheek.

Tom turned into the kiss, and Mike shoved his phone in his pocket. Tom pulled Mike closer, practically toppling him over, but Mike grabbed him, held on. Ran his hands up his arms, over his shoulders. Etta Mae looked up at them both, staring.

Laughter broke them apart, coming from up the trail. A family appeared around the bend, out for an afternoon walk. Mike smiled at them, and Tom crouched down, holding Etta Mae back from running to the kids. Her tail kicked up dust and she whined, wanting attention.

“I’m sorry.” Mike looked contrite.

“What for?”

“I know you’re not out. I don’t want to stress you about getting caught.”

“I’m not exactly in, either. I just want to live my life. I want to be happy.” He held out his hand for Mike.

Mike took it, smiling slowly.

“Send me those pics?”

“Of course.”

“There’s a café I want to take you to. For dinner.” Mike squinted at him after they left Rock Creek Park and were heading back to Tom’s place. “It’s a gay place, though. Big rainbow flag, heart of the gayborhood. So I just want to check with you first. If you don’t want to go, I understand.”

Going to dinner at a gay café with another man. If he was seen, the rumors would start. Questions would fly.

But, if he did this, really did this—lived his life, continued dating Mike, found happiness—the truth would come out eventually. Why wait? Why delay the inevitable? A slow start would be the best way, anyway. Slow, test the waters.

“I do want to go. With you.” He smiled. “Tonight.”

Mike beamed.

They dropped Etta Mae off. She drank a gallon of water and put herself to bed, flopping onto the couch as Tom took Mike upstairs to the master suite. He let Mike freshen up while he changed shirts, borrowing one of Tom’s larger ones. Etta Mae had slobbered him during the last part of the walk.

Having Mike in his bedroom made him squirm in the worst possible way. What if they said screw it to going out?  What if Mike peeled off his clothes? What if he dropped to his knees in front of Mike, right here, right now?

What if he was no good, after so long?

Mike was just as unsettled as he was, he could tell. They thundered downstairs, Mike’s eyes darting away from Tom’s, and then they headed for the café. Mike kept his hands to himself the whole walk there.

As promised, the café was in the heart of the gayborhood. Couples crowded the streets, men and men and women and women walking together. The cafés and bars and patios were full of diners and laughter. Like before, at the Tap Room last weekend, a combined sense of happiness and jealousy poured over him.

But, he didn’t have to be jealous. Not anymore. Mike was walking beside him. He was going to dinner with Mike.

A rainbow flag hung over the purple-painted door, and Mike smiled and answered the host’s exuberant greeting with a grin. The host kissed Mike’s cheeks, looked Tom up and down, gave Mike a not-subtle-at-all thumbs-up, and then led them to a corner table on the patio.

“Eric is a character.” Mike was blushing.

“That was sweet.” Mike obviously came here a lot. Eric knew him well, and was a fan of Mike’s. Was that a stamp of approval, then? “What’s good here?”

They shared tapas and then seared tuna strips, chicken skewers and kebabs. The menu was eclectic, the drinks even more so. No plain margarita in sight. He settled for a fancy-sounding pear and honey Martini, and Mike got a peach whiskey on the rocks. Their feet tangled beneath the table, and by the end of dinner, Tom had his hand on Mike’s leg. Mike rested his hand on top, and they finished their drinks with dopey smiles and soft eyes. Eric, who served them personally, cooed as he brought Mike the bill.

Would they go back to his place and… Was tonight the night? Would he pull Mike upstairs, back into his bedroom? It felt good, felt right. He wanted Mike, so badly. He was ready. They were ready.

He wanted to make love to Mike.

He dug his fingers into Mike’s thigh, scraped his nails over Mike’s jeans. Mike’s eyes shot to his, burning.

They paid, but on the way out, Mike pulled him off to the side, pressed him against the wall, and kissed him breathless. Eric whistled, and then let them be, steering others away from their dark corner.

“Mike…” Tom grabbed his waist, pulled him close. Rubbed his crotch against Mike’s.

Mike kept kissing him, dropping kisses to his cheeks, his chin, his nose. He surrounded Tom, his arms pinning him on either side of his head. “You’re not making this easy.”

“Making what easy?”

“I want to be good.”

Tom rolled his hips into Mike’s. “I don’t want you to be good.”

“Damn it…” Mike cupped his face and leaned in, capturing his lips again.

Eric started commenting loudly that some people should get a room or put out a jar to collect money. Mike seemed to come back to himself, and he flushed a deep maroon as he steered Tom out of the café.

They both walked back to Tom’s place with their hands in their pockets, sneaking smiles and giggles. He felt like a teenager who had sneaked out of his house, a sixteen-year-old pushing the limits of his freedom and responsibility. He felt free.

He imagined making love to Mike with every step. What would it be like? Feeling Mike’s body. Feeling another man inside him again. His nerves were on fire, already strung out at just the thought, the fantasy.

When they got to his place, he practically ran up the steps, hurrying to his door.

“Tom.”

He turned, and froze. Mike had stayed on the sidewalk. He looked up at Tom, his expression set. Resignation. Regret. And a firm decision.

“Oh.” Looking down, Tom smiled, laughing at himself. “I guess you’re not coming in.”

Mike shook his head, slowly.

“Okay.” Damn it. Tom plodded down the steps, a rueful twist to his lips. “Sorry. I presumed.”

Mike didn’t say anything. He smiled. It was only a half-smile, and seemed sad. “I had a great time with you.”

“I had the best time with you.” Tom reached out, one finger tracing a line across Mike’s stomach. “I hope we can do this again.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Mike smiled, but his words were strained. He reached for Tom’s hand, squeezed it, painfully hard, and pressed his lips together. He seemed to search for something to say, gazing into Tom’s eyes like he was looking for something.

But then, he let go. “Night, Tom. Say bye to Etta Mae for me.”

“Night, Mike. Thank you. For everything.”

Mike smiled, said nothing, and walked away. He turned and waved at the corner, and then disappeared.

When his door shut behind him, Mike collapsed against it, sinking to his floor as he buried his head in his hands. Gasping, he sucked down giant lungfuls of air, over and over, trying to keep his heart from breaking. Trying to stop the tears from welling.

Kris was right. Damn him, Kris was right.

Tom was everything he dreamed about. Everything he wanted. Everything he yearned for.

But it wouldn’t work. Any relationship with him was doomed from the start.

He wanted a fairy tale, but, damn it, fairy tales weren’t happy stories. They all had a twist, and so did life.

Damn it all. Damn the world. Damn history, and time, and everything that had happened. Everything that would keep him and Tom from actually being together.

He’d had one weekend. One weekend where it felt like they were a couple, a matched set. He’d had one weekend where he got to feel what that was like. What a shared future with the man of his dreams would be like.

God, he’d have to avoid the courthouse tomorrow. Maybe the whole week. He’d go into headquarters, pull files on old threats. Make house calls. Drop in on anyone who’d threatened his judges and check up on them. Play the federal intimidation game.

Anything to keep away from Tom Brewer, and his own cracking heart.

Chapter 14

Hey you. :) Haven’t seen you yet today. Miss you.

Tom bit his lip as he sent his text to Mike. Monday afternoon, and he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the man.

What were they? Dating? Did two days constitute the beginning of a relationship? They hadn’t talked about it. He wanted to date, wanted a relationship with Mike, but… That lingering weight, the something that had hung between them on Saturday night, had roared back full force. Why hadn’t Mike wanted to stay Sunday night? Why had he slammed on the brakes? Why had he put distance between them?

Where was he today?

Niggling doubt yanked on his heart, scratched down his spine. He watched his phone, waiting.

[At headquarters. Reviewing threat assessments.]

Tom exhaled slowly. Everything all right?

[Yep. Routine stuff.]

Routine stuff.

Was Mike avoiding him? Avoiding them?

He didn’t say anything about missing Tom, or acknowledged that Tom missed him. Or said anything about seeing him soon. Or tried to make plans for dinner, drinks, a swing-by for a smile and a kiss. Tom would do that, go out of his way just to see Mike’s smile.

Tom turned his screen off and set his phone face-down on his desk. Okay. Mike would text back. He was probably busy. Surrounded by other marshals. He was at headquarters, after all. It would be okay. The weekend had been amazing. That was real. He had to have faith in that.

No texts all afternoon. Silence, from Mike.

He waited around, hanging at the courthouse as long as he could in case Mike swung by, until he had to leave to take care of Etta Mae. His shoulders sagged as he walked to the Metro and he sat slumped on the plastic seats as the subway clanked across the city, holding his phone in a slack grip dangling between his legs.

So… what had happened? Part of him went straight to the worst-case scenario. Was there a traffic accident? Something terrible that had happened in the afternoon, that kept Mike from him? Some giant case or investigation that he was wrapped up in and would emerge from with a breathless apology and a smile, and another kiss.

But, how likely was that, truly?

He should have paid attention to the signals, the weighty something that had felt like a dark premonition hovering just out of sight all weekend. Mike’s unusual reticence on Saturday. He was better on Sunday, but he still had kept Tom at a distance. He hadn’t come inside after their beyond-amazing dinner date.

And, why? Why, with such an amazing day, an amazing dinner date, was this happening now? What had he done? What had he said? What had driven Mike away, had made him change his mind?

Jesus, had he been too forward? Was Mike turned off by how enthusiastic he’d been, how much he wanted Mike? That was ludicrous. But he’d asked to slow down, and the very next day, Tom had bounded up his steps like he was certain Mike was about to drill him through his mattress.

And Mike had refused.

Had Mike just been humoring him through the weekend? Had he ever really said anything about Tom being who he wanted? He’d never actually said that, had he? He’d kissed Tom, yes. But had he ever said he wanted Tom?

He stared at the stained tile of the Metro, the chipped plastic seats. He was pathetic. He couldn’t see what was right in front of his face. Couldn’t see when a man was humoring him, making him feel a little rush, a little excitement, before the inevitable end.

He’d known it would end like this. He’d known. He just hadn’t expected the dinner, Rock Creek Park, and the kisses before the end. It would have been better to have never tasted Mike’s kiss, never held his hand.

Swiping his phone on once more, Tom flicked to his gallery. He rocked and rolled, his body loose and swaying over the rumbling tracks, the screech of the subway. Four photos were right on top of the roll, four photos from Rock Creek Park. Him and Etta Mae, him looking happier than he’d been in a long, long time.

Him and Mike, side by side, but with about a foot between their heads. Etta Mae’s nose poked up into the bottom of the frame. She was jealous she wasn’t the center of the photo.

Him and Mike, their cheeks pressed together. His joyous smile, his eyes sliding sideways, gazing beatifically at Mike.

Mike kissing his cheek. The way he looked like his own heart had burst. It had.

Would Mike delete these photos, too, like he’d deleted his ex’s?

What would he do with them?

Welcome back to gay life. Heartbreak, lost boyfriends, and unanswered texts. It used to be unanswered phone calls, but twenty-five years was a millennium to technology. Peter had disappeared like this, vanishing from his life after he sank into his post-professor depression. No more phone calls, no more nights spent together, just sudden, aching silence.

He really should have kept in contact with Doug. Maybe he’d dig out Steven’s business card, try and grab a drink with him. Not at the Tap Room, though. He couldn’t go back there, risk running into Mike.

The thought of trying to find another man was just depressing. More rejection, more kisses that went nowhere. Would he want to hop into bed so quickly with another man? Would he want Steven to take him to bed like he wanted Mike to? Would he burn as brightly for his touch? He suspected not.

Maybe he should just forget this whole thing. Maybe he’d dodged a bullet. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. Maybe he should turn around and close his closet door. He’d done twenty-five years of this already. What was another twenty-five?

The subway screeched and ground over the tracks, and finally reached Foggy Bottom. He trudged to the street and then up the block, heading for home. Etta Mae met him at the door, happy tail wags and wet kisses, leaping up on him as if she could somehow reach him and wrap her short paws around his neck. He always told her not to jump, but today, he needed it.

He dropped to his knees and wrapped her up, and her short, stubby paws draped over his shoulders. Her wet nose pushed against his cheek, his nose, ruffled his hair. She licked his ear, his face, his neck, and her squat body wriggled beneath his hands. Her jumping up was like a bus doing a wheelie, and she pushed most of her not inconsiderable weight against him.

Tom held on, burying his face in her soft fur. “Sorry, Etta Mae. I don’t think Mike’s coming back to see you again.”

The tears started to fall.

He drifted through Tuesday, pouring his focus into his work. He shut his door, retreating from the openness he had fostered over the past two months. There was no need to listen for Mike’s footfalls, or try and catch his smile.

Remarkably, he managed to speed through two of the opinions he needed to finish and rule on three motions. He sent them all to Peggy and Danny for final drafting and review and then turned to the research he needed to dig into, prep work on case law, precedent, and the pre-trial proceedings for a trial due to begin in two weeks.

Silence, perfect, heavy silence, encased his day. No texts. No knocks. No smiles. When he did venture out of his chambers, he spotted Mike’s dark and closed office. Avoidance, pure and simple.

He left for Georgetown early, stopping to grab a sandwich on the way. He ate half and saved the rest. His appetite had fled.

His students were polite, but they could tell he was off. One young woman wished him well after class. As he was packing up, Tom rifled through his briefcase, but couldn’t find his phone. Damn it. He’d left it in his drawer, back at court. He’d banished the thing, trying to escape its dreary pull. Confirming Mike’s continued absence of texts only shredded his heart more, turning his insides to ribbons. He’d put it away, and then forgot about it.

He could leave it. Forget about the damn thing overnight. But, would he sleep? What if Mike did text him, and he didn’t respond? And, he really should be reachable at all times. He was a judge. Emergencies that woke him in the middle of the night did happen. Few and far between, but they were there. An emergency warrant, breaking news from the Hill, or information from the White House. With his luck, tonight would be the night he was needed, and his phone, if he didn’t go back, would be ringing and ringing in his desk drawer.

He headed back. The Annex was lit up like a spaceship, gleaming white marble and smooth lines. The American flag flapped in her floodlight, snapping in the summer night breeze. No one was inside the Annex except for a few late-night workaholic AUSAs and the cleaning crew. He said hello to Miguel and Rachel as they cleaned and headed up the stairs. He’d been a late-night work addict once, before Etta Mae. He’d said hello to Miguel and Rachel every night when they passed through, cleaning around him like he was a potted plant.

The fourth floor was dim, the lights turned down at night. But, at the end of the long, secured hallway, light poured from the tiny marshal’s office.

Mike.

Don’t do it. Don’t go there.

Who was he kidding? Tom grabbed his phone—no texts—and padded to Mike’s open door. He stopped just outside the doorframe and tried to smile. He failed, miserably.

Mike looked up and froze.

God, Mike looked awful. Dark bags beneath his eyes, long stubble, like he hadn’t shaved since Sunday. His suit was rumpled. He never looked like that, so out of sorts and off. Even after his ex had thrown coffee at him, Mike hadn’t looked that bad.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were teaching.”

So Mike had been avoiding him. Coming to the courthouse when he thought Tom would for sure be gone. Ouch. His heart flinched. “Left my phone on accident. Thought it might be important that I had it.”

Mike’s gaze flicked back to his computer monitor. His jaw clenched, and Tom watched the muscles in his jaw bulge. “I’ll drive you home.”

He wanted to be a bigger man, tell Mike not to bother, but the thought of spending just a few minutes at Mike’s side was too alluring. Silently, he waited for Mike to grab his keys and his phone and shut down his computer.

Walking out together was terrible, nothing like their sojourns for dinner or drinks when they’d been happy and relaxed, chatting or laughing. A tuning fork would have sung an opera between them, rung and rung and rung. Mike kept ahead of him, not looking at Tom. Tom hung in his shadow, staring at Mike’s dark figure.

Mike had parked his marshal’s car at the curb, in police-only parking. He normally took the Metro to and from the courthouse and kept his marshal-issued undercover cruiser parked in the courthouse garage. But, with him avoiding the courthouse, and Tom, it seemed he’d pulled it out.

The drive was deathly silent. Strained. Mike kept his eyes glued to the road and both his hands on the wheel. Tom clutched his briefcase in his lap, the only armor he had to protect his heart. I guess this answers my question. Well, part of his question. The why, the motive, was still unaccounted for, but like many crimes, he figured he’d never truly know. In any event. the motive rarely mattered, except to plead for extenuating circumstances. It was only the outcome that meant anything.

Mike pulled up to the curb outside Tom’s home. He looked down. Said nothing.

Guess it was all up to him. “I’d invite you in, but…”

Mike’s jaw clenched. His eyes shut.

“But, I take it that’s not going to happen again. Ever.”

Mike looked away, out the driver’s side window.

The why didn’t really matter. What was done was done. Mike had come to a decision, for some reason. Nothing Tom said or did could change that. After nineteen years as a prosecutor, he’d learned that much, at least. People did what they did and believed in their own actions. The only thing he could truly do was accept it. “Whatever happened, I’m sorry, Mike. I honestly never expected anything. I knew I wasn’t your type. I shouldn’t have…” He sighed. “I’m sorry that this has ended our friendship. I really, really do think you’re great.” He swallowed hard. Don’t tear up. Don’t tear up, God.

He was going to survive this, survive this car ride, survive Mike. He’d survived everything else; he’d get through this, too. “You’re going to make some guy the happiest man on the planet someday. He’s a lucky man.”

Mike’s hands gripped the steering wheel, squeezing so hard the leather squeaked. Groaned.

Time to go. He got out, his mind a blur, and he barely managed to hold onto his briefcase and not trip over the curb. He shut the car door and turned, staring at Mike.

What now? A hundred words tried to climb up his throat, tried to push free from his mouth, but he swallowed them all down.

Mike jerked the car into gear, yanked the wheel over, and burned rubber as he sped into the street. His tires squealed, and he disappeared down the block in seconds.

Goodbye.

Chapter 15

June 24^th

Tom drank a full bottle of wine Tuesday night and stared at the pictures of him and Mike in Rock Creek Park until his eyes finally slipped closed after two AM. His alarm went off way, way too early, and his head ached as he downed four cups of water. God, his mouth felt like something had died in it.

Part of him wanted to call in sick and wallow, but another part of him, the part that had pushed him forward for twenty-five years, moved him through his routine. Got him showered and dressed and out the door after feeding Etta Mae. Etta Mae was grumpy, snorting at him when he gave her a goodbye kiss. She hadn’t liked being kept up past her bedtime, and she was going to drool on his couch all day as revenge.

He was at the gym just a few minutes off his usual time, and then into the pool. Swimming helped calm his nerves, soothe his rattled heart. Routine, normalcy. His life moving on.

At the Annex, Mike’s door was shut again, but that was to be expected. He shut his own and settled in to work. What was done was done. He needed to move past Mike, past his failed crush. That started today.

So he was more than a little surprised when, just after four PM, knocks sounded on his door and Mike poked his head into his office.

Tom’s jaw dropped.

Mike didn’t wait for an invitation. He barged in and shut the door behind him.

God, he looked terrible, even worse than the night before. Like he hadn’t slept, not at all, since the weekend. He looked like Etta Mae, all blotchy-red hangdog eyes and droopy skin. Tom stood slowly, speechless.

“Nothing happened, Tom,” Mike said in a rush. “I’m just afraid.”

He found his brain, but his mouth refused to work. “Afraid?” he echoed

“Tom…” Mike screwed up his face and turned away, burying his face in his hands. “God,” he groaned, behind his fingers. He faced Tom again, breathing hard. Raw, naked pain leached from every pore. “I fell for you, Tom. I fell so fucking hard for you. You are my fairy tale. You’re everything, Jesus, everything that I’ve ever wanted. Ever dreamed of. But you’re so out of my league. You’re kind, way, way smarter than everyone, and so damn hot. Why are you even interested in me? You’re perfect. Totally perfect. But—”

The bottom fell out of Tom’s world.

Mike’s breath shuddered. “But… you’re my fairy tale, and you’re just coming out. You’re just giving yourself permission to be you.” Slowly, Mike stepped forward, as if drawn to Tom. “If we continue, I’m going to fall even more for you. If we keep going. If we…” His jaw trembled. “And I’m afraid you will want something different. You’re going to want to date other guys.  Live the life you were denied. Have fun, like you should have been allowed to. You can’t know who you want to be with forever yet because you haven’t had the chance to look, the chance to live. I’m afraid you’re going to want something simple. Something casual. And I’m going to want everything.” He swallowed. “Everything, ever after, with you, and you alone. You’re going to break me, Tom.” He cringed, and his face twisted, his lips pressed together, his eyes squeezed shut.

Tom opened and shut his mouth, and then opened and shut it again. A tornado raged in his heart, in his soul. Too many thoughts, too many words, clamoring for freedom. But, in the center of himself, conviction. Conviction, and certainty, a certainty he so rarely ever felt. Certainty was not something that was a part of his life. His was a life of measures, of going beyond a reasonable doubt, of just enough evidence to sway. Certainty was a rare, precious thing.

“I know who I want,” he breathed. Like the same magnetic force that had pulled Mike to him, he was pulled to Mike. “I know exactly who I want. Who I have fallen for. And…” He tried to smile. “He’s not my first guy.”

Mike reared back. He blinked, and then blinked again.

“I had a boyfriend in college. And, much later, after I fell for this great guy who I knew I had no chance with, I decided to try and open up a bit. I’ve been on GrindMe. Crash and burned on GrindMe, actually.” He chuckled. “I met some men on Spark. We talked. But they all had the same problem.”

Mike looked like Tom had smacked him with a two-by-four, had driven a car right into his gut.

“None of the men were you. You are the man I want.”

“Tom…”

“I want this. I want to try. I want to try for everything with you. I can’t read the future. I can’t promise you it will work out, that it’s together forever before we even give it a chance, but… let’s try… us.”

It was Mike’s turn to struggle for words, to struggle for something to say. His chin quivered. “If we… if we sleep together—”

Tom cupped Mike’s cheek, stroking over his stubble. He traced Mike’s face with his gaze, mapping his exhaustion, his fears, his hopes, all written in the lines of his face and the panicked brightness of his eyes. “Come home with me,” he whispered. “Tonight.”

Mike’s eyes fluttered closed, and he breathed out, his whole body shaking. He nodded.

There was no way any work was happening for either of them after that. Tom grabbed his jacket and briefcase as Mike closed up his office. Silently, they met in the hallway and headed down the central stairs together. Mike kept stealing wide-eyed glances at Tom, his lips parted, breathing fast through his mouth.

They headed for the secured parking garage where judges, U.S. Attorneys, and federal agents parked. Two security guards were smoking near a rattling box fan, and they nodded as Mike guided him toward his car.

As soon as the car doors shut, Mike lunged across the center console and grabbed Tom, wrapping his hands around Tom’s face and tugging him close. His kiss was hungry, desperate, and Mike whimpered when Tom kissed back, equally as needy. Tom’s hands drifted down, smoothing over Mike’s chest, down and around his ribs. His fingers bumped into Mike’s shoulder holster, the heavy weight of his gun.

If they kept kissing, Tom was going to rip Mike’s shirt from his suit pants and haul him into the back seat. They’d never make it home.

Shuddering, Mike jerked back, panting as he gripped the steering wheel.

If Tom chased him, leaned over and kissed him again, they were going to have sex in Mike’s car, in the basement of the courthouse.

Breathing hard, Tom leaned away, curling over his lap.

“Not here,” Mike grunted. His voice was two octaves deeper than normal, grinding and growling over each letter. He blinked, put the car in gear, and burned rubber as he pulled out of the garage. On the street, Mike switched his dashboard emergency flashers on, strobing red and blue lights screaming as the siren wailed. Once, Tom had been part of a trial where the FBI agent on the stand had been shredded as a credible witness because he’d had a disciplinary letter in his file, a reprimand for using his police sirens for personal use, avoiding traffic and getting around the city faster. It was a big no-no to misuse the emergency sirens. But getting home, getting hands on each other, finally being together—yeah, okay, that was an emergency.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually, Mike squealed to a stop outside Tom’s old Victorian. They tumbled from the car and raced up the steps. Tom’s hands shook as he fumbled with the key in the front door. Mike hovered behind him, his hands on Tom’s waist, breathing in Tom’s hair, nuzzling just behind his ear. Tom groaned and wilted against his front door.

And then, they were inside. Etta Mae came trotting over, and then ran when she saw Mike. Tail wagging, she leaped up, trying to get his full attention.

Mike stumbled against the front door, off-balance from Etta Mae and blindsided by her jump. “Etta Mae, down.” Tom pulled her back, swatting her rump, and pointed to the kitchen. “Go.”

Etta Mae stayed exactly where she was, gazing up at them, tail wagging. She didn’t jump, at least.

“She needs to say hi.” Mike tried to hide how he adjusted himself as he crouched down and reached for Etta Mae, scratching behind both her ears. Etta Mae melted into his touch, sitting and then flopping sideways, her tiny tyrannosaurus legs waving in the air as she begged for a belly rub. Grinning, Mike gave her one with both hands, and her eyes rolled back in her head.

Tom shook his head and headed for the kitchen, dumping his briefcase and his keys on the counter. Rushing, on autopilot, he put her dinner together and popped it in the microwave. When the timer went off, he heard her run for the kitchen.

“You’re a spoiled princess.” She ignored him.

Hands snaked around his waist and lips pressed against his cheek. Tom spun, wrapping his hands around Mike’s neck as their lips met. It wasn’t a Hollywood romance, candles and roses and dripping with sensuality, but as they kissed in Tom’s kitchen to the sound of Etta Mae’s smacking jowls and the crunch of dog food, Tom felt his heart burst just the same.

Mike steered Tom out of the kitchen, his kisses getting deeper, hungrier. Hands tugged at his shirt, pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders. Reached for his belt. Tom couldn’t get Mike’s clothes off fast enough, couldn’t get his hands everywhere they wanted to be. He wanted to cup Mike’s cheeks, rip his suit off. Run his fingers through his hair, squeeze his ass. Mike was more coordinated than he was, and Tom’s clothes ended up in a trail from the kitchen to the stairs: jacket, tie, shirt, undershirt.

And then, Mike reached for his zipper.

Tom’s mental faculties fled. His bones turned to jelly, and he wilted in Mike’s arms as Mike got a hand down his pants. He gasped against Mike’s kiss, clinging to Mike’s shoulders. “Mike— I want—”

Mike pushed Tom against the wall beside his stairs, pinning him back. He dropped to his knees, yanking Tom’s suit pants down.

He nearly came undone at the sight of Mike on his knees before him, gazing at him with the hungriest look he’d ever seen on a man. Mike reached for him, licking his lips.

Tom’s knees buckled, but Mike held him up, and Tom grabbed Mike’s hair, dug his fingers into the strands. Heat, wet suction, the vibration from Mike’s gleeful hum. The heat in Mike’s eyes as he looked up at Tom nearly sent him over the edge.

Twenty-five years and only his hands for company meant he was a rocket with too short a fuse. His fingers yanked, tugging on Mike’s hair. “I’m—Mike—Shit!”

Mike wrapped both hands around Tom’s waist and gripped his ass. His gaze flicked up, eyes burning. 

Tom groaned in Mike’s hold as his body caught fire, pulling him inside out from the very center.

When Mike pulled back, Tom slumped, sliding down the wall until he was on his knees with Mike. Mike’s hand fumbled for his own fly, tore at his belt. Tom was in a haze, a fog, delirious with honeyed joy. His limbs were heavy, too slow. But the world snapped into high def when Mike moved for his own fly.

Tom reached for him with both hands. Mike leaned forward, resting his head on Tom’s shoulder, his hands on Tom’s waist, hips bucking. “Harder.” His teeth bit into Tom’s shoulder as he whimpered, and then jerked, cried out. Tom pulled aftershocks out of Mike as he writhed and moaned.

Mike eventually drew himself to his feet, slowly, and helped Tom up. Their pants were open and undone, pooling low on their hips. Tom was shirtless. Mike’s suit jacket was still on, barely. He had one arm through it, and his button-down was undone, his undershirt pushed up to his chest.

“Wow.” Tom shook his head. “I didn’t expect that.”

“That was just to take the edge off.” Mike shrugged out of his jacket and peeled off his shirts. He dropped them on the floor. “I’m not done with you. Not by a long shot.”

“I’m forty-six. Not sixteen.” Tom laughed. But, even as he spoke, heat curled in his veins, a bubbling frisson that went straight to his groin.

“What do you want?” Mike reached for him, wrapped his hands around Tom’s waist. “Teach me how to touch you. How to make love to you. Tell me what you need.”

“Everything.” He said it automatically, his soul speaking before his mind could override his desires. “I want your touch, your everything. Make me feel like a real man again.”

Mike’s eyes smoldered, a scorching inferno that sizzled against Tom’s skin. He leaned in, kissing Tom gently, so at odds with the heat in his gaze. He promised delirious passion with his eyes, and gentle, lingering sweetness with his kiss. A lover’s touch, and a night of unbridled desire, enough to make Tom’s bones melt. His gaze said he would devour Tom, and his kiss, his touch, said Tom would love every moment of it.

“Let’s go upstairs. To the shower.”

It was silly, but Tom zipped up his pants. Mike had already seen everything worth seeing, but a touch of shyness still lingered. Mike mirrored him, and they padded upstairs in their suit pants and wingtips and nothing else.

Tom started the shower, adjusted the temperature, and then turned into Mike’s hold. They swayed together, hands roaming, chests pressed together. Warm skin against warm skin. The feel of another man. God, how he’d craved this. He’d never really allowed himself to acknowledge just how much he missed the feel of another man, or wanted another man’s hands on him.

Mike cradled his face. Kissed him gently. Ran his hands down Tom’s chest, down his abdomen, to his fly. He waited, his eyes flicking back up to meet Tom’s.

Tom nodded as his body started to tremble.

Slowly, Mike peeled Tom’s pants and briefs down. In a moment, Tom was naked, completely naked, in front of Mike.

“Beautiful,” Mike whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

Tom snorted. He ran his hands down himself, seeing only patchy chest hair, narrow hips, his slender legs, the hair on his thighs mostly rubbed off and bare in places because of the friction of his swimsuit. “I’m not.”

“You are.” Mike kissed him, and kissed him again.

Tom found Mike’s fly and reciprocated, peeling Mike’s small, sexy briefs and suit pants down his legs. He smiled, and a burn raced through every nerve in his body. Mike was going to be an amazing lover.

Naked together, for the first time. Mike tugged Tom close, wrapping him up. Their bodies aligned, fit perfectly together. Tom clung to Mike. Mike groaned, curled over him, and ran his hands down Tom’s back, over his ass. Squeezed. And then—

“What is this?”

Shit.

Tom’s cheeks burned, center-of-the-sun hot, suddenly. He stepped back and covered his left ass cheek with both hands. “Nothing.”

Grinning wide, Mike tugged at Tom’s elbow. “C’mon. I saw it. Show me.”

“You saw nothing.”

“Oh yes I did.”

“Nope.”

Mike stared at him. Tom sighed. He turned, but kept his hands over his left cheek. Finally, he dropped them, and watched over his shoulder as Mike got his first good look at his one lasting youthful indiscretion.

A rainbow tattoo sat in the center of his left ass cheek, a bright, gaudy stamp. On top, a golden crown perched askew, like a queen’s tiara that had tipped after a wild night. He’d had a wild night when he got the tattoo. One night in 1991, an alcohol-blurred evening filled with Peter and laughter, hopes and dreams, and then and this lifelong tattoo. He’d loved it when he first got it. A statement, a declaration to the world. He was who he was.

And then he’d hated it, and hated looking at it in the mirror. He decided not to, and for years, averted his eyes, never catching sight of it. Shame crawled under his skin whenever he inadvertently did. But, eventually, the tattoo and his own identity settled into a quiet solitude, both hidden from the world forever. Or so he thought.

Mike ran his fingers over his tattoo, tracing the arch of the rainbow, the tilt of the golden crown. “I’ve wanted to get one, but never have.”

“It’s not as painful as they say. Feels like a fingernail scratch.”

“Maybe I’ll get a matching rainbow tattoo on my ass.” Mike winked.

Tom kept his mouth shut. He looked away.

Steam poured from the shower, and Mike held open the wide glass door. He’d renovated his master bath along with everything else, widening the shower, making it big enough for two, like everything else. He and Mike easily fit under the spray. They took turns wetting their hair, shaking the water out of their eyes. Mike’s blond hair turned dark, plastered to his head. He reached for the body wash and Tom’s loofah, and then started to soap Tom down.

He washed every finger and up his arms, across his chest. Around his neck, and then down. Down, skirting past his groin to his thighs and his legs. Mike squatted, washing his feet, in-between his toes.

“Turn around.”

Tom did, and braced himself against the shower wall, beneath the spray. Water sluiced down his back, down the canyon of his spine, and into his cleft. Mike’s soapy hand trailed up the back of his thigh.

“This okay?” Mike’s voice hovered behind him, over his shoulder. Tom turned toward the sound and nodded. A kiss dropped to his shoulder blade, the center of his back. One of Mike’s hands landed on his hip. The other—

Tom groaned, resting his head against the shower wall. Pleasure snaked up his spine, grabbed his balls from the inside and tugged. He spread his legs and pushed his ass out, deepening Mike’s touch.

Eventually, Mike pulled back, dropping kisses to his back, his shoulders. Tom missed his fingers, clenched around nothingness. He wanted more.

He took the loofah from Mike and added more soap, and then washed Mike, more quickly than Mike had washed him. He wasn’t thinking about slow, not anymore.

Mike kissed him under the spray and tossed aside the loofah. It hit the tile and rolled over, completely forgotten.

They kissed until Tom palmed the water off, and then kissed some more. As Mike dried Tom, ruffling his hair, patting down his body. While Tom steered him backward to the bedroom.

Mike slowly spun Tom and guided him down on the bed, following him and bracing on his hands and knees. His knees nudged at Tom’s thighs, spreading them wider.

“I want to rim you,” Mike whispered.

Tom sighed into Mike’s kiss. His head tipped back and he shivered, just at the thought. “Please…”

Mike kissed his way down, down, down, over Tom’s chest, his ribs, past his trembling belly.

He tried to escape and he tried to chase Mike and his tongue, writhing forward and back. Cries fell from his lips, whimpers and moans as he reached for Mike, blindly tried to grab his hair and his shoulders, anything he could reach. He got a handful of Mike’s hair and tugged. He felt open in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time. Between the shower, and Mike’s fingers, and now this.

He was ready. He was more than ready.

“Condoms?” Mike’s voice was back to that low growl, rough and grating.

Tom made a vague motion to the nightstand and mumbled something. He scooted back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under his hips as Mike lunged for the drawer. The new box of condoms, his old bottle of lube, and his new bottle of lube were in the drawer, next to his porn-pad, an iPad he’d bought and devoted solely to his tiny gay porn collection.

Mike ended up over Tom, his chest and his hip right in front of his mouth. He nipped at Mike’s skin, sucked one of his nipples into his mouth. Mike shuddered and nearly faceplanted on the mattress. He turned his heated gaze to Tom as he sat back, one long line of condom wrappers and the new bottle of lube in his hand.

“You plan on using all those tonight?”

“Maybe half.” Mike grinned. “You up for it?”

“With you? Yes.”

And then Mike poured lube into his hand, and against his hole, and he shivered from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. Squirmed, and tried to push down, into Mike’s touch.

“Are you ready?”

Mike deserved an award for his patience. Tom would have had sex with him in his car, but Mike had brought them home, got them upstairs, into and out of the shower, and now into bed. And they were better for it. He was ready, more than ready. He nodded.

A tearing wrapper, and then Mike hunched over himself. Squirted more lube into his palm, and then lined them up.

Mike pitched forward, one hand landing beside Tom’s head. “Tom…” He stared into Tom’s eyes, breathing hard.

“I want this, Mike. I want you. I want all of you. This, and more.” Tom cupped Mike’s cheeks and stroked his thumbs over his stubble. “Make love to me.”

Mike slid his hips forward. Tom gasped, arching his back, his neck, his eyes rolling back in his head. Mike froze. Waited.

Yes, this. God, this. He’d missed this so, so much. The feeling of another man inside him, entering him, parting him. Being filled. His body sang, a violin string quivering on a held note. Mike kissed him, over and over, from his lips to his eyes to his chin, and one hand grabbed his hip, stroked over his leg, his thigh. “Tom, Tom, Tom…” He kept chanting Tom’s name in between each kiss, peppering Tom’s skin with breaths and lips and nips.

Tom wrapped his arms around Mike and held on as Mike rocked into him, surrounded him, swept him away. Kisses, breathless sighs, hips rocking. Pleasure like a rake over his nerves, raw bolts of lightning shooting through his veins. Perfection, the feeling of rightness, of putting the missing pieces back into the puzzle of his life.

Eventually, Mike pulled back and rolled Tom over, guided him to his hands and knees, and slid within him again. Tom shuddered, and kept trembling when Mike pulled him up and into his arms until he was leaning back against Mike’s chest. Mike’s arms wrapped around him, and his hands stroked over his chest and down.

Tom rested his head back on Mike’s shoulder, rolled his forehead against Mike’s neck, and gave in to Mike’s touch, his strokes, the kiss he dropped to Tom’s temple. His orgasm hit him like an asteroid crashing to earth, a sudden blaze and an earth-shaking roar, the slam of impact enough to shock his bones out of place, separate his soul from his body. Screaming, he went ripcord taut, grabbing onto Mike’s arms, his head, anything he could reach.

And then Mike cursed and grabbed Tom in return, holding him close. He whimpered, breathless sounds in Tom’s ear.

After, they collapsed, pitching sideways onto the bed, still pressed together. Tom tried to catch his breath, tried to reason with gravity and the laws of nature again.

Until Etta Mae jumped up on the side of the bed, closer to them both after they pitched over. She stuck her nose out as far as she could, just pressing against Mike’s ass cheek.

“Cold!” Mike jerked away, slipping from Tom. Both hissed, and Tom rolled toward Etta Mae.

“Etta Mae…” Tom shook his head, chuckling. “I’m fine.”

She seemed uncertain, and struggled to get closer. Her tail thumped against the nightstand.

“Mike is going to be sticking around for a long time. You’ll have to get used to this.”

Mike beamed at him and ruffled Etta Mae’s ears.

They took her outside, slipping into their underwear and padding downstairs behind Etta Mae. Mike asked him four different times if he was okay and watched him almost obsessively. “I’m great. You didn’t hurt me.” He might not have been one of those power bottoms he sometimes saw online, but Mike had done a thorough job relaxing him. And, he’d wanted this, badly.

On the deck, Mike held him from behind, wrapping his arms around Tom’s waist and kissing his neck. They stood together and watched the last of DC’s twilight fade away. The sun had set while they’d been busy.

Tom ordered a pizza and then pulled Mike down on the couch. They kissed, trading stories and laughs until the doorbell rang and Etta Mae barked. Tom dashed upstairs for shorts and a t-shirt before he opened the door, and then took them right off and ate in his underwear with Mike in the kitchen.

Later, they both put on clothes and took Etta Mae on her evening walk. Mike walked side by side with Tom, chuckling at Etta Mae’s antics. He kept his hands to himself until Tom snaked his pinkie around Mike’s pinkie, a tiny hook of their bodies, but the first time they’d held hands on a DC street. Mike’s smile broke Tom’s heart, and he squeezed Mike’s pinkie tightly.

Etta Mae was bored with the novelty of Mike being in the house by the time they got back. She took herself to bed, flopping into her chair in the bedroom, and started to snore.

“The baby is asleep.” Mike smirked at Tom, stripping out of the clothes he’d borrowed. The shorts and shirt were a little tight, but Tom hadn’t complained.

“She is like a baby. A perpetual toddler.”

“She’s wonderful, and so is her daddy.”

Tom smiled.

“Come here.” Mike held out his hand, and then pulled Tom in for a slow, deep kiss.

“You want to try and get through that whole string of condoms tonight, don’t you?”

“With you, I totally could.” Mike winked. “What do you say? Give it a try?”

“Like I said, I’m forty-six, not sixteen. Or thirty-six.” Tom leaned into Mike, into his touch. “You think you can get me going again? You might regret this.” He sighed. Closed his eyes. “God, you can. Yes…”

This time, Tom sank down on Mike, riding him slowly as Mike leaned against the headboard and caressed Tom’s flushed skin. They kissed and never stopped, and when Mike came, he gasped against Tom’s lips, whispering his name as he tried to climb into Tom’s body. Tom, languid, rode Mike until he tumbled over the edge.

They scooted down and cuddled close, Mike wrapping Tom up in his arms. Tom draped himself over Mike’s chest, pillowing his head on Mike’s shoulder. Exhaustion pulled Mike under quickly, but Tom stayed awake, watching Mike sleep until he drifted off, still lying on him.

Sometime in the early morning, Mike woke him, the best possible way.

“Good morning,” Tom murmured, kissing Mike’s cheek breathlessly, after. “What time is it?”

“Four thirty. I need to go back to my place to grab clothes.”

Tom’s eyes snapped open. “I’ll make you coffee.”

Mike kissed his nose. “You don’t have to get up.”

“I won’t sleep without you anyway.”

Mike dressed in his wrinkled suit. They’d left it on the ground in a heap last night. Mike shrugged, grinning, and Tom laughed as he slid a pair of old boxers and a t-shirt on. Etta Mae ignored them both, still snoring.

Tom made coffee and toast, and they drank a cup together, sharing kisses and bites.

“Come back tonight?” Tom’s stomach clenched as he asked. Mike had left once, and he’d thought that was the end. That wouldn’t happen again. They’d crossed a line together, and now they were, well, together. Right?

Mike smiled, his face lighting up. He had his tie draped around his neck and his button-down was undone, and he looked like an old frat boy after a wild evening. “I’d love to come back tonight.”

“Bring a bag for the weekend?” Tom would push his luck as far as it would go.

Mike’s smile grew even larger. He nodded. “I have a volleyball game Friday. Want to come?”

“Of course. They’ll be surprised now, I’m sure. From not-gay to dating in one week?”

“You want to be open about this? Us?”

“I’m… not ready for the front page of the newspapers. I’m not ready for a public declaration, or to be the eleventh openly gay federal judge. Yet. But, with your friends?” He took a deep breath. “I want to be with you. And you’re out. I want to be out, too, eventually. I will get to where you are. I promise.”

“I’d like that. I haven’t dated someone in the closet in a long, long time.”

“Didn’t like it?”

Mike looked contrite. “It was different than your situation. But it was tough. I’m not going to lie.”

“I’ll get there. I promise. I want to start being open in front of your friends.” He exhaled slowly. “One step at a time.”

“Together.” Mike leaned over and kissed Tom’s cheek. “When you’re ready. We’ll do it together, okay?”

 “Okay.” He cupped Mike’s face and kissed him again, slower.

Eventually, Mike pulled back, groaning. “If I don’t leave now, I won’t make it home to shower and change and get back to work on time.”

“That’s a problem? What if you just call in today? We can work on more of those condoms.”

“Mmm. You bring up a tempting offer. But I work for this really ball-busting judge. I can’t let him down. He likes to torture me.”

“Torture you?”

“Yes. He is so damn sexy, his smiles make my heart pound, his laugh turns me into a teenage girl, and I’m trying to impress him all the time—”

“Okay! Okay!” Tom shoved at Mike’s shoulders, his face flushed and burning. He couldn’t look at Mike.

“I really mean that, Tom.”

Silence. Tom still couldn’t look at him.

“Tom. I do.” Mike ducked and found Tom’s gaze. “All those times you said you weren’t my type?” He shook his head. “You are definitely my type.”

“I’m nothing like your ex. I’m… two decades older than him, in fact.”

“It’s not about age. Or looks. My ex wasn’t a good person. I want to be with someone who is a great man. Who is kind and wonderful and has integrity. Someone really special. Someone… like you.” He bit his lip.  “I never thought I’d be able to attract you. I didn’t think I was who someone like you wanted. I’m just a bruiser with a badge and a gun. You should be with a lawyer, or a doctor, or some millionaire who will take you to California and Paris for the weekend. Someone way better than me. I can’t do that, so I stopped trying to compete with the guys who could. And then, the younger guys, the vapid, catty ones, they came flocking.” He shrugged and scrunched up his face. “I got used to it. It was easy. They wanted a meathead, and that’s what I am. But that doesn’t mean that’s what I really wanted. Which… I realized every time I wanted more and they flamed out.”

“You’re not a meathead. And you’re not a bruiser with a badge and a gun.”

“Well, I play volleyball, too.”

“You’re a good guy, Mike. You’re who I want. All of you.” Silence. Then, “Is this what you meant about being reflective?”

Mike nodded. “Kris and I have been talking a lot. Or, Kris has been beating advice into me, and I’ve been taking it. And then thinking things through when he’s not around to gloat. I give myself a lot of headaches.” Mike hesitated. “I really, really, really like you, Tom. I’m… not kidding when I say I want this to go all the way. And I need to be upfront with you now, because if you’re not feeling it, I need you to cut me loose early. Please. It’ll hurt less.”

Slowly, Tom smiled. “Do you have a spare team shirt?”

“Yeah.” Mike frowned.

“Bring it over. I want to wear it Friday night to the game.”

They were an insufferable pair all day Thursday.

Mike showed up with a glow, the bags under his eyes gone, his stubble shaved away, his suit fresh and pressed to perfection. He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine ad, sandy hair swept back in a soft pompadour, blue eyes sparkling when he looked at Tom. Tom had a spring to his step, and Peggy twice asked him what had happened that made him smile so widely all day long. Danny, his law clerk, seemed suspicious and kept looking skeptically at him.

He kept his office door open, and every time Mike passed by, they shared a face-splitting smile. Tom’s stomach somersaulted at the sight of Mike, and his ass squeezed, a dull ache at the base of his spine. That was Mike, physical proof of Mike inside his body, hard evidence of what they had become. Him and Mike, together. Unbelievable.

They slipped out for lunch, going to a Vietnamese place farther away than where most of the judicial plaza employees traveled. There, they sat side by side in a corner booth, sharing food and holding hands under the table like they were fourteen-years-old. They kissed in the bathroom after, and almost went a whole lot further, but got spooked when it sounded like they were about to be interrupted.

“Tonight,” Mike breathed into his ear.

“Every night,” Tom whispered back, kissing him slowly.

They took the Metro to Tom’s place together, sitting apart until the transfer at Metro Center. Then, they sat side by side, touching from their shoulders to their ankles as they talked over the roar and grind of the subway. Mike had a duffel between his feet and a garment bag in his lap, filled with suits. Tom felt struck by lightning, like he was gripping the electric rail of the subway and somehow surviving.

At home, Etta Mae was overjoyed to see them both, and Mike took her outside while Tom carried Mike’s duffel and garment bag to his bedroom. He hung Mike’s suits in his closet and dumped one of his dresser drawers, mixing his socks and his undershirts together to create an empty drawer for Mike. He debated, but left the drawer pulled out and Mike’s duffel beneath it. Mike could decide if he wanted to use the drawer or not, but the offer was open. Was it too much, too soon? Hell, he’d invited Mike over for the rest of the weekend, four days and five nights, if the multiple suits in the garment bag meant anything. One for Friday and one for Monday, at the least. And Mike had been the one to reiterate, that morning, that he was in this for the long haul. That he wanted everything.

Tom could hear Mike and Etta Mae in the backyard and see them through the window, Mike laughing and play growling at her as he played chase and keep away. Etta Mae bounded after him, her long ears flopping, barking as she tried to nip at his shoelaces. She would slobber his wingtips and they’d have to clean them later, but Mike didn’t seem to mind.

Quickly, Tom changed, throwing on shorts and t-shirt—a tight t-shirt; he still wanted to look good for Mike, entice him—and thundered downstairs and out to the yard. Etta Mae ran for him, leaping up, both front paws reaching for his belly. Her eyes were bright and her tongue hung out, and he imagined he heard her thoughts. You brought me a playmate! Can I keep him? Can I? Can I?

Mike kissed him on the deck before he headed inside to change. Tom said nothing about the drawer. Mike would see it, and he would choose to use it or not. While Mike was upstairs, Tom started dinner, a simple chicken and vegetables dish. He lit the candles on the table, though, and used his nicer dishes. Everything was ready when Mike padded downstairs, a warm smile on his face.

“Thank you.” Mike wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist and kissed the back of his neck as Tom set down glasses of iced tea beside their plates. “I unpacked.”

“I’m glad.”

Mike pulled out Tom’s chair for him.

They held hands during dinner, sharing their day and smiling. There was still so much they had to learn about each other: did Mike hang up his towels or throw them on the floor? Did he like to make the bed, or leave his toothpaste cap off? Did he talk during movies? What was his favorite color? When was his birthday? What was his family like? Where did he see himself in five, ten, twenty years? They’d get there, but for right now, this was enough.

Mike wanted to do the dishes, but Tom banished him, and instead, Mike sat on the kitchen floor and played with Etta Mae, leaning back against the pantry while Tom washed his pots and pans and loaded the dishwasher. After, it was time for Etta Mae’s evening walk.

They took her on a long, long circuit, winding into Georgetown and down through Foggy Bottom, getting home just as the sun slipped beneath the horizon. She was exhausted, and she drank like a camel before crawling onto the couch and passing out.

Tom took Mike’s hand and led him upstairs.

This night was slower, more relaxed. They explored each other, spent time lingering on bodies with lips and soft breaths. Mike kissed Tom’s tattoo and traced the arch of the rainbow with his tongue. Tom squirmed, and then squirmed some more when Mike dipped lower. Tom pressed a condom and their lube against his arm, urging him on as he arched beneath Mike’s touch.

Mike started on top, rolling into Tom, but then Tom straddled his lap and rode Mike with slow, deep strokes. Mike sat up, wrapping his arms around Tom, and they held each other close until Mike tipped Tom back and sped up his thrusts. He held Tom’s ankles wide, and Tom gasped, panted, and moaned as his back arched and his eyes closed and his orgasm ripped through him. He shouted, shaking all around Mike. Mike thrust, cursed, and curled over Tom, wrapping his arms around Tom’s shoulders, grabbing his biceps, the back of his neck.

They cuddled, Tom again lying on Mike’s chest as Mike stroked his back. They talked about everything and nothing. Tom’s favorite food, his favorite color. Mike’s blond hair and last name—“My great-grandparents were northern Italian, and Lucciano men have always loved blonds. Except me.”—and how he liked DC. Tom had lived in the DC area for his entire life, but Mike had only been there for the past four years. Mike was a foodie, and liked to explore out of the way restaurants. He’d hit up the major museums, but not all of them. Tom said he’d take Mike to Dumbarton Oaks in Georgetown and the National Museum of Health, where the bullet that killed President Lincoln was on display, together with his skull and other macabre oddities. Mike wanted to take Tom to the Spy Museum and wander with him and Etta Mae on Teddy Roosevelt Island. “This weekend. Let’s go. Start checking things off our list.”

“You think we’re getting out of bed this weekend.” Tom grinned. “Cute.”

Mike rolled him over, pressed him into the mattress, and kissed him until his toes curled.

It seemed like a crime to get up and go to the gym when Mike was in his bed, so Tom scooted down and woke Mike the fun way. Mike shivered awake, his hands sliding into Tom’s hair.

Tom smiled up at him. “Forget the gym today. Let’s cross-train.”

“Cross-train. Yeah.” Mike blinked, his hands still buried in Tom’s dark hair. “Anything you say.”

They showered on jelly legs, smiling ear to ear. Mike washed Tom’s hair and back, kissing his shoulder after the soap was washed away, and Tom reciprocated. Mike had his toothbrush, razor, and deodorant already out on Tom’s counter by the second sink, and the sight—along with Mike tying his tie beside him in the mirror—made his heart swell until his chest ached.

They rode together on the Metro the whole way to Judicial Station, not separating. Mike bought them both coffee and ducked into Tom’s chamber to give him a quick kiss before scooting down to Winters’s office for the morning brief.

Friday rolled along, a slow end to a slow week at the courthouse. Next week was trial again—civil, not criminal—for Tom, and a three-day high-risk trial with Chief Judge Fink for Mike. But that was all days away, and Friday afternoon, just after four, they both skated out of the courthouse.

“Take you to dinner before the game?” Mike walked backward, smiling at Tom as they headed uptown for the next Metro stop. There was less chance of running into someone they knew at the next stop.

“I’m in the mood for Italian. Will that work before the game?”

“Big carb load up? Of course. Lemme take you to Sal’s. Little hole-in-the-wall off Dupont.”

“How is it you know more places to go out in this city than I do? I have decades on you in this town.”

“Because I didn’t live in the courthouse when I got here. I have it on good authority that you actually used to sleep in your office when you were a prosecutor.”

Tom grinned. “Nasty rumors. You shouldn’t believe them.”

“You totally did, didn’t you?”

“It was before Etta Mae. She helped me be more balanced.”

“I bet you know all the takeout places by the courthouse. Know which ones deliver on time.”

“Of course. How do you think I fed myself when I worked late?”

Mike laughed at him, and then they disappeared into the Metro. Sal’s was a tiny place with red and white checked vinyl tablecloths and white plastic plates. The food smelled divine. Mike got both lasagna and a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and Tom ordered chicken piccata and linguine. They made it home in time to change and walk Etta Mae, tiring her out before they left again.

Kris looked like the cat that caught the canary when they walked up to the volleyball court. His head bobbed and weaved, chin jerking back and forth, and he wrapped one slender arm around Mike’s neck and dragged him away, talking fast and low as Mike grinned, blushed, and nodded. Tom waited, laughing, and waved to the few people he remembered from last week.

“Sorry about that.” Kris appeared by his side, smoothing one eyebrow. He smiled wickedly, eyeing Tom up and down. “So. You two finally figured it all out?”

“I think so.”

“He’s not too exhausted to play, is he? You haven’t been riding him too hard?”

Tom barked out a laugh and felt his cheeks warm. “I think he’s okay—”

“What? Why is he okay? Why aren’t you sexing him unconscious? Jesus, Tom, you’re not doing it right.”

“There’s no correct answer, is there?” He was still laughing.

“Take him home after we go out and throw it on him. Sex him up until he blacks out. I want him texting me in disbelief, complaining his dick is about to fall off from all the lovin’ you’re giving him. I want him icing his nuts. I want him—”

At some point, Tom was sure he was going to spontaneously combust, burst into flames and turn to ash. He’d die of sheer embarrassment, thanks to Kris.

“What are you doing to my man, Kris?” Mike, thank God, saved him, sliding up alongside Tom and throwing an arm over his shoulder. “Why does he look like a tomato?”

Kris shrugged, holding both hands up by his face. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Mm-hmm.” Mike winked at Tom.

They were up first tonight, and Kris and Mike started stretching and warming up as the ref set up the game. Twenty minutes later, everything was ready to go.

They unzipped their hoodies together, and both watched Kris watching them. They saw his eyes go wide, practically fall out of his skull as he took in Tom wearing Mike’s spare team shirt. Multiple Scoregasms, in brilliant rainbow. Kris cursed, a breathless breeze of Spanish they couldn’t hear completely, and pointed his finger at them.

“Knock ‘em dead, babe.” Tom blew Mike a kiss as he jogged backward onto the sand.

The other team howled, catcalls that lasted well into the first set. He was called “daddy” again, but instead of knocking Mike off his game, he seemed more energized. By the end of the first match, he and Kris were well in the lead, and only had one more game to clinch their victory.

“You’re amazing.” Tom passed him his water bottle. “You guys both are killing it.”

“Whatever, you’re not even looking at me.” Kris smirked behind Mike’s back.

Mike shed his shirt, wiping down his sweat, and Tom didn’t hide how he checked Mike’s chest out, his muscles coated in sweat, and his wet fur. Mike stared back, and they eyeball fucked each other for the rest of the time-out, letting the game and the courts fade away.

During the final game, Mike was an animal, hurling the volleyball over the net, slamming spikes into the sand, and setting up brutal takedowns for Kris. They won handily, and Kris leaped into Mike’s arms after the last score, throwing his hands over his head and cheering. They both jogged to Tom, sandy, sweaty, and grinning.

“We’re going to the finals.” Mike high-fived Kris. “That was the eliminator.”

“Congrats!” Tom debated, wrestling with himself for a good minute, but, after Mike wiped his sweaty face and beamed at him, he took the plunge. Leaning in, Tom pressed his lips to Mike’s, a chaste, simple kiss.

The court went wild, cheering suddenly, no longer pretending they weren’t all spying on Mike and his new man. Mike tried to block them, tried to cover his and Tom’s faces with his hands, but it was no use. Tom broke away, blushing and laughing, and Mike wrapped him up, holding him close.

“You’re drenched.” Tom tried to peel away from Mike.

“No I’m not.” Mike playfully wrapped him up again, rubbing the side of his once-again very sweaty face against Tom’s cheek.

Kris saved him, defending Tom from Mike the sweat monster, and then they all sat to watch the next game and the other teams play. Tom held Mike’s hand in his lap, and Mike wrapped one arm around Tom’s waist.

“You’re coming out for drinks after, right?” Kris was different, had seemingly ditched the snark. He stared hard into Tom’s eyes. Mike watched the final set, but Kris leaned in, speaking softly to Tom alone.

“Yes. I’m really looking forward to seeing everyone again.”

“They’re going to want to see you, too. Mike’s new man.”

Tom smiled.

“Hey, for real, though?” Kris pressed his shoulder into Tom’s. “You need to do right by Mike. He’s a good guy. One of the very, very few good men left. He’s been used and tossed aside more times than you would believe. He’s worked hard to get himself to where he is right now, and I know he wants this to work out between you two. He’s like a firehose to the face sometimes. Lord help me, I know.” Kris tried to smile, but it was sad, turned down at the edges. “Just… be gentle with his heart, okay?”

He couldn’t speak, not after that. He nodded, swallowing hard. “We, uh. We both want it to work.”

“That’s what they all say in the beginning.” 

“I’m going to come out for him.”

“Come out for you. And then be you with him.”

“You guys okay?” Mike shoved his head between them both, looking wide-eyed at the two of them. “Plotting my untimely demise and conspiring against me already?”

“No, meathead, I had to give Tom the ‘hurt him and I’ll cut you’ lecture. What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t?”

“Don’t listen to him.” Mike pretended to wave Kris off, making yapping motions with his hands. “All that hairspray, it’s gone to his head. He’s—” Mike whistled.

Kris punched him in his bicep, and they started bickering like old friends. They kept it up, all the way to the bar, but Mike bought the first round and Kris graciously accepted his apology.

As predicted, everyone wanted to meet Tom. All the players, the referee, who stared at Tom long enough to start to unnerve him, and even some of Mike’s bar acquaintances, all came over to see “the daddy Mike Lucciano found”. Tom blushed his way through the evening, shaking hands with guys who eyed him up and down, winking at him and sliding close, whispering in his ear that he was a lucky, lucky man. Mike sat by his side through it all, one arm wrapped firmly around Tom’s waist, and he shooed away the men who tried to sneak a feel of Tom’s ass.

“So, uh. I’m definitely different from your usual guy.”

Mike nodded. He sucked down his beer. “Yeah. And, I’m not gonna lie, I kinda like showing you off. Everyone in here is jealous.”

“Yes, of me! They all want you, Mike.”

“Nuh-uh.” Mike shook his head. “They’re all jealous of me, and they all want you. You’re amazing.” Mike tugged Tom close and pressed their foreheads together, smiling. Tom kissed him sweetly, and then less sweetly, and Mike wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist.

“Mike?”

Mike stiffened. He stood, keeping his arms around Tom’s waist. Tom turned in his hold and came face to face with Mike’s ex, the man from the photo Mike had shown him months ago.

“Silvio.”

Silvio. Well, that name fit. He was slender and short, only up to Tom’s chin, and wore skinny pants and a violently-lime button-down with a black three-button vest over the top. His hair was spiked, his lips glossy. He looked painfully put together, like a movie actor without a set. Out of place, overdressed, and trying too hard.

Silvio looked Tom up and down. “I wanted to call you, Mike.”

“Why?” Mike frowned.

Silvio licked his lips. One hip stuck out. “I’ve been thinking about you. About us.”

“Us is ancient history. Where’s your new boyfriend?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend—”

“The guy who was drilling you in my kitchen? You cut him loose already?”

“We weren’t dating,” Silvio said through clenched teeth. “I didn’t care about him. Not like you—”

Mike laughed. “Save it. I’m done with you. I’ve moved on to far better things.” He kissed Tom’s cheek. “Call me never, Silvio.”

“Fuck off, Michael, you and your old-ass daddy.” Silvio sneered and flounced away.

“Sorry.” Mike’s eyes skittered away from Tom’s. “I didn’t know he’d be here.”

“It’s okay.” Tom cupped his cheek, and then kissed him. “And you were right. He is an asshole. He doesn’t deserve you at all.”

Mike bit his lip. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Yes.”

They waved to Kris and made their escape. Kris was reeling in an older man, a silver fox with a few years on Tom, who had the slick look of a lobbyist and was clearly eating out of Kris’s manicured hand. The rest of the teams had scattered.

They made out in shadowed overhangs and against buildings on the way back to Tom’s place, kissing and laughing and rutting against each other like they were teenagers. Etta Mae cooled their frantic pace, bounding down the hall for them when they got back. But then Tom ambushed Mike, and they ended up in the bedroom, clutching at each other, panting, kissing every inch of skin they could reach.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Mike finally breathed, after. “I’ve unleashed a monster. A ravenous sex-monster.” He nuzzled Tom’s neck, his collarbone. Kissed his chin.

“Get some rest. You need your strength. Round two begins soon.” Tom laughed as Mike groaned, hiding his face in Tom’s chest. He was smiling though. Tom could feel it, the curve of his lips against his skin.

Tom fell asleep with his forehead pressed to Mike’s, their noses brushing, trading sleepy kisses until they both drifted off.