Billy's Bones (10 page)

“What?” Kevin asked. “I thought it was okay.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “Well, I guess it is. I just wasn’t expecting you to strip down in the middle of the afternoon.”

“We’ve been hanging out naked every night for almost two weeks. I feel comfortable like this when I’m around you now. Do you want me to get dressed again?”

“No,” Tom said. He could think of a few things the sight of Kevin naked made him want, but Kevin putting his clothes back on was definitely not one of them. Tom added, “Maybe we should just get the rules out in the open. Is it always okay to be naked when we’re hanging out together?”

Kevin shrugged. “As long as we’re here and not like over at the diner or something, I’d say that’s fine.”

It was fine with Tom too. So he stripped down, and the two of them spent the afternoon in the buff, assembling the furniture. When they were finished and had cleared out the packaging materials, the living room looked like a living room for the first time since Tom had moved in. It was wonderful.

Tom couldn’t explain why, considering how much time they’d already spent naked together, but for some reason he found the afternoon intensely erotic. Something about hanging out that way in broad daylight, rather than in the dimly lit deck at night. Fortunately, he managed not to get an erection, though he no longer thought Kevin would care if he did.

Kevin spent the night again. There was no real excuse this time. He wasn’t exhausted; he wasn’t drunk. But one o’clock in the morning rolled around, and they were both yawning, so Kevin mumbled, “I guess I better go.”

And without a second thought, Tom said, “I don’t mind if you crash again.”

That was Sunday night. By Friday evening, Tom realized he and Kevin had managed to find excuses for sleeping together every night that week.

The relationship was definitely… different. And Tom wasn’t all that sure it was healthy. No doubt Sue would have told him as much, which is why he had no intention of telling her about it. When they’d talked at lunch on that afternoon, Tom had told her about Kevin hanging out for the past several nights, which she disapproved of on the basis that Tom should be dating and finding a “real” relationship instead of crushing on someone unobtainable. If she’d known that the unobtainable object of Tom’s desires was sleeping naked with him every night and tormented him in the mornings by walking around sporting “morning wood,” he would never have heard the end of it.

But Tom had had so-called romantic relationships that were worse. Ones in which the sex was good, but the rest was shit. This relationship was weird, admittedly, but despite having no outlet for his sexual tension, apart from a hurried stroking in the shower some mornings, it felt good.

Until Kevin cut himself.

Nine

I
T
HAPPENED
on Saturday night, the Fourth of July. Tom and Kevin went shopping during the afternoon and picked up burgers, beer—of course—chips, and other junk food. Kevin had managed to get a hold of some cheap fireworks—sparklers, firecrackers, bottle rockets. Nothing over-the-top, but some fun stuff to horse around with. Hopefully, they wouldn’t get drunk and blow their fingers off.

It wasn’t, in fact, a firework that did the damage. Kevin was wrestling with the packaging of some sliced American cheese that had decided it didn’t want to come open. “Goddamn it! Can you hand me my pocketknife?”

“Where is it?”

“In my pocket,” Kevin replied with amusement.

He wasn’t wearing his jeans, of course. They were in a heap by the deck railing. So Tom went over and rummaged through the front pockets, finding a small pocketknife tangled up with Kevin’s ring of keys. He extricated it and tossed it to Kevin.

But when Kevin stuck the knife in the packaging and sliced it open, he exclaimed, “Fuck!”

The cheese package fell on the deck, and Kevin clutched his hand against his leg as a couple of drops of blood fell against the bare skin of his knee and onto the wooden deck. “All right, that fucking cheese is getting tossed over the railing! Let the goddamned raccoons eat it!”

“Hold on,” Tom said, trying not to laugh, “I’ll get some bandages.”

He’d bought a first aid kit when he moved in, figuring he might need it now that he was a rough and rugged he-man living in Coyote Country. So far, he’d used it to remove a splinter. But now he grabbed a large Band-Aid and some antibiotic ointment. On his way out of the bathroom, he grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol for good measure.

When he got back to the deck, he set the bandage and the ointment down on the arm of one of the deck chairs and opened up the bottle of rubbing alcohol. It was a new bottle, and he sloshed a little on his hand when he opened it, which made him flinch away from the strong fumes. But that was nothing compared to Kevin’s reaction.

“Get that shit away from me!” He was hunched over his hand as if guarding it, gritting his teeth in pain.

Tom stepped toward him, giving him a wry smile. “Don’t be a baby. It’ll help kill any germs that were on the knife.”

“I said get it
away
from me!”

Before Tom could react, Kevin swung his fist around in an arc and connected with the side of Tom’s head. Tom hadn’t been hit since high school, and the shock was almost as severe as the physical pain—though not quite. He staggered backward, tripped over the deck chair, and went sprawling. The rubbing alcohol sprayed across the deck. His head was throbbing, and his left eye was blurry, but he staggered to his feet just as Kevin ran by him.

“What the fuck?” Tom shouted after him, but Kevin kept going.

A moment later, he heard Kevin’s truck start up and pull out of the yard.

Tom became aware of a stinging on his hip and looked down to discover that he’d scraped skin away on the wooden arm of the deck chair.
Fucking awesome
.

He hobbled inside and looked at his face in the bathroom mirror. He had a welt the size of a baseball on the left side of his head, and his eye was looking puffy. He didn’t have to be back at work until Wednesday, thanks to the holiday, but he would probably still have a bruise by then. There was a small amount of blood, but that turned out not to be his. It must have come from Kevin’s hand. Tom washed it off in the sink.

This was bullshit. Fuck Kevin Derocher and whatever the fuck his problem was. Tom had had enough. He was fairly convinced Kevin had just had another panic attack. Why, Tom had no idea. The alcohol? Perhaps. But it was one thing to talk Kevin down from hyperventilating, and quite another to get punched in the head.

It wasn’t until he went back out onto the deck to assess the damage—there was rubbing alcohol splashed all over the place, but the deck chair didn’t appear to be broken—that Tom realized Kevin’s jeans were still there in a heap where Tom had last dropped them. He picked them up and found Kevin’s key ring still in the pocket. How the hell had Kevin managed to drive away in the truck without his keys? And what was he
wearing
?

He picked up the bottle of alcohol. There was still a small amount left in the bottle, and he used that to wash the scrape on his side. It stung like a motherfucker, but unlike
some
people, he could handle it. The cap had rolled into the crevasse between two floorboards, so he retrieved it and put it back on the bottle.

A couple of minutes later, his cell phone rang. His first thought was that it was Kevin, but Kevin’s cell phone was still in his jeans pocket. Was he calling from his trailer? But Tom’s caller ID wasn’t displaying Kevin’s name or home number—it was displaying Groveton Police Dept.

Shit
.

“Hello?”

“Is this Tom Langois?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Langois, this is Chief Burbank, from the Groveton Police Department. Do you know someone by the name of Kevin Derocher?”

Oh God. Was Kevin hurt? Or
dead
? Had he been so out of control he’d gotten into a car accident? Tom realized Kevin couldn’t be dead, or the police would never have known to call him.

“Yes, I know him. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” the chief said. “We pulled him over on Northside Road and… the thing is, we can’t let him go like this. He says you can bring his clothes to him. Otherwise, we’re going to have to take him to the station.”

Tom had to refrain from sounding too amused. “Oh. Yeah, we were in the hot tub when he took off,” he lied. Not that that really sounded better.

“That’s fine,” Chief Burbank said, sounding amused himself. “Do you know where Recycle Road is?”

Tom had seen it, on his way to Kevin’s trailer the other day. Apparently, they were pulled over near that intersection, so Tom promised he’d be there in just a few minutes. He hung up, dressed, and gathered up Kevin’s things.

Well, at least nobody was asking him for bail money.

T
OM
found two police cruisers with Groveton insignias on the side—Stark was too small for a full-time police force—and blue lights flashing, pulled over at the entrance to Recycle Road. As far as Tom knew, the road just led to the recycling station, so nobody was likely to be going in or out at this time of night. Kevin’s truck was pulled over about thirty feet away from the cruisers, and Tom could see Kevin sitting in the cab, looking miserable. He also looked shirtless. No doubt Chief Burbank had found it very entertaining when he’d approached to ask for license and registration.

Tom parked beside the truck. When he climbed out of his car, he glanced over at Kevin, who gave him a pleading look. But one of the two officers standing by the cruisers was already walking over to him, so Tom couldn’t immediately hand over the bundle of clothes in his hands.

“Mr. Langois?”

“Yes.”

The officer smiled and flashed him a badge. “I’m Chief Burbank. Do you have an ID?”

Tom showed him both his license and his business card.

“A psychologist?” Burbank asked.

“Yes.”

“Is he a patient of yours?”

Tom glanced over at Kevin, knowing he could hear everything they were saying, but Kevin refused to look at him. “No.”

He knew the circumstances could make it look as if he and Kevin were a couple—why else would they be hanging out naked together? But that wasn’t Tom’s concern. On the other hand, he’d forgotten about the bruise on the side of his face. Chief Burbank noticed it, and his expression turned to one of concern. “Did he hit you?”

Apparently, Burbank didn’t care if Tom and Kevin were gay. Spouse abuse was spouse abuse. That was actually nice to know.

Tom knew if he admitted it, Kevin could be in even more trouble than he already was. For the first time, he wondered if Kevin had ever assaulted Tracy during one of his panic attacks. What if this was a pattern with him? “He has panic attacks. This is the first time I’ve seen him lash out.”

“Do you want to file charges?”

“It’s the first time it’s happened,” Tom repeated. “I haven’t seen him like this before, so… I guess I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Chief Burbank didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “May I take a look at the clothes, please?”

Tom handed him the bundle of clothes: Kevin’s pants, T-shirt, and sneakers. Tom hadn’t found any socks, and he wasn’t sure if Kevin had been wearing any. The chief was about Tom’s age and had a pleasant, ruddy face, like a man who spent most of his time outdoors. He was smiling now as he examined the clothes—checking for a gun, perhaps—then handed them back to Tom. “No underwear?”

“He doesn’t wear any.”

Burbank smiled and rolled his eyes. Then he called out to Kevin, “Climb out the passenger side, please, so you can get dressed without people driving by and seeing you.”

Kevin looked surly and uncooperative, but he did what he was told. Tom went around to meet him and hand his clothes over. In the few moments they had out of Burbank’s hearing, Kevin asked him, “Did I hurt you?”

“You punched me in the head and sent me tumbling backward over a wooden chair,” Tom replied calmly. “Of course you hurt me.”

Kevin looked pained when he saw the bruise on his face. “God, Tom. I’m sorry.”

He looked a mess. His hair was plastered against his forehead, dripping with sweat despite the fact that it wasn’t a very hot evening. This confirmed Tom’s theory of a panic attack. But Tom wasn’t in the mood to give him much leeway right now.

“Did you ever hit Tracy like this?”

The expression on Kevin’s face turned to one of pure horror. “No! Jesus! No! Never!” When Tom didn’t look convinced, he added, “Go talk to her if you want.”

“You’re serious? You really want me to do that?”

“Go ahead. Call her. She won’t lie to you.”

“I will, then,” Tom said coldly. “Because if you’re the type of man who beats up his wife, I won’t have anything more to do with you.” If it had truly been a panic attack, Kevin might not have had any control over himself. But Tom needed to know if this was a one-time incident, or if Kevin routinely lashed out and hit people during these attacks.

Kevin nodded, unable to look him in the eye. “Do it,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry again.”