Busted (38 page)

“Thanks, Chris,” Joe said. He gave a relaxed smile and Chris could feel his heart break just a little.

* * *

Joe sat silently in the car as Chris drove toward his apartment. It wasn’t that far, maybe fifteen minutes with morning traffic, and they were already halfway there. It felt like he ought to say something, but he had no idea what. It had been a very long time since he felt so lost, and he didn’t know what to do.

Chris wasn’t helping, either. Joe was having the hardest time figuring him out — one minute they were at each other’s throats, the next he was being nicer to Joe than anyone ever had, and then he was quiet. It was driving Joe nuts, and he couldn’t handle guessing games right then.

“Last night,” Joe said, since he had to say something. It might not have been the best way to start, since the image of Chris, mouth wrapped around his dick, flashed into his head and wouldn’t leave. He was glad of the snug underwear, since the baggy sweats wouldn’t have hidden anything on their own.

“Um, yeah,” Chris said. Joe saw him stiffen. “I don’t normally do that. It was a bad idea, and it won’t happen again.”

Joe stared at Chris in disbelief. He was gripping the steering wheel tightly enough that his fingers were turning white, and Joe could see the muscles in his jaw clench. That was the last thing Joe had expected.

“You don’t… do that?” he asked, as much from masochistic reflex as anything.

“No,” Chris said. “It was wrong. I just… don’t.”

Joe slumped back into the seat. “You don’t. Of course. It didn’t mean anything, just a stupid impulse.” He rubbed his temple with his good hand, trying in vain to stave off the headache that was starting.

Chris was silent, but Joe didn’t really expect him to say anything. It wasn’t like there was anything more to say. It was stupid, but Chris’ rejection made the morning better. It was something he’d had plenty of practice with, and the pain and anger that came with it were almost comfortable. Another time he might worry about that, but right then it gave him something he understood to hang on to.

“Right, well,” Joe said, trying hard not to snap the words out. He almost succeeded. “Let’s just make sure it doesn’t ever happen again.”

The car gave a little twitch, but Joe refused to look over at Chris to see why. He didn’t care what the man was feeling right then. Joe had been dumped, stabbed, led on, and yanked around. He was pissed off and if Chris was feeling bad because of it then that was fine with him.

“Joe, I…” Chris started to say before trailing off. The car pulled into a handicapped space in front of Joe’s building, and Joe didn’t wait for it to come to a full stop before he started to get out.

“You. Yeah,” Joe snorted. “Y’know, it doesn’t matter. Have a nice life, Chris.“

Shaking his head, Joe turned and walked up to his building. He used his anger as a shield between him and every moving shadow or odd sound. Chris was surely watching him from the car and there was no way he’d give the man the satisfaction of seeing him unsettled. Joe counted it as a personal triumph that he hadn’t shrieked like a little girl when one of his neighbor’s car alarm went off.

Joe was preoccupied enough that he didn't pay much attention to the fact that his apartment door was unlocked.

"Excuse me, who are you?"

The question brought Joe back to reality. Standing in his living room was a cop. He was young and nervous looking, with a hand was on his holstered pistol. Joe frowned. It was his apartment and he didn't feel like explaining himself to anyone. "Listen, it's been a really crappy couple of days, and I don't need this right now."

"I'm sorry, sir, but this is a crime scene. You can't come in here," the officer said.

"I'm not walking into a crime scene, I'm walking into my apartment. What are you doing in my living room?" Joe asked. He had a vague thought that he might look a little unkempt in the oversized t-shirt, baggy sweats, and pissed off expression but he didn’t really care right then.

"Um, could I see some ID? Please?" The officer asked. He looked unsure how to deal with the situation, and almost ready to edge his way out of the room.

That question broke the fragile hold Joe had on his temper.

"Are you fucking joking? You're in my apartment, standing next to a puddle of my goddamn blood,” Joe shouted, pointing at the large rust-brown blotch on the living room carpet. “You have the gall to ask me for identification? Who the fuck do you think you are? No, never mind, I don't care. Just get out!" He was almost quivering with outrage, and a half second away from dragging the cop out by his gun belt.

The cop had gone from uncomfortable to embarrassed. "You must be Mister Hennessey. Detective Russell said you might be back."

"Figures,” Joe snorted, his anger fading at the mention of Steve’s name. “What does he want?"

"He told me there was a stalker and I should make sure you were okay if you came here."

Joe sighed. With the anger gone a kind of bone-weary exhaustion was setting in. "I'm as fine as I'm going to be. You have to hang around or anything?"

"He said I should gather some evidence if I had to?" The cop almost asked that. He looked like a child trying not to squirm as he was scolded by his parents.

Joe gave a tired laugh. "You're new at this, aren't you?" he asked.

"How did you know?"

"Just a guess," Joe said. "Nevermind.” He slumped down on to one of the stools by the kitchen bar. “D’you need to take notes or draw diagrams or something?"

"Uh, sure, I think. If, um, you have any paper?"

"Oh, brother," Joe said. "Yeah, let me get some. I need to grab the boxes anyway."

"Boxes?" the cop asked, as Joe walked into his study. "Are you packing?"

"Yeah," Joe said. He hadn’t planned on it until just then, but going somewhere else sounded like a very good idea. "I was getting ready to leave. Here," he said, handing the cop a legal pad and a pen, "you want to start writing while I get stuff together?"

Joe opened the boxes up in the living room. The pile of charms and pictures had been knocked down when he'd been attacked, so he started there, carefully laying them in a box. He gave the cop a quick rundown of the attack as he worked.

"…Then I smacked him with the mask, over there by the coffee table. That's when he took off," Joe said. He picked the mask up and looked at it. There was blood on one edge. "Well, at least I winged him," he said.

"What?"

Joe held up the mask and waved it at the officer. "I caught him with this," he said. "There's blood on the edge, but it wasn't near where I bled out. I don’t think it's mine."

"Can I have this? For evidence?" Those were two separate questions. Joe could see the man was fascinated by the piece of art.

"Sure. You can keep it when you guys are done doing whatever with it.
 
I don't know that I really want it back. Besides, I didn't think you guys had to ask."

"It's a personal assault, so you don't have to if you don't want to.”

"Oh," Joe said. "Uh, well, I don’t think I was the first person this guy went after, so they’ll probably want it."

Joe looked around. All the meaningful things from the apartment fit into two filing boxes. He had another box of papers in the study, and maybe two more worth of clothes after he packed up his luggage.

"You'd think there'd be more," he mused. Joe was tired, and feeling kind of maudlin. The day was catching up with him, in ways he hadn't expected.

"What?"

"More. Y'know… important things. But there isn't, really. Few boxes, that's it. Maybe some clothes."

The officer looked puzzled. "You've got all this to go," he said, waving at the furniture in the living room.

"Yeah, but that's just… stuff. It's not important. It can all be replaced."

"Still got to move it," the cop said.

Joe smiled. "Listen, I know this isn't your job, but you're a nice guy. Could I ask you to shift a few boxes into my car? I don't want to hang around here and, well…" he looked at his injured shoulder. It had been okay while he was distracted, but he’d moved more than he ought to have and it was beginning to ache.

"Sure," he said.

"Thanks," Joe replied. "The silver car in spot 18. I'll go pack up my clothes and then I'll be done."

He was a good guy, Joe mused. It was nice of him to do this. Without the help he'd have had a hell of a time getting himself finished up.

Even hurt it didn't take more than a few minutes to pack up his clothes. The casual stuff just got thrown into a few boxes and two suitcases. His suits got bagged up, and that was it. Six boxes, two suitcases, a laptop, and a half dozen suits. At least it made moving easier, even if moving on wasn't.

Joe scrawled out a quick note as the officer shifted the last bits of stuff into the car. He folded it up and stuffed it into an envelope, along with a spare key to his apartment.

"Could you give this to Detective Russell?" Joe asked. "There's a key in case you guys need to get back in or something."

"Sure, I'll drop it off with my report. Does he know where you're going to be staying?"

"I don't know where I'll be staying," Joe said. "He's got my number, though, if he needs to get in touch with me."

Chris
stared at the cup of steaming black coffee he held in his hands while memories of the morning’s failure washed through his mind. The coffee was black and bitter, and matched his mood perfectly.

Alex had ruined his life. Again.
He’d stolen the first boy Chris ever had a crush on, was there the night his parents died, and nearly gotten him killed in high school. Now he’d managed to take Joe before Chris had even managed to fall for him.

Life wasn’t fair, but that was something Chris knew altogether too well.

“So how’s the squeeze?” Steve asked as he picked through the box of muffins next to the coffee machine in the vain hope that somewhere, buried under all the oat-sprinkled double grain abominations, was something with chocolate in it.

“Lay off, Steve” Chris growled. “Not now.”

“Aw, is someone a little frustrated this morning? Y’know, if you just ‘fessed up to it—”

“Will you fucking
stop?
” Chris shouted. Every head in the squad room swiveled around to look at him. He could feel their stares burning the embarrassment into his skin.

“I am
not
ashamed of who I am, or who I like,” he hissed. With his voice dropped everyone pretended to find other things to do, but Chris knew the attention was still on him and he hated it. “It wouldn’t be anyone’s business if I was dating him, but I’m not.”

“I saw you with him, Gagnon,” Steve replied.

“You saw him with
Alex
, Steve, not with me. He doesn’t want
me
,” Chris said bitterly.

“Alex doesn’t exist, Chris.”

“I
know
that,” Chris snapped. “And Joe still wants him more than me. How d’you think that makes me feel, huh?”

“Chris…”

“I’m
fine
, Steve. He’s fine too. We’re just… fine separately. Okay?” Chris didn’t wait for Steve’s reply. He tossed the steaming wooden coffee stirrer into the trash and walked away.

“No, it isn’t fine, you idiot,” Steve muttered.