Toronto Tales 1 - Cop Out (18 page)

“What about Simon and Jen?”
“And you’d have introduced me if they hadn’t invited themselves to sit at our table? I don’t think so. Hell, I don’t even know where the fuck you live—you’ve never invited me to your apartment. Are you too embarrassed for your neighbors to see me?” Another paperback flew past his head.
“It’s not like that.” It wasn’t.
“No, now you want to be secret fuck buddies.” The bitterness in Davy’s words flayed open Kurt’s heart, even though he couldn’t blame Davy for what he thought. What they’d done was too good to slap such an ugly label on.
“That’s not true. I—”
“You… you’re gay now? Going to tell all your friends and family? The ones who don’t even know I exist? Going to admit you kissed a man? Fucked a man? What about your cop buddies? Think

they’ll be understanding about working with a fairy? Ben didn’t think so.”

Kurt didn’t know how to respond to the barrage. The sex happened before he’d had a chance to think things through, and although he didn’t regret it, he didn’t have answers for Davy. He wasn’t even sure if he’d call himself gay or just curious. But the vicious words ripped out every last shred of contentment and replaced it with despair.

“I just want to help you. Please.”

“I don’t need your fucking help. Stop trying to take care of me. I can take care of myself. And I can do it without you. Now get the fuck out—and don’t come back—or I’ll call the cops.” Davy ran into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

Stunned, Kurt stood there, sweater in hand. He wanted to follow Davy, but he didn’t know what to say. A small part of him also wanted to hurt Davy as badly as Davy had hurt him. But he didn’t want to risk making Davy angrier. And the aching emptiness inside made him… unpredictable. He breathed heavily through the ache in his chest, fighting the terrifying urge to pound something into dust.

The extra oxygen wasn’t clearing his mind much. He needed to cool down more, take more time. Despite how good the sex had been, maybe Davy had been right about it being a mistake. He wrenched the sweater on, not caring it was inside out. Maybe Davy’s words would cure him of his infatuation.

Slamming the door behind him, he ran for his car, wincing as the flex of his body reminded him all too keenly of his recent activities.

H
AVING
showered away the evidence of the night, Kurt braced his hands on the bathroom counter. He sucked in a breath before lifting his head to face himself in the mirror. He didn’t look any different. There was no neon sign saying he’d been fucked by a guy. The pinkness on his chin from Davy’s stubble should fade before morning.

A bitter laugh surprised him. He’d lost a virginity tonight, and it all happened so fast. He could have done without the fight and…. Shit. Davy hadn’t meant what he said, right? He was just angry. He hadn’t cut Kurt out his life entirely, had he?

Kurt was afraid. What did this mean going forward? He’d never felt so unsure about anything in his life. Was the sex going to happen again? Could Kurt allow it to? Dear God, could he stop himself from wanting it?

Staring straight into his own eyes, he whispered, “I’m gay.” His stomach roiled.

“I’m gay,” he said, louder, and pictured himself saying those words to his mom. His palms slicked.

 

He imagined saying it to his brother, Ian. His breath came faster. His dad. Heart palpitating, he clutched the sink as his vision grayed.

 

“I can’t. I just can’t be gay. I’m
not
.”

A few harsh breaths later, he went to the kitchen and pulled out the vodka. There was enough left in the bottle to wash the memories away, at least temporarily. He didn’t want to remember Davy fucking him. Not right now. He didn’t want to risk getting aroused by someone who hated what they’d done together. Kurt should hate it, and Davy too. He should feel violated.

He didn’t. The burn, even now, was a pleasurable reminder of the best orgasm he’d ever had. But he couldn’t deal with everything else that came with it.

Because he couldn’t be gay.

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

I
T HAD
been over two weeks. Definitely the longest he’d gone without seeing Davy since they’d met. He slouched back in his desk chair and spun his phone around on his desk beside a case file he’d been ignoring for the past two hours.

Davy had cut off all communication. They rarely spoke on the phone before, but the texts dried up to nothing. A couple of times, Kurt drove by Davy’s place—game days—but Davy’s car wasn’t in the drive, and the house was dark, not even Christmas lights on.

As tempting as it was to sit outside Davy’s house, waiting to see if Andrew came home with him again—so he could beat the shit out of him—he managed to restrain himself and continue driving. Somehow, he’d thought it would all go back to the way it was before. But every day, the hope faded a trifle more.

Kurt hadn’t called or texted, either. The difficult questions Davy had asked cycled through his head all the time on constant loop. They got louder when he was alone, but the vodka muted them a bit. Agonizing as it was to have Davy’s voice constantly in his brain, until he had answers, he didn’t think he had the right to contact Davy. Didn’t stop him from assuming Davy would relent, give him a reprieve from this torture.

Sixteen days. It was killing him not knowing if Davy was doing okay. Did he hate Kurt? Or did he not feel any loss? Maybe Kurt hadn’t left a vast, gaping hole in his life, like Davy had left in his.

A particularly heavy sigh made Simon look up from the report he was writing. Kurt had completely fucked off on report writing—he hadn’t been able to concentrate—and Simon had picked up the slack without a word.

“You sure you don’t want to come to dinner tonight? Jen’s been asking about you.”

 

“No, thanks. I wouldn’t be very good company.”

Simon pressed his lips together, not speaking, but went back to his report. Kurt was thankful for that. He owed Simon for his unquestioning support. He should accept the invite. Having dinner at Simon’s house, with or without some of their other friends, had become a weekly habit. Tradition. Masochistically, Kurt had been going home every night to his silent apartment. He watched TV and drank, phone at his side, pretending he wasn’t waiting for Davy to contact him.

“Maybe next week,” Kurt offered. Maybe next week he could handle pretending to be happy.

Simon gave him a quick grin, but the expression in his eyes said Kurt better snap out of it soon, or Simon was going to want an explanation.

Christa walked by his desk and leaned over him, her flowery perfume too sweet in his nostrils.

 

“Hi, Kurt.”

 

“Hey, Christa. What can I help you with?” Kurt learned not to ask what she needed. He didn’t like the yearning doe eyes he got in return. “Got some mail for you.” Christa held out a white, standard-sized envelope with a handwritten address.

 

“Thanks.” The return address was Davy’s house. And Christa wouldn’t fucking leave, was in fact smiling at him expectantly. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

What was her problem? Sure, he never got personal mail here, but then, as had been pointed out, Davy didn’t know where he lived, and as a police detective, he took great pains to ensure his home address could not be found by simple Internet searches.

“It’s nothing.” Kurt slipped the envelope into his coat pocket and turned his attention to his computer. Christa shrugged and sat at her desk.

Kurt’s skin prickled. He needed to see what was in that envelope more than he needed to breathe. But if Christa wasn’t staring at him, Simon was. Or his boss. Or that guy, Ivan, from the drug squad, who was also gay. No, not
also
.

And what was that all about anyway? Was he giving off vibes that could be picked up by gaydar? Or was he just more sensitive now? Or… shit… did Ivan
know
Ben?

The past two weeks at work had been eye-opening. Now that he was paying attention, he heard enough slurs and innuendo to realize not everyone was as okay as they should be with the guys who were out on the force. God forbid Nadar got wind of any of them, but that didn’t seem to stop some of the worst offenders—all guys Kurt thought were assholes already, at least. That didn’t change the fact that admitting anything would suddenly place him in the category of “them.” Being “them” wasn’t where he wanted to be.

Ivan walked toward him and leaned over, mouth close to Kurt’s ear. “Hey, man, just thought you’d want to know, we’re close to arresting Novi.” His voice was low, but audible.

It took him a minute to realize Ivan wasn’t propositioning him right there in front of all of their coworkers, and to let his panic fade away.

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Keep it quiet, though. Not supposed to talk about it, but I thought you deserved to know. We’re going to get that asshole.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” And he did. Kurt hadn’t ever had much reason to talk to Ivan, but he was a good guy. Didn’t deserve the shit he was put through sometimes.

Fuck. He rocked in his chair. Fidgeted with pens on his desk. Scrolled through his e-mail without seeing anything. What was in that fucking envelope?

Simon eyed him suspiciously. “I’m just about done here. I’m going to grab a coffee and then we can head out. Want one?”

“Sure.” Coffee didn’t mix well with the vodka he used to sleep at night, but since he didn’t sleep so much as pass out, he needed the coffee. Food didn’t mix well with it either; he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten anything today.

Simon moved away, and for a change, Christa’s eyes weren’t on him. Angling his body away from her, he stealthily removed the envelope from his coat pocket. Every tiny rip in the paper reverberated like a gunshot, but Kurt knew the chaos on the floor covered any incriminating sounds.

Inside was a single, folded sheet of paper. Kurt unfolded it, but it took him a few seconds to figure out what was in front of him. Blood tests. A copy of Davy’s blood tests… dated two days after they’d fucked. Negative.

Acid burned beneath his sternum. He’d not once considered the health implications of what they’d done. And he fucking should have. He balled up the sheet of paper and shoved it in his pocket.

The realization of how reckless he’d been washed over him, buffeting him like a buoy in the ocean. His stomach heaved. Again. Kurt sprang to his feet and ran to the men’s room, pushing into a stall just in time to empty his stomach into the toilet.

 

Not that there was much to puke up. He’d hardly eaten since Mikey’s birthday. But he couldn’t stop throwing up.

 

Heavy feet pounded into the bathroom, halted, then the lock clicked shut.

“Jeez,” Simon said behind him. “You need me to call an EMT?” “No,” Kurt gasped out in between violent heaves.

Finally, his body was spent, and he slumped against the cool metal wall of the stall. Weakly, he reached up to flush the toilet. Simon had disappeared, but he returned with a water-soaked paper towel. Kurt wiped his face and flung the towel into the toilet.

“You look like hell. Have for a couple weeks. You really ought to go home, get some rest, and get rid of this virus or whatever it is.” Virus. Kurt would have laughed if his guts weren’t aching. Instead, he nodded.

 

“Need me to drive you home? Did you want me to call one of your brothers?”

Oh hell no. The last thing he needed right now was family fussing over him. He needed to be alone. Aside from his damned injury, he was rarely ill—he had plenty of sick days.

“You’re right. I’m going home. But don’t call anyone, I’ll be fine to drive.”

“Are you sure?”
Simon helped him stand, and he wobbled over to the sink.

He did look like hell. After he rinsed his mouth out, Simon unlocked the door.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”
“Anytime, Kurt. You know that.”

Kurt had said the same thing more than once to Davy, and he had to bite his lip against the pain.

 

“Can you grab my coat and meet me by my car? I’d rather not face anyone right now.”

“Yeah, sure. Go on down. I’ll be there in a few.”
“Thanks.”

Simon looked like he wanted to give Kurt a hug, but thankfully, he just stepped out of the way so Kurt could get to the exit. That afternoon, after a lengthy stop at the liquor store, he sat down with a couple fingers of vodka and texted Davy.

 

And again ten minutes later.

A third time, after a few more fingers of vodka. As soon as he decided Davy wasn’t going to respond, he called out sick for the rest of the week, hoping he could stay home and hide without alerting his family.

A
S
S
IMON
drove them to their latest crime scene, Kurt’s phone

beeped, alerting him to a text message. Weeks later, he still hoped it was Davy. But despite the barrage of texts and occasional voicemails Kurt sent right after he got those test results, Davy hadn’t broken silence. Not fucking once. Kurt passed by Davy’s house a couple of times since, saw Davy’s car in the drive. The courage that marched him into Davy’s house that first day had deserted him completely. Davy didn’t want to see him.

Kurt still sent a daily text, not matter how futile and foolish he knew it to be. And every time he got a text, some part of him still hoped. Prayed it was Davy.