Transactional dynamics, p.17
Transactional Dynamics, page 17
part #3 of Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Series
“What did he want to talk about?” Dulac said.
“Nothing.”
Somers was thinking about Conor Kelly, what he knew of him, the way Kelly had looked at him as he pulled up to the sex psychic’s store. “Is there something else we need to know? You know you can tell us, Patrick. This is a chance to get your hands clean. If Kelly’s doing something on the side, you can get ahead of it.”
“God, Somers. You really fucking think I’m dirty?”
“I’m hearing a lot about dirty cops these days, and I see Kelly show up without you. I’m just telling you, get out in front of it, if that’s what it is. Even if you think he’s got you in too deep.”
“No,” Foley said with disgust. “Look, I already told you what it was, and it’s nothing to do with the case you’re working. Just leave it alone, ok? This is something else. He came to me. He asked me for help. I said talk to you guys.” Foley shrugged. “You heard him; he changed his mind. If he changes it again, I’ll send him to you.”
“About what?” Dulac said.
“The big mystery of why anybody would put up with your annoying ass long enough for a fuck.”
“You know what? A lot of guys go crazy for a freckled ass. Like, you wouldn’t believe this guy I hooked up with a few times in college—”
“Nope,” Somers said as the food came. “Time to eat.”
“That’s what he always said!”
“Please stop.”
“That’s what I’d have to say sometimes!”
Kelly came back from the bathroom; he wouldn’t look at Dulac or Somers, but he jerked his head toward the door.
With a nod, Foley got out of his chair. “We good?”
“That’s your beat,” Somers said. “That part of town, right? With the psychic, the Pretty Pretty, all of that?”
“Since Hoffmeister—” Foley mimed a rope snapping tight, his head cracking to the side. “You know. Before that, he and Lloyd had it.”
“If you hear anything that might help the case, you’ll let us know?”
“Yeah,” Foley said, relaxing a little. “Sure.”
Then the cousins left. Somers stared at the burger in front of him. He wasn’t starving, not after dinner with Hazard and Evie, but he loved a burger with beer. He glanced at Dulac; now that it was just the two of them, it felt strange to be sitting side by side, but Dulac was focused on the wings, which he was pulling towards him.
“You always show up smashed to interviews?” Dulac asked quietly, dipping a wing in ranch sauce.
Somers took a big bite of the burger, buying himself time. Then he said, “I’m not smashed.”
Dulac pulled apart the wing, sucking the meat from the bone, inspecting it to make sure he hadn’t missed even a scrap.
“I had a few beers. Because I forgot we were meeting Foley, that’s all.”
“So maybe you eat the burger, and you let me drive you home.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah? Well, I see you get behind the wheel of your car, and I’ll fucking breathalyze you right there.”
Somers took another long moment to chew and said, “Maybe I’ll walk.”
Dulac made a disgusted noise.
“What’s going on with you?” Somers said. The fight with Hazard was coming back now, sliding under his skin again, and he looked around until he spotted their waitress, held up two fingers, and gave her a thumbs up. “You’ve been bitchy all day.”
“I told you: Darnell and I are in a fight.”
“Oh yeah. I bet that big jerk only bought you seven hundred roses instead of the usual thousand.”
Pushing out his chair, Dulac said, “I guess I didn’t realize this, but you know what? You’re kind of an asshole when you’re drunk.”
Somers swore and put down the burger. “Sit down, please? It’s not the beer. Why the fuck is everyone on my fucking case about the beer?”
“For one thing, you don’t act like that when you aren’t drinking.”
“I had a shitty day. I’m allowed to have a shitty day, right? I’m allowed to be an asshole every once in a while, right? Or do I have to be this fucking perfect picture of patient sainthood every fucking day for the rest of my life?”
“Ok,” Dulac said, drawing out the word as he dropped back into his seat. Studying Somers now with his dark eyes. “That’s some deep shit. What’s going on?”
Somers shook his head, and then he opened his mouth and told him: first, simple, declarative statements. I did this. He did that. Just the facts. But then it went sideways, slipping out from under him, and he started telling all of it: I feel. He feels. I hate. He hates. And it just kept unspooling until Somers couldn’t find the end of what he was trying to say, like a damn kitten in a ball of yarn.
“Fuck him,” Dulac said.
“No, he’s right. I was being a jerk. I should have just gotten off my ass and watched Evie. I should have—”
“No. Stop that noise. What was he doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“He was working on stuff for the Keeper case.”
“Ok, and he can’t read through the file while he’s in the same room as Evie.”
“I don’t know, I guess he wanted to concentrate.”
“Yeah, well, guess what? You’ve got a fucking job, right? You work all day. You’re allowed to come home and relax.”
Somers shook his head; his eyes were stinging, out of frustration and guilt and hurt and the beer, and he picked up his glass to find it was empty. Dulac hadn’t touched his, and he nudged it toward Somers. Somers picked it up and took a long drink.
“Which one of you has a paycheck?”
“He works.”
“But which one of you brings home the real money, which one of you knows what he gets every two weeks?”
Somers shook his head again.
Dulac shifted to the edge of his seat, grabbing Somers’s arm just above the wrist. “Which one of you carries the health insurance?”
“He’s not on it yet because we’re not married, but—”
“You do. Which one of you carries dental?”
“Ok.”
“You do. Which one of you has a pension for retirement?”
“He’s really good about saving, actually. But we’ve put so much money into the agency, and—”
“You do. You’re entitled to go home, take your shoes off, and breathe for five fucking minutes, John-Henry. You’re not his personal servant. You’re a grown man.”
“It’s more complicated than that.
“No, it’s not. The dishes? Fuck ‘em. They can wait one night. Watching Evie? Why the fuck can’t he do it? You know what I want to know? What the fuck is he doing to carry his own weight? He’s not, John-Henry. That’s the answer. He’s not, he’s just playing with his dick, working a few cases, doing whatever he likes while he’s running you into the ground, the lazy fuck.”
“No,” Somers said, although it was hard to get the word out from under all that beer. “No, he’s—he’s really good to me. Good to Evie too. He’s not lazy, not like you said.”
“Ok, ok, maybe he’s not lazy, but you should be able to relax. You should be able to set your own schedule. You should be able to do what you want, when you want. If he doesn’t support you in that, like, bro, your mental health comes first, ok? And this is a mental health issue.”
Somers wiped his face. “Yeah. Fuck yeah, it is.”
“My man,” Dulac said, low and intense, his fingers tightening around Somers’s arm, “you deserve someone who’s going to take care of you. Make you happy. Wait on you like you’re a fucking prince, because you goddamn fucking are.”
But Somers didn’t want to be a prince; he wanted Hazard. And he wanted not to have to fight anymore, not to have to feel like he never lived up to what Hazard wanted, not to have to feel like he was always playing catch up to someone who was smarter and stronger and better. He wiped his face again; he felt like he was slipping out of himself.
“Come on, come on, don’t get sloppy on me.”
“I’m not. I’m ok, I’m ok.” Somers took a deep, shuddering breath, trying not to think about how shitty he felt. “Can we talk about something else, please? Jesus, you need to have a drink too. How many have I had?”
“One, dude. You only had one.”
“No.” Somers tried to think. “No, because you had one, but I drank it, and we—the girl—”
“Maybe two. Two tops. You’re fine; just have some water, and then maybe we do some shots.”
Fuck, shots sounded good. Shots sounded like a beautiful, black-out wall that Somers could crash into, hard, and be fucking obliterated.
“What’s going on with Darnell?” Somers said, sipping water that Dulac had produced.
Now, somehow, Dulac had an arm around Somers’s shoulders. They were sitting close together, heads almost touching as they talked.
“Darnell,” Dulac said, drawing out the name. “I really messed up. Oh man, I really did.”
“What?”
“No way, you’re going to make fun of me.” Dulac groped for his beer, seemed surprised to find it empty, and waved it at their waitress.
“No,” Somers said.
“You’re going to call me a fuckboy.”
“No way,” Somers said, only distantly aware that he was copying Dulac’s speech. “No way, man.”
“You think I’m just a stupid—a stupid kid chasing ass.”
“No, man. I think you’re awesome. You’re fucking awesome.”
“You’re gonna laugh,” Dulac said, waving his empty beer again. “You’re gonna say I’m a total fuckboy.”
“No fucking way,” Somers said, leaning in closer. “Come on, just tell me.”
A blush raced under Dulac’s freckles. “He, like, hates me.”
“What? Why?” Then, too late, “No, he doesn’t.”
“He does. He totally hates me. He thinks I’m the biggest piece of shit ever, and he’s right.”
“Tell me.”
“Nah.”
“Tell me,” Somers said, hooking Dulac’s shirt, yanking on it. “I wanna know. Tell me. That asshole hurt you, so tell me so I can go fuck him up.”
“It’s not his fault. It’s my fault.”
“Come on.”
“I made a move on him.”
Somers waited, but nothing more came. “And?”
“He, like, freaked out.”
“You guys haven’t—”
Dulac gave him such a look of disgust that Somers grinned.
“Ok, so what?”
“He said he wasn’t in the mood.”
“Ok.”
“I—I kind of kept going. Like, I . . . I took off my clothes, did kind of this show, you know.”
“Oh my God,” Somers said, covering his face.
“Bro, most guys like it, ok? Anyway, he got up and tried to leave the room, but I was all over him, like, grabbing him, and he—” Dulac’s voice cracked, and his eyes got wet. He rubbed his face on his sleeve. “He yelled at me. He never yells at me. Not even when I put all his flowers down the garbage disposal to make a point.”
“What point?”
“I don’t even fucking remember.”
Somers fought a grin.
“Don’t laugh, motherfucker.” But after a moment, Dulac grinned too. “Christ, I’m pretty fucking unbearable, right?”
“Nah.”
“I’m a fucking nightmare to date, though.”
Somers just grinned.
“God, I’m shit.”
“You’re, like, a great guy.” And then, because the beer pulled everything askew, he added, “You’re the best guy I’ve ever known.”
“I’m a dick, man.”
“Don’t talk shit about yourself.”
“I’m a dickhole.”
“Dude,” Somers said, giving Dulac a bump. “Dude, you’re cute. Even Ree thinks you’re cute. He—” Somers had to pause to steady himself. “He told me.”
“No. Fucking. Way.”
“And you’re police, so like, double cute. You know?”
“Dude, Emery said that?”
“And you know what? You’re actually, like, this sweet, vulnerable guy. Like, anybody out there would be lucky to end up with you. Anybody.”
“Shit, man. I am so fucked up. Where are those shots? Shots!”
Somers was laughing because Dulac was wasted, because they’d never ordered shots.
“You are so drunk.”
“Shit, man. Shit.” Then, with a huge grin, Dulac waved both arms. “Shots! Shots!”
Giggling, and trying to repress the giggles, Somers grabbed at his arms, pulling them down, but Dulac just kept sticking them back up and shouting for shots.
“Be quiet, asshole,” Somers said between gulping breaths. “You are being so fucking loud.”
Then they were both laughing—the laughter coming doubly hard because they were trying now to be quiet. Somers was crying, wiping his face on his shoulder, biting his shirt as he shook with laughter.
“Oh my God,” Dulac kept saying, “oh my God.”
“Gentlemen.” The man talking to them was the manager; Somers couldn’t think of his name. “I think it’s time to settle up and call it a night.”
“Shots, shots, shots,” Dulac chanted.
“We don’t serve to excess here,” the manager said. “Do you want me to split your check? Or are you paying together?”
“Shots!” Dulac shouted.
The manager’s mouth tightened. He wasn’t looking at Somers; Somers knew why. The last time Somers had gotten trashed, he’d done it here, and he’d done a few thousand dollars’ worth of damage before Hazard had hauled him out.
“I got it,” Somers said, fumbling with his wallet. He passed a credit card. “Just—yeah, I got it.”
Dulac was still chanting; he still had his arm around Somers
Somers tried to slip back into the buzz, but now that Hazard had invaded his thoughts, he couldn’t. He kept thinking of how things were going to go: tonight, when he got home, and they fought again because Somers was up to his eyeballs in Bud Light; at the end of the week, when the charge showed up on their credit card statement, and Somers had to explain why he’d paid for everybody’s drinks and Hazard gave another lecture on financial solvency and the importance of a cash reserve; another fight, down the road, because Somers forgot to switch the wet clothes to the dryer, or because he took a nap on Sunday afternoon and didn’t fix the loose shingles, or because he squeezed the toothpaste from the middle instead of the bottom, for the love of fuck.
“What?” Dulac said.
“Nothing.”
“Come on.” Dulac got up, braced himself on the back of the chair, and then grabbed Somers’s collar, tugging him toward the door.
“I gotta get home.”
“Come on,” Dulac said, still pulling, and Somers stumbled after him, laughing.
A minute later, they stood outside. The cold came in like surf, tumbling up to Somers’s chin, making his eyes sting and mist and then clear. Dulac’s arm was around Somers’s shoulders again, and Somers didn’t mind. It felt good. Like old times. When guys just wanted to be his buddy, when he didn’t have half the people he’d grown up with looking at him side eyed.
“I gotta get home,” Somers said again, not meaning it.
“No way, no fucking way.” Dulac was peering up and down the street. “I never, not once in my whole fucking life, let a buddy go home looking like the most miserable fuck on earth. I’m not starting with you.”
“I really gotta get home. Ree’s going to worry.”
“Fuck him.”
“No, I really—”
“Fuck him. You remember how he talked to you tonight? You remember how he treated you? You work all fucking day, you break your fucking back, you working your fucking head off while he’s jerking off, and then he comes down on you? No fucking way.”
“It’s not—” Somers wanted to say what had really happened, because it hadn’t been that, but the February night was like crystal, magnifying everything, until in the sharp clarity of the cold, it seemed like that was how it had happened. “He’s not—”
“Fuck him,” Dulac said. “And fuck Darnell.”
A black Corolla with an Uber sticker rolled up to the curb.
“Come on,” Dulac said, dragging Somers with the arm across his shoulders.
“Where are we going?”
As Dulac bundled Somers into the back seat, he said, “We’re going to murder some bottles of tequila at the Pretty Pretty.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FEBRUARY 13
WEDNESDAY
9:27 PM
HAZARD SATURATED THE COMFORTER with stain remover, shoved it in the washer, and decided to forget the whole thing until tomorrow. He went back upstairs and found Evie now dressing up two of her Ken dolls. One wore military fatigues. The other was making a bold statement by wearing scrubs—bright pink, obviously cut for Barbie’s frame, and covered with hearts. Evie looked up when Hazard came in the room.
“Daddy,” she said, picking up the Ken in fatigues.
“Please,” Hazard said. “Don’t.”
“Dee Dee,” she said, picking up the Ken in pink scrubs.
“Your dad would probably say I deserve that,” he said, scooping up Evie. “How about a bath? We’ll start getting ready for bed.”
In the past, bath time had been a surprisingly relaxing part of the evening routine. Evie loved the water; she splashed and sang and laughed. That was before she had turned three.
Now that she was three, Evie was in charge.
“No,” she screamed at an ear-splitting decibel when Hazard turned on the water.
The only way to get her to stop screaming was to turn the water off and let her do it. Hazard had to adjust the temperature when she wasn’t looking so she wouldn’t scald herself.
Then, more screaming when Hazard pulled off her shirt.
She had to put it back on and take it off herself.
“Ok?” Hazard said. “Better?”
She ignored him and, her dark eyes intent, tried to fold the shirt on the ground.
