Triangulation, p.36
Triangulation, page 36
part #2 of Borealis Investigations Series
What?
Shaw would lie there, panicking into a blackout again, and North would know. He’d finally understand. And he’d leave.
Groaning, Shaw fell back on the sofa, the spring biting into his ass.
The knock came again.
Shaw rolled onto his side, burying his face in the couch, smelling—because the universe was a bitch sometimes—the leftover perfume of North’s American Crew hair wax.
A key turned in the lock. The front door opened. In spite of his best efforts, Shaw’s heart gave a guilty leap. North never came through the front door, always through the office and up the back stairs. But tonight, he was doing it differently. Tonight, North was making a statement. He was coming not as a partner, not as a friend, but as something more. He was coming into Shaw’s house the way Jadon had come—through the front door, up the stairs. Like a boyfriend.
Steps clicked across the room. The couch sagged under new weight, and body heat radiated against Shaw’s back. A hand touched the side of his face, and that fragile hope inside Shaw splintered. It wasn’t North’s hand.
“Are you ok?” Jadon asked.
Shaw nodded into the couch.
“You didn’t answer any of my texts.”
“Sorry. I . . . I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Ignore me?” A trace of amusement glowed in Jadon’s next words. “Or break up with me by text?”
“Both.”
“Did you get hurt? Waggener told me you were both fine, but I thought maybe . . .”
“I’m ok.”
They sat like that for another minute, the warmth from Jadon’s body scorching Shaw’s back. His fingers were still on Shaw’s face, just resting near his ear. Then, with a slow movement, he combed them once through Shaw’s hair, back and then around, so that the strands fell across Shaw’s neck, tickling the sensitive skin.
“So, we’re breaking up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you want to fight about it?”
“What?”
“Some guys only feel good about a breakup if there’s a huge fight. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to scream? Do you want me to get jealous? You’re hooking up with North, right? Do you want me to yell about that? Tell you how unfair that is?”
Shaw twisted around to look at Jadon. The light enameled his face, cool and colorless, hiding any hint of emotion on the carefully controlled features. Jadon’s hand moved again, coming toward Shaw’s cheek, and then Jadon pulled away and smiled. “I guess I can’t do that anymore.”
“I’m not . . . with North, I mean, he’s not. It’s not that.”
A long moment passed between them; Jadon’s dark eyes never left Shaw’s. When he spoke, his voice was slow but hard. “I never lied to you.”
“I’m not lying.” Shaw squeezed his eyes shut. “I mean, I thought maybe, with North, there might be something. But I was wrong. He doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
Again, amusement glimmered in Jadon’s voice like sand catching sunlight under shallow water. “And you still want to break up with me? If you ask really nicely, maybe I’ll take you back.”
“Jay.”
“Did I do something?”
“No,” Shaw whispered. He was starting to cry.
“Damn.” Jadon’s thumb wiped Shaw’s cheek clear, but more tears, hotter, spilled down. “You sure? Because if I did something, I can make it right. But if it’s just me, well, I can’t fix that.”
“It’s not you,” Shaw was crying harder now. “It’s not anything you did. It’s me. I’m so messed up, Jay. You don’t even know.”
“Because you liked getting choked, and then you freaked out when you realized you liked it? Trust me, baby: I’ve seen stuff that’s a lot more messed up.”
“No. It’s . . . it’s everything.”
“The panic attacks?”
Shaw raised his head in shock.
Jadon’s thumb slid under his eye again, brushing a slick track along his cheek. At Shaw’s shocked expression, Jadon gave a laugh. “Baby, it wasn’t exactly a secret. Every time I touched you, you just about jumped out of your skin. Your heart would go crazy, you’d start shaking. At first, I thought you were just really into me. Then, when things didn’t always work, I realized it was something else. Are you ace?”
Asexual. Shaw had thought about before, and now he bit his lip. “I don’t know.”
“It’s ok if you are.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t think so.”
“Am I just an ugly fucker?”
Shaw let out a wet laugh and shook his head.
“Did it scare you, being with a guy this hot? Was that it?” Jadon’s leer had a gleam of self-mockery.
Groaning, Shaw covered his eyes with his arm.
With a chuckle, Jadon tugged on Shaw’s fingers until his arm fell away from his face. “Sit up.”
“Jay, it’s not you. It’s me.”
“Just sit up.”
“You can yell at me if you want. You can hate me. You can tell everybody how awfully I treated you; I know I’ve treated you awfully. I’ll tell anyone who will listen how amazing you are, how patient, how great a guy—”
“Fine,” Jadon said. “I’ll make you sit up.” Grabbing Shaw under the arms, he heaved him into a sitting position. He leaned in until they were less than an inch apart; his breath was soft and warm like the summer heat pressing against the windows. His eyes, the color of wet sand at the river’s end, fixed Shaw in place.
Then he leaned in and kissed Shaw. It began as a smolder, like Shaw had a live coal inside his mouth, and then Jadon started working his tongue and it turned into an inferno. Jadon pressed against him, his hand slipping up under the caftan, tightening on Shaw’s slender chest, the grip bruising and hard and demanding. And hot. His knee forced open Shaw’s legs; his other hand slid up Shaw’s thigh, a low, insistent pressure.
As it had so many times before, the touch, the intimacy, the arousal sent up a flare inside Shaw’s head. Everything seemed to go white; he was distantly aware of his shallow hyperventilation, of the way Jadon’s touch grew electric, as though every inch of Shaw’s skin had been abraded and left him too sensitive, crackling with static when Jadon feathered a thumb under Shaw’s navel. That white brilliance lowered, faded, darkened, and blackness crashed in over Shaw. He tried to find the fantasy where he always escaped to, where North was waiting for him, and instead he only found more darkness.
“Ok,” Jadon was saying, his touch light on Shaw’s jaw. “Ok, you can come back. Shaw, take a breath and come back.”
It was hard. The darkness was safe; even without North, even with the blackness deep and dark and cold like the water at the bottom of a well. It was better than being touched like that. It was better than being open and exposed, laid bare for someone else to see and touch and hurt. The way Matty had hurt Shaw.
Slowly, his breathing eased, and his vision cleared. Jadon had moved to the end of the couch; his hand rested on Shaw’s calf, his grip tight and reassuring.
“I’m sorry, Jay. I’m sorry. I told you I’m messed up.”
Jadon seemed to consider this for a moment; he cocked his head, studying Shaw, and then scooted closer. He chucked Shaw under the chin and said, “It’s not just me, Shaw.”
“It’s not you at all, Jay. I swear. It’s me.”
“No, you’re not listening. I’m telling you that this, whatever it is, it’s going to keep happening.”
“I know. That’s why we need to break up.”
Jadon’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “You’re so dumb sometimes.” Then, standing, he grew serious. “You have to get this figured out. Soon. Because it’s going to happen with North, and you’re going to freak out even more, and then it’ll just get worse. See a shrink. Or see a better shrink. Whatever it takes.”
Shaw shook his head. “North doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“Shaw?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re really sweet.”
“Uh huh.”
“And you are one fucked-up kid.”
“I think I’m a little older than you, actually.”
“And you have a real gift for investigation. You’re brilliant, actually. Kind of scary sometimes.”
“I didn’t do it alone. North is the real detective; I’m just—”
Jadon laid a finger over Shaw’s lips, silencing him. He considered him for another moment with those sandy-dark eyes. And then he said, “You are. Brilliant, I mean. But if you think North McKinney isn’t desperately in love with you, you might be the stupidest man on the planet.”
Chapter 38
TWO WEEKS LATER, on a hot August afternoon, North lay on the living room floor of his dad’s house on Winona in nothing but a pair of running shorts that barely reached the middle of his thighs. His dad had taken to calling them his panties; North had long since stopped caring about stuff like that. That’s what he told himself, anyway, as he shifted on the floor, picking out crumbs from under his sweaty back, trying to find a spot that was comfortable. His skin still stung from the sunlight, a prickle that was probably a very mild sunburn. Like so many things lately, it made him think of Shaw and all his stupid cracks about being fair skinned. He found a broken animal cracker near the small of his back, tossed it aside, and closed the door on that thought. Maybe one day it would get easier, he thought. Right then, though, it was like trying to close the door while the Pacific was pouring in.
His phone buzzed. A week ago, that noise would have zapped through North like a defibrillator at full blast. Five days ago, it would have sent him running to grab the phone in the next room. Two days ago, he would have closed his eyes and prayed, even though most days he didn’t know what he believed about God, that this would be it. But now, today, all of that had leached out of North. His hand drifted to his pocket; he dismissed the notification without looking at the screen. He closed his eyes. He could still see the shape of the windows, two floating, rectangular sunspots.
He had come to accept a simple truth. A fact, really. He didn’t deserve to be happy. Not after what he’d let Tucker do to him. Not after how he’d acted that night at Adrienne Martin’s, when Shaw had been standing there, hoping, waiting. Not after North had been a coward again. Because that’s what it came down to, the bottom line of the equation: he was a fucking coward. So he didn’t deserve to be happy.
One hand floated down his chest, bumping over each rib, skin stinging like he’d rolled in nettles. He curled his fingers. He dug his nails into the tender flesh. Five seconds, ten, increasing the pressure until the pain equalized into a kind of tightrope he could walk. Then, with a gasp, he shook out his hand, trying to ease his aching fingers. He opened his eyes; the sun’s glare filled the windows like cotton batting. Along his chest, five crescent cuts tracked in a neat line. They weren’t really bleeding, just weeping slow drops that would scab quickly. He could do better next time.
David McKinney stumped into the room, leaning heavily on his walker, huffing breaths around a cigar clamped between his teeth. He navigated a path around North, dropped into his armchair, and began to cough. When he finished, he took long drags on the cigar and leaned his head back, blowing smoke up at the ceiling.
The TV clicked on; the sound of The Price is Right filled the room. North closed his eyes again and stared into the rectangular sunspots. His fingers bobbled over his ribs again. How hard would he have to hit himself to crack one? It could be kind of a game, the kind you could play all by yourself. When everything in your life burned down to ash, you had to pass the time however you could. You had to find games that made you open your eyes in the morning. Run as hard as you can until you puke. Lift bags of cement until you can’t raise your arms anymore. Dig out the backyard, two inches of topsoil and the rocky shit under it, and then lay sod with the sun and the day so hot that the world swims. See how deep you can get your nails into your own skin. See if you can break a rib with your own hand. The world was full of games. He didn’t have a revolver, but the possibility buzzed like a swarm of bees—that could be a game too.
“You don’t work anymore?” North’s father asked.
“Sure I do. I’m working on my tan.”
“Who pays for that?”
“Right now, you do.”
“Your ass is going to be on the street.”
“You’d throw your only son out?”
“If my only son doesn’t pay rent, he’s going out on the street.”
“I can pay rent.”
“With what money? Nobody’s paying you to jog around in your panties and dig up my lawn.”
“Maybe I’ll get back on a site.”
“You’re too lazy to work on a site.”
“Maybe I’m hustling.”
“You’re too fucking old to hustle.”
“Maybe I’ll get that pipefitter’s card you keep talking about.”
North’s father turned in his chair, his gaze directed down at his son. “You got too big a head for a union now.”
“I’m old. I’m lazy. I’m arrogant. Anything else?”
David McKinney puffed on his cigar for a long moment, still twisted in the chair, his eyes locked on a point somewhere beyond North. Finally, he said, “You haven’t talked about him in a while.”
“I told you: Tucker and I are getting divorced.”
“Not him.”
North closed his eyes, his vision swimming with sunspots again.
“You aren’t going to say anything?”
“I like these father-son chats. We should do a talk show. We should have callers. We could release an episode every twenty years or so.”
The creak of springs answered North, and then a heavy step. North opened his eyes with a flinch, expecting a blow, but instead he saw his father wobbling as he stood over him without the walker, his whole frame trembling as he tried to support himself unaided.
“When you were fifteen years old,” David McKinney said, his voice rough. “You got your ass handed to you by some of those boys down the block. You came home with your side all cut up. You went into your room and licked your wounds.” His stabbed a finger toward North. “You’ve still got the scar to prove it. And you know what I did?”
Narrowing his eyes to slits, North tried to make his voice casual, unaffected. The memory of the Red Week—the week after he had come out, the week when every boy in the neighborhood tried to take a piece out of the faggot’s ass—washed over him, dragged him into an undertow. “Oh, yeah. I’ve got a list right here. Jackshit. Nada. Nothing.”
“I got up the next morning. I made my coffee. And I sat in the kitchen, waiting, watching the clock. I knew if you weren’t out of your room by eight, walking on your own two feet, you weren’t coming out at all. So I was going to drag you out. I was going to throw your ass out of the house and lock the door behind you, because the only thing you can’t do when the world knocks you on your ass is stay down.” David McKinney licked his lips; he looked so old, North thought. Old and frail and still somehow terrifying. “But you didn’t. You were out the door at 7:57. And the next morning. And the next. And I could sit there and pour my coffee and think, That’s my boy.”
“Yeah,” North said, his eyes dropping shut. “Well, that’s a Father-of-the-Year moment right there. That can be episode number one of our talk show.”
David McKinney’s Hush Puppy connected with North’s side just below the ribs, and North rolled away instinctively, swearing as he came up onto his knees.
“Get out.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Get your ass out of my house.”
“Jesus Christ, Dad. I’m not a kid. I’m not hiding in my bedroom.”
David McKinney came toward North, and North retreated instinctively. It didn’t matter that his father looked like a strong wind might tear him in half; it didn’t matter that he dragged an oxygen tank behind him, the wheels squeaking as they rolled onto the kitchen’s faded linoleum. North kept scrambling backward, stumbling when he dropped onto the sunroom’s slightly lower floor. The screen door rasped against the sensitive skin of his shoulders as he backed out of the house and down the steps.
David McKinney stopped in the doorway, staring at North with eyes that barely seemed to see him. Scorn screwed his mouth into a familiar sneer. With a final shake of his head, he shut the door, turned, and shambled out of sight.
The early evening sunlight stung North’s skin, aggravating the burn he’d gotten running. Humidity made the air thick and sticky. He scrubbed a hand against his chest, opening the freshly scabbed line of cuts he had given himself, and swore. Then he swore again. And again. And he kicked the foundation, stubbed his toe, and ran up a series of fucks and shits and damns that left him breathless and close to tears.
North had his keys. He dug around in the Caravan until he found a tee with Diedrickson Landscaping on the back; he shrugged into it, wincing as the rough cotton slid over his shoulders. He sat behind the wheel, turned the key to Accessory, and let the radio squawk to life. Britney came on. He sat there, listening to Britney and then the Backstreet Boys and then Train and a string of songs from the 90s and early 2000s. The sun baked him through the glass. This felt like it could be a game too: roll up the windows and see how long he could broil in the Caravan’s metal box.
With the vague idea of calling Jack, apologizing, and seeing if the kid was interested in hooking up for what might have been the most pathetic pity sex in the history of the world, North drew out his phone. On the screen, the notification he had dismissed earlier stared back at him. Two words from his calendar app: Borealis Anniversary.
They had started the agency four years ago today.
Four years of Shaw filling the fridge with Capri Sun. Four years of Shaw stealing Oreos out of the lunches North packed. Four years of Shaw wearing cardigans stretched out to his knees because he loved shoving his hands in his pockets. Four years of Shaw chewing his lip, tilting his head, wrinkling his brow as he concentrated on another stupid doodle. Four years of sunlight catching that coppery patch of hair that hid among all the reddish-brown. Four years of spending every day with his best friend. Four years that North had been happy, even as everything went wrong with Tucker. And North was trying to remember what that had felt like, being happy. It hadn’t felt like this, like antimatter was ricocheting inside him, erasing him from the inside out.
