Sweet Poison (5 page)

“You gonna tell them?”

“I might.”

“You want to pick a fight, man, just say the word.”

The clown suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“Just to clarify, I was
innocent
, but I served my time, so I expect to be treated with a little Christian kindness.”

“I did some research on the case before I called you in. You raped a woman at a rest stop along I-35 up near Duluth.”

“Someone
did. It wasn’t me.”

“Right. Right.”

Corey had just about had it. He stood to go, but on an impulse, he turned back and swept his arm across the clown’s desk, sending everything but the computer crashing to the floor. He regretted it instantly.
If the clown reported what he’d just done to Corey’s probation officer, it could be bad. Then again, it was unlikely the guy even knew he had a probation officer.

“You enjoy torturing ex-cons?” asked Corey, staring him down.

“No,” said Durrant, his tone cool. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“I’m outta here.”

Pushing out the glass front door on his way to his cycle, he smiled. He knew Durrant wouldn’t report him. He’d seen more courage in a dog’s eyes.

W
hen Luke Durrant entered his condo later that night, he was immediately assaulted by the smell of burned food. It was just after eleven. He tossed his keys and billfold on the table in the foyer, then followed the smell through the kitchen, past the disarray of dirty plates and glasses, the remnants of an incinerated grilled cheese sandwich, and finally into the large open room that served as both living and dining room.

Over the last few months, he’d developed an instinctive sense for what he thought of as emotional air currents. Tonight the air was thick with tension, so much so that his stomach clutched as he moved across the bare wood floor to one of two matching white leather couches. What upset him wasn’t the mess. Messes could be cleaned up. Dishes could be washed. But never knowing what he was coming home
to
was what got to him.

Tonight, for instance, he might be called upon to be a nurse, a therapist, a pharmacist, a cheerleader, a liar, an activity director, or some permutation he’d never considered before. What he wanted to be was simply a guy coming home after a long day of work to the arms of the person he loved more than anyone else on earth.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, leaning over and giving Christopher a kiss.

“I tried, but no luck. Charity called, wanted to come over, but I told her to make it another night.”

Charity Miller was one of Christopher’s best friends. She was also the reason Luke had learned about the job as IT manager at Ray Lawless’s campaign. He was between positions at the time. When Charity told him the old IT guy had quit, he applied, even though he was overqualified. Everybody liked her so much that when she’d recommended him, he got an interview the next day. He was offered the job a week later.

Luke pulled up a chair and sat down next to Christopher, picking up his partner’s hand and pressing it to his lips. “I’m sorry I’m so late. Was that charred grilled cheese sandwich your dinner?”

“I wasn’t hungry,” he mumbled, his eyes fixed on the plasma TV hanging on the opposite wall.

Not exactly what Luke wanted to hear. “Let me make you something else.”

He shook his head, kept his eyes on the screen. “Don’t bother. I’m just glad you’re home.”

The comment wasn’t meant to make Luke feel guilty, but it did. Christopher’s six-month medical leave was almost up. Luke figured
that
was partly behind his most recent decent into a deep funk.

Initially, after Christopher got out of the hospital, Luke had encouraged friends to come in during the day to keep him company, but Christopher insisted he wasn’t up to it. He was too embarrassed by the scars on his face, too nervous that he’d have to talk about things that upset him, and simply too stubborn to see how desperately he needed to reconnect with humanity. The only person he let in, other than Luke, was Charity.

Luke was grateful that Charity had stuck by Christopher. She was a sweet kid, although she had serious problems of her own. Sometimes their friendship seemed like it was based on nothing more than mutual commiseration. Sure, they had a lot to commiserate about, but still, it didn’t strike Luke as particularly healthy.

Luke did his best to hide the anger he felt toward Charity, but every now and then it showed. Christopher was far more forgiving than he could ever hope to be. Maybe it was a strength, but Luke saw it as weakness. That’s why he kept his eye on Charity. If she let her big mouth flap again without thinking, he’d be there to shut it.

Tonight, after three computers went down, Luke felt pressured to stick around and get them back up and running. He wanted to come home earlier, but it just wasn’t possible. He’d never discussed his personal life with anyone at the campaign office. The fact that he was gay wouldn’t have been an issue, but he made the decision when he took the job to keep his personal life private.

“Come on, Christopher, let’s get you something to eat.”

“Just go to bed. I’ll be in later.”

Luke pulled him to his feet. “You’re angry at me.”

“Good Lord, I’m not angry. Truly, I’m not. I’m just … tired. Sick and tired of myself.”

“Stop it.” Luke drew him into his arms. “What you need is some food in your stomach.”

Christopher shook his head but allowed Luke to help him to the dining area. Once he was settled at the table, Luke retreated to the kitchen to fix them each a ham and Swiss sandwich. At the last minute, he whipped up two martinis, hoping that a little alcohol might oil their conversation.

Before he sat down, he turned off the TV and replaced it with some soft jazz. Christopher rarely turned on the television. If pressed, he probably couldn’t have said what show he’d been watching.

“Hear anything more from the investigative committee?” asked Luke, taking a bite of his sandwich.

Christopher looked down at the food as if it presented an impossible task. “Ring the bell. Close the book. Quench the candle. I’m done for. I knew that last April. This medical leave just put off the inevitable.”

“You already know what I think.” He hesitated. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing.”

Christopher drew in a long breath. “I sit here all day, trying to figure
out what I should do with my life. I assumed that conversation was over years ago, but here I am, thirty-six years old and back to square one.”

“You can do anything you want. Go back to school, get another degree. Or start a business. As soon as the campaign is over, I’ll find a good job. You know how much money I can earn. Enough for both of us.”

“It’s not a matter of money,” he said sharply. Then, looking contrite, he added, “I don’t mean to jump down your throat. You’ve been nothing but supportive. I’ll figure it out. I just need a little more time.”

Luke sipped his martini. They both knew Christopher was hiding, and frankly, after what he’d been through, Luke didn’t blame him. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he continued, “You know, you need to get outdoors, get some fresh air. Why don’t we make a day of it tomorrow? I’m sure I can get the day off. We could walk across the Stone Arch Bridge. That would be good for your leg. And then we could have lunch somewhere along the river. Come on, babe. You haven’t left this place since your last physical therapy appointment.”

The suggestion earned Luke nothing but a baleful stare. “Let me think about it.”

“What’s to think about? We need to have some fun together. I mean, all you do anymore is drift around this place like a ghost looking for his shadow.”

“How poetic.” He brushed a lock of blond hair away from his forehead.

“I get it that you’re still recovering. But even so.” He knew that when a person was sick, it was hard to see anything other than his own pain. But Christopher wasn’t the only one who’d been to hell and back. “Look, I’ll say it again. Maybe you should see a shrink. If you’re clinically depressed, you can get help. You have people who need you, folks who love you and want to know how you’re doing.”

A tide of hopelessness washed through Christopher’s eyes. “I’m working on it.”

His voice sounded so bleak, so vastly lonely. “Of course you are,”
said Luke, feeling like a jerk for pushing him. “I’m sorry if it seems like I’m always ragging on you.”

“No, you’re right. I should see someone. I’ll get a referral from my doctor, I promise.”

After dinner, Luke helped Christopher to their bedroom. He got him settled in bed, pulled the covers up over his chest, then sat down next to him.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I need to work for a bit. I won’t be long.”

“Sometimes I think you should have that computer surgically implanted.”

“If I could figure a way to do it, I would.”

Christopher smiled at that. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was something.

“Go to sleep,” said Luke, kissing him again, this time more tenderly. “And no more bad dreams.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” said Christopher, his eyes glistening.

“You’ll never have to find out.”

S
o Evelyn was never in your house?” Cordelia pawed eagerly through the mound of silk and satin, glitter and feathers on her bed, trying on the clothes as she stood next to a full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door.

“No,” said Jane, who was lying on the bed. “She finally called me back. That smell … it was probably just my overactive imagination.”

“You drink too much coffee. It’s hallucinogenic.”

“You drink gallons of coffee every day.”

“What’s your point?”

Mouse sat on the rug in front of Jane, watching Cordelia fling the glitzy garments in every direction.

“Where’d you get all that stuff?” asked Jane.

“From my friend Michael. We’re about the same supersize.”

Michael Ensler was a pharmacist and a drag queen. Jane had met him at a couple of Cordelia’s parties. Cordelia always gave him complimentary season tickets to the theater, thus, when it came to time clean out his closets, he was in a generous mood.

“He’s got incredible taste, don’t you think?” She pressed a hand
against the front of a black and yellow striped jacket that was solid sequins. Jane thought it made her look like a bumblebee.

“Incredible,” repeated Jane, her tone flat.

“Don’t get so excited. It’s not good for your blood pressure.” She held up another dress, tucked it around her breasts.

“What’s that called?”

“A pirate wench costume.” It was black crushed velvet, with open shoulders, a plunging neckline, a double-laced front, and arm wraps. The skirt was flared and extremely short. “I’ve got some great fishnet stockings that will be perfect with it.”

“And what sort of event would you wear that to?”

She shrugged. “Brunch?”

Jane flipped over on her stomach and laughed.

“Here’s the best one,” said Cordelia, digging through the pile. “Michael had this professionally made in England.” She pulled out a stunning, heavily beaded, fringed jade green gown. The dress ended in a two-foot train. “I’ll wear this when your father is crowned.”

“Inaugurated.”

“You say potato, I say po-tah-to.” She stalked over and snapped off the CD player. Barbara Streisand’s emotional rendition of “People” ended midwail. “I’m deeply into a Ziegfeld Follies idiom at the moment.”

“Kind of clashes with your home furnishings,” said Jane.

Cordelia groaned. “Swedish modern is so
unbelievably
boring.”

“Then why did you buy all of that furniture from IKEA last year?”

“Boring fascinated me at the time.”

“So change it. Bring home part of a theater set like you used to. Something Ziegfeldish.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I refuse to change anything in the loft until Hattie comes back. It has to be just the way she remembers it.”

Hattie Thorn Lester, Cordelia’s niece, had lived with Cordelia for two of her four years. Her mother, Cordelia’s sister, Octavia, had swooped in a year ago and taken the little girl—”abducted,” Cordelia
usually said—moving her to England to live with her and husband number five or six. Jane could never keep track. Cordelia had been devastated. She’d tried everything—sweet talk, bribes, threats, private investigators, lawyers—but so far, Hattie was still in England and Cordelia was still miserable.