Double Indemnity (9 page)

Petersen was loafing at the front desk with his hands resting on his paunch. His upper lip curled when he noticed Sam. “I knew I'd see you back here. Missing the interrogation room already?”

“Spare me your prison-rape fantasies, Petersen. I'm here to talk to someone about the mayor's plan.”

Petersen crossed his arms. “And why should I help you?” Someone behind Sam cleared his throat. Sam turned around and got a face full of beefy and blond McCormick.

Sam smiled. “McCormick isn't it? I was wondering if I could ask you some questions.”

McCormick looked from Petersen to Sam, as though unsure. “Uh.”

“I'll take that as a yes.” Sam grabbed out his notebook and pen. All he really needed were a couple of stock quotes. “How many officers has the mayor designated for the cleanup downtown?”

“Uh. Twenty.”

“And are you one of those officers?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Can you tell me anything about your strategy going forward?”

The interview proceeded in fits and starts. McCormick got a little more enthusiastic and talkative once they were out of Petersen's earshot. He seemed very concerned with saying the wrong thing or critiquing the mayor's policy. By the time Sam left the station, he had collected enough bland praise and positivity to write his softball article and earn his check.

He went back to Nathan's the next week for maintenance, but no one was home. The same was true the next week, and the next. Either Nathan had gone away on a trip, or he'd decided to avoid Sam altogether. The following week, Sam sent another team.

 

S
AM
STARED
at the stupid, shiny balloons he'd tied to Tim's bed
frame. They danced in the cool fall breeze from the open window. Most other visitors had already left for the evening. Helen's son had come and gone about an hour before, along with his wife and their baby. Sam should have given them the balloons. They were something you bought for a child, not for a brother turning twenty-one. Maybe that was the problem. He considered popping them, one by one, and imagined the sounds they would make. Loud enough to wake the dead.

At his own twenty-first birthday, Sam had relied on the kindness of his friends to get him shitfaced, but Tim didn't exactly have that option.

“Wake up, Timbo,” Sam said. “Wake the fuck up, will you?”

His brother's white face remained impassive. “I'll take you to a strip club, and we'll do tequila shots. Don't you want to get laid?”

Nothing. Every day that passed meant Tim was slipping further away. Miraculously he'd held on this long, but even with the physical therapy designed to keep his muscles toned, he didn't look much older than he had the day of the accident.

“You're a real asshole, you know?”

He imagined Tim sitting up and shouting back at him
,
“
You're the asshole, asshole.”

When Timmy was twelve and Sam was seventeen, their family took a trip to Florida and all of those hot, crowded amusement parks. The whole time Sam had remained resolutely unimpressed. He refused to hang out with his family and ended up spending most of his time in an arcade near the hotel, playing
Street Fighter
and checking out cute boys. He'd been embarrassed and filled with wanting, without having any idea how to channel those emotions. That is until one of those boys noticed him looking and didn't mind.

Paul, pretty and quiet, had freckles across the bridge of his nose and the most luscious lips Sam had ever seen. It started out innocently enough. The two of them met up each morning to play games or swim in the hotel pool. Paul wore low-slung board shorts that showed off his slim waist and hips, and at night Sam dreamt about grabbing hold of Paul's smooth body and pressing close.

And one day, away from the sharp eyes of his family, Sam had his first kiss. The shock of it hit him like a revelation. He didn't know where to touch, how to get close enough, how to understand the brilliance of another boy's mouth on his. The intensity blotted everything else out. So when Timmy begged and pleaded to join them on that final afternoon, Sam had said no and hurried off to meet his friend. They spent hours alone in Paul's room, and that night when Sam boarded the airplane to return to New England, he left his virginity behind in Florida too.

Tim pouted for a few days once they got home, mad at Sam for the exclusion, but then things went back to normal. Sam finished up his final year of high school and went to college. When he came home for breaks and holidays, he filled his time with old friends and crappy jobs. Sometimes he ate dinner with his family. But then a friend would call or he'd hear about a party, and he'd be off again, thoughtless and full of the promise of life outside the confines of home.

Sam thought about that summer a lot, but never figured out how to forgive himself for the missed opportunities. His brother grew up without him, and Sam never found out Tim's favorite movies or if he liked girls. And then there were the things Sam never told Tim or his parents. That he was gay. That he loved them.

Of course they knew about the love already. But still.

Part of him understood he'd been acting like any normal teenager finding his way. Another part of him, no matter how irrational, felt like he should have known. He should have known about time.

Tim's hand lay lifeless and warm in his, and Sam squeezed it. “I'm sorry. You're not an asshole. Happy birthday, buddy.” Visiting hours were over.

Sam pulled out of the parking lot at breakneck speed and headed south down the freeway. He needed to put some space between himself and his life, and a night in New York was just the thing. Calling Yuri was an afterthought, but he did it anyway, keeping one eye out for cops as he hit the speed dial.

“Hey, Sam.” Yuri sounded wary. He knew what day it was.

“Hey. So I'm thinking about heading down to the city for the night. Hit up a club or two. You in?”

“I've got to work tomorrow, and so do you.”

“That never stopped us before. We can be in for seven, take an early train.”

“It's a big job tomorrow.” But Sam could hear the hesitation in Yuri's voice, and he wasn't above exploiting it for the company. He hummed. “Come on. For old time's sake. Don't make me dance alone.”

Yuri snorted. “You never dance alone, Sam.”

Shit. He'd lost the thread with that one. Perhaps guerilla tactics would be more effective. “Get ready. I'll be at your place in ten minutes, and I won't take no for an answer.”

“Yes, you will.” This time it sounded final. “I can't come. You have a good time, but be safe. Okay?”

“You're no fun anymore, old man.”

“Yeah, maybe not. I'll see you tomorrow.”

The line went dead, and Sam tossed his phone onto the empty passenger's seat. It didn't matter if Yuri didn't want to come. Rachel was the other obvious choice, but she'd be working until closing time. He really needed to make some new friends.

By the time he parked at the commuter rail and paid for his ticket, the sun had already dipped low in the sky. The train hurtled into the station like a steel cage filled with oblivious captives, lost in their cell phones and laptops. Sam grabbed a seat facing forward and stared out the window as they began to move again, first slowly, then gaining more speed. The sway of the train and the loud clatter of the rails lulled him into the first calm he'd felt in days.

The clubs would be dead for a while once he arrived, but he could spend some time in the Village, maybe, or grab a bite to eat. It would be far better than another night in Stonebridge, another night at the same bar or at his apartment, in his neighborhood. An old woman sat across from him, sleeping with her head pressed against the window. Her gray hair was mottled through with sickly yellow, and even with several feet between them, Sam could smell the stink of old clothes and unwashed flesh.

He wondered what contentment felt like. Did anyone live a charmed life, or was it a myth designed to make everyone feel like shit?

This woman's face and worn, dirty clothes spoke of hardship and suffering, but maybe all of that was misleading. This woman, with all of her seeming vulnerabilities on display, had courage. So did Tim. They didn't deserve Sam's pity. Better pity a man like Feldman who had every advantage, yet lacked the strength to show his true face to the world, or someone like Nathan or Sam, who hid pain away behind closed doors and socially condoned anesthetics.

Maybe Sam was getting too maudlin for his own good.

He turned his gaze again to the window and watched the evening zoom by.

Once the train left them off at Grand Central, Sam decided to walk downtown and stretch his legs. The heavy traffic of the city filled the air with exhaust, which combined with the sweet smell of roasting peanuts as the skyscrapers of midtown gave way to shorter, picturesque brownstones. After about an hour, he entered a familiar neighborhood, lively with late shoppers and groups of friends heading out for the night, meeting and mingling at cafes and trendy bars. Even for early fall, the city was noticeably warmer than it had been in Stonebridge. Most of the guys wore jeans and tees to show off their sculpted muscles and tattoos, their hair artfully mussed. A few of them gave Sam appreciative once-overs, which he returned in a noncommittal way.

When he and Yuri first met, they'd come to the city often—usually to pick up guys, but sometimes to hang out, just the two of them. It had been a while, though, and Sam wondered how things had gotten so fucking weird. Maybe it was his fault. He'd sensed Yuri's feelings for him had grown more serious, but he'd been too caught up in his own desires and the convenience of their relationship to think too hard about it.

Hours passed. At around midnight, Sam found himself in a club he'd never been to. The patrons tended toward the leather end of the spectrum, muscular and barrel-chested. After a few shots, he made his way onto the dance floor, pushing through the sweaty male bodies. Everyone was smiling and laughing as they gyrated to the strong bass rhythm, and Sam found himself swept up in the crowd. Before long he was sandwiched between two guys, clearly a couple looking for a third. Both of them were big—taller than Sam and broader—and their arms snaked around him to find each other. Sam felt a hot, wet mouth on the back of his neck, kissing down to the nape. The other guy moved closer so Sam could straddle his thigh. A hard erection pushed against Sam's pelvis and another against his ass, and Sam's body responded.

“Haven't seen you around here,” the guy in back said, loud enough to hear over the music.

“Yeah. I don't come down to the city much.”

His partner grinned and nosed forward, kissing Sam's jaw. His head fell back against a powerful shoulder.

“That's a shame. Well, now that we've got you, whatever will we do with you?”

Another drink and a couple of songs later, and the answer to that question was “anything you want,” which was exactly how Sam wound up back at an apartment on all fours, with one of the guys eating his ass and the other thrusting powerfully into his mouth. The cock was thick, and Sam did his best to swallow it down, sucking hard despite the unpleasant taste of mint latex.

He gripped his own erection and pulled as the guy behind him spread his ass and pushed in one lubed finger. Sam willed himself to relax as his body adjusted to the girth of the cock pressing into him from behind. A hand on his jaw guided him gently, distracting him from the pain of the stretch. For such big guys, both of them were surprisingly careful and affectionate. They kissed across Sam's back, and he was only vaguely aware of the sounds they made. Every thrust shattered something inside, making him want to come and cry at the same time.

When he came, neither of them had finished, so he lay back on the bed while they jerked their cocks and painted his chest and face. The guy with the anchor tattoo on his left pec rubbed his softening prick against Sam's cheek, smearing his jizz and shuddering with the last aftershocks. The bad porno move made Sam sigh and wonder what the fuck he was doing. He wiped his face off with the back of his hand.

“Damn,” said the other. “That was so fucking hot.”

“Best anniversary ever,” said Anchor Tatt, giving his lover a long, open-mouthed kiss.

Sam watched them in a daze, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else. He was a fucking anniversary present—literally.

“How long have you two been together?” he asked as he groped for his underwear, more out of the need to break the awkward silence than any real curiosity.

“Five years,” said Anchor Tatt. “We met in the navy.”

So that explained the tattoo. “How nice,” Sam said lamely. He found his clothes and quickly dressed, his back to the bed. When he turned around, both men were watching him with their arms wrapped loosely around each other.