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“Possession is nine-tenths of the law” meant less when you were actually in law enforcement. Still, there was something to possession, Kellerman thought, letting Lewis’ ring settle around his own finger.
“You’re really getting married?”
Lewis slanted an annoyed look at him. “How many times I got to say yes?”
Kellerman sighed, and leaned back in his chair. “Never mind.”
He was best man; it was his job to look after the ring. He felt like Frodo, like the ring was a tremendous burden. He could feel it weighing down his finger like it was made of lead, not gold.
Probably he could have kept it in its box, but that didn’t feel right. Kellerman felt like he should be aware of it at all times, like he needed to see and feel it constantly until it was time to give it back to Lewis.
Lewis was getting married. He was going to belong to somebody. Okay, maybe that’s not how marriage worked all the time—it’s certainly not how Kellerman’s had panned out—but that’s what it was supposed to mean. Hook, line, sinker—I’m yours.
And Kellerman wasn’t going to get in the way of that, wasn’t going to sully the sanctity of Lewis’ marriage like some prick had sullied his. If that meant abstinence, well, then, he would abstain.
Quitting Lewis would be like quitting smoking—only it would work this time. No more kissing in the dark front seat of the Cavalier when stakeouts grew tedious. No more of Lewis’ big hands circling his waist, teasing up the hem to his shirt. No more funny business; from now on, it would just be police business.
Kellerman studied his reflection in Lewis’ ring, his tiny, frowning face.
God, he had never wanted a cigarette so badly in his life.