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Rick watches Shane shift beneath the covers, then roll over onto his side. A swatch of sunlight fans out across his cheek and colors his jaw gold.
Rick, grinning as he buttons up his uniform, jiggles the mattress with his knee. “You working today?”
Shane rubs a hand across his face. He yawns huge, tongue pressed against the bottoms of his teeth, and wipes at a thin strand of drool. “Ugh,” he groans. For all that Rick thinks Shane is prettiest when sleeping, waking up is a whole different matter.
“Dunno.” He smacks his lips. “Armstrong said not to expect more than twenty hours this week. Already had me working eight hours yesterday.”
Rick’s heart cinches in his chest.
“Can we swing that?”
“Gonna have to,” Shane mumbles, turning over onto his belly. His breath whooshes out of him. He moves around a bit until he’s more comfortable—head under a billow, body bent at an angle, ass up in the air. There’s a picture of Shane like that at Rick’s mama’s house, one from their very first sleepover, when Shane had spent the night posed like that on the floor. Rick’s mama had taken it the next morning, laughing, and it’s one of Rick’s favorite pictures of the two of them. He’s curled up fast asleep in his bed, clutching his teddy, empty space beside him where Shane had been when they’d been tucked in hours earlier, and then there’s Shane crumpled up on the floor.
Rick wants to say more. Wants to ask Shane why he isn’t worried, when Rick’s starting salary is barely enough to keep the collection agencies at bay. Factor in rent and furnishing their new apartment, and Shane’s salary is all that keeps the lights on and keeps them fed.
“I love you,” Rick says, softly, as he presses a kiss to Shane’s naked back. “I’ll see you after work.”
-
When Rick gets home that night, Shane’s stocked the fridge with groceries. There’s chicken roasting in the oven, and Shane’s on his second beer.
“You got called in?” Rick asks, helping himself to a scoop of mashed potatoes. He’s pleased to find they’re the real thing, not the instant they’ve been buying on sale the past few weeks. Neither of them is much for cooking, but the budget’s stretched so tight they gotta make do if they want to eat.
Shane nods, eyes fixed on the TV. “Had me putting up some dry wall. Probably got asbestos poisoning now. Got mesothelioma.”
Rick rolls his eyes and slices chicken. It’s dry—like Shane forgot about it. Shane’s settled on the couch, beer bottles piling up on the coffee table like he’s starting a collection. He’s freshly showered, lounging in a pair of sweatpants, the skin on his neck and hands pink and scrubbed freshly clean. Rick smiles when he thinks about the night Shane came home covered in pant splotches and Rick took a washcloth to him until the paint peeled free.
“Want me to fix you a plate?” Rick digs through the pantry for some bread to slap a sandwich together. Since Shane first started experimenting with cooking, Rick’s found it’s easier to get down dry, crumbling chicken when it’s all mixed up with potatoes and gray and stuck together with bread.
“Nah,” Shane says, opening another bottle. “I’ll eat later.”
-
Shane gets a new cellphone. A smart phone. Some slick new gadget Rick can’t even figure out how to turn on.
“Whose ring did you pawn to get that?” Rick asks, frowning as he tries to push a button on the screen. Nothing happens. He taps again, and some multicolored square opens. A little box tells him he needs to be connected to the internet first.
Shane laughs. “Tried to hawk the one you gave me. Guy said it would cost more to melt it down than it was actually made of gold.”
Rick puts a hand over his chest. Offended. “That was my grandfather’s wedding ring. He bought it in 1923 for six dollars.”
Shane squeezes Rick’s knee. “And it’s still worth that today. At least it didn’t desecrate.”
“Depreciate,” Rick says, putting his hand over Shane’s. With his thumb, he traces the thin band of gold around Shane’s finger.
They laugh, and Shane sets the phone down so Rick can kiss him. So Rick can push him down into the cushions and bite his lip. Shane groans, and starts to rub up against him gently when he’s finished, kissing the skin just beneath Rick’s ear.
“Really,” Rick says. Soft, because he’s worried. Worried about the bills that are coming up on the 7th, and the car payment on Shane’s new Jeep.
“My gramma Jean.” Shane slips a hand under the hem of his t-shirt, slides it up Rick’s stomach to his chest. “She got some free upgrade. Couldn’t even open the damn box. Figured she’d just give it to me and keep her old one.”
-
Part of Rick’s day includes ride alongs. Patrols. They pair him and all the other rookies up with a training officer and send them out on patrols. The point is to learn what to start to look for, to get a feel of how it’ll be when they’re tasked with protecting the streets. Rick keeps his eyes out for speeders, for anyone running lights or making illegal turns.
It’s not just about traffic violations,” Frank, his training officer, tells him. They’re parked in an empty lot, eating steadily through their sandwiches. Rick feels like a little boy, bringing a bagged lunch when Frank bought a sub from a store down the street. He hurries through his bologna and cheese. “You gotta keep an eye out for everything. For the people. You wanna find the ones who can’t look you in the eyes.”
Rick jots that point down on the little notepad he carries in his pocket. Frank laughs.
Once they’re driving again, Rick does more people watching. Scans for girls who might be working corners. Watches the two men shaking hands, checking to see if they’re exchanging money or drugs. Gauges the ages on the teens he sees laughing in the local park to see if they’re truant from school.
On the drive back to the station, Rick thinks he sees Shane. He’s not sure, but Shane’s ears are nothing if not distinctive.
Shane’s walking east, hands in his pockets. There’s a skinny, dark haired teenager chattering at his side. His face is tipped toward Shane, and he’s staring at Shane like he’s the sun. After a few moments, he tries to thread his arm through Shane’s and walk by his side. Shane shoves him away so hard he nearly falls over.
Rick doesn’t know what to make about that. And it’s on his mind an hour later when he’s climbing the stairs, trying to balance breadsticks, wings, and a pizza and get his keys into the door. Shane must have heard his keys jingling, because he’s standing in the doorway when Rick gets up onto their floor.
Shane eyes the pizza and looks elated. “I knew there was a reason I said I’d marry you.”
Rick laughs, even though he’s tired, even though he’s concerned. He’s never doubted Shane’s fidelity to him—he’s known Shane longer than he’s known any other person on earth. If Shane were cheating on him, he would know, and he doesn’t think Shane would go to lengths to hide it. Shane’s always been the type to play the field. So Rick wonders.
They eat right out of the box. Don’t even bother with plates. Shane gets through four slices by the time Rick finishes his first.
“I saw you while I was on patrol today,” Rick says, as he tears free a second piece. He carefully sprinkles cheese across the top.
“Oh yeah?” Shane puts a whole wing in his mouth, and in a feat that never ceases to horrify and amaze Rick at the same time, he spits out just bones. “Where at?”
“Downtown. By the Burger King on 8th. You were with some young guy.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ kid, man. He’s the nephew of one of Armstrong’s buddies. Little dipshit doesn’t know a thing about construction. Doesn’t even know the names of the tools! And I’m supposed to train him.”
Rick lets a breath out through his nose and sinks into the couch a little more deeply. “Seems like he might have a little crush on you.”
“You saw that?” Shane falls back dramatically. He rests the back of his hand against his forehead like he’s feeling faint. “Little freak said we were in a bad neighborhood so he should walk me to my car. Like he’s gonna keep me from getting mugged. I can bench press three of him.”
Rick starts laughing. He can’t help it, trying to think of the skinny kid he saw fight off a mugger, Shane swooning like a damsel in distress in the background. He laughs so hard he chokes on his food. Shane has to thwak him in the back.
“Sorry,” Rick gasps out, wheezing. “But it’s nice to know that someone is looking out for your virtue.”
“Like I even got any left after you.”
-
Rick gets home late one night. He was on a routine patrol with Frank when they were called to the scene of an accident. No fatalities, luckily, but they’d had to stay at the scene until emergency services were finished, and there was paperwork that had to be put through. There’s a plate of Chinese for him in the microwave, but Rick leaves that for later, and heads into the bedroom. It’s not quite ten yet.
Sure enough, Shane’s awake on the bed. His face is illuminated in the soft blue light from his phone. When Shane sees him, he drops the phone somewhere in the covers and pulls the blankets down on Rick’s side.
“Hey,” he says, watching while Rick undresses by the hamper. “Was about to call and see if you’d been involved in a shootout.”
“No.” Rick settles into bed beside Shane, scoots until he’s tucked up against Shane’s side. Shane curls an arm around him. “There was an accident. Some jackass ran through a red at an intersection, t-boned a mom picking her kids up from a performance at their school.”
“Shit.” Shane kisses Rick’s shoulder. “They okay?”
“They should be.”
“Good.”
Rick turns over so he and Shane are face to face. Their noses slot together warmly.
They kiss for a while. Easy, like back when they were teenagers, stealing kisses up in Rick’s room before his mama got back from the grocery store. When they break apart to breathe, finally, Shane tucks the blankets around himself tighter, and closes his eyes.
Rick’s revved up though, hard enough he’s slipping out of his boxers, and he slips a leg between Shane’s to make room.
Shane says, “man, not tonight,” and adjusts himself so he’s lying on his side.
“But.” Rick can’t help himself from rubbing up against Shane’s hip.
“Handjob,” Shane says, finding Rick’s dick beneath the covers. “Take it or leave it.”
“Just a second,” Rick says. He ducks under the blanket and pushes up the bottom of Shane’s sweatshirt.
Rick kisses Shane’s belly, tongues his belly button to feel him jerk and move. Shane drives him crazy, the sharp edges of his hipbones, the ridges of muscles in his abdomen that Rick loves to rub his cheek over. Years and years they’ve been together now and every time they’re together it feels like new. He bites just above the hem of Shane’s briefs, feels Shane’s cock harden under his palm, so he fishes around until he finds the lube.
He isn’t expecting Shane to roll away from him. Or for Shane to swat at him.
“Rick what the fuck, man!” Shane shouts, tugging his briefs back up with one hand. His eyes narrow to slits.
“I just…I thought,” Rick trails off, not sure what to say. He’s not exactly sure what he’s done wrong, or if he’s done anything at all to merit the anger flushing Shane’s cheeks and ears red in the moonlight. It’s almost surreal to be talking to Shane like this, three of his fingers dripping lube.
“No means fucking no. I fucked up my back at work today. Took a wrong step and fell off some scaffolding.”
Now that he knows, Rick can see it’s obvious. Shane sleeping in a sweatshirt to keep the icyhot from getting all over the bedsheets. The stiffness when Shane moves.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Shane pushes off the bed and drags one of the blankets with him. “Because I told you I didn’t wanna! I didn’t think I was gonna need to explain why to you.”
“Shane—”
Shane shakes his head. “Don’t. I’m gonna go watch TV for a while.” Shane stomps off, blanket trailing behind him like a cape.
-
The biggest night of Rick’s career comes soon. For the past few weeks, they’ve brought in different arrests for solicitation and every john and working girl alike have given them info on one of the motels downtown, in the red light district, that’s employing girls brought over from the Caribbean to service tourists who come through. It’s all run by some guy Rick’s never heard of, but he’s a big name to a few of the guys from VICE. They’re planning a raid of the motel, hoping to interview enough girls to get some real charges to stick.
So near midnight they bust in and a pair of them get assigned to each door. Rick follows as Frank uses the key the manager gave them and steps into the room. There’s a man on the bed, middle aged, gut hanging out onto the tops of his thighs while he scrambles to put on his shoes. He starts yelling about an invasion of privacy, that he’s in town on business and was just heading out to the airport. His bags are packed, the bed’s unmade on one side only. Rick’s inclined to believe his story, but there’s light spilling out from under the bathroom door, and when Rick tries the handle, it’s locked.
“Keep an eye on him,” Frank orders, nodding toward the guy sitting on the bed. “I’ll get the door open.”
Rick and the man stare at each other. The guy looks increasingly uncomfortable when the manager shows up with a master key. The door to the bathroom swings open, and Rick hears Frank call out well, well, you’re just in time to join the party. Rick turns, and freezes. His chest tightens and words escape him. Fail him.
Frank’s not guiding some frightened young girl by the elbows. He’s not rolling his eyes at the excuses of an old pro. He’s pushing Shane out of the bathroom, twisting Shane’s arms behind his back. Frank says something into the radio, laughing, and a few guys flood into the room.
Shane’s in clothes Rick’s never seen before. Designer jeans, fitted, curving around the muscles in his thighs and legs. A t-shirt, not the button ups Shane favors, sleek black and vaguely see through. Shane, leaning against the motel nightstand in the corner, eyes downcast, one arm dangling at his side, while the rest of Rick’s coworkers--friends--move through the room.
“Jesus,” Frank says, whistling. “You know you’re the first fag we’ve caught at one of these things? Didn’t think you queers even needed to pay for it, thought you were having sex all the time.”
“Only when we ain’t out corrupting America’s youth.”
Frank snorts. “You working for Valenti?”
Shane shakes his head. “No.”
“Then what’re you doing here?”
“Just trying to make a livin’,” Shane says, so nonchalant it makes Rick want to puke. Shane stretches his arms out behind his head. “This is the cheapest motel around.” It all makes sense now. The new phone. The groceries. Shane not caring about the hours he’s getting from the construction company. Rick wonders if Shane’s ever actually even worked a day of construction since they moved to the city.
“I’d take this a little more seriously if I were you buddy. You know what’s gonna happen when you go into lockup? They catch whiff of you peddling your ass on the street? You’re a goner. Gonna get up close and personal with every dick in your cellblock, until they split you in two.”
Shane hums. “Sounds like a YMCA locker room.”
Frank kicks the bottom of the chair Shane’s settled in. “You think this is a joke? You really think you’re gonna walk in there with prostitution charges and get out in one piece?”
Rick’s hot all over. His stomach is drum tight. Shane’s going to prison, he’ll have a record and there’s no way in hell Shane’s going to ever be able to get a job again. And Rick won’t ever be a police officer, not with a fiancé with Shane’s record. They’ll laugh him out of the academy. He can’t do it, can’t go visiting Shane in prison, seeing Shane beat black and blue.
“Probably not,” Shane concedes. “But I bet there’s a reason you’re trying so hard to scare me. Bet there’s something I can do for you, to show my gratitude.”
“You’d like that? Wouldn’t you? Go home, pretend this never happened?”
“Yeah,” Shane says. “Sure. Think we can work something out?”
“You trying to bribe an officer?” One of the guys, Mark, asks from the doorway.
Shane opens his hands innocently. “Just trying to express my appreciation for the fine men in blue.”
Frank settles onto the bed. Opens his legs wide enough for Shane to get in-between. Shane crawls forward on his knees and opens Frank’s fly.
Shane’s head dips downward, and Rick can’t look.
“Oh fuck,” Frank groans, and Rick hears the bedsprings creak as Frank lies down fully.
Rick looks now. He can’t help it.
Shane’s hands bracket Frank’s thighs, holding them still against the bed while his mouth moves. The slide of his lips is fine and dirty, spit slick, and every breath Rick ever took leaves him as he watches as Frank’s cock, fat and pink and obscenely hard, disappears inch by inch into Shane’s mouth and throat.
It hurts Rick like a gunshot. Every noise Shane’s making, the wet sound of Shane’s mouth riding the length of Frank’s dick. Frank’s harsh breathing, his hands coming up to tangle in Shane’s hair and hold his head further down. Frank’s hips jab upwards and Rick feels outside himself, has to be, if he’s watching the man assigned with training him to be a police officer fuck his fiancé’s face in sloppy thrusts.
Frank comes, and comes, and comes. And Shane drinks it all down in swallows. When Shane’s mouth finally pops off Frank’s cock, it’s a mess of spunk and drool.
“Me next,” Leon says, jittering he’s so excited, hands shaking as he unbuckles his belt and drops his pants to his ankles.
Shane winks at Leon and beckons for him to come over. “You got it darlin’. Let’s see what you got.”
Rick’s never liked Leon. He’s a rookie too, same age as Rick, even, but he’s the joke of the academy. Twice now they’ve gotten him stuck to a coffee mug with superglue. But Rick hates Leon now, as Shane creeps in closer, nuzzling his way into Leon’s crotch, tongue licking over just the tip of Leon’s cock poking out from his uniform pants. “Little shy, huh?” Shane asks, and Leon’s got no time before Shane’s mouth closes over the head, then starts on down.
Shane puts his hands on Leon’s hips. Guides his thrusts, moving Leon just how he wants him, so so slow. Rick knows from experience that, even though it looks like the two of them are hardly moving, Shane’s getting Leon off with the slide of his tongue, with the clench of his throat.
Shane holds Leon’s hips back when he finishes, come drooling out along his lips and cheekbones. Leon moans at the sight of it, Shane’s face slicked up, eyes shut in devotion like he’s receiving his baptism. The jizz drips off his face in dollops that stain the carpet.
“What’s going on in here?” A voice thunders.
Fear grips Rick through like the first cold fingers of winter. It’s over. They’re over. Not just him and Shane, but Rick and the rest of the guys in the department. They’re done, as ruined as he and Shane are now, and that’s about the only piece of karmic retribution Rick is going to get.
Captain Jamison lets the silence stretch out until it fills the room. “I see you got started without me.”
“Saving the best for last, Captain,” Frank says, still blissed out on the bed. He sits up and tucks himself back into his pants. “Mouth sweet as sugar. Bet he’s got a cunt like sugar too.”
Rick runs from the room, runs past the other officers cuffing johns and leading them out to the squad cars flashing red and blue. Runs until he’s out behind the building and pukes between his feet. Brings up the sandwich and thermos of coffee Shane packed for him, and that makes him throw up more too. He gags until he’s bringing up nothing but strings of spit and bile that burn him. He’s out there for hours, or at least that’s what it feels like, spitting and spitting and shaking and wondering what to do.
“Get out of here.”
Shane is shoved out through the emergency exit. He stumbles, grabbing onto the corner of the dumpster to regain his balance. Then they’re staring at each other, Shane is sheened and sweaty, lips pink like he’s glossed up for a picture. Shane’s eyes, flat and black in the blackness, flit from Rick’s face to the puddle of his puke.
Rick feels like his heart is breaking. The life he imagined for the two of them is gone forever, unattainable, and there will be no patter of feet up the stairs on Christmas morning, no house framed on all sides by a neat lawn and greenery, no Shane to curl up to.
“You should go,” Rick whispers, and closes his eyes. He pretends, for just a second, that this isn’t Shane he’s talking to. That Shane is at home, butt up on their bed, twisted awkwardly like always, and Rick will wake him up when he gets home with kisses like he had planned to do.
When Rick opens his eyes, the backdoor is open. Frank’s staring out at him, letting bits of light through.
“It’s alright, boy scout,” Frank says warmly. He claps Rick on the shoulder. “We all started out like you.”
-
Rick gets home at sunrise. Sunlight filters through their blue curtains, dust motes winking in the air like stars.
He hears sizzling in the kitchen. Shane’s standing at the stove, spatula in each hand. There’s a pile of blackened bacon in the trash and eggshells all along the counter.
“Bit of a mishap,” Shane says, almost sheepish.
Rick wants to ask if they’re pretending not to see the finger shaped bruises along Shane’s jaw.
He takes a seat at the kitchen table. It’s a tiny circular thing—the same table Shane’s mama kept in the parlor. He remembers being little boys with Shane and eating cookies and milk at this table, swinging their feet. Rick covers his face with his hands and breathes.
Shane sets a plate in front of him. Bacon, eggs, and pancakes with deep seated dimples that tell Rick Shane added chocolate chips. He can’t remember the last time Shane even made him breakfast. Can’t remember if Shane ever has.
Shane sits down across from him. He shakes hot sauce onto his eggs, drowns his pancakes and bacon in syrup, and digs in. Rick listens to him chew and picks up his fork.
“Got a call from the wedding planner lady you hired.” Shane’s cheeks are stuffed with food. He adds a strip of bacon to the mess already in his mouth. “Said there was a cancellation for that church your folks got married at. Said that if we want it, we can get married in November.”
Rick closes his eyes. Imagines—polished pews and sunlight streaming through stained glass windows, colors catching on his and Shane’s lapels. Shane’s grin, so pretty on their wedding, and how it’ll falter in the receiving line, when he accepts congratulations from the men he’s had in his mouth. Rick can’t imagine himself anywhere in that fantasy, not beside Shane at the altar, not sitting in the pews.
Rick hears himself talking. Can’t remember opening his mouth. “That sounds nice. I’ll call her later.”
Shane licks syrup from the corner of his mouth, tongue smoothing over the faint impression of a fingertip. “Hurry up and eat, man.” Shane leans back in his chair a little. Rick feels Shane’s bare foot start to slide up the back of his calf and thigh. “We both got the day off today. Don’t know about you, but I’m planning on spending most of it in bed.”
Rick supposes that’s easiest. “Sounds good.” He brings a forkful of pancake to his mouth.
He chews until he finds the strength to swallow.