Restoration 01 - Getting It Right (11 page)

By the way, that braided rope of Doug’s shirts? I was right. It’s now a gigantic rag rug that’s covering the living room floor of Elliot’s apartment. When I asked him what the point was, he said, “Doug walked all over me when he cheated on me. Now I get to walk all over him for a while.” I honestly cannot decide if that is therapeutically healthy or not.

Best, J.

From: Taggert, James

To: Wolf, Nate

5 July

N—

I drove to that 7-Eleven after work for a hot dog and a Coke. It wasn’t until I’d parked and saw the street sign that I realized I’d driven a mile out of my way to THAT 7-Eleven.

I know it’s not the 7-Eleven’s fault, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t want to burn that fucking place to the ground.

I refrained.

Best, J

From: Taggert, James

To: Wolf, Nate

2 August

N—

I attached a clipping of a press release I saw online today. You remember Ezra?

Apparently he went into business with a friend of his named Alessandro Silva, and they opened a coffee shop together. Given the economy and their ages, I’m impressed they pulled it all together, but today was opening day. Stopping by still seems a little weird, but I’ll keep my ears open. Maybe when you come back to the city, we can go over and sample the coffee.

Miss you.

Best, J

From: Taggert, James

To: Wolf, Nate

7 August

N—

Mom called me in a fit of hysterics this morning. She’s convinced she saw Price at the grocery store, following her. She freaked out. I had to reschedule two appointments so I could go down there and take her home and convince her that she hadn’t seen Price. He went downstate after he got out, but you try convincing my mother of something she doesn’t want to believe.

She’s a mess. I hate that bastard for still hurting my family.

Moving on…

Elliott told me he invited you to his birthday party next month. Thirty is a big deal for him. I really hope you come, if only for a little while. You don’t have to party hard with us.

When she called last week, your mother said you were well enough to make the trip. I really hope you do. We’d all love to see you.

Best, J

From: Taggert, James

To: Wolf, Nate

29 August

N—

Since you know how bad I am at picking out birthday presents, I figured I’d run this by you. I got Elliott a gift card to that spa he likes, Hand and Stone. Good? If not, you can yell at me next week for not being more creative.

It’s been more than four months. I’ve missed you every day. Call, text, email, carrier pigeon, I don’t care. Please let me hear directly from you soon. Hearing you’re okay from your mom isn’t the same.

Best, J

From: Taggert, James

To: Wolf, Nate

6 September

N—

See you tonight?

Best, J

James had volunteered his apartment as the birthday party location. Elliott agreed because he liked the layout of James’s kitchen and living room better than his own, but James knew it was more personal than that. Elliott’s place was a wreck, no matter how often one of his friends came over to clean. James didn’t need to be a shrink to know that the apartment’s condition was a symptom of how messed up Elliott still was over Doug’s cheating and death.

And Elliott refused to discuss it with anyone. The pain he was bottling up wouldn’t stay inside for long, and James prayed he was around when the inevitable explosion occurred.

So that’s how his apartment was swarming with people on Friday night, some of them friends, some strangers, all of them having a good time. Music blasted from his stereo. Liquor and wine bottles were lined up on his countertop, most of them donated as part of the “In lieu of presents, please bring alcohol” line on the invitation. Red-and-purple streamers hung from his ceiling and dripped from the walls, dotted here and there with clusters of balloons. Elliott had decorated the place while James was at work, and it had been quite a sight to come home to.

The party had started at eight, which meant folks began showing up at seven thirty. James danced and chatted and flirted, all while stone-cold sober because he was watching the clock and the door. Waiting. Patience growing thin.

If one more person asked him if he’d heard from Nathan, he was going to clobber them.

He hadn’t, and it was pissing him off.

It’s Ell’s thirtieth, for fuck’s sake. He can’t show up for that?

A little after ten, Elliott stumbled over to where James was leaning against his refrigerator, steaming over Nathan’s absence. Elliott’s green-tipped hair was spiked up, and a see-through green shirt clung to his thin body like a second skin. He slung an arm around James’s neck, cheeks flushed, his breath sweet with wine. “You are far too sober, young man,”

Elliott said. “I’m turning thirty, and you’re still beautiful, so drink with me.”

That made very little sense as a single sentence. James rolled his eyes. “I really thought he’d come tonight.”

“Who? Nate? Fuck him.”

“Hey!”

“No really.” Elliott trailed his fingertips down the front of James’s silk shirt. “He’s treating you like shit for something that wasn’t your fault. He got hurt, yes. Four months ago.

Real friends don’t shove friends away like that.”

“It’s complicated.”
I shoved him away first.

“Fuck complicated. Me and Doug were complicated.” Elliott made a gesture to someone, then reaffixed his attention on James. “Life is complicated, but you hang on to your friends no matter what. You’ve been here for me through this whole mess, and you’d have been there for Nathan but he left. We’re still here.”

Boxer appeared with a trio of amber-filled shot glasses. Elliott handed one off to James, then took the other for himself.

“To my thirties being less complicated than my twenties,” Elliott said.

“
Salùd
,” Boxer said.

James tapped their glasses, then tipped back the shot. Whiskey burned down his throat and heated his stomach. The hell with staying sober for Nathan because Nathan obviously wasn’t coming.

Maybe he’s not coming but no law says you can’t come tonight. Repeatedly.

He eyed the rolling sea of hot men interspersed with women and a drag queen or two. No reason whatsoever he couldn’t get laid tonight. It had been too damned long anyway. He handed his shot glass back to Boxer and said, “Another.”

Four shots later, he had formed a nice little cookie sandwich with Boxer and Elliott, featuring himself as the cream filling. He’d never been attracted to Boxer, with his shaved head, overabundance of tattoos and stocky, muscle-bound physique, but the man knew how to dance.

He’d seen that firsthand many times at the Pot. Boxer had often attracted attention, especially now that he was with the adorable redheaded Louis. The pair practically fucked with their clothes on when they danced.

James had no idea who Louis was dancing with right now because Boxer was all his.

James didn’t care that he was hard, or that his dance partners were hard, or even that Elliott’s erection kept sliding into the crease of his ass. The contact felt amazing. He’d gone for so long without losing himself in another guy, and he fell into it, lured along by the pulse of the music constantly changing in the background.

Something fruity and full of liquor found its way into his hand, then down the hatch. The faces around him got swimmy, blurry, even as they thinned out. Another drink helped him not give a shit that he couldn’t see very well. He was pretty sure he asked about the time and someone said it was after one. Tori came over at some point, kissed them all goodnight, then melted away.

The music changed. The beat slowed down to an almost sensual caress, which turned dancing into little more than a full-contact hug. Boxer was gone. James didn’t know when he’d lost that half of the sandwich, and then it didn’t matter because hands squeezed his cock through his pants. He spun to face his dance partner and they were kissing.

Kissing hard. The mouth was familiar, and James needed to possess it. Possess the man in his arms. A tongue thrust into his mouth, licking, taking. He tasted like fruit juice and whiskey, and James’s mind buzzed with it. He knew this part.

Hands grabbed his ass and hauled him close, putting delicious pressure on his cock. Oh yeah, this was going happy places.

Nate. Need you.

Bed. They needed a bed right the hell now. He tore away from the kiss and looked around, recognizing the general shape of his empty apartment. Good. He knew where the bed was here, and he hauled Nate in that direction. But Nate didn’t want to be hauled, and James found himself in an intense scramble to both kiss and touch and move their tangling limbs toward the bed.

He yanked a shirt up and off, revealing pale skin, a too-thin chest. Dark nipples that needed to be sucked on, so he did, and the man in his arms whined. Shoved his own hands into James’s pants, grabbed his cock and squeezed. James bit down hard on a nipple, earning a sharp gasp.

“Fuck me.” A panted command from the owner of the hand around his cock. “God,

please, fuck me now. Just…now.”

James could do that. He was desperate to do that. He shoved Nate backward on his bed, then attacked those painted-on leather pants. God, those pants were fucking hot. Peeled them down equally skinny legs, releasing a naked cock. Commando. Nice. James shoved out of his own clothes, not caring where things landed. He fumbled a condom out of the nightstand drawer.

Took three tries to tear it open. Rolled it on.

The already blurry world tilted.

“Jay?”

He blinked at the sprawled body beneath him. Green-tipped hair. Not right. Nate’s hair wasn’t green.

“You with me, honey?”

Not Nate’s voice. His stomach rolled.

Oh no.

Everything upended, then spun away into darkness.

Nate stared at the fogged-up bathroom mirror, towel in hand, waiting for his arm to unlock and allow him to wipe away the steam. The condensation from his long, hot shower obscured his reflection into a tan, featureless oval, and he liked that. He’d much prefer it if this was how everyone saw him from now on—blurry, indistinct. All the scars hidden.

He’d already called Lieutenant Danvers to say he’d be in on Monday to discuss his return to the force. This weekend was about settling back into his house and into his personal life. He had driven to Wilmington last night with every intention of going to Elliott’s birthday party, and at the last moment he’d chickened out. Too many people would be there, and he wouldn’t be able to talk to James the way they needed to talk. The things Nate needed to say were too private.

So he’d gone home, thrown open all the windows and cleaned up months of dust and dirt.

He’d cleaned until exhausted, then tried to sleep. It was too late to take a sleeping pill, so he’d tossed and turned and changed locations. His bed. The couch. The pullout. Even the floor.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flash of silver. Felt hard metal against his skin. He only avoided the dreams when he took a pill, but Mom had caught him sleepwalking three times, so he didn’t want to take them here. Not when he was alone.

The shower was supposed to wake him up, and it kind of worked. He was exhausted, period, and nothing was going to change that. Not for a long time. He’d accepted being tired as part of his life, like the scars. He only looked at them when forced to during a doctor’s appointment. He’d stopped looking into reflective surfaces at all, if he could help it, and that was okay. Not like he’d ever been all that vain.

After the final surgery, once the lines were completely healed and the swelling gone, he’d allowed his slow-growing beard to fill in. It was about an inch long now, a dark coating on his cheeks, chin, upper lip and throat. Mom had once commented that he looked rakish with the beard. Nate was simply glad the hair was long enough to cover three of the marks on his jaw and neck.

He swiped his towel across the mirror, creating a swath of damp glass that showed a stranger. A stranger with too-long hair, a black beard and four undeniably ugly scars still visible.

The two he most hated were almost mirror images of each other, dead center of both cheeks where his assailant had stabbed him in his left cheek, sliced the top of his tongue and come out the right side. He’d nearly choked to death on his own blood thanks to that one. The surgeons had done their best, but fancy plastic surgery was beyond his means or insurance, and two thick lines about an inch long marred the skin on both cheeks right above where his whiskers stopped.

The third was low on his neck, above his collarbone, similar in size and easier to hide with a high-collared shirt. The fourth and longest was a little above the scar on his left cheek, right below his eye—a four-inch slice from nose to ear that had been a few centimeters from damaging his eye.

Small favors. He could have been left half-blind.

Instead, he was emotionally crippled and terrified of the dark.

Not that he’d admit those things to the department shrink during his upcoming required appointments. He needed to get back to work, not spend more time in therapy.

Nate studied his reflection for the first time and tried to see himself the way James was going to see him. The scars, the beard, the thinness of his face. His cheekbones were too sharp.

He looked feral, dangerous. He’d lost fifteen pounds the first month at home because he’d been on a mostly liquid diet while the damaged muscles in his face and throat healed. He’d gained five back, but his muscle tone was flabby.

James is going to take one look at me and thank God he turned me down four months
ago.

The daily emails had been a godsend. He’d been home with his parents for eight days before he bothered checking his email, and the sight of those messages had nearly pushed him to tears. He’d wanted to reply so many times, but he hadn’t known what to say. He’d wanted to blame James, to yell at him and demand to know why he didn’t return Nate’s feelings. He wanted to ask James to explain what he meant in his first email when he wrote that the last thing he’d said to Nate was a lie. He also wanted to stew and be pissed.