Handcuffs and Lace 27 -Brass Balls (2 page)

Light bled across his face from the window. Oak groaned as an invisible jackhammer worked on his skull pounding every accessible memory from last night into focus.
Oh, shit.
A wave of nausea hit him as the horror-filled look of Wyatt Peterman backing away from him double-time sprang to his consciousness. There’d be some explaining to do. Oak winced. What the fuck had possessed him to kiss the man? Oh, right, Smithwick’s Irish ale had knocked him flat on his ass and sent his good sense packing.
Oak covered his face with both hands as he sat on the edge of the bed. “This is not going to be pretty,” he muttered.
The pounding in his head only seemed to get worse by sitting up. He decided he’d have to suffer through the shower and hope some of the hot water washed away the grit in his brain. If it eased the building headache, he’d count that as a bonus.
It might work. He barely stepped into the bathroom before hurling his cookies into the pot. He rinsed his mouth, gargled and brushed. It still felt sticky in there, a sure sign of alcohol cottonmouth. Planting his hands on either side of the sink, he lifted his head to stare balefully at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. Warmed over, cooled off, left in the sun, rehydrated and hatching flies kind of shit.
“I told you to be ready at seven sharp,” Peterman’s recognizable bark echoed in the too small space.
Oak started. “What? How—?”
“Didn’t you hear me banging on the door?”
“I thought that was my head,” Oak mumbled warily.
“Shit. We’re going to be late. My first day on the job, and I’m babysitting.” Peterman pushed passed him and twisted on the shower. “Get in, get clean, get out, get dressed. I’m giving you ten minutes while I make coffee. Don’t keep me waiting.”
He left just as quickly as he’d entered. Oak’s booze-soaked brain registered the veiled threat and tore off his clothes.
Eleven minutes later, he stumbled into the kitchen, not quite sure how he’d managed to keep his feet under him on the tricky obstacle course called stairs.
“You’re late.” Peterman thrust a cup of black coffee at him.
Oak took it and the piece of dry toast he was handed next. That he wasn’t hungry or interested in food didn’t seem to matter to the captain.
“Don’t give me that look. Eat it.”
“Yes, sir,” Oak agreed. He squinted as he tilted his head back to drink, noticing for the first time how damn bright the kitchen lights were. Many more nights like the last one and he’d be wearing sunglasses inside, in the dark.
“Let’s go.”
Oak drank as much of the hot liquid as he could without burning his mouth, and suffered through the toast on the way to the car. They both got in. Peterman tossed him his house keys, then started the car and backed out of the driveway. His lips pressed a thin line.
“Captain, about last night,” Oak started.
A muscle just above Peterman’s jaw tightened. “Nothing happened last night. If it had, I would have forgotten about it immediately and suspected that you had too, out of respect for your father.”
“Right. Dad,” he murmured. “But to be clear, I’m not out to the guys at the precinct. So let’s keep what might, or might not have happened, between us.”
“What you do on your own time is no one’s business but your own. Not even mine,” Peterman snapped. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“So we aren’t going to talk about that other thing?” Oak asked. Peterman appeared as immovable as a mountain. “Because I stepped over the line last night and you might be a little pissed and thinking about the right way to address it with my dad.”
“You became a man a long time ago. What your father knows or thinks has nothing to do with who you are. Drop it.”
“He knows I’m gay. He’s just never had to deal with me treading on home turf before. This won’t turn into a conversation with him?”
“Nothing happened.”
Peterman flicked a glance at him when he came to a red light. The muscle ticked. It should have warned Oak, but it merely fascinated him. The guy had sex appeal in spades. His flat black brows above midnight blue eyes had always appealed to him, but as Peterman got older, his face had become more angled. Wicked little touches to his handsome face and fit body were enhanced by time, not diminished. Streaks of white touched the dark brown hair over his ears, more like highlights than banners of age.
So maybe sexy didn’t begin to describe him. Oak had lost the ability to put a finger on the man’s appeal years ago. It had stroked Oak’s cock sometime in his late teens over dinner at the house with his parents and hadn’t stopped turning him on since. The laugh, the smile, those eyes boring into him with a sprinkle of humor, the baritone voice, the body, the quirky dark sense of humor that most guys on the force shared, it did something to him that Oak couldn’t describe in words.
And maybe that’s why he couldn’t let the subject slide. He wanted to talk about the kiss. He wanted to see Peterman’s face and judge for himself if the man was offended. All he gathered from their conversation this morning was that it wasn’t worth upsetting the status quo. The flexing muscle in his jaw could just as well be irritation as stubbornness.
At least Oak would be sober enough to pick up on any tiny cues Peterman gave him.
“I kissed you. Full on the mouth, I planted one on you last night,” Oak reminded flatly. “I want to talk about it. Clear the air. Whatever.”
God, maybe this was a mistake. He’d acted drunkenly and could’ve left it at that, but the wall had been broken down by the kiss. Drunkenness didn’t change a man. It just loosened his inhibitions. No matter what he played it off as, every cop knew that fact. Peterman was no different. The motivation to give him that kiss had a foundation, and Oak had to deal with the consequences either as a mouse or as a man.
He didn’t back down from a challenge. He couldn’t claim it had been the best decision of his life to go messing with the friendship and family dynamic they had, but what was done, was done. He wouldn’t hide from the truth now that it was out there, staring them both in the face.
Oak’s resolve firmed. The kiss changed everything, and yet admitting his feelings after all these years made him strangely lighter inside. Like he’d been denying his nature by not telling the one man who’d affected him most. Well, it was all out in the open now, for better or worse. Thanks to Smithwick’s Irish Ale.
“You don’t always get what you want, kid.”
The man had a damn good poker face. “What are you afraid of?”
They turned into the parking lot and Peterman pulled into his reserved spot right in front of the officer entrance. He twisted to face Oak and he saw something guarded lurking behind the blue in his eyes.
“Afraid? Of a drunken kiss from a kid I’ve known since he was covered in zits and braces? You’ve got your wires crossed.”
“Then humor me,” Oak said tightly.
“Drunk or sober, your lips won’t touch mine again. Clear?” Peterman held his gaze until Oak backed down and looked away.
“Clear, sir.”
“Get your ass inside. You owe me time today. Stay on the clock late.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * *
Wyatt took his time picking up messages, greeting the congratulating officers, and filling his mug with coffee in the break room. God, it had been a long night, a longer morning, and at the rate things were going, an eternity until he clocked out tonight.
Except there was no clocking out. His job wasn’t done until it was done which meant staying as late as necessary until it
got
done. The precinct was always busy. Seemed the warmer it got, the more activity they got. Not only was the warmth of spring in full force, it acted like a fire heating the kettle of summertime tempers to come. The craziness brought on by the coming of the full moon added fuel.
Peterman stepped into his office and shut the door. Dropping a hand to his hip, he lifted the other to take a sip from his steaming mug. He looked out onto the floor through the horizontal blinds at the busy-ness of beat-cops prepping for their shift.
The chaos soothed him. Already he could feel his heart rate calming. Until he made the mistake of thinking about Oak.
The images the boy’s name conjured gave him pause. He’d teased John about it a few times, but John had set him straight. John’s parents, trying to fit their Indian heritage into the mainstream thinking, had named all their children traditional white names. John had gone back to his cultural roots, something that had carried over into his work life and brought on his retirement of the police force to work as a spokesperson for the local area tribe members. Likewise, he’d refused to name his son anything that didn’t point toward their noble heritage.
Wyatt should have been thinking about that, but the word Oak only made him think of wood. Hard, solid wood and all its connotations. And that was a mistake. Oak was strong, noble, and handsome. And just like the tree, he was named after, stubborn and unbending. Besides, thinking of wood only conjured images of the man naked and erect.
Add to that image the one of Oak reaching for a kiss, those soft full lips parted, the earthy smell of him mingling with the fresher scents of beer and bar, and Wyatt almost felt like he’d had a shot of whiskey for breakfast.
His cock stirred. Resolutely, he faced his desk and the blinking phone on it. Goddamn, the day couldn’t get any longer, could it?

Wyatt ran a hand through his hair. The short strands were starting to stand up from the number of passes he’d made through it since the first shift had gone through and the second one had started hours ago.

He collected his papers, clacking the edges on the top of his desk until they were aligned in a neat stack. John had taken care of most of the files, but the ones still pending information when he’d retired, had generated some long hours.

The phone buzzed. Wyatt glanced at the clock. It was nine. He picked up the handset and cradled it against his shoulder as he filed things away.
“Peterman,” he answered gruffly, his voice more graveled than usual.
A warm laugh greeted him on the other end. Wyatt smiled, his shoulders relaxed at the familiar roll of John’s voice.
“Still at the office? God, I don’t miss that job,” John told him.
“You never mentioned how much paperwork there was. I feel like the desk is riding my ass.”
“You definitely become its bitch. You should come over for dinner tomorrow. Sheila and I miss your sorry self. I’m even forcing Oak to take these ribs I’ll be smoking and treat them to his singular barbeque talents.”
A niggle of guilt wormed its way into the ease that the conversation had enjoyed. He brushed it aside. “I’m still playing catch up here. My first day and it’s after nine. Tomorrow won’t see me caught up.”
“This weekend, then. That gives you four more days to get things in order and find a date. Sheila’s got someone lined up for you if you. She thinks you need to slow down on the work load and get a life.”
“You’ve been saying that for years. We both know it takes a special person to date a cop. And we both know this job will never be fully ordered,” Wyatt joked back.
“Can’t do anything about the job, thank God. But those detective shifts aren’t keeping you away from home anymore. You aren’t on call, Wyatt. You deserve a life outside the office. It’s one of the reasons I was happy to see you take the position in the first place.” John’s voice had grown more serious as he switched from teasing to concern.
“I knew you had an ulterior motive,” Wyatt said trying to regain some of the banter.
“He’s a good guy. I’ll ask Sheila to invite him over.”
Wyatt sighed.
“I know the kind of guys who turn your head. I think she may be right about this one. He’s a fire chief. He’s seen his fair share of the human dregs and knows what life as a public servant is like. I think he’d be good for you.”
“I can find my own dates,” Wyatt deadpanned.
“If that were true, I’d have known about it. Aside from some very short term relationships these past twenty years I’ve worked with you, I’ve yet to see you get serious about someone.”
“Our job didn’t make it easy.”
“That’s my point,” John said, coming around full-circle. “Your job makes it easier now. No more excuses.”
“John, let it go.”
The line went quiet for several counts.
“Who is he?” John asked quietly.
“Who?”
“The guy who has your brain in knots?”
“My brain isn’t in knots. It’s thinking clearly and staying far away from dating.” Well, at least, part of that was true, he rationalized.
“Do I know him?” asked rightly not believing Wyatt.
“John. Let it go.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you have something to lobby for?” Wyatt challenged.
“Not at this time of night. And when you’re all organized, you won’t have anything else to do either. You’ll have nothing but that quiet condo and no one to fill it with but your own thoughts. If you won’t go after the guy in your thoughts, at least show up for the guy Sheila’s inviting over for you.”
“Is this really why you called? Is married life so bad that you have to make sure everyone suffers?”
John laughed. “Married life is just that great that I have to share the wealth. So here’s what’s happening. Sheila is inviting Owen over for dinner on Saturday. You’re showing up here at five, Oak is making barbeque, I’m fixing up the yard, and we’re all going to sit back, down a few beers and talk about civil servant-hood.” He paused a moment before continuing. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about anyway. In person.”
Oak and a fix-up at the same party? That could be awkward. Or could it? If Oak was interested and saw him with another guy, maybe he’d leave him the fuck alone. If he never had anything but a passing interest and a kiss for Wyatt, seeing Wyatt with another man could nip it in the bud.
Besides, he owed John his life. If he needed to talk, Wyatt wouldn’t turn him down.
“I’ll be there. I’ll bring the beer, not that piss water you like to drink but something good for a change,” Wyatt agreed.
They hung up and Wyatt finished putting away the stuff in his office. Turning out the light, he closed the door and locked it. It was a silent drive home. The emptiness of his car mocked his earlier conversation with John, especially because it was a forerunner of the lifeless condo he’d enter in a few minutes.
His keys rattled as he pulled them from the ignition. Picking up his briefcase and climbing the stairs to his doorwell, each movement seemed to make sounds that echoed the same chant of loneliness. It
had
been a long time since he’d been with someone. It had been longer since he’d picked up a one-nighter. The lure of a quick fuck had faded with age and now he wanted someone to talk to, who’d be there the next morning and the one after that.
He flipped the lights on and poured himself a shallow glass of ginger ale—a trick he’d picked up years ago to make it look like he was drinking in a bar filled with other cops who were drinking. It served to fool him, as well. It was the comfort of the act. The slow sipping, the color, the clinking ice and the way those cubes bounced on his upper lip that he liked. Not what it held.
Wyatt opened the sliding glass door onto his balcony and leaned over the railing as he looked into the tree-hewn darkness. Crickets had already woken to spring and were singing. Some night birds chirped from time to time, punctuating the sky with their calls. Already Michigan humidity thickened the air for what promised to be a sticky summer.
He closed his eyes, inhaling the greening scents and earthy ground thaw of his favorite season.
Off to his left, he could make out the distant lights from the back of John’s house. It flickered with blue tones signifying a television in use. He smiled, thinking of his conversation with John again, and how John was at home with his someone, probably cuddled up on the couch.
He loved going to John’s. It felt like home, smelled like home. It had all the finer touches of two people having shared a full life together. His condo paled by comparison.
He gave his attention to the house through the trees, also left, but across from his balcony. He shifted until he could see a light in an upper window. Oak’s bedroom faced the street, so this would be a bathroom or a hall light seen through the well of a guest room. Either way, it didn’t reveal the man who lived there.
He kept looking at it anyway. Finally, he let the thoughts he’d been holding at bay, tumble to the forefront of his mind. The kiss, the look in Oak’s eyes, the drunken smile, the direct conversation the next day, were all fresh but as confusing to him as if they were mixmatched puzzle pieces from a pictureless box.
What did he do with them? Had Oak wanted to talk about it because he was confused, or thought his job was on the line? Had he wanted to see if things could go farther? Was it just a drunken kiss without meaning that he wanted the gay captain to know meant nothing? Did he even know Wyatt was gay?
John knew. Sheila knew. If they were having dinner on Saturday with this Owen guy, didn’t that mean Oak knew? Or would know? It was so damn confusing. Was the setup more like a chance to meet this other guy and less like a date? He thought so. John had always kept his secrets. He didn’t think that one as big as Wyatt being gay was something he’d just bomb drop on Oak in a family setting without Wyatt’s permission.
It had to be a meeting, he decided. Just a gentle reminder that there were great men out there he wasn’t looking at. Dinner would be interesting.
He craned his neck to see if Oak was on his deck, but there was only darkness at the lower back level. “What am I doing?” he muttered to himself as he stood and drained the last sip of ginger ale. “He’s just a kid.”
“Were you looking for me?” a voice asked below him.
Wyatt’s gaze darted to the tree trunks at the near edge of the condo property. Oak leaned a shoulder against a trunk, his arms folded across his chest as he looked up at Wyatt on the balcony. Remnants of light touched the angled planes of his face and added a shine to his glossy black hair as a slow smile lifted his corners of his full, soft lips.