Unquiet (23 page)

Eliot looked at him in surprise. “Why not? You’ve been there almost two months.”

“It’s—fuck, it’s complicated, El. It’s not easy to just—well, I haven’t come out yet. But I intend to,” he said quickly, and Eliot kissed the top of his head.

“I was just asking, Loren,” he said. “How is work going otherwise?”

Loren heaved a weary sigh. “Busy as hell. We caught a human trafficking case, a bigger one than the one I was involved in with the raid. Well, they’re all kind of connected, I guess. It’s such a fucking blight, El. These desperate girls and their desperate families, trusting the wrong people in search of a better life.”

“Are you doing undercover work?” Eliot asked, tensing. Loren wrapped an arm around him and kissed his cheek.

“No,” he said. “It’s a lot of pounding the pavement, trying to cultivate informants, talking, poking around. It seems like I spend most of my time in rundown apartment complexes talking to toothless old strippers.”

Eliot smiled and then sighed, putting his cheek on top of Loren’s head. They sat there in silence for a few minutes until Loren murmured, “You know you get out of here in a couple of weeks.”

“How could I forget?” Eliot’s voice was fervent.

“You’ve worked so hard, and I’m so proud of you.”

Loren gave him a squeeze, and Eliot whispered, “I feel pretty good, Loren. I keep trying not to hope too much, but—”

“One day at a time, baby.”

A brief pause, and then Loren said, “I’ve found a place to live, El.”

“That’s great, Loren. Tell me about it.”

Eliot listened as Loren talked about the house he’d found, a four-bedroom house on the east side of town, near the bus lines and easy access to the light rail.

“Sounds perfect for you,” he said when Loren finished. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“El,” Loren began and then stopped, biting his lip.

“What?” Eliot didn’t think he’d ever seen Loren so nervous. He put his hand on Loren’s shoulder. “What is it?”

Loren took a deep breath and blurted, “When you get out of here next month, will you move in with me?”

Eliot gaped at him before saying, “Are you serious?” He was stunned, and he sat with his mouth open for a minute. Loren looked so hopeful, so eager, and Eliot loved him so fucking much in that moment he felt choked with it. “Loren,” he said, clearing his throat. “This is a huge step, moving in with a crazy dude like me. Why would you—”

“You can have your own room, your own space if you want, El,” Loren interrupted gently. “I won’t put any pressure on you for anything more than what you’re willing to give. I just want to be with you.” Eliot didn’t say anything for a moment, and Loren said, “I put an offer in this morning. My realtor says the sellers are motivated, so I hope by the time you’re out of here, everything will be done.”

“Wow, Loren, I—”

“Is it that you don’t want to, or that you’re scared?” Loren asked. “If you don’t want to, I can accept that. But if it’s because you have doubts about my commitment to making this work, or you’re scared I’m not ready for this—”

“You’re
not
ready for this,” Eliot exclaimed. “That’s one hundred percent a fact. It’s not going to be easy, Loren.”

“I don’t want easy, I want you.” When Eliot didn’t answer, Loren stood up and took his hand. “Come on.”

He led Eliot out into the small courtyard and over to a small patch of wall that had a thick climbing vine stretching along it. It provided a very small measure of camouflage from the people sitting on the various benches and walking around, and Loren leaned back against the wall and pulled Eliot close.

“Kiss me,” he breathed, and Eliot wound his arms around Loren’s neck, a small groan breaking from him as Loren leaned down and caressed his mouth with his.

Loren’s full lips were hot and soft, and Loren gave him just a hint of tongue as he kissed him almost chastely, mindful of where they were. His hands were splayed along Eliot’s lower back, and he slid one just underneath the edge of Eliot’s T-shirt to rest against the base of his spine, both of them catching their breath at the skin-to-skin contact.

They kissed lazily for long minutes until Loren pulled back, whispering against Eliot’s lips, “I want you in my life, in my bed. I want to come home to you every night, El.”

Eliot unwound his arms from around Loren’s neck with reluctance, grazing his palms down Loren’s chest until he dropped them at his sides.

“Yes,” he whispered, and Loren stared at him for a moment before giving a loud whoop and hauling Eliot back into his arms, hugging him tight. Then he set Eliot away and held on to his upper arms, looking into his eyes.

“I know you’re scared, El. But let’s not make any promises except to take things one day at a time, okay? No pressure, baby. No pressure.”

Eliot swallowed hard and said, “If I’m scared, it’s only because I want it so much, Loren. And I don’t want to fuck it up.”

Loren’s smile was tender as he whispered, “I don’t want to fuck it up either. I’m bossy and a neat freak, and I like to watch a lot of football. It’s not going to be easy, but let’s just try, okay?”

Eliot nodded, and Loren linked their fingers together and led him back inside.

They settled once again in their favorite chair, and Loren leaned down to rummage through his messenger bag, muttering, “Oh, I brought you something.” He straightened and handed Eliot a thick textbook entitled
GED Study Guide.

“Some light reading for those boring evenings,” Loren teased. “But I thought if you wanted to start studying a little, we could work on getting you ready for the test. No hurry.”

Eliot stared down at the book in his hands, not saying anything, and he felt Loren settle his big, warm hand on the back of his neck, stroking his thumb over the sensitive nape, his voice holding a wealth of understanding as he said, “You can do it, El. You’re one of the smartest guys I know. And you need to set goals for yourself, like we learned in support group.”

Eliot gave a wordless nod, and Loren went on, “Start with this as a short-term goal, and then we’ll work our way up to something more long-term, okay?”

Eliot shivered as Loren continued to circle the sensitive skin of his nape with his thumb, and he whispered in a hoarse voice, “I want—I want it all so badly, Loren.”

Loren didn’t say anything, squeezing the back of Eliot’s neck before he leaned down to rummage in his bag again.

“After you do some studying, you can reward yourself by looking through these, pick out the kind of stuff you like.”

Eliot took the furniture catalogs with a small laugh. “Pretty sure of yourself, huh?”

Loren looked a little abashed, and then he laughed too. “Just hopeful, baby.”

Eliot flipped through the catalog. “You have no idea what my taste is,” he teased. “Maybe I like the chrome-and-glass modern look, or country chic with chicken-shaped cookie jars and salt shakers.”

Loren grinned. “Do your worst. All I require is a leather football-watching couch and a
very
sturdy king-sized bed.” The look he threw Eliot from under his lashes was heated, and Eliot felt pleasurable arousal tingle through him again. He licked his lips and saw Loren’s eyes fall to them hungrily.

“God, I want to make love to you so bad,” Loren rasped, bringing his hand up to rest once again on the back of Eliot’s neck. Eliot closed his eyes and leaned against him with a sigh.

A life with Loren, a normal life, the type of life others had but Eliot was always convinced would never be possible for him. Now it was within reach, and he couldn’t help but feel that cautious hope increasing.

“When you get out of here, we’ll go furniture shopping, and we’ll make it our space, our home. Focus on that if things get tough these last few weeks, okay?”

Eliot nodded, reveling in the feeling of having a plan, a direction for his life… something to fucking
look forward to
. Such a simple concept, but a powerful one.

“I should get going, El.”

Eliot walked him toward the entrance as far as he was allowed to go, and Loren leaned down to give him another quick kiss.

“Gotta go to work, and I might be really busy the next few days,” he said, his voice rueful. “If I can’t come, I’ll call, but I’ll do my best to be here for support group on Sunday. And when you’re released, I’m taking a week off so we can spend it together with no interruptions. Okay?”

Loren brushed the backs of his fingers along Eliot’s cheek before whispering, “I love you.” Then he was gone.

AS USUAL
when he left Eliot, Loren sat in his truck for a few minutes, staring at the building Eliot was locked inside of and thinking.

What a difference a couple of months made. Loren was almost afraid to believe it, that things could be going so well. The difference, Dr. Babcock had told them, was Eliot taking his meds consistently and on time every day, getting a good night’s sleep every night, and cutting out the alcohol.

“Remember, this is not Eliot being cured, Loren,” Dr. Babcock had cautioned, “simply responding well to the medications and managing his lifestyle in the proper way. You can’t ever let your guard down. When he’s out of the hospital and at home, he needs to continue to be diligent about his sleep. He’s learning how to manage his alcohol addiction. And at the first sign of an elevated mood, call me right away so we can all assess the situation together and take the necessary steps.”

It seemed to be going well, and in a couple of weeks, Eliot would be released and they could begin their new lives together—nine years later than planned, but it was going to happen at last.

Loren started his truck and headed toward the police substation for his shift—second tour, as it was known. He snorted. He didn’t think he’d done a “straight eight” yet; most nights he didn’t get home until near dawn.

Once at his desk, he found it covered with pink message slips, and he spent the first hour of his tour returning calls from contacts, following up leads, and chasing down new ones, trying to keep his evidence book up-to-date.

“Let’s hit Van Buren, Smith,” his detective supervisor, Levi Jackson, called out. “Wanna shake down a couple of hand-to-hands who might know some shit.”

Loren nodded, grabbed his gun and detective badge out of his desk drawer, and followed Jackson out to the motor pool where they signed out a vehicle and headed downtown to Van Buren Street, a notorious hotbed of prostitution and drug dealing.

Jackson parked along a side street, and he and Loren ambled down the cracked, uneven sidewalk, hands in their pockets, their eyes watchful. Cars whooshed by on the busy street a few feet away, and neon signs advertising tattoos, beer and pay-by-the-hour motels flickered on the seedy, rundown buildings.

They turned down a small alley toward one of the motels, and a few of the working girls on a nearby corner eyed them, immediately making them as cops. One of them gave a shrill whistle, and Loren realized she was a spotter, letting the hand-to-hand drug dealers hanging around the motel parking lot know she “smelled bacon.”

At the signal most of the bystanders and passersby melted away as if by magic, and Jackson headed straight for an overweight man covered with tattoos who slouched innocently up against a bus shelter defaced with gang graffiti.

“Yo, Borges,” Jackson called out, and the man pushed off the shelter and started to move in the opposite direction. “Wait, homes
,
we just wanna talk.”

“I don’t gotta talk to you, Le-vi,” Borges sneered, making Jackson’s name into two insolent syllables, and he flipped them off as he kept moving away as fast as his short, fat legs would carry him.

“No, you don’t,” Jackson agreed, moving in front of him easily and forcing the man to stop in his tracks, “but if you do, we won’t search your pockets. If you decide you ain’t gonna talk to us, Detective Smith here is gonna shake you down, see what falls out.” He nodded toward Borges’s denim shorts, which sagged down almost below his butt cheeks, showing tattered plaid boxers.

Loren moved around behind him, flanking him, giving him nowhere to run.

“We’re just here for info tonight, not a drug collar, but that can change at any time. We saw you dealing.” The threat in Jackson’s voice was faint but real.

“You ain’t seen shit, Le-vi, you mah-fuck.” Borges made a show of sneering, looking around, and when he realized there was nowhere to run, he muttered, “Jack me up and act like you searchin’ me, man, so my homies don’t think I’m a goddamn narc.”

Before the words were out of his mouth, Loren grabbed Borges by the arm and slammed him up against the bus shelter, kicking his legs apart and making a show of searching him, ignoring the myriad of bulges in his pockets that crinkled and sounded like plastic. Satisfied he wasn’t carrying any weapons, Loren kept his hand on the back of his neck, pinning him up against the metal mesh of the shelter.

Jackson leaned close and said, “We heard some coyotes brought some girls up from Mexico two days ago, and a couple of ’em were as young as eleven. I know you know everyone’s business around here, so tell me about that.”

Borges started to shake his head, and Loren pushed harder on the back of his neck, mashing his cheek into the sharp mesh until he yelped.

“Okay, I heard that Cholito may have gotten some new girls recently, but I swear, I ain’t heard about no babies. I don’t hold with no baby rapin’, man, I
swear
.”

Loren wasn’t at all sure he believed him, but he eased up on Borges’s face a little; at least they’d gotten a name out of the asshole. “Any of the girls around here belong to Cholito?”

Borges brought a chubby hand up and scrubbed at his cheek, scowling at the little spots of blood that appeared on his fingers from the small puncture wounds caused by the mesh.

“Ginny does,” he grumbled, “and she got a coupla johns up in a room in there.” Borges nodded toward the motel.

“We’ll wait, no problem,” Jackson said, leaning up against the shelter and crossing his arms like he didn’t have a care in the world, smirking at Borges.

Predictably he broke out in vociferous protests. “Shit, man, you gon’ ruin my bidness,” he whined. “Man gotta make a livin’ here.”