The Screwdriver - Dirty Martini 2 Read online

  The place was standing room only, and Chris had to fight his way through to the far wall of booths. When he bumped into a man dressed as a burglar, black shirt, black pants, and a black mask, Chris apologized but kept moving. Wait. He knew that scent. Fahrenheit cologne. Marty’s favorite. His mouth went dry. He swallowed the ache in his throat. Only when he had passed about ten more guys did he turn around to get a better look at the masked man.

  The burglar was staring at him, but when he saw Chris looking back, he averted his gaze. Was it him? Chris shook his head. The guy was definitely built muscular and broad like Marty. He watched the man in black cross his arms, his biceps bulging, as he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. He turned his back to Chris, slightly favoring his left leg. When Chris got the complete view of the man’s backside, he was ninety-nine percent certain. Why had Marty come? Why hadn’t he called to say he was coming?

  Oh, yeah, Chris thought. I told him we needed a break. Jay probably invited Marty. Why wouldn’t he want his brother to visit? Jay had given Chris the cold shoulder over the past month, keeping their conversations polite but short. They were never friends, so Chris hadn’t given two fucks. As long as Jay let him do his job—and keep his job—he could put up with some of the bullshit that came with it. He knew dating the boss’s brother had been a bad idea. Hell, dating anyone was a bad idea. He didn’t need the grief. Men were for fucking. Killer the kitten was all the companionship he needed.

  So, why did he want to race across the room and beg Marty to forgive him for being such a prick?

  A superhero in red, white and blue tights that showed off all his muscles not to mention the large bulge of his groin approached the burglar. Chris watched, his eye twitching, as Captain Tightpants made Marty smile. Ugh. He hated the superhero. Hated himself. Hated feeling so helpless and jealous.

  He cleaned a couple of tables to help the busboys but kept one eye on his ex and the guy flirting hard with him. When Marty went out on the dance floor with the Captain for a slow dance, Chris wanted to punch someone. He tried to distance himself from the pain by heading back to the bar and away from Marty.

  “Back so soon,” Malcolm said. He put his elbows on the bar. “Can I make you a drink?”

  As he thought about Mr. Red, White, and Blue with his hands on Marty, Chris’s agitation grew.

  “Chris?”

  He looked up. Malcolm gaze searched his face. “You want a drink? You look like you could use one.”

  “I’m fine,” Chris said.

  Malcolm skirted a glance at Todd, who shrugged. Tucker, dressed convincingly as a zombie, went to Todd’s side of the bar. “Two Wallbangers, a dry martini, and a gin and tonic for table eight.”

  Todd leaned over the bar. “For a kiss.”

  Tuck rolled his eyes, but he didn’t hesitate when he stepped up on the foot rail at the base of the bar and pitched his upper body over the counter. He grabbed Todd’s curls and pulled his boyfriend into a kiss full of passion and promise. It made Chris even more heartsick. When Tuck released Todd, and his feet were back on the ground, the young bartender had a dazed and satisfied expression.

  “That’ll do,” Todd said.

  Tucker grinned, and even the zombie make-up couldn’t disguise his boyish charm. “Drinks, please.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Those two never stop.”

  “Nope,” Chris agreed. His impulse was to beat the shit out of Captain America. His second impulse was to run, to leave the bar, and never look back. As long as he worked for Jay Lincoln, Marty Lincoln would always be in the picture. He’d been so foolish breaking it off with Marty. Why had he been so rash?

  You know why. You were afraid. And this is what fear gets you. He saw the muscle head in tights heading down the hall toward the bathroom. He waited to see if Marty followed. After a few minutes of no action, Chris walked toward the dance floor for a peek. The burglar in black stood with the two doctors, only confirming Chris’s suspicion that is was Marty. When the hero returned, he didn’t join them. A part of Chris rejoiced. He didn’t want Marty hooking up with anyone but him.

  Another thought crossed his mind. Until they split up, Chris had been Marty’s only gay experience. Had Marty started seeing other men? Was that something he was exploring? Chris hadn’t wanted to think about Marty with anyone, man or woman. But had it been naïve of him to think Marty wouldn’t find someone new—at least not right away? Just because Marty hadn’t slept with anyone before Chris since his injury, didn’t mean he would go back to being celibate once they broke up.

  God! Why was he torturing himself? He envisioned Marty kissing someone else, his strong arms holding another man or woman, his sure fingers caressing them. “Someone kill me,” he muttered, wishing there was such a thing as brain bleach.

  After the infamous call, where Chris ruined a perfectly good shot at happiness, he’d checked his phone every day, hoping for a text or something, anything, from Marty that would prove Marty had seen past his insecurity, his doubts, and called him on the bullshit. Every day that passed without Marty contacting him supported his dumb-ass assumption he’d done the right thing by putting distance between them. Seeing Marty now, even if it was behind a mask, made him realize how big that mistake had been.

  As the evening progressed, he found reasons to be near Marty. Every once in a while, Marty would laugh—the rich sound of joy like a punch in Chris’s gut. Would Marty ignore him if he said hello? Would Marty tell him to go to hell? If the Ranger did, it would serve Chris right.

  Suddenly, Marty turned around and met Chris’s gaze. His lips pursed as he shook his head when Jay touched his arm and said something to him. Jesus. Chris wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere.

  After a few seconds of eye contact, Marty made his way over. Chris’s pulse sped up, his hands going clammy.

  “Hey,” Marty said.

  “Hey,” Chris replied.

  “Nice costume.”

  “Thanks. You too.” The awkwardness of the conversation between them made Chris yearn for the ways things had been. “How are you?”

  Marty brushed his fingers through his hair. “Good. You?”

  “Oh, you know. Same old-same old.” His response seemed to confirm that Chris had been more invested in the relationship. Really? Then why did you break up with him? Schmuck. It had been Chris’s inability to trust Marty, his own stupid insecurities that had ruined everything they’d had together. Marty hadn’t done a thing. Jesus, why was it so hard to let himself be vulnerable?

  With Marty standing right in front of him, Chris wanted to risk it all, risk everything, by wrapping his arms around the man and begging him to never let go. “I should get back to work.”

  “Okay,” Marty said. “It was nice seeing you.”

  Fuck. “Yeah. You too. Glad you’re doing all right. I…I want that for you.”

  Marty nodded once. With military precision, he turned sharply on his heel and went back to his brother.

  He cursed himself as Marty walked away. Once again, Chris was his own worst enemy. “God, I’m such an idiot.” He wished he could go home. The idea of staying until closing time, having what he’d given up thrown in his face all night, was too much heartache to bear. But he wasn’t one to shirk responsibility, so he threw himself back into work, praying the hours would fly by.

  Chapter 7

  Thanks For The Memories

  Marty took off the bandit mask and reclined on Jay’s couch, a thumping pain in his temples. He hadn’t drunk all that much, but still, he felt like shit. Jay’s apartment brought back memories of Chris. Why had Marty come at all? The Halloween party had been torture, especially when he’d finally gotten the nerve to approach Chris. He didn’t want a fucking break. Why didn’t he just tell Chris that? How long could he stand the distance between them before he broke?

  A beeping noise coming from the kitchen added to his physical misery. He heard the shuffle of slippered feet on the tile. The microwave door opened and closed.

  �
�What are you doing?”

  His brother walked in with a steaming mug in one hand and a plate in the other. A cup of a coffee and warmed scone.

  “Thought you might be hungry.”

  “I’m not,” Marty grumbled.

  “You’re certainly grouchy.”

  “And you’re a detective.” He knew he was reacting unfairly to Jay, but he couldn’t make himself stop. “I want to sleep.”

  “I get the feeling you’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, since you and Chris broke up, you spend all your time working or sleeping.”

  “I’m not a kid anymore, Jay. I can handle my own shit.” He rubbed his thigh. Jesus, his leg really hurt. He’d danced more than he should have with some guy named Wes.

  “Thigh bugging you?”

  “Every day.” Marty took his pills out of his backpack but didn’t open the bottle.

  “Do you have to take many of those?”

  “I can usually manage,” Marty said. He tucked the pills back into his pack without taking one. “No worries. I’m not turning into a pill-head.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that.” Jay took a sip of his own coffee. “You should eat something.” He nodded at the scone.

  Marty sat up and leaned forward on his knees. “Thanks.” He took a bite of the pastry. It was blueberry and butter rich. “It’s good.”

  “I get them from a little bakery down the street.” Jay smiled. “They freeze well.”

  “Look at you,” Marty smirked. “You’re like properly domesticated now.”

  “Shut up,” Jay said, but not unhappily. “So tell me what’s going on with you, Marty. You can tell me to mind my own business and I will. But, you can also talk to me. Whatever you say stays just between us.”

  Marty didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to share. He definitely didn’t want to remember. But, maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the fact that he missed Chris in a way that made him yearn, but for some strange reason, he found himself doing all three. “You know I lost a buddy in the same explosion that wounded me, right?”

  “Yes,” Jay said. “Mom told me.”

  That figured. He’d only told her because she wouldn’t stop asking questions about the night he got injured. “His name was Mike. Mike Wares. He’d been my best friend for over five years.”

  “I’m sorry we haven’t been closer, Marty.”

  “That’s okay. We’re brothers, Jay. We don’t have to be best friends.” Marty forced a smile. “Anyhow. I was the best man at his wedding. I’m the godfather to both his children…”

  “A godfather?”

  “Yeah.” Marty chuckled remembering his first diaper change with Mike Jr. He shook his head, thinking about his last conversation with Mike. They’d been joking about when Marty was going to settle down. Sierra constantly tried to fix him up with her friends. They’d drank about half a bottle of whiskey when the first mortar rounds exploded inside camp. “We’d finished up a three-day mission, hardly any sleep, and our commanding officer gave us the night off. We picked up our mail. Mike had gotten some chips, nuts, and a bottle of bourbon from his wife.” He shook his head at the memory but continued. “So, we headed to a bombed out building at the edge of camp to blow off steam, and it wasn’t long after that shit hit the fan.” He smiled for a moment. “Shoot, neither of us had our shoes on, and we were half-lit, but fuck, you hear stuff exploding and it sobers you right up.” Marty rubbed his thigh again then absently touched the scars on his neck. “They’d taken out the guards in the gun pit, but Mike and I had managed to get over to the nest, and we just start blasting.” He could still hear the constant loud popping sounds the M240 made as it sprayed hot shells everywhere.

  The whole event had taken less than ten minutes but it had felt like hours. Toward the end, a fragment grenade landed in the pit with them. Mike tried to kick it out the back, but it hit a sandbag and bounced back in. He threw Marty down and covered him before the grenade exploded, and took most the shrapnel. Marty’s chest tightened.

  “Mike saved me from a grenade that was thrown into the nest with us.”

  “Wow, I’m really sorry, Marty.” Jay’s eyes widened, reflecting the horror of Marty’s story.

  “Now Sierra is getting remarried.”

  “Who?”

  “Mike’s wife. He’s only been gone two years, and she’s found someone else.”

  “Two years is a long time, Marty.”

  “It doesn’t feel like it.” He could hear his own screams, calling Mike’s name as his ears rang after the impact of the explosion. “It feels like yesterday most of the time.” His thigh started to throb harder. He took a sip of his coffee. Sweet and black. “I don’t know how she’s doing it.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Moving on with her life.”

  “Shouldn’t she?” Jay sighed. “Look, Marty. It sounds like your friend was really brave.”

  “It should have been me.”

  “Would you have thrown yourself on a grenade, then, if given the chance to save his life?”

  “Of course.” Marty leaned back and fixed Jay with a glare. “Of course, I would have.”

  “Why?”

  He threw up his hands and raised his voice. “What a stupid fucking question. To save his life, Jay. He was my best friend. He was like a brother to me. I would have happily laid down my life for my brother.”

  Jay winced, but it didn’t stop him from pressing on. “So he did exactly what you would have done if you’d seen the grenade first.”

  Marty shook his head, knowing where Jay was going but not wanting to hear it. “He had a wife. Children.” His mouth went dry. He grabbed the cup of coffee and took a sip. “He had more to live for.”

  Jay leaned forward and put his hand on Marty’s leg. “He had your back, Marty. Just like you had his. Would you want him sitting around wishing he was dead after you’d made the ultimate sacrifice to keep him alive? Would you want him unhappy? Sad? Alone? Would you have felt like you deserved to live more if you’d had the wife and kids?”

  The truth of the words hit Marty like a punch in the gut. Mike would have hated Marty wallowing in self-pity and grief. And while it wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard from several shrinks, hearing it from his brother gave the idea more weight. “Have you been watching day-time talk shows?”

  “I’ve been talking to a friend of Harvey’s. He’s a psychologist.”

  “You’re in therapy?”

  “No, but if I was suffering…” He squeezed Marty’s knee and gave it a pat before sitting back again. “…I would definitely see someone. There’s no shame in getting help.”

  “Boy, you really are drinking the Kool-Aid.” He reached over and gave his brother a friendly arm punch. “I need to go.”

  “Now? It’s two in the morning.”

  Marty stood up. The burglar outfit smelled like beer and sweat. “I need to shower first.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that…”

  “Fuck off,” Marty mumbled.

  Jay laughed. “Clean towels are in the hall closet.”

  * * * *

  Unseasonably Warm

  Chris sat at his computer in his boxers, methodically going through his bills. It was late, but his earlier encounter at the bar with Marty had left him unable to sleep. Nevertheless, the rent, utilities, cable, and the internet bill were all due the first week of the month, and he used the insomnia to his advantage. As he went to each site, he put in the amount due after checking the billing details. He never used auto-pay features because he’d been overcharged once on his phone bill. It had left him short for some of his other bills. Lesson learned. Now he studied every bill meticulously so it would never happen again. He checked his bank account balance, $2046.26 in checking, $3152.00 in his overdraft savings account, and another $18,559.00 in his other saving account.

  The checking account, so close to falling under two gra
nd, made his stomach hurt. Luckily, he would get paid on Friday. He sometimes felt like King Midas, counting his gold, but having money was the only way Chris could guarantee he wouldn’t end up homeless again. He understood what it was to be desperate. And while he’d never had sex with anyone for money, he had slept with guys for a place to crash at night. When he’d gotten this apartment, he swore he’d never be without a home again. One of these days, he’d save enough to buy his own house, fully paid for, no mortgage. He didn’t want to take a chance that the bank or anyone could take it away from him.

  Killer rubbed her tiny face against his toes, purring like a cat twice her size. Chris reached down and picked her up. Her nails pricked his legs.

  “Ow,” he said, lifting her up then easing her back down again. “Easy, Killer.”

  She closed her eyes as he rubbed the top of her head between her ears. The ding-dong of his doorbell made him jump. Killer hooked her claws in good, and Chris yelped.

  The bell rang again. “Jesus!” It was three in the morning. If Mrs. Clusky needed help with her television remote again, he was going to throttle her. The elderly neighbor wasn’t shy about asking for help no matter what time of the day or night.

  Chris took a deep breath to calm his racing pulse. He carried Killer to the door with him. A hard knocking stopped him in his tracks. Mrs. Clusky never knocked.

  “Chris!” he heard the shout clearly, even through the door.

  Marty? Chris’s pulse kicked up a notch. He looked out the peephole, and sure enough, Marty Lincoln stood on the other side.

  “Chris!” he shouted again.

  Chris undid the chain latch, unlocked the deadbolt, and opened the door. He stared at Marty, his eyes dry and gritty.

  “It’s a little late for trick or treating.” God! What the fuck was wrong with him? Marty showed up at his door in the middle of the night and instead of inviting him in and begging him to stay, Chris was acting like a goddamn comedian.

  “Can I come in?”