Page 62 of Follows with Intent

“I’ll think about it. Maybe a quick power nap.”

“You know, this isn’t about the captain. Not really.”

“What?”

In the wake of the words, the thud of the bass from next door seemed louder. Probably was louder. It had a way of doing that as the night went on, and Halloween was a night for parties.

“I meant what I said earlier: I think you need to pull yourself together. I think you need to make sure you’re not giving them anything they can use against you. But mostly, Jay, who the fuck cares what they think? I’m worried about you. We all are.”

“Thanks.” In the darkness, in the stillness, Jadon felt like he was floating. He wasn’t sure how many seconds passed before he said, “I’ll try to come.”

Cerise’s answer was a sigh. Then the call disconnected.

For what felt like a long time, Jadon lay there, staring up at the moon-glimmer of the ceiling. And then he got out of bed. He could add this to the list: socializing, finding time for recreation, setting firmer boundaries on his work hours. If he took cases home, if he worked them from his living room instead of his office, he could get almost as much done, but the captain wouldn’t see. He’d make sure he attended happy hours, department events. It could be one more thing he’d do. Perfectly. The voice sounded like Nico’s. Perfect Jadon Reck.

You’re killing yourself.

He showered. He even turned on the lights. The costume was ironic in that fork-twisting-in-your-intestines way, although Nico couldn’t have known: a red-and-blue top, Superman’s S replaced with the letter G. Supergay, of course. And then a navy suit, the white shirt unbuttoned so that the spandex top was showing. Fake glasses. He went back and forth on those—would they set Nico off? And then he remembered that didn’t matter, and he liked them, and he liked that they made him think of Nico, even if it was that fork-in-the-guts kind of way. He checked himself in the mirror. Perfect Jadon Reck, he thought, who couldn’t keep his temper, who didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

When he started driving, it took him a few minutes to realize he wasn’t going to Cerise’s. Instead, he ended up outside a gingerbread house. The lights were on in the windows. An inflatable Frankenstein bobbed on the lawn, the drone of the motor audible when Jadon killed his engine. The sidewalks were empty; in Jadon’s neighborhood, the kids all went elsewhere for trick-or-treating. It looked like the same thing might be true here.

He knocked, and the door opened a moment later. North McKinney was big, blond, and usually trying a little too hard for butch, with the Red Wings and the Carhartt clothes and the nonstop shit-talking. It was hard to keep that in focus, though, when he was dressed as a cartoon tiger—an orange and black-striped onesie, fuzzy tiger paws on his feet, and, of course, a furry hood with cat ears pulled up over his mess of blond hair. He was holding a bucket full of candy, and he was beaming. At his feet, the puppy (no longer a puppy) barked and pranced until North scooped him up.

The smile soured into a glare when he saw Jadon and said, “Fuck me.”

“Cute costume.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? The first fucking trick-or-treater of the evening, and it’s Supergonorrhea.”

“Hi, North.”

North gave him a second dose of the glare and then bellowed, “Shaw!”

Shaw appeared a moment later as North retreated into the house with the dog. He was slender, and although he wasn’t classically handsome, the sharp features of his face were compelling. Enough time had passed since their breakup that Jadon no longer felt a pang. It helped that, tonight, Shaw wore a ridiculous blond wig and a red-and-black striped T-shirt.

“Supergoop! No, wait. Superguy!”

“Calvin and Hobbes? I thought Hobbes was supposed to be smaller.”

“I fucking told you!” North shouted from deeper in the house.

“And wouldn’t it have made more sense for North to be Calvin since he’s already blond?”

“See?” North appeared behind Shaw. “See? I told you!”

“He begged to be Hobbes,” Shaw stage-whispered.

“Like fuck! Now give Jadon a box of raisins and tell him to fuck off and quit wanking all over our stoop.”

Opening the storm door, Shaw said, “Come in.”

“Jesus Christ,” North said as he stomped away. It was less effective in the tiger slippers. “What did I just say?”

When North came back, he had a pumpkin ale from Schlafly, and a second bottle for Jadon. The bottle was cold enough to make the bones of Jadon’s hand ache pleasantly, and when he tried a sip, he was surprised he liked it—cinnamon and ginger and caramel, but not too sweet.

“We’re checking all the candy for razor blades,” Shaw said as he plopped on the sofa next to North. “North knew a kid one time who ate a razor blade, and it cut open his asshole when it, um, came out.”

Jadon looked at North.

---