Page 30 of Hush
“Winters does like to move things around, though. In case we do have to switch long-term, or rotate out. We need to know all the judges’ personalities and styles.” He grinned, lopsided, at Tom. “Still. I’d rather handle your cases.”
I’d rather you handled me, too. He coughed. “Well, uh… You’re very good at your job. I like working with you.” He nearly faceplanted after he spoke. God, he could sound so incredibly dumb sometimes.
“Tell me about this case next week.” Mike, at least, seemed to take pity on him. Did he see right through Tom? Did he know exactly how ridiculous Tom truly was?
“It’s the trial for the getaway driver during a bank robbery. His friend went in to rob the bank with a fake gun, an unloaded airsoft. The guard didn’t think it looked fake and he killed the friend. The driver was charged with his murder since any death during the course of a felony can be pinned on all participants.”
“I remember this. It was in the papers about a year, year and half ago.”
“Yes, that’s the one. Finally going to trial.” Tom sighed. “His attorney thinks he can win juror sympathy. The defendant’s a young guy. Got a bad shake in life. But the evidence is rock solid, and I don’t think jury nullification or jury sympathy will play a factor. I’m still trying to convince the defense attorney to accept a plea. Otherwise, he could be looking at the death penalty.”
“I hope you get him to change his mind.”
Nodding, Tom opened his mouth, ready to reply, but froze.
A rainbow stretched across the plastic pyramid. A burst of rainbow, running across the length of the advertisement, a brilliant banner. White puffy letters marched across the top, capital letters screaming at him:Pride Celebration Month, Washington DC.
It was June. Mid-June, to be precise, the middle of Pride Month. He blinked, staring down at the rainbow in his hands.
There was a march in two weeks, at the end of the month.Festivities and fun, the advertisement promised, and in solidarity with pride marches around the nation.
And, this weekend—Jesus, tomorrow—there was a pride celebration on the National Mall.“Come out and party! Celebrate your fabulous life!”
Celebrate your life. A gay life, celebrate a gay life. The thought was almost brain-breaking. Nothing, not a single thing, in his entire life had been worth a celebration. Not watching as his own people got sick, chained themselves in lines and to doors, begging for someone,anyone, to help, for them not to be sentenced to death by indifference. Not growing up in fear, terrified that he was destined to join them, one of a long line of coffins buried in the night, forgotten and ignored by history, his existence a passing thought to a footnote of hatred. Not listening to snide remarks and under-the-breath comments, or shouted slurs and thrown beer bottles. Six blocks away, as an undergrad, he’d run from the police one night after they raided the bar he was at. Across town, he and Peter had been chased by a group of men with baseball bats. They were shouting that they were “dirty faggots” and they were going to get what they deserved—
“Here you go.” The perky blonde waitress was back, sliding their drinks across the table. Mike’s had an extra napkin, folded and slipped alongside the whiskey glass. Her number, for sure.
“Thanks.” Mike flashed his million-watt grin at her. She batted her eyelashes, looked him up and down, and then slowly smiled. If Tom had been into women, he’d have thought she was sultry. Seductive.
But he wasn’t into women, and that was the problem.
“You all right?” Mike’s hand landed on his arm, and even through his suit, through the layers of fabric that he wore like armor against the world, he felt Mike’s warmth, the essence of him. His toes curled.
“I’m good!” Breathless, again, Tom set the plastic pyramid back on the high top, carefully straightening it so the rainbow and the advertisement about DC Pride and the weekend schedule was turned away from him. He grabbed his margarita—worryingly, it was white, not lime-green—and downed a healthy swallow. Oh, right. He’d gotten the coconut one this time. “Enough about work.” He turned to Mike, plastering a smile to his face, and raised his glass.
Mike met him, clinking his whiskey against his overlarge Martini glass with a small smile.
His insides were spaghetti and his knees were Jell-O. He took another deep swallow, staring at Mike the whole time. God, Mike was so suave, so cool. Even after a day at the office, he still looked like a model. No wonder the waitress slipped him her number. Mike hadn’t once looked at it, but come on. That had to be a weekly thing for him. He probably beat womenandmen off him, used a firehose to keep them at bay.
“Tell me about you, Mike. What do you do, outside of the office?”
Mike’s eyebrows shot straight up as he sipped his whiskey. He set the glass down and batted it back and forth, slow, deliberate slides across the high top. “I’m kind of a workaholic,” he said, ducking his head.
Tom raised his margarita, a silentcheers.
“It was a problem with my ex. But I like my job. I like being a JSI.” Mike grinned at him, and then took another sip of his whiskey. “I’m on a local sand volleyball team. My friend, Kris, and I play doubles, and we’re part of a bigger team that plays a bunch of other local teams.”
“Sand volleyball? Where do you play?”
“The courts by the Lincoln Memorial, by the Rock Creek Park trails. Right on the river, near the Tidal Basin.”
“Oh, cool. Never been out to those.” Visions danced in his head, Mike diving for a volleyball, leaping, lunging, landing in the sand. Suntanned skin, shirtless, sweat beading on his shoulders. Sunglasses and a ball cap, and his face, concentrating on the serve—
“It’s awesome. Great court, and my friends and I have a lot of fun playing.” Mike shrugged. “I work out—”
Tom’s mouth got away from him. “I could tell.” Mike flushed crimson, and he chuckled into his whiskey glass as Tom tried to restart his stuttering heart, tried to hide the horrified terror blazing through him. “Where, uh, do you work out?”
“Little gym by where I live in Logan Circle.” Mike jerked his chin to Tom. “What about you? You must do something. You’re the fittest judge on the eastern seaboard.”
