Page 14 of Hush
“I’m moving, I’m moving. Your daddy is just being maudlin tonight.”
She didn’t care. She flopped to her back and rolled, wriggling as he grabbed her harness and leash. She sprang back up, trotting over so he could slip her harness on and buckle her in.
In moments, they were trotting down the steps of his townhome in Foggy Bottom and meandering down the street. Etta Mae sniffed every crack and crevice, investigating the remnants of each dog that had passed by during the day. It was a slow loop around the block, and she did her business on seven different plots of flowers and at the base of a large maple tree. Leaving messages for her friends, no doubt, one long dog conversation told in piddles and droplets.
“Etta Mae, you have a better social life than I do.”
She shook, rattling her collar and flinging a three-inch-long missile of drool through the air. Tom ducked, and it narrowly missed his shoulder.
“Thanks, Etta Mae. I appreciate your help.”
Her tongue lolled out, and she trotted off, her tail held high, floppy butt sashaying back and forth, strutting down the sidewalk like she had not a care in the world.
His next life, he was definitely coming back as a Basset Hound.
Once or twice through the years, he’d had a longing formore, but a few weeks of perusing his top secret stash of gay porn and nightly dates with his hands usually cured him of that longing. He sexed himself out, or bored himself with the repetitiveness of his porn, the same old, same old that could never replace another warm body sinking into him, spreading out over him, the weight of a man pressing him into the mattress.
The night before, he’d been too depressed, too maudlin, too morose to even consider fooling around with himself. He hadn’t been as uninterested in himself in years.
Friday morning was one of his swim days, and he was up early, feeding Etta Mae her princess-certified breakfast of wet dog food sprinkled with shredded cheese and pieces of tortilla, microwaved until the cheese was just melted and the dog food warm enough to waft through his townhome. Always a delight.
Etta Mae ate and did her business and took up position on the couch, flopping down for her morning nap. He kissed her head and headed out, gym duffel and briefcase over his shoulder and garment bag in one hand.
The DC morning was already warm, practically midday hot with a cloudless sky stretching overhead. He left just early enough to miss the crush of commuter traffic and ducked into the Foggy Bottom Metro station. A transfer at Metro Center, and then he got off at Judicial Station.
The plaza gym at the courthouse complex was exclusively for the judiciary, federal employees, and DC Metro police, and he used the swimming pool there three days a week.
Did Mike ever work out there?
Oh, for Christ’s sake.
He forced himself not to think of Mike, or of anyone, any male body, any male body part. Any fantasy man he’d concocted over the years, any perfect assortment of smiles and laughs and soft eyes gazing at him. He just swam, lap after lap, water rushing by his head, sluicing over his body.
He took too long in the shower, leaning into the hot spray with the water running down the back of his neck. He’d gotten older, somehow. His legs were wiry. His hips were narrow, but not sexily so, not anymore. He just looked thin. His shoulders had always been wide, swimmer’s shoulders that tapered to a V, and his arms nicely toned. But his chest had a smattering of gray hairs poking out, traitors hidden in the sparse strands of brown. He hadn’t bothered sprucing himself up,manscapingas they called it these days, for two decades. What was the point?
If he found someone, he’d have to start paying attention to himself again.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Putting the thought firmly out of his head, he shut off the shower and toweled off. Got dressed, and managed to dry and fluff his brunet-with-a-little-bit-of-salt hair into the DC sideswept style that was all the rage for mid-forties guys like him. He looked like every other middle-aged man in DC. Maybe a little thinner. He’d never let himself get overweight. But he was boring. As boring as… well, a judge.
There was a coffee shop in the lobby, a requirement for all federal buildings to keep the wheels of bureaucracy turning. Every morning, he bought his first cup there, one of his only indulgences. A sugary, whipped cream monstrosity, ridiculous, but delicious.
“And… a medium drip, heavy on the cream, please.” Tom passed over a ten with a weak smile to the barista.
What was he doing? Buying Mike’s coffee? Mike got his own coffee every morning just fine. This was stupid. He was stupid.
Still, he took both cups—his sugar meltdown, Mike’s refined brew—and headed for the Annex.
Maybe he’d run into Mike on the stairs, and he could pass it off as a mistake, anoopsof the baristas. If Mike never saw his own order, maybe that would fly.
Yeah, right.
No Mike on the stairs. He could dump the coffee in the trash, forget his lapse in good judgment. He could banish all evidence of his foolishness.
He badged his way into the private corridor, the long bright hallway that led to his chambers. Past the line of courtrooms, four in a row, and the chambers of his fellow judges on the fourth floor, Judge Tonya King and Judge Dana Juarez. Past the smaller offices for the law clerks and their secretaries.
And, at the end of the hall, Mike’s tiny office.
