Page 27 of Hush
Tom felt his heart skip a beat and then crack in two.
Chapter 7
June 4th
GrindMewas out. That app wasn’t for him. At least… not right now.
Spark, the other app Tom found, was better. Kind of.Sparkwas supposed to be for men who were looking for something a little more serious. Or, longer-term than just the next thirty minutes. He put up a picture of his suit-covered torso instead of Etta Mae’s photo.
The first night he’d been on the app, he’d swiped right on a younger guy’s picture, and then got a message from him a few hours later.Hewas actually athey—a couple, two married men, younger and in love and looking for a little excitement and adventure. They were wondering if he was interested in meeting them to explore the possibility of a long-term threesome arrangement.
He had a hard enough time with himself, let alone the thought of one other man. Three of them together? He’d die. The stress would kill him. He politely declined and wished them good luck.
Another man and he had matched a few days later. Someone in his early forties, closer to his age. Honey hair and blue eyes, but not as suave as Mike. He didn’t have the same laughter in his gaze, the same boisterous smile that Mike had.
Mike had graced Tom with his perfect smile when he ducked into the back of Tom’s courtroom during the final phase of the white-collar criminal embezzlement trial. He, the prosecutor, and the defense attorney were alone in the courtroom, trying to hammer out instructions to give to the jury before sending them out to deliberate. The two attorneys exploded into a snapping match that threatened to escalate to shouts and possibly even fists. He dragged them both in front of his bench and read them the riot act, threatening contempt of court charges if they blew up again.
The attorneys stalked back to their tables like furious peacocks, and he ordered a half-hour recess for cooler heads to prevail. He needed to calm down, too, before he charged the jury and sent them off to deliberate. Damn it, but they all just wanted to get this case over with.
The attorneys stormed out. Usually, he left first, the bailiff calling the courtroom to stand for his stately exit, but it was just him and the attorneys, and he’d told them to get out, so he couldn’t be angry when they followed his command. The bailiff wisely decided to escape when he had the chance.
And Mike stood at the back of his courtroom, his smile a mile wide, eyes laughing, ambling down the center aisle like he was there to take Tom to prom. His anger vanished, melted away, disappearing in the face of Mike, his smile, his presence, everything about him making Tom’s heart skip a beat.
He shouldn’t be comparing other men to Mike, but damn it, it was so hard not to. The heart wants what it wants, or so Emily Dickinson said. One day, he’d get over this crush, get over the way his body felt as light as a feather, his skin turning inside out as his heart skipped beats and his palms sweated whenever Mike was near.
The man who looked like Mike, but not really, not enough, had messaged him first, asking easy questions every day or so. What did Tom do? He demurred, saying he was a lawyer. He was, still… But he wasn’t ready to go all out there, just yet.
What kinds of hobbies did he have? What did he like to do in his free time?
Free time, there was an idea. He’d been a workaholic for years. As a prosecutor, there were always more cases, always more trials to plan, always more evidence to review, and legal strategies to perfect. He could bleed away his hours at the office or bring his work home, scribble on his legal pad or peck at his laptop on the couch next to Etta Mae.
Reducing his life down to a few sentences to send back to a guy who was kinda-sorta close to the actual man he was crushing on was a depressing endeavor.
I swim to keep in shape, play with my dog, and I like to work on my house. Home renovation, design stuff.
[Ooo, a handy man. That’s great. What kind of dog?]
He didn’t respond quickly, letting the conversation drag over several hours. The guy’s name was Doug, and he was a physician specializing in podiatry. A foot doctor. He was the last man on earth to throw stones about a boring career, but next to being a judge, was there anything more boring than being a foot doctor?
Doug liked to kayak, liked to cook, and liked to visit California and go wine tasting.
All great things. All wonderful, normal things. He could be happy jetting off to California for a weekend, sipping merlot and pinot noir with his man, or cooking side by side with him, stepping around Etta Mae when she decided to be underfoot. She loved to park herself right beneath the stove when he cooked, as if she was afraid he’d forget her existence.
But when he tried to imagine it, tried to imagine paddling across a pristine lake, staring at the back of Doug, the image of Doug always shifted and shimmered into Mike. Mike twisted in the seat, grinning at him. Mike playfully splashed lake water into his face.
At night, he’d trade a few messages with Doug, give a thumbs-up to the picture Doug sent of his homemade dinner—risotto with a truffle reduction, and a spinach and cranberry salad with a glass of Chianti—and made small talk about the Nationals or the traffic on the Metro, or whatever else.
And when he lay down, his body went hot, the feel of his skin against the sheets like a lover’s caress, the ruffle of his hair against the pillowcase like fingers sliding through his strands, his hands reaching out for a lover. He was a young man again, aching and eager and full of fantasies.
He tried to think of Doug. He was talking to the man, for Christ’s sake.
But it was always Mike. Always Mike he imagined, their bodies entwined as they drifted into sleep, Etta Mae snoring at their feet. Always Mike, hovering over him, leaning in for a long kiss, a nuzzle beneath his ear. Always Mike, smiling as they talked, as they laughed, over good wine and a dinner he’d made. Always Mike, filling the lonely spaces of his house made for two. Always Mike’s hands on him, and always Mike’s name on his lips when his release branded his skin, hot shame that made him want to crawl under his bed.
What was Mike like, as a lover?
He had tostop. He couldn’t fantasize like that, couldn’t think of Mike as anything but who he truly was: a coworker. Perhaps a friend.
And so far out of his league it wasn’t funny.
