Before They Were Lovers (Nothing Special Valentine’s Origin Story)

Chapter Thirteen

Day

Day finished cleaning the kitchen and then went about his Sunday routine.

God dressed only in his jeans and made himself comfortable on Day’s couch with the newspaper in one hand and the remote in the other.

After he’d folded and put away his laundry, Day went to his turntable and put on his favorite Dizzy Gillespie album. The slow, winding notes filled the room, the soft sounds grounding him, enabling him to not think while moving from one task to the next.

Before he knew it, it was after three.

And God was still there. Relaxed and comfortable. He had his muscular arms stretched over his head, his body sprawled across the couch as if he were exactly where he was supposed to be. Oblivious to the way he’d turned Day’s world upside down.

His striking eyes shifted from him to the television, half focused on whatever news station was updating on all the bad shit that’d happened in the city last week.

Day watched him back, admiring how the fading sunlight caught the hard planes of his face.

They went about their day off as if nothing had changed. But everything had.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected last night—sure as hell not what he’d gotten—nor what he had expected today.

Was this it? Were things going to stay this way forever? Were they just going to act like everything was fine, never falling in love with anyone else since they couldn’t fall for each other?

Too late.

He tried to concentrate on dusting his vintage albums and sound system, but his mind continued to drift to the way God’s smile had softened when he’d gazed into his eyes, the way he’d instinctually reached for him in the middle of the night.

That look would be engrained in Day’s mind—and his heart—for a very long time.

“Hey,” God said in a lazy drawl. “There’s a Hawks game coming on at eight. “

“I know,” he answered. “You wanna order a pizza or something?”

“You mean no filet mignon.”

Day huffed a short laugh and flipped his middle finger up.

“Run to the corner store with me. I want you to make those nachos.”

God was already heading to the back, probably to cover his sexy chest with a shirt and finally stop torturing Day.

Day rolled his eyes. “Yeah, all right.”

He grabbed his jacket off the coatrack, a twenty-dollar bill, his service weapon and badge, and left out the front door.

Day hated convenience stores. He thought they were a rip-off. A bag of chips and dip cost twice as much as they did at his grocery market. But God loved to pack his big arms with junk without having to walk down a two-hundred-foot aisle and scour through ten different brands.

Day figured life was easier if he just gave God what he wanted.

He made his way to the coolers for a six-pack and a five-dollar pack of shredded cheese while God went straight to the pre-packaged pastry cart toward the back.

Day stood staring and grumbling under his breath at the only options of mozzarella or sharp cheddar.

The door chimed, a sound Day ignored as he continued to curse the ridiculousness of convenient stores when they were anything but convenient.

“Do exactly as I say, and you won’t get hurt!”

Day tensed, the air thickening like it always did when he and God were about to get into a bad situation.

“Don’t shoot me, please.”

The shaky request was made from a voice full of fear and dread. Day slowly slid the cooler door closed and eased to the edge of the aisle to see what he was dealing with.

He got a good look at the frail man in faded jeans and a threadbare black T-shirt, holding a .22 in a trembling grip.

Day wanted to laugh. There he was, thinking they were in danger. The immature robber hadn’t even bothered to check the rest of the store.

“Okay, I won’t if you just give me the money in the register and…and all of whatever is in the safe.”

Day rolled his eyes.

Waiting for a terrified store clerk to manage to get their shit together enough to accurately input a safe’s code was a classic rookie mistake.

“I’m sorry. I’m not the owner. I don’t know how to get into the safe,” the woman cried. “Please don’t shoot me. I have kids. Here. Take all of this, please. Here…”

“Um…can you like call the owner or something?”

The robber sounded almost as stressed as the clerk he held at gunpoint.

“What?” She sniffed.

“Call him!” the guy yelled.

Day walked up the aisle, and the robber didn’t register he was there until Day slammed his items on the counter.

“Don’t mean to cut in line, buddy, but you’re taking way too long.”

“Hey, hey!” The man turned the gun—Day doubted it was even loaded—on Day and shook it in his face. “Get over there. Don’t move!”

“Yeah, okay.” Day sighed. “But can you hurry up? The game comes on in an hour, and I still have to make nachos, and I’m fuckin’ pissed that I have to use sharp cheddar, so….”

The man squinted but was startled when the clerk pushed some crumpled bills and coins onto the low counter. With the gun pointed down at his own foot, the guy grabbed the money, scowling at the measly five- and one-dollar bills.

“That’s not enough!” he yelled, scrubbing his hand over the back of his head.

Day had seen enough addicts in his life to identify the signs of withdrawals. He knew how desperate they could get to score another hit. As a police officer, he could also tell the difference between a hardened criminal and an impostor.

“Dude, you gotta say no to drugs.” Day shook his head as he snatched a pack of bubble gum from beside the register, opened it, and popped a piece in his mouth.

The robber looked enraged, pointing the gun at Day’s chest.

“Give me your wallet…now!”

Day shrugged. “You’re shit outta luck because I didn’t bring it. I only grabbed a little cash to pay for my overpriced cheese and sour cream.”

The addict’s eyes were glazed and unfocused as he shifted from the clerk to Day.

“Empty your pockets. All of them.”

Day chewed noisily on his gum.

“I’m not wearing cargos, man. These are sweats, so I have a whopping two whole pockets.” Day reached in one, pulled out his keys, cell phone, and some lint, and threw it all on the counter.

“Don’t bullshit me. I want the cash! Hurry up!”

The clerk jumped, tears streaming down her cheeks as she kept her hands up near her ears.

Day couldn’t see him yet, but he could practically feel God approaching, silent but deadly.

“Sure, no problem.” Day reached into his other pocket, pulled out his cell phone, keys, and badge, and dropped them on the counter.

The clerk seemed to notice he was a cop first—if the loud gasp was any indication—before the rookie thief did as he scrambled to sift through the few items for the cash.

Then his fingers grazed the shiny badge before he yanked them back as if he’d been burned. The robber snapped his head toward him, his eyes blown wide, then narrowing as if maybe Day was playing a joke on him.

Day’s humor was gone, replaced by anger and annoyance. Because now he’d have paperwork to do and would probably miss half the game.

“You would do this now, when the Hawks game starts in a few hours,” Day growled. “God, why of all days…?”

“I…I…I’m sorry…” the man stuttered, inching backward, slowly lowering the gun before letting it fall to the ground.

“I wasn’t going to kill anyone. Swear it,” he said, lip trembling. “I just wanted to scare you.”

“You couldn’t kill a goddamn squirrel with that tiny shit,” Day retorted. “You’d do more damage using a paintball gun.”

The crook took the few bills he’d shoved in his pocket and tossed them back on the counter before he turned to make a mad dash for the door. He ran face-first into a concrete boulder of muscle and grit.

The clerk screamed and slammed her hands over her eyes.

The thug staggered, dazed, but before he could make another go for the exit, God clamped the man around his wrist and spun him as if he were a rag doll, locking him in a chokehold.

“Freeze,” Day said in a bored tone. “Police.”

The robber struggled, kicking and bucking, but he didn’t stand a chance. It was seconds before his fight drained, his eyes fluttering shut and his body going limp.

The clerk screamed again when the guy’s body hit the dirty linoleum.

“Hey, chill out, lady,” Day said, picking up his phone to dial 9-1-1. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“But, but…” She sniffed, pointing at the unconscious man.

“He’s not dead. He’s asleep,” God rumbled, then pointed over his shoulder. “Ma’am, do you have any other Fritos besides original? Maybe in the back.”

The woman blinked owlishly, as if they’d both lost their damn minds.

“Really?” Day laughed.

This was his partner…for life.