CHAPTER 1. PRESSED #2
I hadn’t planned on staying out late, but on my way back from meeting Monica, I ran into an old friend from high school, Fred Collins.
He was thrilled to see me—practically bouncing on his heels—and suggested grabbing a drink at a bar nearby.
I hesitated for about half a second before agreeing, grateful for another distraction.
Anything to avoid going back to Xavier’s storm cloud of a mood.
We drank for a couple of hours, catching up on everything that had happened in our lives over the years.
Fred had gone to college after high school and started writing part-time for a small newspaper.
He’d also gotten married somewhere along the way and now had four kids.
Listening to him talk about his family made me smile; it felt surreal to see a friend from high school all grown up, with a life so different from mine.
When it was my turn, I gave him the rundown of my own path: how I went from studying to be a CSI tech to working as an independent investigator and true crime writer. I even told him about the Carver case—the one that left me with scars all over my body, both literal and figurative.
I mentioned Xavier, but only briefly. Just that we’d met during the Carver case and later co-founded the Partners-in-Crime detective agency.
I didn’t get into the details—like how Xavier saved me from the Carver’s den, showing up with a police squad just in time to stop the bastard from cutting my heart out.
And I definitely didn’t mention that we lived together now, sharing a cozy two-bedroom apartment-slash-work-office in the city center.
It wasn’t like that would’ve been the strangest thing, especially with the cost of living crisis, but explaining it felt… complicated.
We spent the rest of the evening reminiscing about our college years and arguing over the Soccer World Cup semi-finals.
After a few rounds of beer, we switched to tequila, and for the first time in days, I stopped thinking about Xavier entirely.
I relaxed, letting myself just be a regular guy for a while.
By the time I made it home, it was after three in the morning.
How I’d even gotten there was a bit of a blur, but I tried to be quiet as I fumbled with my keys at the front door.
My hands were clumsy, and it took me way too long to find the lock.
Finally, the door creaked open, and I stumbled through the dark hallway, my feet dragging as I made my way toward the living room.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t figure out why it was so dark. My hand fumbled along the wall, searching for the light switch. Then I tripped over something—maybe a chair, maybe a shoe—and cursed loudly, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment.
Before I knew it, I was on the floor.
***
Everything around me blurs, the alcohol clouding my senses. Time seems to skip.
…a light flashes on, harsh and unkind, making me wince. Black pajama pants come into view.
“Ah, Xavier! Hello there,” I drawl, grinning up at the figure towering over me.
Xavier’s face appears above me—upside down, wearing an expression that is equal parts irritated and unimpressed.
“You’re drunk,” he says flatly, arms crossed.
“Who’s drunk?” I reply, my voice pitched in mock indignation.
The world swirls again, pulling me under.
***
That was last night.
When I woke up this morning, my head was pounding, and humiliation burned fresh in my chest. I blinked against the sunlight streaming through my window and groaned, vaguely relieved to find myself in my own bed and not sprawled on the living room floor.
Still, fragments of the night before stuck to my memory like burrs, each one more mortifying than the last. I couldn’t believe I came home wasted like that—let alone that Xavier witnessed the whole thing.
I thought I’d hit peak embarrassment—until I flipped to the second page of today’s The Weekend Herald.
And here we are.
I frown, my eyes scanning the article again, agitation bubbling hot in my chest. It’s written by a journalist named Tammy Gardens, and it’s dripping with the cheap thrill of a supposed exposé. The tone is so sensationalized, in such poor taste, it almost feels personal.
“Shorewitch is buzzing with a scandal: a TWH insider claims that world-famous private detective Xavier Ormond is in love with his roommate, Newt Doherty—an independent investigator and true crime writer who co-founded the Partners-in-Crime detective agency with Ormond.
The two have been practically inseparable for over a year now, but Ormond—famous for his bachelor lifestyle and legions of admirers—has always denied any romantic or sexual involvement with Doherty.
Now, an anonymous source alleges the opposite, claiming Ormond is gay and has confessed his love to Doherty, with whom he’s reportedly begun a sexual relationship.
Adding fuel to the fire, the pair were recently spotted sharing a candlelit dinner at Little Italy and flirting outside their city-center apartment (see photos)…”
My stomach twists as I read the words, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Who the hell wrote this? And what “anonymous source” decided it was their life’s mission to turn my existence into Shorewitch’s latest gossip fodder?
“…Readers may recall Xavier Ormond’s repeated claims of ‘not looking for a relationship,’ much to his fans’ dismay. But it seems Mr. Ormond may have finally had a change of heart—or perhaps his connection with Mr. Doherty is purely physical.
Insiders whisper about Ormond’s legendary libido, and speculation is running wild: is this romance the real deal, or just a no-strings fling? Either way, Shorewitch can’t stop talking—maybe the world-famous Mr. X should now be dubbed Mr. Sex…”
I slam the newspaper shut, the words rattling in my brain like loose screws.
How the hell did this garbage make it to print?
I’d warned Xavier that with our growing popularity, the press would eventually stop throwing us flowers and start digging for dirt, but this?
Speculations about his sexuality? Insinuations—no, scratch that—blatant lies that we’re sleeping together?
It’s invasive and wrong, and seeing it printed in the papers feels like a horrible violation of privacy.
And yet, what stings the most is how it feels like my own secret has been dragged into the open, exposed for everyone to laugh at.
I swallow hard and glance at Xavier’s closed bedroom door.
It took me a while to admit I was in love with Xavier Ormond.
My so-called bi-awakening hit me at thirty-four like a freight train, right after my first sex dream about him—which, let’s be honest, was mortifying.
Especially considering how hard I’d convinced myself I was straight.
I’m not even going to unpack that right now—you can probably imagine.
For a while, I managed to convince myself that it was just the living arrangement—that sharing the same space was messing with my head. But eventually, I had to face the truth: it’s not the situation. It’s him. I’m just really, really attracted to him.
Xavier makes me feel like my insides are on fire every single time he looks at me. It’s almost humiliating how much his touch makes my skin buzz, especially since we live together like some twisted version of a married couple.
And then there’s the way we bicker, like we’re an actual couple.
The tension between us sometimes gets so tight it feels like a damn string about to snap.
And, god, if we were together, we’d probably fuck like rabbits just to burn off all that tension.
But that’s impossible, so instead, here we are—fighting, over and over again.
I grip the newspaper tighter, my knuckles turning white, then flip it back open, scanning the words that feel like a personal attack.
Some journalists are just vultures, plain and simple.
They’re waiting for the first chance to drag someone through the mud, tearing them apart without a second thought.
It pisses me off how they’re making everything sound dirty—how my feelings for Xavier, my desire for him, feel reduced to nothing more than juicy gossip for everyone to gloat over.
And by the way, I have no idea what Xavier’s sexual orientation is. It’s not something we’ve ever talked about. I always just assumed he was straight—mostly because women seem to fall at his feet wherever we go. It never even occurred to me to think otherwise.
But now that I’m thinking about it, in all the time we’ve lived together, Xavier hasn’t brought anyone home—not once.
No late-night visitors, no awkward mornings with someone sipping coffee in last night’s clothes.
Then again, neither have I, so maybe that doesn’t mean anything.
Still, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I was wrong to assume.
He’s the kind of guy who exudes effortless sexuality, yet he doesn’t seem interested in anyone—not in an obvious way, at least. I won’t lie—I’m curious. Not for my sake, of course, but because I want to understand that part of him.
A tiny, intrusive voice in the back of my mind suggests checking his laptop—just to see if he watches porn and, if so, what kind—but I shove the thought aside immediately. That would be a complete invasion of privacy.
Still, I can’t help but wonder.
The final line of the article keeps echoing in my head, louder with every passing second:
“…But while Xavier Ormond’s heart may have softened, Shorewitch is buzzing with one question: what does Newt Doherty really want—and is he looking for something deeper with Ormond…or is it all just physical?”
This isn’t just bad—it’s a nightmare. Our reputation is in shreds. What are people going to think of our agency now?
My head pounds, the hangover making the panic even worse. I drag a hand down my face, trying to steady my breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth—but it doesn’t help.