CHAPTER SIX #2
Doyle’s nonverbal response was apparent before he was likely even aware of his own emotional reaction—brow furrowed, jaw tense, his shoulders widening as he subconsciously puffed his chest. In the one hundred and two days he and Doyle had breathed the same air, Larkin had come to understand that his partner’s one serious and unresolved trigger was that of an avoidant-dismissive mother.
And while their upbringings couldn’t have been more polar opposite—Michelin stars versus bodega candy bars—Larkin knew that Jacqueline’s belittling nature was acting as something like a mirror, reflecting past abuse Doyle had suffered in childhood back onto him as an adult.
“Mom, what the fuck,” Larkin spat.
Jacqueline said in a rush, “Everett, your husband called me because he couldn’t reach you. It would seem that your new—new— man has been caught loitering outside his apartment.”
“ What ?” Doyle protested.
“Just last night,” Jacqueline insisted.
“I didn’t—I wouldn’t do that,” Doyle said.
“Noah’s lying,” Larkin said to Jacqueline.
“You’d have never married a liar, darling. Noah told me it was a blue Honda Civic.”
—the engine, the high beams, the Honda tearing away from the precinct—
Jacqueline was pointing a finger at Doyle that was both accusatory and dismissive. “He said it was this man’s car.”
“Do you know how many people own Hondas in the city?” But Doyle didn’t seem to be anticipating an answer from her, instead turning toward Larkin. “Evie—”
Larkin said over him to Jacqueline, “Whatever Noah thinks has happened, he’s mistaken.”
“You’re awfully certain, darling, for someone who wasn’t there,” Jacqueline said dispassionately before delicately wiping her hands on a cloth napkin.
“Your father and I have been discussing this whole ordeal at length, but after this incident, we’re in agreement.
Going forward, we’ll be handling Noah’s legal fees. ”
The tink , tink , tink of rain hitting the glass wall punctuated the uneasy seconds that followed.
Larkin asked, utterly flabbergasted, “You’re taking my ex-husband’s side in the divorce?”
Doyle put his hands up in a placating gesture and said, “Mrs. Larkin, whoever Noah saw last night, it wasn’t me.”
Without missing a beat, Jacqueline said to him, “Noah’s been part of this family for seven years. You’ve been around for seven minutes.”
Lightning illuminated the lounge in a sudden flash of white.
Larkin’s breath caught like he’d been seized by the throat, his hearing swelled to a high-pitched ring, and then the thunder’s resounding crack tore across the sky—its shockwave so strong, it ripped the Earth apart.
And then Larkin was falling, six feet down into the open casket of his own rank and festering memories.
And when the rotten bottom gave way, Larkin plunged headfirst into a dark abyss, surrounded by the hallucinogenic whispers of New York City’s lost and forgotten as he fell down, down, down the never-ending hole he’d been digging since that fateful night eighteen years ago.
Boom.
Squish.
Crack .
Larkin jumped to his feet, knocking the table and sending Jacqueline’s champagne glass to smash against the polished floor.
“Everett,” Jacqueline protested. “Good grief, look at this mess!”
“Evie?” Doyle was standing, already reaching for Larkin.
But Larkin couldn’t speak, couldn’t linger in that prison of glass as lightning illuminated his terrors and the thunder gave them a voice.
He shoved his chair back, stumbled around Doyle, and rushed across the lounge toward a hall marked with a discreet sign for the restrooms. He shoved open the door to the men’s room and felt like he’d dropped into another pit of blackness—the mood lighting dialed far too low for inebriated men to hit the mark while taking a piss at the urinals along the wall.
Another crash of thunder sounded from outside, reaching this inner sanctuary and echoing off the tile walls.
The room began to spin.
But then Doyle was there, standing close and speaking with an authority that reached into the fall, grabbed Larkin, and pulled him back to the here, the now.
“Start counting.”
“I—I—”
“No, I need you to count,” Doyle reiterated.
“O-one, t-two—”
“You have to take a breath.”
Vision blurring, black spots spreading like mold, Larkin grabbed for purchase, for Doyle. And as Doyle responded by putting his arms around him, encasing Larkin in the jubilance up to heaven, he finally began to cry.
Larkin was aware, in a sort of out-of-body sense, of being walked to the back of the bathroom, a door closing and lock being flipped, but he didn’t dare open his eyes to the blackness, didn’t dare let go of his buoy, instead focused with all his might on the steady rise and fall of Doyle’s chest against his own.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
Larkin’s manic breathing eventually subsided into a shallow rhythm, and as he inhaled, he focused on each scent note he could discern from Doyle’s skin, cologne, clothes.
The practice had a grounding effect, and the numbness in Larkin’s hands began to give way to painful pinpricks.
Sensation returned in the form of heat radiating from Doyle’s back, chest, and belly.
And that heat, that pulse….
If Larkin could feel it, it meant he was alive too.
He didn’t move for what felt like a long time—shaking when the storm roared and shuddering when Doyle stroked the back of his head in response.
But eventually, the world outside of summer rain and survivor’s guilt began to make itself known.
Larkin noted the subdued Muzak piped into the bathroom via a speaker system, the smell of urinal cakes and Febreze air freshener, and a low conversation in Spanish between two employees outside the door before one laughed and their steps retreated.
Larkin lifted his head from Doyle’s shoulder. His face felt raw and his eyes were sore. He probably looked puffy. He probably looked awful.
But Doyle put a hand under Larkin’s chin, gave it a little nudge up, and smiled when their gazes met. “Hey, sunshine.”
“Hi.” Larkin looked around—they were inside the wheelchair-accessible stall, with Doyle backed up against the tile wall, legs extended in a kind of lazy wall sit that was definitely utilizing his core strength, so he could take some of Larkin’s weight and allow him to lean comfortably.
Doyle tugged some toilet paper free from the nearby dispenser and offered it.
“Thank you.” Larkin took it and wiped his nose. He was still pressed flush against Doyle’s body and could feel his partner shift, reach into his pocket— “What’re you doing.”
Doyle glanced at Larkin before holding up his phone. “Checking the weather.”
Larkin looked at the screen. A radar map featured an outline of Manhattan covered in a radioactive green blob, its dark red center having already passed and currently on an eastern trajectory.
“It’s supposed to end in about ten minutes,” Doyle confirmed. He pocketed his phone and smiled again.
Larkin didn’t reply. He was lost in the study of Doyle’s face—a priceless piece of art crafted from gold and bronze—before he grabbed Doyle’s hips, pulled him off-balance, and crushed their mouths together.
Doyle reactively draped his arms over Larkin’s shoulders, pressed into his body, and opened so easily, so affectionately to tongue and teeth and shared breath.
Larkin touched everywhere, reading the story of Doyle’s life through bone and muscle and skin.
He rubbed the heated cotton of Doyle’s button-down shirt, slipped a hand between his legs.
Doyle gasped against Larkin’s lips. He grabbed Larkin’s wrist to stop him, even as he pushed into the caress and a throaty moan escaped him, like a man truly coming apart at the seams. Larkin took Doyle’s hand and put it to his own chest, nonverbal confirmation he wanted, needed the same, and Doyle was quick to take what he wasn’t always allowed—hands roaming Larkin’s chest, reaching under his shoulder holster, moving down his belly—relishing in the pleasure of their shared caress.
But Larkin pushed Doyle’s hands lower, whispering, “Touch me.” He’d set a precedent that when making out, he didn’t want hands below the belt.
It’d always made Larkin feel like shit that he could have a man as handsome as Doyle and still not get an erection when fooling around, and Doyle had respected the request.
But it was different this time.
And by the way Doyle’s pupils blew wide, the way his breath came out in sharp, offbeat pants, the way he cupped and caressed—he’d realized it too.
“You remind me I’m alive,” Larkin said.
“Fuck, Evie, I need you so bad.”
Larkin moved for another kiss just as the door to the bathroom swung open and a man stepped inside.
He was whistling off-tune as he unzipped at the bank of urinals and groaned loudly while relieving himself.
The corners of Doyle’s eyes crinkled in response and he shook in silent laughter.
He brought Larkin’s hands to his lips and began kissing the knuckles.
Larkin stood on his toes and kissed Doyle’s Adam’s apple.
The pisser eventually finished, flushed the urinal, skipped a good handwashing, and left.
Doyle exhaled a deep breath before combing his fingers through Larkin’s hair, fixing his side part.
Larkin didn’t want for this to be over already, for that to have been it, for the fire to die out after seven goddamn months of feeling cold to his core, but he wasn’t a randy teenager vying for a hookup, and Doyle wasn’t a stranger.
Their first time together surely wouldn’t be in a fucking bathroom stall of an overpriced Midtown café.
It would be at Doyle’s apartment—at home—where Larkin could properly worship and delight in every inch of his partner’s body and soul.
“I’m sorry,” Larkin said.
“For what?”
“For manhandling you in public.”
“I wouldn’t say we’re in public, exactly. Besides, you know I like a good manhandling.” Doyle had to adjust himself, murmuring an apology as he did.
Larkin took Doyle’s face in one hand. “Thank you for following me.”
“To the ends of the Earth.”
“Earth is spherical.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Larkin lowered his hand and stared at Doyle, who only smiled, unlocked the stall, and held the door open.
They exited and Larkin took a moment to freshen up at the sink. He frowned at his reflection in the mirror, touched under his eyes, and said, “I look old.”
“You look fine,” Doyle corrected, checking his phone a second time. “The storm’s over the East River.”
“‘Fine’ generally denotes you need Botox.”
“‘Fine’ means ‘fine,’” Doyle said. “I love the character in your face. Your mother is the one who suggested her thirty-five-year-old child needs Botox over a restful night’s sleep.”
Larkin looked at Doyle in the mirror.
Doyle caught his stare and slid his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place to say—”
“I’m well aware of the kind of person she is.”
Frankly, Doyle said, “I don’t like the way she speaks to you.”
“Neither do I.” Larkin grabbed a paper towel and dried his hands.
“My mother lives in a bubble of privilege and vanity, where one well-timed rumor can destroy a reputation. But since she has no career, no pursuits of her own, her reputation is that of her husband’s, her son’s.
My mother has never given a damn that I’m gay.
She does care, however, that my failed marriage and contested divorce will ostracize her from her little gossip club.
“Despite having a degree in psychology and recognizing her patterns of emotional invalidation, I still find myself seeking her approval. I know it’s an exercise in futility.
I’ve done my best to limit our interactions over the past several years, to protect myself, but severing that cord in its entirety is difficult.
I find that I just keep thinking, hoping, this time, she’ll care about me. ”
Doyle opened his mouth.
Larkin added, “I’m so sorry for what she called you.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do. She never will, and you didn’t deserve that.”
“Thank you.”
Larkin tossed the paper towel in the trash and opened the door.
“What about Noah?”
Larkin turned.
“I swear, I didn’t—”
“I know. I’ll find out what’s going on.” Larkin ushered Doyle out of the bathroom.
They were halfway across the lounge when Doyle slowed and took out his phone, but this time he swiped to accept an incoming call. “Hey, Craig.”
Larkin stopped and waited.
“We’re heading that way, actually. All right, see you soon.” Doyle lowered the cell. “The courier from Queens just dropped off the brooch.”
“Good.” Larkin led the way back to the table still occupied by Jacqueline. The spilled champagne and broken glass had been cleaned up in their absence.
Jacqueline glanced up from her phone and said in a loud whisper, as if someone might be eavesdropping, “Everett, you’ve been in the bathroom nearly twenty minutes.” Her eyes flicked to Doyle and she added, “Have some self-control.”
Larkin replied, the flat effect of his speech now like gasoline meeting a lit match, “There was a thunderstorm.”
“Oh, darling, are you still doing that?” She sighed, and somehow such a small action read as monumental. “I wish you wouldn’t do it in public.”
“Evie, will you wait outside?” Doyle’s voice was its usual smooth and smoky top-shelf quality, but the expression on his face—Larkin had seen that unmasked outrage only once before.
—Doyle grabbing Gary Reynold like he were a ragdoll, screaming in his face, “She’s a child. A fucking child , you disgusting pig!”—
But then his partner’s face relaxed, and Doyle offered Larkin a smile that reminded him of quiet Sunday afternoons, the chink of melting ice in a glass of water, pencil lead scratching fresh paper.
Larkin said to his mother, “We have to get back to work.” He leaned down and bussed her cheek.
“Please stop talking to Noah. I don’t want you or Dad involved in my divorce proceedings.
” And despite Jacqueline’s protest, he turned and headed for the exit.
Ignoring the ma?tre d’ at the front, Larkin pushed open the door and was met with a wall of overly warm and damp post-storm air.
He suppressed a grunt of discomfort and looked over his shoulder.
Doyle still stood at the table, speaking far too quietly to be overheard at that distance, but when he finished, he didn’t linger—didn’t allow Jacqueline an opportunity to say her piece—instead strode across the café at a laidback pace while slipping his sunglasses on.
Reaching Larkin, Doyle made a very conscious broadcast of their relationship by moving into the threshold and putting a hand on the back of Larkin’s head.
Larkin didn’t stop him.
Doyle kissed his forehead before asking, “How about I drive?”