Chapter 6 #2
He pretends to type something on his phone. And then he goes back to the pamphlets.
I take one of the plastic chairs. I’ve got a digital copy of Unmuzzled: Freeing Your Inner Alpha by Axel Ryder, so I read for a while.
I’ve read it before, but sometimes it helps to read it again, especially before Mr. Somerset and I have one of our meetings.
This chapter is on finding your mate. Mr. Hazard caught me reading it one time, and he said it was heteronormative bullshit and that Axel Ryder sounded like the name of a gay porn star who got jerked off on a motorcycle.
But Mr. Somerset said it wasn’t that bad and Mr. Hazard only said that because Colt beat him in chess.
The first law of finding a mate, according to Axel Ryder, is A king doesn’t chase; he attracts.
At the desk, the pretty boy is pretending I’m not there.
“Did Detective Dulac say when he’d be free?” I ask.
“No.”
I wait, but he’s too busy folding pamphlets to notice, so I say, “Could you check again?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Excuse me,” I say more loudly.
“Fine,” the guy snaps. He gives me a look, and then he pretends to type something on his phone. “He says he’s too busy tonight, so you’ll have to come back.” He must have thought of this right then because he adds, “And you should make an appointment.”
“Okay,” I say.
It’s funny how earlier, all I could think about was my hair and my clothes and that funny feeling crawling up inside me like I’d forgotten something, because now all I can think about is this kid pretending to ignore me, and the way he said, Fine.
I get up from the chair and walk past the desk.
“Hey! Hey, you can’t go back there! This is—this is private property! Hey!”
But he’s slow, and I’m fast, and I move down the hall opening doors.
One of them is set up with tables and chairs that look even older than the stuff in the reception area, with a bunch of old four-line desk phones that aren’t plugged into anything.
Another has a sofa that probably came off somebody’s curb and a matching loveseat.
Behind me, the pretty boy is shouting, “Hey! Hey! I’m calling security! ”
The next door opens, and it’s an office—a desk, a filing cabinet, and a stack of cardboard boxes against the wall.
These boxes hold more of those old phones.
Detective Dulac is behind the desk. He’s dressed casually—a cowboy T-shirt and joggers—and he’s trying to hide a vape behind his back, blowing out vapor like he’s sixteen and thinks he can get away with it.
He’s even fanning the air with one hand, and before he really sees me, he’s saying, “God damn it, Robin, I told you to knock. If I didn’t think you’d like it so much, I’d paddle your ass—” And then he does see me, and I’ve never seen Detective Dulac speechless before.
I kind of like it.
Finally, he says, “What are you doing here?”
“Well,” I say.
“Gray!” The pretty boy—he must be Robin—is panting as he trots up to us. He reminds me of Martha’s Yorkie. It’s a teacup Yorkie, and when she runs, she pants like that. She bit Gran on the ankle once, and Gran said next time, she’d turn her into a pillbox. “Gray, oh my God, he charged in here!”
“I didn’t, actually. I asked if I could talk to you, and he pretended you were busy.” I don’t like to be mean, but Detective Dulac did make all those comments earlier, all that beefcake nonsense, so I look at the vape he’s still trying to hide behind his back.
He blushes. Only a little, but I’ve never seen that before either. You’d think it wouldn’t look good with the freckles, but it does—not an all-over blush, but these red circles high in his cheeks. He turns toward Robin.
“He didn’t have an appointment!” Robin squeaks.
“What fucking appointment?” Detective Dulac says.
“I thought he was going to bother you—”
“Out.”
“He was mean!”
“Good fucking Christ,” Detective Dulac says. “There are puppies who are meaner than he is. Get out. And next time somebody wants to talk to me, you send them back to my office. This isn’t the fucking White House.”
Robin slinks out of the room. It takes him a while because he’s sending long, miserable looks to Detective Dulac, and darting nasty little angry ones at me. When he’s finally out, I close the door behind him. Out in the hallway, he makes a noise to let me know how rude I am.
“God fucking damn it,” Detective Dulac says. “Lock it. Barricade it.”
“I think he likes you.”
“Oh yeah? Is that what you think?” And he looks at me in this way I can’t quite parse, like he’s trying to start a fight.
Then it’s gone, and he lets out this little laugh and rolls his eyes, like he can’t believe whatever he’s seeing.
“Robin’s actually really good at his job most of the time.
I don’t know how I’d do this without him.
But he’s got a thing for authority figures, I think.
If you’d showed up in your uniform, he probably would have creamed himself.
” Then Detective Dulac grins. “Want to try and find out?”
I haven’t actually talked to Detective Dulac much. Not one-on-one. But I’ve been around him enough to know two things: first, that’s just how he talks, and it’s not about me, or even really about Robin; and second, he’ll go on all day if you let him.
Since that feeling is back, like something is wiggling its way up inside me—oh God, a part of me thinks that sounds like something Detective Dulac would say—I start talking. “Detective Dulac, I want to talk to you.”
“What? You do? Why?” And then he sits up straight and looks past me, like he can see through the door. “Did John-Henry put you up to this? Is he here?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t see him. Did he say he was going to be here tonight?”
“No, but you’re here, so—” He stops like the rest of it should be obvious.
Then he frowns. “Look, if this is about yesterday, I was kidding around. I’m sorry I ruffled your feathers or whatever.
I was in a seriously fucked-up headspace, so please don’t file a sexual harassment charge because that is literally the last thing I need right now. ”
“No, that’s not—no.”
He waits as though I might say more. Then he cocks his head, and his mouth softens like he’s about to smile; you can tell, with him, because he always thinks he’s so funny.
“Good.” He lowers his voice, and it gets all gravelly, like I’ve never heard it before.
“Then I meant it. I’m desperately in love with you, and I want your body right now.
But we’re going to have to hurry unless you want Robin to join in. ”
It’s not like I mean to think about it. It only happens because he’s running his mouth again.
Just—just thoughts, not really words or images, not like it’s a movie in my head.
Impressions. I’ve seen him in the locker room.
What his skin must feel like. His voice.
I know he’s doing it for fun, but he must sound something like that, at least a little.
I must be blushing because Detective Dulac laughs again. “God, it’s actually so easy it’s not even any fun, you know that?”
I’m still trying to wade out of those thoughts. My brain isn’t hooked up to my mouth anymore, but somehow I manage to say, “Detective Dulac, I want to volunteer at WISP.”
It takes a moment. And then he says, “Seriously?”
“Yes, sir.” I don’t know why, but as soon as the word is out of my mouth, I blush harder.
“I mean, yes, I want to.” I launch into the spiel I’ve been preparing on-and-off all afternoon.
“As you know, I’ve received departmental training for working with victims of abuse.
I also have experience handling domestic and intimate partner violence.
I’m reliable, and I’m a hard worker, and I think I could be an asset to your organization. ”
“Yeah, yes, whatever, stop talking. You’re hired.
I mean, in the sense that I won’t pay you anything and I will absolutely use you as much as I can.
We’ve got to run a background check and get you through some additional training, but in the meantime, I’ve got a shitload of admin work I need you to do. ”
This, I know, is where things get tricky. “Actually, Detective Dulac—”
“Knock it off with that. Call me Gray.” And there’s that softness around his mouth again, like he’s playing with a smile and not quite ready to bring it out yet. “Or sir.”
“Well—” I make myself say, “Gray, I actually wanted to be involved in something, um, a little more visible. If you know what I mean.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.
” And there’s this final, dizzying moment where I think clear as a bell, He’s going to laugh at me.
But I’m past that because he laughs at me anyway, pretty much all the time, and so the words come tumbling out: the opening for a new detective, my conversation with Peterson, Mr. Somerset’s suggestions.
When I finish, I say, “So, you see, I need something I can put my name on. I’m not saying I won’t do the work, but I need something I can show people, understand? ”
Detective Dulac—Gray—grimaces. “Yeah, well, you picked a bad time. I’m not sure I can help you.”
“But I’ll do a good job. I’m responsible. If I say I’m going to do something, I’ll do it. I’ll be here on time. I can get real creative.” That might have been a stretch, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “Whatever you need, I’ll do it.”
Of course, about half a second after I say that, I realize it’s an opening.