Chapter 17
Sam
After that, it’s like everything in my life clicks and starts playing in fast-forward.
Part of that’s how busy I am. Work, but also planning the Greek Life outreach event, which is getting closer and closer.
And when I’m not trying to find a band or contacting people who have used WISP over the last few months or trying to coordinate—for the tenth time—with the pothead Sigma Sigma bro who’s supposed to be helping me organize everything, I’m coming up with the most ridiculous excuses to spend time with Gray.
Even I know they’re excuses. Not that it stops me.
WISP makes it easy; there’s always a reason.
I drop by the offices to ask him a question about the event, and then I stay the rest of the night, and we eat takeout at his desk.
Or we get lunch when we both have a day off, and I show him some of the ideas I have for a flyer.
But as the days trickle past, the reasons become less and less important, and one night, when he’s leaving, I realize I never even talked to him about the opening remarks for the outreach, even though that was the whole reason he came over.
It might have been the fact that he got his hands up under my shirt as soon as we closed the bedroom door.
And once the reasons stop mattering, it’s even easier.
He takes me to look at clothes, and when I’m not paying attention, he buys me a shirt and gives it to me in the car.
He says it looks good with my eyes. Neither of us has anyone to go to the gym with, so that becomes part of the routine too.
One morning, I’m knocking on his door at a quarter to six, and Gray groans the whole way down the elevator as we go for a run.
Hell, we even go grocery shopping together.
He thinks it’s real funny when I tell him which kind of yogurt is best.
It’s weird how you can be with someone, and one day, you don’t even remember what it was like when you weren’t with them.
When you weren’t texting them in the morning to remind them to take a snack to work, or sending them a picture of a dog that got a haircut, all the way up until you finally tell him you’re going to bed, and then five minutes later, he sends you a meme, and you start talking all over again.
And for the first time since I stopped being such a jackass, work is something I’m trying to get through so I can go back to the rest of my life.
Work’s where we’ve got to be careful. Not because it’s a secret—it can’t be a secret if we’re going around telling donors.
Wahredua’s a small town, after all. But we’ve got to be careful at work because we’re both walking a fine line.
Gray had a real bad time the year before, and even though he’s still Gray—nothing’s going to change that—he’s trying to stay on Chief Peterson’s good side.
And even though I have a hard time thinking about work now, I know I’ve got to be a professional; Chief Peterson’s not going to make me a detective if he thinks I’m screwing around, especially when I’m on duty.
But even trying to be careful, we almost slip up.
There’s the obvious stuff, like the time Gray slaps my ass when we pass each other in the hall.
We get lucky; Foley makes some crack about my sweet ass, and Ehlers yells at Gray to keep his hands to himself, but I don’t think anybody really thinks anything of it.
Or the time we happen to be in the parking lot one morning, right when I’m about to head out on patrol, and instead, I end up talking to Gray for almost ten minutes at my cruiser.
Just shooting the breeze. And when I finally realize I’m late, I grab his arm and pull him in like I’m going to kiss him goodbye.
I catch myself, but only barely, and it’s a good thing we’re the only ones in the lot right now.
The other stuff, the stuff that starts giving me away, I don’t even think about until it’s too late.
We’re in the locker room. Norman is running a towel back and forth between his legs, and Foley’s asking him why he’s flossing his asshole, and Gross tells Foley it’s because Norman’s got a date with Foley’s mom, and I’m trying to get changed because Gray didn’t work today, so I can go straight over to his place.
That’s when McGown leans against the lockers and says, “What the fuck is going on with you?”
“What?”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you dying or something?”
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, McGown?” Foley asks, but mostly because he thinks McGown is annoying.
“You know how many tickets he’s written in the last two weeks?” McGown asks.
Nobody answers. Norman’s still flossing away, and Gross is trying to look at a mole on his shoulder.
“Two,” McGown says. “What the fuck is up with that?”
“It’s been a slow couple of weeks,” I say.
But it hasn’t. It’s been a normal couple of weeks. Except I keep letting people off with warnings.
“We’re way below quota,” McGown says. “You’re not pulling your fucking weight.”
“The Wahredua Police Department doesn’t have a quota of traffic tickets,” I remind him.
Although it kind of does, just not officially.
“You’re fucking us over,” McGown says.
“You want more tickets,” Foley says, “go write more fucking tickets.”
“And go fuck yourself,” Norman says cheerily.
“What the fuck?” McGown asks. “It’s not my fault Yarmark’s turned into a fucking gooner. I saw him at Riverside Burgers the other day—” McGown seems to remember I’m there and starts talking to me again. “I saw you there the other day, and you were talking to those kids.”
He means Colt and Ashley. There’s this weird tightness in my chest, like I somehow made a mistake by talking to them, but all I say is “They’re nice kids.”
“They were playing hooky, dumbfuck. It was a fucking Tuesday. Where the fuck are your brains?”
“Jesus Christ, McGown, fuck the fuck off,” Foley snaps.
“Yeah,” Gross says. He’s still trying to get a look at that mole. “Fuck off.”
“Fuck this.” McGown is looking around like he can’t believe this. “Are you fucking kidding me? Nobody else sees this?”
No one says anything. Water plinks on the tile in the showers.
“He hasn’t even complained about the fucking door to the smoke pad being propped open,” McGown says. “Not once in the last two weeks.”
And it’s not until he says it that I realize he’s right. People are always leaving the door propped open, and I report it, because that’s a security issue.
Foley is looking at me now. And Norman. And Gross.
They’ve been police for a long time. And they’re not stupid.
I yank my tee over my head, push a hand through my hair, and say, “It’s not a big deal. That’s what everybody keeps telling me. So, why am I going to waste my time reporting it, even if it does compromise the station’s perimeter?”
“Holy shit,” Norman says.
Gross whistles.
“Well, fuck me,” Foley says. “Little Sammy’s getting his cork popped.”
I slam my locker, grab my bag, and head for the door.
“What’s her name, sweetheart?” Gross calls after me.
“She’s never going to make you happy,” Foley shouts. “She can’t give you what I give you.”
They’re all cracking up.
And then I’m thinking about it. About how I have been acting different. But that’s okay, isn’t it? That’s not a big deal. Let them think I’m relaxed because I’m finally hooking up with someone. Let them think I’m distracted because I met someone I like. That’s all right.
It might even be true.
And then, when the next Saturday rolls around, there’s the proof.
It’s a beautiful day. Warm, smelling like the lilac bushes blooming a few houses over, the sun high in a clear sky. We’ve got the garage door open, and Gray’s car is up on a jack, and I’m on a creeper underneath, trying to get the oil drain plug to come out.
“Whoever did this last time was a jackass,” I say as I put some shoulder into it. “I swear to God, they did a bad job on purpose.”
“That’s because I pay a high school dropout twenty dollars to do it for me,” Gray says. I can only see his sneakers and joggers; he’s sitting on one of Gran’s totes, even though I told him he could go inside while I did this. “So that I can spend my Saturday with my boyfriend.”
“You are spending your Saturday with—ah, got you, motherfucker.”
He’s trying to sound like Gran when he says, “Sammy, your language!”
“It doesn’t count if it’s when you’re working on a car.”
I slide the pan into place, pop the plug free, and as the oil begins to drain, I slide out on the creeper. Gray’s still sitting there, watching me like he’s the creeper, only now he gets a huge smile.
“What?” I ask.
“You’ve got grease on your nose.”
“Well, shit. Hand me that shop towel.”
He picks up a clean towel from the pile and hands it to me. I wipe my nose and look at him.
“Much better,” Gray says. “Also super butch. And extremely hot.”
I wad up the towel and pitch it at him, and he darts out of its path.
“What now?” Gray asks.
“Gotta wait for it to finish draining.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep. Hold on.” I roll the creeper back a few inches because I don’t like where I put the pan, and as I shift it, the garage door starts to go down.
“Put it back up,” I tell him. “I need the light.”
But instead, there’s movement near my feet, and then Gray’s hands on my legs.
“I know this is insane, but something about these coveralls is driving me crazy.” He slides me free from under the car and reaches for my zipper.
“Stay right there. You don’t have to do anything. I don’t want you to do anything.”
I laugh and move his hands away. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“I know, and my balls are going to explode from watching you.”
“If we start now, we’re going to be messing around all day.”
“Perfect. Love that plan.”