Chapter 39
The redistricting plan was completely fucking with Ian’s proposed interagency radio communication protocols, and he had less than a week to figure out all the angles and redraft his plan—while making all parties happy, of course.
The trick was to make each one think they were somehow getting an advantage the others weren’t.
So far, he hadn’t quite figured out how to do that. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at his chart. If the city fire department got the extra fifty addresses from the county fire district, that made them th—
“Ian?” Dalton’s voice broke his concentration. He looked up from the document and rubbed his eyes, blurry from effort.
“Yeah?”
“A Chief Carl Cully’s on the phone? He says he’s your father,” Dalton said in a hushed voice.
Ian slumped in his chair. Hell. The chief. Fucking lovely. Had he given his father this number? That was stupid. Ian took a slow, calming breath, puffing his cheeks out as he released it.
It didn’t work. He tried another.
That one wasn’t any more effective, so he gave up. “Thanks, Dalton,” he said tiredly as he reached for his handset. If Carl wanted to talk, Ian probably couldn’t avoid it.
“Dad,” he said in greeting.
“Ian!” his father said, sounding like he was hailing a buddy from across a crowded bar.
He silently implored the ceiling for fortitude. “Yep, it’s me.”
“How’s the new job? Must be boring as hell, driving a desk after being on a rig for fifteen years,” Carl said jovially.
“Eleven years. Actually, I like this job.”
That knocked his father on his ass for a few seconds. “Huh. Must’ve gotten some of your mother’s genes,” he finally said.
“Must have,” Ian agreed. He waited silently for his father’s next volley.
“So, meet any nice women up there?”
For fuck’s sake. Way to be subtle, Carl. “Oh, yeah.” He faked cheerful. “Lots of nice women.”
“Good, good,” Carl encouraged, a note of relief in his voice.
“But since I’m attracted to men, the women don’t really do much for me.” Ian felt tension invading his muscles as his adrenaline spiked—just like it did every time they had this conversation.
Silence. The first pleasant thing Carl had said.
Ian went for broke. “I met someone, though. Sam.” He straightened his spine, pressing the button on the end of his pen up and down. Click click.
“I don’t suppose Sam’s short for Samantha?” Carl said.
Jesus. “Nope. It’s short for Samuel.” Wasn’t it? He should probably check that.
“Ian . . .” His father’s voice took on that pitiful, deflated balloon quality. Fuck. He dropped the pen and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to jump out of his seat and pace around the room.
“Think of your poor mother—”
He slammed his palm down on the desk, then took a breath to calm himself and enunciated carefully.
“Mom wouldn’t care.” Another breath, trying not to shout.
“You know what I remember when she died? I remember sitting beside her bed in the hospital, and she took that fucking oxygen mask off and told me to be happy no matter what. You’re the one who wants me to be straight. ”
“I want you happy!” Carl thundered. He breathed audibly in Ian’s ear.
“You’re my youngest son, I want to see you married like your brothers.
I want you to have someone who takes care of you.
You think you’ll ever get that with another man?
Men aren’t like that, Ian. You should know, you’ve been with enough of them and none of them worked out, did they?
This Sam, he’s just another lay. You keep looking for something you’ll never find.
You can’t marry another man, you can only fuck him. ”
The fight drained out of Ian, leaving a sick feeling in his gut.
“The sex is your real problem, isn’t it?
” he asked. “You don’t like it that I’ve been with men.
You can’t see past that.” He felt weak and light-headed, but he didn’t let any of that invade his tone.
“Mom wouldn’t have cared.” Hell, his voice shook a little there. Barely a quaver.
“She would have been as disgusted as I am!”
Ian slumped in his seat. “Fuck you,” he said tiredly, then hung up the phone.
The weather matched Ian’s mood. They were finally moving out of the Indian summer and into the stormy season.
Right now it was gray and threatening rain, and Ian figured that was pretty much perfect.
As soon as he stepped foot outside the health division building, he knew it would start raining on him.
So much for not letting the chief get to him anymore.
Ian tried to do the thing Janet had been teaching him: identify his emotions and label them, figure out what was what and who was who.
But it was all a painful mishmash, and the only thing he could reliably identify was the twisting ball of fear whenever he thought of Sam.
Fuck. He thought about calling Janet, but he had an appointment in the morning. He could hang on that long, right?
Besides, if he didn’t leave right now, he’d be late to pick up Sam. They were supposed to go back to Ian’s place so he could change, then go out to some movie Sam wanted to see. Probably get dinner somewhere.
The fear fisted around Ian’s stomach, giving him heartburn or something. He wasn’t hungry. Didn’t want to see that movie, anyway; it sounded dumb.
This is all about your father. Things had been so easy lately, his life and his job. Sam. Everything had been clear, but after talking to Carl it was all murky again. It was the way his father saw things that was screwed up. Didn’t mean that’s the way things actually were.
Logic wasn’t helping him—he still felt confused.
When he saw Sam, things would fall back into place inside him.
Sam never said he loved you.
He did love Ian, though, he just needed more time, or maybe more proof of Ian’s feelings for him first. This could work. It would. It had to.
He just needed to get his head screwed on straight. Seeing Sam when he had all these stupid doubts . . . that seemed like a bad idea.