Commitment Issues (21 page)

"Sean, it's okay. I knew you weren't a virgin."

"But we weren't a couple. We really weren't."

"Okay,” he said softly. “I'm just saying...."

"We took care of some physical needs a few times,” I whispered, “but it wasn't ever anything more than that."

"Okay."

"I would tell you if you wanted me to. I got no secrets, but there's nothing to tell."

"It's fine, babe,” he said. “I love you. Chico's really sexy, so I'm glad that I don't have to compete."

"No competition, lover. None. I love you, and I never once loved Chico. He was just a—"

And the waitress walked up.

"Rib eye, medium rare,” I told the waitress.

There's only one kind of steak: rib eye. There's only one way to cook it: medium rare. Anything else is a crime against the cow. The French sometimes put an egg on top of a steak, which is at least an eight or nine on the weird scale. I love Bearnaise sauce, but an egg? I will even eat Bearnaise with a steak, even if they threaten to throw me out of the Southwest. In general, if the rib eye can't be eaten by itself, then it shouldn't be cooked as a steak. Sometimes an herbed butter is good. I've had lemon butter that was nice. But if you need to load it up with a bunch of goop, maybe you need to be eating goulash or pot roast. Oh, and please don't season the crap out of the steak. A good steak needs freshly cracked pepper before it is cooked. You can rub it with a broken clove of garlic, if you really want. Touch it with salt or anything else, and you need to be thrown out of the kitchen. Salt is okay after the steak is cooked, but never before. It is okay to let the steak rest a couple of minutes before cutting it. There's never any need to slice the steak to see how well it is cooked. You can touch it with a finger. If it is a little mushy, it's great. If it feels hard like a hockey puck, it is probably because you have confused the grill with an incinerator, and you should be ashamed of yourself. Pray for the cow's forgiveness. It has more invested in the meal than you, and it deserves the respect of not annihilating the rib eye.

"So maybe we'll have a nice evening,” I said.

"You mean without somebody trying to blow us up?” Wyatt said.

"Something like that."

"You have to admit that we've had a kind of explosive relationship."

The waitress brought out our salads and was setting them down on the table when the front window of the restaurant shattered. Our salads were suddenly up in the air, and lettuce was flying everywhere. It all seemed to be moving in slow motion.

"Gun!” somebody across the restaurant yelled. “Somebody's shooting a gun."

Wyatt jumped into the air from his seat as I heard a second shot. Everybody else was diving to the floor, and Wyatt did the exact opposite. He jumped over the table and tackled me. Wyatt flew into my chest, and we both went to the ground together. He flew across the goddamn table and hit me in the chest. We both went over just as another bullet came through the window. Was it something I said?

Wyatt was hit.
Oh God. Fuck! No!
Wyatt was shot. My lover took a bullet that was meant for me. Wyatt was barely bleeding, but there was blood everywhere. Our waitress was in bad shape. She wasn't moving much. Our part of the restaurant was covered with blood and lettuce and blue cheese crumbles.

An off-duty police officer had been eating with his wife near the front entrance, and he had his own gun. He screamed for everybody to stay on the floor.
Hey, not a problem here!
I was on the floor, pinned down by Wyatt. The officer crawled to the front of the restaurant and carefully peered out the door. The officer slowly opened the door and went out. Several people had cell phones, and they were calling 911. YouTube would have plenty of video. I thought we might need to contact Agent Iacocca, but nothing was going to take me away from Wyatt.

"Fuck,” he said. “The asshole ruined my shirt.” He was awake and upset. Thank goodness.

"You've been shot,” I told him.

"Yeah, I know, but look at this shirt. I can't fix it."

What a queen. He had been shot in the arm, and he was more worried about the shirt than he was about the wound. I looked at the arm, and it was more like he had been burned than shot.

The off-duty police officer's wife crawled to the waitress. Her wound was more serious. The cop's wife must have been a paramedic, because she seemed to know what to do. The wife snapped into action like she did this kind of thing every day. When sirens started approaching the restaurant, the wife was still applying pressure to the wound on the waitress's back. She had a stack of fresh napkins that the restaurant staff had brought.

"They just nicked my arm,” Wyatt said as he looked at his shredded shirtsleeve.

"Ouch, fuck,” I said as I found that my chest really hurt when I breathed. I was covered in blood, but I didn't think any of it was mine.

The officer's wife quickly went to each of us to see about our injuries and to ask questions. I thought she was being nosy, but she was filing all our answers away for the ambulance staff.

"Hey, Marsha,” one of the paramedics said. “The boss has to approve overtime ahead of time, you know."

"I carry my work home with me sometimes. First patient is a middle-aged female, GSW in the left shoulder, exiting out near the fourth thoracic vertebra. I'm guessing it's a nine mil, give or take. Possibly hemodynamically compromised."

"I got this one,” one of the paramedics said as he got closer to the waitress who was still bleeding, even though the officer's wife had gotten one of the other diners to help keep pressure on the back wound.

"Second patient,” the officer's wife said, “is a twenty-year-old male. STI upper arm."

"How're you doing?” the second paramedic asked Wyatt, who was still grieving at the hole in his shirt.

Wyatt just nodded.

"Third patient,” the officer's wife said, “is a twenty-five-year-old male. Apparently had a flail chest a couple of months ago. He hit the floor hard here and says there's pain when he exhales, but it isn't as bad as a few months ago."

"Sir, what's your pain level on a scale of one to ten?” the paramedic asked me.

"Is morphine at play here?” I asked him.

"No, probably not,” he said without any inflection.

"He hates the extra paperwork,” the officer's wife said.

"Pain is just a four or five then,” I said. There was no need to lie when I didn't get drugs either way.

The paramedics were on the scene before the police, and they knew that the waitress was in the worst shape. They spent most of their energy treating her injuries. Wyatt and I didn't mind because we knew our wounds weren't as serious, even though my chest really hurt. Wyatt had tackled me so hard when he went airborne over the table that he had reinjured my chest.

"I am so sorry that I hurt you, Sean,” he said.

"You probably saved my life, honey.” And that was the truth.

"I wonder if the Boy Scouts have a merit badge for getting shot,” he said.

"You're queer, dear,” I whispered. “They don't give badges for anything when you sleep with another guy."

"Doesn't seem fair,” he said as he pulled out his cell phone. He punched in some numbers, and I knew he was calling Iacocca.

"Maybe you need to put him on speed dial or something."

"Been shot,” Wyatt said in the phone. “I hurt Sean when I tackled him to get him to the floor. Uh, tackle... no, tight end... okay, defensive back.... It was a good tackle, and goin’ over the table, I had really good hang-time.... Yeah, you pick it up on the scanner? That's us! Yeah, the steak house on the corner at the light. I thought you'd want to know. Okay, we'll wait."

The police showed up after the paramedics were strapping the waitress onto a board. They had her neck in some kind of brace. I didn't think she hurt her neck, but I wasn't sure of that. Within a few minutes we had a restaurant full of uniforms and detectives with IDs on lanyards or badges on clips.

"Agent Iacocca with the FBI said he's coming,” I told one of the police detectives. “He asked us to wait to talk to anybody, if that's okay with you."

"Mario?” the detective said. “Absolutely, I haven't seen him in months. We worked out of the same station for years. Gotten all uppity with his new job, you know."

Mario Iacocca arrived in a plain car with a blinking light on the hood. It was a Camaro, maybe his personal car or a car the Bureau had seized in a drug case.

"Hey, guys,” he said in his boisterous and cheery voice. “Can't a guy get a night off without you being attacked?"

"Hi, Mario,” one of the officers said. “You know the victims?"

"Yeah, they're some of my regular customers."

"You taking the case?” the police detective asked.

"You don't want it?” Agent Iacocca said.

"They're a cute couple, man,” the detective whispered, “so I figured you'd want in on the action."

Mario Iacocca was gay? I did not see that coming.

"Family?” I asked him, and he just raised an eyebrow. “They let gay people in...?"

"Does this look like the Army to you?” Iacocca asked.

"No,” Wyatt said. “But you have to admit they have sexy uniforms."

"Whatever,” Iacocca said. “I brought some pictures from the garage. I was going to come around tomorrow, but you seem to have gotten me out of the house. You guys feel like looking at some grainy security printouts?"

"Sure,” I said. “Anything to help the guy who is in charge of keeping people from shooting at us."

"Hey, don't blame me for this steakhouse thing,” Iacocca protested. “It is a police matter, not the FBI."

The police detective punched Iacocca.

"Assaulting a federal officer,” Iacocca said. “Everybody see that? The local police are attacking FBI agents in broad moonlight and in front of a dozen witnesses."

"Mario,” the detective said, “all of your witnesses are police officers. Most of them are on the take or owe me favors. Pick your battles better."

Iacocca brought out a stack of pictures. “No camera was pointing at your car, but we have several people there that the guards haven't been able to identify."

Wyatt and I went through the pictures until one caught Wyatt's eye.

"Jeremy?” he said. “Oh God, that's my ex."

He looked confused and hurt. Wyatt had a sudden wave of fear, and he didn't know what to say or think about the picture. The guy who had thrown him out when he went to Alcoholics Anonymous had been caught on camera in our parking garage. I got my head around it fast, but Wyatt wasn't able to think it through. I suddenly knew that we had some kind of
Fatal Attraction
thing going on with this guy. It must have been Wyatt's ex that threw that bomb into my apartment, and he had planted another bomb under Wyatt's car.

"Any idea why your ex would be in the condo garage?” the police detective asked.

"Not a clue. When I went to AA a year and a half ago, Jeremy was pissed to lose his drug-buddy."

"You still clean?” the detective asked.

"Yeah,” Wyatt said. “Clean and sober."

"Good for you."

"Anyway,” Wyatt said, looking a little relieved, “Jeremy threw me out of his apartment. I don't know how he could have problems with me and Sean, but he was always a little scary."

"What's his full name?"

"Jeremy Whitlock, but I don't know his middle name."

"No big deal, probably,” Agent Iacocca said.

The officer typed the name into a little Netbook computer he was carrying. The detective used his computer to take notes, but I think it was connected to the police databases.

"I don't see a... oh, okay, his real name is John Patrick Whitlock."

"Jeremy must be a nickname or an alias or something,” Iacocca added.

"He's a real piece of work,” the officer said. “Did he hurt you?"

"No, he just tossed me out of the apartment when I stopped using and drinking."

"Yeah,” the officer said into his cell phone, “Jeremy Whitlock. I see outstanding warrants, so can you pick him up for me?"

Wyatt gave him the address where Jeremy had been living.

"I don't know if he's still there,” Wyatt said.

"It's a start. You did good with that picture. We can look him up a thousand different ways. This is an awesome lead, guys."

"So, is this shooting related to the bombs?” I asked, but Iacocca just shrugged.

"What bombings?” the detective asked.

"Abortion clinic bomber,” Iacocca said. “This is Sean Roberts, the radio broadcaster."

"Wow, yeah, okay. You got attacked too."

I held up my left hand, and he saw my missing fingertip.

"We either have a bomber who can shoot,” Iacocca said, “or we have every bad guy in the country trying to kill you two. I don't know which would be worse. I don't like either option, personally, but then again this is y'all's ass on the line, not mine."

"Let me know when you start trying to comfort the victims,” I said. “I'm not picking anything of that up yet."

Iacocca and his officer buddy did a fist bump.

A paramedic came up to start working on Wyatt's arm. He started to protest when the paramedic cut the arm off the shirt.

"It's already trashed,” I said.

"Jeremy needs to pay for it."

"We're not sure it was Jeremy who was the shooter,” the officer said. “Unless you know something we don't."

Wyatt shook his head.

"He could just take his shirt off,” I told the paramedic.

"My husband likes to see skin,” Wyatt said.

"What?” I said.

"Time and a place,” Wyatt said. I must have been drooling at his chest or something.

"I didn't do nothin',” I said, batting my eyes at him.

"Stop it, you two,” Iacocca insisted. “I'd say go get a room, but you probably would."

I just shrugged.

"We can take you in to see the doctor,” the paramedic said, “but I think you'll be okay. It barely cut the skin. You should probably see your own doctor."

"Thanks,” Wyatt said. “No need for hospitals. We've had plenty of drama for one day."

The paramedic wrapped Wyatt's arm and came to check me out. He listened to my chest and found noises he didn't like.