May in December (7 page)

* * * *

Bruce and Jorry left the police station with a promise the force would do all they could to recover the stolen vehicle.

The snow was falling fast enough to cover their tracks on the sidewalk. Normally chatty with him, Bruce wondered about Jorry’s silence. Was he quiet because his car and all his belongings had been stolen, or was there something more? At the police station, he seemed a bit reserved, if not frightened.

Bruce loved the way the crystallized flakes clung to Jorry’s shaggy hair, and was elated when Jorry boldly placed his cold hand inside Bruce’s jacket pocket.

Inhaling a bit of courage, Bruce stopped and pulled Jorry closer in his arms. There, before his parked truck, Bruce slid his lips slowly across Jorry’s. Immediately, Jorry’s hands skated around Bruce’s neck, and he pushed himself against Bruce, opening his soft lips to deepen the kiss. It was long, tender, and wrenched both of their breaths away.

When Bruce returned to earth, all he wanted was to prolong the romantic moment. “Wanna take a walk?”

Jorry briefly looked up through snow-covered lashes. “I’d go anywhere with you.”

“I thought we could go a block over to the downtown area and check out the light displays on the shops.” Bruce grinned. “Or maybe drink some free holiday beer.”

“Free beer is always good.”

With a right turn away from the truck, they headed for the Old Town district. Starting out as a German settlement, Gaylord had kept much of its old-world charm. From beer gardens to the kaltes buffets, the polka bandstand to the knick-knack chalets, the city was proud of its heritage. Blending in with other couples out for an evening walk, Bruce and Jorry’s shoulders brushed as they strolled past an A-frame party store to admire the city fountain, which had been purposely iced over, tinted blue water frozen high in midgush.

Bruce broke the pleasant silence. “You know, the last time I was down here was three years ago for the Oktoberfest.”

“Is that the year they introduced Hometown Pumpkin Ale?”

“Hey, Bruce! Wait up.”

The sound of running footsteps came up from behind. Jorry freaked, spinning around and hiding behind Bruce. Bruce grabbed Jorry’s hand and swore he could feel Jorry’s rapid pulse thudding through their touching wrists.

What the hell is this all about?

In the light of a holiday decorated streetlamp, Bruce saw who it was. “It’s Jim Milton, a good friend of mine and Robert’s. He’s a lieutenant over at the precinct.”

Bruce extended his hand in greeting to the tall, beefy man in street clothes. “Hey, Jim. Did ya just get off work?”

“Yeah. I saw you at the station but didn’t get a chance to ask if everything was all right.”

“I’m okay.” Bruce nodded toward Jorry. “We had to report Jorry’s stolen car.”

“Sorry to hear that. If it’s around, we’ll do our best to find it.” Milton jerked his head toward a building with music spilling from its open door. “It’s been forever since I last saw you. Let me buy you a beer.” He peered closely at Jorry. “You old enough to drink?”

“Of course he is,” mumbled Bruce. “I’m not a pervert.”

Milton held his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. “Whoa, dude. It’s part of my job. I don’t want to add to the delinquency of a minor.” He grinned. “Doesn’t look good on my record.”

“Sorry. Let me introduce to you my…”
To my what?
“To my f-friend, Jorry Nelson. Jorry, this is my good friend, Jim. He’s been a police officer for over twenty-five years.”

“Twenty years and about to retire.” Milton started herding them toward the beer garden. “The crime is getting bad around here. But I’ll tell you more over a few beers.”

They entered the establishment and found a dark corner booth away from the jukebox. Bruce and Jorry wound up on one side of the initial-and-cuss-word carved table, while Milton sat on the other. Milton caught the eye of a waitress and held up three fingers. She brought them all the specialty of the house, Pale Snow Rider.

“Put ’em on my tab, sweet cheeks,” Milton said.

The waitress nodded and went about her business. Milton slugged down a healthy drink and then leaned in close over the table, as if to tell something confidential. “I’m telling you, Bruce. It’s the worst I’ve ever seen it out there.”

“You always say that.”

“But it’s true. And we’re not even talking about the changes in procedures and laws. There is a new evil in town that moved in about a year ago, and we can’t get any leads on it.”

“What kind of evil?” Jorry asked

“Drugs, the real heavy ones. Prostitution of men, women, and children. Dogfighting. Human trafficking, including slavery and baby mills, gambling and illegal MMA fights.”

Bruce noticed Jorry pull away and put some distance between them. “No. Things like that only happen in the big cities or strange countries.”

“Welcome to my reality.” Milton toyed with the edges of a cork coaster. “Gaylord has been getting worse. Being so close to I-75 opens us up to many unwanted activities. It’s too easy for people to crash over for a bit, score the deal of their demented desires, then shoot up to Canada or over to Detroit or Chicago. They come. They go. It’s hard to get a fix. But there are some ringleaders here. We have to get a good lead on them and their crew.”

“W-what will happen to them if you catch them?” Jorry asked.

“You mean
when
we catch them.”

Jorry nodded, his eyes downcast.

“The leaders and their freaks are looking at some major jail time.” Milton drained the last of his beer and waved for the waitress. “Even the lowest lackey will get nailed for something, unless they are willing to cut a deal.”

Jorry paused. “What kind of deal?”

Bruce was surprised that Jorry seemed so interested in the conversation. Perhaps he was just being polite.

“They give us the information we need, and if we’re successful in capturing a few of these devils, we reduce their sentencing.” Milton peered closer at Jorry, as if his Spidey senses were tingling. “Why? You know something?”

Jorry shook his head.

The waitress came back over with three more beers. “I’m telling you, things are a nightmare. We had a case a couple of nights back where money was exchanged for a girl to get gangraped by a bunch of businessmen. Then, to top it off, the mother of said girl was knocked out while she was watching her nine-month-old granddaughter. The baby was taken, and between you and me, that kid will never be seen by her family again.”

Bruce nodded. “I remember the Amber Alert.”

“The truth is, there are sickos out there. Like someone broke into the Humane Society two weeks ago and stole all the cats and dogs.”

“Why would someone do that?” asked Jorry.

“We figure one of two things—A, someone needed the animals for drug testing, or B, someone was using the animals for bait.”

“Bait?” Bruce put his glass down. “For what?”

“Dogfighting. A bait animal is an animal that dog fighters make their fighting dogs practice on, or gets them into a blood frenzy before a game. The bait animal is made helpless by having its jaw taped shut, and it may be tied down. These animals can’t defend themselves and are terribly injured or killed.”

Bruce watched Jorry pale.

“Anyway, I hope we get these motherfuckers before I retire, but with the way things are, I want out, like, yesterday. I’ve done my bit for king and country.”

This inside, dirty view of the city crime news was disturbing to hear. Bruce gulped his beer down. Jorry sat and stared off at the crowd, and did so for the rest of the evening.

Chapter Six

Live with me? Oh, Robert, what was I thinking?

Bruce honestly wanted to say that blurting out
live with me
had been innocent and to deny any selfishness on his part. But he couldn’t.

He knew he was falling hard and fast for a man half his age. That much was evident. How Jorry felt about him… Well, that wasn’t so clear. Oh, that wonderful kiss downtown seemed right. And remembering Friday night, lying in bed with Jorry’s head on his chest, his body tight up against Bruce’s, made Bruce ache with want. Though the night was filled with tumultuous dreams on Jorry’s part, Bruce had never felt so needed in years, and it woke up a part of him he’d feared had died with Robert.

While finishing the packing before they moved to the new apartment, Jorry insisted on sleeping on the davenport, which made Bruce lose twice as much sleep. For one, he couldn’t stand the quiet, the lack of another breathing person in the room. He also missed the warmth, the knowledge that someone was only a hand away in the dark of the night.

The other reason was Bruce was keeping an ear open for bad dreams. The dreams weren’t as bad as that first night, but Jorry had them regularly. If things were too quiet, Bruce would get up in the middle of the night to check on the young man. Sometimes Jorry’s twisting and turning kicked off the blanket. Bruce would lovingly pick it back up and tuck Jorry back in, wiping the sweat from his brow and uttering soft words of comfort. Jorry would always heave a heavy sigh, lean his cheek into Bruce’s hand, and nuzzle it.

Now, on the day before Thanksgiving, Bruce found himself in examination room number three at Family Medical, wrapped in a blue tissue dress and freezing his balls off. If he was to entertain the thought of starting a relationship with a twenty-three-year old, he needed to make sure he was physically up to the challenge.

Hmmm. Maybe I should look at my mental health while I’m at it.

After all the intake tests and blood work from two unsmiling, no-nonsense nurses, Bruce spent another half hour waiting, thumbing through a magazine on snowmobiles. But Dr. Hendricks was worth the wait. When Robert died, the doctor had gone out of his way to make sure Bruce kept it together by going beyond the doctor-patient relationship, checking on him at his home for months afterward.

A couple of quick raps hammered at the door. It opened.

“Bruce!” A grizzled old man with wild white hair entered the room. “Damn glad to see you again. How’s life been treating you?”

“Can’t complain, and even if I did, nobody would listen.”

Dr. Hendricks squinted at the charts in his hand. “I’ve been seeing you for what? Thirty years now? Your stats, as usual, are looking great. Blood pressure is good, weight is fantastic, blood sugar normal, low cholesterol, and you tested negative for HIV. However, your testosterone is a bit on the low side, but that happens to guys your age. I’ll write a prescription, and it’ll be right as rain in no time.” He took a seat on the low stool beside the examination table, his full attention on Bruce. “So why are you here?”

“I’m thinking of starting a new relationship and wanted to make sure all the parts were working. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to get on the little blue pill, if you get my drift.”

“Viagra or Cialis? Sure.” The doctor started scribbling across the prescription pad. “Are you having trouble achieving an erection?”

“No… Well, once in a while sustaining it,” Bruce admitted as he held up his right hand. “Mr. Michigan isn’t as interesting as a real guy.”

The doctor belted out his laughter. “It’s about time you got back in the saddle again. I know Robert was a treasure, but you need to live too.”

Bruce bowed his head. “I’d like to think Robert would approve.”

“If I know Robert, he probably had a hand in getting you two together and is laughing about it. Assume the prostate position.”

Bruce stood, feet apart, and faced the examination table. He bent forward and leaned on his elbows. He winced when he heard the snap of a surgical glove. “You might want to put extra lubricant on, Doc. It’s been a while.”

The doctor laughed, and Bruce felt a finger inserted at a downward angle and the pressure that went along with it.

“Prostate feels fine to me. I’m going to remove my finger.” The doctor did as he said and offered Bruce a tissue to clean up. “Might want to up your exam times now you’re getting older and active again. Tell me about this man.”

Bruce sat back down on the exam table. “He’s a bit younger than me.”

“Oh?”

“Okay, he’s half my age.”

“Whewwww!” Dr. Hendricks whistled. “Hence the little blue pill.”

“You don’t think I’m being perverted or anything?”

“What? Hell, no. In life and love, age doesn’t matter.” Dr. Hendricks grew serious. “But you know that. Robert was what, seventeen years older than you?”

“Nineteen.”

“And it turned out well for you two, right?”

“You have a point.”

Dr. Hendricks raised up off his stool and slapped Bruce on the shoulder. “You checked out fine; physically your body is like that of a thirty-five-year-old. Have you had any memory problems yet?”

“Nothing unusual. Just normal brain farts.”

“Then don’t worry.” Dr. Hendricks handed Bruce the two prescription sheets. “Getting your testosterone back on track will help, and I bet you’ll see you don’t even need the little blue pill.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

* * * *

Bruce scowled at the industrial dishwasher and cursed it under his breath. It was because of this damn machine he wasn’t home cooking a feast for himself and Jorry.

Thinking of Jorry made him smile. He recalled bits and pieces from last night’s weekly video chats, when Jorry had renewed his ties to his childhood friends. Kelley and Kerri approved wholeheartedly of Jorry moving in, to the point that Bruce was basically ignored during the telephone conversation. Gail was almost unbearably giddy and sported a mischievous glint in her eyes during the whole phone call, as if she could read Bruce’s innermost desires.

Slow down there, fella. You’re going too fast. Focus back on the task at hand.

He glanced at the murky water surrounding his ankles. He had been called in to the resort on an emergency—the dish-washing room had flooded when the dishwasher broke down. Most of the time, this was his favorite part of the job, repairing broken things. He’d always had a knack for fixing machines and people. That’s why it had hurt so bad that he couldn’t fix—aka save—Robert from the big C.

Whoa. Now that’s a revelation I didn’t expect.