Story copyright February 2014 by Hollis Shiloh, Amazon - All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental.

Cover design by Alchemy Book Covers using an image licensed through Shutterstock.com. Cover image content is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted in the content is a model. 

About the story:

Jamie and Max are back.  Now married to each other, they're still the same guys they used to be: emotional, insecure, playful Jamie and quiet, strong, protective Max.  There are some small issues in their relationship—such as how incredibly vulnerable Jamie is to any critical words from Max—and they do occasionally argue.  But overall, things are going well.  

Or at least, Max thinks they are.  Until Jamie disappears without a word.

Certain the love of his life is dead, Max suffers the worst depression of his life, tormented by thoughts of Jamie's suffering.  And then Jamie reappears, uninjured and apparently perfectly whole.  Can Max ever forgive him, even enough to find out why he disappeared, or is their relationship as dead as he thought Jamie was?

Sequel to "You Were Always the One" 

And You Still Are

Hollis Shiloh

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Chapter one

There was a cat on the kitchen floor.  A cat, drinking from a bowl.

I scratched at my hair, yawned, and looked over at the table.  As usual, my partner Jamie was up before me.  He sat at the table reading a newspaper.  Coffee aromas filled the kitchen. 

"We don't have a cat," I said.

Our dog, Alex, sat on the floor nearby and thumped her tail twice.  I bent down and scratched her head.  It's harder for her to move since the accident, so she lets me come to her sometimes instead of coming to me for affection.  She looked at me with those big dark eyes of hers as if to say, "Yes, we do."

The cat was large and orange, with long fur that looked soft.  It had cute ears.

Jamie turned a page, but I could feel him watching me. 

"Is that cream it's drinking?" I asked.

"He.  It's a boy cat."  He turned another page with affected nonchalance.  I looked at him. 

"So when did this happen?"

He shrugged.  "It follows Alex in through the doggy door.  They're friends."

"I can see that."  I straightened up and sighed, stretching a little.  I went to pour myself coffee and added milk.  "Cream.  You don't even give me cream."

"That's because you're fat enough," said Jamie outrageously.

I bit my lip to keep from laughing.  I passed my physical just last week (I work as a policeman), and I'm probably fitter than I'll be all year.

"All those donuts you eat," continued Jamie in a casual voice.

"I do not!"  I laughed and drank some coffee.  I regarded my other half.  He was seated at the table wearing a shirt printed with a picture of Marilyn Monroe on it, and his dark hair was neatly styled.  He wore a wrist bracelet made of blue and green stones that clunked a little when he turned his slender, elegant wrist to flick through the paper.  He glanced up at me and then looked down, quick.  "What is it, Max?" he asked.

"I think we should probably take it to the pound.  We don't want it giving Alex fleas."

"He.  It's a he."

"Okay, take he to the pound."

He looked up, meeting my gaze.  "Well."  He got up and walked to the fridge, and I saw he was wearing his red jeans today, and sandals.  "It would be easier to go to the vet and get flea medicine.  I think Alex would get depressed if we took away her new friend."

I snorted then, as I realized where this was going.

"And," continued Jamie in a casual voice, "if we take him to the pound, they'll just kill him.  They're so overcrowded right now.  That would be really cruel.  He's healthy and everything.  Better to just let him run loose — or let him stay, you know.  If we wanted to."  He pulled out a carton of eggs and some turkey bacon.

I put down my coffee cup.  I could feel my eyes dancing, but he wasn't looking at me so he couldn't tell.  He just kept talking in that low, serious tone, standing on his tiptoes to reach the top shelf of the fridge. 

I walked back to the cat, looked down at it, and then bent with resignation and stroked its back.  The cat's muscles twitched slightly, but it didn't stop drinking.  Then it did; it looked up at me with a cream mustache on its furry mouth, licked its lips, and went back to drinking.  It had beautiful, clear green eyes, as though nothing had ever troubled it.

I straightened up.  "You know, Jame, if you wanted to keep the cat, you didn't have to hint."

"Really?"  He whipped around, a big smile on his face as he held up a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread.

"Yes, really."  I frowned at him.  "It's your home, too.  What do you think this is, a dictatorship?  You're acting like you're twelve again and I'm going to tell you what to do."

"Well, don't you usually?"

"No, I don't.  You usually tell me what to do."

"I don't."  He looked more hurt than such a statement should earn.  Perhaps the faintest bit as if he was about to pout.

I couldn't help laughing.  "C'mon, Jamie.  You always tell me what to do!"

"No I don't.  Those are suggestions.  You don't have to follow them.  Now go on, get your shower and get changed or you'll be late for work!"

He gave me a swat as I left the room, laughing, to follow his suggestions.  As I showered, I wondered how long he'd been buying cream. 

That day, I passed out all the invitations at work to our barbeque.  I invited everybody, although I knew plenty of them probably wouldn't come.  I wanted to be open-minded, and give them the chance to be.

Jamie and I got married last week.

This was our celebration.  His family was coming (even his brother Mason), and my dad might even show up.  If he was sober.  I hoped he wouldn't show if he wasn't.

A few people looked awkward about the invitation, but most of them thanked me.  A couple guys made elaborate excuses, as if I needed to know exactly why they weren't coming.  But a surprising number of people said they would be glad to come, and congratulations.  I went home at the end of the day feeling good about the ones who'd accepted, and trying not to think about the others.  At least nobody had been overtly unkind; it was just that sometimes I felt as if I was a giant spider and they were shuddering inwardly at me.  I didn't like that feeling.

It left completely when I got home.  Jamie had been painting, and had little flecks of color on his smock and his face.  His fingers were stained with different colors, all the colors of the rainbow.

"Maaaxxx!"  He held his arms out and moved into mine for a big hug and a kiss, draping himself there.  "You're early!"

I bent to kiss him again, soundly.  "No, I'm not."  I ruffled his hair and smiled at his sweet face.  "You just got so into your painting you didn't realize what time it is."

"I didn't — oh, fuck!  I've got to—"  He ripped himself from my arms and dashed away.  "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he swore.

"Sometimes I worry about you."  I walked in and gave him a swat on the butt as I passed him.  "Is that the only word you know?"

"Fuck!"

"All right, Jame!"  I actually hear enough swearing at work.  I like to avoid it at home. 

He turned from the fridge and gave me a glare.  "Well, it's too late to make a roast now, because I forgot to put it in.  So you're going to have peanut butter and jelly.  Does that sound good?"  He glared at me.

It was my fault now apparently.  Of course.  "We can go out to eat.  It's all right."

"Really?"  He perked up immediately.

I rolled my eyes.  "Of course, really!  Why didn't you think of that?"

"Because I have to finish my painting and—"  He trailed off, reaching up to scratch at his disarrayed but still beautiful hair.

"Don't, Jame, you'll get paint—"  I sighed.

"Oh, I took the cat to the vet.  He's fine.  They checked him out and he's in great health.  But we need to fatten him up, because he's a little underweight from living in the wild.  Oh, and I got the flea medicine and everything.  Now we need to name him."  He gave me a sweet, hopeful, appealing look, the one I'd never been able to resist, not when we were kids, and certainly not now when we're both grown, married, and in love.

"All right.  What are we naming him?"

"Max!"

I shrugged out of my jacket and undid my holster, waiting to hear it.

He watched me for a moment, distracted, gaze growing intent.  I grinned.  "Well?"  He liked my holster.

"Well, do you have a suggestion?" he said warily, gaze returning to my face.

"Sure.  Okay."  I hesitated.  "How about Orangey?"

"Orangey's a terrible name!  How can you even think that?  I'm disappointed in you."  He gave me a stern, scolding look.

"All right," I said calmly.  "What are we naming him?"

"Roger."

"Roger.  Okay.  Roger it is."

I headed toward the bedroom to change.  Jamie ran after me.  "And when he's happy we can call him the Jolly Roger!  And it's a short, easy name, so maybe he'll learn to come when called.  What are you going to wear, Max?  I want to match.  Where are we eating, what dress code?"

"Um, the steakhouse, okay?"

"Okay.  I like the steakhouse.  I don't have to dress up."

I turned to look at him in astonishment.  "Jamie Wyzacki, when have you ever had to dress up to go out to eat with me?"

He gave me a dancing-eyed, flirtatious grin.  "Whenever we go to Pete's.  I've got to make you look good.  Your arm candy." 

He did a flirty little thing with his hips, and I rolled my eyes, blushing a little.  "Is that why you're always so outrageous there?"

"Max!  You take that back!  I am not outrageous!"

Pete's is the local gay bar.  We go there to see our friends and have a drink most Saturdays.  Jamie always dresses as sexy as he can, sexy enough to draw every eye when we enter the building.  And then he drapes himself on my arm and flirts outrageously with me the whole time.

"Sure, honey."  I patted his cheeks with both hands, which earned me an affronted blink and a glare.  "You keep telling yourself that."

In our bedroom, the cat was sleeping curled up on the end of the bed.  I stopped and stared at it.  "This is not going to work, Roger.  This is my territory."  I picked him up and deposited him gently on the floor.

Roger yawned and stretched, everything about him casual, even his tail.  "That is some cat," I said, watching him walk away.  "He's like constantly on mellow pills."

"Popping back the catnip.  No, he's just a good cat."

"So how long has he been here?" I asked calmly as I sorted through my drawers to find a shirt. 

"A week or two," mumbled Jamie.

"I see."

"What's that supposed to mean?  That I should've told you sooner?"

"Well, it couldn't have hurt."  I held a shirt up to my chest and turned to look at him.  He looked mutinous and narrow-eyed. 

"This one?" I asked.

"The red one."  He turned away, and then hesitated.  "You're upset I didn't tell you?"

"Um.  Not really.  I just wish you would tell me things."

"Oh.  Well!  In that case, I sold another painting today!  The big green one.  Aren't you proud of me?"  He gave me such a big grin. 

I returned it.  "Of course I am, babe.  Congratulations!"  I walked over and hugged him. 

He practically wriggled in my arms with happiness, smiling up at me.  "See?  I can sell my abstract stuff, too.  Maybe not as much or as fast, but I'm finding a market!"

"You're amazing."  I kissed him.

He grabbed hold of my shirt and kissed me back, hard.  When we broke apart, we were panting. 

"Hey!  Let's celebrate!"  His eyes gleamed.

"Steakhouse isn't enough—"

"Idiot."  He pushed me back toward the bed, his expression fond.

~

"Maaaxx," said Jamie.  He leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, one arm raised, resting up high, very dramatic. 

I looked up from the green peppers I was chopping.  It was our day for Pete's and a slow-cooked supper.  "Yeah, babe?"

"Since you think I'm too outrageous, how's this outfit?"

I looked him up and down.  He wore a scoop-neck t-shirt, jeans that didn't hug his skin as tightly as his usual Pete's wear, and less jewelry.  "You always look great, you know that."

He smiled and stepped into the room, walking a bit slinky, letting his hands glide down to rest on his hips.  "Thanks.  But from what you said the other day, you clearly don't like it when I dress up so much for Pete's."

"Is that what I said?  No, do whatever you like, Jame."  I turned back to the cutting board.  I was making meatloaf.  I like to put lots of vegetables in it.  Makes it healthier and tastier.

"Max!"

"Yes, hon?"  I looked up, smiled at him.  My demanding Jamie.  Sometimes he looked just like he did when he was twelve — not his body, thank God, but his facial expression.  Right now he was a mixture of brimming resentment and his old, demanding self. 

"Shut up and tell me how I look!"

"You look great, as always.  And yes, a little less of a twink."

As soon as I said it, I regretted it.  His face closed down. 

Jamie doesn't tell me when I've hurt him.  He doesn't complain, though he will rant and whine about the smallest irritant otherwise.  No, the expression leaves his face and he gets quiet and blank.  He doesn't talk about it, just takes it.  I feel awful when I hurt him, because I'd never do it on purpose.

"Jame."  I walked over to him, put my arms around his middle.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean it like that."

He stayed stiff in my arms.  "How do you mean it, Max?  I'm outrageous.  I'm bossy.  I'm a twink now, too."  He pulled back and looked at me, meeting my gaze, his sober and assessing, looking into me.  "Is that how you see me, Maxy?  Really?"

"No!  I—I just think you're more expressive than me.  I like that.  It's a good thing, actually.  I didn't realize I was sounding so critical lately.  I'm sorry."

"Well, good.  You know I don't like labels.  Especially not from you!  I'll go change again."

"Um, okay."

I watched him go warily, uncertain what he was going to come back looking like this time.  To be honest, it was a relief when he didn't wear a shirt that stayed open almost to his belly button. 

I've always had slightly different feelings about Jamie dressing up than he has.  He used to work at an escort agency (non sex work) and never minded, but I absolutely hate to see him showing off for strangers.

I finished cutting the vegetables and put them in a bowl with the rest of the meatloaf stuff.  I was mixing it all together by hand when he returned.  He wore his regular jeans and a sports jersey.  He didn't say anything, but he didn't look happy, his face still sober and quiet, all his thoughts locked away inside because I'd hurt him — again. 

How did I keep doing this?  I'd thought we were doing well lately, since we both knew we loved each other and were even married now. 

"That's not your usual Pete's wear," I remarked.

He shrugged one shoulder, reached out and scooped up the trash from cleaning vegetables — the middle of the green pepper, the onion skins and carrot peelings.  "Thought I'd try something different," he said, voice still low.

"Jamie…"

"Can we just go, Max?"  He looked up at me, his eyes sad and pleading.

"Of course.  I'm sorry."  I finished the meatloaf quickly and put it in the oven.  I love cooking, and Jamie loves my cooking, but he still does most of it on the weekdays.  I liked getting the chance to make something when I could.

I washed up as Jamie rinsed and put things in the dishwasher and started it.  I didn't change for Pete's, just took off my apron and tossed it in the laundry basket, ran fingers back through my hair, and put on my shoes.

"You look good without having to do anything," said Jamie, still sounding broody.

"So do you."  I hugged him closer to me as we walked to the car. 

In the car, my few conversational gambits fell short, and after that I concentrated on driving.  I like it when Jamie chatters, filling the car with words, telling me everything in the world, just as he always did when we were kids.  I'm not as good at talking, more the quiet type.  We'd have a very quiet relationship if I always had to pick the topic and keep him interested.  Eventually, I let silence reign in the car.

When we got there, I parked and turned to look at him.  He reached for his seatbelt, then paused, looking at me, seeing I wanted something.

"We okay?" I asked gently.  "You know I never want to hurt you."

He nodded.  "I get it, Max.  I just wish…  I don't want to… to feel so vulnerable."

"Huh?"

"Like one little word from you can ruin my day and make me feel like shit."  He ran his fingers self-consciously back through his hair and sighed.  "You don't do it on purpose, I know.  But when — that time you didn't like my modern art, I was devastated."

"I know.  I could've kicked myself."

"Thing is, I knew you don't like modern art, so I don't know why I let it bother me.  But it did.  I just take critical-sounding things so much harder from you.  Someone else can call my work shit to my face and I just laugh it off, but even the slightest critical remark from you makes me doubt everything."

"Well, please don't let it.  I would never want you to feel that way.  I'm not perfect, and I say things sometimes that come out wrong.  Please don't hold it against me, okay?"  I pulled him gently into my arms.

He snuggled into them.  "I would never," he said.  "But thank you!"

We walked into Pete's side by side, arms around each other, him leaning against me, looking content.

Leroy saw us first and whistled, long and loud.  "What happened to my gorgeous twink?"

"I'll give you twink," said Jamie, smiling affectionately.  Still leaning against me, he flashed the man a one-fingered salute.

"Oh, man, he's going butch," said someone else, and I turned to see Archer raise a glass of beer and give me a wink.

"Lay off," I groused.  "The usual," I said, smiling at Jax, the bartender. 

"You too, babe?" he asked, addressing Jamie with the tenderness he always used.  He has a big soft spot for Jamie.  Who wouldn't?

"Beer today," said Jamie, and turned to shout at the room at large, a sentence that earned him universal laughter: "Apparently, I'm going butch!"

~

The next day I got home, weary to the bone as was not unusual for me.  I love my job, but it can be really tough, sometimes more than others.  Today we had to deal with a messy suicide.  I was ready to forget it all and sink into the comfort of Jamie's opinionated chatter and warm affection.

"Hey, Jame," I said, pushing open the kitchen door and trying to smile at him.  He stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing a rag and twisting it roughly under the water.  Paint-stained water flowed from it and down the drain.

He jerked at the sound of me, actually jumped, and banged his hand on the faucet.  "Oh, bloody fuck!"  He threw the rag in the sink and shook out his hand, turning to glare at me.  "Would you not do that?  Always have to sneak up on people like you're a fucking undercover cop, which you're not."  He glared down at his hand, shaking it again and then squeezing it, tears at the edges of his eyes.  "Now I'm fucking bleeding!"  He kicked at the dishwasher and then winced, limping gingerly.

"You're a mess.  What's the matter?"  I held out my hands.  "Let me see?"

"No!"  He shouted at me, tears in his eyes.  He grabbed a kitchen towel and stormed from the room.

I sighed.  Ran my fingers back through my hair, and felt all the weariness of the day settle in my chest, even more than before.  Jamie was throwing a temper tantrum, and for once, I was tempted to just let him. 

I looked down at the sink, at the rag he'd been rinsing so frantically.  As I moved nearer, my foot bumped a galvanized bucket that had a little bit of water in the bottom, also paint-stained.  A dark premonition filled me.

Jamie doesn't use rags and buckets for his art.  He also doesn't use what looked like angry red spray paint.  My heart in my throat, I went back outside and walked around the house, looking carefully at the walls.

Sure enough, now that I knew what I was looking for, I could see it.

He'd done a good job, getting enough of the ugly word off that I couldn't see it until I got close.  But the shadow was there, the mark of hate.

I felt the usual things, but did my best to push them down. 

Question was, why had Jamie felt like he had to deal with this alone?

Chapter two

I went back inside, got some bandages and antibiotic ointment.  I found him on the bed, flopped on his side, tears in his red, puffy eyes.  I didn't say anything, just sat down on the bed and reached for his hand.  He let me have it, limp and defeated.

He sniffed once, and wiped his nose with the back of his other hand.  "You saw, didn't you?" 

I nodded.  "Why didn't you call me, babe?  For one thing, we should've gotten pictures so we can prosecute."

He snorted.  "Parade that ugliness to the world, you mean.  Yeah, right, Max!  I didn't want anyone to know.  Besides, they'll never catch the bastards."

"It's probably the same people who vandalized that synagogue last month."

"And they haven't caught them yet, have they?" he demanded, meeting my gaze for the first time.  His looked heartsick and miserable.

"No.  But when they do, we'd have something else to prosecute them on, maybe."

"I don't care.  I wasn't letting anyone else see that shit.  Especially you!"

"Jamie, I've seen much worse, babe."  I rubbed his side, trying to soothe him.

"But this is our home," he said, his voice trembling.  He closed his eyes, closed his now-bandaged hand into a fist, then flexed it open again.  "And you never would've had to deal with anything like that before I came here."  His voice was small and trembly.

"Um, excuse me?  You think this is your fault?  Get that out of your head, Jame.  I'm not a stranger to this assholery.  When I was with Lincoln, we had a few incidents to deal with." 

"Really?"  His eyes popped open, staring up at me.  Then his gaze narrowed again, really fast and hard.  "Wait, did he live here with you?"

I stood up.  "What?"  I ran a hand back through my hair.  Where was this coming from?  "You know I've dated before, and you know Lincoln was my one real long-term boyfriend before you.  It's not like you've never lived with anyone yourself."  I thought of Rock, his ex, the man I hated with an unreasonable, vitriolic hatred.

Jamie's gaze narrowed further.  "So he did live here!"  He sat up, his face betraying his agitation.  "Did he have the upstairs for painting, too?"

I snorted.  "Lincoln never lifted a paintbrush in his life."

"So he was more butch than me, and he still—"  He coughed into his hand.  "He and you still had to deal with—"

I sat down and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, drawing him gently against my side.  "None of this is your fault.  You can't make someone hate you enough to vandalize and write ugly things.  That is their fault.  It's squarely on them, not you or me.  Nobody deserves to be treated that way, and you know it.  So stop with the guilt trip, okay babe?"

"Okay."  He nodded miserably and leaned against me, sniffing a little.  "I just — I'm so…"  He reached up and wiped at his eyes with the sides of his hands.  "Gah!"

"Yeah," I sympathized, softly rubbing a circle on his back.  "I know, babe."

Eventually, I convinced him we needed to let the guys at work know about this.  We shouldn't try to handle it ourselves, and if it was the precursor of something worse, we needed a record of this now.  He agreed reluctantly, but he wasn't happy when one of the officers came from work to interview him.

Another officer took pictures of what was left of the lettering, and together they would later ask the neighbors if they saw anything.  Questioning Jamie was Kelly, which was some help; Jamie likes Kelly, and she's not exactly an intimidating personality.  With her soft, smooth skin and Mexican accent, she's a beautiful, sweet policewoman, no-nonsense but warm-hearted.  She has a soft spot for Jamie, too.

She made her questions as gentle as she could, but Jamie still sat on the couch, looking smaller, shrunken, his hands pressed between his knees, jittering in place.  I stayed by him, and he answered in a low, flat monotone.  No, he hadn't seen anything.  He'd gotten back from grocery and paint shopping and found the word and a broken bottle on the porch.  Bourbon.  Name brand.  No, he didn't think to save the glass, but it was in a plastic bag tied shut in the garbage can.

Finally, the ordeal was over.  I spent some time holding him, comforting him, reassuring him; Jamie needs that more than he likes to admit even on the best of days.  And today certainly wasn't the best of days.

I took him out to Pete's after he calmed down, and we ate there and had a couple of drinks, talking in the booth for hours, our voices subdued.  Our friends gave us their support, and then some privacy while we soaked in the safety of our surroundings. 

As the drinks started to take effect, he wanted to be more affectionate.  I held him on my lap and stroked his stomach and we kissed.  And after while, we felt relaxed enough to dance together, me awkwardly with feet that felt too big, him with the beautiful, graceful flare he had for everything, whirling around, reaching for me and smiling, and then closing his eyes and raising his hands as he twisted and moved to the music, swaying his hips, a small smile on his face.

We almost forgot the reason for going by the time I got him home.  He'd drunk enough to lean sleepily on my arm and ramble on about how much he loved everything.  Apparently he liked the dog, the cat, the house, me, painting, Pete's, the back yard, bed, and sex.  Most of all, sex.

"You'll have a headache if you don't drink some water," I warned him.

"Sex," said Jamie, giving me that narrow-eyed, halfway pouting, stubborn look of his.  He lay back on the bed, looking up at me, ordering me without having to say another word.

"If you want sex, then drink water. C'mon."  I tried to hand him a glass, nudged his hand.  "Sit up and drink it."

"Bully."

"You're a bully."

"I want sex!"

I laughed at him then, and hauled him up, and kissed him.  And then he drank the water, and we undressed each other.  I worked slowly, more than halfway convinced he'd be asleep before we got any further, but he wasn't.  His gaze never left me, and he woke up enough to really enjoy it by the time we got that far. 

"I like sex," he said again afterwards, with a contented sigh, snuggling up to my side.

"So do I."  I tugged him closer, kissing the top of his head and stroking down his messy hair.

"Did you like it more with Lincoln?" he asked shyly.

I hesitated, startled by this turn of events.  "We're talking about old boyfriends now, really?"

"Uh huh.  Did you?"

He'd never asked me anything like this before.  I cleared my throat.  "No.  For the record, no.  It's… you're the best for me, you know that, Jamie."

"Good."  He closed his eyes, breathing deep.  Without opening them, he added, "You too, you know.  I loved Rock, but he never loved me.  You love me.  I can always tell.  He laughed at me sometimes, but you never laugh at me — well, not like that — and — and you're the best, Max.  You're just always the best and I love you forever."  He snuggled closer to my side and pressed a warm kiss there.  "Mm.  And I like your cock, too," he added, reaching down with a sleepy hand to cup me.  "It's a very nice cock."

"Thank you."  I couldn't help laughing a little, and I moved his hand so I could sleep.

Soon, he was snoring gently against my side, my warm, comfortable, beautiful Jamie.  I slept, too.  I knew a patrol car would go by the house several times tonight, and I allowed myself to feel safe. 

Troublesome dreams followed me, but the warmth pressed against my side helped keep them at bay, and the dog and cat who arrived stealthily sometime during the night and pressed against our thighs and feet did, too.

~

On Saturday I was working hard to get everything together for our barbeque, when Jamie threw a fit.

"Forget it!"  He marched into the kitchen, put the marinated ribs back in the fridge, slammed the door, and shoved the bottles of barbeque sauce back into the cupboard.  He slammed that door, too, and then turned to me with his arms crossed.  "We are not having a barbeque.  Call it off!"  He scowled up at me, as bratty as he'd ever looked in his whole life.

"Jamie—"

"No!"  He stalked from the room. 

I stood there in my Kiss the Chef apron, holding a plate of kebabs I'd assembled.  The smell of charcoal burning already wafted through the house from the grill outdoors.  And the guests were coming in two hours.

"Jamie!"

"No!" he shouted again, from the other room.  "We're not having it!"

I took a deep breath.  "JAMES MICHAEL WYZACKI!"

"MAXWELL HOUSE COFFEE!" he shouted back, and I couldn't help laughing, letting out my breath and letting go of my anger. 

That was a phrase he'd come up with to shout at me when we were young.  He was a little kid strutting around, angry with me about something.  He didn't know my middle name at the time, so he couldn't shout my full name at me the way his mother did with him when he got on her last nerve.  So he made up this, clenching his little fists and yelling up at me, "Maxwell House Coffee!  You get in here!"

I laughed at him so hard, but I listened to him too, and came back to fetch him along with his brother and me wherever it was we were going without him. 

Mason complained.  But I never minded when Jamie tagged along.  I loved him even then, three years younger than me and such a brat sometimes. 

I loved him desperately, first as a friend and later as more.  It took me a long time to finally admit that, even after we were grown up and together.  I nearly ruined our relationship because it took me so long.  But we're okay now, I am glad to note.  Except for this stupid tantrum he was throwing at the moment.

I put down the raw kebabs and followed him into the next room.  "All right.  What is it?  This was your idea, you know.  Celebrate our marriage, invite all our friends."  I shrugged.  "So what's the matter now?"

He stood in the middle of the living room, biting his lip.  Arms crossed over his chest.  Looking shrunken in on himself, miserable and smaller than usual.  His hair stood up at odd angles as if he'd been yanking at it.

"Is it because of the graffiti?" I guessed.

"No!"  He glared at me, affronted.  "As if I'd let those assholes stop us!"  He cleared his throat and looked away from me again, biting his lip.

I sat down on the couch and patted the seat beside me.  "Sit.  Tell me."

He moved to the couch and sat, the sullen, stubborn look on his face turning to one of defeat.  He sighed and leaned forward, putting his head in his hands, then raking fingers roughly back through his hair.  "My ex invited himself."

"Rock?"  We'd known for weeks that both his ex and mine were coming.  It was just one of those things.  What was the problem?

He gave me a stern look and sat up straighter.  "An ex from college."

"I thought Rock was your college ex."

"Toward the end, yeah.  But I dated other guys too, you know.  And the first one was Felix."  He put his head in his hands again, pressing his palms to his eyes, and sighed heavily.  Then he straightened up and began to speak.  "I guess I have to tell you."

"No."

"Well, then I want to tell you.  I'm just not real proud of that whole time.  It was tough for me.  After… you know."

I knew.  After my friendship with the Wyzacki family broke off, because I told Mason I was gay, Jamie was devastated by my loss, thinking I grew distant because I'd guessed he had a crush on me.  I hadn't. I never found out till he told me years later. 

It still hurt thinking about what happened next. Jamie was molested by one of his brother's friends.  And I knew, even as much better as he was doing, he might not be completely over it for a long time.  It had affected a big part of his youth, stolen his innocence, and demolished his confidence for a long time.  For years, he'd blamed himself because he was gay, because he had been attracted to the man, and Clint put the guilt on him and convinced him he'd "asked for it."

Jamie continued, "I was out at college, but not at home.  At school, I wore tight rainbow t-shirts and shorts with 'ass' written on the back of them."  He smiled a little at his nerve.  "I was loud and proud, but inside, I wasn't very confident, not really.  I was trying to prove a lot to myself and the world." 

He sighed.  "My first boyfriend was Felix.  He was an asshole.  I can admit that now.  He partied a lot, he drank too much, he even did drugs.  But he was also tall, dark, and gorgeous, and he looked at me with these eyes that said he wanted to have sex with me.  It was pretty good sex, too.  But he wanted me to party as much as he did, and it made me uncomfortable.  He wanted to go bareback, and I never did, but he kept trying.  And we definitely didn't do monogamous relationships.  At least not on his side.  I…I dated him for about six months before I finally got fed up with all his shit.  They're not very good memories. 

"He was good to me, in his own way, I think he even liked me, but… he wasn't what I needed.  Just because he was better than Clint didn't make him really healthy boyfriend material for me.  I remember feeling like shit a lot while I was with him, wondering why I wasn't good enough for him.  Why he couldn't stop with the drinking and drugs so he would actually be present.  He kept wanting threesomes and bareback when I just wanted somebody to love me and tell me I was good enough for him, that he didn't need anybody else." 

He buried his head in his hands and his voice cracked now.  "Want to know the really sick part?  I loved him."  His shoulders shook.  "I loved him because he wasn't Clint, and he was so confident, and no matter what, he never actually hurt me.  And I was just so desperate for somebody to love me.  But he never did."

I pulled Jamie into my arms and held him while he cried.  "We'll call him back.  We'll tell him he can't come."

He laughed brokenly.  "You try telling Felix he can't go wherever he wants to go."

My jaw hardened.  "Maybe he'll get a welcoming committee if he shows up.  Now come on.  Our friends — and a couple of ex boyfriends — are coming over.  I want them to see your smile, my brave Jamie.  You're not going to let this guy get to you.  I'll send him away if I have to.  C'mon."  I swatted his side, and he gave me a teary smile and stood up. 

"Okay."

Two hours later, nobody would ever have guessed my little Jamie had been a tearful, self-conscious wreck.  He was the butterfly of the party, going from group to group, laughing, carrying a bottle of beer with him everywhere but barely sipping it, laughing with his eyes, his body, his whole being.  He danced occasionally, spontaneously, to a snatch of music from the stereo we'd dragged outside and hooked up to speakers. 

He greeted everyone like they were old friends, made them welcome with his big smile and his bright chatter, shaking hands, hugging, or kissing cheeks as appropriate with each incoming guest.  When my captain arrived, Jamie clasped his hand in both of his and thanked him for treating me so well.  He spoke with such earnest honesty my captain was clearly flattered and pleased.  Then Jamie kissed the captain's wife's hand and told her she was gorgeous, and where had she gotten that scarf?

Jamie smiled and smiled, hand lightly on my arm while we greeted Lincoln and Rock, by turns.  He couldn't have been more classy, composed and welcoming, friendly but just distant enough.  He even made a little in-joke with Lincoln about my habit of leaving my dirty socks lying around.  I could see Lincoln's skepticism and cynicism turn to reluctant approval, and later, he lifted a bottle of beer to me, saluting my choice from afar as he raised his eyebrows.

People clustered in little groups around the house and backyard.  Alex wandered slowly everywhere, wagging her tail gently, accepting her due in love and meat from every person she met. 

"She'll blow up like a balloon," I warned, but nobody could seem to resist her begging gaze.  This was a miracle dog, a perfectly-behaved Golden Retriever, our dear pet who'd survived being hit by a car.  If she wanted a bit of rib meat or part of a hotdog, she was going to get it, and she knew it. 

The couple of people who'd brought along kids found the perfect babysitter in her, too.  Alex has always loved children.

Rock arrived with his band and set up on the back porch.  We turned off the stereo and everyone listened politely and clapped after they played us a song.  I hated it, but possibly just because I hated Rock.

Jamie went up to them and put a hand on Rock's shoulder and said something into his ear, and Rock nodded.  I watched, sipping my beer, not taking my eyes off Jamie.

"He's good for you," said a familiar voice, and I turned to see Lincoln standing beside me with his familiar, slightly cynical smile, his eyes warmer than I remembered as he studied my face.  "You smile now.  You seem more open."

"Yeah."  I took a swig of beer, needing it now.  "How are you?"

"Oh, good.  Can't complain."  He touched my arm lightly.  "I'm happy for you, Max.  Really."

"Thank you.  I know I could've done better when we were together…"

"Oh, we both could've.  Water under the bridge, right?" 

"Right."  We clinked our bottles together, and stood and watched as Rock's band got ready to play again.  I looked at Rock's skinny jeans, his piercings, his crazy hairstyle and the mascara he was wearing, and I hated him for all of it.  But most of all, I hated him for having Jamie once upon a time, my Jamie, and for laughing at him, and for not loving him.

Now Jamie came bounding back across the lawn, a big smile on his face all for me.  "Max, guess?" he said, taking my arm.  He glanced at Lincoln quickly, aware of him suddenly, but then he smiled at me again.  "Guess!" he demanded, bouncing a little in place.

"Um… Canada?" 

He punched me on the arm.  "Max!"

"Ow," I said agreeably.

"Our song, asshole!  He's going to play our song."  And then he leaned against me and snuggled against my side and sighed, tugging my arm around him till I was holding him just how he liked.

I refused to meet Lincoln's laughing gaze, took another drink, finishing my bottle, and wondered what our song was going to turn out to be.

Later, after 'our song,' which turned out to be a hard-rock rendition of 'The Mighty Quinn,' a song Jamie had played endlessly during childhood, dancing around the room and shouting it at the top of his lungs — a song I had always secretly hated — Rock's band packed up their equipment again and joined the throng, looking out-of-place with their rocker fashions, holding paper plates and cups with their black nail polished hands, mingling among the normally dressed people, eating barbecued ribs and hamburgers.

Somehow or other, Rock found his way to my side in a moment while I was alone and surveying the crowd with a satisfied, warm feeling of someone whose task is done.  I'd fixed everything correctly.  We weren't out of food or drink and nobody was fighting or upset.  It was a good celebration.  And best of all, Jamie looked happy.

"Hey," said Rock, nodding to me laconically.  He drank from a red plastic cup.  His shirt was thin enough to show his nipple piercings.

I returned his nod.  "Hey yourself."  I went back to watching the crowd.  "You play well."  I had to force myself to say it, even though it was true.  I couldn't stand the man, but I knew it was unreasonable of me. Jamie was fine about my ex.

"I knew it was you," said Rock quietly.  "The first time I saw you at our door."

"Yeah?"  I turned to look at him, interested in what he had to say, for the first time since that day when he'd told me Jamie wasn't home yet.

He nodded.  "He was pretty broken when we started dating.  On and off for a few years."  He shrugged.  "I always knew there was somebody else.  Somebody who broke his heart.  Anytime he saw a policeman, he slowed down and looked really closely, like his heart was wrenched or something." 

He took another slurp of his beverage.  I realized it was soda, and felt guilty for misjudging his relaxed speech as drunkenness.  Unless he'd spiked it with something from a hipflask… 

He lowered his cup, played with it between his hands.  "Then one day it came out.  He'd had too much to drink, practically cried on my shoulder and told me all about his boyhood hero and friend.  You."  He looked at me, his gaze cynical.  "He's so happy now.  I know he loves deeper and harder than anybody else.  I don't think you could love him as much as he loves you.  I couldn't.  But I hope you appreciate him."

And then he walked away, leaving me staring after the man I'd misjudged and hated so hard.

"Maaaxxx," said Jamie, appearing at my side, tugging at my arm.  "Dance with me!"  His smile was megawatt bright as he tugged me onto the grass, and I smiled reluctantly and let him guide me into an impromptu dance to the stereo's familiar tune.  He kicked up his heels and held my hands, wild and free, his smile bright and only for me.

Chapter three

Jamie bubbled with excitement over breakfast.  "And we're gonna see a movie, and go to that new mall, and get matching henna tattoos!"

I grimaced.  "When I said you could plan the day…"

"Oh, I know.  But this way, if we ever want to get tattoos for real, we'll know what they look like!  And they won't last long enough for us to regret it too much this way.  I'm gonna get a tramp stamp.  You don't actually have to get anything matching if you don't want, but I thought it would be cool to!  Then we can show them to the guys at Pete's tonight!"

For once on a Saturday, I was up earlier than he was. I had to go in to work for a couple of hours, but then I'd promised him the rest of the day.  I hadn't realized it was going to be a big thing, though.

He smiled at me, pleased as punch, and reached for the milk.  He lifted the container too high, because it was empty and he'd been bracing himself for a heavier gallon.  "Max!"  He looked at me in dismay.  "You ate all the milk!"

"Oh.  Well, don't we have more?"

He rose indignantly.  "No, we don't have more!  Because somebody hasn't wanted to go to the grocery store because he's been working so hard he gets home and flops and I have to do it all, but I've been busy with painting a lot this week, honey!  Now I have to drive to the convenience store if I want to eat breakfast!" 

"Well, you could have something else," I suggested mildly. 

"I don't want to cook on Saturday!"

I couldn't cook him anything either when I had to leave in a couple of minutes.  "There's toast."

"I don't want toast!"  He slammed down his spoon and stalked from the room.

"Jamie!" I called.  "Just have toast, all right?  I'll pick up some groceries on my way home, okay?"

No answer.

I ate another couple of spoonfuls of the whole grain, lightly sweetened, nutty cereal.  I put down my spoon, sighed, and got up.  "You want me to—"

He entered the kitchen just as I was starting out of it.  We almost ran into each other.  He walked confidently, cockily, and he held a container of fig-filled cookies and a chocolate bar.  We blinked at each other.  He didn't look angry now.

"You want me to run out quick and get you some milk?" I asked.

"No, that's okay," he said just as calmly and reasonably as if he hadn't pitched a mini fit a moment ago.  "I'll just have cookies for breakfast.  Cookies and chocolate."

"Um…"

"They're no worse than donuts or Pop Tarts, which, if I had them on hand, you know I'd probably break down and eat them, considering it's Saturday."

"Yes," I admitted.  Saturday was his splurge day.  My picky, usually-healthy eater.  "Do you want to share my cereal?"  I gestured toward my bowl, offering.

He laughed, a happy, light sound, and kissed me on the cheek, standing on his toes to reach me.  "No, baby.  I'm fine!  Just bring your sweet self home in time so we can finally spend some time together, okay?"  He massaged my stomach, reaching up under my shirt.

I groaned.  "Not sure I can leave, if you keep doing that."

His eyes lit.  "Really?"  He drew back and looked at me, and glanced at the front of my trousers.  A big grin lit his face.  "Why, Maximillian Octavious Stuart!"

"Would you quit doing that?"  I grimaced at his made up name for me, but I couldn't help smiling a little, too.

"Maxine Peaches Quantico!" he shouted, leaving his 'breakfast' on the table and dashing away from me, eyes bright and excited.  I started after him, trying to grab his shoulders and restrain him.  He shrieked and headed toward the bedroom, and I realized what breakfast was actually going to be: Jamie, and a few more snatched bites of soggy cereal, if I had time for them.

I started undressing.  "No, no," said Jamie, pushing me back onto the bed, and my hands away from my shirt.  "You'll just have to put it on again.  Let me!  We'll be speedy."  He unzipped my trousers and went down on me, hot and quick. 

"Aah!"  It didn't take long.  His sweet, skillful mouth made me lose control and come hard and fast.  "Jamie!"

He took it all, and then sat back looking rather satisfied with himself, almost smug.  I lay there panting.  "Baby…"  I reached for him.

"No, no."  He waved me away, laughing a little awkwardly.  I could see he was turned on, but he just pushed my hands gently away from his trousers.  "I don't need anything.  You just get ready for work.  I don't want you to be late.  If you have to help me, I'll need you to hold me afterwards, and then you'll be late for sure." 

He blushed a little at saying it out loud, but we both knew it was true.  Jamie couldn't be intimate without a cuddle session afterward.  The few times we'd tried it, he'd been devastated, emotionally bruised and vulnerable for hours afterwards, full of self-doubt and self-loathing.  Because of his sexual history — some of which I knew, some of which I didn't — he'd probably never be able to just have sex quickly without some reassurance afterwards that he was loved and wanted other ways, too. 

I knew he was right, but it was hard to accept.  He clearly wanted me. 

"You sure?"  I looked up at him, and he nodded, cheeks pink. 

It hurt that I couldn't even give him this back.  I sat up and kissed him, soft and tender, and he melted into my arms, giving me a tight hug. 

"You okay?" I asked, rubbing his back.

"Uh huh.  I'm always okay doing this with you.  You'd never hurt me, I know that."

It made me ache inside, not his confidence in me, but that someone else had hurt him.  For not the first time, I wished Clint was still alive so I could teach him a lesson he'd never forget.  Like maybe the last lesson he'd ever learn.  I don't like feeling so vicious, but if anything brings that side out for me, it's the thought of someone hurting Jamie.  And I knew the molesting bastard might not have been the only one who used Jamie for sex and left him feeling unwanted and unloved afterwards.

We hugged for another minute, then I got ready again.  Jamie helped me clean up.  I pulled my trousers up, zipped, and had time to nearly finish my cereal before I ran out the door, waving to him.  Jamie waved back, his smile bright and cheerful, and he bit into a fig cookie while watching me go.

Unfortunately, a couple of hours later I had to call him and break the bad news.  My boss needed me to stay another four hours.  Almost a whole shift total, on what was supposed to be a day off for me. 

"What?"  Jamie exploded over the phone.  "No!"

I pulled my cell phone back a few inches from my head as he ranted.

"You just march in there and tell your boss 'No fucking way!  I'm spending the day with my husband!'  You worked hard all week, too tired to do anything, and now they want you to work more?   Just tell them no!"

I sighed.  "I can't, baby.  I have to do this."  We were even more understaffed lately than normal, and sometimes emergencies came up.  As the only openly gay man at the precinct, I felt like I had to be extra responsible and not say no when the boss needed me.  I felt like I needed to be the guy who could be counted on no matter what. 

"No you don't!" he shouted, and I could hear the tears in his voice.  "You always stay for them!  I don't want you to!  Why don't you c-come home?  I'm so tired of g-getting your second best or nothing at all.  Today was for us.  You said!  You said I could—"

"Jamie," I interrupted, weary already of his rant, and wearier still that I had to work more.  "I'm sorry, okay?  I'll call you—"

"No you won't!" he snapped.  "You know why?  Because I'm turning off my cell phone, and I'm going to feed the animals and walk the dog and then I'm going to g-go have a fucking day out by myself!  Yes!  I'll g-get my tattoo—"  He was crying now. I could hear it in his voice. 

Drama queen, I thought, irritated and unhappy and angry at hearing him cry.  My heart ached, and I wanted to make him shut up.  But I kept my mouth shut, because I knew how much my words could hurt him.  He can rant and shout and swear, but if I say one little thing, he keeps it in his heart forever and brings it out and flagellates himself with it when he's feeling low.  He probably still thought about the time I accidentally called him a twink.  

"I'm gonna get my t-tattoo, and then I'm going to Pete's!  Yes!  Without you.  And I will wear my sparkly shirt, the one you hate, and all my jewelry, and I will dance with the first man who asks me, and drink all the free drinks Jax gives me — which he will — and have fun all by myself!"

"Is that all?" I asked wearily.

"What do you mean?  Isn't that enough?"  He sounded startled.

"I'll be working, and you'll be having fun.  Is that all?  Should I still pick up groceries on the way home?"

"D-do whatever you want!"

I took two deep breaths.  I could hear him on the other end of the phone, waiting.  I didn't know what for.  Anything I said now would be wrong.  And as much as I wanted to, I still didn't feel I could say no to my boss about this.

"I'll see you tonight," I said quietly, and hung up. 

He didn't call back.

~

The thought of him dancing with all the guys at Pete's tormented me, but I just had to grit my teeth and plow through the day somehow.

I was so tired from the demanding week, I was on autopilot by the time the day ended.  I wasn't angry anymore, just weary to the bone.  I stopped for milk and grabbed a loaf of bread, some hamburger, rolls, ketchup, and baby spinach, and drove home, expecting him to be there.

He wasn't.

Instead, a note on the table said, in big angry letters, underlined twice for emphasis: AT PETE'S.

I stared down at it for a minute.  I reached down, crumpled it, and threw it in the trashcan.  I slammed the milk, meat, and spinach into the fridge, ignored the animals looking at me hopefully, and started out the door.

I drove too fast to Pete's, and I don't think my jaw unclenched once the whole way.  I was still seeing red when I yanked open the door and strode in to the bar.

The atmosphere of Pete's greeted me like an old friend, the warm wooden walls, the familiar music, and even the smell of the place.  But I was too angry to let it soothe me.  Too angry to let my hair down after my miserable day.

I looked around for him, for my husband, and sure enough, there he was, sitting at a booth opposite Leroy, his elbows on the table, his chin resting in them, a colorful drink in front of him.  He was laughing at something Leroy said.

I slammed over toward them.

A bunch of chairs scraped back at once, and a bunch of worried-looking men rose.  "Easy there," said Martin, putting a hand in the middle of my chest and looking me in the eye.  Martin's a big man, my size but wider around.  His eyes solemnly promised not to let me past if I meant harm.  "We wouldn't want you to do anything you'll regret."

I looked around and realized a bunch of worried, tensed faces were watching me.  Half the guys in the bar were on their feet, ready to defend Jamie from me.  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  Part of me felt good that he'd inspired such loyalty in people we knew.  Part of me felt awful because he'd spent the day with them, not me.

"Max!" called Jamie, sounding delighted.  "You're here!"  He ran over.  Martin gave me that same worried, warning look, silently asking me not to do anything stupid.  My jaw clenched and unclenched once more.

"You're here!" said Jamie again, elbowing Martin unceremoniously out of the way and looking up at me with shining, proud eyes.  His smile was big and happy as he touched my arm.  He didn't appear to be drunk.  He was, however, wearing his sparkly shirt like he'd said, the one I hated, and his tight red jeans, the ones that really showed off his ass.  He also wore a couple of surfer-type necklaces, his silver key necklace, and the colorful stones bracelet.  And his red sneakers.  His hair was neatly combed and greased in his Elvis style, a sexy look for him.

"Get in the truck," I grated, my voice strained and low.  "We're going home."

"No, we're not!  You just got here.  Dance with me," he pleaded, looking up at me.  And he finally noticed how upset I was.  His mouth fell open.  "Max!  You're jealous!"  He looked happy and excited.  "You're jealous over me!"  He almost did a little dance right there in front of me in his red sneakers.

"You asshole," I said, trying not to smile.  "I'm not jealous.  I'm angry!"

"No you're not!  You're smiling."  He grinned at me, tugged my arm, and led me back to his booth.  "Beat it, Leroy!  He's here!" 

Leroy laughed unsteadily and rose.  "Boy, there's loyalty for you!"

Jamie cast him a quick, grateful smile.  "But thanks for talking with me.  It helped!"

"I'd be glad to help other ways, too, baby.  Don't you forget that!"  He gave him a big, sloppy wink and me a little salute as he left, taking his nearly empty beer with him.

Jamie sat down next to me in the booth and leaned against me, rubbing my arm.  "You're really tense," he said.  "Your muscles feel rock hard."

"Don't even talk to me about Rock!"

He laughed.  "No, I meant — c'mere!"  He snuggled against me, pulling my arm around him the way he liked, so he was cocooned against my side.  At first I resisted.  Then I didn't. 

I felt myself calming down.  Jax brought me my usual without me having to ask, and I gave him a curt nod and took a drink.  Jamie sighed.  "I missed you, Max!  It's no fun getting a henna tattoo alone.  Do you want to see it?"

"Show me later," I said, still very aware of the interested eyes watching us, people who would be eager either to see more drama (as long as I didn't hurt Jamie), or any skin and tattoo art from my husband.  He would flash it quite unselfconsciously, I was absolutely sure.  Even if he'd changed his mind and gotten it on his naked ass, he'd just give them all a free floor show without thinking about it.  I tightened my arm around him protectively.  I just hate it when people stare at my Jamie.  Even if I can't blame them.

"I'm sorry I yelled," he said softly, stroking my chest with his gentle hand.  "Fuck, I really lost it today.  Twice, once about the milk, then when you were working late.  It's been a fucking awful week, and I just got so upset.  I thought we would finally get to spend some fun time together, and then it was ripped away from me, like a present taken back.  I kind of lost it.  I'm sorry."

"That's okay," I said, reaching out to rub him, too.  "I'm sorry I had to work instead.  Do you want to go home and eat something?  I bought spinach and hamburger."  I could picture us cooking together, him making the salad, me making burgers on the stove.

"Ooh, nice.  But let's eat here and save it for tomorrow, okay?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah, and then dance with me, okay?   I want to dance with you."  He sighed as he snuggled against me, and then shouted across the bar, "Hey, garcon!  Your finest menu, and make it snappy!"  He snapped his fingers at Jax, and Jax burst out laughing.

"One of these days you'll push someone too far," he said walking over, looking happy.  He met my gaze over Jamie's head and nodded at me, a look that seemed to say, Don't worry.  We took care of him. 

I knew they had.  I just didn't want anyone taking too much care of him, that was all.

We ate Jax's homemade French fries and turkey po' boys and drank hard lemonade.  And then, then we danced.

Chapter four

"Max, who knows more about fashion, you or me?" my husband demanded, one hand on his hip.

"You do."  I waited patiently to be told off.

"Then believe me, I do not need to wear a suit!"  He turned back to the dresser and slung another layer of jewelry around his neck. 

I regarded him affectionately but at the same time trying not to laugh.  "You just don't scream professional to me at the moment."

He snorted.  "That's because you're not in the art scene.  The weirder I look, the better at this point!"

"Even for a gallery event?"

"Especially for a gallery event!"

A small gallery in the next state had seen some of Jamie's colorful modern splatter canvases.  They wanted him as one of their featured artists for a gallery show tomorrow.  It was all very much over my head as far as understanding, but Jamie was ecstatic, and even I could see this could mean big things for him.  We celebrated, and hugged and kissed (and did a little more than that, if you know what I mean), and then he went slightly frantic trying to decide which paintings to take along.

"And I have to charge enough, Max.  I have to charge more than I do online, because if they're going to a gallery, they're going to want an experience, and prestige and all that, and if mine are the cheapest there, they'll look like they're not as good!"

"Don't second guess everything.  Just price as you feel comfortable," I offered.

"I'm going to hyperventilate."  He patted his chest hard, breathing heavily, tears in his eyes.  "I can't believe — and now I'm — I'm freaking out!"

We cuddled a lot on the weeks counting down to the gallery thing. 

Eventually, he got everything sorted out.  We boxed and shipped them carefully over.  He drove up to help with the setup, and now he was getting ready to head over there for the sale.

Naturally I had to work.  The biggest thing in my husband's life, and I couldn't get the time off because we were short staffed.

He was surprisingly good about it.  "It's okay, Max. You know you'd hate it!  Just be happy for me.  That's enough!"  He rubbed my stomach briskly, giving me one of his brightest grins.

"Of course I'm happy for you, Jamielon!"  I gathered him close in a gentle hug, and he squeezed me back tightly.

"And if I make lots of money, maybe we can go on a vacation this year!"

"Yeah, and maybe you could put it in the bank in case we have an emergency or something."

He rolled his eyes.  "Boring, Max, boring!  Don't you want to see the ocean waves before you die?"

"I've seen them.  My parents took me when I was nine."

He sobered.  "Just before your mom…"

"Yeah."  My mom died when I was ten.

"Oh, sorry, Max.  I didn't mean to remind you."  He looked sober and guilty.

"No, are you kidding?  It's a great memory."

"Then we should definitely go back!"  He grinned, eyes sparkling, sure in his logic and his choice of what we should do with the money he might or might not earn.

I didn't bother arguing, just kissed him.

Now he was getting ready to drive up alone.  Very much alone.  Dressed like that.

I'd never seen such a bohemian outfit on him, and this was Jamie we were talking about.  I can't even describe his outfit, it was so outside my experience.  There were lots of layers and colors and a weird little hat, and all the loudest jewelry he owned.  He cast me another bright smile, adjusting his hat.  "How do I look?"

I just shook my head and walked away.  His laughter followed me.

~

A few minutes later he went from teasing me to concerned about me. 

I reassured him the best I could.  Yes, I would be all right.  Yes, I would eat healthily.  No, I wouldn't just sit at Pete's and brood during my hours off. 

I kissed him goodbye, and he smiled and waved and looked so very happy I wished he could have a gallery thing every week.

Then I went to work. 

~

I've run that day through my head a million times.

Pulling the car over.  Getting out to give a warning — never a ticket, because I just don't for broken lights, unless it's egregious repeat offenders.  Even then, and even when I'm under my quota, I am very, very slow to give a ticket for broken lights.  I can't help thinking whoever can't afford to fix their lights can't afford the fine, either. 

So I was just going to give them a warning. 

I walked up to the car, and then the world unbalanced.  There was a loud noise, and I was on the ground.  It hurt. 

Everything hurt.  And I lost consciousness, even as the driver of the car I'd pulled over was getting out of his car, eyes huge, terrified for me.

~

I was sideswiped by a passing car.  A little old lady, we found out later, who didn't see me.  They suspended her license for a few months.  At the time, the frantic call of 'officer down' from the man I'd pulled over, who'd apparently seen one too many cop dramas, brought a raging herd of my coworkers and a screaming ambulance.

I was awake and lucid by the time we reached the hospital.  My arm and ribs hurt a lot.

I begged them not to call my husband.  I didn't want to ruin the biggest day of his life.  I knew very well he would drop everything and come flying to my side, and I didn't know when he'd get another chance like this.

Besides, it was only my ribs and my arm.  I could handle it. 

I could handle anything, if I didn't have to ruin Jamie's big event.

~

"I knew you'd be angry."  That evening, I smiled at Jamie ingratiatingly from my position on the couch, bandaged and be-slinged.  "And you have a right to be, okay?"

"I'm not angry."  His face was blank, almost like he wasn't here.  He took off one of his scarves and put it over the back of a chair — my slobbish Jamie. 

I smiled again.  "Good.  I thought you would be.  But I decided it was worth it not to ruin your big day.  I'm glad you're not.  How'd it go?"

"Fine."

He walked back to the fridge, got a can of beer and opened it, drinking carefully.  He bought one back for me, held it out — and then withdrew it.  "Wait.  Medication?"

I grimaced, and nudged my forehead with my palm.  "Oh yeah."

He smiled faintly and put it on the floor next to his seat.  "I'll drink them both."

I wasn't going to complain.  At least he was speaking to me.  I watched him carefully, but he was definitely upset.  He also seemed distracted.

I tried talking to him, but he just put on a smile and said he was fine, no, he wasn't angry, and did I need anything?  I needed a cuddle, but I didn't tell him that. 

We ended up watching TV together, and I fell asleep on the couch, the cat curled up on my legs, the dog on my feet. 

It hurt to sleep on the couch, but it would hurt more to get up and go to bed.  And when I woke up in the morning, Jamie was gone.

I didn't think anything of it at first.  He had errands and didn't bother leaving a note.  He had another art thing I'd forgotten.  He was even punishing me for not calling him, maybe by going to Pete's alone.  Either way, he would be back by suppertime.

He wasn't back.

I started calling people.  Casually at first, then with increasing anxiety and rage.  Friends.  Pete's.  The gallery.  Nobody knew anything.  Nobody had seen him.  Nobody told me a thing.

I started getting paranoid, wondering if they were all in on it.  Then I hoped they were.  If he was just punishing me — if that was all — then he'd give in eventually.  He'd come back to me.  Jamie couldn't punish me forever.  He has a soft heart under all his bitchiness.  I knew that.  I knew that more than anybody.

He wouldn't leave me here in a cast and bandages to fend for myself.  He wouldn't.

But he didn't come home to walk the dog.  He didn't bring something home for supper.  He didn't show up and yell at me belatedly, or baby me, or give me his narrow-eyed look as if deciding just how much shit I should be willing to take for scaring him like that. 

He just didn't show up at all.

And that scared me most of all; because if he wouldn't leave to punish me, and he wouldn't leave me alone when I was hurting, then it meant he couldn't come home.  And that just scared the shit out of me.

~

Long before he was officially a missing person, the department threw its resources behind me.

We found nothing.

Jamie had left our home the morning after returning from his art show, walked to a bus stop, and disappeared.

He'd looked sober but not upset.  He'd been wearing ordinary jeans, a red t-shirt, his leather jacket, and his favorite, battered sneakers.  He'd carried a single bag.

It was the bag that eventually made the department give up.

It looked like he was leaving me.

And maybe he was.  But the doubts didn't leave; the nightmares didn't stop.  I would wake up in the middle of the night, the image sharp and strong and terrifying in my mind: my Jamie, lying dead in a ditch somewhere, decomposing, killed by random wicked men, or someone who hated gays, or just by a freak accident, waiting to be discovered, maggoty and gross.  My one and only true love, dead and gone from me without so much as a goodbye or a why.

At the end of the first month, I knew he was dead. I knew it in my bones, because Jamie would never — never — do this to me on purpose.  He would break heaven and earth not to do this to me.

I zombie through most rough times in life.  I shut down emotionally.  But I couldn't shut down about this, about him.  I couldn't stop the torment of wondering how my Jamie had died.  And I didn't stop looking.

Everybody agreed I should take a leave of absence, that there was no shame in it.  I took the leave of absence, not caring whether there was shame or not, because I needed the time to look for Jamie.

I went through phone records, everything records.  I looked at his art for clues, his finished and his unfinished pieces.  I refused to sell any of them, even the ones I hated, the ones that showed anger or sorrow or pain. 

He became a minor celebrity after his disappearance.  The price of his gallery pieces was skyrocketing.  It made me literally sick to my stomach to hear about it.  Ghouls.

My injuries healed, but my heart didn't.  And I refused to stop looking.

~

Lincoln, my ex, was a surprising tower of strength during those awful days.  He came by to see if I'd eaten something.  He walked my dog.  He let me talk about Jamie.  Sometimes he sat across from me at the kitchen table and held my hand. 

The cynical part of me said he was just here because I was less of a cop now that I was on leave.  But he was here.

It's strange how much time there is in the day when you're not working.  You look forward to TV shows.  The week drags round, and you think it must be at least two weeks since they've run a certain show, but it isn't.

The oddest things reminded me of Jamie.  A slender wrist could break me.  The smell of paint.  Anything to do with art, especially the park where he'd painted. 

I had nothing left in me.

Some days, I came awfully close to eating my gun.  I'm not proud of that, but it's the truth.

I lived to find answer, to find and bury him, to gain some measure of peace in laying his remains to rest properly.  I couldn't give up until I did that last thing for the only man I'd ever loved with all my heart and everything in me.

~

"Max, you need to get down here right now." 

The telephone call was barely above a whisper. 

"Who is this?"  My hand kept ghosting over the orange cat's back.  My gaze stayed locked on the television.  Oprah.  I liked Oprah.  Nothing about her reminded me of Jamie.  She was never indecisive, overdramatic, or too loud one minute, too quiet the next.  She was a completely Jamie-free zone.

"It's Jax.  You need to get down here to Pete's right now.  It's Jamie."

And then he said the words I never thought I would hear again in my lifetime. 

"He's here."

For a moment, I was frozen in shock.  And then I moved.  My feet and the cat landed on the floor at nearly the same moment.  Roger hissed at me for dislodging him, but it barely registered. 

I drove there faster than I had in my deep fury.  It's a wonder I didn't have an accident.

I knew it wasn't true, you see.  But it was the first hope I'd had in months.  The first clue of any sort.  And everyone had forgotten Jamie but me.  Oh, I would still get a little sympathy, but he was essentially gone for everyone else.  He would never be gone for me.  I didn't see how I could ever get over his loss.

I parked crookedly, jumped out, and left the motor running, the door open.  I slammed through the door of Pete's.

Everyone in the room looked up.

Everyone but Jamie.

Chapter five

He was hunched in a corner, and I would know him anywhere, even small as he was trying to look.  He had a drink, and he was wearing some of the worst clothes I'd ever seen him in.  A mesh shirt that looked uncomfortable and showed absolutely everything.  A long chain around his neck that was completely wrong for him, and a spiky, red-dyed haircut.  Eye makeup too.

Not Jamie.  So not Jamie.

But clearly, Jamie underneath.

I strode toward him.  "You're alive."

He looked up at me, fear and something unreadable in his eyes.  One thing I could read was grief, and plenty of it.  But he hadn't been sorry enough to call me.  Just one phone call to assure me he wasn't dead.

I didn't say another word.  I grabbed him by his horrible mesh shirt and dragged him to his feet.  He was wearing Daisy Dukes, even though it was the wrong weather for them.  I hauled him outside with me. 

No one said a word. 

No one got up to stop me. 

Everybody watched, faces solemn and serious.

Jamie didn't resist.  He held onto my hands though, to keep me from accidentally choking him with his own shirt.  At the moment, all my pain had turned to ragey-pain, and I almost didn't care if I did.  Except that I needed to have a few words with him first.

Outside. 

The tiny, clean alley beside Pete's.  The cleanest, sparkliest alley in the world! Jax likes to say, in a camp voice.  He does keep it clean, but the important thing was we were out of the public eye and not visible from the parking lot or roadway.  I could hear my truck still running not far away.  Waiting for me, to take me home.  Without Jamie.

The touch of his hands on mine did strange things to my insides.  I pushed — okay, shoved — him away from me, glowering at him, my face a mask of pain and something akin to hatred.  I pushed him hard enough I may as well have flung him.

His back landed against the wall with a hard thump.  Even then, he didn't straighten up and face me.  Instead he slumped down, collapsing, his knees drawing up and the rest of him sliding down.  He was breathing hard enough to count as hyperventilating, and for a moment his face showed pure terror.

"Where were you?"  I asked, sounding angrier than I ever had before in my life, or I hope I ever will again. 

"Max—"

"Out having fun?  Partying?  I thought you were dead.  Even if you had just let me know you were alive."  I coughed into my fist; I couldn't stop the tears now.  "Why did you do it, Jamie?  Why?"

"I'm sorry, Max.  I'm so sorry!"  His agonized blue eyes sought mine, heartbreakingly familiar even with the dark eye makeup surrounding them.  "Max—"  He reached for me from where he sat in the alley, his hands small and familiar and paint-stained. 

I jerked away from him.  "Forget it.  No explanation, no apology makes up for this.  You know what, Jamie?  You aren't worth it.  Maybe you never were and I couldn't see it.  Because I'd have done anything for you.  I'd have given you anything, forgiven you anything.  And you leave me like that.  If you wanted to leave me, you could have at least let me know you were alive.  It would have been hard, but I'd have let you go.  Four months of torture, Jamie.  Every night.  Every day.  Every fucking second of every minute!  Tormented, wondering how you died, if you suffered—"

"Max!"  He shut his eyes, rocking against the alley, covering his ears with his hands.  "Let me —  Please!  I'm — I'm so—"

"No," I said, calm now, miserable but completely calm.  "If you had let me know you were alive, I could have forgiven you anything.  Now, I can't forgive you at all.  Goodbye, asshole."

And I turned and walked away.

Leaving Jamie behind me, hunched over in the alley, arms wrapped around his lowered head, tears sliding down his stupid, slutty cheeks. 

The man I almost killed myself over.

~

I don't want to talk about that night.  I hope I forget it someday.

I came close to eating my gun again.  I drank nearly as much as my own father would have on one of his benders.  I would've broken whatever was left of my wedding vows, if I had been able to see clearly enough to find Lincoln's number on my phone. 

I knew Lincoln would come — and he would never leave me to think he was dead.  And I knew very well he would go to bed with me, because it had been clear in his eyes for the last three months that he wanted to.

But I was too drunk, and instead I slept.

I got a call from Julie, a fellow cop, waking me up at ten the next morning.

"Max, you need to hear this," she said, sounding solemn and frightened and excited all at once.  "Your husband.  He's been found, and—"

"I know."  I hung up.  I closed my eyes and let the world spin.

The phone rang, splitting my head again.  I picked it up and growled, "Go away!"

"If you know, why aren't you here?  He looks like something the cat dragged in.  I've never seen anybody more miserable."

"Go away.  Last warning."  I closed my phone and flung it against the wall.  I heard plastic shatter, and the sound pleased me.  I closed my eyes again.

~

In my dreams, I knew I had to get up.  I woke up occasionally, drank some water, shuffled to the bathroom, and took painkillers.  But always I went back to that sofa and stretched out again.  I left the TV on, but turned very low, and I slept to its accompanying white noise.

The dog padded in and out of the house, restless and worried.  But her doggy door was unlocked, so she could relieve herself, and I always kept the water bowl full, and she wouldn't starve in a couple of hours.

The cat sat on the top of the couch and looked down at me, disapproving-eyed, the very tip of his tail twitching.

I slept.  Dreams whirled closer, agonizing: Jamie.  In my arms when he was a boy.  My dear little friend, so very intense about life.  The boy I never wanted to let go.  But I had. 

I remembered flinging him in a circle like he asked, seeing the laughter and fear mixed in his eyes, and the adoration I had always seen but never known for what it was.  I released him like he wanted, and he went flying away from me, rolling down the snowy hill, squealing in mixed terror and delight.  I flung myself down the hill after him, too.

I stirred, restless, and the cat glared at me, tail twitching harder.  I heard Alex lap her water and then return to put her wet muzzle up to rest on the couch, to whuffle warm air against my side.  I nudged her away.  I slept.

Jamie, older, sullen, pimpled.  Hurting.  Needing me.  And I wasn't there, because I'd let Mason chase me away.

Now the images came faster.  Jamie was painting, looking up to laugh at something I said, open-mouthed and glad, his whole face and being alive. 

Jamie, painting happy things instead of sad, now that we were together, now that he knew I loved him and he was finally dealing with some of the Clint aftermath.

Jamie, cooking with me, laughing with me, dancing with me.  Loving me.  The way his eyes seemed to come alive and glow with hunger for me.  The way he always knew what he wanted, except when he didn't know at all.  The way he'd boss me around about anything, big or little, but seem utterly surprised and a little hurt if I ever pointed it out. 

The way he could be so hurt by my words, yet he never said anything back.  Wouldn't even try to defend himself, just stand there and take it, like he deserved as many punches as I gave.  Because that was what angry or thoughtless words from me were to him: punches, right to the gut.  And he would accept every one, stupid and idiotic as it was, taking them as if they were his due.

I sat up with a gasp, my eyes opening wide.  The animals stared at me, Alex expectantly, Roger as if to say, "Well, it's about time."

I looked around wildly for my shoes, jammed them on my feet.  Then again, on the correct feet. 

Julie had said "here."  She had said Jamie was here.

At the police station.

Achingly miserable.  All alone, without me there for him.

Whatever he'd done, whatever his reason, I would never know now, because he would take it, he would take everything I'd said and carry it on his shoulders for the rest of his damned life.

But his misery couldn't have been any less acute than mine.

You see, I know Jamie.  I've known him since he was a toddler.  And I know when Jamie is hurting.  I was just in too much pain to see it at the time. 

There is no one in the world he would crumple to an alley floor and put his arms around his head and cry silently for.  No one but me, the man he used to love.  The only one who was everything to him, who earned his shy smile or his naughty, teasing sexy one.  Who'd earned his trust again, after so very long, when I hadn't deserved it at all, because I'd left him — without even saying goodbye.

Whatever he'd done, and it was bound to be almost more horrible than I could imagine, I deserved it.  And I hadn't given him the chance to explain.  I had told him it didn't matter why, and I would never forgive him anyway.  And then I'd walked away. 

From Jamie.  My Jamie.  The only man I ever loved with my whole heart.

I ran for my truck.

~

He was leaving the station as I pulled up.

He still wore his awful clothes, but the makeup had been wiped off, and someone had given him an oversized t-shirt to sling over top of his getup.  It said I [heart] LA! in big white letters on a big pink background.  It hung almost to his knees.  I couldn't imagine who it belonged to.  His hair was still red, but combed down now, not spiky. 

I stared; he stared back.  For one instant, we were both frozen.

Then he bolted, and I leaped out of my truck.

He went flying away from me, surprisingly fast for a man who had spend the last who-knows-how-many hours in the police station, doing something I still couldn't comprehend.  It had made him absolutely miserable, but he was leaving the station, walking free, so it couldn't be a criminal offense.  Even though the cops were involved somehow. 

I vaulted over a fire hydrant to avoid a stroller, a mother and kid.  Jamie dashed around trees and down a side street.  I put on a burst of speed.

But my head was killing me, my body betraying me.  Out of work and out of shape for months, with far too much to drink last night, I wasn't up to speed.  And Jamie was.

I watched him with a sinking heart, even as I ran as fast as I could.  He was faster.  I knew the next corner I reached, or possibly the one after that, I wouldn't be able to see which way he turned.

I picked the direction I hoped he'd have gone and ran with all my might.  And when that reached a dead end, I stood there, fists clenched, raising my voice to the sky. 

"JAMIEEE!"

Chapter six

Julie fetched me a cup of coffee. It was in a Styrofoam cup now, instead of a regular coffee mug.  I was a guest here today, a stranger.  She gave me a sympathetic but scolding look as she sat on the edge of her desk.

"I can't believe you didn't listen to him."

I put my head in my hand.  I was almost crying again, as I had during my long trudge retracing my steps to the police station.  "Just tell me," I groaned.  "What happened to him?"

"He met an old boyfriend at the gallery opening.  The man liked his art, wanted him to come back to him, and also do some painting for him."

"What?  Who?"  I sat up straighter.

She consulted a paper.  "Felix."

"Felix!"  I had never even seen the man, and he stole Jamie back?  But Jamie had made a point of saying how bad the man made him feel about himself, how miserable he'd been with Felix.

"Uh huh.  You know him?"

"Uh, no.  Go on."

She gave me a stern look.  "You sure?  You going to listen now?"

"Julie."

"Okay, I just wondered."  The paper crinkled as she continued to consult it.  "Jamie told him to 'go to hell.'  His words."  She tapped the paper, smiling faintly.  And then not at all.  She glanced at me.  "Felix threatened you.  He said he had people who could kill you in the blink of an eye.  Apparently he had been to your celebration barbeque.  He didn't come and say hello, but he saw enough from a distance to realize how — how much Jamie loved you."  Her voice cracked a little.

She coughed into her hand and continued.  "Jamie told Felix to go to hell.  Then he got home, and found you injured.  And he knew it was true; Felix could kill you at any point.  Apparently in the intervening years, Felix became a drug dealer, and a not inconsiderably powerful one." 

She scanned the paper.  "And he knew he had to go, so he packed a bag and went.  He stayed and painted for the man, till a rival took a hit out on Felix and gunned him down.  Jamie was lucky to escape alive."  She glared at me and put the paper down.

I raked fingers back through my hair over and over.  I tugged at it, great handfuls of hair.  It didn't stop the tears welling in my eyes.  "Why didn't he come to me?  Why didn't he call me?" 

She shrugged.  "Apparently after he escaped, he needed to revive himself and get a grip.  Maybe he wanted to buy some new clothes, so he wouldn't have to face you looking like that, with you thinking the worst of him.  I guess we'll never really know." She got up and moved away, as if my presence had suddenly become too much for her.

I stared at the paper, grabbed it up, and read more.  I put it down again and buried my head in my hands and wept.

"You know."  Julie returned, holding out a box of tissues.  I groped for it blindly, grimy and gummy with tears.  She put a hand lightly on my back.  "I haven't been married for long, but if I never even trusted my husband enough to let him try to explain, it wouldn't be worth bothering being married at all."

"Thanks, you're making me feel a lot better," I said coldly.

"I'm not trying to make you feel better.  I'm trying to tell you the ball's in your court.  If you ever want him back, you'd better damned well find a way to apologize."

I knew she was right.  But I had no idea how.

~

A van pulled into the driveway, a big, ugly, rusted van with the name of Rock's band in graffiti on the side.  It was, literally, Rock's Band.  I went out to meet him, wondering how we were going to play this. 

Rock hopped out of the van and slammed the door.  Then slammed it again. Then a third time, till it stayed shut.  He turned to look at me, flicking hair out of his face.  He had more piercings than ever, but he wasn't wearing any goth makeup or nail polish or anything, just a t-shirt and jeans.

He didn't bother beating around the bush. 

"I'm here for his clothes.  He doesn't want the paintings.  You can keep them."

"Oh.  Um."  I ran a hand back through my hair.  "Where is he?  I have to apologize."  He hadn't left an address with the police, and he hadn't been in contact with me.  I could find no way of reaching him.  I'd been going frantic trying to find a way.

Rock looked at me, his eyes hard as his face, not an ounce of compassion there.  "No."

"I can't apologize?"

"I'm not letting you take him on that rollercoaster again.  You've fucked up his life enough.  Too many times.  I walked away and let you the first time.  I let him go to you, because I thought you'd make him happy.  I didn't stand in the way or try to stop him.  I didn't try to get back together with him like I wanted to.  I just let him go.  I'm not letting go this time.  You have any idea how many nights he's cried himself to sleep?  How much he needed you, and all you could do was accuse him and throw him away like garbage?"  Rock's glare was filled with hate.

"I'm sorry.  I need to tell him how sorry I am, even if he never—"

"No."  He cut me off, waving a hand dismissively.  "We both know he would forgive you anything.  He would come back to your side like a little puppy.  But I'm not gonna let that happen.  Just leave him the hell alone and stop hurting him!"

He slammed past me into the house, and I ran after him.

"I want to stop hurting him.  But I have to tell him I'm sorry!"

"Then write him a fucking note."

I stood back. My hands were shaking.  Rock knew right where to go in our house.  Jamie must have practically drawn him a map to the dresser.  Rock walked into our bedroom and began to unpack my husband's clothes, shoving them into a large bag.  I felt like I was losing Jamie all over again.

If I didn't do this right, I might never find him.  I had to tail Rock — but most of all, I had to write the best apology letter ever in the matter of a few minutes, before Rock left.  That was the most important thing.

It had been two weeks since that day, that awful day when I couldn't catch up to him outside the precinct.  I hadn't seen or heard from Jamie since.  Now he wanted his clothes.  He wanted to move on.  And he'd sent Rock here to get them.

I sat down at the kitchen table, grabbed the only paper handy — the back of a grocery list — and started to write.  My hand shook, my writing was crooked and awful, and I didn't have time to try to worry about my dyslexia making my spelling atrocious.  He would have to puzzle it out.  I just had to say it.

I'M SO SORRY JAMIE. 

I underlined the words twice, pausing to wipe away my tears with both hands.

Please forgive me someday.  I wish I had listened before I yelled.  I would do anything to take it back.  I hope you are OK. 

Maxilon

P.S. I love you. 

Rock stomped out with some of Jamie's clothes slammed haphazardly into a bag.  He looked at me, could no doubt see I was crying.  His lip curled a little, and he snatched the note I held out.  His eyes flicked over it and he snorted.  He shoved it into the bag on top of the clothes, crumpling it in the process like trash.

He pulled out of the driveway surprisingly quickly for a van that size and vintage.  I didn't even try to tail him.  He'd spot me a mile away — this time.

I sat down at the kitchen table and wept like my dog had died.  Or Jamie had.

I was under no illusions my note would arrive.  But I'd had to try.  And I would find Rock, and then I would find Jamie.  He was clearly nearby, perhaps even living with Rock, if Rock could hear him crying at night.

~

Rock proved surprisingly difficult to find.  He wasn't working any gigs this week, or anything else that I could discover.  (And just how did he make his money, then?  How many of Jamie's exes were dealing drugs in a big way or a small one?) 

I asked around.  I pulled favors.  But he lived a transitory lifestyle, and no one knew where he was.  His friends and associates no doubt knew, but no one was talking.  They took one look at me and got that stubborn, disdaining look on their faces as if to say "Make me, Pig!"

I couldn't, of course.  I had no authority for this.  It could probably even be construed as stalking, so I had to move carefully.

But if I didn't apologize to Jamie properly…  Well, I just couldn't even think about that.

Whereas before the thought of him dead had tormented me, now the thought of his life for the past few months did.  And the thought of him lying awake at night in tears.  For his sake, I hoped Rock was some comfort.  Even though I hated the man, I wanted Jamie to feel safe.  I knew very well he hadn't, not in the months since he'd left.  Voluntarily sacrificing himself, thinking he was protecting me.  Stupid, wrong-headed, and heart-stoppingly brave: but that was my Jamie, my complicated, beautiful, infuriating husband.

I read through all the case files.  I looked at the photos of the crime scene.  Jamie's art was there, boatloads of Jamie's art.  He'd painted like a madman, probably using it as his lifeline.  Felix was stockpiling the art to sell as the price rose higher, which he was certain it would, because Jamie was a genius. 

Oh, nobody said it: they didn't have to say it.  I was the idiot who never noticed his modern stuff was actually good.  I just hated the pain and anger I saw in it.

I saw it again now in these pictures, all of which had been taken into evidence.  I looked through the images of them (I couldn't go into Evidence myself until I was back at work), and I saw in them Jamie's heart: his pain and sorrow and how close he'd been to the edge.  And in some of them, I saw a sweet, surprising warmth and beauty.  Next to a death painting (I would never be able to think of it as anything else), was a painting of a warm orange glow and a nearly-white glow, two rounds curved comfortably against each other, side by side.  It was Alex and Roger, even I could see that.  He'd painted our pets.

But he'd never painted me.

~

And then one day he was there, on the doorstep, raising his hand to knock, but hesitating.

I only saw him because I pulled the door open to get the newspaper.  Alex hadn't noticed him because she was asleep under the kitchen table, snoring softly.

I gaped at him.  "Jame," I said, in a soft breath like it had been forced out of me.

His cheeks colored and he dropped his fist.  "I was going to knock," he said, as if I'd insisted otherwise.  As if he'd been standing there for a long time, trying to work up the nerve.

"Did you get my note?" I asked.

He looked blank.  "Note?" And then he smiled cautiously.  "You wrote me a note?"  He looked far more pleased than such a thing should warrant. 

"Um, yeah."  I ran my hand back through my hair.  We stood there on the doorstep, talking like strangers.  But he was here.  He was speaking to me.  That had to be worth something.  "When Rock came.  I gave him a note for you.  On the back of a shopping list.  I couldn't find anything else in time."  I smiled, but it felt weak and forced, and I was close to tears.

His gaze darkened immediately to a look of almost hatred, intense and furious.  "That asshole.  That asshole!"  He turned and punched the door frame, and then gave a little cry of pain.  He shook his hand out, whimpering, tears filling his eyes.  "Stupid fucking house with its stupid fucking too fucking hard fucking walls!" 

And I laughed.  Oh, it was most inappropriate, and Jamie gave me an offended, indignant look, but I didn't care.  I knew now; I knew he was coming home.  And that?  That was worth anything, any amount of time I had to wait, anything we had to go through.

I caught him gently by the shoulders and drew him inside tenderly.  "Why don't we talk in here?" I suggested.  "It's more comfortable."

He looked around nervously, gulping.  "Um.  Yeah.  You haven't changed anything," he said in a small, scared voice, sounding completely uncertain of himself.  He cradled his hand, but seemed to have forgotten his anger.

"Um, Max, what did your note say?  I really need to know."  He sounded so uncertain, his voice wobbly.

"I only had a minute to write it.  It wasn't eloquent."

"That's okay."  He still wasn't looking at me, holding his shoulders sort of like he expected a blow.  "Please tell me anyway."

I gulped.  "I said I was sorry.  I hoped you would forgive me someday.  That I would give anything to take it back, to listen to what you had to say first."

A sound escaped him, a strange little sound like something dying.  I turned him by the shoulders and looked down into his face.  He was crying, messy, ugly tears streaking down his face.  He held his one hurting hand like a claw and waved his other hand as if telling me to look away.  He tried to wipe at his tears, but they didn't stop.

"M-M-Max, I—I…"

I pulled him into my arms.  "I'm so sorry, Jamie.  Shh.  You're here now.  You're home.  You're safe."

He wept hot, hard, body-shaking sobs, clinging to me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. 

And I realized I was.  I had never known how deeply Jamie loved me before.  Now I did.  And I knew Rock was right, as terrifying as it was: Jamie would forgive me anything.  He would always come back to me. 

~

What felt like a lifetime later, our tears more or less dry, we sat on the sofa, arms around each other, talking. 

I couldn't get enough of touching him, reaching up to finger his now-short hair, which he'd dyed back to his natural color.  Touching his side, his cheek, as he clung to me earnestly and talked, his eyes never leaving mine, watching me, looking big and round and nervous and trusting and tragic, so many things at once, just like Jamie, really.  The most complicated man I'd ever met, and in some ways, the simplest.

"I know you might not believe this—"

"I'll believe anything you tell me."  I looked into his eyes as I said it, stroking his hip gently with one hand, holding him close with the other.  "Anything."

He took a shaky, hiccuppy breath, and his hands tightened around me.  "Max, I never slept with him.  I—I think the drugs, or something, sort of… stopped him from being able to.  He… he wanted to watch me a few times, you know, touching myself.  But I couldn't.  I haven't been able to…."  His voice trailed off, and he squeezed his eyes shut, chasing another tear out.  He shook his head.  "I just couldn't."

He held me tight, and I rocked with him till his breathing eased.

"Um."  He reached up to brush his hair back, but it didn't need it now, it was cropped so short, shorter than mine.  "Um, he — he kept me mostly in a big warehouse.  It was too cold or hot depending on the weather, but I had plenty of room to paint, and a bed and fridge and a bathroom.  He didn't come around a lot.  He was busy.  He wanted me to paint a lot.  He had two guards on me so I wouldn't run away.

"Oh, I could have called you.  There were a few times I could've gotten hold of a phone and called.  But I didn't."  He looked up at me with big, haunted eyes, holding me close.  His face was thinner than it used to be, like it held a tension that had never left for a long time, and maybe never would. 

"I couldn't," he explained.  "Max, I couldn't."  He pressed his head against my shoulder and breathed shallowly for a moment.  "If I called you, you would find me.  I knew that.  And if you found me, he would kill you."

He looked up, tearful but not crying, fighting the trembling in his chin.  "I, um, I…"  He ran his hand back over his head again and gulped.  "The guards were bad.  The first two, anyway.  They'd catch me, and one would hold me while I tried to fight free.  The other would run his hands over me or — or squeeze my ass, flick my cock, that kind of thing.  Laughing at me, getting me angry, trying to scare and turn on the gay guy at the same time.  You know.  That kind of shit."

"Yeah."  My jaw tightened. I wanted to kill those men. 

"I didn't say anything to Felix.  For all I knew, he told them to do it.  Maybe he was watching on hidden cameras.  But one time… well, you know I'm… I'm pretty emotional, Max.  They could usually get me to curse and shout and try to hit them.  Then they'd put me down with a quick punch or a knee to the kidneys, or some other punch that hurt a lot.  So I'd end up lying on the cot, just breathing and sh-shaking and trying not to cry.  I did cry sometimes, Max.  I'm… I'm not proud of it."

I made a hurting, dismissive sound in my throat and hugged him closer. 

"A-anyway, Felix came by one day after they'd done that.  He didn't say a word, but he saw me all red-eyed and trembling, lying on my cot, and a big bruise on my arm from the last time they'd bullied me, and… he got rid of them, Max."  His eyes opened wider, and he swallowed hard.  "I think forever.  I never saw or heard anything about them again.  Ever.  The two new guards who took their place kept their distance.  They barely dared to look at me."

He took a deep, shaky breath.  "I painted a lot, partly because I hoped if I painted enough, he'd let me go eventually.  Partly I just needed to paint to survive.  It was my only escape.  He was going to sell the pictures when my stuff was worth enough, and keep a few of his favorites. 

"He also liked me to dress up for him sometimes.  Most of the time, I just painted in jeans.  You know, normal clothes.  But sometimes he wanted me to wear outfits like th-the one you saw me in."  He gulped and looked down at his lap.  "I was his arm candy.  Sometimes he wanted to show me off.  Even though we didn't have sex, he was definitely proprietary toward me, and he liked to show off that I was his, and he liked people to think we had sex.  I don't know what his problem was, but he did a lot of drugs, and I think that interfered with, you know."  He gestured toward his crotch. 

Jamie looked up at me again, took a deep breath in through his nose.  "I was with him when he got killed.  A big meeting of some kind.  I was j-just there to look pretty.  But I had to go to the bathroom, and one of his men walked me in, and I was in the stall, because I didn't want to pee in front of him, when we heard gunshots. 

"My guard told me to stay put, and he ran out.  I heard more gunshots.  Then everything was quiet.  I hid in the bathroom, shaking, afraid to leave.  But eventually I did. 

"There were corpses everywhere, and lots of blood.  Felix was dead.  I left.  I ran and hid, slept on the street that night.  I knew I could borrow a phone or go to the cops, but I think I was in shock or just being stupid.  I was afraid, so I hid."  He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself.  "The next day I was feeling a little better, and I headed to Pete's to get a drink and gather my courage to go to the police.  I was going to go and see you at the station, tell you and the other police at the same time.  I didn't know you wouldn't be there."

He looked up at me, miserable and wistful, then reached up and brushed a strand of my hair back.  "And then you arrived.  You were so angry.  I know you were right to be.  I should never have tackled it on my own.  I am sorry, you know.  When he threatened you, I laughed it off.  But when I saw you that day when you got hurt, when I got home and you were hurt and trying to act like it was nothing, I…I lost it inside.  Because I knew he could kill you.  Y-you're so vulnerable out there working on the street, and I could see in his eyes he didn't m-mind killing people."  He shuddered. 

"And I had to go to him.  You had to survive.  Nothing mattered more than that.  If I got free someday, maybe you could forgive me, but even if you couldn't, you would survive, and that mattered more than anything in the w-world." 

He put a hand to his head, gulped several times.  A fine trembling had worked its way through his shoulders.  He shook his head slowly, and met my gaze again.  "If I had to do it again, I wouldn't.  I'd tell you, and we'd flee the country, or… or something.  Anything but leave you and go to him."

And then he hugged me tight, so tight I could hardly breathe.  And it was my turn to cry.

Chapter seven

Jamie moved back in right away.

The next day, we drove over and got his things back from Rock. I just stood there, my arms crossed, trying not to look as mean as I felt toward Rock.  It was surprisingly easy; all I had to do was look at Jamie, my husband, back from the grave and somehow forgiving me, still loving me.  Then I wanted to smile forever.

Besides, Jamie was pissed enough for the both of us.  He carried armloads to the car, moving back and forth with hard, jerky, quick steps, ignoring Rock, who followed him around — and didn't dare get in his way — while saying things like, "You're not going back to him?  Jamie, please!"

But Jamie didn't say one word to him.  I didn't have to be in Rock's shoes to know that would be more devastating than any telling off Jamie could've given him.  Jamie talking to you meant he would forgive you eventually.  Jamie not talking to you… didn't happen.  So when it did, Rock had to know this was really the end. 

I almost felt sorry for him.  Almost.  But the thing is, it wasn't just about me when he wouldn't deliver my note.  It was about Jamie, too.  The estrangement between us, even if we never got back together, was killing Jamie too.  And even though it was my fault to begin with, Rock helped make it last longer than it needed to. 

Shortly, we were driving home with all his stuff in the back of my truck.

Now that I'd won completely and forever over Rock, I tried to calm Jamie down.  "I think he loves you, in his own way."

"Do not speak to me about Rock.  Ever."  He made a decisive motion with his hand, cutting me off firmly. 

I grinned, so glad to see him like this, firmly in control of his life and bossing me around without a thought.  "Yes sir."  I made a funny little salute and couldn't stop grinning.

"Do you know what he did?"  He turned to me, demanding an answer I didn't have.

"No, what?"

"He told me you didn't say anything.  He told me you just watched him get my clothes and… and when I pressed him, he said you held the door for him!  Held the door for him!  When he said that, I knew you'd never forgive me.  Max!  I thought you wouldn't fight for me anymore, and so… so it didn't matter, no matter what I did, it would n-never be—"  He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.

I reached over, caught the back of his neck and gave it a gentle squeeze and a light shake.  "Come on, babe.  Don't.  It's over now.  It's all over."

"It'll never be over!  I'll never forgive him!"  He was practically vibrating in the seat with rage, gritting his teeth.  His eyes flashed, and oh, even like this, my Jamie was gorgeous.

"Then don't.  We'll hold a grudge forever if you want.  Just don't get yourself worked up.  I hate to see you so upset, when really, Felix and his cronies treated you much worse.  So did I."

He turned to gape at me.  "Felix, yes.  But what do I expect from Felix?  But you?  No, never you.  You were mad at me, and I-I can't blame you.  But Rock… Rock lied to me.  He knew you were ready to forgive me and he pretended you s-still hated me."

Don't cry, I silently willed him.  Please don't cry.  It makes me a little crazy when I see him hurting like that, in tears. 

I reached over, caught his hand, and squeezed.  "It's okay, Jamie.  It's okay."

He sniffed and reached up to swipe at his eyes, a delicate movement of his thumb and forefinger.  "Th-that's why I ran, when I saw you outside the precinct.  I knew you had a right to be angry, but I—I couldn't stand one more thing, you know?"  He looked at me, his eyes red-rimmed.  "One more look of disgust from you, or one more question from the cops, or anything.  Just nothing more."  His hands fluttered for a moment as he gestured, metaphorically cutting off all those things.

"I'm sorry.  For what it's worth, I wanted to listen to you then.  I wanted to say I was sorry and listen."

His chin hung low and he took shallow, painful-sounding breaths.  "I wish I'd known."

"I'm sorry."

"I should've—"

"No, Jame.  No.  No more recriminations.  It wasn't your fault."

He turned to look at me, seeing through me as he's so good at.  "You either, then."

"What?"  I concentrated on driving, not meeting his gaze even for a second now.

"You either.  No guilt, Max.  Because I know you."  He poked me in the arm, twice.  "You hold onto stuff forever.  Blame yourself for everything when you can't fix stuff, when you can't be fucking Superman.  Because most of the time you can, you think you should always be able to, and nobody, not even you, Max—"

I was grinning, despite trying not to get emotional.  "You think I'm Superman?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and gave me one of his looks.  "You fucking know I do."

I laughed.  "Does that make you Lois what's her name?"

"Augh!  I will gut you!"  He lunged for me, fingers finding my ribs, hard little pummeling, tickling blows. 

"Not while I'm driving!  Jamie!  Please," I begged, trying not to laugh, trying to keep hold of the wheel and steer.

He stopped punching me.  At least till we reached the next red stoplight.

~

After they were no longer evidence, the police station gave us back the paintings Jamie had done.  Two truckloads of paintings.  Jamie wouldn't have anything to do with them, wouldn't sort or look at them.  We had them sent right to the gallery where he'd seen Felix.  People knew his work there, and there was a big market for it, especially with the back-story these paintings had.  Ghouls!

Jamie had a lot of catching up to do.

All the TV he'd missed.  For the first few days, he didn't want to do much more than sit on the couch, cuddling with our pets, who piled onto him and acted like they never wanted to leave. 

Roger's purr was almost deafening, and his love painful as he kneaded desperately on Jamie's lap with his sharp paws.  Alex followed Jamie everywhere for days.  She watched him while he sat there and stroked both animals, his gaze never leaving the television.  Jamie soaked up Food Network programming as if it held the secrets of the universe that he desperately needed to hear. 

It took a long time, but eventually, we also caught up on all the cuddling we hadn't done and the walks we hadn't taken.  The meals we hadn't cooked together, or sometimes eaten at all.  His skinny frame and narrow face eventually filled out to a more normal proportion for him.  He would never be very large, but at least he seemed proportionate now, and I didn't feel like I was making love to a very breakable, bony skeleton.

And we made love a lot, sometimes slow and achingly gentle, other times quick and desperate for each other, almost tearing our clothes off in our haste.  He couldn't get enough of me, even more than before.  He just wanted my taste and touch and smell, my skin against his, and to fall asleep with his head resting on the place between my neck and shoulder.

He'd packed away his paints without a word and put all his work into storage, all except what we already had hung on the walls for our own enjoyment, like the spaceship painting he'd done for me, or the watercolor of our vehicles, my truck with his scooter propped near it, looking friendly and comfortable together.  Then there was my favorite, the Impressionist-type painting he'd done of the park, all light and joy, like laughter distilled onto canvas.

The upper story where he'd painted now echoed with emptiness.  He barely ever climbed the stairs to go up there.  We lived on the lower floor, hunkering down like for a disaster, keeping everything we needed in reach for survival. 

I kept one painting from his captivity, the one of our pets, the sweet, glowing blobs curled next to each other.  Its warmth and friendliness still called to me.  But I left it propped behind the dresser so he wouldn't have to look at it.

One day he found it, anyway.

"Max?" he called, sounding tearful and alarmed.  "Max!"  His call demanded I come running.  And like I always had and would, I did.

"What?"  I stopped when I saw him, and hesitated.  I'd been ready to kill a thousand-legger for him, or take heat about my wardrobe, or hear a rant about why his favorite television show had jumped the shark and needed to be burned with fire.  But not this.  He was holding up the painting, looking as if he'd taken a blow to the chest.  There were tears in his eyes as he turned to look at me slowly. 

"Max?  You kept this?"

"Yes.  I'm sorry.  I loved it, I didn't mean to—"

And then I saw there was pain in his gaze, but utter joy as well.  "You kept it."

I nodded, struck mute by the look in his eyes.

"You… Max!"  He put down the painting and barreled into me, hugging me with all his strength.  "You kept it!"

"I…I loved it.  I still love it."  I stroked my hands down over him gently, almost afraid to touch him, but needing to desperately.  "I saw it in the evidence photos, and I looked at it, and thought — thought about how you remembered our pets.  It made me feel a little better, that you had a good memory to c-carry with you.  That you could paint at least one happy picture."

He couldn't talk for a long time.  I held him.  Cuddled him.  Made love to him, when he wanted that.  And then held him some more while he slept, wrung out and flushed, but finally, finally at peace.

After while, he woke.

"Max."  Jamie, naked and beautiful that way, more beautiful even than in his best outfit, propped himself up on one elbow and grinned at me.  The tears were gone, the sleep had revived him, and he looked extremely cocky.  The smile playing on his mouth, twitching, made him look very proud of himself. 

"Max."  He nudged me lightly, and I opened my eyes and stretched.  I couldn't help smiling at him. 

"What?"

"You like modern art.  Don't argue."  He held up a hand imperiously, as if I'd been about to take him on at those fighting words.  "You liked one of my modern paintings, so that means somewhere inside, you like modern art.  And you knew what it was a picture of, too, so don't give me any more bullshit about not being able to understand art!"

"I'm not.  I almost failed every art class in high sch—"

"Max."  He was giving me the stern look now.  "Shut up."  He kissed me, to be sure he got his own way.  I couldn't exactly argue while he kissed me.

When we drew back, he looked more smug and happier than ever.  I would have bet good money his toes were curling up under the sheets, and he looked ready to bounce in place like Tigger with happiness.  "You like my art!"  He stretched his hands over his head and closed his eyes.  I watched his chest muscles, the tautness of them, and reached out and laid a hand there, feeling them tighten and move beneath his warm skin.

"What?  What is with that look?" he demanded.  He put his hand over top of mine, pinning it there so I wouldn't stop touching him.  "What is it?"  He looked concerned now, searching my gaze.  "Just tell me, okay?  No more secrets?"  He reached up to touch my face, gentle as if I was a newborn kitten.

At just that moment, Roger landed in the middle of the bed with a leap worthy of a ninja.

We broke out laughing, as he turned to head butt Jamie, purring extremely loudly.  "You big baby."  He caught the cat and kissed him on the nose, lifting him high so he was hanging from Jamie's hands, dangling over his head.  The manhandled cat didn't struggle, just purred louder, squeezing his eyes shut.

I heard a familiar click of toenails as Alex trundled into the room, not about to be left out.  She pushed her head up against my leg on the bed, snorting against me.  "All right, girl."  I groaned as I got up and lifted her tenderly up onto the bed to rest in the middle between us.  "The kids heard thunder, dear," I said, meeting Jamie's gaze over Alex's pale, furry head.  She stretched out hedonistically between us, heaving a sigh as if this was all she'd ever wanted.

We both laughed.  Then Jamie settled the big orange cat on his bare chest, spat out some orange fur, and began stroking him and rubbing his ears with the rough, affectionate touch Roger seemed to want at the moment.  The cat closed his eyes, bowing his head, his purr starting to sound rusty and worn out, like a motorboat about to break.

Jamie's gaze met mine, more solemn now.  "Are you gonna tell me?  What was that look about?  You looked sad and wistful for a moment there, before the animals got here."

I stroked Alex's head, then reached across to tickled the cat's ears.  "You'll think I'm stupid," I warned.

"I think you're stupid now.  Tell me!"

I couldn't help laughing a little.  "Brat." 

"Yes.  Tell me.  Max!  Don't make me whine."  His gaze narrowed, a definite threat.  "I will do it."

"I know you will."  I couldn't help laughing.

"Maxwell House Coff—"

"Augh!  All right, all right!"  I reached across and flicked him lightly on the nose with one finger. 

He gave me an offended blink and pushed my hand down.  "If you don't tell me, I'll sic my attack cat on you, and then you'll be sorry!"

"I'm telling you."  I heaved a sigh and sat up.  Alex nudged closer to me, rolling onto her side, raising one paw and looking up at me expectantly.  I reached down with both hands and began to gently scrub her tummy.  "I wished you had painted me."

"Wh-what?"  His exclamation was so loud, Roger objected and jumped down.  "Ow."  Jamie rubbed at the spot a claw had found, grimacing and laughing at the same time.  "Roger!"  He glared after the cat and then looked at me.  "What did you just say?"

My ears felt hot, like glowing candles.  "I wished you'd painted me."  I ducked my head, staring down at Alex, scrubbing harder now.  Her eyes fell shut in bliss, and she kept one paw raised.  "I saw all the anger and pain in your pictures that I used to see, and then I saw the beautiful one where you'd captured our pets and how much you love them.  And I w-wished you'd painted me, too."

"Oh, Max."  He reached across and caught me to him, kissing my head, stroking my neck.  "I'll paint you!  I'll paint you as many times as you want."  He kissed me with such affection, a great deal of warmth in his voice as he cradled my head, staring into my eyes.  "Don't you see?  If I'd painted you even once there, he'd have gotten a piece of you.  I couldn't risk that.  I painted the animals because I could take the risk he'd never know, never realize.  It would be a secret just for me. 

"But if I painted you, even once, in one of the pictures that was going to be his and sold… it would be like I was selling you."  He kissed me again, a hard, thorough, claiming kiss.  "I will paint you now, buddy.  You'd better believe it!"  He jumped out of bed, naked and unashamed, and did a little dance right then and there before grabbing his trousers and getting into them, hopping in place as he pulled them up, grinning to me, a huge grin that looked like it would take days to fade.  "My modern art lover!"

I groaned, smacked my head, and closed my eyes.  "Puns?  Really Jamie?"  

"Hey, that wasn't a pun!"  He ran around to my side of the bed and kissed me, a quick, loud kiss.  "You're not my lover.  You're my husband!"  And he danced from the room. 

"Oh, by the way, I'm going to the paint store!" he called over his shoulder.  "And you're driving me!"

Chapter eight

I felt surprisingly self-conscious sitting for a portrait.  Even a modern art one.  "Should I sit still?  Should I move more?"

"Tilt your chin to the left, like you're looking up at a plane in the sky."

"Or a meteor," I muttered.

"What's that?"  He was staring at the canvas, his mouth puckered in concentration.  He added another dab of blue. 

"Or a meteor.  Because I'm Superman, remember?"

That drew a laugh out of him and put a smile on his face.  I managed to sit still, barely even twitching.  We talked, and sometimes we didn't.  The cat came and placed himself carefully in my lap, turning around once, twice, and then settling.  He cocked a glare up at me when I didn't pet him.

"Jame?  Can I pet Roger?"

"Huh?  Um, okay.  Try not to move too much."

"He's mad at me."  I stroked his orange fur gently. 

Jamie made a clucking sound of disagreement, shaking his head.  "No, Max.  He was scared.  You acted so different.  He's just starting to show how upset he was because you were upset and I was gone.  He was scared, so he's acting angry."

"Just like you," I muttered, smiling as I pictured my Jamie as a fierce little cat, standing on his toes, back arched, fur rising, fire in his eyes as he hissed and spat.

"What did you say?" asked Jamie warningly.

"Um.  Nothing."

"Good.  Because you wouldn't want something to happen to this portrait before it even got finished."  He jabbed another stroke on the canvas, and looked satisfied with himself.  He stood back, tilted his head, then tilted it the other way.  "Okay, Max!  C'mere.  Move the pirate and come look."  He beckoned me closer, eyes alight, smile bright.  "Your very own portrait!"

"Wow, now I'll be famous."  I joined him, and he swatted my side affectionately.  "Watch it, messy painter!"

"I'm so neat compared to most painters, you have no fucking idea!"

"Language, baby."  I caught him closer and kissed the top of his head.  All the while we bickered, I studied the painting, trying to make heads or tails out of it.

I couldn't.

All I could see was a field of blue with shapes in it, angular shapes, and a few patches of off-white and the lightest of blues.  "Very nice."

Jamie gave me a disappointed, disapproving look.

"Max."  He put his paintbrush down.  "You don't get it at all, do you?"

"No, no," I assured him.  "It's very… unique."

"You idiot.  You don't have to get it, and you don't have to pretend to like it it, okay?" He punched me lightly on the arm.  "It means a lot to me that you wanted to sit for me, and that you trusted me enough to let me paint you this way.  And… and it's a good one.  I like it.  I'm not going to burst into tears and run away with my hands over my face if you don't one hundred percent love it.  So stop looking like you have to walk across nails without wincing.  It's okay!"

"Um.  All right."  I faced the painting again, standing next to him.  Our shoulders bumped.  "Can you… tell me how it represents me, at all?"

"You're one of the boys in blue," said Jamie, sounding like he relished this.  "You're my Superman in a cop uniform.  A good, clean color, a strong, dark, unsentimental blue, like you.  You keep it all underneath, but there are so many layers to you, so much strength, carrying the world on your shoulders and never complaining once.  And you're gentle."  He gestured to the painting, never taking his eyes off it.  "And you… you laugh."

He smiled and looked up at me, then scratched at his cheek, laughing self-consciously.  "What?"

I shook my head, turning away a little, trying to suck in my cheeks and stop grinning.   "That was, um, nice.  Thank you.  I can't really see what you see — in the picture, or in me — but I can see you see it and… that means the world, honestly Jame, it does."  I hugged him gingerly close, and he laughed and let me, pressing his face against my shirt and breathing deep.

Then he drew back.  "That's all very well and good, sir, but what were you really going to say?"  His smile gleamed up at me, and I laughed, scratching at my chin.

"I meant it," I assured him.  He gave me a look.  "And, okay, I was going to say I never knew listening to a guy talk about art could make me so horny."

"Oh ho!  You're hot for me!  You're hot for me!"  He did a little dance, and I caught him close. 

As usual, Jamie was right.

~

Jamie began to paint again, but only in a very curtailed way.  He filled canvases with various shades of blue, with shapes and layers and shadows, with policeman-themed pictures and modern portraits of me.  Sometimes he painted things I actually recognized, like an oil painting based on my graduation picture, where I stood looking solemn and self-conscious in my uniform.

The house smelled like paint again.  He worked hard, intensely, the way he always had.  We ran out of blue a lot, and had to go to the art supply store frequently.

I got sick of the sight of these paintings, many of which looked the same to me and quite pointless.  But I rejoiced all the same because he was painting and it was clearly good for him to exorcise the way Felix had ruined the thing he loved.

The house began to fill with paintings.  After he finished with them, most of them ended up propped in corners, forgotten. 

"Jame, we've got to sell some of these, or else rent a storage unit," I said at last, after almost taking a tumble when I tripped on one. 

He looked at me like I'd suggested selling Roger.  "What are you, insane?"

"Um…"

"I can't sell these!  They're — it would be like selling you!"

"It wouldn't.  They're just paintings."

"No!"

He wouldn't hear anything more about it, and was mad at me for the rest of the evening.

I continued to trip over paintings of 'me.'  Let nobody say I can't be longsuffering.

~

"Max."  He hopped up onto the couch, straddling my lap, pinning me there with a quick, hard kiss, and then drew back, his hands on either side of me, as he looked into my face from very close, searching my gaze.  "I thought of something.  So, um, tell me what you think, okay?"

"Yes," I said, half teasing.  But only half.  "I think yes."

"Max."  He grinned, and thumped my shoulder with a play punch, not rough at all.  "Hear me out.  I was all upset about selling your pictures, but then I thought giving them away would be worse, and then I thought, we could sell them like a charity project.  It could be a sort of… of display with police-themed pictures and the money could go to that thing, you know the fund for the wounded cops and their families.  That way if someone loved and understood the pictures, it would be good, and even if they didn't, they would still be supporting something good, something from the pictures.  See?"

I didn't, not really.  But I was rubbing his sides up and down, and I couldn't stop smiling at him.  "You'd do that?"

"Uh huh."  He moved my hands and got up.  "Now help me get started!  I've got to write the galley tonight before I lose my nerve."

"Does it have to be that same one?"  I trailed after him, putting my hands lightly on his waist, following him closely as he walked, feeling the bounce in his step, the slender litheness of his waist.

"Nope.  There's one nearer, and they'll look at me now that my stuff has gone up in price.  But I still have to convince them a charity thing would be good publicity.  And maybe they'll want other artists involved."  He cast me a quick grin over his shoulder.  "Help me word it, Max!  It's got to sound great."

"Don't make me spell anything."

He laughed, swatted my hands off his hips, and sat down at the computer.  "You're better than me at making things sound nice, and that's all that matters.  We have spell check."

"Spell check doesn't always work for me.  Sometimes it just says 'no suggestions,' and how is that helpful?"

I pulled out a chair and sat down next to him, resting a hand on his thigh.

"Oh, don't worry.  I'll always have suggestions for you, Max!"  He moved my hand and cast me a wicked grin.

~

Jamie's chosen gallery agreed to the charity event, but decided it needed to be an auction.  They would take a cut, of course, and they arranged for a wounded policeman to give a small speech, and we would have to wear tuxedos.  In short, it became a Big Deal.

Jamie's enthusiasm turned to caution, then turned to anxiety as the day drew near.  Other artists donated pieces as well, but the vast majority of the work was Jamie's, because he'd painted so obsessively.

He was doing better, moving on to other subject matter and other mediums.  He painted with watercolors in the park, capturing ephemeral, ever-changing weather.  He practiced making super realistic portraits with nothing but pencil crayons.  He experimented with collage styles.  And he was no longer painting me obsessively.  That task had helped him get over the pain of captivity, but he was past it now.

Except that, getting ready to the auction, as I straightened his tie for the third time, probably unnecessarily, he looked scared enough to puke.  His hair had grown longer, soft and tufty-looking, gorgeous.  But his eyes were so round and nervous in his pinched face, his expression almost tragic.  I gave him a quick, reassuring hug, but he pushed me away, saying I'd wrinkle the tux.  He clenched and unclenched his hands into fists, trying not to hyperventilate.

"Don't worry," I said.  "You're safe.  It's not like there's any other old boyfriends we have to worry about."

He gave me a look of disgust and censure, but he didn't even bother punching me in the arm or complaining "Maaaxxx!"  He really was in a bad way.

It got worse.

After the wounded policeman in the wheelchair gave his short and emotional speech and we had all clapped, someone decided it was a good idea to hand the microphone to Jamie.  To my Jamie, who was white as a sheet and trying not to throw up. 

His eyes got wider and he looked at me with such terror.  He sat frozen in his seat on the podium, not taking the microphone, not even fleeing.

I grabbed it and spoke quickly, before the situation could get any worse.  "Thank you all for coming.  Jamie and I are very grateful.  The police department is grateful, too.  I think it's wonderful that art can support good causes.  Have a great evening, and enjoy the champagne."  I handed the microphone back, with a look that told the guy he'd better not get it anywhere near Jamie again if he valued his safety.

Everyone clapped, relieved that I hadn't spoken for longer.  Then I stood up and ushered my husband carefully off the podium, my hand in the middle of his back.  The bidding was about to begin, so it wasn't strange for us to leave.

The second we were out the door, Jamie bolted.

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Chapter nine

I was ready for him.  I ran, too.  It was awkward in a tux and dress shoes, but that was fine; it was awkward for him, too.  And to be honest, with what his work had earned recently, even if we completely ruined the rentals, we could afford to buy them.  I never thought I would be able to buy a tux, but we could've if we wanted to at this point.

I couldn't tell if he knew I was following him, and felt pretty sure he wouldn't care either way.  He just needed to get away.

That was fine.  I just didn't want him to be alone when he stopped.

He ran, pelting pell-mell on and on, slowing as he got winded, as he got a stitch in his side.  I ran silently, caught up to him and couldn't stop fast enough as he bent over, clutching his side.  I went past him, tried to stop, and skidded.  He looked up at me, panting, open-mouthed, his eyes still a little wild but not so terrified.

"You're here."

"Of course I'm here."  I walked back to him, breathing hard, and wrapped my arms around him.  I kissed him on the top of the head, then smoothed back his soft, flyaway hair.  "I'm always gonna be here."

"Oh, Max."  He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly.  "I just couldn't stand it another second!  All those people, sitting there, acting like I was good and worth something, and like I was even some kind of hero, when I'm not.  I did better work a year ago, before Felix ever came around, and I didn't get any attention then.  And I'm not brave, those cops like you are.  I'm just the same stupid little kid I've always been!  I feel inside like I'll never be any older, I'm — I'm just an imposter, and why didn't they realize?"

I hugged and soothed him.  "You may not believe this, Jamie, but you're my hero."

He looked up at me, shook his head.  "I'm not."

"You are."  I hugged him closer to my side.  "Jame, do you know how empty my life was without you?  When you're here, I feel alive.  Because you know how to say what you feel.  To put it into words or pictures or even dancing.  I don't.  I push things down inside and they attack me from the inside, like knives.  I'm lucky to be alive, all the things I've shoved in there.  But you don't.  And you show me how to live like that, too.  I can breathe around you. 

I took a sharp breath and continued before he could interrupt.  "And are you kidding me, about not being brave?  You were a captive of that asshole for four months.  Months, Jamie.  You threw yourself into your painting, and you survived.  You were stubborn enough and brave enough to fight back when those guards bullied you.  And… and you just never gave up, Jamie."

He shook his head, eyes sad.  "I gave up.  Every day.  I'm not brave, Max.  I wish you could see the truth.  I don't like you believing a lie about me."

"Okay, yeah, you're a coward.  A coward who voluntarily gave himself up to save my life."  I smoothed back his hair and kissed his cheek.

He snorted softly.  "I was an idiot."

"Yes.  But a brave one.  My brave idiot."

He didn't say anything, but he hugged me, and then we walked back to the auction and ate canapés, gorging ourselves on things made with bacon, fish eggs, or cream cheese.  We watched the prices, but mostly we watched the hats.  Some of these people wore some really weird hats.

"I'm getting one like that," said Max, pointing with his cream cheese treat, while looking only slightly tipsy from champagne.  "And you're getting one like that."  He pointed out an honest-to-goodness bowler.  "Don't argue."

I didn't argue.  What was the point?  If he wanted it, he'd get it.  If it was just the champagne, he'd forget in the morning.  I put an arm around his middle and stood next to him, savoring this time together while we studied hats.

And lived.  I felt so alive because I was there with him, alive in a way I never could've been alone.

~

The auction did well, everyone said so.  They congratulated Jamie, but he wouldn't have any of it, waving off compliments and escaping, pink-cheeked, as soon as he could.

The paintings altogether raised enough money that my brows rose and I whistled involuntarily when I saw it.  The gallery asked him if there were any other charity projects he wanted to spearhead. 

"Maybe next year," he mumbled, rubbing his nose, looking awkward.  "I've got to go now.  Don't we, Max?  Maaaxxx?"

I shook the gallery owner's hand again, giving him a grin I couldn't seem to shut off, and then we left.

"Don't like you flirting with him," muttered Jamie as we left.

"What?"  I turned to stare at him in astonishment.  "What are you talking about?"

"You heard me."

"Jamie, I don't flirt."

"You do, too."

"I don't.  You're the flirt.  I am always pretty obvious and upfront about what I want.  Let's be honest, I don't have the subtle gene."

Jamie snorted.  "That is rich, Max."

"What?" I demanded, keeping pace with him, but having to walk fast to do so.  My little Jamie, the powerhouse steamroller. Don't get in his way when he's escaping from somewhere he doesn't want to be.

"If you don't see it, I can't ever explain it," he said haughtily.  "I just wonder how well you know yourself at all!"

"Well, does it matter, if you know me?"  I caught up enough to hug him, and he hugged me back, hard.

We took a taxi home, and hugged our pets, and ate brownies for supper.

~

A week later, I answered my phone, still concentrating on the report I was writing. 

He didn't give me a chance to speak first and identify myself.  "Max, if you're late for lasagna night!"

"Jamie?" I mumbled, trying to concentrate on his voice at the same time as I typed a sentence in my report.  I was almost done and needed to get finished, print and file this, clock out, and head home for the night.

Jamie huffed an annoyed breath.  "No, asshole, your other husband!  Would you just get here?  I added all the veggies like you like and lots of meat, and the animals are practically drooling, doing that thing where they sit up straight and watch me, never moving, heads turning as I walk back and forth.  I made a salad and everything!  And breadsticks!  It's your favorite, your recipe, and you'd just better be here!"

"Jamie."  I took a deep, steadying breath.  "You're whining."

He was silent a moment.  I typed quickly, mentally crossing my fingers that he wasn't hurt.  I couldn't afford to hurt Jamie anymore, not ever again.  He didn't deserve it, and my heart couldn't take it.

"Yeah.  Yeah, I am."  He sounded a little calmer now.  "But that doesn't mean you don't have to get here before the food's cold!"

"You wouldn't want me to have an accident by driving too fast.  Just put it in the oven to stay warm.  I'm clocking out any minute, if you'll let me finish.  Just watch TV till I get there, okay?"

"I'm sick of fucking TV!  I want you home when you say you will be.  I mean it!"

"I will be.  Honestly.  Do we have to do this every time my schedule runs late?  Now I just typed 'fucking TV' in my report.  Stop distracting me."

I heard him take a deep breath through his nose, and a long one.  "Maybe I'll just distract myself.  Maybe I'll just play with myself.  Mm… like right now."  I heard a zipper as he no doubt held the phone close to his crotch and pulled his fly down.  "Oh, my, I'm just sooo lonely."

My face felt hot and my trousers tight, and how was I ever going to get this report finished and get home?  "James Michael Wyzacki!  You put that thing away!" I shouted into the phone.

I heard him laugh on the other end of the line.  "Okay.  But only if you hurry home."

I hung up, red in the face and breathing hard. 

Everybody in the room was staring at me.

I straightened my shirt.  "Sorry.  My husband was being an asshole."

"That's what they're there for, honey."  Julie walked past, giving me a swat on the shoulder and chuckling.

"Especially in your case," mumbled Jack.  I gave him a glare, and he stared back at me over his coffee cup.  Then he lowered his mug and we both laughed sheepishly.  Jack can be a jerk, and he was one of the guys who didn't like the idea of coming to 'the gay marriage barbeque,' but he was here for me in a big way when Jamie was missing, and I'll never forget that.

I read over the last paragraph of my report quickly, changed a couple of words, wrote the last sentence, and finished up.

I drove home carefully, following all traffic laws, and if I tapped my hands impatiently while I waited for lights, I didn't do anything stupid like honk at slow-moving drivers.

And eventually, I got home.  I walked in the door, bent and petted Alex before she could haul herself to her feet to greet me.  She panted happily, tail thumping hard on the floor.  I hung up my jacket.  I was smiling, smiling so hard.

The kitchen was dim, lit with candles.  The lasagna smelled amazing.  Everything was on the table.  And Jamie sat at his seat, wearing his red boxers and my Kiss the Chef apron, nothing else.

"Took your time," he said, dishing me a big chunk of lasagna and giving me his biggest, cockiest, and most confoundingly sweet grin.

~~~ END ~~~

About the author

Hollis Shiloh writes love stories about men, with the preferred genres of contemporary, historical, and fantasy. Hollis's stories tend toward the sweet rather than the spicy. When not writing, the author enjoys reading, listening to music, and being around animals. Blog: http://hollisshiloh.blogspot.com/ email:  hollis.shiloh@gmail.com (Just email to be added to a mailing list and be notified of new releases.)

Thank you for reading my story!  Please consider taking a few minutes to leave a review on Amazon.  It can be as short or as long as you like.  I appreciate every review!

Note: There's a third story about Jamie and Max coming later this year.  It's written but not edited yet.  This one is from Jamie's point of view—and much more longwinded.