Hazard and Somerset Off Duty Read online

  “You could have saved me a lot of—” Somers began. Then he saw what was written inside the cover: To Evie, A Real Little Stoic, Roseland Weeks.

  Somers had to blink to clear his eyes, and his cheeks were hot, and he knew he was crying and he hoped it was the kind that was graceful and not the kind that left him a red, sloppy mess. “Ree—”

  “I want her to have her own copy. For when she’s a few years older. She’s a special girl, our daughter.”

  Just that. Just those two words. Our daughter.

  “Yeah,” Somers said, wiping his cheeks. “She is.”

  Then Hazard’s thick fingers were fumbling with Somers’s shirt, dragging it up and over his head. “Now,” he rumbled. “I believe you said something about a bath.”

  HAZARD AND SOMERSET: OFF DUTY

  These vignettes come after Criminal Past.

  I

  AUGUST 5

  SUNDAY

  11:07 AM

  HAZARD KNOCKED ANOTHER bottle off the shelf. His broken arm, still healing from his encounter with Mikey Grames, throbbed in its cast and sling. His shoulder ached from the weight.

  “Are you doing this on purpose?” Somers asked, stooping to retrieve the Neutrogena face wash. It was an awkward movement, made difficult because Somers had been shot in the thigh and still used a cane to move about.

  Ignoring him, Hazard turned to reach deeper, his fingers identifying the bottles at the back of the shelf by shape. They all felt the same, but he stretched a little bit farther, twisting. His shoulder bumped the plastic bottles, and another one toppled over.

  Somers sighed and picked it up. “They don’t have any, Ree.”

  Hazard withdrew his arm and tapped the label in front of the empty slot on the shelves. “It says right here: micellar water.”

  “And they’re all out.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe there are some hiding back here.”

  “Ree, you’ve knocked half the shelf onto the ground. If there were any, you would have found them.”

  “Maybe one of them fell over.”

  “Do you want me to ask somebody?”

  “God, no.”

  One of Somers’s blond eyebrows shot up.

  “Don’t make that face,” Hazard said, turning to slide his arm to the back of the shelf.

  “I don’t know why we can’t just ask somebody if they have any in the stockroom.”

  “If they had any in back, John, they would have put it out. There isn’t any on the shelf; therefore, they don’t have any in the stockroom.”

  “Ok.”

  Hazard froze. He fixed his boyfriend with a glare. “No.”

  Somers lifted his hands, still holding one of the Neutrogena bottles he had collected from the floor. “I just said ok.”

  “You said it with a tone.”

  “No tone.”

  “You’re trying to imply I’m being stubborn.”

  “Well, if you inferred that, it means I successfully implied you were being stubborn. I didn’t just try.”

  “Don’t give me bullshit semantics. I’m not being stubborn. I’m just checking—” Another bottle slapped the vinyl flooring. Hazard struggled to control a growl.

  “I’m not picking that one up,” Somers said.

  Hazard ignored him, grappling with something at the back and knocking two more bottles of Neutrogena onto the floor.

  Somers sighed again and tossed the bottle he held. “Why can’t you just use this one? I use this one.”

  “You have perfect skin. You could slather your face with petroleum jelly and you wouldn’t break out.”

  “The only thing I want to slather with petroleum jelly is—” Somers broke off, his face coloring.

  Hazard glanced over his shoulder and spotted two kids playing tug of war with a shower scrub brush.

  “You were saying?” Hazard said. “Something about slathering?”

  “I hate you.”

  With a grunt, Hazard dropped into a squat and began removing bottles of Clean and Clear.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “A bottle might have fallen down to the shelf below. It’s worth checking.”

  “Just so I get this straight: you’re willing to knock every bottle of face wash onto the floor just on the possibility an extra bottle might be hiding in the back, but you’re not going to ask anybody if they have more in the stockroom.”

  “I don’t need to ask anyone. They obviously don’t. Besides, I don’t need any help.”

  “Ah.”

  “No.”

  “There it is.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Come on, this is ridiculous. I’ll buy this stuff, and you can try it. If you don’t like it, you’re not out any money. I’ve been using this since high school, Ree. It works fine.”

  Hazard turned toward the opening he had created, examining the rows of bottles at the back of the shelf. Somers was waiting for an answer, and after a moment, Hazard mumbled, “It dries out my face.”

  “What was that?”

  “It dries out my—” Hazard glanced up and caught the smile. “Fuck you.”

  “Language.”

  Hazard pulled more bottles from the shelf.

  “They have a million kinds of face wash, Ree. You don’t have to buy this one. You can get something else. They literally have a whole aisle of options. They have other brands of mice water if that’s what you want.”

  “Micellar.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said mice water. And if I look up and you’ve got a stupid grin on your face, I’m going to punch you.”

  When Hazard looked up, Somers’s face was perfectly composed. Too composed.

  “If you want micellar water,” Somers said, deliberately emphasizing the first syllable, “you can just get another brand. Right here. Garnier has some.”

  “I don’t want Garnier. I want this one.”

  Somers set down the bottle of bright orange face wash and pulled out his phone. As he tapped at the screen, Hazard continued to pull bottles.

  “Excuse me. Sir? Excuse me, can I help you?” The speaker was a teenage girl in a red shirt. Her badge said Tonya.

  “No,” Hazard said.

  “Yes,” Somers said. “Do you have any—”

  “No,” Hazard said again, more loudly. “We’re fine.”

  Tonya played with a strand of bleached blond hair that was slightly green at the end. Too much chlorine, Hazard guessed. She was staring at the dozens of plastic bottles Hazard had lined up on the floor. “If you’re looking for something in particular—”

  “Yes,” Somers said. “We are.”

  “No,” Hazard said. “We’re fine.”

  She was still staring at the bottles.

  “I’ll put them back,” Hazard said.

  She was still staring.

  Hazard could feel a growl building in his throat. “Scram.”

  With a little yip in her throat, Tonya scurried away.

  “Really nice,” Somers said.

  “Be quiet.”

  “Classy.”

  “Shut up, John.”

  “You had her eating out of your hand.”

  Hazard decided ignoring him was the best option.

  “I found that brand of micellar water at Walmart.”

  “That’s a twenty-minute drive.”

  “But they have it, Ree.”

  “I’m just going to look a little bit longer.”

  Somers sighed, shifting his weight on the cane. “I’ll go get it.”

  “No. I’m going to find it, John.”

  “It’s a race, then. Call me when you find it.”

  “You’ll cheat.”

  Somers drew an exaggerated expression of outrage. “Emery Hazard, how dare you?”

  “Whoever finds it first has to take a picture of the bottle to prove it.”

  “Fine. Let the race
begin.” And with surprising speed for a man on a cane, Somers hobbled toward the exit.

  Hazard followed him to the end of the aisle and watched him go. As soon as Somers was out of the store, Hazard sprinted back to the bottles he had lined up on the floor and began shoving them onto the shelves. When he’d finished, he jogged down the next aisle, and then the next. His broken arm swung awkwardly in the sling, and his shoulder throbbed. In the fourth aisle, he found Tonya.

  He told her what he was looking for.

  “Well, back where you were—”

  “No. There’s nothing on the shelf. Do you have any in the stockroom?”

  “I don’t—”

  Hazard clapped his hands. “Quickly.”

  She made another of those yipping noises and darted away. In a few minutes, she was back, holding out the bottle of micellar water that Hazard had been looking for. “If you want to wait, I can—”

  “This is perfect.”

  He turned around, intending to blitz towards the registers, and froze.

  Somers was standing there. Smirking.

  “I didn’t—” Hazard tried to hide the micellar water behind his back, but it was too late. “She didn’t—”

  Somers’s damn smirk just got bigger.

  Hazard’s shoulders dropped. “That was a fucking trap.”

  “It’s ok,” Somers said, sliding his arm around Hazard’s waist and kissing him on the cheek. “We all need help sometimes.”

  II

  AUGUST 25

  SATURDAY

  10:37 PM

  THE MUSIC IN the Pretty Pretty thundered through the club, the bass line synchronized with the flash of lights along the walls and ceiling. Somers liked the steady, thudding beat. It got inside his head, made him want to dance. Instead, he was sitting at the bar with his boyfriend.

  “Please?” he said.

  Hazard glowered at him. The big, dark-haired man wore jeans and a simple white Oxford, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Part of that was a concession to the cast he was wearing. Part of it was the fact that it showed off Hazard’s nice arms.

  “You shouldn’t be dancing.”

  Somers grimaced and poked Hazard in the leg with the cane. “You’re only as old as you feel.”

  Hazard slapped the cane away. “You don’t have that fucking cane because you’re old. You have it because you got shot in the fucking leg. And you shouldn’t be dancing.”

  “Last time you said you didn’t want to dance because your arm hurt.”

  “My arm does hurt.”

  “And the time before that, you said everybody was staring at us because of the stuff that happened with Mikey.”

  “They were.”

  “And now it’s my leg.”

  “Did you get shot in the leg?”

  Somers grinned. “I kind of remember something like that.”

  “There you go.”

  Sliding off the stool, Somers moved to stand behind Hazard, sliding his arms around Hazard’s torso, his cheek pressed to Hazard’s. Hazard took a drink of his Guinness.

  Somers kissed him on the cheek.

  Hazard took another drink.

  Somers kissed him on the jaw. “Dance with me.”

  “I don’t want you to—”

  Somers caught Hazard’s earlobe with his teeth, just enough pressure that it bordered on pain, and Hazard cut off with a strangled noise. “Hmm?”

  “Uh.”

  “You don’t want me to?”

  With what looked like a lot of effort, Hazard cleared his throat and said, “Hurt your leg. I don’t want you to hurt your leg.”

  “You weren’t worried about my leg last night.”

  Hazard took another drink of the Guinness. A long drink.

  “You know what?” Somers said. “I think I might just try it. Just see how my leg does.”

  “Fine.”

  “You aren’t going to join me?”

  “I’m not going to encourage bad behavior.”

  “I guess I’ll have to dance by myself, then.”

  “I guess so.”

  Dipping down, Somers kissed Hazard on the neck and then clamped down on the tender skin over his collar bone.

  Hazard hissed. “Jesus Christ, John.”

  “In case you change your mind.”

  Somers propped his cane against the bar and limped out onto the dance floor. The Pretty Pretty, Wahredua’s only gay club, always drew large crowds, even more on the weekends. Tonight, some women danced together in the throng, but men made up the majority: college kids, shirtless to expose muscled, gleaming bodies; older men in expensive clubwear; guys in leather harnesses; guys who stood on the edges of the crowd, drinking and looking on with hopeful glances.

  The mob melted around Somers, men and boys alike studying him—some in quick, stolen glances; others with appreciative stares. One boy with a quiff of dark hair, bare-chested to expose well-developed pecs, reached out and snapped the shoulder of Somers’s tank. Somers grinned and kept moving.

  When he was near the center mass of the crowd, Somers began to dance. Nothing wild. Nothing that would put strain on his leg—too much strain, anyway. He just let the beat suffuse him, and he rocked into that beat. Here, surrounded by bodies, the air was hot, and every breath tasted like sweat and a mélange of colognes. At first, a narrow circle surrounded Somers, boys and men watching him. He watched back, meeting eyes, smiling. Somers knew he was still an outsider in many ways, but he also knew who he was, and he knew what those looks meant. Slowly, the circle closed until bodies crushed Somers, and he continued to rock and sway, pivoting on the balls of his feet. An ache grew in his thigh, building towards cramps that would bitch at him the rest of the night if he didn’t stop. But he didn’t stop. He wanted to dance. And he wanted Hazard to watch.

  As though on cue, the boy with the quiff of dark hair slid into place in front of Somers. He danced closer, one leg slotted between Somers’s, his body so close that Somers could feel the heat even in the sweltering air of the club. The boy was grinning, and he reached out again, tugging on Somers’s tank again. An invitation to dance closer. An invitation to grind up against the boy.

  Somers grinned, plucking away the boy’s hand and continuing to dance. He fought the urge to glance over at the bar.

  “You’re hot,” the boy said.

  “I’ve got a boyfriend,” Somers said.

  “Oh yeah?” The boy was grinning. “Give me ten minutes, and you won’t be able to remember his name.”

  “Not interested,” Somers said. “I’m just here to dance.”

  “Dance a little closer,” the boy said, leering at Somers and then, with a brazen flash of a smile, leaning forward to grope Somers’s chest. “Jesus, you’re so fucking hot.”

  “And you’re in so much trouble,” Somers said. “Touch me again, and you’re going to have your hand in a cast for a couple of months.”

  “You want to hit me?” The boy batted thick, dark lashes. “You want to spank me for being bad?”

  Somers laughed. “I’m not going to lay a finger on you. He, on the other hand, looks like he has other ideas.”

  As Somers finished speaking, Hazard broke through the crowd, a storm of shoulders and wild, dark hair and eyes glinting like corn in sunlight.

  “Better scoot,” Somers said to the boy with the quiff.

  The boy took one look at Hazard and ran.

  “You,” Hazard said as he took the boy’s place, grinding up against Somers, his massive body moving easily to the music and matching Somers’s movements, “are trying to make me jealous.”

  “Is it working?” Somers asked with a smirk.

  Hazard caught a handful of Somers’s hair, yanking his head back, kissing him hard. His pupils had swollen when he broke the kiss, and his breath was hot on Somers’s cheek.

  “Good,” Somers said.

  III

  SEPTEMBER 2

  SUNDAY
br />   8:51 PM

  HAZARD DROPPED onto the sofa and picked up the remote. Evie was finally in bed. The dishes were done. Hazard had picked up the living room, and the apartment was as clean as it was going to get that night. Somers was reading in bed. Letting out a sigh, Hazard clicked on the TV, then the DVD player. Finally, a chance to watch the documentary he had picked up at the library the week before: Border Skirmishes During Jeffersonian Expansionism. It was supposed to be fantastic.

  “Ree?”

  Hazard settled his thumb on the remote and pumped up the volume. One click. Then, just to be safe, two.

  “Ree?” Somers called again, more loudly.

  Hazard paused the documentary in its opening shot: a map. “Yeah?”

  “Do you remember Jim Hildebrand?”

  “No.”

  “From high school.”

  “No.”

  “He was in our grade. He had long hair, well, a skater cut. And he wore acid-wash jeans for all of tenth grade.”

  “No.”

  The silence lasted a moment, and Hazard pressed play. The shot panned across a map of the United States in the year 1800. Then the camera zoomed in, moving toward Virginia, toward—

  “Are you sure?”

  Somers’s bare feet slapped the floor, the rhythm off because of his limp, and then he appeared in the doorway: blond, beautiful, wearing only a pair of pajama pants. Dark ink curled across his torso, a beautiful calligraphy that covered him to the collar bone. For a moment, Hazard couldn’t breathe. For a moment, he even forgot about the importance of territorial expansion for the continued existence of the yeoman farmer and, consequently, democracy itself.

  “Huh?”

  “Jim Hildebrand. You’re sure you don’t remember him?” Somers wagged his phone. “I was just on Facebook, and he’s dating Sheila McInnis. They’ve both been married before.”

  “So? You were married before.”

  “Sheila McInnis, Ree.” Somers waited. “Sheila? Don’t tell me you don’t remember Sheila.”

  Hazard rubbed his forehead, trying to keep from glancing over at the TV. His finger drifted over the rubber buttons on the remote.

  Somers caught the movement. “You’re watching your documentary.”