HAZARD SHOWERED. THE WATER was pink for a while as it rinsed the blood from his chin. When he got out, he dried himself with one of the Bridal Veil Motor Court towels, and it was a bit like drying himself with a piece of sandpaper. Towel around his waist, he studied his fat lip in the mirror and wished to hell he understood Somers.
Last night, it had all seemed so simple. He had been talking to Upchurch, enjoying—in a distracted way—the older man’s clumsy attempts at flirtation. Whatever Somers said, it was obvious that Upchurch was gay, or at least bi, and that he wouldn’t mind giving Emery Hazard’s body a thorough exploration. But while Hazard had listened to Upchurch’s compliments, while he had laughed at bad jokes and answered boring questions, his real focus had been on Somers.
Somers, as usual, had refused to do what Hazard expected. Instead of taking center stage at Upchurch’s going away party, Somers had slunk over to the bar and pounded back shots—a line of them that stretched halfway down the block, it looked to Hazard. That was all: he stayed right there, not quite pouting, not quite sulking, but doing a hell of a close impersonation. Swinney had wanted to know what was wrong; Lender had offered to go ask; Cravens, with a grim shake of her head, had insisted everyone leave Somers alone.
But Hazard had been watching, and he hadn’t minded watching because even when Somers had a face like a thundercloud, it was still a face that made Hazard’s heart hitch. And then he had noticed Somers watching him—and then the idea hit. It was so simple. It was so easy. Hazard could tell, from the way Somers was looking at him, that the blond man wanted something. Hazard was willing to give it to him—up to a point. Then, when he had Somers exactly where he wanted him, he’d put on the pressure. Somers would cave. He’d confess to what he’d done to Jeff, and Hazard would—what? Even today, after everything that had happened, Hazard wasn’t sure. Would he have killed John-Henry? Would he have hurt him?
In the end, it hadn’t mattered because nothing had worked out the way Hazard had planned. Instead of breaking down and confessing, Somers had fought back. He’d gotten away from Hazard. Hazard might have gone after him—he might have pressed the issue to the breaking point—but the sight of Somers’s face stopped him. There was so much confusion there. So much hurt. It wasn’t anything like what Hazard had expected to see, and it left him flat-footed, like he’d stepped off a bus but the whole world kept moving at a smooth fifty-five.
And why the hell, just once, couldn’t Somers do what he was supposed to do? Why couldn’t he confess? Why couldn’t he admit he’d done wrong? Why, instead, did he have to ring Hazard’s bell with a smooth right jab and then deny everything? Why did Somers have to be right—this was the part that hurt the most—about Mikey Grames?
Because Somers was right, at least in part: Mikey Grames was an addict and a piece of shit, and therefore, he was not to be trusted. But Hazard had ignored that obvious fact. He had ignored, too, the fact that Mikey Grames had always been good at manipulating Hazard, had always been good at hurting Somers, and so why shouldn’t he still know how to do it? The truth of that hurt almost worse than the shame and pain of how Hazard had treated Somers.
Massaging his swollen lip one last time, wincing at the flash of heat in the torn flesh, Hazard dressed for the day—for what was definitely his last day as John-Henry Somerset’s partner and was, most likely, also going to be his last day with the Wahredua PD. In jacket and tie, Hazard left the Bridal Veil Motor Court and drove to the station.
The day was bright and already hot, but the wind carried away the worst of the humidity, with the result that the day felt like a baking oven rather than a swamp. Half-moons of sunlight bounced off the broken glass in the station parking lot, and the smell of hot tar persisted in spite of the wind’s best efforts. Hazard sat in the car, not quite ready to get out, and stared at the building that had once been a Catholic school. Above the door, the lone remaining angel looked like something that had fallen off the truck on the way to Pottery Barn. The devil, staring up at the angel’s broken spear, still looked like he was having a hell of a laugh. That about summed it up, Hazard thought: even if you didn’t believe in God and the Devil, you had to believe that evil had a lot more chuckles, and good ended up chipped and broken and looking ready for the scrap heap.
He couldn’t go inside. Not yet. Not with Somers already in there, not with Cravens ready to chew Hazard a new asshole, not with the shame that somehow, some way, Emery Hazard had screwed up his second chance at being a detective—and, for the second time, he’d done so purely on his own merits. He couldn’t go inside, so instead, he found himself pulling out his phone and dialing Billy’s number.
As the phone rang, Hazard knew how things would go: he’d apologize, and then, after a little begging, Billy would soften up and he’d apologize too. What were they fighting about? Hazard couldn’t even remember, something stupid, something inconsequential in the big scheme of things. Hazard would drive up to St. Louis tonight, spend the weekend there, see Billy’s play, make it up to him—
The phone picked up, and Hazard opened his mouth, ready to start with the apology. On the other end of the line, the sound of laughter in the background made Hazard stop. It was Billy’s laughter, and Billy’s voice speaking through the laughter, as though it were the best joke in the world, Billy saying, “No, Tom, I don’t want him to find out like this—”
And then a different voice, a deeper voice with a playful cast, came on the line, “This is Tom Gerard, personal assistant to the amazing Billy Rolker, how can I help you?”
Hazard’s head was floating. It had come off, been cut off, and it was floating somewhere above his body, so he couldn’t feel his breath or his hands or the way his socks had pulled sideways and weren’t fitting right. All he could do, with his head floating up in the air, was stare at the clock and think, it’s not even eight, not even eight o’clock in the morning, and Tom’s there. And then the next thought came, brutally cold and clear: He’s been there all night. He’s probably been there every night since I left.
“Em,” Tom said, “you there?”
“I need to talk to Billy.”
“Look, Em.” Tom’s voice. That same condescending, upper-crust voice: good manners, good breeding, and a good deal of patience with slow, stupid Emery Hazard. “Billy doesn’t want to talk to you, all right?”
“I need to talk to Billy.”
“Well, he’s not talking to you. I am. Listen, Em, you had to see this coming, right? We all saw it coming. The move was a good thing. You guys can go your separate ways, nobody gets hurt, right? C’mon, let’s do this like adults.”
Hazard’s head was shooting up. Past the stratosphere. Past everything, into a vacuum. He hadn’t felt this way since the last night Alec had slapped him around the apartment, the night Hazard had finally decided that enough was enough, that it was time to leave.
“I need to talk to—”
“Well, what are you? Fucking stupid? He’s not talking to you, Em.”
In the background, Hazard could hear Billy’s voice: “Tom, cool it, here, let me—”
“He wants this thing over,” Tom continued. “No, Billy, you don’t have to deal with him anymore. You’ve done enough intimidating, Em. You’ve scared Billy enough. You want to talk to somebody about this, you can talk to me. A clean break, right, Em? That’s what’s best for everybody. Listen, you take a few days, think about this, think about what you were doing to Billy, how you were treating him, what’s best, what’s really the best, and cool off. I’m blocking you from Billy’s phone, all right? You need something, you can call me. You got my number, right?”
It felt like a joke, but like a joke that was happening ten thousand feet below eye-level, where Hazard could understand the humor without finding it funny.
“I scared Billy? I was treating Billy badly?” Hazard’s throat was dry. The words had a crunchy, crumbling sound. “I was the one, when he was out fucking you whenever he had five free minutes—”
The call disconnected.
Hazard swore and punched in Billy’s number again, but the call went straight to voicemail. A blistering message was on Hazard’s lips. He was ready to tell Billy what he thought of him. He was ready to tell him what he thought of both of them. And then the voicemail dinged, and Hazard opened his mouth—and he suddenly felt himself plummeting, crashing back to earth. He thumbed the disconnect button and dropped his head to the steering wheel.
The hurt was coming. It was only milliseconds behind the crash, and Hazard knew it was coming, knew it was going to turn him inside out. But he still had those milliseconds, time when he wasn’t hurting—just tired, just really, really tired. Enough time for him to dial another number and, when the call picked up, to say, “I need to see you.”