Chapter Twenty-Four

THE APARTMENT WASN’T bad, not really. It was just that Steve Marsden was used to so much more—views, space, the luxury of knowing he lived in a home worth around a million dollars. He knew he didn’t need the space or the prestige. It was simply hard to settle for ground chuck when one got used to filet mignon.

Now, for the first time in twenty years, he was on his own. His job selling women’s shoes at Nordstrom paid more than most people thought, but in a bustling metropolis like Seattle, heavy with high-tech money, he’d discovered the hard way just how much he could afford.

Gone were the dreams of living in a place like the gayborhood of Capitol Hill, with its bar– and restaurant-lined streets, its views of Lake Union, downtown, and the Space Needle. He could remember when the neighborhood was more affordable, when it was possible for someone like him to live there. That is, if he didn’t reach for the stately homes on the quiet streets around the busy and trendy areas. Fremont, dubbed the Center of the Universe, used to be kind of funky, a home to artists and hipsters, but was now all overpriced condos only those in top positions at Amazon and Microsoft could afford. Ballard? Once a home to fishermen and working-class folks? Forget it.

Steve counted himself lucky to inhabit his little studio way up north, near the Northgate mall. His apartment was in a small development on Meridian Avenue, a bit farther up, and a bit more downtrodden, than the home he’d shared with Rory in Maple Leaf. The condo he’d once inhabited with Connor was way out of reach. They’d bought it for around $250,000 back in more reasonable times. Now, the fourteen-hundred-square-foot place was worth over a million.

Ridiculous.

But Steve loved Seattle, had lived in the area all his life—he grew up in Tacoma—and had no intention of ever setting his sights on elsewhere, no matter how tempting lower-priced real estate might be.

And now, on a quiet Saturday morning in August, he was content as he surveyed his domain. It was really just one room, not even all that big, with a utilitarian bathroom off the main living area. A kitchenette, hidden behind a screen, took up one wall. His couch folded out into a surprisingly comfortable bed, just like Mary Richards’s had back in her heyday in Minneapolis. Across from it, pushed against the wall, was a glass-topped desk on which sat his big Mac desktop computer that he relied on for almost everything outside the apartment. He used it as his TV, streaming Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and BritBox. He used it to shop for clothes on the Nordstrom website (it just wasn’t feasible to go elsewhere with his employee discount, especially when sales happened). Groceries he had delivered from Whole Foods, which was linked into Amazon.com. The iMac was also his portal to men, although with all that had happened over the past ten months, he’d had trouble getting up the courage to brave the treacherous waters of dating once more. Mr. Hand and his four sons were constantly in demand, and Steve had just about settled for the knowing pleasures they could reliably produce.

In his relatively new place, he even had a view of sorts, although nothing like what he’d had when he was with Connor. His picture window looked out on Meridian, a fairly busy two-lane street that ended on the south end at Green Lake. There was a community college, office buildings, other apartment complexes, a few houses who’d managed to make it through redevelopment. One such office building was across the street, but big pine trees mostly hid it. The pines gave shade and, if he squinted in just the right way, he could imagine he was in a cabin in Mount Baker National Forest.

Most Saturdays, he worked. But he had this particular one off and, now, back from a run down to Green Lake and back, he found himself bored…and lonely.

After the nightmare break-in and warning at the house he’d shared with Rory, he’d followed his intruder’s advice and stayed away from Connor.

He occasionally spoke to Miranda, but the conversations were so guarded, so careful to avoid her father, that their calls and meetups were becoming few and far between. The young woman he’d once thought of as his daughter seemed to be disappearing before his eyes, fading into a mist of memories.

Everything changed.

Steve knew that and especially realized that young people grow up and make their own way in the world. But Miranda fading out of his life stung. He thought of her as much as he thought of Connor. Whichever one he thought of, his ruminations centered around happy memories and a nostalgic longing for completeness he wasn’t sure had ever existed.

Ah! The day was too glorious to dwell on such sadness. Steve pushed open his sliders and stepped out on to his small balcony to breathe in the eighty-something-degree breeze. Summers in Seattle were the antithesis of what most people believed about the Emerald City—the endless days of misty rain, gray skies, and chill it was famous for—no, summers possessed just about the most perfect climate you could find anywhere on earth. Days were mostly sunny and warm, with low humidity, and highs in the upper seventies and low eighties. Nights were cool and breezy.

Summers were perfect for hiking in the Cascades, kayaking on Lake Union, cycling along the trails, flying a kite at Gas Works Park, or simply strolling around the Central Park of Seattle—Green Lake.

And today, Steve didn’t want this rare Saturday off, with its magic weather and sunshine, to go to waste.

It had been too long since he’d so much as chatted with another guy. His life had become routine—and sad. Lonesome. Work, TV, sleep, and repeat. Over and over again until he felt more like he was simply floating through life rather than truly living it.

So he came back inside and sat at his computer. He brought up Adam4Adam, because it was a free site, easy to access, and because one of his coworkers had just found the love of his life there, after way too many nearly anonymous hookups.

Love of his life or an anonymous hookup, Steve thought, were both options for alleviating boredom, chasing away the blues caused by loneliness, and getting himself back into the land of the living.

He got up for a moment and went into the kitchen to pour himself an iced tea. When he returned to his desk, he brought up Adam4Adam to browse through the thumbnail portraits. Steve thought it was sad that most of them were nothing more than porn. He shook his head. As tempting as the round asses and hard dicks were, Steve always wondered why anyone would debase themselves by reducing their whole being to a picture of a butt or genitals. Just like most men, he found these body parts titillating, thrilling, stimulating. But obviously, unlike most gay men on the hookup site, he preferred butts and cocks to be attached to a real man.

He much preferred a profile that showed a smiling face over a rigid cock. Rigid cocks had their place, he thought, but talking to one? Always disappointing!

He scrolled through the profiles, after setting his filters for men five miles or fewer away, having a photo, and being online right now. It was always amazing how many guys were online at any given time, just like Steve. He imagined them all across the city at this very moment, hunched over mobile devices, staring at computer screens, all horny and hopeful. Some cynical. Some believing that at the end of this online rainbow he’d find a mate worth a pot of gold.

He was old enough to remember a world before apps and online dating and hookup sites. Back in the day, when you wanted to meet a man, you headed to Capitol Hill and hit the bars. There was no swiping left or right or sending messages. You knew who was in close proximity not because an app with GPS told you, but because they stood across the bar. You made eye contact. You flirted. You chatted. Or you waited, with hope in your heart and lust elsewhere, for someone to come up and chat.

A one-night stand always held the possibility of turning into something. Often, those encounters would be nothing more than unremarkable, little better, really, than masturbating. Sometimes worse, disappointing more often than not. But the one thing they always contained was a kernel of hope. And sometimes, hope fulfilled its promise. A sexual encounter could lead to a long-term relationship or even a good friendship. With the latter, one day the two of you might laugh about the way you met.

These days, the bars weren’t as popular. Many had closed as online venues proliferated and thrived. The bars that did remain open, Steve had discovered, were gathering places for younger people. Sad—even the people in clubs often had heads bent over phones, searching for who might be nearby on Grindr or Scruff. What ever happened to simply talking to the object of your desire?

Everything changed.

Defeated, he realized his only hope might be wading through a site like Adam4Adam and applying his own personal filters—no hooking up without meeting in person first and dating, rather than sex, as the main objective. These were what passed for lofty goals in the romantic world of the twenty-first century.

He was new to the site, having created his profile only a few days ago, so he was surprised to find there were already two messages in his inbox. One was the standard form message welcoming new members to the site and encouraging them to sign up for the more fully featured—and pay—version.

But the other message was from a guy with a handle most subscribers under forty wouldn’t recognize—Fess Up Parker. Of course, Steve knew the reference immediately. Back when he was a little boy, he used to love to watch Fess Parker as Daniel Boone. Steve even wore a coonskin cap when the show came on.

Amused, he checked out the guy’s profile.

 

What’s Your Story?

Fortysomething man who works too hard, plays too little, laughs inappropriately, and wants more out of life than party and play promises. Hi guys, I’m going to be upfront and honest (I know, I know—a shocker in this neck of the woods). I’m not looking for a quick pump and dump or even a night of Netflix and chill (unless we’re actually watching Netflix and chilling on the couch with a nice bottle of something). I hope to find an old-fashioned guy with romance in his heart. Someone not immune to commitment. Someone whose baggage is stored on the top shelf of his closet. Tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine. We can write our own story from there.

 

STEVE LOOKED AGAIN at the profile picture.

The guy was cute. About the same age as Steve. He had no nude pics or even anything suggestive. There was one photo of his face and Steve liked what he saw. There was an openness to his expression, a little mischief in his cockeyed smile. His dark eyes were huge, made even more prominent by the shaved head. Steve knew he was indulging in a bit of projection, but he thought he could see someone who liked to laugh, someone trustworthy, and someone kind.

And there was a comfort in the fact that the guy looked vaguely familiar, even though Steve was certain they’d never crossed paths.

Whoa, there, buddy. This is exactly the kind of thinking that got you into big trouble with Rory when you first saw him. Rather than really seeing him, you turned him into what you wanted and needed then. And then you acted surprised when it all came crashing down around you.

Okay, so this guy was just a nice, friendly face. Handsome. Those things were visible to anyone’s eyes.

The other shot was a full body shot probably taken on one of the Argosy tour boats. He stood on the deck of a smallish craft, heading through the Ballard locks. He wore a blue windbreaker, jeans. The sky behind him was moody, choked with charcoal-colored clouds.

His note said pretty much what his profile pointed out. He told Steve he liked his picture and what he had to say.

It’s so rare to find someone who isn’t looking for a quick hookup these days. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you, but I believe you and I are maybe searching for a more in-depth kind of connection.

Am I right? If so, shoot me a message back and let me know if you might be interested in coffee or even breakfast or lunch.

Steve, disheartened over the sad world of online connection, was suddenly enthused about how this same world had delivered someone to him who at least seemed to be just what he was looking for.

Slow down there. Proceed with caution.

He quickly composed an answer.

I’m heading down to the Green Lake area this afternoon. There’s a cool little bar on Latona called The Cider House. They have, of course, an awesome assortment of ciders and craft beers, but they also happen to make the very best grilled cheese sandwich and homemade tomato soup. I have a hankering. If you see this in time, maybe you’d want to meet me there?

 

HE HIT SEND before he had a chance to allow second thoughts to deter him. What did he have to lose? The guy’s profile showed he was online, but who knew when he’d see Steve’s response or if he’d even take the time to contact him back. Even though Steve was relatively new to the world on online dating, he knew chances of running across liars and flakes were high.

He noted his empty glass and was about to get up for a refill when he noticed he had a new message.

So glad you got in touch! I get my hair cut today on Sixty-Fifth, so I’ll be just down the street from Latona. Wanna meet at, say, one? I’ll wait for you outside if this sounds cool. Excited!

Steve debated, but not for long. He shot back that he’d be delighted and would see him then. He began to add his number, so the guy, whose name he still didn’t know, could get in touch if anything should come up that would delay or prevent him from showing up. He decided against it though. They could exchange names and numbers after meeting, if it worked out. And if he didn’t show? No worries? That grilled cheese, with its blend of gruyere and sharp cheddar on sourdough, was just as enjoyable whether one was dining alone or with a friend.

The guy answered right away, saying he would see him then.

Steve got up to shower and make himself presentable. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

The day was looking very promising—and not so lonely.

 

THE PLATES AND bowls showed only the barest traces of the food they’d consumed for lunch. Their glasses, filled twice with pear cider drawn from a tap, were empty. And Steve found himself smiling across the table at Fess Parker—yes, that was really his name. “My parents were big fans and thought I’d grow up to be the same macho man. They were sorely disappointed when they realized I showed more interest in hale and hearty wilderness men than in coonskin caps and muskets.”

They’d both laughed over that.

They’d done a lot of laughing while they consumed their lunches—tomato soup and grilled cheese for Steve and a cheeseburger and onion rings for Fess.

They’d talked about everything, and Steve was amazed at how easy it had been. But once he’d laid eyes on Fess’s face—more charismatic than handsome—he’d been enchanted. Not in love, not in lust, although there was a little of both, but more hopefully intrigued. No, it was more his pale blue eyes, made more prominent by his closely-shaven head, that drew him in. There was an openness in them, an honesty.

Honesty was a quality Steve had found sorely lacking in too many people these days and especially lately.

Fess made him laugh.

Fess drew him, the classic introvert, out. He made him feel seen and comfortable. Steve had talked more than he had in ages.

He surprised himself.

Fess was everything other men in Steve’s romantic life hadn’t been. His job wasn’t glamorous. It had made him neither famous nor rich. He drove a delivery truck for a local bakery specializing in artisan breads. “I’m up when the sky’s still dark so I can get out there and deliver those loaves to all these fine restaurants on the north side. And the biggest bennie? An unlimited supply of the best homemade bread.”

Steve had never dated a blue-collar man. It was refreshing, and it didn’t preclude, of course, him being smart.

“I love what I do. I have freedom. I’m on my own. And I get to see the city, meet nice people. And—another great perk—my workday’s done at around lunchtime, so it feels like I have more free time, even though that’s only an illusion. But I can go home, take a run, nap, and then get up and indulge my big passion.”

“What’s that?” Steve had asked. “Or should I say who?”

Fess ignored the hint. “Reading.”

Steve nodded, figuring this would be the part where Fess mentioned Connor, or Alfred Knox, as he was known to readers. But Fess surprised him. “I like to read older stuff. Not necessarily ancient or anything, but the writers who had just a bit of a twisted worldview. You know?”

Steve shook his head. He didn’t want to admit he wasn’t much of a reader himself. He didn’t want to bring up his close association with the well-known mystery writer Alfred Knox. If he did, he knew things could veer into fandom, and suddenly, the date would be all about Connor. “What’s he like in real life?” he could imagine Fess asking.

Besides, Steve was more of a movie guy himself, and deep down, had an embarrassing love for Lifetime movies. Something about a woman in danger drew him in. And Lifetime always delivered a happy ending. “Not sure I do know. Who do you like to read?”

“Ah, I love Flannery O’Connor. And Patricia Highsmith. Those two ladies certainly had a skewed vision of the world. They populated their worlds with murders and evil-deed-doers, yet somehow managed to let a kind of redemption shine through.”

“What would you suggest if I wanted to read one of them?” Steve had heard the names, but was chastened that he’d never cracked the cover of any of their books.

“Oh, read Highsmith’s The Cry of the Owl. You won’t be able to put it down. And O’Connor? Anything she’s written is worth your time. But I’d have to say start with some of her short stories. There’s no better short story, I think, in American twentieth century fiction than ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find.’ The good thing about both of these writers is that they’re not only relevant and classic, they’re both hugely entertaining.” Fess winked. “Not an easy task.”

Thankfully, he hadn’t asked Steve what he liked to read. He was always embarrassed that after Connor’s first couple novels came out he had never gotten around to reading any more of them.

Thoughts of Connor had made him open up, but only in an oblique way. “My ex was in the arts. Did some writing. Published,” he confessed.

“Really?” Fess leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Have I heard of him? Tell me who he is or what I might have read.”

Steve waved the question away. “You probably haven’t heard of him.” Steve looked out the window at the sunny day, people hurrying up and down Latona Avenue.

And here’s where another quality of Fess’s that Steve immediately liked came into play—his natural sensitivity. “You’re still smitten.”

“What?” Steve laughed. “No, no. Why would I be here with you if I was?” And yet I’d be lying if I said smitten was a too inconsequential word for what I feel for Connor. Too many years together for something as trivial as smitten…

“Maybe because you want to get over him.” Fess leaned back, regarding him, waiting. “And there’s no better way to get over a man than to get under a new one.” He chuckled. “Not that I’m hinting.”

Because his tongue had been loosened by the cider and because Fess was still so new, Steve felt compelled to open up. The sad story, with names withheld, tumbled out. Everything. From Steve’s own fault in the destruction of the long and happy relationship, right up to their recent meeting and talk of reconciling.

Fess’s expression darkened. “You do still love him. It couldn’t be more obvious.”

Why lie? “I guess I do.” He shrugged. “But it’s over. It really is.” Steve left out the part about his home invader, too melodramatic. He suddenly wanted Fess to have a good impression of him, to not think he was on the rebound, even if that’s exactly what he was. “Whether I do or not doesn’t really matter. As I said, we’re through. He moved on. I thought I had too.” He smiled. “And I want you to know, I hope we can get to know each other better.” He reached across the table to cover Fess’s hand with his own. He squeezed. The warmth of the connection was both comforting and thrilling.

This was the part where, in the mind of the younger gay man he once had been, things could head in a sexual direction. But Steve knew it was much too soon. Not because bedding a guy on the first date would be immoral or anything like that, but because he liked this Fess fellow enough to want to take things slow, to see what he was really all about.

And yet. And yet, Connor waited there in his mind, soft gaze beckoning. Would he never get over him? Really? Come out on the other side?

But now there was Fess—and with him, hope.

Restraint, he told himself. He’d learned his lesson about rushing into things with Rory, who was now in Miami, walking hand in hand on South Beach with some younger guy. Stop.

Their eyes met across the table. It was if Fess knew more about him than Steve had conveyed with words. He didn’t know how, but it was nice. It reminded him of a John Prine song he’d heard, about old people, yet it applied here. The song was “Hello in There,” and it revolved around being seen when most of the world walked right by.

Fess smiled. “You ready to head out?” He held up his glass. “Want another?”

“Nah. I better not.” He made no move to get up. “This was nice. I’m just kind of getting back into the swing of things, so glad to meet someone who’s not a flake, or a jerk, or in it for anything other than meeting nice guys.” Steve tried to cover feeling as though he sounded like a fool with a grin.

Fess did stand. He reached back, presumably for his wallet. This was the kind of place where you paid at the register by the front door. He groped his own ass a bit and Steve bit back a laugh. Fess frowned. “I thought I had it.”

Steve shook his head. “What? Your wallet? C’mon, fella, that’s the oldest trick in the book!”

Fess’s face was a mask of contrition. “No, really. Maybe it fell out when I used the bathroom when I got here. Let me check.” And with that, he was gone.

Steve waited a bit and then decided to be proactive. He paid the bill and waited just outside the front door. The day had warmed, and the sun felt good on his face. There was a breeze carrying the scent of something sweet like honeysuckle. For the first time in a while, Steve felt relaxed, maybe even happy.

Fess came out.

“Find it?”

“No. They said they’d keep an eye out, but who would return a wallet full of cash?”

“You’d be surprised. Not everyone is bad.”

“You’re right, of course.”

They stood in silence for a bit, watching as a bunch of children zoomed by, laughing. Steve could remember his own childhood and how no one ever wore helmets, as these guys did. Somehow, though, he and his friends had survived.

“Where was it you lived?” Steve asked.

“Up north? Eighty-Fifth, just off Aurora?”

“Sure. We’re going the same way. I’m still farther up, but maybe share a ride? Or did you drive?”

“Don’t have a car. Never saw much need for one. I drive enough on the job.” He met Steve’s gaze. “It’s a beautiful day. Wanna walk?”

“Great idea. Burn off calories, sober up.” Steve laughed.

“And…we get to know one another better.”

They started off into the sunshine and the hustle and bustle of a perfect-weather Saturday when everyone in the world was out.

Steve was surprised how little time the walk took. When they’d gotten to the point where it would have made sense to split up, Fess insisted on walking him home. “I don’t mind. I need the exercise.”

Fess bordered on being too thin, so the exercise comment was questionable. Steve supposed people needed exercise for stuff other than losing weight. “You really don’t have to. I’m fine on my own.”

“Sweetie, we’re both fine on our own. I enjoy your company. Don’t worry. I won’t ask to come in to see your etchings.”

“Wow. That’s an old chestnut of a line. I love it.”

And now, standing in front of Steve’s apartment complex, their time together morphed into something awkward. They were, after all, little more than strangers. What do we do now? Kiss? Make plans for another date?

But Fess had other ideas. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his smile was an embarrassed one.

“What?” Steve asked, simply to have something to say.

“I know I said I wouldn’t ask to come in, but God, I really have to pee.” He cocked his head. “Would you mind?”

Steve waved the remark away. “Don’t worry about it. Come on up.” He turned and started on the path leading to his front door while fishing out his keys from his pocket. He could feel Fess’s gaze on him, and it made him both happy and uncomfortably self-conscious. Does my ass look too big in these shorts?

Once they were inside, Steve pointed out the bathroom. Because of the size of the apartment, directions really weren’t necessary. But it was something to do, something to say.

But Fess didn’t move. He stood his ground, staring.

Steve felt the thin hairs on his neck rise. “Uh, right that way.” He gestured toward the open door opposite them. It was clear from the visible toilet and tub that it was the bathroom.

Fess still didn’t move.

“You okay?” Steve asked. His heart picked up a little faster pace. He felt warm, even though the temperature in the apartment, with the windows open, and the pine trees shading it, was cool, barely above seventy.

“I’m fine.” Fess moved into Steve’s studio, looking around, appraising.

Why did I let him in?

Fess lifted some magazines from the coffee table. “Entertainment Weekly? People? You’re a real scholar, aren’t you?”

In spite of the heat burning his face, a chill ran up Steve’s spine. “Excuse me?”

Fess turned. “No bookcases?”

Steve could have answered that this was a studio and he had to be mindful of what he brought into the 600 square foot unit. Besides, almost all of the books he read these days were on his Kindle. But Steve didn’t want to answer. He wanted the guy to leave. This felt too weird, too invasive.

Fess moved to the sliding glass doors and looked out. He then reached over and pulled the vertical blinds closed. For a beat, he stood there, back turned.

Steve had a weird thought—run. But that would be crazy, right? He couldn’t just run out of his own home? Aside from looking odd, he didn’t want to leave this guy alone with his stuff. Alarm bells were beginning to sound in his head. What he’d had for lunch roiled.

“You gonna use the bathroom?”

“Nah.” Fess smiled. But it was no longer a sweet smile. This expression was more on the predatory side. “I didn’t really have to go.”

Steve laughed, but there was no mirth in it. His face was slick with sweat. “Then why did you ask to come up?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to see if you had any, um, Alfred Knox books.”

Steve eyed him. “A few. They’re on my Kindle.”

“No hard copies of the ones he dedicated to you?”

Steve felt as though he might be sick. He eyed the bathroom, measuring out how many steps it would take to get to the toilet. Could he make it, kneel, and deposit his lunch in the toilet without any spills?

“What do you know about that?” Steve asked. But then he decided he needed to be strong. He was uncomfortable and, yes, scared. If he felt that way, he needed to send this guy packing, whoever he was. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I really don’t feel comfortable anymore.”

“Oh? And when we were having such a nice time?”

Steve ignored the question. “You really need to go.”

In response, Fess plopped down on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. He looked settled, at home. He patted the gray sofa. “Comfy. Fold-out bed?”

“Please,” Steve said. He hated himself for how his voice had gone high, shaky.

“Please what?”

“Can you just go? I can call you a lift, if you want. My treat.”

“How rude. I just got here.”

“You said you needed—” Steve stopped himself. “I can also call the police,” he said. “I asked you to leave. You’re not going, so you’re trespassing.”

“Go ahead. I’m sure they’ll whiz right over, sirens blaring, lights whirling, guns drawn.” Fess threw back his head and laughed. “Or maybe call Connor?”

Steve’s blood went cold.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s my husband. Didn’t you get the wedding announcement?”

Steve stumbled back a little. He cursed himself for being so trusting, so naïve, so unwitting. He was the fly that flew gratefully into the sticky web. “What do you want from me?” And then it dawned on him—the home invader. The shadow formed from the darkness. He leaned against the wall because of his weak knees. “It was you,” he gasped.

“Yes, it was me. I charmed him out of his clothes and into a wedding band. It wasn’t so hard, especially since you and this Rory fella left him so broken-hearted, reeling. He thought so little of himself. I was just the boost he needed.”

Steve didn’t dare ask if that were the case, why were they no longer together. “Tell me what you want,” he blurted. “Fess? Or would Trey be more to your liking? What the hell is your name, anyway?”

Fess said nothing for the longest time. He simply sat on the couch, as if he were the one at home and Steve were the guest. “We’ve both been jilted by the great Connor, or Alfred, or whatever the hell his name is. I thought we might commiserate. Make him jealous.”

Steve shook his head. Words didn’t want to emerge.

“No? We could get up to a little fun, take naked selfies, send ’em to him. Wouldn’t that put him in his place?”

“I don’t have any bad feelings about Connor.”

“Well, you should. You’d be amazed at how he badmouthed you.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Steve blew out a frustrated breath. “Will you get the fuck out of my house? Now.”

“In a bit, okay? Just relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“It didn’t occur to me that you would hurt me,” Steve said. But now it did.

Trey patted the couch. “Come sit down.”

“I don’t want to. Dammit. I want you to go.” What could he do? Scream? What would his new neighbors think? He could leave, but this was his place and god only knew what the guy would do to it if he were gone.

“All in good time, my pretty.” Trey laughed. “Sit down, Steve.”

Because he was afraid and because he thought maybe if he complied, the guy would get out quicker, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the couch. “What now?”

“Sit back. Relax.”

“I can’t.”

“Scared?”

“Yes.”

“My God, Steve. You have nothing to fear from little old me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.” He stood. “Just sit back. I have a few things to say, and then I’ll go. Promise. I want you to report back to Connor. Let him know that everything he found out about me was due to a huge misunderstanding. Clerical errors. Wrong person. Shit like that.”

Trey moved behind the couch and placed his hands on Steve’s shoulders. He pushed him back, more firmly into the cushions.

Steve waited for what he would say next, looking forward to a time when he’d have his apartment back, when he could be blessedly alone once more. He didn’t know, though, if he could ever call this place home.

Not now.

Trey was very quiet behind him. Steve was just moving to turn and look when a hand gripped his shoulder again, pushing him more forcefully against the couch.

The hunting knife came out of nowhere.

It was such a surprise for Steve that he barely reacted.

When he felt its cold metal swipe across his throat, he didn’t even scream. Maybe he couldn’t.

When the blood spurted out of his throat, he closed his eyes.