NOT FOR the first time, Kevin Robinson wondered how anyone could do Grindr.
He got the concept, and it did have a kind of appeal, but maybe he’d been a cop too long, because he couldn’t imagine having so much trust in a stranger. Of course, he was still in the closet, so that upped the trust factor tenfold, and he probably wouldn’t be the only closet case on Grindr, either. But, again, he couldn’t do it.
Not that he even had the phone for it. He was still using his old Motorola, because it worked, and he didn’t see the sense of replacing a phone that still worked. He figured most “early adopters” didn’t live on a cop’s salary.
Kevin glanced out at the backyard, just to see if the dogs were still eating and if they were leaving the new shrub alone. He always liked to plant something for Arbor Day, even if it wasn’t a tree, and he was expanding the privet hedge that lined the back of his property.
The dogs—all three of them—were still eating, so of course they were leaving the shrub alone. If Maris went to check out the bush, Niles would eat her food, and if Niles went to check, Daphne would eat his food, and on and on in perpetuity.
The cats—all four of them—ate inside, in the kitchen, because they were cats and generally a little neater than the dogs. That wasn’t always true, but the only slopped food and muddy paws he ever had to deal with came from the dogs. But the cats had their own issues. If he wasn’t here to police them—ha!—Carla had a tendency to bully Diane and steal her food, and if her food wasn’t available, she’d take Sam’s. Only Coach, the lone male of the cats, seemed immune from this particular brand of piggishness. He’d still get a face full of claws if he tried to eat any of the girls’ food, though.
Kevin retrieved a bottle of tea from the fridge and knew he was probably kind of pathetic. He had his job, his animals, and that was pretty much it. Oh, and his family, as far as that went.
He was in the closet for his mother alone. He had no siblings, and while he had a large extended family, he wasn’t close to any of them. He knew he was seen by them as a weirdo, and the fact he was a cop seemed to make him a black sheep. Never mind that his extended family was full of doctors and accountants and city workers—they nonetheless viewed cops with suspicion. The police and African-American community always viewed each other warily at best, and the recent spate of men killed for being black had just made things worse. Even though he was an officer, Kevin totally got that. Any senseless killing pissed him off too. Lethal force was supposed to be the last resort, not the only one.
But he was a vice cop. He had never, in all his years on the force, fired his weapon on duty. That wasn’t the type of criminals he dealt with—even in the drug cases he handled, most of the dealers knew getting in a gun battle with cops wasn’t worth the time and/or death. The Feds usually got the big guys, anyway. But none of his extended family seemed to believe him. At a certain point—and honestly, he couldn’t recall exactly when—he gave up. He no longer gave a shit what they thought or what they said about him, because he was ready to write them off when he came out.
He was staying in the closet solely for his mother. Yes, he knew that if she didn’t accept him for who he actually was, it wasn’t real love and all of that, but he’d break her heart and he knew it. And if she had gone out of her way to not notice how he’d never dated a woman in his life, okay. He’d play along with her denial. She was elderly and kind of frail. He wasn’t going to ruin her last years with his business. Her knowing wasn’t going to change anything for him, so he could live with it.
It was easy for someone like Roan, who had no family and probably wouldn’t care even if he had one. Which was bitchy and mean. Goddamn, he was glad Roan wasn’t here. He’d never forgive himself if he said that to his face. Roan probably wouldn’t give a shit—bless him, he pretended not to care about so much—but it was honestly terrible that he had no family. Roan didn’t think that, though. Roan thought he was actually lucky, but all Kevin could imagine was how lonely that was and how hard that must have been on him as a child. It was probably amazing he was as well-adjusted as he was. Although Kevin knew some people would argue about the whole “well adjusted” bit, including Roan. But Kevin still felt sort of bad for him, even as he sort of envied his general “fuck it all” attitude. You had to be a special kind of person to have that attitude, mean it, and not come off like a huge dick, but Roan was one of those rare people. Then again, being a pariah most of your life would probably do that to a person.
He sipped his tea and watched the dogs pushing their bowls across the back patio. Daphne was the biggest, a lab mix who mostly looked like a golden retriever, although she was actually a random mutt. Niles was a smaller mutt, who looked as though he had at least a little German shepherd in him, while Maris was the smallest of all, a terrier mix who possibly had a hint of beagle in her somewhere. Kevin stuck to rescue animals most times because he hated the idea of homeless animals. There was just so much suffering and sadness in the world. If you really thought about it, the weight of it could crush you. So he did his small part to try to alleviate some of it. It would never be enough, but at least it was something.
Kevin was considering whether he should start making dinners for next week or not when his phone rang. When he saw who was calling, he was both pleasantly surprised and a little wary. It was Parker Davis, former rent boy—and very briefly murder suspect—and current friendly acquaintance. It’d been a couple weeks since he’d heard from him. He happily answered the phone. “Hey, Parker, how’re you doing?”
But he didn’t need him to respond to hear an answer. It was all there in the background: a fuzzy bass line, people talking and screeching laughter in a way that was almost manic. “Umm, not great,” Parker finally said.
Parker was a recovered drug addict. Mainly meth—hard-core stuff—but some other random narcotics too. It was unclear, even to Parker, if he became a prostitute to feed his habit or took up the habit because he was a prostitute. He’d stayed with Kevin for a while, after rehab, when he was trying to get back on his feet and ended up moving in with a couple of other friends who were supposedly going clean. Kevin knew that didn’t always work, but he didn’t want to discourage any positive movement.
“Sounds like a party,” Kevin noted.
Parker sighed. “Yeah. Cullen’s using again, and I don’t know about Dennis, but I’m getting really tempted here. It smells so good…”
“Can you come here, Parker, or do I need to pick you up?”
He sniffed, but Kevin didn’t know if it was from tears or from drugs. “I think I can get there.”
“Take a cab. I’ll pay. Just get here as soon as possible.”
“I hate to impose—”
“You’re not imposing, but you have twenty minutes to get here. So get moving.” Kevin hated to hang up on him, but he did. Sometimes Parker needed a push.
Parker had one of those tragic backstories you kind of hoped existed only in the fevered imaginations of soap opera writers. He and his sister were pimped out as children by their parents, who were so deep in their own addictions the monstrousness of what they were doing never seemed to occur to them. His parents were still in prison—well, his mother was; his father had died some time ago—his sister committed suicide, and Parker was left alone to cope with something that seemed too hideous to believe. It was no wonder he did drugs.
Okay. If the guys back at the station knew he’d let a former prostitute/drug addict live with him from time to time, Kevin knew he’d never hear the end of it. Never mind questions about his sexuality—they’d be questioning his sanity. Roan had a hard enough time with the arrangement, and he was as accepting as they came. And yeah, okay, so he’d used Parker’s services once or twice, but he wasn’t one of those cops who’d extort freebies out of prostitutes. They were purely business transactions, and he wasn’t in Kevin’s jurisdiction at the time. It was also before he knew him as a person and not just his job.
Kevin hated going to prostitutes, he really did, but they were also a godsend to lonely closeted men like he was. He was careful to not only pick men who didn’t live in his jurisdiction, but also ones who had been in the game awhile, ones who knew how to be professional. Professionals never ratted on their clients, because it was simply business. A very weird, occasionally ugly business, but still.
He knew Roan was worried his relationship with Parker was too close, especially considering he was both a former prostitute and a recovering junkie. It wasn’t, though. Kevin had made sure they were just friends and had a relationship on that basis. Besides, Parker was straight or at least claimed to be. Kevin had never seen him with a woman, though, so he was reserving judgment.
He did like the kid. It wasn’t romantic; he just liked him. Maybe he felt a little less lonely with him in the house. No, wrong, he knew he did, and that might have been one of the biggest reasons he didn’t mind having him here. Kevin loved his animals, but sometimes it was nice to have a human to talk to—and make dinner with.
That reminded him to check the fridge and see if he had enough food for dinner for both of them. He had quite a few eggs, some cheese and vegetables… he could probably throw a frittata together. That sounded good anyway. He had this new sheep’s milk Romano he was just dying to try.
Kevin pulled out ingredients and started putting them on the counter, glad to have a new task to keep him busy. He didn’t like to think about himself or his (lack of) romantic life too often. It was usually too sad, and he hated delving into self-pity.
So he got busy chopping vegetables and was able to ignore the fact his spirits lifted upon hearing the car in the driveway before the dogs started to bark.
Kevin knew he had a very good life. Now all he needed to do was convince his heart of that.