The Dark Horse - lanyon Josh - Страница 8
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I laughed. And I knew I had it exactly right: lazy, untroubled. «Dan, relax. I'm just making after dinner conversation.» There was a funny silence. He said, «You're acting.»
Which I guess was better than being told I was lying, except he sounded like it really bothered him.
I stared at him. He stared back. It felt unpleasantly close to being emotionally strip searched. I blurted out, «I think I saw Paul Hammond again.» He didn't move a muscle. At last he said, «Where?»
«At the market in Pt. Dume. I went grocery shopping after Steve and I had lunch.» Surprisingly, this did distract him. «You didn't tell me you were with Steve.» «It was an impulse. Why do you care?»
«I find it odd. This morning you were freaking over postcards from the grave and in the afternoon you're having a lunch date with Steve.»
«It wasn't a date and it's not like I tried to hide it.» But as I said it, I realized I had been avoiding telling him that I'd been with Steve; I wasn't sure why exactly – or maybe this was why: the instant interrogation. «Is that the issue?»
«Do we have to make an issue of it? You're not on the job now. According to you there's no danger, right? Hammond is dead.»
«I'm not talking about my job,» Dan said curtly. «I'm talking about the fact that we're supposed to be a couple.»
Something in the way he said it caught me off guard. He was so cool and self-assured that it never occurred to me that he might not be secure about his place in my world.
For the first time it occurred to me that if I had decided to go to Santa Anita with Steve I would have to – should, at least – run it past Dan first.
I opened my mouth but before I could explain, Dan asked, «Did Steve see Hammond?» «No. This was at the market afterwards.» «Did anyone see him?»
«I don't know. I didn't point him out to anyone. He …» I stopped, knowing how it would sound. «He what?» «He was picking out melons. Or at least pretending to.» «I see.» His expression couldn't have been more impassive. «I know you think I'm imagining this. I know –« «Did this guy who may or may not be Hammond make any attempt to speak to you?» I shook my head. «Did he do anything that could be construed as threatening?»
«He was avoiding looking at me.» I couldn't hold Dan's gaze. I knew how it sounded –which is why I hadn't told him. «That doesn't sound like Hammond, does it?» I shook my head. A little more gently, he asked, «Are you sure it was Hammond?» «It looked like him.» «You're not sure.» «No.» I said, «What about the postcard that came this morning?»
«I'll have it analyzed.» My relief was short-lived as he added carefully, «Sean, maybe it would help if you talked to someone.»
I felt like my stomach dropped to my feet. I stared at him. «You mean a psychiatrist?» «Yeah.»
«Dan,» I said desperately, «I'm not cracking up. I did see Hammond. I'm not crazy!»
«I don't think you're crazy.» He reached for me, resting his hands on my shoulders, kneading my knotted muscles. «I think you've been under a lot of strain. First the thing with Hammond, now this business with the postcards.»
«So you agree there is something to these postcards! Or do you think I'm sending them to myself?» I saw by his expression that the idea had crossed his mind. I struck his hands away. «Jesus, Dan! I'm not crazy!»
«I know that. I know you're not sending yourself postcards, okay? But what's wrong with talking to someone? Cops do it. Hell, I've been through it.»
I pushed away from the table. «I am talking to someone. I'm talking to you. I don't need a shrink. So stop using that careful tone with me. Say what's on your mind.»
«Okay,» he said evenly. «Then here it is. I want you to talk to me, and I will help you in whatever way I can and in whatever way you need. But I'm not a doctor and we both know you have a history of …» He changed his mind about finishing that. «I think this kind of prolonged emotional strain would not be good for anyone, and it is especially not good for you.»
I stared at him. When I could speak I said huskily, «I had a breakdown when I was a kid. Yes, I tried to kill myself. That was nine years ago. It had nothing to do with – you know why. You know it was about trying to come to terms with who I was. With realizing I was gay and knowing how my family felt. How my friends saw me. How everyone saw me –thought of me. How they would take it once they found out the truth …»
I couldn't finish it. I got up and went to the railing to stare out at the path of moonlight across the black sea. The hurt and betrayal were almost more than I could deal with. I had told Dan about this in confidence, and he was using it against me now. «You had a second breakdown when you were twenty,» he said quietly.
Hurt gave way to indignation. Obviously he had run some kind of background check on me. Probably when he was first assigned the bodyguard gig, but maybe it was since then. Like this week when I appeared to be losing it.
I wheeled back to face him. «I was depressed. I got help. Voluntarily. It was nothing like the other time. And I've been fine ever since. I'm not unstable mentally or emotionally. Yes, I push myself hard, and I'm under strain – that isn't anything new –«
«This isn't a normal amount of strain,» he interrupted. «You had some freak stalking you for nearly a year and now you've got some other asshole harassing you. Anyone would need a little help dealing with that – and, listen, the last thing I want to do is hurt you, which I can see I'm doing.» I knew I couldn't speak without my voice cracking, so I said nothing.
«I think it would help you to talk to someone neutral. Someone who could help you put this … experience into perspective. Will you at least consider it?»
He was right about drinking so much. My head was already pounding. And that much alcohol on an empty stomach was not good. I pushed away from the railing and headed for the glass door. «I'm going to bed.» «Sean –« I slid the door shut. * * * * *
Scratchy beard, warm soft lips on my bare back. One velvety kiss for each link of vertebra in my spine. Kiss by kiss across the little mountains of bone and nerve to the small valley above my ass. I opened my eyes blearily. «How are you feeling this morning?» Dan murmured. «Great,» I muttered.
«You feel great to me, that's for sure.» His mouth moistly nuzzled the sensitive hollow; I sucked in a breath, trying not to wriggle. Closed my eyes. My head throbbed and my gut felt like it was filled with boiling acid, but it wasn't the hangover that made me shiver. How the hell could you be irritated with someone and still crave their touch? I burrowed my head in my folded arms and asked muffledly, «How was the couch?» «Lonely.»
I considered this silently while he slowly rubbed his bristly cheek against my ass –cheek to cheek. «You know, insanity is not contagious,» I said. I thought I was joking, but I sounded sour to my own ears. I didn't think I was still angry or even wounded. I could see how this all looked from Dan's viewpoint. He didn't know me really. I didn't know him.
«I don't know about that,» he said, his breath warm on my bare skin. «I'm pretty crazy about you.» I gave a short laugh. Never at a loss for words, was he?
The mattress shifted underneath as he sat up. «I wasn't sure I was welcome in here,» he admitted.
I raised my head and eyed him skeptically. He wasn't smiling, in fact, just for a moment he looked younger, unguarded.
I shrugged noncommittally and buried my head in my arms again. «It was lonely here too,» I told the sheets.
«Yeah?» I felt him relax. He stroked my flank lazily. I loosened up, rested there, trying to ignore the pounding in my head, just enjoying the feel of his hand on my skin. I wondered if it would be possible to ever get tired of being touched and petted. I wondered how I'd managed to go years without it. Wondered how I would survive if I had to go back to it.
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