Free Fall, CH 06 (Patreon)

“Do you know how fast you were going?” the cop asks after I hand him my license and the car’s registration. He’s using that fake disinterested way they do when they want you to think they don’t give a shit, but can’t wait for you to let something slip that they can turn against you.

“Do I look like I fucking care? I’m in a hurry, so get on with this.” Will I feel better if I stop this by killing him?

“Why?” he asks, his tone turning dry at my disrespect. “Spent too long at the mistress and the wife’s going to be pissed?”

I glare at him. “I’m not the one with the fucking mistress.”

I don’t want to hate him, but fucking Emil and his trauma.

It was supposed to just be me and Tristan, but Emil had to go and have a panic attack and the guy who has a history of his own called Tristan instead of dealing with it, so of course I get dumped and he runs off.

Maybe it’s Zephyr I need to kill for not manning up to what he’d agreed to, even if it was just by implication.

The cop’s expression softens as he looks up from the registration. “Getting yourself killed because she’s cheating on you isn’t going to fix the situation.”

“He isn’t fucking cheating on me.” I snap. “If he was, that I’d know what to do with.” At least, I’d know who to kill.

I might have pushed him back into being pissed at me with that tone, not that I care, but then he shakes his head and returns the license and registration. “You know what? That sounds too complicated for what they pay me. Just watch your speed and maybe consider that the two of you might need counseling.”

“What I need,” I snarl, “is to find someone to hurt instead of Emil.” I gun it before he can reply, and I smile as he dances around, trying to avoid the spray of gravel.

* * * * *

I check for Kat.

I shouldn’t be doing this here, but I have to do something to keep from thinking about what I want to do to Emil.

She’s in her office, on a call.

I start with something simple, like a Google search for Juan Manuel Fernan, and it’s not a surprise when I get shit back. Not shit as in nothing, shit as in garbage. I doubt Tristan had the name sent to me because this photographer or that baseball player did something wrong. They aren’t even in Mexico, or in Arizona, or have some distant link to Liaison. Not one of them does. Just how much waste of time stories do I have to—

What’s this?

It’s ten years old, but it’s from of Mexico City. I find the name in the article, then quickly reread it. No details about why the fight happened, just that it did, and the name is part of the list of dozen who were injured. The other list is the eight who were killed.

I narrow the search to Mexico City, and the name comes up in a smaller story, five years before that. Just a mention in the paper of a Juan Manuel Fernan being arrested for drug dealing. Nothing about the court case, so it never made it there. It’s Mexico City, so no mystery how that happened.

Hacking the Mexico City police department from here is among the stupidest thing I’ve done. They don’t have the resources of their US counterparts, but if I’m noticed, they will use everything they do have access to in an attempt to find me. Even there, hacking isn’t well regarded. The odds of it happening are basically nothing, but not quite zero. Kat will not protect me if the police come knocking, even one from another country.

But if protection was something that mattered to me, I’d have cut off my cock and stayed under Dear old Dad’s five-thousand dollar clad foot instead of standing up to him.

But it’s not like I want them to trace me back here, where it would affect Katherine and the good her company does. So I take fifteen minutes to get into their servers instead of five. I use the extra time to bounce my hack around half a dozen countries. In Nigeria, I pass through eight servers scammers of the princely persuasion are always using. That might distract the investigators away from chasing my trail. If not, it will at least slow them down.

What I get on mister Juan Manuel Fernan out of the servers is a long list of aborted investigations into him, his properties, his employees, and his business dealings. The kill order on too many of them comes from the federal level for him to be a good little innocent citizen.

I don’t get an address on the man himself, another indication he’s less than innocent, but there is one that wasn’t redacted in a minor report a secretary entered about an overtime request linked to one investigation that made it further before being murdered. That leads me to a company called Exparticion de Frutas. A fruit export company, my, how creative. They have a website proclaiming they are legitimate, but there aren’t any links to anyone who’d have to work there, since, you know, real companies have management and stuff.

What they do list if their annual revenues.

There’s no way that number’s right. A check of Mexico’s GDP tells me that if the number of this ‘we are really real’ company is accurate, they’re responsible for hard the agricultural revenue of the country.

Oh sure, and you want me to believe that you this website of yours wouldn’t have pages after pages proclaiming how good for your country you are if that was true? What, you’re going to try to sell me ocean front property just outside Phoenix next?

So, the company’s a front, big surprise at this point.

That still doesn’t give me Juan’s home address. Considering where the kill order on the investigations came from, I’m going to have to go federal if I want that information.

Oh, how suicidal am I?

Yeah, that’s the wrong question.

The right question is this. How badly do I want to ruin Katherine’s company? Because you don’t take on the Feds of any country without a lot of preparation. It’s going to take a lot more than a trip through Nigeria to slow those people.

I copy what I can use to a secure server and the only thing I leave in Mexico from my virtual trip through their law enforcement is my administrative access. There’s no telling when that’s going to be useful in the future. I finish cleaning up by wiping all traces of my work from this computer. Then it’s just about waiting until five so I can go home and get ready for my weekly dinner with Grams and Gramp.

I’m going to need coffee until then.

* * * * *

I lie here, shivering in the warm air left behind by his vanishing body, naked on the thin mattress. I didn’t even hear Emil’s cries this time, but it doesn’t matter. He’s still gone.

Why did I bother coming?

I am not joining them this time.

I knew this was going to happen at some point.

I am so done playing this game.

If Tristan wants me, he’s going to have to come back here, to his workroom, to this thing that passes as the mattress that we share.

The kid had him for five fucking days out of the week. You’d think he’d let me have him to myself for the weekend.

I scream internally at how unreasonable I am. Then I don’t give a shit that I am. Tristan is mine. I worked hard to be in his life and I need him in mine.

Yes, trauma isn’t something that’s fixed on a schedule, when it can be fixed at all. I know that. Do I sound like I give a fuck? I worked through mine without help, why can’t he—

He’s back.

I can’t see him in the dark, but his gaze is heavy on me. His fingers send a shiver up when they touch my back. Delight and expectation, fear and desire. Will he give me what I want, to make up for leaving?

He traces a scar, then another.

He’s against me, his arms around me, and he pulls me close. There’s a tremble in him as he tightens his hold on me.

This isn’t what I want.

…

This is… this is better.

* * * * *

“I love him.”

Grams looks at me as she hands me the plate to dry. “Oh, honey. I’ve known that since before you brought him to dinner. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know if he loves me back.” I stare at my distorted reflection in the plate, then cover it with the dishtowel.

“Have you asked him?”

“That’s not a question you—”

“Don’t be an idiot, Bart.” There’s only a hint of annoyance in her steady tone. “Of course you can ask it. A man can’t live on hope alone. At some point, you need to know where you stand, so you can decide what to do.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” I whisper, drying the plate.

“I’d hope so,” she replies, chuckling.

“He isn’t emotional. He keeps that under control. He doesn’t let anything show. If I ask him… he won’t answer.”

She turns, a teacup in hand, dripping on the floor, and looks at me. “Have you considered that’s an answer, in and of itself?”

Of course I have. But it’s not like he’s anymore open with Emil. This isn’t about me. He isn’t keeping his emotions from me. He keeps them from everyone. If I hadn’t been there when we rescued Emil, if I didn’t suffer his absence anytime Emil had an attack.

If I was a stranger peeking through the window of his house, I’d be left thinking Tristan no more than tolerated Emil there.

Emil’s love is plain to see, even if he tries to hide it, tries to keep himself controlled the way Tristan does.

He tried so hard to be like him.

* * * * *

Emil startles as I sit on the couch. He was too engrossed in his reading to notice my approach.

He tries to mask his anger.

It’s directed at himself, I think, at not remaining attentive. He’s probably angry about getting angry. Tristan sees everything and shows nothing.

I want to tell him not to do that. Bottling emotions isn’t good. That I’m here if he needs to talk. He has my number if I’m not here physically. The problem is that I’m no better at hiding how I feel, and Emil notices way too much when he’s not lost in some manual. He knows I’ve been angry at him.

“I’m not angry at you,” I tell him.

Oh, if that look could kill. Yeah, he sees through the lie.

Okay, let’s try that again. “It’s the situation, not you. You’re just the reminder of it.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies, closing the laptop. “I don’t mean to get in the way, pop.”

I smile. I can’t help it. How absurd is it that I, I mean me, am thought of as a father figure?

“I know. You didn’t ask for any of it. I didn’t either, and neither did Tristan. The three of us are making the best of what the world threw at us. And me and Tristan are making a mess of it.”

I’m the one making the mess. Tristan just isn’t stopping me. I can’t tell if it’s because he doesn’t care or because he doesn’t see it. How can he not see the wreck that I am?

“I can leave,” Emil whispers.

“No.” I’m startled by the harshness in my voice. I’ve wanted him gone so often, but to hear him suggest it, that’s just…. “You belong here, Emil. With Tristan, safe.”

He nods, but doesn’t look at me.

What I say next is out before I even realize it. “I’ll keep you safe too.” And as they echo on the living room’s bare walls, I realize I mean it.

He relaxes slightly.

I place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “We’re going to make this work. “

I so fucking hope so.