He heard Ian’s approach before he saw him. The arrival and then shutting off of the Jag’s high-power engine. The snaps of the door shutting. The clip of Ian’s expensive loafers echoing off the concrete walls of the parking garage.
Bruce hung back, on orders no doubt, and Ian entered Tango’s line of vision, long wool coat swirling around his ankles, the breeze catching his cream cashmere scarf. His expression became complicated, his voice simple and warm as he said, “Hello.”
Tango took another long pull on the bottle of red.
Ian came and sat beside him, coat halves folded over his knees, looking half a scarecrow, as thin as he was. A scarecrow with beautiful big eyes and English cheekbones. “What are we drinking?”
Tango turned the label toward him.
“Cabernet Sauvignon. Lovely.”
“Want some?”
“No, thank you.”
Tango took another swallow, and then looked at the man’s face. What had been masked at first now lay exposed, the worry, the sympathetic grief.
“I am so sorry,” Ian said, voice thick. “I am so sorry for what happened to you.” He laid his arm across Tango’s shoulders, long and lean, but strong, its grip sure.
Tango shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me. Please.”
The arm withdrew as if burned. “Of course.” Polite, kind. “I’m sure you must be…still recovering…”
Mentally. Yeah, sure, he was. And it was a futile effort.
“Kev–”
Tango stood, albeit unsteadily, hand clamped tight around the bottle, palm clammy against its dark glass. He breathed in deep through his mouth, staring into the dark cavern of the garage.
Behind him, Ian said, “Kevin,” voice ragged.
Tango turned to face him, the garage spinning, eyes closing briefly until he’d caught his bearings. When he opened them, he saw the tears in Ian’s gaze.
“Come upstairs with me,” he urged.
Tango swirled the contents of the bottle. His tongue cried out for the musky heat of the wine. His body cried too, a fast surge of longing – it wanted to be used, to be released. And just as quickly, revulsion rippled across his skin. He was nothing. Nothing but his body and what it could do and receive.
He hated everything about himself.
“No,” he said. “I think I’m going to become celibate. I think I need it.”
He took one last deep swallow of Cabernet and turned away from his lover.
“Kevin.”
“’Night, Ian. I’ll catch you later.”
He was too drunk to ride, but straddled his bike anyway, shoved the corked bottle in his hoodie pocket. It wasn’t like he was a danger to others, on his Harley. If he wrecked, the only casualty would be him.
~*~
Ian ripped the scarf from his throat and relished the quick press of cashmere stretched tight over his windpipe. Ought he to save time and strangle himself with it? More than likely he couldn’t do that. But Bruce could. He could ask his faithful driver and bodyguard to do the honors.Bruce, be a dear, won’t you, and choke the life from me?
As if sensing he was needed, Bruce said, “Sir?” from behind him.
Ian shrugged out of his coat and hung it up on its peg, alongside the scarf. Such order and cleanliness in his personal apartment. It eased the chaos in his mind: the cool grays and blacks, the sharp lines, the organization and neatness. Everything in his life had been designed to bring him peace; indulging in his expensive tastes and furnishing his regular spaces in trendy minimalist style was a little trick. Something menial to focus on so he could avoid memory.
It wasn’t working tonight. He turned to face his open concept high-rise – its low sofas, hidden flat screen TVs, chrome kitchen – and felt panic close around his throat like a vise.
