Scott Sherman: Third You Die

Tony said that at the moment Brent’s body went limp in his arms, Kristen’s violent shudder and the ensuing stain in his pants indicated he’d spontaneously ejaculated.

He came when Brent left.

I kind of wish I’d slit his throat when I had the chance.

As it turned out, Kristen had achieved the perfect trifecta.

He’d killed for money, sexual jealousy, and thrills.

Every bad motive rolled into one deadly package.

No matter how I protested, Tony wouldn’t hear it. After he helped me the night of Kristen’s assault, when his fellow officers were done taking our statements and I was safely returned home, he came at me.

“You did it again,” he accused. “You almost got yourself killed.”

“I didn’t, ” I insisted. “Okay, maybe in the past I kind of ignored your advice, but not this time. I swear. I was going to tell you everything I found out and let you handle it. I just went by Lucas’s to give him a heads-up first. I didn’t even know Kristen would be there, let alone that he was-”

“Enough!” Tony shouted. “This can’t be a coincidence, Kevin. You keep doing this. Putting yourself in harm’s way. Lying to me about it. I can’t take it.”

“I didn’t.” I tried to explain myself. “I’m not-”

“You say you want to be with me, but you make it impossible. You’re always pressuring me to do more than I can. To make you promises I can’t. Because, unlike you, Kevin, if I give my word, I keep it.”

That hurt.

“Tony…”

“I have a son, Kevin. He needs me. Obviously, you don’t. You think you can do it all on your own. Well, I’m not sticking around while you get yourself killed. Rafi doesn’t need to lose another adult in his life, either. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m no good for you. Why else are you so… self-destructive? I think we need a break.”

That’s what Brent said to Lucas before he disappeared. Famous last words.

I didn’t try and talk him into staying. I didn’t even ask where he was going. Maybe he was returning to his ex-wife.

Tony was right. I had been pressuring him to make a decision. Now, he had.

It just wasn’t the one I was hoping for.

I went to work.

I did my job.

Some evenings Freddy came over, more often than not with Cody. We ate takeout and watched movies on my flat screen.

They tried to get me to talk about how I felt about Tony’s leaving. I deflected every attempt.

The other evenings, I watched movies alone. Whatever was on, as long as it wasn’t a love story. If there wasn’t a movie devoid of any possible romantic plot points, I tuned into “reality” shows about people less relatable than Martians, or people screaming at each other on MSNBC’s political coverage or, best of all and with alarming frequency, the Home Shopping Network, where the host’s enthusiasm for a steam cleaner or plastic jewelry hocked by a C-list celebrity never known for her taste to begin with, blotted out my own emotions, taking my mind almost completely off the Tony-sized hole in my life.

I also spent a lot of time on the phone with Lucas. Almost every other day, for hours at a time. We had the easy intimacy of two people who’d survived a disaster. Since he’d never met or heard about Tony, it was always a safe conversation. Discussing our near-death experience and torture porn was a lot less upsetting than having people ask how I “felt” about the dissolution of my relationship.

Lucas seemed to be getting better. He was still living in Kristen’s place, where he’d found tens of thousands of dollars in cash hidden throughout the apartment. The maintenance fees on the co-op were paid a year in advance, and I agreed with him that until-or if-Kristen’s lawyers tried to force him out, he’d be a fool to leave. I also advised him what to do with all that money. Ill-gotten though it might be, Lucas could live off that cash for a long time while he made up his mind what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

However, as a favor to him and because I really was rooting for the guy, we agreed that, for the short run, the money would go into a safe deposit box for which only I had the key. Lucas knew he was too volatile and immature to be trusted with that much cash. As a recovering addict, he was also too prone to temptation. Part of the deal, though, was that I’d only hold the money for him if he got into therapy. He agreed and I hooked him up with my former psychologist.

In the meantime, he volunteered half-time at Stuff of Life, a nonprofit that made and delivered meals to people living with HIV and AIDS. I used to help there when I was an escort and only had to work ten or fifteen hours a week.

My full-time job on my mom’s show made finding time for that a lot harder. I hoped that Lucas filled whatever void I’d left. I know my old friend Vicki, who was the volunteer coordinator there, called to thank me profusely after Lucas’s first day.

“Baby,” she said, and her deep, throaty voice on the phone made me miss her even more, “he is a find. Not only is he enthusiastic and hardworking, but he’s so hottified I expect we’ll be having men by the hundreds discovering a previously unknown interest in bagging sandwiches signing up. I get a hard-on looking at him, and I don’t even have a dick.”

“Unless you count the one in the drawer of your nightstand,” I joked.

“That’s a strap-on,” she answered, not joking. “It’s more for my girlfriend’s pleasure than mine. Not to mention the occasional straight boy I get to deflower. Now, that’s fun.”

Mostly lesbian Vicki had told me before about her love for cherry picking. “You,” I said, “are a truly a giver. In every way.”

“I try,” she answered. I could hear the cocky Elvis-like grin that went with her ebony slicked-back hair and sensual features. “What’s going on with you?” she asked. “How’s Tony?”

“Oops,” I lied. “That’s the other line. I gotta go. Good luck with Lucas. And leave his ass alone, okay? He’s confused enough as it is.”

I disconnected. I was glad to hear Lucas looked like a good fit for Stuff of Life. He needed structure. And some friends, too. I seriously considered giving Charlie his number. They both had some grieving to do. Maybe it would be easier if they did it together. Maybe not. I’d leave it be for now.

Brent’s murder haunted us all.

Three times Tony called me with updates about the case. We kept the conversations short and to the point.

Just the facts, man.

I tried to get on with my life.

I tried not to miss Tony.

I tried not to miss Rafi.

Every night, I cried myself to sleep.

Every morning, I woke to a pillow wet with tears. I didn’t remember my dreams, only the sadness they inspired.

The days passed.

Once again, I’d come a lot closer to death than I’d planned to.

I was happy to be alive.

But I wasn’t happy.

One Friday night, three weeks after Tony’s departure, two uniformed officers showed up at my door. I hadn’t yet changed out of my work clothes. We’d had a meeting with network executives, and I had to dress like a real professional that day-a tie and everything. For some stupid reason, I was glad the cops hadn’t found me in my usual household ensemble of Joe Snyder boxer-briefs and a Hello Kitty T-shirt. It made me feel more grown-up.

“Mr. Connor,” they greeted me. They introduced themselves. Officer Payne was an African-American man in his fifties with a graying moustache and a warm, lazy smile that probably was deceptive in its ability to put a suspect at ease. His partner, O’Brien, was maybe in his mid-twenties, a red-haired Irish boy with wide green eyes and a smattering of freckles. His handsome features seemed wasted on him-I had the distinct feeling he had no idea what to do with them. He radiated a sincerity and earnestness that would do him no good either as a player or as a New York City police officer.