Faith and Fidelity (27 page)

He woke up.

By the time the cold water streamed down over his head, Matt was conscious and in full control of his gut. He dried off, shaved (still avoiding the mirror, no need to chance it), and walked back out into his apartment, a towel wrapped around his waist.

He surveyed his kingdom. It sucked. One room, okay the furniture was nice but still. He was quickly approaching forty-five and he lived in ONE room. He was currently unemployed. In a few short weeks he'd met and fallen in love with another man, started a relationship, and ended a relationship. Two careers, nothing to show for it. Lots of people in his bed, and now he was alone.

Time for a change. Time for a change or time to lay down and die, and frankly, that wasn't an option.

So... Matthew Haight. This is your life. It sucks. What are you going to do about it?

He dropped the towel over the counter and went to the closet to grab some clothes. There was no plan for today, no invitations were forthcoming, and no one expected him to show up for dinner and dessert. He put on an old pair of jeans and his beloved NYPD sweatshirt— he clung to it like a talisman, enjoying the memories of his life when it was new and fresh and full of expectations.

And hey— maybe that was a place to start.

Coming out of the academy, Matthew Haight thought he could fly, save damsels in distress, and earn the gratitude and love of the city— all before noon. His head had been full of codes and laws and procedures and he just could not
wait
to put it into action. That was a feeling he wanted again.

Back in his easy chair— this time with orange juice as opposed to bourbon— he watched the tops of the buildings, faintly covered in snow. He thought about the academy, thought about college before that...

College. Could he go back to school? Get another degree? Start over at forty-five?

Well, he thought drily, sipping his juice, he'd started over in the human sexuality department. How tough could it be to take a few classes?

Helena waited on the doorstop, trying to control her impatience to hit the doorbell again. It had been almost five weeks since she had seen Evan— when she had left the hospital— and she was anxious to see him again.

Particularly after their last phone call.

On Christmas Day she phoned to wish him and Matt a Merry Christmas and was stunned by the lackluster and frail sounding voice of her partner. In near monotone, he'd told her that Matt wasn't here, the kids were back, and he hoped she was feeling better. She hung up less than five minutes after dialing, her jaw scraping the floor.

The next day, she got a visit from Vic Wolkowski; well, partially there to see Helena, partially there to drink coffee and eat cookies in the kitchen with her mother. They spoke about Evan's condition— and Helena was frightened to hear about the noticeable change in his physical appearance. She resolved to go see him as soon as possible... unfortunately that was delayed by Evan's dodging of her phone calls, Helena's slow recovery, and a bout with the flu.

But now here she was. And she was determined to get to the bottom of this... descent of Evan's.

The door finally opened.

“Jesus Christ!” Helena exhaled, before she could catch herself.

Her partner could only be described as a figment of his former self. He'd lost even more weight, and the dark sunken circles under his eyes had taken over his face.

A tiny flare of fire— anger? embarrassment?— flickered through his stare. “Helena, I'm not in the mood... ” He didn't get to finish.

Helena walked through the door, bumping into him lightly as she walked by. She stopped in the center of the living room and surveyed the mess. Piles of papers and magazines littered every surface, and toys, clothes, and books competed for the rest of the space.

She eyed Evan critically. Under the terrible fear and concern she had over her friend's condition, she was angry.

“You look like a sack of bones in sweatpants.”

Evan bristled. “I'm recovering from— ”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “Yes, you are. You're recovering from a serious wound, and you look worse than when I saw you in the hospital!”

“Is that what you came here for? To tell me how I look?”

“No, I came here because I'm worried sick. Evan... ” she gestured toward him helplessly. “What's wrong? Please talk to me.”

He opened his mouth then glanced away, a flush spreading across his face. Sitting down heavily in a chair, he aimlessly gestured for her to do the same.

This is going to take some time
, Helena thought as she dropped her jacket on the back of the couch and took a seat kitty-corner to Evan.

Leaning forward on her knees, Helena ignored the slight twinge in her shoulder. She was nearly 100 percent recovered, but a round of whatever flu was paralyzing the city currently had kept her in bed for ten days and the shoulder had stiffened slightly. Back at work— but still on desk duty— she was anxiously waiting her partner's return. But now... seeing him... she couldn't imagine him passing a physical let alone making it past Wolkowski.

“Evan... ”

He sighed, refusing to meet her eyes.

“What's going on? What happened... ” Her voice trailed off gently. The unspoken “with Matt” hung in the air for agonizing seconds.

Evan's gaze stayed on the rug between him and Helena. “It wouldn't have worked Helena,” he whispered. “It was just... something that happened between two lonely people.”

Helena blinked repeatedly, trying to reconcile this man speaking before her and the one she'd seen practically glowing with love back at Thanksgiving. “That wasn't what you told me a month ago.”

“I was deluding myself.”

“Evan— give me a break. Give yourself a break.
Talk
to me.”

“I
am
!” The sudden flare of Evan's anger jerked Helena back in surprise. She was shocked to see the condition of his face as he stood up. That blank demeanor was now teeming with rage. “I am talking to you! I'm telling you it was a mistake! I'm telling you I don't want to discuss it! If Matt Haight was the only reason you came here today, you can just fucking leave!!”

With that, he turned quickly and stormed into the kitchen.

Stunned, Helena sat back against the sofa. She listened to Evan slam through the kitchen; glasses rattled and the faucet ran for several moments. What the hell should she say now? Evan was practically unhinged talking about Matt... The wild look in his eyes frightened her.

A few minutes later, Evan returned with two glasses of ice water.

He handed one to Helena, not meeting her eyes.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

He grunted quietly in response and took his place back on the side chair.

They sat in silence.

She let him get away with it until she got halfway through her glass. As she swallowed, she cast him a sideways glance. The lost expression on his face as he stared into the dark shadows of the room broke her heart. She hadn't seen that look since Sherri's funeral.

“Evan,” Helena said softly. “Please understand that I'm your friend— your partner— and I care about what is happening to you.”

He nodded, still not meeting her earnest gaze.

“Honey, come on,” she coaxed. “Talk to me.”

“It... it just wouldn't have worked,” he croaked finally. “I just couldn't do that... that... ” His voice trailed off.

“That? Do you mean... sexually?” Helena asked awkwardly, thinking that this didn't seem to be a problem when she'd caught them kissing passionately on Thanksgiving.

Evan's red-hot blush could be seen through the dim light of the room.

“No... I mean... how would I have told my children, Helena? How would I have told people at the station? My... my neighbors? Just introduce Matt around as my what? Boyfriend? Lover? That isn't my lifestyle... ”

“Whoa, whoa— who's talking about lifestyles here? I think all your concerns are valid but did you and Matt discuss everything? How you would handle things?”

Evan's eyes dropped down to his lap as he toyed with the moisture droplets on the side of the glass.

Helena's eyes widened. “Did you talk to him about this at all?”

A quick shake of his head was the only indication that Evan was listening to her at all.

“Jesus Christ, Evan. You just ended it without telling him why?”

“I told him it wouldn't work,” Evan repeatedly wearily, still not looking up from the glass. “He... he wanted to try... but I already knew... ” His voice trailed off, as if he'd lost his place in the conversation.

Helplessly Helena watched her partner drift away from the conversation, from the room itself. She caught the waves of despair roiling off of him; they were practically visible. Unable to think of anything else, she put her glass down and walked over to the chair.

“Hey,” she murmured. “It's okay.” She knelt down slowly, putting her hands on his knee and shoulder. “It's okay, Evan. I know you're in a lot of pain right now, but I'm here for you.”

A soft sound, something akin to a denied and strangled sob, was wrenched from Evan's chest. Gently, Helena took the glass from his hands and placed it on the floor. As Evan started to fold in on himself, seeming to deflate with each shuddering sound of grief, Helena caught him, ignoring her shoulder, ignoring her own fatigue. If he wanted to cry, the least she could do was support him.

“It's okay, Evan. It's okay.” She said it over and over again, hoping he would believe it.

Matthew Haight, dressed to kill and on the prowl.

He suppressed a snicker at his own line of bullshit.

It was a typical Friday night in January— icy cold, dead streets, Matt bored out of his skull. All the smart people were home camped out on their couches in pairs (if they were lucky), and all the drunks were already on their stools. Matt couldn't spend another five minutes in his apartment; he wanted to get out, he wanted to let loose.

He just wanted to forget for a little while.

The itch had taken time to return. For weeks all he could do was lie in bed and let his body relive every sensual second he'd spent with Evan. But soon he grew tired of his hand, grew tired of being cold and alone.

But all of a sudden, standing in the doorway of the bar, the enormity of the moment hit him. He hadn't done this in awhile
before
Evan and to be here now felt... stupid. And old. And pitiful. He thought what— he was going to get some action? He was on the steady decline to fifty. He'd just spent the past six weeks chasing another man only to be dumped, this coming after a drought of women, a string of failures that stretched back to the
seventies
for God's sake. Which one of the nubile chickies at the bar was going to leap at the chance to land him? Quick guess. Nada.

With a deflating sigh, Matt walked into the smoky Manhattan bar. At the very least, he was going to have to have several dozen beers. Keeping his eyes trained down— God forbid he make eye contact with someone and have to deal with the sting of rejection— he made his way to the bar and sat down on the stool farthest away from the door. It wedged him between the bar and a small sidewall; the jukebox was conveniently around the corner. Perfection. The crowd was minimal— well he assumed it was minimal. He hadn't been to this bar in years. It was a few blocks away from his old precinct, and had been among the many spots he'd divided his time among back in the day. He slid off his leather jacket, leaving it on the stool next to him.

The television was positioned so that he could flick his eyes up to check out the wrestling match in progress. A slender young woman with hair too black to be natural slid a napkin in front of him as he got settled.

“Hey,” she said. “What can I get you?”

Matt returned her friendly— and most likely routine— smile. “Corona Light.

“Sure.” She turned away and rummaged around in the cooler. Matt took the opportunity to admire her trim form, poured into leather pants and a black sparkly halter-top. The creamy expanse of skin on her back held his gaze. He readjusted himself on the stool as discreetly as possible.

The bartender returned with the bottle, shaking off a few drops of water that clung to the side. “You want to start a tab?”

Matt nodded, throwing down a five in her direction. “You want a credit card?”

“Nah, I trust cops,” she replied with a grin. She pocketed the five and walked back to the other side of the bar.

What the fuck
! Matt thought.
How do they
do
that?!

He swallowed down a long drag of beer, taking another look at the hockey score on the television. A young couple, already high on cheap beer, cigarette smoke, and promised sex, wandered over to the jukebox, giggling and whispering through the selections. Matt tried to ignore them. He didn't really want to think about anything tonight but sex. And seeing as all he was going to be doing
was
thinking, he didn't want to be reminded that other people were having sex with people they liked. Evan. He almost rolled his eyes when the name popped into his brain. Jesus, what was that— like a whole hour he didn't moon over the guy?

Now repeat after me Matt Haight, he told himself, downing the rest of his beer in three gulps— and signaling Halter Girl for another— it was a
mistake
. An experiment. It's
over.

Fuck.

Matt started on his second beer. He hadn't eaten anything since a few slices at lunch and the buzz was blossoming nicely.
Oh yes. I remember this
, he thought. He remembered sitting alone in a roomful of people, feeling the slide of alcohol warm his blood and haze his brain...

By the time he hit his third, the joint was jumping. Large groups of thirty-somethings, eager to prove they were still hip enough to drink the night away, showed up at ten o'clock, and things began to escalate. There may have been someone dancing on the other end of the bar at one point, but Matt was on his fifth beer and it didn't quite register.

The man who sat down next to him when he was cracking open number six did. About the same height and build as Matt, but thinner, more defined. The way he sized up the room, and took a seat with the next best vantage point screamed “cop” or ex-military loud and clear. It was exactly what Matt would do... and did. He was wearing black jeans and a long-sleeved black sweater; his black leather jacket ended up spread across his lap as he settled down. A quick sidewise glance to Matt— and then he was hailing Halter Top.