Authors: Z. A. Maxfield
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #LGBT WWII-era Historical
could get better for us—but they left it too late. After the Anschluss, it was impossible
for Jews. Leaving was forbidden, and there was nowhere to go. Then one of my
mother’s closest friends, a gentile woman she’d gone to school with, lost a son who was
my age. Here is her picture. I wish I had his. This is my father, again here.”
“You look more like your mother.”
“Yes. It’s from her I get my light hair and eyes.”
“You must have been a happy family.”
“We were before… My parents saw the opportunity to get me out with this other
boy's papers and took it. After that, I was sent to Helen Hart’s family in New York.”
“Do you know what happened to your parents?”
“Not really.” Rafe shook his head. “They were on a list of people killed at
Mauthausen, near Linz.”
“Do you have other relatives?”
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“All gone, I assume. I never looked.” Rafe pushed away and leaned back in his
chair. He folded his arms across his chest, and it made him look smaller somehow.
Diminished. Ben’s heart hurt for him.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that, but maybe there’s a way to find out if you
have any family left.”
Rafe scooped up the pictures and placed them carefully back in the box. After he
secreted them back in the hidden drawer, he said, “I know what you must think, but
I’m not Lot’s wife. I escaped the destruction of my
entire world
, Ben. I’m lucky to be
alive. Something dreadful will happen if I look back.”
* * * *
the glow of moonlight from the window and grew incensed on Rafe’s behalf. As the
night wore on, his ire grew into passionate anger over what Rafe had suffered—that
he’d spent most of his life lonely and afraid. In the midst of his fury, tenderness like Ben
had never known before enveloped him.
What a world.
Rafe carried not one, but two enormous secrets around with him every day. No
wonder he thought he’d make a good spy. He’d explained everything. How he’d picked
a soundalike American name and an actor’s surname. How he’d started in sales after
Hart’s death, first with Fuller Brush, door-to-door, and when he realized he had the
knack for making a sale in even the most difficult circumstances, setting his sights on
bigger ticket items. He’d sold appliances at Sears while he studied real estate, getting
his sales license and then his broker’s license. How he’d gone from residential to income
property and how he’d ended up at Paradise Realty, where everyone thought he hung
the moon, or rather that he could sell it to at least one unsuspecting person a day.
In the end, Rafe appeared to come to rest in his arms. He slept soundly—like Ben
had never seen before—barely moving at all. When Rafe did reach out, it seemed it was
to reassure himself Ben was still there.
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Ben hardly slept at all.
Yes, he’d had to be discreet in the past, and he’d known—he’d understood—that by
and large society persecuted men like him. But he’d grown up tough and smart and
stubborn. He had his mother in his corner. He’d never felt vulnerable the way Rafe did.
What must it be like to live with the knowledge that who you are would get you
killed? Not just with the idea, which was always in the background for Ben, but with
visceral, physical evidence of grim reality fresh in your mind. Ben had been cautious—
but never truly afraid. He’d seen ugly beatings, even murder, but he’d been insulated
behind the badge, and that protected him from taking the facts inside him. He’d never
seen the results of bigotry as personal to him. He’d never imagined anything like what
happened to Rafe—to Walter Hart—could happen to him.
He’d never had this much to lose before.
Ben tightened his arms around his sleeping lover. Whatever he’d seen in Rafe that
drew him in, he was now hopelessly ensnared. He couldn’t imagine walking away from
what they had, not for his badge, not for his safety. Not for anything.
So they had to be smart. They had to be discreet. Men like Calhoun could make
trouble. He had a certain animal instinct that gave him a window into Ben’s behavior,
and
he’d spent a lot of time in vice.
Ben had no doubt Calhoun could read the minute, physical cues he and Rafe were
unable to hide—their interest and arousal. If he was around, there was no doubt he’d
see their connection growing. Ben’s number one priority had to be keeping Rafe and
Calhoun apart. Taking a girl out, setting up a dating scenario was a good dodge. He’d
see to that, to finding some girl to help him out, as soon as possible.
While Rafe slept, Ben smoothed his hands over the faded blossoms of bruising on
Rafe’s back and over the cast on his broken arm with the vow that nothing like that
would ever happen again.
Ben could and would protect what was precious to him.
Just before dawn, dressed and ready to go, he pressed his lips to Rafe’s forehead.
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“
Morgen, Schatz
.” Rafe gifted him with a smile. “Your name is a little joke. Morgen
means morning, you understand?”
“I guess I knew that. What do you need before I go?”
“Just kiss me.”
Ben obliged him, sitting on the side of the bed to better gather Rafe into his arms.
Time fell away as they melted together, taking and sharing comfort.
“That’s nice.” Rafe let him go reluctantly. “You take care of yourself.”
“I will. Between the holidays and the rain, it’s going to be a madhouse out there.”
“Be safe,
Geliebter
.”
“You too.”
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Chapter Sixteen
December 20, 1955
Wind lashed Ben’s oilskin poncho around his legs as he got back into the patrol car,
which smelled unpleasantly of wet wool and sick. On their last call, they’d picked up a
trio of drunken holiday revelers who’d crashed a Packard into a lamppost on Sepulveda
and transported them to jail at Parker Center. Even though they’d gotten rid of their
passengers, their presence lingered.
Most notably the smell.
He pulled out into traffic and headed away from the city center. The noise of rain
pelting on the roof, the rhythmic slap of wiper blades, and the squelching of tires as
they drove by—all conspired to worsen a headache started by Calhoun’s smart mouth.
This night is never going to end.
“Christ, I wish people would just stay home,” he said to Calhoun, raising his voice
to be heard over the din. “They say this rain isn’t going to let up for a couple of days at
least.”
“I’ve never seen it like this.” Calhoun used his sleeve to wipe the water from his
eyes. “This much rain is going to cause a mess.”
“It’s already flooding Flower Street.”
“There’s no way we’re going home tonight. They’ll need everyone they’ve got.”
“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
Calhoun still didn’t look well. Whatever he’d had the week before seemed to be
hanging on with a death grip. “Did you see a doctor? You still look like hell.”
“I’m fine.”
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Despite his dislike of the man, Ben was concerned. “It’s not going to do anyone any
good if you end up with pneumonia.”
“I’m fine, I tell you,” he said. He rested his head on the back of his seat. His eyes
looked like black holes in bread dough.
“You look like hell, is all.”
“Thanks a lot.” Calhoun shook a cigarette out of his crumpled pack. In the
illumination from the street lamp and what little light was cast by the sign from an all-
night diner, Ben got a glimpse of puffy, mottled wrist.
“What is that?” He pulled the car over to the side of the road, where he grabbed for
Calhoun’s hand. “What’s with your—”
“Nothing.” Calhoun yanked his arm away with a wince.
“That’s not nothing.” Ben reached out and took his partner’s hand again. They
wrestled briefly, but obvious pain overcame Calhoun. Ben yanked at Calhoun’s sleeve
so hard the button flew off.
“Let go of me, you bastard.”
“What the hell?” Ben saw Calhoun’s entire forearm was purple and swollen. He
pulled at a dirty dressing—some loosely wrapped gauze—until he bared the skin. The
putrid smell of infected flesh hit his nose before he saw the pus-filled wound. Running
all along the pale skin, streaks of red radiated from what was—unmistakably—a dog
bite. “
You son of a bitch
.”
Ben didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He took the back of Calhoun’s head and
smashed his face into the dashboard. The brutality of it shocked them both. Time
seemed to stop as Ben watched blood run from his partner’s flattened nose. Then they
were both scrambling, Ben to get hold of the bastard again and Calhoun for the door
handle, to get free.
Calhoun dived from the car onto the curb. Ben had to exit on his side and run
through the chilly rain to catch up with him. Deep, cold water in the gutter slowed him
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down, soaking his shoes and socks—his pants legs—nearly up to his knee. “You dirty
son of a bitch. What kind of cop are you?”
Calhoun kept running, but he was sick and slow. Each footstep landed heavier than
the last until he was lurching along. He seemed to keep his balance by sheer force of
will.
“You son of a bitch,” Ben roared again, easily tackling the older man with enough
force to push him off his feet. Ben put a knee on Calhoun’s back and yanked his swollen
arm behind him. Calhoun screamed in agony as rain lashed down and soaked them
through to the skin. “
Explain yourself
.”
“I can’t.” Calhoun thrashed, but Ben was in complete control. He gripped him by
the shoulder strap of his Sam Brown, pushing the side of Calhoun’s face into a shallow
puddle of dirty water, knocking his hat off. It rolled into the gutter, and water carried it
down the street. Rain beaded on his greasy hair.
“What were you thinking?” Ben felt like he was swimming. Water was everywhere,
soaking his clothes, running in rivers from his hat, down his collar, down his face and
into his ears, freezing him. “You assaulted him. You—”
“I know… I know what I did,” Calhoun whined.
“Tell me.”
I need to know what I'm dealing with here.
“I was drunk. I don’t know what I was thinking. Annie left me, and she took the
kids, and I was
drunk
. I was driving home from Mickey’s Place, and I saw Colman in his
fancy new Buick just rolling along Slauson like he didn’t have a care in the world. I
knew he was heading home, and I knew I could get there first.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to teach him a lesson.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. It’s the way he acted. Like he was so much better than us.”
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“Like he was better?” Ben loosened his hold a little bit, just enough so Calhoun
could turn his head. So he could see the bastard’s eyes. “So what if he did act superior?
Why the hell—”
His next words died in his throat when the headlights of a car rounded the corner,
briefly illuminating them, and Ben realized how foolish he’d been. He backed off
Calhoun's body although he stayed close enough to keep him from running again.
“
Shit
.” He had to get answers, but he couldn’t do it out in the open like that. Thank
God for the weather. “You’re going to the Receiving Hospital.”
“The hell I am.” Calhoun rolled up to a sitting position like a fat rodent. Ben lifted
him effortlessly and hauled him back to the car.
“If you don’t, that wound will kill you.” His fingers slipped as he tried to get the
heavy door open. “If you don’t,
I’ll
kill you right here.”
Calhoun’s chin still jutted out there, begging Ben to take a swing at it. “Because I hit
your precious German fairy? I could have killed him, you know. That nosy neighbor of
his interrupted or—”
“Enough.” Ben shoved him up against the car. “That’s
enough
. You’re talking about
a friend of mine. A
friend
.”
“It isn’t right. Guys like that. Fancy clothes. New car. He’s got that air, doesn’t he?
Like he’s royalty, like we’re shit under his shoes, and goddamnit, it
isn’t
right.
Everything they did during the war and then they come here and—”
“Just shut up, Calhoun. I have to think.”
I have to decide whether you’re a pathetic drunken loser or whether you’re a threat to my
family, and I have to decide fast.
“I was drunk.” Calhoun squatted to his haunches and put his head in his hands to
cry. “I don’t know why I did it.
I don’t know
.”
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