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I push off the car to stand and meet his 6-4 height. We might as well get this over with now so that we can both carry on like normal adults.
“When I started talking with Levi about this job, you and the B-man were still in Buffalo. We had no idea you’d be coming back.” I pause and let him process this little fact for a moment. “It’s not always about you…. Davey.”
His nostrils flare again, and I can tell he’s at a loss for how to handle this. How to handle this much more civilized version of me. And how could he argue with that? What I just said is the truth. The cold, hard truth. And I have another cold hard truth coming he isn’t going to want to hear.
“I think it’s time you stop blaming me for everything that happened with Luke. It’s time to let go, move on, grow up.”
He looks away from me, as if there is nothing more to say. But then his head snaps around, and he steps into my space so quickly it takes me a second to process what’s about to happen.
“Don’t you ever fucking say his name again,” he spits at me. His lips so close to mine, I can feel the heat of his breath. “You’re a goddamned drunk, Carter. You don’t belong here.”
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
“I am an alcoholic,” I say. “But I am no longer a drunk. I am no longer living in denial. I grew up, Davey… I think maybe it’s time you do the same. Did you ever wonder, just once, why nobody ever suspected you were gay after Luke was outed? Huh?”
He glares at me, and I glare right back. I’m not anywhere near being done. Done with his bullshit, yes. Done telling him where he can fucking stick it, not even close. He just crossed a line with me. How dare he judge me! I’ve spent years dealing with my alcoholism and will continue to do so. I don’t deny it. I will gladly own it. But Davis Franklin George has not earned the right to pass judgement on me.
“I didn’t kill him,” I shout. “Luke made a painful, ugly and incredibly selfish choice. Neither one of us could have done a damn thing about it. I didn’t fucking kill him, Davis,” I pause. I’m breathless with anger. The air momentarily stills between. “And neither did you,” I say.
I see it coming, and I’m still not fast enough. The punch lands square against my jaw. Goddamned south paw. I fall back against my Bronco with a thud, but he underestimates my reflexes, because I hurl myself back toward him with a punch to the gut and two to that gorgeous face of his before he can wind back up.
I hear him grunt and see the blood dripping down his cheek. He lands another glancing blow along my forehead. I prepare myself for a left-handed shot this time, but not the right hook. Fuck. Searing pain races across my head and face, and I feel it all the way into my neck.
Hockey players. God dammit, they all know how to fight.
I stagger but don’t fall completely and then I right myself enough to burrow my head into his stomach and force him back into the truck two parking spaces over.
That’s when I hear the shouts and feel the arms pulling me from him, but not before I make sure that gash on his cheek left a mark. I nail him again, harder this time. Seems I still have the desire to make sure he feels me whenever we are together.
Levi pulls me away and holds an arm out to keep Davey at bay.
I wriggle out of his grasp and stumble to my car as Levi calls out to me. I just wave my hand in the air and brush him off. I’m done. Done sharing the same airspace with Davis Franklin George. A man I once had some sympathy for. A man I understand more than anyone else possibly can. A man whose pain and guilt I share more than he will ever know. But I at least had the balls to recognize the role I played—and didn’t play—in Luke’s death, and I grew the fuck up.
I will not play this dumbass game with him anymore. I’m also sure as hell not going to let him cost me this opportunity. This job. These friends. My family.
I rest my arms on the door of my Bronco and then wipe my face and mouth. Looking down, I see blood splattered across my shirt, but I’m uncertain who it belongs to. A little of both, I suspect. I pound my fist against the door before getting in. I allow myself a fleeting glance across the parking lot once more to watch Levi lead Davey back into the building. I knew this was going to happen. This is not a surprise. The blood dripping down my lip and cheek. That’s a bit of a surprise.
“FUCK!” I scream. I bang my hands against the steering wheel as I feel my entire world, everything I’ve worked so hard to carefully put into place and hold together, begin to spiral down the toilet.
Brady will lose his mind when he finds out. And he will find out. He has to find out. How does Levi feel about this? I need this job. I need this life. I need to be here in Denver. I can’t go back to Minnesota. Damn you, Davis!
Davis.
How did I really think this was going to go? Did I really expect he would be like “oh, hey man, great to see you.”
No, I did not think that. I didn’t even dare to hope for that. Getting punched in the face, eh, the more I think about it the less of a surprise that is.
Seeing him in person for the first time in seven years…feeling the flutter in my gut…remembering that night. The night alcohol did not rip from my memory bank. It may not all be crystal clear, but it remains very much present. Not even buried deep. It resurfaces more often than I care to admit. When I’m alone, in bed, wishing, dreaming, my hand wrapped around my cock, my head filled with visions of his hands.
Damn you, Davis!
What now?
How much can I avoid him? I shake my head at that ridiculous thought. What am I, a twelve-year-old? Sure, it’ll be easy to avoid a man who works side-by-side with my brother, remains his right-hand man and one of his best friends. Sure, it will be easy to avoid a man who works for the same organization in the same damn building I now do. The goddamned building I was brought here to expand and redesign. None of that sounds like a problem at all. Easy-peasy.
Oddly enough, all of that actually can be done…, as long as Davis and I are on the same page, which given the throbbing in my cheek and the look in his eyes when he threw that punch, tells me we are very much on the same page.
Then there is the niggling problem of the other feelings that threaten to surface whenever I see him. The feelings that have been haunting me for years, complicating my life for years. Longer than he even realizes. Longer than even I admit to myself most days. I am a master at burying feelings, denying feelings, denying the truth. I’ve worked damn hard to deal with all of that without reaching for the bottle. I’ve been very successful at dealing with all of it, too. Well, most of it. Ninety percent of it. But that damn ten percent.
