Midwinter Night's Dream (13 page)

“Then when?”

“Later.” He moved to the stove and treated it to a thorough extinguishing of coals.

It had taken everything he had to not give chase when Errol took off on foot and headed down the mountain. Without contact information, finding him in a city the size of Denver would be a problem. Joe crammed everything into the duffel. His copy of the
Advocate
surfaced, and he stuffed it under the clothes.

“How well do you know him?” Gretchen stood over him. “Will he…reveal anything to the media?”

Anxiety went down Joe’s spine in a cold rush. Would Errol out him? The man was penniless. Selling the story had to be a temptation; any station or printed publication would pay big for the scoop, probably enough for Errol to move out to California and get situated. He could be on his way to a TV station right now.

“I don’t think so.” He grabbed the duffel and marched it out to the Jeep, then came back for the cooler. He had to get to his dad.

Gretchen stood on the porch with her hands on her hips as he locked the front door. “I’ll meet you at the hospital. We’ll talk.”

Joe nodded. He jumped in the Jeep and threw it in four-wheel drive. The fire equipment had cleared his road, and the main byway had been plowed. The snow made a striking contrast with the deep green of the pines and the occasional purple granite outcropping. Judging by the huge piles of snow in the ditches, the storm had blocked the road. He passed a dull red Volvo off in a ditch.

Mind on driving, Blake. Running off the road is the last thing you need right now.

How could this have happened? His dad was a chief. In a structure fire, he should have been outside running the show, not entering the building. And he was hurt bad enough for ICU. Ice gathered in his gut.

Your dad could die without ever knowing the truth about you.

Yeah, but I sure as hell don’t want him to find out on the entertainment report. That’d give him a heart attack on top of the smoke inhalation.

The traffic increased as he descended the foothills and caught the highway. Every time he glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw Gretchen’s vehicle behind him. She’d expect a full accounting of his holiday weekend. Going to the hospital would only let him off for a short time. The woman had tenacity.

No time like the present.

Joe hit speed dial and put the phone on speaker.

Gretchen answered, “What’s up?”

Joe sighed. “Let me tell you about Errol.”

* * * *

At the fire station, Errol caught a ride into Denver and had the off-duty firefighter drop him about a mile from his flophouse. His phone was dead—not that calling the landlord would change anything. The flatlands hadn’t gotten near the volume of snow, and hoofing it wasn’t a problem. He made it to the boarding house in fifteen minutes, passed the old man who always sat on the porch, and hit the inside steps.

The door to room 2-A had a sign on it, black marker on notebook paper:

Room revoked for nonpayment of back rent.

Despite the notice, he tried the door. Locked. Errol sighed. No surprise there. And unlikely to change, given that Errol didn’t have so much as a penny in his pockets. The seventy-five dollars had gotten lost in the shuffle. Until he got money, there was no point talking to the landlord; he’d made it clear that money did all the talking.

Two choices: peddle his ass, or head for Helping Hand.

So far he’d resisted stripping to the buff, and he wasn’t desperate enough yet to call Andrew or walk the streets. Even if everything else was stripped away, he needed his dignity.

Errol headed south.

* * * *

“Why can’t we go in?” In the ICU waiting room, Joe paced from one end to the next, sipping on lukewarm coffee, but his mouth remained dry. He’d put on clean clothes from his duffel bag and scrubbed up in the restroom, but after the fire he really needed a shower.

A lung specialist was managing the smoke inhalation, but Joe needed to see for himself that everything was okay.

Gretchen held a paper cup of coffee and watched his progress. “They’re getting him situated.”

His brothers sat on one of the sofas, each on the phone to his respective wife. Hank had come from the fire station in uniform blues, and Paul wore jeans. Both sported day-old beards.

“I need to see him.” God, did he ever. The paramedic in him screamed for information, for details about what was going on. The boss in him wanted to take charge, and a newly revived tender piece of him wanted Errol there.

It was taking too long, and he hated the anxiety-induced ache in the pit of his stomach.

It’s more than worry over Dad, you ass.

The best moments of his life for the past two years had been the time with Errol at the cabin. After Bryce had died, Joe hadn’t expected to love again. In a matter of days, Errol had pulled Joe from his shell and made him laugh, made him care. Made him love.

Love
. Joe shook his head. If he was honest with himself, yeah, it was love.

The only way to protect himself—and Errol, wherever he was—from the paparazzi was to stay so low-key their interest disappeared. Maybe when things settled down, he and Errol would have a chance. If Errol would forgive him for what Joe had said at the cabin.
A lost traveler.

Well, it had been the truth. Outing the two of them would have been career suicide if someone had heard him at the cabin.

Dad would need someone to help out after this. Mom had died years ago, and both of Joe’s brothers had families. There was an even more compelling reason to stay away from LA—his dad. Joe paced to the window and back to the door. “They must have him situated by now.”

“Settle down,” Hank said. “They’re not going to want you in there if you can’t keep it together.”

“I want to see him.”
Before I lose my frickin’ mind.

“Did you call Cosmo, Joe?” Paul wagged his phone at Joe.

Joe held back the urge to roll his eyes. His brothers were fascinated with the parade of women who accompanied him to events. One more reason to leave LA. “No. I’m not with her.”

“New girl already?” Hank grinned.

Not a girl
. Joe turned away and closed his eyes. “No.”

Captain Harker would be taking a big enough chance letting Joe come back. But taking a man who brought Hollywood fame
and
a boyfriend? Definitely beyond the limits of the captain’s patience and it would open the floodgates for heaps of misery.

Joe had seen the low-level harassment that had led openly gay firefighters to find new professions: a snide comment here and there, a garish lipstick left on a bed, the word “queer” written in pink paint on a vehicle. Precisely the reason he and Bryce had been so careful.

Hollywood was…well, Hollywood. Land of milk and honey. The land where Errol desperately wanted to work, and the last place on earth Joe was willing to be.

A nurse poked her head in and looked at Joe. “Mr. Blake? I can take you in.”

Thank God. Joe nodded and followed her down the hall.

Chapter Twelve

Joe chopped carrots in the firehouse kitchen and threw them in the salad bowl. He had thought getting back to work at the firehouse would cure him. A couple of shifts with the old gang, and he’d shake off the hurt of not having Errol around. How could someone get under his skin so fast? Instead, he dragged through the first week like an automaton: home, hospital, firehouse, eating little, and sleeping less. On calls, he rode shotgun in the ambulance and managed to function on muscle memory. A medical call for a homeless man down in the snow shot his blood pressure through the roof. When it wasn’t Errol, Joe didn’t know whether he was more relieved or disappointed. Dad went home, and the tightness in Joe’s chest remained.

Joe had no idea where to look for Errol.

When Stringfield pulled out cards for poker, Joe’s chest ached. He begged off, claiming fatigue. He wanted to see Errol laughing about losing another hand, wanted to taste whiskey on his lips.

As he cleaned up from dinner prep, a hand landed on his shoulder. The firefighter said, “Captain wants to see you.”

Joe nodded and headed for the captain’s office.

“Come in, Blake.” Captain Harker leaned back in his desk chair. “How’s your father?”

“Good. Home. He ought to be cleared for work in a few weeks.”

“Good, good.” The captain nodded. “Close the door and have a seat.”

Close the door
. Never a good sign. He settled in and waited.

“Things going okay, Blake?”

“Yes, sir. Fine, sir.” Joe laced his fingers together and leaned his forearms on his knees.

“Anyone giving you trouble?”

“No.”
Why would he ask that?
Joe frowned. “Has someone said something?”

“Not at all. But I don’t remember you being this mechanical.”

What the hell did that mean? “Sir?”

“You’re here, and your work is fine, but your heart’s not in it.” He leaned forward. “There’s no passion there.”

Damn
. If he’d done a better job camouflaging his hurt, this conversation wouldn’t be happening. “The schedule just takes a little getting used to.”

The captain ran a hand up and down over the back of his hair and blew out a breath. “Is this because of Bryce Marshall?”

Joe met his gaze. “No. It’s…it’s been two years, sir.”

“I know. And you left right after we lost him.”

“I’m fine.” Joe forced a smile.
Shape up, Blake.

The captain inclined his head. “Dismissed.”

* * * *

“Where’s that last Santa costume, Lockhart?” Smitty bellowed from the back. Shaking his head, Errol grinned. The first day back at Pour Vous, and it was as if he’d never left. January second had dawned sunny but cold, and walking from the bus stop hadn’t been pleasant. Nothing compared to hiking through a blizzard, though. Closing the lid on a hat bin, Errol pushed through tulle and velvet and wool to the so-called holiday section.

“It’s right here, boss.” The seventh and final Santa suit had been returned that morning, smelling of expensive alcohol and cheap perfume. Fabric refresher hadn’t done anything but add to the collection of odors.

“Good, good,” Smitty said. “Let’s go up front and have a talk.”

Errol had expected this. “Have a talk” was Smithwick code for “we’ve got a problem.”

Smitty took his usual chair behind the former concessions counter and gazed at Errol over the tops of his glasses. “I dunno what to think, kid. You up and disappeared, no word, no telegram delivery, and then you want to work.”

“My car conked out, and I got lost in the blizzard.” Bessie was in storage at a towing yard. It was going to take a miracle to pay the tow charge and the storage fee. All he had in his wallet was the note he’d left on the dashboard in the storm. “I was stuck in the boondocks for days with no way to call.”

“And what about the telegram?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll work it off. If you’d like, I’ll apologize to the client.”

“Couldn’t reach him. Phone’s disconnected. You could try mail, maybe.” Smitty pulled out his old-fashioned ledger. “Same address as the delivery.”

“I never did find that address. You know, those directions took me way off course. I was God knows where when the car quit.”

“I gave you directions. Wrote ’em down even.” Smitty rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth.

Errol pulled out his wallet and held out the folded paper. “Here’s what you gave me, boss. They led to the middle of nowhere.”

“Let’s see those.” Smitty squinted at the paper and then pulled out a map of the greater metro area. He ran a pudgy finger along the route he’d written down, and ended at a road near a lake. “The place shoulda been right here.”

Errol looked over his shoulder and swallowed. He hadn’t been lost. He’d been right where he was supposed to be, right where the directions said.

Right next to Joe’s driveway.

* * * *

It took Joe ten days and a favor from a cop friend to find Errol. After frantically searching the area the firefighter had dropped off Errol to no avail, Joe had checked a couple of city parks, the bus station, and finally a bridge underpass. No Errol.

And now that Joe knew where to look, he was terrified of how to begin a conversation.

The woman at the front desk of Helping Hand directed Joe to the basement. Downstairs, the tables and chairs were neatly arranged for the next meal. The scent of chicken soup wafted from behind the serving counter.

Joe pushed through the entrance to the kitchen. Among the institutional stoves and tables, a man and woman worked. Nowhere was that familiar golden mane. Nodding to the couple, Joe kept looking. The stove in the back held a giant pot; steam curled into the air. A familiar figure wearing a black hairnet stirred the cauldron. Joe’s heart leaped into his throat, and he stifled the urge to shout. He settled for a stealthy approach.

“Hey,” Joe said.

Errol turned but didn’t speak. No smile, no frown, no “fuck off.” The neutral reception gave Joe little hope.

“How are you?” Joe asked.

“Not your business, is it?” Errol crossed his arms over his chest. “Just like how you found me isn’t through legitimate channels, I’ll bet.”

Joe’s gut tightened, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I…was worried.”

Shaking his head, Errol turned back to the stove.

“Did you…say anything to the media?”

Errol eyed him. “Wow. Way to trust me there, Mr. Huffington.”

“I—it’s just that I’m back to work at the firehouse, and that information could make it tough for me to stay.”

“Yeah. Because we all know how honest you are about…who you are.” Errol’s eyes were very blue.

“I was honest with you at the cabin. I…liked spending time with you.” God, that sounded so stilted, like the end of a bad date.

“That time meant something to me. It obviously didn’t mean the same thing to you, but I’ll get over it. And don’t worry. I won’t ruin your career.” Errol turned away. “I’m busy. Good-bye.”

Joe’s heart sank.

Chapter Thirteen

“Hey Blake, check this out.” Stringfield tossed the newspaper into Joe’s lap. A couple of the guys glanced up and then lost interest in favor of football.