By Any Other Name (4 page)

Before Andy could open his mouth to ask Michael the question burning on the tip of his tongue, a phone rang. Within a moment, Andy recognized the twinkish tones of Adrien’s favorite band. A surge of bitterness swept through him. Couldn’t he have one moment where Adrien didn’t overshadow everything?

“That must be your cell. I know there’s not a single Bieber ringtone to be found on my phone.”
As the words left his mouth, Andy pushed away from Michael, scooting to the edge of the bed and then quickly making his way to the bathroom. He’d be damned if he was going to sit and listen to Michael coo over Adrien. Flicking the light on and shutting the door with a snap of his wrist, Andy glared balefully into the large oval mirror over his pale blue pedestal sink. With his eyeliner smudged and his lips puffy, red and surrounded with whisker burn, he looked exactly like the cheap tart everyone except Michael had always taken him for. Only that wasn’t really true anymore, was it? Now Michael thought he was a round heeled floozy too. Well, screw Michael. Blinking back tears, Andy vowed that he wouldn’t give the big idiot the chance to make any smartassed comments. If Michael said even one word about what a nice fuck Andy was or something equally lame about how they could do it again, Andy would gut him.
Hell no. It would never do to let himself get to the point of homicide because the one color that would never suit Andy was the hideous shade of orange they put prisoners in. With a shaking hand, Andy turned the hot water on. Biting his lip, he studiously ignored the moisture leaking out of his eyes. Drawing in a deep breath he decided he’d tidy up his face before throwing on his robe. Once he calmed down a little, he was going to kick Michael out like nothing more important than a light cardio workout had happened between the two of them. Yeah. Okay. That would work. Reaching into the linen closet, Andy pulled out a soft baby washcloth. As he dampened it under the rapidly warming water, he met his own gaze in the mirror.
“I don’t need Michael Rose. It’s fine. It’s fine. We can go back to being nothing but friends. Sure. Okay. That will be the best thing for everyone.”
Pinching his mouth tightly together, Andy admitted that even to his own ears it sounded like a lie. Well, he’d just have to pretend until he could figure out how to make not needing Michael true. Wiping the smudged black eyeliner from around his eyes, he carefully patted his face dry. By the time he finished and opened the bathroom door, Michael was hanging up his phone. Stepping forward to brush a barely there kiss against Michael’s cheek, Andy rushed to speak before Michael could. He so did not want to hear Michael Rose brushing him off.
“So I guess you need to go now? Give me a sec to throw on some fresh clothes and I’ll be right out to drive you back to the mall.”
As he spoke, Andy scooped up his car keys. Michael must have set them down on the dresser while he was in the bathroom. Tossing them to the overgrown Dumkopf, Andy snatched up the first pair of jeans he could lay his hands on. Retreating to the bathroom with the seen-better-days-jeans and an old tee he normally reserved for days when he planned on being home alone all day Andy closed the door with a painfully bright smile and a sour taste in his mouth.
Two minutes later he pulled his garage door closed behind himself, still sporting a smile that would do Ken and Barbie both proud. For the entire forty-five minute drive back to the mall where they both worked, he chattered about the party. Once Michael was safely deposited next to Devon’s Jeep and disappearing in Andy’s rearview mirror, the smile slipped. Before he pulled out of the parking lot, Andy got his favorite unrequited love cd out of the storage case he kept in the car so he wouldn’t forget to bring them to work on nights he had to close. There was nothing more fun than listening to suicidal depression, presented in song, while trying to make sense of the night’s register tallies. Nobody did feeling suicidal over an impossible love like James Blunt.

Watching the rapidly disappearing taillights of Andy’s nearly mint-condition Nova, Michael wondered what the hell was going on in Andy’s twisty little brain. Somewhere between the nearly heart-attack inducing moments Michael spent fucking the beautiful brat through the bed, and the coolly dismissive farewell he’d just received from those glacial eyes, Andy had clearly slipped a gear or four. Michael growled and muttered his way through unlocking the jeep and climbing inside.

“What the fuck, Andy. I’ll see you at the party? Yeah, you sure as hell will see me at the party, babe. After the party, you can try to explain that little Jekyll and Hyde routine you just pulled on me.”

Only the fact that the Jeep belonged to Devon kept Michael from slamming the shit out of the door once he got inside. Instead, he clenched his jaw and tried to reconstruct what had happened right before Andy started acting like a complete shit. Though he racked his brain, Michael couldn’t think of a single thing. They’d both had incredible orgasms if Andy’s howls and shaking were anything to judge by. Then he’d pressed a kiss against the back of Andy’s neck right before that crappy Bieber song announced Devon calling. Shaking his head, Michael decided he’d figure out what Andy’s damage was at the party tonight. For now, he needed to get back over to Adrien’s place and—shit. He needed to find out what the hell the Sergeant had done to piss Adrien off enough to get kicked out.

As he pulled into the apartment complex off Genesee, a white Lincoln Town car with a faux convertible rag-top in navy blue pulled out of a spot directly in front of the common stairwell to Adrien’s apartment. Michael sent an immediate prayer of thanks up to the gods of good parking karma. While some might argue that such was unnecessary, Michael saw no harm in hedging his bets against the day he truly needed to find a spot five minutes before he even arrived.

Driving a few feet past the spot allowed Michael to reverse into it. Sergeant Soto—shit—he really needed to start remembering to call the man Devon. They weren’t in the service anymore. Devon had been at Mrs. Simpson’s tender mercies for well over an hour now and Michael was willing to bet his whole next paycheck that the tough non-commissioned officer had cracked under her stealth attack interrogation tactics. When faced with a sweet, grandmotherly type who baked what easily amounted to the world’s gooiest, most chocolate chip per square millimeter cookies in existence, there wasn’t really much guys like the Sergeant and him could do but spill their guts as they gobbled the goodies. Michael wondered once or twice if she slipped truth serum into her baked goods. His mouth flooded with clear water just from thinking about the last time he’d gotten his hands on one of those little bites of vanilla and chocolate love.

Shaking his head, Michael clambered out of the Jeep. The second he opened the door to Adrien’s stairwell the warm scent of Mrs. Simpson’s extra-rich-made-from-scratch hot chocolate filled his nose. As he drifted up the stairs on the wafting fumes, Michael mused about whether getting some of Catherine Marie’s delicious treats almost made it worth having to leave Andy’s place so abruptly.

“Nope. Devon Soto, you still owe me. And, buddy of mine, you’d best believe I’ll be collecting at the most inconvenient to you time I can dream up.”

By the time he finished climbing the stairs to the second floor, Michael had worked out most of his anger. The remaining kernel of pissed-offbeyond-all-belief, lodged somewhere in the depths of his bowels as a hotly burning pinpoint of dully aching pain, could be ignored for the moment. It helped when Devon answered Catherine Marie’s door looking like a snotty faced, sweating mess. Michael took one look at his normally unflappable friend and turned into the kitchen, gesturing distractedly to Catherine Marie. The sight of Devon looking so wrecked left him unable to recall where the to-go cups for cocoa were stored, though he’d helped himself to them dozens of times before. Keeping his voice low in hopes that Catherine Marie wouldn’t notice his lapse, Michael smiled at the pint-sized psychologist.

“Hey, Catherine Marie, where are the to-go cups?”
Mrs. Simpson fixed him with an unimpressed and penetrating stare. Then, shaking her head and rolling her bright blue eyes, she shooed him aside to fix his cup.
A scratchy edge notable in his voice, Devon called out to Michael from the dining room.
“For Fu—Pete’s Sake, Rose, she can’t tell you anything. Patient-Client confidentiality factors here. You are aware of those, aren’t you?”
Popping back around the corner of the kitchen door, Michael flew two emphatic birds at Devon via the expedient method of flipping both middle fingers up and shaking them. The tight lines around Devon’s reddened eyes eased as he chortled. A wide grin pulling at his mouth, Michael retreated back into the kitchen with a heavy weight seeming to ease off his chest. Anything was better than being forced to witness the aftermath of Devon having had his emotional guts laid out for inspection by anyone. Devon had been his rock in the Middle East, and even though Catherine Marie was scarier all by herself than a five-ton truck filled to the brim with newly minted First Lieutenants and jaded First Sergeants, there was no way Michael wanted to be witness to his mentor’s loss of all military bearing. Hell no. The shaking hands, red eyes and snotty face all told the same disturbing story of a man who’d lost his edge. An anorexic smile wobbled across Michael’s face as he turned to face the stove.
As she passed over a handful of cookies and a cup of her special cocoa, Catherine Marie patted him on the hand. “He’ll be fine, dear. The strongest ones have the hardest time bringing these difficult matters to the light. Why don’t you go pull the car around? He’ll need to get out of here now, I should think.”
In a perfectly cued segue, normally only able to happen in Hollywood blockbusters and Harlequin made for television after school specials, Devon spoke up from the other room.
“Rose. We need to go. I have to go find a costume, and then I gotta get Dieterman set up at my place. I—can I crash with you for a few days? I thought I’d be staying with Adrien when I said Dieterman could use my place.”
Brushing the last of the oatmeal raisin cookie crumbs from his mouth, Michael set his cocoa down on the spotless orange Formica of the counter next to him. Already in motion, his quick steps had him half-way through the dining room door when Catherine caught his wrist in a grip nearly strong enough to hurt. Lifting one hand quickly, he braced himself against the edge of the doorframe with one arm trailing behind him in Catherine Marie’s warm grasp. His eyes widening, he turned to her. She was shaking her head back and forth in brisk little motions as a tiny pinch of a frown pulled her carefully plucked eyebrows together. Her lips thinned, and but for the twinkle in her eye, Michael would have worried she was fed up with both Devon and himself. With a roguish wink, she dispelled the images of being eaten by Betsy, her big, brutish, man and wolf eating dog. Marie Catherine winked again before turning her head toward the dining room door.
“Michael, come get your cocoa, dear. I’ve got it in a to-go cup, and there’s a little bag of those cookies you like as well. Why don’t you go wait in the car. I need a moment with Devon before he leaves. You can talk to him about all of this tomorrow, alright? Michael, don’t you badger him, or I’ll call Mrs. Jimenez and let her deal with you.”
Michael straightened up, shrugging his shoulders as he turned his head back to shoot Devon a quick glance. Stepping back through the strange doorway—it lacked a door completely—he took a leaf from Catherine Marie’s book by being careful to give his voice a little extra support and keep his face toward the kitchen entry.
“Oh, hey, Mrs. Simpson there’s no need to pull out the big guns. I promise I’ll behave. And thanks for the cookies.”
Catherine Marie imperiously drew him down, planting a loud, smackingly noisy kiss on his cheek right before he hightailed it to her door surrounded by a waft of oatmeal raisin and chocolate scented air. Pulling the door open, he tossed a quick verbal farewell in Devon’s general even as he nodded his goodbye to Catherine Marie.
“See you downstairs in a few, man. Wash your face or something, Sarge. You really do look like hell.”
Michael pulled the front door shut behind him the second he finished speaking. Eyeing Adrien’s door for a moment, he decided not to knock on the off chance that Devon might walk out of Catherine Marie’s place while he was still talking to Adrien. None of them needed that messiness right now. With a faint snort, Michael loped down the stairs, out through the building’s heavy front door and over to Devon’s Jeep. Deciding he’d better drive, he unlocked the vehicle and eased behind the steering wheel as he turned the key in the ignition.
Pulling out of the parking spot, Michael drove around to the back of the building where turning around was actually possible. Gazing out the windshield as he drove back and pulled back into the still empty spot in front of Adrien and Catherine Marie’s building. Because he was facing out toward the street this time, he caught sight of an old Chevy Nova cruising along down Genesee Street. The sight drew his mind immediately back to Andy and the breezy way the beautiful man had dismissed him at the mall. After the torrid kisses that Michael could still taste in his mouth and the burning, vise-like grasp of Andy’s silk-skinned ass surrounding his cock, the rapid drop in the barometer of Andy’s attitude stung.

By the time Andy pulled back up in front of his house, the new mascara he’d paid top dollar for had stood the test of a forty-five minute salt water rinse without losing a bit of its luster. Eyeing himself in the rearview mirror, Andy shuddered. His eyes were bloodshot, his bottom lip puffy and red, and his cheeks looked like bleached, hundred year old parchment with uneven streaks of black where his eyeliner had run. He’d definitely need to take another shower—in fact he’d just give himself a complete do-over.

Firming his chin, Andy reached into the center console to get the remote for his garage door. Who the hell did Michael Phillip Rose think he was, anyway? He was a—a stalker, that’s what he was. Lifting his chin a little higher, Andy sniffed. Tonight, at the party he would put his foot down. Even if he was dressing as a glittery, delicately winged fairy, he could still sock it to the Dumkopf. Andreas Weiß was no man’s stalker victim, dammit.