:: Robby ::
He was going to die. He was going to die and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to save him.
I glared across the moonlight-mottled expanse of warehouse space, desperately fighting the trembles of fear that were coursing through my body and causing my .38 to waver from its shadowed target. Nothing in all the years of my police officer training and field work could have prepared me for this. But nothing could have prepared me for the love of my life, either.
“Don’t be a pussy.” I growled, angrily. ”Be a man and step out where I can see you!”
The two forms moved forward, the smaller one stumbling slightly within the taller one’s grasp. I kept my eyes focused on them, hoping against hope that I had been wrong, that it wasn’t my Mike standing before me with the silver muzzle of a .45 pressed against the side of his skull. I released a shaky breath, the blood pounding in my head as I surveyed Mike’s dirt-smudged and tear-streaked face, his eyes boring his desperation into me.
“Robby, please.” His whisper sliced through me like a hot knife. “Please. Save me.”
His words catapulted me back to our first meeting …
******
It had been a crazy night. A couple of feisty domestic disturbances, the usual assault and battery calls from the local watering hole, Vince’s, and a lost potbellied pig who’d been found wandering along Highway 40. Clark Bristow, my partner of 8 years, was silently eyeing me from his place in the passenger’s seat.
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been awfully quiet tonight, Rob.”
“Nothing.” I mumbled. I did not want to start yet another conversation with him about my love life, especially when I had none. Now, I’m not a bad-looking guy, if I may say so myself. I’m 5’ 11”, weigh about 187 pounds and I have brown eyes and short dark brown hair. My dad was part Cherokee Indian and I have his coloring with my mom’s Huguenot features. I keep myself fit for my job, which means that I work out regularly and I practice tae kwon do, which keeps me limber and fluid. The problem?
I’m gay.
Yeah, make all the jokes you want about it, but the fact still remains. When I go to bed at night, I have sweet dreams of sweaty, muscled bodies, cum-filled mouths and tight assholes. I’ve endured my share of problems with other guys in the department, but they’ve learned to steer clear of me, especially after I participated in a departmental martial arts demonstration. Guess they all decided that it would be easier to leave me alone than worry about having their heads torn off.
Clark has been the only constant in my tired dance of life. He’s married with three kids and is about the coolest black guy I’ve ever met. He always reminds me of Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction but he’s much more conservative. He tapped a Salem Menthol out of its box and lit it, inhaling while still eyeing me.
“C’mon. Spill it.”
I squirmed in my seat and aimed the Ford towards the downtown area, trying to ignore him, but I knew I couldn’t. “It’s nothing, Clark. Really.”
“You lie like a rug!” He laughed, snorting out smoke. “It’s because of your birthday, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“And the fact that you’re still alone.”
“No.”
“BINGO!” He laughed again, pausing to take another drag. “You really are a rotten liar.”
The radio crackled. “72-05.”
“72-05.” Clark responded.
“A robbery in progress, 3117 Wentworth Boulevard. Repeat, robbery in progress.”
“10-4. ETA 2 minutes. Send a backup unit.”
I was already pressing the accelerator to the floor as Clark threw on the siren and lights. He checked the computer for additional information. “Says it’s one guy with a weapon. Cashier and one customer still inside.”
“Shit.” Hostage situation. I hate them. Innocent civilians break my heart when they’re caught in the line of fire.
Clark killed the siren and lights as we approached the convenience store. Bright red letters announced “Peppy Mart – Your Last Stop” and I shook my head at that. I certainly hoped that it wasn’t. I pulled the Ford up to the side, doused the lights and jumped out, pulling my revolver out of the kid lamb holster. Clark moved up behind me, his blued revolver in hand. We maneuvered our way to the front double glass doors and peeked in.
The cashier, a young girl in a smock, was pressed against the cigarette rack, her hands in the air. She stole a quick glance at us, then returned her vision to something hidden behind a metal rack of snacks. I moved out to the side and could just make out an arm, clad in denim and holding a large automatic. It took a few tense moments, but the perp finally moved into view and my heart both skipped a beat and sank at the same time.
The perp was a tall white guy, hippie-haired and evidently in need of cigarettes. He was ordering the cashier to load a plastic bag full of cartons and she kept going, visually upset. Just then, the perp caught the cashier’s furtive look and turned toward us. In his arms was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
He was well-built as evidenced by his muscular arms and the way he filled out his ripped jeans. As I raised my weapon, I couldn’t help but gaze into the hostage’s sea-green eyes, fringed by tousled blond-brown hair, wishing that I could run my fingers through those soft curls and press my mouth against his trembling lips. Clark’s voice cut into my reverie.
