Page 17 of A Handsome Devil

“Hey!” Gunning protested, but his smile gave him away.

Truman asked, “Are you volunteering for the job?”

I guessed I was. “Sure, but first I need to take a short side trip.” Then men tilted toward me with raised eyebrows, so I had to add, “To Livermore.”

Before Truman could ask me “Why Livermore?” Gunning barked, “Does this all have to do with that road dog down on the street?”

Truman swiveled his head. “What?”

Gunning explained, “When I came in. Out front, there’s some ex-con doing wheelies on a Harley with a Z bar.”

Holy mother. How did he know what a Z bar was? And how did I forget all about Denmark Groover? After retrieving my own ride from another dubious fentanyl fiend who’d been storing it, I’d forced Denmark to meet me here. I still wasn’t sure why. But I needed to see Truman Oakley. I needed him to suck my dick. I guess I needed to prove my superiority to someone of worth. I needed to remind the world I wasn’t just a drooling tango and cash fiend.

Or I needed my dick sucked.

Truman now held his hands out, palms to the ground. “Wait, wait, wait. What’s in Livermore?”

I was under the knife. I glugged my beer before admitting, “Foster father. I need to confront him. For my own mental health.”

It was Truman’s turn to look like someone had smacked his face with a salmon. “Confront?” he practically whispered. “How?”

My brain decided before I had time to react. To avoid discussing my plans for Leonard Skinner, I took one last chug of the beer and stood. “I’d better go see what destruction Denmark is wreaking.”

Indeed, Gunning was already on the front deck, yelling, “Man! This guy is cool!” From the kitchen table we heard the revving of the Harley’s horsepower. I hoped Denmark didn’t eat asphalt. He was much too overjoyed to be in the cut, hiding from the authorities. Yeah, I know, it didn’t make sense he’d be doing wheelies while trying to hide. But that was Denmark for you. He’d discovered some shocking news not long ago, probably leading to him taking the rap for my hot one.

Gunning’s eyes were shining, watching Denmark’s circus. “This guy is acramazing! Is this the guy you busted out of jail?”

I watched briefly as Denmark rolled on the throttle, leaving skid marks on the street.

I clapped Gunning on the shoulder and said, “I better get him inside.”

“Hell yeah!” cried Gunning. “I want to meet him.”

I held my palm against his chest. “Cool down, bro. Let me talk to him myself. You of all people should know a dangerous fiend when you see one.”

Although we’d just come from an attempted robbery where Denmark shot one guy—just in the shoulder, but still, all the guy did was guard a safe that turned out to be empty—I wouldn’t call him an uncontrollable fiend. I trusted him with my life. We were road dogs through and through.

When I waved at him in the street, he brought his Harley to the curb. After one last rev to his pipes, he cut it off.

“Bro?” he questioned.

“Come on up,” I offered, “but listen. I just had to mention the Livermore deal to Truman. So let’s talk about something else. You know what a square my bae is.”

“Do I ever.” Denmark had the gravelly, passionate voice of an actor. His entire life had taught him how to act. But no matter how much safer pretending was, the truth always busted out at odd times and places.

“Let’s go up and talk about corned beef, or whatever’s for dinner. We can leave in the morning for Livermore.”

At six foot four, Denmark was even taller than me. He loomed like a sheer brute as we climbed the stairs—Denmark apparently floating up them.

“Truman,” he chuckled as we climbed past artsy black and white photos of Truman, Gunning, and Erin at work, posing stoically with burnt and used addicts. Like me. “Sounds like some president.”

Truman actually would’ve made an excellent pragmatic and upstanding president. He was as sincere as sunlight. His only downfall was he had chosen the twisted, most difficult road of the gay man. “Let’s keep it straight, bro. Just pretend you’re questioning answers on ‘Jeopardy!’”

Denmark screwed up his face at me. “’Jeopardy!’? Shee!” It was his favorite show, and he got most questions right.

But the minute we joined the other men in the kitchen—I picked up my beer to chug, but there was only one sip of backwash left—Denmark just couldn’t control himself. He acted like he’d known the Establishment Club men his entire life.

Twirling a chair around and straddling it backward, he gestured to Gunning to get him a bottle of beer, too. “Yeah,” he said conversationally, “we’re going to Livermore to give a smackdown to that fucktard foster father of his.” He tossed his head in my direction as I spit out the half-sip of backwash.