The kitchen was rubble in under an hour.
Granite cracked and smashed, turning to dust. The cupboards splintered, breaking apart into shards. Wreckage and rubble built around his feet. Only his sink and his fridge remained, stainless steel islands in a sea of dust and ruin.
Kris clapped slowly as Mike stood in the center, breathing hard. “Great job, Fred Flintstone. What are you going to do with the mess you made?”
Kris deigned to help him with the rubble, picking through the wreckage and plucking all the medium-sized pieces into bags and boxes that Mike hauled out to the dumpster. He went back to his Martini as Mike swept and vacuumed, and then made Mike wipe down his boots. Only when he was satisfied with Mike’s cleaning was Mike allowed to collapse onto his couch.
“Did that feel good?” Kris poured another drink and brought it over to Mike. He perched on the armrest.
“Yeah, that did feel good.” Getting over Silvio was easy when Silvio acted like the biggest bitch inside DC. Anger had a way of speeding up the breakup process. Silvio was just a mistake. Another one. Another in a long line of mistaken boyfriends and bad decisions.
“I assume we’re going out tonight? You’re going to f*ck your way through DC again, until you fall head over heels for another f*ckboy?”
Mike scrubbed his face, stalling. Why was it always the same? Why did he always end up like this? Alone, pissed off for one reason or another, and left to wonder why he seemed like the only guy to want something real. Mike took another drink. “I… think I need to change how I date.”
Kris almost fell off the arm of the couch. He pressed his hand to his chest, feigning a heart attack as he blinked fast. “I hear the cries and wails of f*ckboys from Virginia to Pennsylvania. Lamentations. Bottoms going unfilled.”
“Jesus, Kris. Am I that bad?”
“After a breakup? Honey, you put Madonna and Coco Chanel to shame. I think there’s a mass f*ckboy alert when you go out. Some bottom booty call, making them all a’tizzy. They come flocking, holes already lubed. They’re hoping to catch you in their nectar—”
“Okay, okay. Look, I’m not doing that anymore.”
“Really?” Kris couldn’t fit another ounce of disbelief into that single word, he really couldn’t.
“It hasn’t f*cking worked, has it? Here I am again… alone. The last thing that I want to be is alone.”
Kris sat back and crossed his legs, one foot bouncing delicately. Silence strained the living room. “You are a hot mess.”
He looked down.
Kris took pity on him. “You want the gay fairy tale, Mike. You want Prince Charming and happy ever after. But, Prince Charming is not going to come wrapped up in the boys you’ve been fooling with.”
Mike sagged into his couch cushions with a sigh.
“You’re a good guy. A really good guy. Why do you keep wasting time with twenty-four-year-old flight attendants and wannabe models? They’re not good enough for you, honey.” Kris smoothed his hair, tucking wayward strands off his forehead. “You need someone who thinks you are their Prince Charming. Not the pretty face and attached d*ck that comes with a credit card.”
He stayed quiet, twirling the glass back and forth, making ripples in the vodka. “I don’t know if that guy exists, Kris. I’ve been looking for him. Where is he?”
“He’s for damn sure not a f*ckboy!” Kris sat back. “I cannot believe these words are passing my perfect lips, but…” He sighed. “Why don’t you take a break from the scene? Focus on yourself for a while. I mean, do you have any idea what your Prince Charming is like? What you really want? ‘Cause you’re not happy with what you’ve had.”
“I do know what I want.” Mike could picture it, could imagine life with the man of his dreams. He wanted a partner, a real partner, an honest-to-God relationship. He wanted to find The One, the man he’d marry. He wanted someone to love.
Faces blurred together, his exes and his hookups, a haze of haughty smirks and sneers, flashing eyes and slit-eyed glares. Sarcasm, biting tongues, ferocity when provoked. He loved Kris like a brother, but Kris wasn’t the kind of man he dreamt about night after night.
“He’s kind,” he finally said. “I want someone kind. Gentle. Loving.” Memories kept rushing by, a harsh counterpoint to his actual desires. Nights spent alone, or watching his partner texting all night long. Distance, when all he wanted was closeness. He could count the good times with Silvio, the moments where they seemed to be really close and not trying to shred each other with sass and sarcasm that flayed too close to the bone. “Affectionate. He wants me. Really wants me.”
Days he wanted to talk about his work, the cases he saw. The law, politics, and the world they lived in. Being laughed off, or ignored, or talked over. Being told he was boring. “He’s smart. We talk about things. Maybe we’ll stay up all night talking sometimes.”
The truth was, he wanted someone so out of his league his mystery man might as well be a satellite orbiting the earth. And Mike was an ant. He wanted someone intelligent, grounded, and with a heart of gold. Someone who wanted to hold his hand and cuddle with him, watch movies on Friday nights, and sleep in on Sundays. Someone gentle with his heart, with his dreams. Someone who wanted him to be their whole world, the way he would be Mike’s.
“Does that sound like a f*ckboy?” Kris’s voice was gentle.
Mike shook his head.
“You’re looking in all the wrong, places. You want Prince Charming, but you’re looking in a swamp. Get away from the bars and the apps. I know God isn’t your thing, but there are gay men’s groups at some of the churches, and the center has volunteer gigs you can join. There’s a lot for gay men to do, Mike, other than troll for a hookup or look for The One at the club.”
“I know.” He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them with his fingers. “We already are doing that, though. I mean, we’re in the league. And we volunteer. That’s how we met Billy and Aaron.”
“Do more. This is our culture. It’s not just bars and clubs and hookup apps. If you want to find someone special, go look for him where you think he’s hiding.” Kris tilted his head. “And, be the kind of guy you want to attract. You’re a good guy. Stop settling for less. Quality attracts quality.”
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“The flakes will stop hassling you when you stop feeding them your d*ck.” Kris stood, brushing off his pants. “Doctor Caldera prescribes a cleanse, Deputy Marshal Lucciano. A cleanse of the scourge of f*ckboys.” He pointed at Mike, tapping the tip of Mike’s nose with every word. “No more f*ckboys.”
“Yes, doctor.” Mike smiled.
“C’mon.” Kris snapped. “We’ve got to get you a new kitchen. And tonight, you’re taking me to the Kennedy Center. Madame Butterfly is playing. I’ll culture you, even if it kills me.”
“Yes, my queen.” He winked as he stood, and Kris tsked at him as he grabbed his trench coat.
Mike sighed, blowing air out of his hollowed cheeks. “We need to stop by the clinic, too.”
Kris whipped around, his eyebrows disappearing beneath his spiky fringe. True concern poured from his gaze.
“Silvio was banging the guy bare. I don’t know how long he was cheating, but if he was going bare, then I need to get checked.”
Kris turned away and shoved his arms through his trench coat sleeves, bunching the fabric and viciously tugging on the lapels. He took a long time straightening it, smoothing his shirt front, facing away from Mike. When he finally turned back, his expression was back to his haughty indifference, but Spanish fire still smoldered in his gaze. “I never liked that bitch.”
“I will listen to you from this day forward about any man.” Mike pressed his hands together and bowed, as if bowing to a master.
“You’re damn right you will. Now go shower and change. We’ve got a busy day.”
