Earthquakes

Chapter 1 Ellis On the tick of 6:59 A.M., Ellis slapped the clock so the seven A.M. alarm wouldn’t beep. He grabbed his phone, swiped through screens, and turned off his backup alarm before it went off at 7:01. Ellis needed both alarms to get his sorry ass out of bed on regular days, but he didn’t need either of them on the days that mysterious Bryndon Rothe came to the range. Ellis had been lying in his lumpy bed in the two-room apartment over Miss Maggie’s Shooting Range, thinking of what to say to Beautiful Bryn, for the last hour. Ellis knew if he figured out the right combination of words and phrases, Bryn’s entire life history would come pouring out of that kissable mouth. He’d get more than a sneer or a smirk, more than a poker face and a grunt: he’d get a whole conversation. A back and forth, a chat, even an exchange of, God willing, numbers and a promise to text. Hope, as Ellis’s mama would say, sprang eternal. Especially where hot dancer boys were concerned, Ellis would add. He would have said his piece silently, though. Mama didn’t believe in the Easter Bunny or being gay. She’d never understand what Ellis saw in Bryn, but that was okay. It wasn’t like Ellis would get invited home with his would-be boyfriend anytime soon. His father would shoot his ass on sight. That was all right too. Ellis had long passed the need for parental approval. He had the range and his nonblood family and semiregular visits from Pretty Boy Bryn. Pretty Boy, Very Silent Bryn. It was a game they played, the Make Him Talk Game, though Ellis wasn’t sure Bryn understood they were, actually, playing. But they’d only been sparring for a few months. It was clearly too early to call it a draw. “How’s it going today?” Ellis said softly to himself as he climbed out of bed. He stretched and rolled his left shoulder, the one with the metal plate holding together the bone. Damn ricochet. Damn war. Damn stiff son of a b***h. He needed to lift. Later. Right now he needed to get ready. In the bathroom, Ellis took his morning piss. “What’s happenin’, man?” Ellis frowned. No, way too casual. He’d tried that tack before, and Bryn hadn’t responded well. Meaning, he hadn’t said a thing. The goal was more words, not less. “How are you today, sir?” Ellis asked his reflection before stuffing his mouth with a toothbrush dolloped with paste. Better. He’d not tried the “sir” thing yet. When Miss Maggie had told him a client had made arrangements to come to the range before official operating hours to shoot, she’d referred to Bryn as “Mr. Bryndon Rothe.” So the first time Ellis met Bryn, he’d said, “Mr. Rothe.” It’d been the most natural form of address, seeing as how his best friend and mentor, Maxwell Call-Me-Clark, was “Mr. Clark” to Ellis. Well, Mr. Clark in public—just Clark or “Sarge” in private when they played games with rope and cuffs and pain. Ellis’s eyes rolled back into his head. Visions of the last round of playtime at Mr. Clark’s townhouse swarmed Ellis’s brain in vivid, full-color flashes: Clark in nothing but cuffs, chain necklace, and hard-on; Clark’s husband and Dominant, Daniel Germain, in silky shirt, dark pants, and boots; both men smiling at Ellis like wolves over prey. Ellis spat into the sink and exhaled. Would he have time to jerk off before Captain Gorgeous arrived? Ellis checked his phone. No, definitely not. “Later,” he muttered to his morning wood, which had been reinvigorated by thoughts of fuckings past. He needed to focus on Bryn and unlocking the hidden mysteries buried in those haunted, honey-brown eyes. Throwing on his good jeans, a black T-shirt, and a long-sleeved button-down the color of rust, Ellis searched for clean socks. It took a while. Laundry. He needed to do laundry. Shove all his s**t into the army surplus and drag it to the ‘mat a subway stop over. Socks found and boots laced, Ellis made his bed and took the three seconds he needed to tidy his room. He used to be a horrible slob. s**t just everywhere. Then Clark had pointed out that a man’s environment was a reflection of a man’s mind. Ellis hadn’t been able to get that out of his brain, and as he’d gone to the support meetings Clark ran for vets with PTSD, and as Ellis had gotten calmer and better and smarter about life, he noticed that his room got neater. It was the strangest thing. Almost like one day he could barely wade through the dishes and clothes and magazines on the floor, and the next day he was installing shelves and buying containers. And hangers. And f*****g organizer labels. It was nuts, but Ellis liked it. Mostly because Clark approved. Ellis might not be the needy b***h he’d been when freshly discharged and looking for a place to go that wasn’t back to Oklahoma, but he kind of lived for Clark’s approval nonetheless. He’d made peace with the need. Clark was one of the best men Ellis knew. What the hell was wrong with getting such a man’s nod of acceptance? It made Ellis feel good—and precious little ever did. Ellis retrieved his Colt Defender from the second drawer of his pressboard night table. He checked the Wilson Combat seven-round mag and the standard safety. He strapped on his holster, secured the weapon, and turned out the lights before dashing down the narrow stairwell to the main level of the shooting range. The stairs came out in a long storage room filled with cleaning supplies, range merchandise, crates, boxes, and God only knew what. Miss Maggie wasn’t exactly the most organized of owners, and Miss Jillian, Maggie’s wife, was no help. Jillian’s idea of organization was to file membership forms under “C” for “Care.” As in “We care about our members.” The sheer chaos the place must have been when Jillian and Maggie lived in Ellis’s rooms was hard to imagine. They had their own place now, though, thank goodness. Ellis knew they could both shoot the balls off a gnat at a thousand yards, and Miss Maggie probably knew more ways to kill somebody than Clark did, but Ellis still didn’t like to think about the women alone at the range at night by themselves. They deserved their safe, cozy home with their six cats. Ellis was more suited to the pad above the range. It made more sense: Ellis as semi-expendable sentinel. Ellis went through the storage-room door and shut it behind him, listening to the electronic lock beep as it engaged. He flipped light switches, and the fluorescents flickered to life. The range’s main room was a big one, and it stood in an L-shape around the insulated indoor range. Round racks full of T-shirts stood near the front of the room. They had hats on shelves and trinkets on endcaps. Jillian loved to put the range’s logo on pretty much everything, from pop bottles to keychains to plastic bobblehead bulldogs. The stuff sold surprisingly well. Every lesbian in the world wanted one of Maggie’s gun-range shirts. Miss Maggie offered discounted memberships to members of the l***q community. She also taught self-defense courses in the shop and did a three-day-long, intensive crash course to get a carry permit. Revenue was good. The weapons for rent and for sale and the ammo for all of the above were kept in several glass cases. The glass was bulletproof, and each case was locked with folding metal cages after hours. It took an electronic passcode and a key to undo the cages. If Miss Jillian was flighty, then Miss Maggie was paranoid. At least, that was what she said she was. To Ellis, it seemed more like Miss Maggie had enough money to indulge her security fetish. Miss Maggie loved making life hard on would-be thieves and intruders. They’d had a few over the years, but not since she’d installed the roll-down, garage-style metal doors to fit behind the range’s front door and glass windows. The emergency exit had more bars on it than a jail cell. Even the bathrooms had a code. Ellis unlocked the ammunition case and one of the display cases. He went to the front and undid the security mechanism so the metal door would glide up and unblock the main entrance. He kept the door lock engaged for now. It was still early, or late to the all-night New Amsterdam crowd, and the crazies would be out looking for a place to roost until twilight. Most of the homeless or the clinically insane who’d accidentally entered the range looking for food, money, or their lost wits had been harmless enough. But with so many weapons lying around, Ellis couldn’t be too careful. The other counter jockey, Chuck, wouldn’t be in until the shop opened officially at nine, so Ellis had the place—and Sinful Bryn—to himself. Or, well, Lord, Ellis hoped Bryn was sinful. It’d be a shame for somebody who looked like that ever to be lonely. Ellis had just finished putting the coffee on in the communal pot when he heard a taxi pull up directly by the doors. Ellis had never asked if Bryn took the train into the borough and then a car to the shop, or a car all the way from point A to point B. He figured it’d be rude to ask something like that, dealing with money and all. Clearly the guy had no cash-flow problems. He was paying Maggie to open the shop for an extra half hour of business. The man dressed like money too. As Ellis went to the door to unlock it and Bryn—the man, the mystery, the daydream, himself—climbed out of the car, Ellis took in Bryn and the day’s ensemble. Bryn was a couple of inches shorter than Ellis’s five feet ten. But where Ellis was broad and rounded out with farm-bred muscle, Bryn was long and lean and solid, even in clothes. With his neck straight and his chin held high, Bryn carried an air about him. Not arrogance, exactly. Not even confidence. Bryn was more untouchable. Unreachable. And, strangely, sort of sad. Or, if not sad, definitely contemplative. It was like the man was lost in a private world. He was so far down that his movements through this reality were on autopilot. Bryn was the beautiful man on the street who could stop traffic, but if he ever paused to observe the wreckage behind him, he’d have no idea what caused it. Bryn moved with the grace of a dancer. All his height was in his legs, and his arms, hands, and fingers were also long. His thick brown hair was tousled, as though hasty hands had swept product through the strands and then let it dry in the May breeze. His eyes were wide-set, his clean-shaven jaw pointed like the tip of a Valentine heart. Today Bryn wore dark slacks with cuffs over heavy black boots. His shirt was camel-colored, with a zip up the front. His jacket was also tan, sleek, and tailored to fit to his body, and the collar was turned up. Spring in New Amsterdam was brief and chilly in the mornings, so in addition to the coat, Bryn had on fingerless gloves. One hand was clasped around the handle of his weapon case. Bryn shut the car door with his other hand, and Ellis made haste to let Bryn inside the range. “Good morning, sir,” Ellis said, holding the door for Bryn’s entrance. He closed it after Bryn, engaging the lock while he was at it. “Bryn,” he corrected, his back to Ellis as he approached the ammunition counter. “It’s Bryn.” His voice was surprisingly deep and pleasant, if a little flat. “Yes. Sorry.” So much for the formal attempt. Ellis made note and swept behind the counter. His heart fluttered and his nerves fired as though he were twelve again and about to confess that yeah, it’d been Ellis who’d punched out Scott Harding in the middle school’s parking lot. And no, he hadn’t been a damn bit sorry he’d broken Scott’s cheekbone. Scott had called Ellis’s best friend a fag. Ellis didn’t truck with that. Bryn grunted and put his weapon case down on the floor. He reached for his wallet and plucked a credit card out of a pocket. “The usual.” “Can I interest you in anything new today?” Ellis asked. “No.” Ellis waited a beat to see if Bryn would make eye contact. Bryn rarely did, choosing to focus somewhere off to the left or right of Ellis’s shoulders or occasionally the dead center of Ellis’s chest. “Well, all right,” Ellis said at last.