Page 31 of Hudson River Homicides
But it was different this time.
And by the way Doyle’s pupils blew wide, the way his breath came out in sharp, offbeat pants, the way he cupped and caressed—he’d realized it too.
“You remind me I’m alive,” Larkin said.
“Fuck, Evie, I need you so bad.”
Larkin moved for another kiss just as the door to the bathroom swung open and a man stepped inside.He was whistling off-tune as he unzipped at the bank of urinals and groaned loudly while relieving himself.The corners of Doyle’s eyes crinkled in response and he shook in silent laughter.He brought Larkin’s hands to his lips and began kissing the knuckles.Larkin stood on his toes and kissed Doyle’s Adam’s apple.
The pisser eventually finished, flushed the urinal, skipped a good handwashing, and left.
Doyle exhaled a deep breath before combing his fingers through Larkin’s hair, fixing his side part.
Larkin didn’t want for this to be over already, for that to have been it, for the fire to die out after seven goddamn months of feeling cold to his core, but he wasn’t a randy teenager vying for a hookup, and Doyle wasn’t a stranger.Their first time together surely wouldn’t be in a fucking bathroom stall of an overpriced Midtown café.It would be at Doyle’s apartment—at home—where Larkin could properly worship and delight in every inch of his partner’s body and soul.
“I’m sorry,” Larkin said.
“For what?”
“For manhandling you in public.”
“I wouldn’t say we’re in public, exactly.Besides, you know I like a good manhandling.”Doyle had to adjust himself, murmuring an apology as he did.
Larkin took Doyle’s face in one hand.“Thank you for following me.”
“To the ends of the Earth.”
“Earth is spherical.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Larkin lowered his hand and stared at Doyle, who only smiled, unlocked the stall, and held the door open.
They exited and Larkin took a moment to freshen up at the sink.He frowned at his reflection in the mirror, touched under his eyes, and said, “I look old.”
“You look fine,” Doyle corrected, checking his phone a second time.“The storm’s over the East River.”
“‘Fine’ generally denotes you need Botox.”
“‘Fine’ means ‘fine,’” Doyle said.“I love the character in your face.Your mother is the one who suggested her thirty-five-year-old child needs Botox over a restful night’s sleep.”
Larkin looked at Doyle in the mirror.
Doyle caught his stare and slid his hands into his pockets.“I’m sorry.It’s not my place to say—”
“I’m well aware of the kind of person she is.”
Frankly, Doyle said, “I don’t like the way she speaks to you.”
“Neither do I.”Larkin grabbed a paper towel and dried his hands.“My mother lives in a bubble of privilege and vanity, where one well-timed rumor can destroy a reputation.But since she has no career, no pursuits of her own, her reputation is that of her husband’s, her son’s.My mother has never given a damn that I’m gay.She does care, however, that my failed marriage and contested divorce will ostracize her from her little gossip club.
“Despite having a degree in psychology and recognizing her patterns of emotional invalidation, I still find myself seeking her approval.I know it’s an exercise in futility.I’ve done my best to limit our interactions over the past several years, to protect myself, but severing that cord in its entirety is difficult.I find that I just keep thinking, hoping, this time, she’ll care about me.”
Doyle opened his mouth.
Larkin added, “I’m so sorry for what she called you.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
