33. Tallus

33

Tallus

I ’d seen Diem naked in bits and pieces several times but only once on full display—the night I’d taken him to bed. I got the sense it caused him discomfort. After he admitted me into the bathroom—an act that astonished me since I’d expected him to say no—he silently removed his clothing. I could tell he was self-conscious about his scars, so I made a point of focusing on his positive qualities and not drawing attention to his past suffering. And Diem had plenty of positive qualities.

The man’s toned body was a work of art. From his traps to his honed calves, from the dark hair on his chest to the square beauty of his jaw. He was like a Spartan. A gladiator. A warrior. If I was a director, I would cast him in every movie requiring a daunting hero of colossal proportions. Sexy and stunning all in one delicious package. Who could resist?

He let me trace the contours of his muscles with a light touch like I’d done the night I’d taken him to bed. He stood motionless as I thoroughly examined him from top to bottom.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” I said.

He didn’t respond and ducked his chin. He didn’t believe me.

I didn’t study the silver outline of the scars on his arms, chest, or face. I didn’t ask about the tattoos or their meaning. I didn’t try to read into the history of the war he’d fought growing up. I ignored the self-inflicted wounds he’d tried to hide under dense ink on his thighs, knowing the inner demon he’d battled as a child still lived inside him now.

Stepping back, I removed my clothing, leaving them on the floor before running the shower and adjusting the temperature. Diem struggled to maintain eye contact. A soul-deep pain resonated from his steely gray eyes. Fathoms deep. Unthinkable. Unreadable. Unknowable. The man might be a wall of strength on the outside, but he was fragile beneath his thick skin and corded muscles. Wounded.

Diem would never reach for me or initiate contact. I knew this, so I took his hand and guided him under the warm spray. He didn’t have much hair to wash, but I took my time, spreading shampoo over his scalp and digging my fingers in.

His chin fell to his chest as I worked, and quiet groans of pleasure whispered past his lips.

“You got a thing for scalp massages, huh?” I added pressure.

He grunted and semi-nodded.

Chuckling, I moved my sudsy hands to his face, tilting his head so he would look at me while I scrubbed the thick scruff covering his jaw and neck. Diem was rarely clean-shaven.

I pecked a light kiss on his parted lips, and his breathing hitched.

“There’s a lot of you to wash. If you don’t mind, I’m going to take my time.”

He opened and closed his mouth but couldn’t seem to find the words to speak.

I pecked another quick kiss on his failing mouth and moved on.

Next, I doused a washcloth in my favorite chamomile and lavender body wash—a scent that seemed at odds with a rough man like Diem. I washed his massive body, taking my time over every hill, flat plain, and valley, ensuring I didn’t miss a spot.

The heat of his gaze warmed me, but every time I peeked, he looked away. I stood closer than he was probably comfortable, but he didn’t retreat. When I brushed my nose along his collarbones, inhaling and grazing my lips over his warm skin, he held his breath but remained still.

I washed lower. Over his rigid abdomen. Around to his back and over the concrete mounds of his glutes. His thighs were as wide and dense as tree trunks, and I paid them plenty of attention. Then, I took his impressive cock in hand and stroked, brushing my fingers over his balls on the descent, rolling them in my palm.

He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut, knees wobbling. He wasn’t fully hard but getting him there didn’t take long. With the soapy glide and a few artfully executed twists of the wrist, I had him trembling and sputtering in seconds.

He groped the tiled wall, seeking purchase. I wished he would grab for me instead, but it was too much to ask. I didn’t stop and took him through to completion. A strangled grunt left his throat, and his warm release coated my hand.

Shaking, chest heaving, Diem peered up from under wet lashes, a mixture of uncertainty and relief in his eyes. Somehow, he managed to seem mournful instead of satisfied, and I hated it.

I swiped the suds from his face and caught his jaw. “You aren’t supposed to look sad after an orgasm.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice came out thick and raspy. “I… Tallus…” My name was drenched in sorrow, and I got the feeling no one had ever taken good care of this man. The affection I showed him was a world he’d never experienced.

“Don’t be sorry. Can I kiss you?”

His attention shifted to my mouth, and he nodded.

I tasted regret with the first glide of his tongue. His or mine, I couldn’t be sure. He was right. I wanted something he couldn’t give me. All we were doing was prolonging the suffering.

I was about to pull away, tell him I would let him finish showering on his own when an uncertain hand rested against the small of my back. I broke free from his mouth to look him in the eyes.

He stared back. So much helplessness. The pressure was minuscule, so light I could have been imagining it, but it was real. Diem drew me against his chest, and I went willingly into his arms, rejoining our mouths in a feeble, desperate kiss I knew wouldn’t last.

It tasted an awful lot like goodbye.

***

It had become a habit that we didn’t speak about our sexual escapades once they were over. They happened. They ended. We moved on. Diem remained perpetually uncomfortable until he knew I wasn’t going to ask what it all meant or put undue pressure on him to decide about the future.

I wasn’t that guy. Besides, I knew the answer without asking. He’d said it enough times. I didn’t need to be reminded.

Fully dressed, with a pack of saltine crackers, a jar of peanut butter, and a spoon, we snacked and stared at the two bags of full pill bottles on my coffee table.

I smeared a thick layer of peanut butter on a fresh cracker and handed it to Diem. “So what do you think?”

He studied the cracker before popping it into his mouth. “I prefer chunky.”

Laughing, I smacked his arm with the spoon. “Not the peanut butter. This.” I waved the spoon at the table before digging into the jar and shoveling a heaping spoonful directly into my mouth, no cracker required. Peanut butter was life. It was a food group on its own. I could live off it and mostly did since my cupboards were otherwise bare.

“It’s a fuck of a lot of echinacea bottles.” Diem grabbed one and opened it, pouring clear capsules filled with green powder into a cupped hand. “They look like echinacea. I think. Maybe Janek got rid of them because the bottles came without seals, so the product was unsellable.”

“Maybe.” I loaded another cracker with a thick layer of spread and added a lid to make a peanut butter sandwich. When I held it to Diem’s mouth, he surprised me by taking it and crunching it down without thought. “How can we be sure?”

“We can’t unless we ask her, but then we’d have to explain ourselves. The woman’s not too fond of me.”

“You acted homicidal.”

“I did not.”

“You acted suicidal.”

“I did not.”

“She gave you a card.”

“It was…” I growled. “She was pissing me off.”

I chuckled and ate another scoop of peanut butter.

Diem helped himself to a cracker and dunked it in the jar before eating it.

“What if it’s not echinacea?” I asked. “What if these bottles were used as a front for some green drug, and Sally or her kid was distributing them for Rowena.”

Diem held up a single capsule, and we squinted at its contents. Carefully, he opened it and dumped a powdery mound onto the coffee table, mashing it with a finger. “It’s fine like dust.”

“Desiccated, way overprocessed marijuana leaves?” I suggested.

“You mean keif?”

“What’s keif?”

“Basically that. Marijuana dust. Highly concentrated. I don’t think that’s what this is. Plus, why put it in capsules? People looking for keif want to smoke it, and you can buy it legally at any cannabis shop.”

“And how do you know this?”

Diem gave me a look, wet the tip of his pinky, and dipped it into the powder.

“Diem, don’t.”

He touched the finger to his tongue, tasted it, and made a face. “Fuck, that’s gross. It’s not keif.”

“Is it echinacea?”

“How the fuck would I know? Never had it. Wouldn’t it be more… leafy? Like that stupid bullshit tea? Ground herbs or whatever.”

I had no clue. I handed Diem the peanut butter and spoon and grabbed one of the bottles, examining the label to see if it said anything about its contents and how it should look. That was when I realized the quality of the label itself. It was not as it should have been. On a quick glance, it appeared as any random herbal drug bottle might, but on closer inspection, it was missing the fine print. The company information, the medicinal properties, and the method of use were all absent. Apart from the bold product name, the rest was gibberish, a collection of letters and symbols that weren’t words at all.

Diem, painting a cracker with peanut butter, redirected his attention when I turned the bottle to show him.

“Look at this.”

He set the snack aside, licking his fingers clean, and took the bottle. Studying it, he instantly noted its faults. At the seam, he peeled back a cheaply made sticker, revealing a generic white bottle underneath.

“These are homemade,” he said, taking it off completely and turning it around. “Printed on a high-quality printer and using glossy paper.”

“And Photoshop, only someone wasn’t interested in the details.”

“They’re a front. If the cops catch you with a bottle of echinacea, they aren’t exactly going to give a shit or question its contents. In fact, they’ll assume you’re sick and back the fuck off. The Covid scare.”

“So what’s in the capsules?”

“We need to find someone who can figure that out.”

“Do you know anyone at the lab?”

Diem shook his head. “I can make some phone calls. Leave it with me.”

It was long past midnight, and technically, I worked in the morning. We reluctantly called it a night, agreeing Diem would see what he could do the following day. We refilled the garbage bags and stashed them in a closet. Diem retained one bottle to hopefully have it tested.

I saw him to the door. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” I asked when he lingered in the hallway.

“No… I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Shouldn’t.”

I smiled sadly. “I figured. Call me?”

He nodded but still didn’t go. The brooding man shuffled his feet and glanced along the vacant corridor to the distant elevator. “Look… I’m sorry… I… I want to be able to do this, but…”

“But you can’t. I get it.”

He looked like he had more to say, but after a long minute of uncomfortable silence, he nodded, ducked his chin, and left.

I watched him lumber down the hall to the end, defeat weighing heavy on his shoulders. At the elevator, he pushed the button and glanced back. “Don’t let anyone up unless you’re sure who it is. Hilty’s a loose cannon. He’s dangerous, and I don’t trust him.”

“I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

“Tallus.”

“I won’t let anyone up. Goodnight, Guns.”

The elevator doors slid open, but Diem didn’t move. He held eye contact for longer than was typical. When the doors tried to close, he caught the edge to stop them.

“The invitation stands,” I said.

“Goodnight, Tallus.” He got in the elevator and left.