Samuel
Vartan felt terrible. Well into his third glass of amber brown whisky,
he
looked across the kitchen of his apartment to the rising sun and sighed.
It
wasn’t fair. For so many years he’d managed to deal with
the ups and downs of
his life. The rough places and the not so terrific childhood with his
battling
parents. Most of the time he wished they’d just divorced, instead
of staying
together grimly as they had. He and his brother had grown tough skins
against
the ongoing grind of anger in that house. The lean fury of two lanky,
irate
people locked forever in a battle neither would win nor concede. The
only time
his mother ever hugged him was when she was using him as a shield
against his
father, shouting hateful crap over his head. He’d escaped it
through sports,
mostly, and some study.
And
sex.
That
part was darker too; although Sam knew with his looks he could
generally do
pretty well with most women. They liked him, and showed it in lots of
wonderfully athletic ways. When it was just sex, he could manage with
almost
any woman and walk away whistling. Yeah, sex was good.
And
sometimes,
Sometimes
with the right woman, it was—
Ohhhh
it was so much more.
Her
name had been Helen. She had long black hair that gleamed as it hung
down her
back. He’d spotted her at the back of the senior chemistry class,
hunched
behind a lab table trying to keep from being noticed, but unmissable in
her own
way. Sam remembered glancing back and seeing her there, so far from the
blackboard that she probably couldn’t read most of the formulas
on it. He
remembered her soft, tentative smile when their eyes met.
Helen
was his first.
She
had a gorgeous laugh, deep yet girlish, and long, long eyelashes.
Conversations
with her started on neutral topics, but by the time the teacher had
assigned
lab partners, Sam remembered asking to be paired with Helen. Her
intellect was
ferocious, and her perfume was L’Heure Bleu. The first time he
kissed her, she
cried, and he’d been so goddamn hard he was dizzy. Helen was
everything that
love was supposed to be. Soft and enveloping. She’d been a
virgin, and it had
taken him a while to seduce her, but it had been worth it. Deeply hot
and
delicious. Jesus, even now the memory of those times left him
half-stiff and
smiling.
The
smile faded as other memories crowded in. Recollections of his life
being
divided into two separate worlds: With Helen and In Public. The
comments about
her from other people. Her refusals to even acknowledge him when they
were out.
“It’s
safer, Sam. Safer for you. Nobody needs to know you’re with me,
okay? I don’t
want anyone making fun of you the way . . .” she didn’t
finish that, but he
knew what she meant.
The
way they did of her. The way he did himself when he was in the locker
room with
the team, or hanging with the guys.
Christ
it still hit him sometimes, the things he’d gone along with, said
himself.
Hefty Helen. The Metric Ton. The asinine, cruel comments that the rest
of the
high school made and that he went along with because despite the love,
he just
wasn’t quite strong enough to stand up for her.
And
Helen knew it.
She
broke up with him gently, before track season. He took up the hammer
throw, and
poured every pang of his broken heart into it. Took third at the state
championships. Fought with his parents. Drank and partied and somehow
got into
college on the strength of a sports scholarship.
At
college he met Diana, and it was so damn good for a while. She had
those great,
full curves and brassy brightness. She was more adventurous than Helen,
and
held him through the night, teased him about how he left her
breathless. The
pillow of her chest was amazing, and Sam loved losing himself in the
warmth of
her ample body.
And
then at a kegger, someone made a comment. Later, he skipped out of a
date,
rationalizing that it was for the best. He skipped a few more, made
excuses.
After all, he needed the team’s support, and the classes took up
his time, and,
and
And
it wasn’t cool to date fat chicks.
Diana
got it oh yes. She looked right through him whenever their paths
crossed after
that, and found herself a new boyfriend, a chubby computer geek with
more
freckles than a Dalmatian. Sam tried to laugh when some of his buddies
snickered at them, but his heart and dick knew better. He dated around,
trying
to see if maybe his tastes could be reshaped a little; into something
thinner
he bitterly jeered at himself.
Sometimes
it was okay. He could fake it a bit, and when it was just sex he got
away with
it. But for a guy who didn’t trust easily, who wore a
façade most of the time,
it was lonely as hell. He made it through college on the CJ major, and
got into
the Academy. He learned how to work a stakeout, and once in a while
practiced
it at the mall. Near the stores where his type would shop
He
sighed and took another slug of his whisky.
And
then today, walking around that damned convention. Dear God, talk about
feeling
like a kid in a candy store. Women, dozens of them, gorgeous and full
and rich,
smiling and sweet, leaving him close to gritting his teeth with the
unfairness
of having so much, so close. Forcing himself not to smile, not to look.
Sander’s
comment did it. Chubby chaser, so casually tossed down, as if it was no
big
deal. The kid didn’t get it, didn’t know what personal
conflict was, not on
that sort of level, and it took him by surprise that SANDERS of all
people
could just throw that out as if it was no big deal. Shit. That kid
NEVER had to
deal with a team of buddies, with REAL peer pressure, and social
tension. Hell,
he always seemed so flippant, but when he said that, Sam knew the shoe
fit
right at that damn moment.
So
he snapped back the way he’d learned to do, letting hurtful
comments fly to
keep up the façade. Only this time it hadn’t worked; both
Grissom and Sanders
had the audacity to look offended, and Sam could have kicked himself.
His
chance to—
To—
Hell,
to OUT himself, he snickered, and sipped more whisky. Oh yeah, Samuel
D.
Vartan, Homicide detective grade three and secret chubby chaser. But
shit, if
there was anyone wouldn’t really give a damn, it would probably
be Grissom. The
guy was into bugs for Christ’s sake, and ones on dead bodies at
that. And
Sanders—who cared what HE thought?
Sam
let his head drop, and for a moment, felt his face burn a little with
shame.
Sanders
was right, though, and he was wrong. There was nothing bad or strange
or wrong
about having a preference. And goddamn it, he’d paid the price so
often. TOO
often.
He
thought back to the four women in the interrogation room, of Metcalf
standing
guard, the lucky bastard. A blonde, a brunette and two redheads, and oh
the
taller one was enough to make him breathe a little harder. Luscious as
a peach
she was, with that big woman’s laugh and he would have given
anything to scoop
her into his arms and show her exactly what a nice deep interrogation
could be
like.
Hell,
he’d take all of them. The little cutie with the red-gold curls
and sweet face;
the sultry-eyed brunette with the smoky voice; and the queenly blonde.
His
harem right there—
Sam
laughed bitterly and set his whiskey down. He drew in a deep breath and
reached
into his pocket, pulling out a card. He’d taken a moment to jot
down the number
from her business card, and he stared at it now.
He
took another breath, and looked out the window, where another day was
dawning
on
New
day. Thank you Sanders, he thought.
And
he picked up the phone.
END
