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Jackson Healy is relatively new to the jealous husband routine. True, if he were to truly stop and think through this feeling, he’d probably be able to identify it as something closer to the dripping dread that follows the realisation that his wife is not as committed to keeping this miserable affair afloat as he is.
This is to say that Healy may very well not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s no slouch, and besides, June is not exactly being subtle.
Following your wife to a dive bar conveniently positioned near a two-star motel may be considered poor relationship etiquette. However, if he’s right, it’s not like June has any leg to stand on to criticise him for it.
He hopes he’s wrong. In the way that one hopes the event that will inevitably send their life spinning out will change its mind and go bother someone else for a change.
He sees them from his car, leaving the bar together and heading off to the aforementioned motel. He’s kind of surprised June isn’t insisting on moving the night’s affairs to a proper hotel room, but then again, what does he know?
He feels like one of those little animals that march their way off cliffs and into the sea, fully capable of seeing the end of the road, but being powerless to change their course.
Jackson Healy is no stranger to feeling outside his body; he just wishes some kind greater force would take him by the hand and turn him around.
He gives it a few more minutes before he moves into action.
Kicking the door in is no real effort, and he walks in like a dead man, like an asteroid on a collision course.
June turns to him in surprise from her spot straddling her conquest, and the man under her squeaks out a strangled “Jesus”, as he scoots back away from her. In his defence, he also seems to know his role in this situation. Good. Healy is not in the mood to explain himself.
June, ever both irrevocably cliché and frighteningly unpredictable, is the first to speak.
“Christ, Jack, isn’t all that a bit dramatic?”
She sounds annoyed more than anything. Not that Jack was expecting her to be apologetic, or god forbid, afraid of him. But some ass-kissing would have been a nice change.
The man is thankfully spooked speechless, as he tries to become one with the headboard. Good.
She doesn’t let him speak before she’s rushing to get dressed back up. Healy steals a glance at her lingerie, the one she exchanged from the pair he bought her for her birthday. The one he’s never seen on her.
The pit in his stomach gets deeper.
Her movements are rushed, pissed, like he’s the one who’s been caught with his pants around his ankles and a pretty little thing under him.
“Seriously, I hope you don’t expect me to pay for the damages.” She scoffs, flipping her hair out of her now buttoned blouse. “Well, here’s what I get for hoping to have a nice night out.” She picks up her shoes and shoves past him, slamming the door behind herself, but only succeeds in making the poor thing start swinging in and out.
Well. So much for that.
He turns to the man, whom he expects was hoping to have been forgotten about, and a new wave of nausea washes over him.
His anger puffs out of him, leaving him empty and cold, standing in a shitty room with a half-naked man looking at him with the most skittish look he’s ever seen on a human being.
And the worst part? The worst part is that he gets it.
He’s not insecure enough to believe he’s ugly, but it is true that he’s gotten old. There’s some saying or other about married life making you fat and complacent. He’s not sure that sentiment’s worth all that, but he can admit he’s not a young beaut anymore. And yeah, some of his weight is muscle, but the rest is still some soft thing that settled on his bones when he wasn’t looking.
This man is as if the centre page of Playboy magazine came to life and started making moves on you. No shit June went for him.
Christ. He needs a drink.
Some of that anger draining out must be showing, because the man has calmed enough to start pleading with him.
Healy can’t exactly blame the guy; he broke the deal first by still not having rocked his shit.
“Hey,” he says, voice still shaking, “I’m real sorry, yeah? If I’d known she was married I’d’ve never-”
“Didn’t see the ring, did you?”
The man’s gaze softens to something Healy can’t decipher.
“She wasn’t wearing it, man.”
Right. Healy can’t remember if he saw her wearing it when she left. Fuck.
His eyes catch on the wedding band hanging around the man’s neck. Fucking sicko, wearing it when he’s fucking someone else.
He scoffs meanly, “You’re fine doin’ wrong by your girl, but you draw the line at homewrecking? Give me a fucking break.”
The man’s hand rises to his chest, almost as if to check the ring is still hanging there, and then he drives the final nail in Healy’s coffin.
“She’s dead, fuckface. Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”
Christ. He feels sick again. He takes another step toward the bed, and the man flinches away, fighting spirit gone in seconds.
Healy just sits on the bed.
I’m real sorry, he wants to say, Looks like we’re both having a shit life. But the words get stuck in his throat.
The prettyboy is shifting around in the bed, no doubt trying to move cautiously enough that he can escape undetected. Or at least give himself enough of a fighting chance.
“I can’t even fucking blame her,” he says, for some reason. “Look at you.”
He glances at the playboy again and catches an odd look in his eyes. He’s too tired to play this game. He’ll let him leave, and he’ll drown his sorrows at the bar. No way to salvage this night now.
“You know,” Playboy still sounds on edge, but there’s something else bleeding in. “I’m also good on my knees.”
What.
“There’s more than one way to fuck me up.”
Here’s the thing. It’s a terrible line. And the guy still sounds a sudden movement-shy of pissing himself. But there’s something about having this sleaze offer to what? Suck his dick? In exchange for not getting decked? That has heat pooling in Healy’s gut.
Oh, this one’s dangerous.
Healy is no stranger to his attraction to men. He just wishes he had better taste.
As it stands, June hasn’t touched him in months, and he’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t get a kick out of getting to fuck the guy she didn’t get to.
He gets a jolt in his entire body. It’s like he’s thawing, slowly coming back to himself from the haze he’s been in for what, weeks? Months? Years?
“Yeah?”
If he leaves right now, he’ll go back to feeling like his life is careening out of control, like everything he’s ever built has set itself ablaze in front of him while he was powerless to stop it.
He’s gonna drink himself into a hole and not even be able to go back home to sleep it off.
So, what the hell, one terrible decision for another. What could go wrong?
He gets up and goes to grab the chair that these places always seem to have, and drags it to the door, using it to give the caved-in clasp some semblance of a lock.
The man shuffles off the bed, getting caught on the sheets at the last second and almost eating shit.
It sparks something in Healy, something small and bright. He ignores it.
What follows is the most awkward game of chicken Healy’s ever been involved in.
He sits at the edge of the bed as the prettyboy starts getting with the program and sinks to his knees, albeit a bit too early, and has to shuffle on his knees the rest of the way.
The knot in his stomach is worse, and Healy’s not sure this’ll get anywhere at this rate.
But then the guy looks up at him through his lashes from between his thighs, and his dick starts to get with the program. Damn prettyboys.
“So,” he breathes, “are we doing whore rules or?”
The guy breaks into a smirk that has Healy heavily consider resuming his previous plan of punching his lights out.
“Aw, is that you asking if you can kiss me?”
A flush of white-hot shame runs through him, and he’s about to snark something back when the man grabs his shirt and pulls him into a messy kiss.
It’s rough, and the angle is off, and the guy’s pornstashe is making it harder to ignore this as a queer thing. But Healy hasn’t been kissed with this amount of urgency in what feels like forever, so he doesn’t hesitate to open his mouth at the slightest hint of tongue.
This man kisses like he’s fully throwing himself in it, like nothing else exists around them, like June was never here in the first place.
He kisses him like this was his preferred outcome all along, rather than a consolation prize he’s offering in exchange for safety.
The guy is also moaning like a whore, sucking on his tongue like he’s impatient to get something in his mouth, and Healy breaks through that barrier in his brain that was reminding him of look, don’t touch. Bit too far gone for that one.
He lets one of his hands sink into Playboy’s hair. The shaggy blond thing reminds him of June, and he almost wishes she were here to see this. See this pretty boy begging to be taken apart by the man she spurned.
He entertains the absolutely absurd idea that if June were here, this man would still be kissing him like this.
Sue him for wanting to be wanted for a change.
Playboy palms at his hardening dick, desperate swipes as he gropes around with his other hand to anything he can reach.
The hand in his hair apparently triggers a whole new depth of sounds as he gives a valiant effort to sucking Healy’s whole tongue down his throat.
Healy’s the one to break the kiss, because this guy seems ready to suffocate like this, but his lungs are on fire and.
And he wants to look at this guy again.
Fuck.
Playboy looks absolutely wrecked, as he chases Healy’s retreat with half-lidded eyes and an open mouth. Healy fits his forehead against him, catching his breath and pressing their noses side by side. It’s softer than he feels he should be. He doesn’t let that stop him.
Playboy fumbles at Healy’s belt, working his jeans open in the clumsy way he’s been moving all night. There’s a desperation driving his every movement, like if he stops, his mind will catch up to him and tear him apart. Healy feels he can relate. Just maybe the opposite, like he desperately needs something to knock him in a new direction before he calcifies into a version of himself he can’t recognise anymore.
After being denied from his spot eating Healy’s face, Playboy latches on to the side of his neck, lapping up at the spot and biting down. Healy bucks into his palm, now that it’s found its way over his briefs.
His mind’s gone blank, every inch of his body alight with anticipation. He can’t remember the last time sex felt like this, and they’re just making out and petting each other like teenagers.
Prettyboy’s hands make their way up his sides, grabbing at the buttons on his shirt and futzing around with them. Healy thinks some of them pop out, but with one hand in Prettyboy’s hair and the other at his neck, just under his jaw, he couldn’t care less where any of this is going.
Just as long as Prettyboy doesn’t stop touching him.
Prettyboy makes his way down his chest, at least the part he can reach from over his wife-beater, peppering open-mouthed kisses to his hairy chest.
Healy drags him back up by the hair, occupying his mouth with his tongue as he works to get his undone pants off along with his briefs.
Playboy makes a sound like he’s been sucker-punched, and he goes pliant, moving to wherever Healy directs him, hands now finding his bare thighs and continuing his groping mission.
The bright thing in Healy’s chest is becoming harder to ignore, but as Playboy’s hands find his dick, he lets go of all of it. Let him drown in this desperate dance; he’s right where he wants to be.
Now that his pants are around his ankles, Healy breaks the kiss again and pushes Playboy’s head down again. He’s worried he’s being too commanding, but Playboy takes to the guidance like no one he’s ever met.
Playboy is perfectly happy where he’s put, and he immediately starts lavishing his cock with warm, wet attention. The hand on his hair just follows his lead now, no longer pushing and pulling, but gently scratching at his scalp and moving with him.
Healy’s not even managed to catch his breath from the feeling of this man’s warm breath on him, that Playboy takes him in his mouth and sinks himself down. He bucks up uncontrollably, and just as he’s about to apologise, Playboy groans around him as he takes more of his length, pushing down until his nose is at Healy’s pubes and his throat is closing around the head of his cock.
Fuck.
He lets Playboy set the pace from there, as he bobs and swallows around him, occasionally taking him out just to lick up to the head of his cock and then sinking back down.
Playboy keeps up with his fucking noises, and Healy would accuse him of playing it up, if he couldn’t see the tent in his briefs that keeps moving into his field of vision as he thrusts it forward in frustration.
To help him out, Healy shifts his leg in the line of fire, and the combined feeling of the wet spot against his leg and Playboy’s wanton groan as he makes contact has him bucking up again.
Healy’s on fire.
It’s burning right through him as he becomes aware of every point of contact between them. It’s like coming in from the cold, the warmth of touch after being deprived of it so long acts like a red-hot branding iron on his skin.
He’s lost control of his mouth, now devolved into babbling sweet nothings at this sweet thing humping his leg like a dog.
If he had any form of restraint still available to him, he’d know to keep his distance, that this is nothing more than a dirty job in a dirty motel room with a sleaze who should think about doing this for a living – if he doesn’t already. But in this moment, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He’s curled in on himself, chasing the closeness as much as he can, as he moves one of his hands to palm at the nape of Playboy’s neck.
He’s never been this aware of his body while simultaneously floating above himself, watching this all happen as he’s helpless to do anything but weather the storm.
“That’s it, darling,” he hears himself say, “God, your mouth is a wonder.” And the tight knot of pleasure impossibly tightens.
“Fuck,” he cries, “Baby, I’m so close.” The only reason he’s even lasted this long is ‘cause he’s far from being a young buck ready to shoot at will, but with Prettyboy giving it his all, his time’s due to run dry.
He meant it as a warning, but this skittish fuck apparently doesn’t back down from a challenge, and he sinks himself further down as Healy’s spill shoots its way down his throat.
Ever the eager beaver, Playboy doesn’t stop sucking his soul out till he’s gone over the ledge and fallen on the rocks below. And even then, he keeps his mouth full as he ruts his dick against Healy’s leg, pressing his hand down on it to give everything more friction.
His hips jackrabbit, growing more erratic by the second, and his other hand travels up Healy’s wifebeater, kneading his gut with gusto.
His spent dick is still resting in Playboy’s mouth, and he bucks again, hitting the back of his throat again.
That must have been just what Playboy needed, because the only warning Healy gets is a strangled cry before he feels Prettyboy cum against him, shaking all the way through it.
Only then does Prettyboy take the dick out his mouth, though he seems content to stay on his knees, resting his head against Healy’s inner thigh.
Healy’s in no rush, so he lets him take all the time he needs, keeping up the scratching against his scalp as he comes down his high. Prettyboy’s breath is hot against him, and if he were twenty years younger, that’d be enough to get him going again, but as it is, it just makes the heat in his gut simmer gently.
He might have waited too long though, because after a few minutes of just sitting like that, Prettyboy starts softly snoring, and Healy huffs something out that’s not a laugh, but it’s sure close.
He gently shifts, careful not to jostle him too much, and lifts him up onto himself, just to roll him onto the bed.
He goes to the bathroom and grabs a towel, wetting it with warm water before going back out and trying his best to clean up the bulk of the mess in Sleeping Beauty’s briefs and down his legs.
God, his legs.
Sleeping Beauty stays blissfully under the whole time. Healy has half a mind to wake him up, but elects to see if he can find the guy’s address from the clothes he’s discarded all over the room. Least he can do is drive him home.
He’s lucky that this clown carries business cards in his jacket pocket. Holland March, private investigator. Huh.
Well, now he knows his name.
Healy’s not sure how to feel about that. He leaves that knot of feelings for tomorrow and works to dress March back up. March, who, impossibly, doesn’t even stir. Even as he picks him up and carries him bridal style out of the room and into his car.
He stops at the reception before leaving and pays for June and March’s room, as well as leaving a little extra for the door. And the mess on the floor, but that’s not something he advertises to the clerk. Some things are best left unsaid.
__________________________
Healy makes his way through the streets of L.A., March completely gone to the world in the front seat, and he doesn’t think.
He doesn’t think about June.
He doesn’t think about March.
He doesn’t think about tomorrow.
The houses get nicer as he approaches the address listed on March’s card, and he worries for only a second about what the neighbours might think of March getting carried back home by someone like him. Then he remembers how the night went and decides that the neighbours must be used to March’s late-night habits.
No way tonight was an outlier, not with the way March-. Right. Not thinking about it.
He unbuckles March and carries him out again.
As he reaches the door, he meets what seems to be the first insurmountable obstacle of the night. The front door stands unapologetically in his path as he tries to shuffle March around in his arms while fumbling with the keys. But this isn’t his house, and March has so many keys, and the night’s exhaustion ambushes him right then and there.
Fuck him for trying to do a good deed after being a jackass the whole night.
Then someone above hears his pleas, because the door unlocks from the inside, and Healy only has a second to wonder if he actually fucked a married man who’s also so much of a shit-heel to lie about his wife being dead, when he’s met by a sight that has his blood turn to ice.
He almost wishes it were his wife.
Instead, a little blond girl opens the door, eyes landing on the man Healy assumes to be her father, fast asleep in his arms and face tucked away in the crook of his neck.
Her eyes don’t seem surprised, just familiarly exasperated, and isn’t that worse.
“Hey,” he softens his voice, “Sorry if I woke you, um.”
“Just get him inside.” She sounds tired too, and looks it, barefoot in her pastel pyjamas, as she widens the door for him.
She leads him in, points out her dad’s room and then goes into the kitchen.
Healy shoulders the bedroom door open and lays March down on his bed, before starting the process of getting him into his small clothes. He leaves him above the covers in his wifebeater and his briefs.
Healy gives his hair one last soft caress and then drags himself away.
The girl is still in the kitchen when he comes back out, looking at him wearily. He can’t blame her, with a father like that, who knows what she’s had to put up with.
He finds himself feeling guilty for thinking impure thoughts about her father, almost as if he’s back in church, sneaking glances at the other altar boys. Christ.
“Sorry again, for waking you up-”
“You didn’t.” She’s curt, but not rude, just direct enough that Healy can tell this is a routine she’s gotten sick of. “I wait for him when he goes out sometimes. He’s got a habit of forgetting how to get back inside the house.”
Healy huffs a laugh. Yeah, that definitely tracks.
“Are you a friend of his? Or just a good Samaritan?”
Healy smiles. “Little bit of both.”
“I’ll get out of your hair,” he continues, shuffling on his feet, “let you get back to sleep.”
“I’m up now,” she says, sounding older than she is. “Plus, I need to make sure he doesn’t puke in his sleep.”
He has a second where he wants to reassure her that he’s not that drunk, that that’s not why he’s out like a light, then he realises what he’s about to imply and thinks better of it.
“If he was going to puke, he’d have done it in the car.”
The girl snorts, then flushes and turns away.
“I’m sorry you have to deal with him.” He’s not sure why he wants this girl to know he sees how much she must be hurting. He doesn’t even know them, but the longer he looks, the clearer the picture becomes. “I’m sorry he doesn’t see what it’s doing to you.”
The girl’s smile drops, and he feels like shit.
“Yeah, well. Who else is gonna deal with him?”
“Sorry it has to be you.”
She nods, but she’s not meeting his eyes anymore.
“And I’m sorry about your mom.”
Her head snaps up. “He told you about her?” She sounds taken aback, and Healy doesn’t have the heart to tell her the circumstances in which he got that particular detail out of her father.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “And hey, he’ll get better about it, just give him some time.”
The next scoff is mean. “Oh yeah? How long? Another three years from now? When-” Her voice breaks, and Healy’s heart breaks along with it. “When am I getting my dad back? Huh?”
Another three years. God. He must’ve really loved her to still be this deep in his grief.
“Sorry, that really wasn’t my place.”
The girl wipes at her face.
“Let’s start over.” He offers, because he’ll be damned if he leaves her like this. “My name’s Jack. Jack Healy.”
Her mouth turns up slightly. “Holly.”
Holly and Holland, cute.
He walks to her and reaches out his hand to shake, “Nice to meet you, Miss Holly.”
She takes the hand and gives it a light shake. Her hand is so small in his. “Nice to meet you, Mr Healy.”
Holly turns and walks to the fridge, “You want a yoo-hoo?”
“Yeah, god, I haven’t had one of those in years!”
He takes the offered drink, and they clink their bottles together.
Healy feels like a new fuse has been lit inside him, like some part of him woke up from hibernation. March lit him on fire, and here he is, in his house, chatting along with his daughter as that warmth thaws him from the inside out.
“Are you married, Mr Healy?” The question should dampen the mood, but he’s never felt this light, so all it does is soften the blow this night’s taken to him.
“On my way to be divorced, actually.”
Holly seems slightly surprised at the honesty, but that sure doesn’t stop her. “That’s neat, my friend Grace says her parents are getting divorced, says her dad didn’t like her mom getting a job and stuff.”
“Huh.”
“Why’re you getting divorced?”
Again, kids and their directness. He keeps smiling. “We wanted different things. I wanted kids, she wanted someone else.”
Holly wrinkles her nose and drinks, before saying, with all the sagacity of a tween, “Well, that’s her problem. You seem pretty nice.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “You’d make a good dad.”
That stabs a part of him he didn’t even know existed. There’s always been that doubt. That he’s not made to raise a kid, that he just doesn’t have the stuff for it. It’s weird that this kid’s opinion trumps his own insecurity, but hey, he’ll take it.
He nods his head in thanks and takes a sip himself.
They keep talking till he starts to notice she’s having trouble keeping her eyes open.
“It’s getting late, I’ll get out of your hair.” He winks as he makes his way to the door. He stops, remembering March’s car.
“Wait, can I borrow a pen?”
Holly looks confused, before following along and digging into her schoolbag near the couch and taking out a pen with a feather pompon on the end. He takes it with a smile and takes out a twenty-dollar bill. He writes down the address of the dive bar and hands them both to Holly.
“When your dad wakes up, tell him that’s for the taxi ride to get his car back.”
Holly nods, happy to have been trusted with the task and waves at him as he goes for the door again.
What a fucking night.
___________________
Holland March wakes up in his bed, which is decidedly not where he fell asleep. He rubs his bleary eyes and makes his way out of his room.
The light in his living room stabs at him, and he groans in pain.
His throat aches, and his mouth tastes like hell.
Holly’s at the dinner table doing her homework, and he ruffles her hair in greeting as he sets out to make himself a cup of coffee.
“Your friend last night was really nice.”
“What friend?” God, his voice.
“The one who carried you home,” she says, as if that’ll help any. “He left twenty bucks and an address for you to find your car. Isn’t that sweet?”
Just then, March notices the money on the kitchen island and walks up to it. Sure enough, there’s a note with the address of the Pour Judgement, and twenty bucks right under it.
Flashes from last night trickle back, and he scoffs.
Fucking cheapskate. He’s worth way more than twenty bucks.