25
By the time Alec arrived via cab outside his brownstone on 21st street, it was 9 p.m. The trip
had been long, with a connector in Minneapolis and he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was climb into his bed and sleep for at least a couple of hours. He'd tried contacting Mac several times via text to no avail, but he had noticed that the money he'd transferred had been withdrawn. A good sign that he wasn't suicidal.
So, he'd get a little sleep and find him in the morning.
There was snow in Washington too, only the snow here was brown and slushy and nowhere near
as pretty as it was in Montana.
He tried texting with Tyler again as well. There was no response.
Guess no one is talking to me, he thought, shuffling up the salted steps to his brownstone, duffel in hand.
When he opened the door he realized right away that something was not right. Granted, he had
not seen the place in over four weeks, but he certainly did not remember leaving a stray sock in the entrance hallway. And there was a smell, faint yet acrid. Not too dissimilar from a bar at last call when the lights come on. He continued around the corner and into the den.
The smell was much worse here, stale tobacco and beer. It was no wonder—the place was
trashed... not just the typical untidiness that comes with everyday living. Alec's den looked like a frat house on Sunday morning. Never had he seen his own home in such a shambles—like derelicts had
broken in and were squatting there. An overturned floor lamp was lying next to his reading recliner.
Delivery food containers, greasy plates, and flatware were piled on the coffee table, with countless crushed cigarette butts and dirty linens scattered throughout the place… on saucers, shelves, tables, bookcases, and anywhere else you'd least imagine.
He looked to the television and the electronics cabinet beneath noting that nothing was missing,
no theft. On the corner of the large flatscreen were a pair of boxer briefs, dangling like some lewd party-favor.
From there he looked to his crystal curio—nothing missing or broken there either, but the path
leading to it was littered with empty takeout bags, Chinese food boxes, DVD covers, dirty clothing, condom wrappers…
He looked on the side table opposite the sofa. On it was a water-pipe, several empty plastic
bags, a dusty mirror, and a ten-dollar bill rolled up like a straw.
Alec tried to subdue the heat rising from within him, internal rage, impossible to suppress…
like one of those Warner Brother cartoons where the color red rises all the way up Yosemite Sam's
body until it reaches his head and explodes outward in stars, flames, and smoke.
But Alec did not jump up and down and blow his top like the short, ginger-mustached cowboy.
Quite the contrary… he held his rage within a calm exterior, deciphering the story before him, moving ahead with a determined focus to hold his temper. He set the duffel down and passed through the den, tip-toeing around the detritus of trash and drug paraphernalia toward the bedroom, knowing for
certain now that this was not theft or vandalism. This was done by someone he knew… someone he
had trusted… someone he had loved.
Mac.
The bedroom was a shambles, the sheets strewn to the floor, pillows tossed in corners,
television on and silent. There were open containers and tubes of lube on the nightstand, poppers, overstuffed ashtrays, and handcuffs hanging from both corners of the headboard. Alec looked down
