Demarco gazed at Jack with warm, hazel eyes. He was accustomed to playing various roles for clients, but this was nothing like that. There was a stirring within him—part curiosity, part fraternal, and positively carnal—in regards to Jack that was far from manufactured. The suited man before him was hot... smoldering. But he had kept any feelings of true desire locked away for so long that they lay somewhat dormant—like warm soup, not even at a simmer... but Jack was stirring that pot with a big spoon.
Maybe I'm not as good at compartmentalizing as I think I am, Demarco wondered.
"I get it," Jack said. "I also get why you wouldn't want your mom to know. It's aboutwhoyou are... notwhatyou do. She would want you to be happy and, though I'm assuming you are, your age-old profession has a stigma that is not exactly revered."
"Hush your mouth," Demarco said. "Although I do like hearing all those three-dollar words. You speak so few."
"I'll make a deal with you. I'll tell you a little about me if you check your computer to see if Abir has responded."
"It'll chime when he does."
"Just check it please," Jack said. "Daddy says so."
Demarco opened his mouth, preparing to jest, and then changed his mind. "Yes, sir," he said with a grin.
He opened the laptop, refreshed the screen, and shook his head.
"Thank you," said Jack.
"My pleasure."
Jack remained silent and Demarco steepled his fingers to his lips. "Quid pro quo, Agent Starling. Quid pro quo."
The look Jack gave him acknowledged that he caught that volleyed reference with ease. "Where do I start?" he began.
At first, Jack's words were a little forced, awkward... unaccustomed to an intimate—almost confessional—dialog. But Demarco was a good listener, his compassion and empathy almost tangible. Soon, he relaxed and told Demarco about growing up an only-child from second-generation Scandinavian immigrants. His original home was Boston. His family was Lutheran and—though homosexuality was more accepted by that denomination now—abstinence had been the common solution when growing up.
"You speak of them in the past tense," Demarco said. "Are your parents dead?"
"My father is still alive... last I checked. My mother died."
"Did they not accept you?"
"No... not really. My mother... killed herself."
Demarco gasped. In any other context, it would have been melodramatic, even humorous, but instead, it lingered thick and cumbersome... until he added: "I am so sorry."
Jack said nothing, his composure reduced in temperature if that were possible. He was not used to speaking about himself or... well, any of this... and it was obvious. Demarco scooted closer to him, placing a hand on his knee. "You know this is not about you, right? That this was her. Something else deeper was going on."
"I tell myself that. Sometimes... I believe it. Dad didn't."
"You poor baby."
"He turned to the church, became a pastor. We haven't spoken in over a decade."
"And you have no other family? People that you can... lean on?"
Jack shook his head, still flush but less icy. He exhaled. "No. Not that I ever knew of. I was an only child. So were they."
Demarco put his arm around the large man and pulled him in. He was rigid at first but then caved into the embrace. Demarco's heart broke.
"Well, I'm here. And I ain't going nowhere. So, if you need to, you just let it out."
They stayed in that position for several minutes. And what Jack didlet outwas quiet and reserved—exactly the subdued, yet cathartic, reaction Demarco had expected. When he pulled himself together, Jack held Demarco's hand and looked up. His eyes were not red and damp—the tough exterior was returning—but Demarco had been granted access to tap that pressure-cooker long enough for temporary relief... and he was grateful that Jack had allowed it. Client confessionals were always about kink or guilt. This was real... and reinforced that Jack was human—that we all are—and that there was substance behind the simplest of facades.
And Demarco was grateful for that as well.
"I'm not gonna ask you to keep going, Jack. I do want to hear about what happened after though... when you're ready. You've been through some stuff... stuff that ain't my business, nor anyone else's—until you choose to make it be. But until then, I do have to ask you one thing."
