The Hardest Thing

were far enough from potential danger to rent a room. Marshall’s influence couldn’t possibly extend this far. What could he do? Call up every single motel in the United States? We hadn’t been followed or stopped. There was no interstate police manhunt. We’d slipped through the net, and we deserved clean sheets and hot running water. And I kind of felt like I owed him a fuck from last night. The blues had passed, and I was already thinking about just how I was going to do him. And maybe…well, maybe I’d let him have a turn on top. The idea excited me. In fact, my ass was tingling as I carried the bags into our room, and mine is an ass that doesn’t tingle often. Jody had gone up the street to buy the essentials. We’d passed a Target on the way in, where he could pick up some clean underwear for us both and a fresh supply of rubbers.
    I badly wanted a shower, but I waited for Jody to get back. We could save water by showering together. I always like to consider the environment.
    Target must have been busy. Half an hour went by, and that tingle in my ass was starting to turn into a niggling anxiety. Had something happened to Jody? Had he run off and left me? He’d been nervous and excitable in the truck; maybe he was making plans of his own. How well did I really know him, after all?
He’d lied about so much—his name, his history, his relationship with Julian Marshall—maybe he was lying still. Maybe this whole crazy road trip was a charade. Maybe I was being set up as an accessory to something else. See, love and trust don’t necessarily go together in my book. How long had I known Jody? A few days, that’s all. Sex, danger, hours on the road—how well do you really get to know someone?
    I put my shirt back on and hesitated at the door. Should I take a gun? I’d hidden them away under the bed; surely nothing could happen between here and Target that would need a weapon. Calm down, Dan. You’re an ordinary guy going to pick his boyfriend up from the store. You do not need to go in armed.
    I locked the door, smiled and shook my head. There was the old blue pickup, the hood still warm. Five or six other vehicles in the lot. Traffic on the road. A bus. A truck. A normal evening in the suburbs of Buffalo, New York.
    I walked toward the store. It was a nice evening. Fuck first, then maybe find a beer and a burger. Then more fucking.
    And there in the distance, maybe fifty yards away, was Jody, a plastic bag slung over his shoulder.
    A car pulled up at the side of the road and crawled along beside him, walking pace. My heart tripped quickly, and suddenly all my senses were alert. A dirty old man, maybe, or a bunch of drunken thugs looking for a queer to bash?
    Come on. This was just someone asking for directions. The car stopped, Jody leaned through the window and spoke to someone inside. He pointed up the road,
talked some more, nodded. See? Perfectly simple explanation. Nothing sinister, nothing dangerous. Not every street is a war zone.
    The curbside rear door opened and a man jumped out, grabbed Jody’s arm, twisted it behind his back and pressed his head down. Jody was bundled into the backseat, the door slammed, and I saw a brief flash of flailing limbs as the car sped away, tires squealing.
    If I’d had a gun I might, just might, have got a bullet into one of the rear tires. As it was, all I could do was watch helplessly as the car receded into the distance. Not even a chance of getting the license plate. Can you describe the vehicle, Major Stagg? It was black. That’s about it. A black car. How many of them are there on the road?
    I counted another fourteen as I walked back to the motel.
    Kidnapped. Abducted. Quite possibly dead by now—shot in the head in the back of the car and dumped by the road. If they know what they’re doing, he might not be found for weeks. People don’t come walking along the busy roads. People don’t notice things like clouds of flies or bad smells. And who’s going to report Jody Miller missing?
    Only me.
    So what was I waiting for? Why was I sitting on the edge of the bed—the bed where I’d hoped to take a dick up my ass for the first time in many years—rocking backward and forward and struggling with the feeling that I’d been set up?
    How did I know that they hadn’t waited until I came looking for Jody before they staged the heist? What had
he been doing in the half hour he was absent? What had he done earlier, when we stopped for oil in