Chapter Text
I admit that seeing Jennifer Blake being cuffed by the sheriff is quite satisfying. Not as much as plunging a knife through her heart would, of course, but it's an adequate substitute. There are situations when even I need to make a concession in the name of a higher purpose; abstaining from the kill and making an anonymous call to the sheriff's department in order to help Noah keep his job seems to qualify.
The downside of the anonymity of the call is that the sheriff's oblivious to the fact that I was the one who helped him. And since he's not aware that he owes me, Stiles is the one I'll have to collect the favor from when the need arises. It's a good thing that it was the boy's idea in the first place; at least I don't have to solve yet another moral dilemma if enlisting a teenager's help in my specific kind of business is ethical, seeing that Stiles basically volunteered for the job.
Once Jennifer has been taken to the station and I finish processing her house from the forensics perspective, I duck under the yellow tape, hoping to head to the motel for some sweet ‘me’ time. The sheriff's announcement makes those plans null and void, though.
“Good job, all, let's go celebrate. The first drink is on me,” Noah calls out with a jovial smile; in response, deputies let out whoops of delight and approval. “Lindsay, you too. You're part of the team, now.”
Hurray, I grumble in my head at the idea of more socializing. I'm an introvert by nature, and even though I've learned how to exist in a society without arousing suspicion, spending the night in a crowded bar is not exactly my idea of having a good time.
Still, needs must. “Thanks, boss!” I reply with a wide grin, giving Noah a thumbs up.
***
At the pub, the spirits are high; my new colleagues are in a celebratory mood, the free booze making it even more so. I stuck out like a sore thumb, but today I'm just not up to feigning that I'm having fun. I opt to sit alone, nursing my beer and pretending to watch some kind of a match on TV. In all honesty, I don't even know what I'm watching, playing ball by using long sticks with nets, what kind of sport is that?
I'm opening my second bottle when a young deputy sits on a barstool next to me. I recognize him from the crime scene by the pool: a green-eyed guy with a boyish look that makes it hard for me to guess his age - somewhere between twenty and thirty five, I'd say - and a bright smile which he flashes at me as easily as if he's done it multiple times before.
“Hi, I don't think we've been introduced. I'm Jordan Parrish,” the smile never wavers as the man offers his hand, and I shake it, bemused. How anyone can seem so… light and carefree, while working in the police, is a mystery to me.
“Jim Lindsay, nice to properly meet you. So, care to tell me what I'm looking at?” I point at the TV. “Is it some kind of field hockey, except it's not played on grass?”
Parrish laughs, and I'm not even surprised that it sounds quite nice, not annoying at all like some people's. By now I'm quite confident that the guy must have been born under a rainbow or on a flower field.
“That’s lacrosse. I remember that when I came to Beacon Hills after I was discharged from the army, I was asking exactly the same questions. I mean, I expected football, baseball, or even soccer. But the entire county is crazy about lacrosse, with some odd fans of basketball added to the mix. Which sport are you a fan of?”
Interesting, this rainbow man was in the army? He doesn't seem like soldier material, but then again, I don't come across like a serial killer either. At least I hope that I'm not.
“Not much of a sports fan, though I'm a pretty good swimmer myself,” I shrug. “So, if you're not from around here, how did you end up in Beacon Hills? If you don't mind me asking.”
For a fracture of the moment, a shadow passes Jordan's face, before it disappears as if it was never there, his expression relaxing – but I've already seen it. I don't know the reason behind the darkening of his face, but one thing is clear to me: this man has demons of his own. Demons that he hides underneath the kind persona that he projects to everyone around him.
“No, it's fine. One of my… brothers from the army was born here, and after he died in battle, I decided to honor his memory and visit. Somehow, I ended up staying, got hired as a sheriff's deputy, and became a local,” Jordan's smile is back, the mask firmly lodged in place.
But the way he said “brother” struck a cord with me. It's the same way Miguel had referred to me as “mi amigo” after our fallout; like it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. I imagine the words had tasted like broken trust and disappointment for him, and I sense a similar tale of betrayal in Jordan's past. But the question is, who betrayed whom?
Normally, I avoid delving too deep into other people's lives (my playmates being a notable exception), but for some reason I become interested in the mystery that is Jordan Parrish. Maybe it's the juxtaposition of the man's sunny disposition and the darkness he hides underneath it, but I feel drawn to him in a way I haven't felt in a long time.
“Wow, that's quite a story. Tell me more about you,” I say while leaning in, trying to create a sense of privacy in a bar full of people.
Jordan's cheeks turn pink. “Light or heavy stuff?”
“Everything you feel like sharing,” I murmur, then watch with interest as his blush deepens.
Either he’s the best actor in existence, or despite his demons he's actually a cute guy getting shy because of the attention. Yet another mystery that begs to be solved, and I'm all in.
***
At some point, we leave the pub and take a stroll down the streets, walking for the pleasure of it, without any destination in mind. I'm amazed how easy it is just to talk to Parrish, and even though I don't allow myself to reveal specifics about my old life, I mention small details, like hunting deer with my father, or how much I miss sailing the ocean on my boat.
“What happened to it?” Jordan asks.
“It got destroyed in the hurricane,” I admit. Multiple people must have had their property destroyed in the hurricane, so I hope that’s not too detailed of an info.
“I'm sorry, that must have been tough,” Jordan's face is the perfect picture of empathy and warmth, and nearly against myself, I let myself believe that it's genuine.
“Thank you, but I guess that's just life, right? Losing and gaining in an equal measure.”
Jordan nods, then falls into an uneasy silence, the first one since I've met him. “I'm gay,” he blurts out after a moment.
I blink, a little startled by his honesty. “O-okay?” From my experience, most homosexual men are not so forthcoming about their sexuality, especially with their work colleagues. Even more so in the police.
“I'm just putting it out in the open to avoid any misunderstandings later,” Jordan sets his jaw with a stubborn look in his eyes. "I find you attractive, body and mind, and I sense this connection between us…. But if I'm imagining things, just tell me. I'm perfectly okay if we end up simply being friends, I just prefer to know sooner rather than later if this is the direction that we're going.”
I hesitate, and it's quite telling in itself. I usually don't get attracted to anyone, male or female, for the simple reason that I'm not as interested in sex as the majority of the population seems to be. But there is something about this man that I feel drawn to, as undefined as this feeling is.
“I'm honestly not sure. I've never been with a guy, but I feel that connection too, so you're not imagining things. But I can't say for sure where it'll lead us, if anywhere at all.” Hopefully, it won't lead to Parrish lying on my table, a knife sticking out of his chest. Whatever demons haunt Jordan, I can only hope that they are not of the murdering variety. “Sorry, you probably expected a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer.”
Jordan lets out a long exhale, his shoulders slowly relaxing. “No, no, it's fine. Thank you for being honest with me. And for not calling me a filthy cocksucker or a disgusting fag, I guess.”
I shake my head. “I'd never call anyone names because of their sexuality. And if anyone calls you that, I'm gonna punch them where it hurts.”
There it is again, that pink blush on Jordan's cheeks, perfectly visible even in the dim citylights, before his expression switches into defiance. “I can take care of myself, you know.”
“I have no doubts about that.”
First a soldier, then a policeman; there's no way that Parrish is a weakling. Plus, I've seen a glimpse of his inner darkness, the kind of which can cripple a person's self-esteem or, in the right environment, boost it – and Jordan seems anything but crippled by it.
***
Later that night, when I'm finally in my bed, I imagine how it would feel to touch Jordan, to kiss him. Absent-mindedly, I trace my lips with my fingertips, wondering if another man's stubble would make them burn or just tingle.
There's still so much I haven't experienced when it comes to human relationships; it's probably because I usually don't care enough about them. Yes, Jordan makes me curious, intrigued even. But the question remains: is unravelling his secrets worth risking exposing mine?
The spectres of my past are silent; not even a single ghost is available to answer me this, which means that I'll have to figure it out by myself.