Hi, everyone!

If you're new to the site and haven't seen this before, a quick word of explanation: every so often, I like to do a choose-your-own-adventure (CYOA) story, giving patrons a chance to decide what happens next. Typically, I post each chapter on Sunday (these are public posts, so anyone can read them). Then, on Monday, patrons have a chance to vote for what will happen next.

This time, our CYOA story is about Sam Yarmark and Gray Dulac, whom you might know from The Hazard and Somerset Mysteries and from their spinoff novel Soft Launch.

Without further ado, chapter 1!

1

My walkie squawks, and Mrs. Downes-Branchaud’s voice crackles on the air. “Officer Yarmark, go to four.”

I switch the walkie to four. “Yarmark.”

This hallway of the high school is quiet. It’s late, and only the emergency lights are on. I’m doing the last check of all the doors, wrapping up another Friday night football game. This time, we had an away crowd almost as big as our own, which means I haven’t stopped moving since I got here: breaking up the boys who want to act tough—but maybe not so tough that they actually want to fight; getting an older man out of the port-a-john after he locked himself in there; talking to the rally crew when some of the seniors decide shirts are optional and start hanging off the bleachers.

Another Friday night when either I’m working, or Gray’s working, and it seems like it’s been years since we had more than an hour together. Not that I don’t like the job. And not that I don’t love Gray. And not that Gray doesn’t find ways to get the most out of an hour, even if it’s first thing in the morning, his hair still sticking up in back, and I’m trying to get my belt on so I’m not late, and he’s trying to get my belt off so I am late.

“Mr. Eberts called,” Mrs. Downes-Branchaud says over the radio. “He thought he saw a light in the locker room.”

I try not to sigh. “Okay.”

“He was already on his way out of the parking lot when he called.”

“I’ll check it out.”

“Thank you, Officer Yarmark.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

That’s all; the radio is silent because Mrs. Downes-Branchaud doesn’t make small talk. She’s been the secretary here for a long time—long enough that she was the secretary here when Mr. Somerset—John-Henry—went to school here. She knows everybody, and she knows everything. I’ve never heard her raise her voice, but one time, Mr. Hazard dropped off Colt late for school, and he didn’t have a doctor’s note, and she read him the riot act without even getting up from her desk. And the crazy thing is, Mr. Hazard apologized. Gray and I still talk about it sometimes.

I change course, making my way past the gym, past the pool, down another long hallway. When you’re tired enough, your eyes start to play tricks on you. The linoleum is so shiny it looks like water. And the lights are bobbing there like someone’s hanging them from a fishing pole. Your ears, too. A squeak, like somebody’s sneaker on the basketball court. A click, like a door shutting. Maybe, sometimes, voices.

After enough nights, though, it all became background noise—nothing to worry about. Besides, I’m too busy thinking about other stuff. Like how tomorrow Gray will be on call in case the patrol guys need a detective, and they always do, because there’s always something. Nothing big, maybe. But it could be a burglary. Or sexual assault. Or a domestic. He hates domestics. He works them better than just about anybody in the department, but that’s because he hates them so much. If it’s a domestic tomorrow, it’ll be under his skin for days. And next weekend, the school is hosting a regional soccer tournament—Saturday and Sunday—so there goes that weekend.

Ahead of me, light shines under the door to the boys’ locker room. I slow my pace, listening. My boots make a little sticking noise sometimes on the sheet vinyl. Nobody laughing. No murmured voices. Kids get a hold of keys sometimes—hell, I wouldn’t have believed it before I started working here, but a lot of times, adults just give them keys, like high schoolers aren’t at the age where they do the stupidest things possible and somehow, to them, it seems like a good idea. A group of them got in a few weeks ago, the night before Homecoming, and painted SENIORS RULE – JUNIORS DROOL on the floor of the commons. The paint came off with water and a scrub brush, but guess who had to spend the next two days looking at cameras, talking to kids, writing up the vandalism just to try to scare some sense into them.

Pushing open the door, I have this flicker of a thought: if it’s Colt and Ash, I’m going to kill them.

I follow the dogleg corridor around the curtain wall, toward the locker room proper. The sound of my footsteps bounces back from cinderblock, and the smell is there—the funk of male bodies, years of it, and the bleachiness of the cleaner that can’t quite keep up. Before I go more than a few paces, the lights go out.

One hand on my flashlight, I say, “Whoever’s in here, turn those lights back on and come out.”

Nothing.

I backtrack to the door and flip on the lights.

They go off again.

“This is Officer Sam Yarmark. Leave the lights on.”

But when I hit the switch, they’re only on for a second before they go out again.

If it’s Colt and Ash, I might kill them for real.

Flicking on my flashlight, I head past the curtain wall again. The locker room is what you’d expect: lined with lockers, benches bolted to the floor, an opening that connects to the showers. There’s a single plonk from that direction, and the air is still humid; along with the BO and the bleach, now I catch something like deodorant or body spray—at least some of the boys must have showered after the game.

I’m making my way past the lockers, playing the flashlight back and forth—and someone is right there, by the door to the coach’s office. Just a dark shape until I shine the flashlight—

“What the actual hell?” I say. “You about gave me a heart attack.”

Gray smirks. He’s dressed in what one time he called his fuckboy special: ultrawhite sneakers, calf-high socks, a pair of jersey shorts barely long enough to reach the middle of his thighs, and a bro-cut tee. He’s even got a ball cap on backwards, and he reaches up now to tug on the bill like he’s settling it, but it’s just to show off his arms, the dark hair underneath that he keeps trimmed, the ridges of serratus muscles.

“Well?” I say.

“I’m horny.”

“Oh my God.”

“And I’m lonely.”

“Are you for real right now?”

He’s got dark eyes, but they’re full of glitter right now. “And I need some attention.”

I don’t say anything right away. That’s a real thing—a Gray thing. Underneath all the swagger, he’s maybe the sweetest person I’ve ever met. He’s kind, and he’s funny, and he’ll do anything for his friends. But sometimes, it’s like an itch he needs scratched, and if he doesn’t get attention, it starts driving him crazy.

“All right,” I finally say. “I’m glad you told me.”

He shrugs. It’s hard to tell with just the flashlight, but he might be blushing.

“You know I want to give you attention,” I said. “But what’s the idea coming here and scaring me out of my shorts?”

“You weren’t scared. You were all butch and bossy: ‘This is Officer Sammy. Leave the lights on.’”

“I didn’t say that. Or sound like that.” I hesitate because I’m afraid I’ve got an idea what he wants, and the last time he tried it, we almost got in a fight. “We can’t fool around in here.”

“I know.” He holds up both hands. “Promise.” But he pauses, and he does this thing where he slouches a little, and something’s different about his eyes, and he rucks up the front of his tee to scratch at the dark line of hair. “I mean, unless you wanted to—”

“No, Gray.”

“I said I know!” After a moment, the smirk is back.

“So, you just thought it’d be fun to break into the high school locker room?”

“No. I thought if I waited for you to get home, you’d be tired because you’ve worked all day, and I’d feel bad telling you I needed some, you know—” It’s hard for him to say it again; I can tell. “—attention,” he mumbles. “Plus I was at the gym, and I got super horny, and I didn’t even jerk off in the sauna or anything. Not that I do that! Not anymore, I mean, since we started dating.”

I have to wait a few seconds before I say, “Okay.”

His grin slips a little. “Shit, Sammy. This was such a dumb idea. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t a dumb idea. Well, I wish you hadn’t broken in here. But you’re right—I know I get home, and I’m tired, and the night kind of gets away from us.” None of that sounded great, so I add, “I’m glad you came. Just next time, try not to spook the pee out of me.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Okay,” I say, “what are we going to do?”

He stands up straight. His eyes brighten.

“Oh no,” I say with a laugh. “That comes at the end.” The question on his face makes me say, “It’s only nine o’clock. We haven’t done anything together lately except sit in front of the TV and eat. Let’s go do something.”

“Just to be clear, fucking definitely falls in the category of ‘doing something.’”

“And I told you that comes at the end.” I can’t help the smile in my voice. “If you’re good.”

“So…like, a date?” Maybe he sees something in my expression because he says, “Yeah, Sammy. Of course I want to take you on a date. What do you want to do?”

“We could go bowling.”

He bursts out laughing.

“What’s wrong with bowling?” I ask.

“Nothing’s wrong with it. Okay, let’s go bowling.”

“No, what were you thinking?”

Gray has a huge grin. “I was thinking they’re doing drag roller disco at the Pretty Pretty. But bowling sounds good.”

“No,” I say. “We can do that.”

“Sammy, I’m gay, but I don’t have to be that gay.”

“It could be fun.”

“Bowling could be fun. Especially because I get to watch your ass.”

I let that pass. “So, what are we going to do?”

What will Sam and Gray do for their date night? Bowling? Drag roller disco? Patrons will decide tomorrow!