Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3109.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homicide:_Life_on_the_Street, Hard_Core_Logo
  Relationship:
      Tim_Bayliss/Billy_Tallent
  Character:
      Tim_Bayliss, Billy_Tallent
  Additional Tags:
      Slash, Crossover
  Series:
      Part 1 of Four_Truths
  Stats:
      Published: 2003-01-26 Words: 18841
****** Four Truths ******
by shell
Summary
     Tim doesn't go to funerals anymore.
     Discussion of childhood and adult sexual abuse (canon).
Notes
     Beta thanks to Cat Moran and Ardent.
     Soundtrack: The Tragically Hip, In Violet Light.
     The story title refers to the Buddha's Four Truths. Quotes are from
     Stephen Batchelor's Buddhism without Beliefs unless otherwise noted.
The crucial distinction [is] that each truth requires being acted upon in its
own particular way (understanding anguish, letting go of its origins, realizing
its cessation, and cultivating the path).
I. Anguish
August 1997
The presence of anguish is an opportunity for understanding.
It's 3 am when I finish up at the bar. I haven't told anyone, not even Frank.
The funeral is the day after tomorrow, but I'm not going.
I don't go to funerals anymore. I told my mother I had to work, and she
pretended to believe me, just like she's pretended my whole life that there's
nothing wrong with our family.
As I close up, ushering the last couple customers out the door—including
Kellerman—I can feel the numbness that's surrounded me for months starting to
break. I hurry through the rest of the routine, knowing if I don't get out of
here quickly I'm going to grab some bottles, take them home, and drink until
I'm numb again.
I get in my jeep, but instead of driving the short distance to my apartment, I
find myself on my uncle's street. I pull over opposite his house, my hands
painfully tight on the steering wheel. I take a few deep breaths and try to
calm down, but it doesn't work.
I turn around and head back towards home, but I drive past it and get on the
highway, heading north. A couple hours later I'm in Harrisburg, the sky turning
pink. I pull into a rest area and watch the sun come up, the mountains turning
incredible colors in the morning light. Then I turn around and drive back to
Baltimore, to my cousin's house.
I manage to beat most of the rush hour traffic, pulling into Jim's driveway
just before 8. Once I get there, whatever's kept me going all night (I went to
the bar after a twelve hour shift in Robbery) leaves precipitously. I'm
practically asleep in my car when Shannon comes out to get the morning paper
and sees me sitting there.
She comes up to my window.
"Tim? Is something wrong?"
I shake my head, get out of the car. "Is Jim home?"
She nods. "He's in his study. You sure you're all right?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, Shannon."
The two older kids have already gone to school, but little Kurt's still at
home. He comes running up to me, launching himself at me, and I pull him into
my arms, burying my face in his hair, until he struggles to get down, wanting
to go check out what the dog's up to. I put him down reluctantly and head
towards the study; I can feel Shannon's stare following me, but she doesn't say
anything.
Jim looks up from his desk as I come in the room; as soon as he sees me, he
gets up.
"Tim, jesus, what's wrong?"
He gets up, comes over, hugs me, but I can't do anything but stand there,
frozen, unable to move or speak. Jim manages to get me over to the loveseat in
the corner, and he keeps asking me what's wrong, but I just shake my head, and
eventually he stops talking and just waits.
"He's dead," I choke out a few minutes later. "He's finally dead; he's gone.
Both of them are gone."
I've never talked to Jim about my uncle, and he's never talked to me about
Kurt. The knowledge has been there, under the surface, for more than thirty
years, but it's remained unspoken, in the way George was never invited to Jim's
holiday gatherings, the way his kids were never alone when George was
around—Jim and I were always there, watching.
I doubt Jim ever told Shannon. If he never talked to me about Kurt, how could
he tell his wife? I'm sure she suspected something, but she knew better than to
push it. Jim and I, we both have the Bayliss temper, even if we keep it under
wraps far better than any of the three brothers—my father, his father, and
George—ever did.
Today, though—this morning, this particular morning—Jim finally says something.
"Good," he murmurs. Then, more forcefully, "Good. I'm glad that son of a bitch
is finally dead. I wish he'd died years ago."
I'm pretty sure it wasn't until after their father died that George went after
Kurt. After all, he'd had me to keep him entertained, for years. No real need
to add to that until I got a little too old to suit him, until John wasn't
there to protect his sons anymore.
I look up; Jim's looking at me curiously. "Your mom said you were actually
helping the bastard, getting his groceries, helping him shave, actually taking
care of him. Is that true?"
I nod dumbly.
"Jesus, Teej, why the hell would you want to do something like that? Why would
you want to do anything for him after what he did?"
"I don't know," I answer, looking down again. "See, I thought—I thought,
somehow, facing him again, that it would help. I went over there, and I was
going to confront him, do something to get back at him, but then I saw him, and
he was weak and old, and he couldn't even take care of himself, and I couldn't
do anything. He was helpless, you know? He couldn't do anything to me anymore,
and I wanted to be the better person, so I helped him. But I hated it. I hated
him just as much as I always had, still do, and I still don't know where to put
it."
I meet his eyes. "Where do you put it, Jim? Where do you put your hate? Was
that why you shot that Turkish kid, why you get into those fights?"
He bristles, then deflates, shakes his head. "I don't know, Teej. Probably.
Kurt—he was doing better after he joined the Army, and then he was killed, and
he never had a chance to live his life, you know?"
"Yeah, I know."
"God, I miss him." Jim says, head in his hands.
"Yeah, me too." I squeeze his shoulder.
Neither one of us seems to have anything else to say. We sit there on the sofa
for another couple minutes, and then Shannon knocks on the door frame.
"You staying for breakfast, Tim? I can make some eggs."
I come back to myself with a shake. "Yeah, sure, eggs sound good. Thanks,
Shannon."
As soon as she leaves, Jim says, "Are you going to be okay, Teej?"
I nod. "Of course. I'll be fine, Jimbo. Don't worry about me."
"Okay," he answers. I think he's relieved. I'm not okay, and we both know it,
but I'm back on a relatively even keel, and that seems to be good enough for
both of us at the present moment.
I manage to eat breakfast like a normal person, or at least a normal person who
hasn't slept in over 24 hours. Not that that's anything new. I drink a couple
cups of Jim's high-test coffee, then head home for a quick shower.
Then it's back to work—just another day in Robbery, which requires little brain
power and thus suits me just fine on this day, although tomorrow I'll no doubt
be driving Frank crazy again with my frustrated need to get back to Homicide.
No, for today, Robbery's about my speed, despite the ragging I get for coming
in late. I manage to push away the clichéd thought of George robbing me and my
cousin of our childhoods and focus on the string of purse-snatchings we're
working. To my surprise, it works, and the next few days pass, and then the
weeks after that, and then we're back in Homicide and I forget about George
again. As much as I ever can.
II. Craving
February 1999
Letting go of a craving is not rejecting it but allowing it to be itself: a
contingent state of mind that once arisen will pass away.
It's a slow night at the bar, like most Mondays. There were a few customers for
dinner, and Mike Kellerman came by, got drunk, and headed back to his boat.
Other than that, it's been pretty empty. Completely empty this past hour or so.
I think about closing up early, but instead I just draw myself a Natty Bo and
brood—something I've been doing even more than usual lately. Since I killed a
man. I told Meldrick the other night that beer wasn't the answer. I'm hoping I
was wrong.
The second draft hits me harder than it used to—all those months of abstinence,
I guess—but the buzz doesn't keep me from noticing when he walks in around 1:
30. It takes me a minute to place him, but then I nod to myself. I don't ignore
him the way Munch insisted we ignore Leno, but I don't fall all over him,
either. I wouldn't call myself a fan, after all—haven't listened to much beyond
the couple singles on the jukebox—but I recognize him. I should—I may not
listen to Jenifur, but my sister's been into them for years.
He orders some coffee and lights a cigarette, gazing curiously at the pictures
above the bar as I pull out the pot and pour him a cup, give him the cream when
he asks for it. He tosses down a ten and ignores the change I give him. Then he
glances across the street, looks down, shakes his head, and grimaces. Looks up
again, meeting my eyes for the first time, his expression frankly curious.
"Fuck. Am I in a fucking cop bar?"
"What's the matter—you have something against cops?"
He shakes his head, smiling at my tone. Jesus. His pictures don't do him
justice.
"No, not especially," he replies. "Not anymore, anyway. Why, are you one?"
I reach out a hand; he shakes it, and I feel the calluses on his fingertips.
"Detective Tim Bayliss, partner in this fine establishment."
"Billy Tallent, guitar player."
"Yeah, I know."
He shrugs. "What sort of detective work do you do, Detective?"
"I, uh, I work in homicide."
His gaze widens. "Homicide, huh? So tell me—you ever shoot anyone?"
"Yeah," I say, wincing inwardly, wondering why I'm even answering the question.
"Really? I always figured that was a tv thing, you know? Figured real cops
probably didn't actually shoot people very often."
"They don't."
He looks at me for a minute, assessing, then visibly decides to drop it, which
is a relief. He goes back to his coffee, and I go back to my beer. Back to my
beer, and back to watching him, because he is quite simply the most attractive
man I've ever met, despite the lines in his forehead, despite the fact that he
could use to gain a few pounds and quit the smoking that's stained his long
fingers. A couple times I catch him looking at me, too.
Then he meets my eyes and speaks again, and I forget to breathe.
"You know, the taxi driver who brought me here must have thought it was pretty
fucking amusing. I told him I wanted him to take me to a place called The Gay
Nineties, and he brought me here instead."
I manage to push the thought of Roger Fisk out of my stunned brain. "The Gay
Nineties, huh? You sure that's where you wanted to go?"
He smiles again, and I think we're speaking the same language. "Yeah, if my
information was right, that's where I wanted to go. You think you could help me
out?"
"You know, the thing is, I'm about to close up here," I manage to answer,
hoping I'm not imagining this. Fuck it—fuck it all. Fuck being a cop, and fuck
being a Buddhist, and fuck celibacy, at least for tonight. "I'll be heading
home—it's just a few blocks from here. It's not a bar, but if you wanted, you
could come with me, uh, to my place."
He looks at me deliberately. "And what if I wanted to suck your cock,
Detective?"
I let out a strangled sound; he smiles and shifts a little on the barstool.
"Jesus. Okay, just let me take care of a couple things, and then we'll be out
of here, all right?"
"Whenever you're ready." He doesn't say another word as I finish up, just hands
me his coffee cup when I ask for it, then follows me to the door, goes through
it when I open it for him, and watches as I lock it behind us. Then he just as
silently follows me home, down the street and up the stairs and through the
door, until he's standing in my living room.
I'm not sure what I should do. His mouth is incredible, curved up in a half
smile, and I move closer, intending to kiss him, but before I can he reaches
out and palms the front of my jeans. My dick's been half hard since he told me
about the cab driver, with a side-trip to harder when he said he wanted to suck
it, but now I actually feel a little light-headed as all blood flow above my
waist seems to stop. He pops the button on my fly and eases the zipper down,
then reaches into my boxers.
"You got condoms?" he asks in that soft, scratchy, so fucking sexy voice.
I nod. "In the bedroom. Come on."
I manage to make it without tripping. Once we're there, he takes over, pushing
me onto the bed, pulling down my jeans and boxers while I throw my sweatshirt
onto the floor and open the drawer in the nightstand. He kneels between my
thighs, strokes me a couple times, which is all it takes until I'm fully erect,
slowly rolls the condom over my cock, and I'm so fucking close, and he's barely
touched me. I reach for the buttons on his shirt, but he bats my hands away and
goes down, mouthing the head, one hand on my balls, the other on the shaft, and
I lean back, and I try to make it last, but I can already tell it's going to be
over too quickly, because even with a condom on, he knows how to do things with
his tongue like I've never felt before, and then his fingers press back behind
my balls and in and I'm coming hard.
"Jesus," I say when I can manage to breathe and talk again. He smiles, a little
smugly. I pull him up on the bed next to me, but I have to let go when I
realize I not only still have my pants on, I haven't even taken off my shoes.
He strips quickly and efficiently while I'm still struggling with my laces,
wishing I'd worn shoes I could just kick off.
Finally free of encumbrances, I turn and see him stretched out on the bed,
lazily stroking his cock.
"You, uh, you want some help with that?" I get out, wincing inwardly. Yeah,
that was smooth. He smiles a little and nods, but I see the way he's staring at
my mouth. I lick my lips, and his gaze intensifies. Yeah, I can do that. I can
definitely do that.
It's not what I'd prefer in an ideal world, but I grab another condom from the
drawer before I get up close and personal with Billy Tallent's dick, which is
long and straight and hard—a thing of pure beauty, better than any koan. I have
no doubt my performance doesn't measure up to his—he's clearly done this more
than I have, and he's no doubt received his fair share of blow-jobs from who
knows how many grateful fans—but from the noises he makes, he seems to be
enjoying himself, and he doesn't last much longer than I did before he stiffens
and comes, his hand tightening briefly in my hair, then loosely caressing
before dropping to my shoulder.
I let go of his softening penis reluctantly and look up to find him lying back
in the bed, watching me. I move up next to him, once again thinking about
kissing him, but when I do he turns his head and I get his cheek instead of his
mouth. He grimaces and apologetically places his hand along the side of my
face. Then he gets up and heads into the bathroom, and I figure that's it—he'll
get dressed and leave. And it's not that I didn't enjoy it—jesus, the last time
I experienced anything that intense involved a coffin—but I'm disappointed
there'll be no chance for anything more.
He surprises me again, though. When he comes out of the bathroom, he gets back
into bed. When I look at him curiously, he says, "I know it's not what's
expected, but would it be okay if I got some sleep before I left? I had a
fucker of a day."
"Hey, sure, sure, no problem," I stutter, confused. "Stay as long as you like.
Mi casa and all that."
He smiles. "Great. You want to get the light?"
"Right, right," I mutter, reaching for the switch. Then I get up. "I'll, uh,
I'll be back in a minute." When I finish in the bathroom and come back to bed,
he's already asleep, snoring softly. I curl around him, careful not to wake
him, and watch for awhile in the dim light before sliding into sleep myself.
I wake from dreams of Larry Moss, hearing Billy say my name. He flips the
switch, and I blink a little in the light. He's standing next to the bed, fully
dressed, smoking, a saucer serving as an ashtray.
"I thought you'd be gone," I mumble thoughtlessly, then add, "I'm glad you're
not."
"I was getting ready to call a cab, but you were—well, you weren't exactly
saying anything I could understand, but it didn't sound good, so I figured I'd
wake you up."
"Yeah, sorry about that. Nightmares." I rub my eyes and stretch, aware he's
watching me closely, aware of the sheet slipping down, exposing my cock, which
twitches at the thought: he's looking at me, and he looks hungry. "Since we're
both awake and all, you want to go again?"
He smiles, stubs out his cigarette, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Can I
fuck you? Do you do that?"
"I—" I swallow. "Yes. Jesus, Billy, yes." Shocked at the need and desire in my
voice, because it's not something I've done more than a couple times, with
Chris, and it was fine, I enjoyed it, but the idea of Billy inside me turns me
on more than I would have thought possible.
"Got any lube?"
"Yeah, in the drawer with the condoms," I answer, glad I bought some a year
ago, before Chris and I broke up. "How do you want me?"
"Side's good," he answers matter-of-factly, and I turn, and then his fingers
are stroking down my back, but then they hesitate. "What the fuck happened to
you, Detective?" he asks softly, gently outlining the scars from the bullet,
the chest tube, the surgery.
"I was shot last year."
"It looks bad. Was it?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it was bad. But, you know, I'm okay now." Except for a new
nightmare to add to the group of regulars, and a near-constant backache that
makes my former back problems look like nothing, and the fact that I died on
the table, my partner left me, and I thought I'd gained a spirituality I've
discovered I never had. Yeah, I'm okay.
"Does it hurt?" His fingers are moving again, massaging gently.
"Sometimes. What you're doing, that feels really good."
"Turn over."
"What?"
"I said, turn over, Detective. Your back's a fucking mess."
I do as he says, astonished. He digs into my shoulders, his touch strong, deep,
and fucking perfect, smoothing out tension I didn't even realize was there. I
stifle a chuckle, because Billy Tallent is giving me a backrub, but then it
turns into a groan as he hits a spot right above the bullet hole, and his
fingers stop.
"Too much?" he asks.
"God, no—it's great," I say, and he goes back to work. A few more minutes and
my back feels better than it's felt since before I was shot. "Jesus, Billy, is
there anything you're not good at?" I murmur.
"Yeah," he mutters, his fingers still. "Plenty." Then he starts again, and I
forget about the sadness in his voice, because his hands are heading down my
back towards my ass, and the way they're moving now is not designed to soothe.
I spread my legs with a sigh, and he urges me onto my side, then starts kissing
the back of my neck while one hand explores my ass and the other works its way
around to my cock. I enjoy those sensations for a minute, then grab the hand I
can reach and bring it up to my lips, kissing the palm, then sucking first one,
then a second, finger into my mouth. He moans into my neck, then starts sucking
on my earlobe, and I can feel his dick pressed into my back.
There's a pause while he grabs for the lube and puts a condom on, and then one
slick finger, and I bend my knee up, and then he's pressing in, and he
hesitates for just a second, but then he keeps going, not slow and careful like
Chris always did but just going for it, and it burns a tiny bit at first, but
then it just feels fucking amazing, better than Chris, better than the blow-job
hours ago, and who would have even believed that was possible, but this—this is
like nothing else has ever been, satisfying something deep inside me, Billy
deep inside me, thrusting hard, grunting, until I have to brace myself with one
hand on the headboard, the foot of my unbent leg against the footboard, rocking
back against him with every thrust, his hand sure and tight and fucking perfect
on my cock, and he comes first, but I'm right behind him, and it blasts through
me like you wouldn't believe.
I get my breath back a moment before he does, only to start laughing as the few
brain cells that are working hope my neighbors are sound sleepers, because
between him and me and the creaking bed, we made enough noise to wake the dead.
It's the first real laugh I've had in days, and I relish the way it takes me
over, until Billy's laughing too, and we're almost as loud as we were a minute
ago, and that just gets me going again, and it feels even better than coming
did.
Eventually we both regain our composure, and I feel a soft kiss on my shoulder
as Billy pulls out. "What the fuck was that all about?" he asks.
"I have no fucking idea," I answer, laughing again.
"Okay," he says, "no problem." Then he gets up and heads to the bathroom. He
returns a minute later and hands me a washcloth.
"Thanks," I tell him, and he smiles at me, and it's different from the other
smiles I've seen tonight—softer. Sweeter.
"I should be thanking you," he tells me, getting back into bed.
"Yeah, well, you're welcome," I say, puzzled. I turn out the light again, then
move closer to get out of the wet spot, until I'm almost spooning him. "Is this
okay?" He murmurs that it is, but he flinches when my arm brushes against his
hip, so slightly that it's almost imperceptible. I move back a couple inches,
more confused than ever. And just as attracted. But I'm also pleasantly worn
out from all that's gone on, so the confusion doesn't keep me from falling
asleep, with no more nightmares.
This time I'm the one who wakes up first. I watch him sleeping, his face soft
and vulnerable on the pillow, facing towards me, one arm slung over my chest,
one leg over mine. Christ, he's beautiful. When his eyelids flicker and his arm
twitches, I close my eyes again and pretend to be asleep, give him time to
wake, to move away. Then I mumble and stretch and open my eyes again, to find
him once again watching me.
"Morning," I say, allowing myself to caress his shoulder briefly. "What time is
it, anyway?"
He turns to look at the clock. "Not morning anymore. Fuck, I've got to get out
of here, back to the hotel."
"You want some coffee?"
"Yeah, coffee's good," he answers absently, running his fingers through his
hair.
"You can grab a shower if you want."
He nods. "You got an extra toothbrush?"
"Uh, no, but you can borrow mine."
"Yeah, okay," he says, sitting up. "You want to use it first?"
"Sure, sure," I answer, sitting up next to him, reluctant to leave the bed.
He turns to me with a sly grin. "Well, what the fuck are you waiting for,
Detective, an engraved invitation?"
"I, uh, I was just thinking, after I start the coffee, I could join you in the
shower."
"You got enough room in there for both of us?"
"Hey, one of the selling points of this apartment was a roomy shower, one where
I didn't have to bend half over to get my hair wet."
"Bend half over, huh?" he asks. "You sure showering's all you've got in mind?"
"Oh, I'm sure it's not."
Showering turns into soap, shampoo, and handjobs, and I really want to kiss
him, but I remember last night, so I settle for mouthing his ear while he sucks
on my left nipple and jerks me off. And okay, it isn't as powerful as it was
when he was fucking me, but it's still my third orgasm in under ten hours, and
it's with someone who turns me on more than any other person of either sex ever
has, so it's still pretty fucking amazing.
I watch his profile as I get out coffee mugs, his skin and hair golden in the
sunlight. Then I laugh at myself and pour the coffee.
His cell rings as I'm handing him the mug, and he answers it with an annoyed,
"What?" I listen to his half of the conversation, fascinated.
"Fuck. It's a radio interview, right? So we'll do it on the phone, in the car.
No, I'm not at the fucking hotel—listen, just send a car, okay? Think you can
handle that?" I grab a pen and one of my business cards and write my address on
the back, then add my phone number and hand it to him. He glances up and
mouths, "thanks," then gives the address to whoever he's talking to. "No, it's
in Fells Point somewhere, I think. I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to get to
the airport, Trudy—just chill the fuck out. The interview will be fine. Yes,
I'm fine, too. Yeah, see you at the airport. No, I'm not. Tough shit. Yeah,
fuck you too."
He thanks me for the coffee and asks if I have any cream. I get the milk out of
the fridge, grateful I bought a new half-gallon yesterday. He pours some into
his cup and then asks for a spoon. I get it out of the drawer and start to hand
it to him, but then I freeze. He takes it out of my hand.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
The question brings me back to myself. "Nothing," I mutter, turning to pour
myself a cup—black.
"Look," he says patiently. "It's going to be awhile before the car gets here,
so why don't you tell me what the fuck is going on with you, giving you
nightmares, making you practically fucking catatonic over a spoon?"
I look at him. "You sure you want to hear this?"
"It'll pass the time." He's gazing at me, and despite the tone of his words,
his eyes are kind.
So I tell him about Roshi Felder's murder, shooting Larry Moss, and the stupid
fucking spoon. The words flow easier than I thought they would. I tell Billy
about how Lewis and I disagreed on who the killer was. I tell him about the
Temple of the Shining Pearl, and the people who lived and studied there. I tell
him about following Larry Moss into that abandoned row house, listening to him
rave about Roshi Felder's disrespecting him by handing him a spoon. I tell him
about Moss pulling a gun, firing it over my shoulder, and then aiming it at my
heart.
I haven't talked to anyone about it since that night—except the department
shrink—and it's a relief to tell someone who's not another cop, who doesn't
immediately tell me I followed proper police procedure and imply I should just
get the fuck over the fact that I killed someone.
Billy doesn't tell me anything like that—he seems to understand, listens
sympathetically, asks thoughtful questions. When I tell him I'm not sure I can
be a Buddhist anymore, though, he tells me to quit the fucking bullshit. Turns
out he knows a little about Buddhism—he doesn't practice, but Jenifur played a
benefit for Amnesty International, and he got to talking to Richard Gere and
Sting backstage. And I hate to admit it, especially given where he learned it,
but what he says makes some sense. I end up promising him I'll give Dennis
Kohler a call, talk to him about what happened.
Then he looks at his watch.
"Hey," I say, just as he says, "Listen," and tears off a corner of the
newspaper.
"What?" I ask. He grabs a pen and writes something on the scrap of paper.
"It's just—I don't know when we'll be in this part of the country again, and
for all I know you're a country and western fan, but if you're interested, just
call this number, and there'll be a ticket waiting. Backstage pass, too, if you
want."
"I'm not a country and western fan," I tell him, smiling. "To tell you the
truth, I don't know Jenifur's stuff that well, but I think their guitarist is
pretty incredible."
"Yeah, well, you should have heard my old band," he says, shrugging his
shoulders. His phone rings again, and he answers it, then goes to the window.
There's a limo pulled up in front of my building. He grabs his jacket and turns
toward the door, tells me he has to leave.
"Billy, wait."
He puts his phone in his pocket and looks at me. I move closer and put my hand
on the back of his neck. "Can I kiss you? Do you do that?"
He half smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, I do that." I urge him closer, cupping the back of
his head, and he turns his face up, and there's no hesitation at all, and I
kiss him softly, once, then again, and he's not pulling away, not deepening the
kiss, just kissing me back, his lips gentle on mine, and his hand comes up and
brushes my cheek, and I open a little, tongue flicking gently against his upper
lip. He sighs and opens his mouth, and we keep kissing for another minute, and
it's sweet and tender and good, and then he breaks away with another sigh.
"I've got to go," he says reluctantly.
"Right, right, you have a plane to catch." I lean down to place one last kiss
on his forehead. "Goodbye, Bill."
"Goodbye, Tim."
Then he turns and walks out the door, and I know I'll probably never see him
again. I go to my window and watch for him, wait until he comes out the front
door, turns, looks up briefly, and then gets into the waiting limo and drives
away.
In the months to come, I obsessively search the internet, look up old issues of
Spin and Rolling Stone at the library, and read everything I can find on
Jenifur, Billy Tallent, and Hard Core Logo, which turns out to be the name of
the band he was in before, up in Canada. I've never been particularly
interested in punk music, but I order a couple cds from Amazon and listen to
them, wondering about Billy's relationship with Joe Dick, wondering if that's
where he learned to give blow jobs. I wonder how he felt when Joe shot himself.
Then everything falls apart, and I try to forget about Billy Tallent, about the
noises he made when he fucked me, the way he looked when he sucked my cock, how
sweet he tasted when he finally kissed me.
I never do talk with Dennis Kohler.
III. Alone
November 2000
We realize that until this point we have not really been on the path at all. We
have been following hunches, heeding the words of those we respect, exploring
blind alleys, stumbling and guessing. No matter how strong our resolve and
conviction, all along there may have been a nagging unease that we didn't
really know where we were going. Each step felt hesitant and forced, and we
were terribly alone. . . .
We walk back into the squadroom, and I go to the Board and rewrite Ryland's
name in blue. No one notices, though—and that's when we hear the news.
I can't believe it—Gee can't be dead. It's just not possible. He was a force of
nature; nothing could stop him—how could he be dead?
The news breaks through the numbness and I start crying a little, wondering if
I'll make it to the funeral. I want to go to the funeral. Fuck—what have I
done, telling Frank? They won't let me go to the funeral now.
Frank ushers me into the Box, closes all the blinds, and leaves. He doesn't put
the cuff on me, though, and he doesn't tell me where to sit—he just opens the
door for me, then turns and leaves.
I don't know how long I sit there. Eventually Frank comes back in, and he's got
Meldrick with him. Meldrick looks almost as shaken as when Crossetti died.
"What's this all about, Frankie?" Lewis asks. "What's so all-fired important
you had to drag me in here now?"
"I have a lead for you on the Luke Ryland murder," Frank says calmly, looking
at me, waiting for me to confess again, I guess. But I'm tired of it—too tired
to shoot myself, too tired to kill myself by other means. I don't say anything.
Maybe if I shut up now, I'll still make it to the funeral before they lock me
up.
"Hold up a minute, there, Frank," Lewis says, hand in the air, warding him off.
"Think about what you're saying."
"He confessed to me, Lewis—"
"I don't want to hear nothing about no confessions. Not tonight, not ever. Not
where Luke Ryland's concerned. Anything the two of you talked about, that's
between the two of you. And you're not a cop anymore, so it's hearsay—not
admissible."
"What? What the hell are you saying, Lewis?" Frank asks with all the
considerable incredulity he can muster.
"You got the equipment off, right? Nobody's gonna have a recording of this, the
blinds are drawn, no bosses watching through the window?"
"No one's watching," Frank answers. "You think I'm going to let Gharty in on
this? I know he'll be involved eventually, but right now I figured it'd be best
to talk about this amongst ourselves."
"Amongst ourselves, right," Lewis says derisively. "Because you know best, as
usual. You think I'm stupid, Frank?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Meldrick."
"Ridiculous," Lewis snorts. "Yeah, that's me, Mr. Ridiculous." He comes over
and sits across from me. "Bayliss, do you think I'm stupid?"
"No, I don't, Meldrick."
"You think I don't know who pulled the trigger on Luke Ryland? I'd think it was
Sheppard, maybe, except she don't have the cojones. Main thing is, I got no
evidence. Like I said this morning, whoever did the deed knew how to execute an
execution. And that's what it was. The same thing the State would have done if
the trial hadn't gotten fucked up. Personally, I happen to be in favor of
capital punishment, especially where shitheads like Ryland are concerned.
Anyone who did that deed deserves a medal, not a prison sentence."
He turns back to Frank. "Gee's dead, Frank, and you helped bring in his killer,
along with Bayliss, here, so I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt
tonight. I'd suggest you forget anything you might have heard about Ryland's
murder and leave the investigation to the primary on the case, huh? And as far
as the primary's concerned, that name can stay in red forever. Matter of fact,
I just erased it off the Board completely. Don't think Gharty's gonna have a
problem with that, either."
He looks at me again. Then he grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. "Listen,
bunk—I am not letting you turn into another Crossetti. You'll get yourself to
some doctor for some Prozac or something if I have to drag your sorry ass in
myself, understand?" When I don't say anything, he shakes me again. "I asked
you a question, Bayliss. You gonna get yourself to a shrink or what?"
"All right, all right, I'll go to see somebody," I answer, intending no such
thing.
"Don't think I won't make sure you do," he tells me, then turns to Frank. "And
you—you get out of my sight."
"What?"
"You heard me, Frank. You don't belong here anymore. Go home. Go home to your
wife and kids and forget about this. Forget about Bayliss. It's not as if you
haven't done it before."
"You can't ask me to forget about this, Lewis."
"The hell I can't! Think for a minute. We put Bayliss here away for killing
Luke Ryland, like you want—"
"I don't want to put him away—"
"Yeah, fine, whatever, you don't want to, but you're going to anyway. What
happens to Eric Thomas James?"
Frank stares at him.
"You think Danvers is going to be happy to hear the cop that arrested Gee's
killer, the one who took his confession, is dirty? That leaves him one witness,
the guy who was along for the ride, unofficially, not even a cop anymore."
"Son of a bitch," Frank mutters, hand on his head, just like up on the roof.
"You son of a bitch!" Only this time it's aimed at Lewis and not me.
"So it seems to me like you've got two choices here, Frank. You can go over my
head to Gharty, go to Danvers, do whatever you need to do to put your partner,
the man who fucking saved your life, in prison for something that needed doing,
or you can shut the fuck up and make sure the man who killed Gee gets what's
coming to him."
The two of them stare at each other for a long minute. Then Frank shakes his
head.
"Fine, Lewis. You win. I'll go home, and I'll try to forget about this, for
Gee. But I'm done. You hear me, Bayliss? I'm done with this. I'm done with
you." And I know he means it. I could threaten to kill myself again, and he
wouldn't be happy, but he'd still walk away. Once Frank Pembleton makes up his
mind, that's it. Case closed.
And strangely, after everything that's happened in the past two days, I don't
really care. I confessed, he heard me, and I didn't kill myself, and now it's
over. Gee's dead, and for some reason I don't want to die. At least not until
after the funeral.
Lewis keeps after me in the days to come, through the funeral and what follows.
I talk to a shrink recommended by the department a couple times, lie repeatedly
to Lewis, and eventually he gets off my back.
Once a deal's been worked out that'll put James away for life, I do what I
should have done months ago—maybe even years ago. I leave Baltimore. I go to
Portland, Oregon, where my sister moved after her divorce. I find myself a job
as a bartender, since that's the only thing I know how to do besides being a
police.
I'm never going to be a police again.
IV. Flight
March 2001
Flight is a reluctance to face change and the anguish it implies.
The guy—a bouncer, I guess he is—looks away from the young girls surrounding
him as I approach. "Can I help you?" he asks politely.
"Yeah. Yeah, you can. My name is Tim Bayliss, and I'm here to see Billy."
"Tim Bayliss?"
"Yes."
"Let me check." He consults a list, frowning. "You're not on the list."
"Are you sure? Could you check again?"
I carried that scrap of newspaper with the phone number on it around in my
wallet for over a year. I didn't notice it was missing until after I moved—it
must have fallen out when I paid for something. Even two years later, it only
took me about thirty seconds to decide to buy a ticket to the Jenifur concert
when they came to Portland, and less than that to try to get backstage.
Thinking about that scrap of paper gives me an idea, and I pull out my wallet.
Yeah, I still have a few business cards stuck in there. "Look, here's my card.
Do me a favor and just give Billy a call, let him know I'm here—he can decide
whether or not he wants to see me."
"You're a cop?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm a detective," I lie.
"Wait a minute. Your name's familiar—I think you used to be on the list,
maybe."
"It's been awhile since I spoke with Mr. Tallent. A couple years, more or less.
Listen, please, just give him a call—what do you have to lose?"
He frowns again, but pulls out a cellphone and presses a couple buttons. I
listen in as well as I can. At one point I hear him describing me: "Yeah, he's
pretty tall—taller than me. Brown hair, glasses; I think his eyes are brown. He
has a card saying he's a detective in Maryland, but he didn't show me his
badge." Then he hands the phone to me.
"Hello, Billy?" I say.
"Is that really you, Detective?" His voice sounds just like I remember it.
"Yeah, yeah, it's really me."
"Okay, uh, give me an hour or so to get back there and shower, then meet me at
the hotel—fuck, which hotel are we staying at? Uh, at the River Place Hotel.
Trudy here tells me I'm in room 1375. Can you find that okay?"
"Sure."
An hour later, I knock on the door of room 1375, a suite at the end of the
hallway. Billy opens the door and gestures for me to come inside; he's wearing
loose jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, and his hair is still damp. He's
put on a little weight since I saw him last; it looks good on him.
I want to touch all that skin, to taste it, but I control the impulse, follow
him to the sofa, and sit down.
"What the fuck happened to you, Detective? I tried to call you when I was in
Baltimore four or five months ago, back at the beginning of the tour, but your
phone was disconnected. Went to that bar, but the fucker who was working there
wouldn't tell me any more than you'd left."
"I'm not a detective anymore, Billy—call me Tim, okay? And I did leave, about
six months ago. My sister lives here, and I wanted to spend more time with her
and my niece."
"Didn't know you had a sister."
"There's a lot you don't know about me—a lot I don't know about you, either."
"I do know one thing," he says huskily, placing his palm against my cheek.
"What's that?" I get out, leaning into his hand.
"My dick's been hard since I heard your voice on the phone."
"Yeah?" I ask, smiling. And then I lean in and kiss him, and there's no
hesitation in the way his mouth opens, his tongue meets mine, and his arms go
around me. A few seconds later he's pushing me back against the sofa, grabbing
at my shirt, pulling it up, then reaching down to my waist. I manage to wrestle
his shirt off and unbutton his fly, both of us barely avoiding flailing elbows,
and I'm making desperate noises as he frees my erection, and I shove his jeans
down, and he shifts and I shift and our cocks are lined up, and he puts his
hand around us both, those long callused fingers stroking us together, and I
feel his teeth in my shoulder as he shudders and comes, and it's only been a
few minutes since I walked in the door, but I don't care; it doesn't matter,
because I'm coming, and it's messy and hot and so fucking good.
I lay there, astonished, for a minute or two, his head resting in the crook of
my neck, his breathing harsh in my ear, my arms around him, one hand running
idly through the damp hair at the back of his neck. He starts to move, and my
arm tightens instinctively around him, but he just shifts a little and kisses
my cheek softly. We stay there for another few minutes, and then he gets up,
grimacing a little as he pulls his jeans together, and walks out of the room. I
hear water running in the bathroom a minute later.
I don't know what to think. I sit up and begin to pull my clothes back in
order, but then he comes back, wearing a bathrobe.
"Oh, you have to go, huh?" he says, sounding a little disappointed.
"No, no, I don't have to go," I tell him quickly. "I thought maybe you—"
"Nah, I'd like it if you stayed. I thought I could order some room service, if
you want. If you're hungry. There's another robe in the closet, if you want to
clean up a little, get out of those clothes."
"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great, Billy."
He frowns. "I'll make you a deal. I won't call you Detective if you don't call
me Billy. I'm not seventeen anymore, Tim. I'm forty fucking years old. Call me
Bill, all right?"
I stand and move toward him, squeezing his shoulder. "No problem, Bill."
"So, a burger sound good?"
"Uh, I'm a vegetarian—"
"Fuck, that's right, you're a Buddhist." I don't correct him. "Go on, get out
of those clothes; I'll get us some food."
I go into the luxuriously appointed bathroom and clean up a little. The robe
feels great against my sweat-cooled skin. I stare at myself in the mirror,
unsure how the hell I got here, but determined to enjoy every minute of it, for
however long it lasts.
Bill's off the phone by the time I make it back. He's sitting on the edge of
the bed, wrapping a bandaid around one finger. "Tore a callus," he explains.
"Bandaid fell off in the shower earlier."
I sit down next to him. "You guys were great tonight."
He smiles. "Glad you enjoyed the show."
"I enjoy this more, though," I add, reaching out to stroke his cheek.
"Yeah?" He smiles again, one of those sweet smiles I've only seen a couple
times.
I nod. "Yeah. Definitely."
"So you going to tell me why the fuck you quit being a detective and ended up
moving to Oregon? And don't tell me some bullshit about your sister. Something
had to have happened—was it that homeless guy?"
I'm going to have to be careful—he's extremely perceptive, and I have no
intention of telling him the real reason I left Baltimore.
"My lieutenant—former lieutenant—he was actually running for mayor—he was shot
and killed. That, combined with some other stuff, like the thing with Larry
Moss, just made it clear to me that I needed a change, that working as a
homicide detective wasn't good for me anymore, if it ever was. So I left."
"Did it work?"
"What do you mean?"
"Is it better here?"
"I think so. I haven't been here long enough to tell for sure."
He nods in acknowledgment, bright blue eyes focused on mine. It's
overwhelming—I have to look away, because I'm tempted to tell him everything.
Then I look again, because I can't look away.
"It's really great to see you again," I murmur. "You look—fuck, you look
fantastic."
I lean in and kiss him again, soft and slow, and he slips his tongue into my
mouth with a sigh, and I take my time, exploring his lips, mouth, taste,
relishing the fact that neither one of us has anywhere else to go until
morning. Whatever issues he had about kissing me two years ago must be
resolved, because he is obviously enjoying this as much as I am, moving back
against the pillows, pulling me with him, loosening the sash at my waist and
running his hands over my chest, my back, my belly, and down to my cock,
hardening again at his touch. I open his robe and start exploring the rest of
him, still taking my time, learning the colors and textures of his skin, his
hair, the taste of his sweat. He moans when I nuzzle his cock, now fully erect,
a drop of moisture at the tip, and I can't help myself, I have to taste it, so
I do, and he moans again, louder, and I rest my cheek against his erection,
feeling his pulse beating rapidly beneath the hot, silky skin, and I nuzzle it
again. Then I move up and kiss him again, because as much as I want to taste
him, there's something I want even more.
I sit up long enough to get both our robes off, then kiss him again before
laying back on the bed. "I want you inside me," I tell him, and he groans and
kisses me fiercely.
"Fuck, Tim, I don't have anything," he apologizes, reaching down to stroke my
cock.
"Okay, okay, hold on," I mumble, getting up and rifling through my clothes
until I find the small tube and condoms I put in my pocket before I headed to
the concert tonight. I hand the tube to him, and then I roll the condom down,
and I can see he's trembling, he's so close, but he opens his eyes and takes a
couple breaths, and then I pull him on top of me.
"I've never—" he says, "Fuck, how do we do it like this?" And I show him,
bringing my legs up over him, and I take the tube back and open it, and put
some on his finger and some on his dick, and he preps me quickly, his breathing
harsh, eyes locked on mine, and then he presses in, murmuring, "oh, fuck," and
entering me in one smooth thrust, and I wrap my legs around him, and he starts
thrusting fast and hard.
I grab his chin. "Slow," I tell him, even though my dick is all in favor of
fast and hard. He gasps, closing his eyes tightly, then opens them again, and I
can feel the muscles in his arms shaking as he starts thrusting again, more
slowly, and he's biting his lip, and I move my hand from his chin to his mouth,
and he grabs my thumb with his teeth, playfully, sucking it into his mouth,
moving it in and out in time with his thrusts, and then he shifts a little, and
I moan, and that's it for both of us, it's back to fast and hard, and it's so
fucking good, and I give up and reach down and give myself a couple strokes and
then I'm coming, and it's fucking incredible, and then I open my eyes and he's
watching me avidly, my thumb still in his mouth, fuck, he's so fucking
beautiful, and then he throws his head back and starts to shake, moaning long
and low, and comes with a couple desperate thrusts, then collapses on top of
me, breathing hard. He stays there for a few seconds, then kisses my collarbone
and pulls out, throwing the condom in the trash, settling in next to me on the
bed.
And then there's a knock on the door.
"Fuck," Bill says, laughing. "Room service must be here. Good thing for them
they didn't get here a little earlier." He pulls his robe back on and heads
leisurely for the door, and I flee into the bathroom to get cleaned up again.
Besides, I'm not at all sure he wants anyone to know I'm here. By the time I
come into the living room, the waiter has set up the food and left.
"Hey, this is quite a spread," I murmur, staring at the variety of food and
drink spread out in front of us.
"I, uh, I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I kind of went overboard," he
replies, sounding a little embarrassed. "It's all part of the rock star rep,
anyway, right?"
I grin at him. "Sounds good to me." I grab a bottle of water and drink it down,
and Bill watches me drink. I make a connection between some things I've read
and something that's been bothering me for two years. "Shit, it was the beer,
wasn't it?" I blurt out.
"I didn't order any beer—you're a vegetarian, so no meat; I'm an alcoholic, so
no beer."
"No, I know, I mean, that's why you wouldn't kiss me, isn't it? Because of the
beer."
"Oh," he says, sitting back, "you mean that night in Baltimore."
I nod.
"Yeah, I was having kind of a shitty night, really wanting to just get fucking
plastered. Seeing you drinking that beer, smelling it on your breath—I'm
sorry."
"No, it's okay, jesus. I'm the one who should apologize."
"What the fuck for?" he snorts. "You didn't know."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." I smile. "I'm glad it wasn't something else."
"What, that I'd have your dick in my mouth, but I wouldn't kiss you? No, it was
just your beer breath," he replies, but the way he looks, I can tell there's
something he's hiding from me. Whatever it was, though, he seems to be over it
now, so I tell myself not to worry about it anymore and go back to the food,
which tastes fantastic. Then something else occurs to me.
"Did you stop smoking?" Because there are no ashtrays out, and the room smells
fresh, and I think there was even a no-smoking sign on the door.
"I'm fucking trying," he says, shrugging. "My kid's grandfather just died of
emphysema, so she's been bugging me non-stop."
"Quitting smoking, that was really fucking difficult," I tell him, "but it does
get easier."
"Oh yeah? When?"
"After a couple years," I say, laughing.
"That's not buddies," he says, throwing a french fry at me.
We both turn out to be pretty damned hungry, eating almost all of the
food—veggie burgers, french fries, spinach quesadillas, and three different
desserts. "Can I ask you something, Bill?" I say as take one last bite of
cheesecake.
"Sure."
"You and Joe Dick—were you lovers?"
He shakes his head. "Lovers? Fuck, no, that's not the word I would use, not for
me and Joe. Jesus, he'd fucking kill me if I used a pussy word like that." He
looks at me. The bitterness in his voice is unexpected. "Were we 'sexually
involved'? Yeah, you could call it that. Love, hate, sex, power, violence,
addiction, need, abuse, incredible fucking highs and horrible fucking
lows—lovers is far too pleasant a word for what we were."
"You did love him, though, didn't you?"
"Yeah, I loved him, for all the good it did." He pushes the plate in front of
him away. "Listen, I'm tired; aren't you?"
"Right, it's late—what time is it, anyway?"
"Fuck if I know—3 or so, I guess. I gotta be out of here by noon, so if we want
to get any sleep, there's no time like the present."
"You sure you don't mind me staying?"
"No, it's cool. This kind of hotel, there's probably even an extra toothbrush
in the bathroom," he adds wryly.
"Yeah, probably," I say. "You go ahead. I'll stick this outside."
"Don't forget the Do Not Disturb sign," he says, winking, then heads into the
bathroom.
This time he doesn't flinch when I get into bed next to him and move close, but
there's still a certain tension in his shoulders, so I settle for kissing the
back of his neck instead of doing what I want to do, which is wrap my arms
around him. Still, when I wake up, I find his head on my arm and his legs
tangled in mine.
He fucks me again when he wakes. This time we succeed in taking it slow, and
it's incredible, sweeter and more intense than anything I've experienced
before. Neither one of us says a word as we shower together afterwards.
There's no time left to eat—they end up having to hold the bus for him. We
exchange phone numbers again—this time he gives me his own home and cell
numbers—and then he asks if it's okay if he calls sometime, just to talk. I
tell him I'd like that, and he kisses me softly, and I leave, wondering if he
could possibly have meant it.
V. Awakening
April 2001
Awakening is no longer seen as something to attain in the distant future, for
it is not a thing but a process—and this process is the path itself. . . . We
have not been elevated to the lofty heights of awakening; awakening has been
knocked off its pedestal into the turmoil and ambiguity of everyday life.
A week later, it's another boring night at the bar when my cell phone rings.
"Hello?" I say, still conscious of the instinct to answer, "Homicide, Detective
Bayliss," even now, a year after I left the first time.
"Hey, Tim, it's Bill."
I don't even want to think about how hearing his voice makes me feel. Not now,
when one of our regulars is staring at me.
"Bill, hey, how are you?"
"Fucking exhausted—this tour is a fucker. But we just added a new show in
Seattle, and I was wondering if you might be able to make it up there."
"If I can, sure." Like anything's going to stop me. "When is it?"
"Next month, the 26th. I think it's a Wednesday. You think you could get some
time off and make the trip?"
"Yeah, with that much notice, I'm sure I could. When will you be getting into
town?"
"Not until that afternoon—we'll be flying in from the Midwest somewhere.
Chicago, I think. But then we've got a day off—we don't leave for the Texas leg
until the 28th. So we'd have a little more time than before. I mean, if you
wanted to stay both nights."
"Yeah, yeah, I'd like that. That'd be great."
He calls a few more times in the following weeks, or I call him, just shooting
the shit, him complaining about the band's bass player, me complaining about
annoying customers at the bar—nothing in-depth or especially personal. And at
the end of the next month, I make the three hour drive up to Seattle.
I get the VIP treatment this time—a seat in the front row, backstage pass, the
whole nine yards. The concert's even better than it was in Portland, and I
catch Bill looking at me off and on throughout the show.
He fucks me in the dressing room, on the sofa, still sweaty and hyped up from
performing, and it's incredible. I joke afterwards about being a groupie, and
it pisses him off. He stands up, half out of his clothes, looking like he's
about to throw something.
"You're not a fucking groupie, Tim!"
"Then what am I? What else do you call someone who follows the band up to
Seattle to get fucked by the guitarist?"
"Groupies are fucking teenage girls who don't give a shit about anything other
than the fact that they fucked someone famous. I gave up fucking groupies a
long time ago." He pulls his pants back up, tucks himself back in, his
shoulders tight, his expression angry.
"Okay, fine, I'm not a groupie. What am I, your lover? Come on, Bill, this is
only the third time we've seen each other in two years. It's not like we really
know each other."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Yours as much as mine," I tell him, annoyed. "You want to get to know me? Then
talk to me."
He looks at me and shakes his head. "Not now. I need a fucking shower." He
walks towards the bathroom, then turns. "Listen, why don't you just meet me at
the hotel? Trudy'll get you a key. You can shower there, if you want."
"You're sure you don't just want me to go?" I ask. I can't keep a touch of
frustration out of my voice.
He sighs, comes back and lays his hand along my cheek. "I want you to meet me
at the hotel. I don't want you to go. Okay?"
"Okay, fine," I answer, pissed off and confused and attracted. As usual.
The hotel room's another huge suite, like the one in Portland. I take a
leisurely shower and dress in one of the omnipresent bathrobes. A few minutes
after I get out, there's a knock on the door, and a waiter brings in a huge
tray. It's another half hour or so before Bill shows up, during which time I
nervously pick at the food, although I don't actually eat any of it.
I jump up when I hear the door. He walks in wearily, but he smiles a little
when he sees me. "I see you made yourself comfortable," he says, grabbing a
bottled water and sitting across from me.
"Yeah, I tried. So, are you going to tell me what the hell that was all about?"
He sighs, running a thumb along his jaw. "I think you have some serious
misconceptions about me, Tim. And I guess that's partially my fault—it's not
like I told you any different—but I guess I thought you knew me a little better
than that."
"What are you talking about, Bill? What misconceptions?"
"The whole rock and roll stereotype—the drugs, the sex, the groupies. Is that
what you think I'm all about?"
"No, of course not."
"Don't fucking lie to me," he barks.
"I know you're don't drink anymore. I've certainly seen no signs that you're
doing drugs. You can't tell me you're not a rock star, because you are, but I
haven't seen you destroying any hotel rooms or anything."
"But I must still have sex with groupies, every chance I get, right?" He's
getting really pissed off again, and I don't know what to say to him.
"I don't know—I guess I did kind of assume—"
"Well, you assumed wrong, fucker." he retorts. "I gave up that bullshit years
ago, when I gave up drinking. I don't fuck groupies anymore. I don't generally
fuck anyone at all." He shakes his head angrily. "Fuck."
I stare at him. "Wait a minute—what?"
"You heard me, Detective," he says. "I'm not out there every night with a
different piece of ass. I don't generally hang out in gay bars and give blow
jobs to strangers, and I certainly don't accept them from skanky fifteen year
old girls who just want to say they've seen Billy Tallent's dick."
I stare some more.
"What's the matter, Timmy? I thought you'd like hearing you're the only one I
fuck. Or did you not want this to be an exclusive arrangement? Because if
you've got something—someone—better waiting for you back in Portland, or in
fucking Baltimore, then all you have to do is say the word—"
I cross the room and sit next to him. I take his hand in mine. "I'm sorry,
Bill. I never thought—I made a stupid assumption, and I apologize."
"Yeah, you fucking did," he snaps, then sighs. "Apology accepted."
"Good, good," I murmur. "I really am sorry—shit, Bill, I had no idea I was
being such an idiot. I—fuck, I haven't been with anyone else. I don't want to
be with anyone else."
"Is it so hard to believe I might feel the same way?"
"No, no—it's just—you were looking to pick someone up, that night in Baltimore,
or am I wrong about that?"
He looks down at our hands. "I didn't know what the fuck I was doing, Tim. I
didn't have a fucking clue. Was I planning on going to that other bar? Yeah.
But I didn't know what I was going to do when I got there—just watch people,
get drunk, maybe get someone to suck me off in the men's room, if it turned out
to be that kind of place. Maybe I just would have turned around and gone back
to the hotel room. But I ended up at your bar instead, and once I saw the way
you were looking at me, I just went for it."
"That's an understatement," I tell him, and he smiles. "I'm glad you did,
though."
"Yeah, so am I," he says quietly. "I didn't know what to expect—didn't know
what you wanted. I didn't know what I wanted. But that night—it was great." He
pauses, takes a drink of water. "I did go to a couple gay bars, in a couple
towns, after that. But I didn't do anything but sit there, drinking coffee,
looking for someone who looked like you."
"Jesus, Bill—"
"Sorry to shatter your illusions," he says, sounding bitter.
"No, no, that's not what I meant," I say. "I just—I'm glad. I'm surprised, but
I'm glad it meant as much to you as it did to me." I run my finger along his
jaw. "Because it did mean something to me. It meant a lot to me. I was in a
really bad place that night, and you—shit, Bill, you were amazing. That night
was incredible. But the thing is, each time we've been together, it's been even
better."
"Yeah, it has," he says. "And I don't want to fuck it up."
"Neither do I." I give his hand a squeeze. "And I meant it, Bill—I haven't been
with anyone else. Not since that night in Baltimore."
"Not since then? That was two and a half years ago, Tim."
"I know how long ago it was." I shrug. "I know something else, too."
"What's that?"
"I'm clean. I got tested once a year when I was a cop, and I kept it up—figured
it was a good habit."
He looks at me speculatively. "The label, back when Joe—back when I joined the
band permanently, I was pretty fucked up. They tested me every six months for
three years. I still get tested every year."
"So, if we're both negative—"
He nods. "Which we are."
"I'll understand if you want to keep using condoms. I know it's the safest
thing to do. But—"
He puts his fingers firmly against my lips.
"Shut the fuck up," he says gruffly. Then he replaces his fingers with his own
lips, kissing me slowly, thoroughly, tongue tangling with mine, his hand at the
tie of my robe. He releases my mouth and kneels between my thighs, and my
dick's getting hard just from him looking at it, from wondering if he's—and
then he nuzzles my balls, licks the inside of my thighs, tastes the tip of my
penis with the tip of his tongue, and I lean back, moaning. He stands again,
offering me his hand, and I can see the outline of his erection, and I pull him
to me for another kiss, feeling his hardness behind the old, faded denim,
startlingly soft against my skin. He pulls me into the bedroom, taking off his
shirt along the way, and I stop us to suck one tight nipple, popping the button
on his fly and easing the zipper down.
"Fuck," he murmurs softly. "Oh, fuck, Tim, come on," and I follow him and he
pushes me onto the bed, but gently, and I throw my robe over the chair and he
peels off his jeans, no briefs, and I think, he did that for me.
He climbs onto the bed, kissing me quickly, then turning to face the foot, and
I'm not sure if this will work, because it never did before, with women,
because I was always so much taller, although it was fun trying. I've never
tried it with a man before, and somehow it works, because his long, beautiful
cock is right there, right where I can reach it and touch it and taste it, and
I feel his lips and tongue lightly brushing mine, his head resting on my thigh,
and I rest mine on his, and it works just great, fuck, he's doing that thing
with his tongue again, slowly, so slowly, and there's nothing between my skin
and that tongue, and it's so good I lose myself for a second, groaning. I see
his cock twitch in front of me, and I go back to it, licking, nuzzling, and
then taking it in, and I hear him moan in turn, and once again I'm wherever I
go when I'm with him like this, so fucking perfect, in the moment like I never
could be when I was meditating, and then I bring one finger to my mouth and get
it wet, reaching behind and entering him, and he stiffens sharply, and I wonder
if I should stop, because I haven't done that for him before, but then he moans
again, and I feel his fingers enter me, his tongue fluttering again, and I come
into his mouth, long and hard and so fucking good, and the pulses seem to last
forever, but they're still over too soon.
I have to let go of his dick for a few seconds, long enough to regain my
breath, but then I suck him down as deep as I can, reaching for his prostate,
using my free hand on his shaft, or occasionally on his balls, and within
another minute he groans louder, his pulses start, and I swallow as much as I
can, greedily licking my lips after I release his softening cock. We stay there
a few minutes—his thigh makes a very comfortable pillow—and then I feel his
hand on my shoulder, urging me to get up so he can move.
He turns around again, settling into my embrace, and we kiss again, sharing
tastes. I reach down and pull the covers up and over us, and I fall asleep,
this time, finally, with Bill in my arms.
I wake suddenly, and Bill's twitching, moaning a little. I touch his shoulder,
and he startles awake instantly. He says something as he sits up—I think it's
"Joe"—jerking away when I put my arm around him.
"Nightmare?" I ask gently.
"What?" He turns to look at me, but I can't make out his expression in the
dark. "Uh, yeah. Nightmare."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No."
"But it was about Joe?"
"Fuck off."
He gets up and heads into the bathroom.
Shit.
I wonder again whether I should just leave, but I don't. I turn the light on
and sit there, listening to the water running in the bathroom, until he comes
out, gets back into bed, pushes me back against the pillows and starts kissing
me hard. It takes me a minute, but then I'm getting into it, my erection
growing, and then he's pulling me onto my side and turning in my arms.
"Fuck me," he says, sounding a little desperate, pushing his ass back against
me, and he's shaking, but it's not—I reach around, and he's flaccid, and I push
him away.
"What the fuck is going on?"
"I thought I made it pretty clear," he retorts. "I want you to fuck me. What's
the matter—don't you do that? Or is it that you don't want me? Because I've got
evidence to the contrary," and he grabs my erection.
"You really want me to fuck you?" I ask sarcastically, pointing at his limp
penis. "Because the evidence of that is pretty fucking lacking."
"So what?"
"So you're not into it, and I'm not into that."
"You think I've never taken it up the ass before, is that it?"
"No, that's not—jesus, Bill! That's not the—"
"Because I have been fucked, fucked up and down and sideways, fucked in the
head and up the ass by the master fucker of all fuckheads, but you wouldn't
know anything about that, would you, Detective?"
I have no idea what to say to him, how to answer his pain. "I'm not Joe, Bill,"
is what I eventually settle on.
"No, you're not," he replies after a minute, his voice flat. "Fuck, you could
never—" then he gets up, pulls his briefs on, and walks over to the window. I
grab my robe from the chair and another one from the bathroom, laying it across
his tense shoulders. He jumps.
"Jesus, Bill, what the fuck did he do to you?" I breathe. And the realization
hits. Why the hell didn't I figure it out before?
"He fucked me, Tim," Bill says coldly.
"He raped you," I say, my voice shaking.
He shrugs. "You could call it that, I guess. Considering I was passed out drunk
when he did it. I woke up, though." He woke up. Jesus, of course you did. Fuck,
I'm sorry, Bill.
Cautiously, I put my hand on his shoulder. He sighs and moves closer, and I put
my arm around him. "I'm sorry, Bill."
"What the fuck do you have to be sorry for?"
Shows how much he knows. "I'm sorry he hurt you. I know you loved him."
He turns to me. "Yeah, I did. Even after, I still did. Isn't that fucked?"
I shrug. "It's human, is all I know."
"He loved me, too, you know. He was just—fuck, he was a dick. The Dick. Fucking
asshole, fucking taking himself out, not even fucking talking to me."
"Maybe he didn't want to talk to you."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"Maybe he thought you'd talk him out of it, and he didn't want that."
He sighs and leans his head on my chest. "Yeah, maybe."
"It's cold out here. Come back to bed?"
He comes with me without a word, doesn't protest when I take off both our
robes, pull back the covers, and tuck him into my arms. Instead, he puts his
head on my shoulder, one leg over mine, his hand moving in idle circles on my
chest. I kiss his forehead and hold him until he falls asleep again.
Eventually, I do too.
Dreams of making love segue seamlessly into Bill's lips and tongue on my chest,
his hand languidly stroking my morning erection, his cock silky hard against my
hip. I run my fingers through his hair, and he rests his cheek against my
chest.
"Morning," I murmur.
"Yeah, whatever," he answers, and I hear the smile in his voice. "It's about
time you woke up."
"You okay?"
"I'm fine, Tim. No more nightmares." And then he starts kissing me, and that
leads to him fucking me, this time without anything between us, and it sounds
stupid to say it's incredible, but it is, even better than before, and that
sounds stupid, too, but it's nothing less than the truth.
Once we get out of bed, we've got the whole day—well, the whole afternoon, once
we've eaten—and we do the tourist thing, because I've never been to Seattle
before, and it's practically Bill's home town, since he grew up just over the
border in Vancouver. We go to the market and the arboretum, just walking
around, enjoying the view of the mountains, then eat at a vegetarian coffee
house called the Green Cat Café for dinner.
We talk a lot that day. I hear more about Joe, although he never brings up the
rape again. I tell him about going from QRT to the Mayor's Security Detail, and
about parlaying that into a spot in homicide. I tell him a little about some of
the cases that still haunt me. He tells me what it was like finding out he had
a five year old daughter, and about the year long court battle before he could
see her.
As we leave the Green Cat, he offers to show me the club scene, saying there
are still some decent bands, years after the end of the quote unquote Seattle
scene, but I decline and tell him I'd rather go back to the hotel and get him
naked again. He grins and grabs a taxi.
By the time I leave the next morning, pleasantly sore in more than one place, I
know I've fallen in love with him, and I'm terrified. In the months to come, I
see him twice, each time for a single night. Every few days we talk on the
phone. It's not nearly enough, but it's all I've got.
VI. The Path
September 2001
In the cessation of craving, we touch that dimension of experience that is
timeless: the playful, unimpeded contingency of things emerging from conditions
only to become conditions for something else. This is emptiness: not a cosmic
vacuum but the unborn, undying, infinitely creative dimension of life.
It's another Monday night in the bar, with only a couple people in all night,
and it's empty now, and I'm starting to close up early when the phone rings. I
know it's him before I pick up, even though he usually waits until after
closing and calls my cell phone.
"Joe's Bar," I answer, because maybe it's not him.
"Hey, it's me."
"How was it tonight?" I think he's in Denver, although that might be tomorrow.
"Good. It was good. How was it for you?"
"Empty. Boring. Typical Monday night. Wish you were here."
"Yeah, so do I."
"I'm closing up."
"Suppose I should let you get back to it, call you when you get home—we could
have phone sex."
It's been three weeks since the last time I saw him, when he showed up one
night at my apartment, late, stayed 36 hours, and left again. I haven't washed
the pillowcase, fancying I can still detect the scent of his hair gel on it.
Fuck, I miss him.
"Yeah, that sounds good, but you don't need to hang up yet, you know."
He sighs sharply. "What is this, Tim?"
"What do you mean?"
"This thing with us—what is it? Are we fuckbuddies? Is that what it is? Because
I don't think we get to fuck often enough for that, and, don't get me wrong,
I'm in favor of the phone sex, but it's not enough, not nearly. And seeing you
every month or two, that's great, it's fucking fantastic when I'm there,
but—shit."
"I don't know what it is. You're right about it not being enough, though." I
don't say what I want it to be, because even admitting it to myself is
terrifying. Not to mention unrealistic.
"Fuck."
I carry the phone over to the door and lock it, then sit down in one of the
booths, working up my courage.
"The thing is, I know what I get out of this," I say hesitantly. "What I don't
see is what you get. You could have anyone you want for a fuckbuddy, or for
whatever you wanted."
"And you couldn't?"
"Going to bars and picking up strangers isn't my idea of a good time," I say,
then wish I hadn't.
"You think it's mine? Fuck you—I thought we had that conversation already."
"Sorry—I didn't mean—"
"I told you, Tim, I don't—I haven't been with anyone else. That hasn't
changed."
"I know. I apologize."
He sighs again. "Listen, the tour's over in a month. You think you could get
some time off?"
"Yeah, I think I could."
"I've got a house up on Vancouver Island—I bought it so I'd have a residence in
Canada, a place my daughter could come to visit—"
"I thought she lived in Regina—isn't that in Saskatchewan?"
"I love my kid, Tim, but there's no fucking way I'd buy a house in fucking
Regina—it's the middle of nowhere. No, the house, it's nice, right on the
water—it's actually in Port Alberni, on a lake. I like to go up there, summers,
get out of the fucking LA heat. And, uh, I was wondering if you'd like to come
up there with me. Spend some time—more than just a night or two together. Time
to do more than just fuck."
"I'd like that," I answer, a little stunned. "How much time were you thinking?"
"You think you could get a couple weeks?"
"Yeah, probably. Yeah, yeah, sure, I could take a couple weeks." Just try to
stop me. Fire me. I don't give a fuck.
"Cool. Check with your boss, or whatever you need to do, and let me know when.
Any time after the 12th is fine."
My boss is willing to give me the time off, once I make it clear I'm taking it
no matter what. I'm the most reliable bartender he's got, and I've taken more
than a few extra shifts when someone else didn't show up, so he doesn't want to
lose me.
Up until this point I've done a good job of hiding my relationship with Bill
from my sister and niece, but they've both figured out something is up. Casey's
the one who asks me point-blank, the day before Bill and I leave for Port
Alberni, while we're eating a picnic lunch by the river.
"When are you going to tell me about whoever it is you're seeing, Uncle Tim?"
"What makes you think I'm seeing anyone?"
"You disappear for a couple days every month or two. You get all moony—"
"Moony? Come on, Case—"
"Definitely moony. I figure this vacation you're planning, you'll be seeing her
then. Or is it a him?"
"None of your business, kiddo."
"So you are seeing someone," she says triumphantly. "Come on, Teej, spill! I
won't tell Mom if you don't want me to."
"I will tell your mom, when there's something to tell, but there really isn't.
Yes, I am seeing someone, but he doesn't live here, and I don't know where it's
going, and it's complicated."
"What's to be complicated? You're in love, and I, for one, think it's about
time!" She tackles me and kisses my cheek.
"Casey," I say with a grunt—she's the star of her high school soccer team, and
she's 5'10 and still growing, so her tackles aren't as easy to deal with as
when she was 9 or 10— "I didn't say anything about being in love."
"But you are. I can tell. I'm very intuitive, you know. I knew you were bi
before Mom told me."
I laugh. "Right, right, you're intuitive, a future detective. So why don't you
tell me about this person I'm supposedly in love with, huh?"
She sits back and frowns in concentration. "Okay. You said he doesn't live
here, and that it's complicated. I've got it! He's married, isn't he? You're
the first man he's been with, and he's conflicted about it!"
"Wrong, and wrong again," I answer. "Try again, Miss Intuitive."
"He's an old queen from San Francisco, and he wants you to move there and join
his drag show?"
She can't even keep a straight face with that one, and we both laugh. "Strike
three, kiddo. You're out."
"But he's not, is he?" she asks seriously. "Out, I mean?"
Okay, she is intuitive. "No, he's not."
"So that's why it's complicated?"
"Partially, yeah." I sigh. "See, the thing is—and you are not to speak of this
to anyone, do you hear me?—he's, uh, he's in the public eye."
"You mean he's famous? You're going out with someone famous, and you didn't
tell me?"
"Yeah, yeah, he's famous," I admit reluctantly. "And no, I'm not going to tell
you who he is, not without talking to him first, so don't even think about
asking, all right?"
"Will you at least tell me how you met him?"
"He came into the bar one night."
"He came to Joe's?"
"Not Joe's. The Waterfront, a couple years ago."
"You've been seeing him for two years?"
"No—jesus, Case, you never give up, do you? No, I have not been seeing him for
two years. I saw him once, two and a half years ago, and then I didn't see him
again until earlier this year. In the past six months I've seen him four times.
And I'm not telling you anything else, so drop it. Tell me how you're doing in
geometry."
She does drop it, although I know it's not going to be for long. I think about
telling Karen, but she beats me to it when I take Casey home—she pulls me aside
and gives me pretty much the same third degree her daughter did. I tell her the
same thing I told Casey.
"You're dating someone famous," she says skeptically. "Who?"
"I'm not going to tell you that, sis. Not until I talk to him first."
"Is this mystery man coming to town any time soon?"
"He's flying in tomorrow—we're driving up to BC together."
"Good. Bring him to dinner."
"What?"
"You heard me, Teej. I'm inviting you two to dinner. If he's not willing to
meet your family, I'm thinking he's not good enough for my big brother, so
you'd better get him to accept the invitation."
"That's not buddies," I mutter, smiling to myself as I realize where I've
picked up that particular expression.
"Tough. What time is his flight?"
"Uh, 4:45."
"Great. I'll expect you two at 6:30. Anything he doesn't eat? Is he a
vegetarian, too?"
"No, he eats meat. But he's an alcoholic, Karen, so no wine, okay? And you
realize this is a lot to spring on him—I don't know if I'm going to get a
chance to talk to him before he gets here—he's got a benefit tonight, and a
couple interviews tomorrow—"
"Okay, okay, Teej, relax. I won't hold it against you if you can't make
it—much. Just call me and let me know. Lie to me—tell me his plane was delayed
or something."
"Right, right, that's always a good excuse," I reply, grinning. "I will tell
you this much—his name is Bill, and he's Canadian."
"Oh, shit, please tell me you're not dating William Shatner!" she exclaims in
mock horror.
"Jesus, Karen, no!" I laugh. "I promise, it's not anyone who's ever appeared in
Star Trek. He's not an actor. And that's all I'm going to tell you." I leave
before I can say anything else, because now that she knows a little, I want to
tell her everything, and I can't do that—not until I've talked to Bill.
I meet him at the airport the next afternoon. It amazes me that he can put on a
ball cap and some sunglasses and go unrecognized, but it seems to work most of
the time. He looks so fucking good that I have to watch myself, keep from
grabbing him and kissing him, settle for an arm briefly around his shoulder.
"It's good to see you," I tell him, grinning.
"It's good to see you, too," he answers, smiling back. "Come on, let's get my
luggage and get the fuck out of here."
We wait for his luggage, pick it up, walk to my jeep, side by side, not
touching, just a couple friends at the airport. As soon as we get in, though,
he takes my face between his hands and kisses me passionately. He lets me go
after a minute, saying, "Go on, start the fucking car and get us to your
apartment. It's been far too long since I saw you come."
I groan. "Fuck, Bill."
"That's the idea, freak. What are you waiting for?"
"I, uh, my sister—my sister Karen invited us to dinner. I told her I didn't
know if you'd be up for it. I haven't told her who you are, but she figured out
I was seeing someone, and she wants to meet you. She and Casey both do. I'm
sorry—I know you like to keep things private, but it's been six months, and
they're intelligent and perceptive people. Plus they know me pretty well. So,
you know, if you don't want to go, it's okay, and I don't have to tell them
your name—"
"Shut up, Tim," he interrupts. "You're operating under a misconception again. I
never said you couldn't tell your family about me. You're not ashamed of me,
are you?"
"What? No, no, of course not. Jesus, Bill. I just figured you'd rather keep it
between us."
"Everyone in Jenifur knows. The band, the roadies, the management, even my
publicist figured out something was up."
"They know?"
"How could they not know? You get a guy a back stage pass a few times, take him
to your hotel room, run late for the bus, people are going to figure it out.
And that was before I left the tour to fly to Portland when we had a day off.
Twice."
"Oh."
"Yeah, 'Oh.' Fucking freak. Your sister wants to meet me, huh? I guess I can
wait to get you naked for a couple more hours, seeing as I'll have you for two
weeks."
"Does your daughter know?"
He looks down. "Yeah, she knows. I told her last week. She's coming up to the
house while we're there, just for a couple days. Is that okay with you, Mr.
Secrecy?"
I kiss him. "I'm honored."
"Freak," he says again, but I can tell he's pleased.
"I just have to warn you, my sister's going to be the freak when she meets you.
She's a big fan of Jenifur, has been for years. That's part of the reason I've
been waiting to tell her."
"Duly noted. You need to call her, or can we get a move on?"
"I'll just give her a quick call, let her know we're on our way. You think I
should tell her Billy Tallent's coming to dinner, or just surprise her?"
"Tell her your lover is Bill Boisy. If she's a real fan, she'll know who that
is."
I stroke his face. "My lover, huh?"
"You got a problem with that word? You want to tell your sister about your
fuckbuddy instead?"
"No, I don't have a problem with that word at all," I murmur. "Not at all."
"Good. Make your fucking call already."
I dial the number, but I kiss him again before I press send. When I tell Karen
who I have in the car with me, she pauses for a couple seconds, then yells,
"You've got to be kidding. You've been dating Billy Tallent for six months and
you didn't tell me? This had better not be a joke, Teej, or so help me I'll
kill you."
"It's not a joke, sis. See, I was afraid of your reaction—afraid you'd get all
jealous or something—" and I start laughing. "He's even better looking in
person, you know," I add.
"I mean it, Timothy, if this is some sort of elaborate practical joke, I will
get you back."
"It's not, Karen. Seriously, it's true. You'll see for yourself soon. Traffic
doesn't look too bad, so we should be there in 40 minutes or so. Try to get
yourself under control by the time we get there, all right?"
By the time we get to her house, she's managed to calm down. She greets us
relatively normally, although when she hugs me, she whispers, "I can't believe
it—you lucky dog" into my ear. Bill is utterly and completely charming, leaving
both Karen and Casey hanging on his every word. He signs all of Karen's cds and
tells a few funny anecdotes about life on the road. He asks thoughtful
questions about Casey's future plans and tells her not to be stupid like he was
but to go to college—only he calls it university.
It's after dinner—Karen's spinach lasagna, which was a hit all around. Karen
and Casey leave us alone in the living room for a minute when they go to get
the coffee, and I take Bill's hand and start playing with his long, elegant,
talented fingers. "Having a good time?" I ask.
"They're great, Timothy. Good people. The family thing, it's nice. Must have
been great, growing up with sisters and cousins and all that shit—Karen told me
you have a cousin who's like a brother to you two."
"My cousin Jim, yeah, we used to be really close."
"Used to be?"
"He's—the thing is, he's pretty conservative. I told him, you know, when I
realized I was attracted to men. He didn't react very positively. I haven't
spoken with him since."
"I'm sorry," he says, reaching up to my cheek. "Your sister seems okay with it,
though."
"It took her awhile, but yeah, she's fine with it now. Says she just wants me
to be happy."
"Are you?"
"Yeah," I answer. "I am. I'm happier than I've been in a long time."
"Good," he says softly. "That's good."
"What's good?" Karen asks as she enters the room.
"That your brother's got family that cares about him," Bill answers.
"Yeah, some of us," she mutters. Fortunately, I don't think he hears her.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters, Billy?" Casey asks.
"No, you're looking at an only child here," he answers.
"But you have a daughter, right?" Karen says. "I read that in Spin last year."
"Yeah, I do," he replies, reaching into his wallet. "Her name's Billie—her mom
named her after me, for some lame reason. That gets a little confusing, so we
usually just call each other 'B.' You want to see a picture?"
They crowd around us on the sofa, peering over our shoulders to get a better
look. It's the first time I've seen her picture up close, although I've noticed
it stuck in his guitar case before. She looks like him—same eyes, same smile.
"She's beautiful, Bill," Karen tells him. "She's got your eyes." He looks up,
just a trace of a shy smile on his face.
"Thanks," he says. "She's a good kid."
Casey interrupts to say it's time for her favorite television show, so Bill and
I get ready to go. Karen pulls me aside as we're getting ready to walk out.
"He's great, Teej," she says, hugging me fiercely. "I'm happy for you."
"So am I, Karen," I reply. "Jesus, so am I. I just hope it works out."
"It will, big brother. I saw the way he looks at you—it'll work out just fine."
VII. Truth
Who wants to be tough
to be permanent
permanent enough
Are you ready?
Are you ready, are you ready to love?
—Are you ready, the Tragically Hip
October 2001
It's beautiful on Vancouver Island, if a bit chilly. The leaves are already
falling off the trees, but they're still colorful; the air is brisk, the sky
almost as blue as Bill's eyes—I laugh at the thought, but I can't seem to help
it—and the sun is shining. It's a gorgeous day, and we spend some time lazing
around the lake on a small motor boat, one of a few Bill owns, the only one not
already in storage for the winter. After we bring the boat back to the dock, I
tell Bill I feel like taking a hike.
"You go for it, EnviroMan, but if you don't mind, I think I'll hang out here,
work on a couple songs."
"Hey, sure, no problem. I probably won't be gone long—it's getting kind of
chilly."
He snorts. "Fucking Southern-boy wimp. It's beautiful out, Tim—it's gotta be at
least 15 degrees. This is the place with the best climate in all of Canada."
"Oh, it's beautiful, but it's also pretty cool. What the hell is 15 degrees in
Fahrenheit, anyway? I can't believe you're not even wearing a sweater. Although
you do look great in that shirt." That's an understatement. He's wearing a dark
blue flannel shirt, and he looks fucking incredible, but I figure there'll be
plenty of time later to admire him in and out of it. I keep reminding myself,
we've got two weeks. I smile every time I think of it.
"The sweater's a good look for you," he says, smiling at me, "even if wearing
it does make you a wimp. Go on, enjoy your hike. And don't get lost."
"Fuck off," I reply, grinning.
I walk for over an hour, up and down secluded streets, along the shore of the
lake, through the trees. The air smells like nothing I've ever smelled
before—it's a mixture of pine, humus, and the lake that is just glorious. If I
lived up here, I can't imagine ever wanting to leave. Then again, I haven't
been here in the winter.
We haven't made a lot of plans, although I'd like to get some fishing in. I
think both of us are content to skip anything involved, preferring to spend as
much time around the house as possible.
The sun's getting lower over the lake, and I'm getting hungry, so I figure it's
time to head back. Bill's not in the house, though, so I head around the back,
then to the trees at the side, where I find him sound asleep in the hammock,
guitar (in its case) on the ground next to him. I walk up to him and kneel on
the ground, just watching him sleep for a few minutes, until the dampness in my
knees gets annoying.
I reach out and stroke his cheek, as softly as I can. He mutters something, his
face twitching, then opens his eyes.
"Hey."
He smiles at me sleepily, then takes my hand and kisses my fingers. Jesus, I am
so in love with this man. I panic for a second and almost turn away. "What's
wrong?" he asks.
"Nothing, nothing. I'm just hungry. You hungry?"
He nods, looking at me with concern, but not pushing. "I thought we'd go into
town for dinner—that okay with you?"
"Sure."
"You eat seafood, right? Because I'll have you know this is the salmon capital
of North America, " he tells me, letting me pull him up.
"Yeah, yeah, but how about crab, huh? Nothing can beat Maryland blue crab,
Bill."
We end up at the Harvest Restaurant, where they know Bill by name and treat him
as one of the locals—which I guess he is. The food's excellent, the atmosphere
relaxed, with plenty of tourists, families, and even a stage set up for live
entertainment on the weekends. He admits to having played a few acoustic sets
there when I ask him.
We enjoy our meal, but towards the end I can't help but notice the family
sitting next to us, a couple and two boys who look to be twins, about 5 or 6.
The tension's been visible from the moment they sat down, but it's ratcheting
up by the second as the boys, who are obviously hungry and worn out, tire of
coloring their placemats and start playing with their silverware. The woman
nervously tells them to settle down, and they do, for a minute or two, but then
they start blowing bubbles in their milk glasses with their straws, and the man
blows up and slaps them, hard.
The kids start crying, the woman tries to comfort them, the man punches her,
and I lose it. I'm up in his face in a second, and I actually forget I'm not a
cop anymore, because I am ready to take him down and slap some cuffs on him,
but of course I can't. I come back to myself with Bill's hand on my arm and
everyone in the restaurant staring at me.
"Tim," he says urgently. "Back off, or the cops are going to arrest you right
along with them. This isn't Baltimore."
"Right, right," I mutter, loosening my hold on the asshole's shirt. Everything
gets smoothed out, although the mother is angry at me for threatening her
husband, which is typical. The local police do arrest him after taking
statements from me, Bill, and a bunch of other patrons and staff, and then Bill
and I head back to the house.
He's silent in the car, stealing glances at me every so often, looking
troubled. I don't suppose I can blame him. As soon as we get into the house, he
asks me what the fuck that was all about.
And I tell him.
First, I tell him about Adena Watson, about how she was my first case, about
how I'd worked my whole life to become a homicide detective only to fuck up the
most important case of my career. Then I tell him about Janelle Parsons, and
Tonya Thompson, and I talk to him about Frank. And then I tell him about Uncle
George, and about my father.
He listens quietly through it all, occasionally asking questions to clarify
something, or murmuring something encouraging, but mostly just sitting there
next to me on the sofa, just there, present, aware, listening, and supportive.
He doesn't make any move to touch me, which is probably smart—and I think, not
for the first time, that had circumstances been different, he would have made a
hell of a detective. When I start talking about George, about what he did to
me, what he did to my cousin Kurt, he moves a little closer, so that I can feel
the warmth of his thigh against mine, but he doesn't do or say anything else
until I've finished talking.
When I'm done, he silently reaches up and brushes a tear from the corner of my
eye, then leaves his hand there, warm and solid against my cheek, and I lean
into it, into him, and then his arms are around me, and neither one of us
speaks as I cry in his arms, but he's still saying more than Frank ever could.
After that, after who knows how much time has passed, he makes love to me. I
don't know what he'd call it, but I know one thing—it's not just fucking
anymore, not for me.
I fall asleep easily, feeling more at peace than I have in years, but then I
dream.
I'm back in Baltimore, and it's the night the Mahoney organization imploded.
I'm following Frank through the alley at the back of Doris Hughes' house, and I
can hear the shots, hear the music, "Everybody knows/that it's all right/yeah
it's all right." Then the music stops, but there are still shots, and we get
the call that one of them is headed for the back stairs, and we're watching,
guns drawn, and Frank's ahead of me, and the door opens, and Frank points his
gun, but he's got one eye closed, and he's just standing there, frozen, again,
and the mook's got him in his sights now, so I move in front, trying to aim and
push Bill (it's Bill now, oh fuck, it's Bill) away at the same time, because
the guy's aiming at him. So I push him out of the way and try to take the shot,
but it's too late, and I can feel the bullet going into my back. I'm not
wearing my vest, and the bullet goes into the center of my back, and I know
that it's hit more than just a rib and my lungs; this time it hit my heart. I
hear Bill screaming that his partner's down, and a uniform shouting 1013 into
his radio, and then everything's black. It doesn't hurt, but everything's gone
black, and I hear Maria Delgado from WBAL announcing that Detective Timothy
Bayliss was shot and killed in the line of duty, and I know it's true.
I believe it completely, because it's true, and I panic, because I just met
Bill, I've just found him—I can't be dead now, that's not right, that's not
fair, but at the same time I believe it absolutely, and I'm consumed by
sadness, by what I've lost, and I lie there in the blackness, and I can't feel
my body, and I'm so sad and so fucking terrified, because this is it; there is
nothing else; I'm dead.
I wake up.
For a second I still think I'm dead. It's dark in Bill's house on the lake,
much darker than my bedroom in my apartment in Portland, with its cheap plastic
blinds and the light right outside the window, but then I make out the blur of
the clock radio on the bedside table, and I hear Bill breathing next to me, and
I mutter, "Fuck!" in panic and relief, my heart pounding. I can't help turning
to him, burying my face in the back of his neck, wrapping my arms around him
and pulling him to me.
He wakes with a muffled exclamation, then turns in my arms, one hand reaching
up to stroke my face. "Nightmare?" he asks.
"Yeah, yeah, it was a nightmare," I tell him, and he sits up and turns on the
light, both of us squinting, and then I pull him to me again, feeling like I
can never let go again.
"Jesus, Tim," he says, squirming a little. "You're shaking like a fucking leaf.
What the fuck did you dream about?"
"I died."
"What?"
"I died," I repeat. "I dreamed that I died, and I believed it. I completely
believed it. It was totally and completely real. I believed I was really dead."
I can tell he's unsure how to respond to this; he settles for laying his hand
along my cheek, then brushing my hair back. "You're alive," he says softly.
"You're not dead. You're right here with me, warm and breathing and alive."
I take his hand in mine, then kiss the palm. "You know what the worst part was?
About being dead?"
"What?" he asks, running his finger along my lower lip in a way that would
normally completely distract me, but now I barely notice.
"I kept thinking how unfair it was. Because I'd finally met you." Something I
heard Dennis Kohler say once, a quote from some Buddhist he respected, just
keeps running through my head: "Since only death is certain, and the time of
death uncertain, what must we do?" I take a breath and try to look into his
eyes, feeling terrified but determined. He's staring at his fingers and my
mouth, so that makes it a little easier. "See, the thing is, I'm in love with
you."
He looks away. Fuck.
"Bill?"
The fingers are back, pressed firmly against my mouth.
"Just give me a second here," he says, his voice a little shaky. Then he takes
a deep breath and meets my eyes. "Okay, say that again."
"I love you, Bill."
He smiles; god, he's smiling at me, open and warm. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." And I have to ask, "Is that okay?"
He strokes my cheek softly. "It's good, Tim. It's great."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He runs his finger over my lips again. "Fuck, Tim, I never thought,
after Joe—but I do, I love you, so much." And then he kisses me, lips brushing
mine softly, tenderly, his hand around the back of my neck, and I run my hands
along his upper arms and chest, feeling the sparse hairs, and I bend my head
and kiss his neck, his ear, his shoulder, his chest, until he's moaning softly
and I can feel his erection against my hip.
He reaches into the drawer for the lube, then pulls me up into a kiss, wrapping
his legs around my waist, canting his hips upward, placing the tube in my hand.
I break off the kiss and look at him. He nods. "You're sure?" I ask, and he
nods again.
I try to take my time and prep him carefully, but he's having none of it.
"Now," he tells me after only a minute.
I nod. "You'll tell me—"
"I won't need to; come on," he says urgently. He's breathing hard, his cock
fully erect, damp at the tip. There's no fear in his expression, just love and
want, and before I know it I'm pressing slowly inside him, so tight, so hot,
but like silk, and then I'm in all the way, and I haven't taken my eyes off
him, and when I pull back a little and thrust, he gasps, eyes widening, and
tells me to do it again.
I go slow, as slowly as I can stand, wanting to prolong this, aware of every
sensation—taste (salt, and Bill); hearing (grunts, groans, breathing; me,
Bill); sight (Bill, nothing but Bill); smell (arousal, sweat; me, Bill); touch,
jesus, touch (arms around me and chest under me and his body around me; Bill,
everywhere, everything, Bill).
Epilogue
your beautiful thing
it'd be
a beautiful thing
to see
that beautiful thing
continuing
—A Beautiful Thing, the Tragically Hip
The next few days pass by quickly, too quickly. I wake up one morning, watch
Bill sleeping as I have every morning, and realize there's less than a week
left until I head home. His daughter will be arriving tomorrow. When he wakes,
I make love to him with a certain desperate intensity. Later, while we're
eating lunch, I catch him staring at me.
"You set on Portland?" he asks suddenly, putting down his coffee cup.
"What?"
"Portland. You set on living there?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, confused.
"I know your sister's there, and you've got a job—seems like a nice city, and
it's not that far by plane—"
"What are you talking about, Bill?"
"I'm talking about moving."
"Moving?" I repeat like an idiot.
"Yes, moving. To Portland. Freak." He smiles at me. "You don't want to keep
doing this long distance thing, do you?"
"No, I don't, but—jesus, Bill."
"You know how I feel about you—you think I'm going to be satisfied with seeing
you once a month?"
"I could move to California," I offer.
He shakes his head. "You could, yeah, but I don't want to live there anymore.
Living in Portland, I'd still have to go down to LA to record, and I'd still go
on tour, but I'm ready to get out of that scene. Of course, if you wanted to go
somewhere else—shit, if you wanted to go back to Baltimore—"
I shake my head. "No. Not Baltimore."
He nods. "You seem like you're pretty close to your sister and Casey."
"Yeah," I answer. "Yeah, I am."
"So, Portland," he says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. "You know
any good realtors there?"
"Karen's a realtor. That might be a little awkward—she can give you some
names—"
"Karen'll do fine—unless you think she'd feel weird about it?"
I laugh. "She'll be thrilled."
He looks at me closely. "You okay with this? Because I'm not moving to Portland
to live alone."
"Okay? Jesus, Bill—it's great. I never thought—yeah, I'm okay with it. It's
wonderful. You're sure you want to do this, to leave where you've lived for so
many years?"
"I'm sure," he says quietly. "I'm sure about you."
"I'm sure, too. I love you."
"Love you too," he says, leaning over to kiss me. "So, you'll call her?"
"I'll call her."
"Good. Come on, let's go back to bed. We've got a move to plan."
"Is that what we're going to do? Plan the move?"
"Eventually, yeah, we are," he says, smiling.
"Eventually, huh?"
"Shut up and come to bed, Tim."
THE END
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