Four Truths

Disclaimers: Tim Bayliss and Billy Tallent don't belong to me, and I'm making no money here.

Classification: Slash (Billy Tallent/Tim Bayliss), crossover (Hard Core Logo/Homicide: Life on the Street)

Notes: This is not a part of either the Going Under series or the Marigold series. It's different, yet another permutation of getting these two characters together.

The story title refers to Buddhism's Four Noble Truths. All quotes are from Stephen Batchelor's Buddhism without Beliefs unless otherwise noted.

Thanks for early reading, encouragement, and good suggestions from my posse (Ardent, Ramius, Bast, and Lena), and thanks to all who read and commented, including Kit and AuKestrel. Thanks to Bethann, who is the beta in my head even when she's not betaing. Beta thanks to CatMoran and Ardent.

Soundtrack: The Tragically Hip, In Violet Light.

Spoilers: Everything in Homicide and Hard Core Logo, but with specific HLotS references to Colors, Double Blind, Fallen Heroes, The Truth will Out, Zen and the Art of Murder, and Life Everlasting (Homicide: the Movie).

Warning: Discussion of past non-con (canon for characters).

Rating: NC-17.

Summary: Tim doesn't go to funerals anymore.

Feedback me at bodge38@earthlink.net

Four Truths

by shell

copyright 2003

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 clichÈd 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 acknowledgement, 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 CafÈ 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?"