Trin

by J. M. Snyder

  He won’t ask her then. It doesn’t matter anyway. Gerrick just left here, didn’t he? His bags are still here…Trin glances at the worn and dusty packs to make sure they’re right where the gunner left them and they are, so he won’t bother to ask Aissa where she thinks his man was. He doesn’t care to hear her watch out for him, Trini spiel again today.

  The shirt he wore yesterday is still clean—he put it on after the shower and sniffs it now to make sure there’s no booze on it, or whatever it was Aissa slipped into his drink last night, but it smells alright so he tugs it on, smoothes it down over his chest. A look over his shoulder at the disheveled pallet and he grins. Kisses waking him in the night, dream-like sex, falling asleep slathered with his own fecund cum…yes, he’s gotten used to this real quick.

  Outside his door, the waystation is silent. Trin takes the front staircase, the one that leads down to the common, his feet flitting over the steps as he just barely touches the railing. In his eagerness he would’ve rushed right out into the common if he didn’t catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. He skids to a stop on the last step—from here he can see Gerrick’s back in the mirrors that frame the door. Holding his breath, Trin watches him eat, a plate in front of him filled with eggs or pancakes or sausage, he can’t see what because the gunner’s body blocks his view but he can smell frying grease. His stomach rumbles and he covers it with one hand, pressing his palm flat against his belly to quiet it. In the kitchen, plates clink together with a distant sound that has nothing to do with him or the man he watches in the mirror. How long has he waited for this? Longed for it? Aissa once told him to take what he can get, meaning all the other gunners who rode through here, but Trin held out and now he’s finally getting what he wanted all along.

  The gunner’s name is on the tip of his tongue and Trin is just about to call out when he sees movement in the other mirror, the one on the other side of the door. As he turns his attention to that reflection, he sees a heavy hand rubbing a dry cloth over the top of the bar. A muscled forearm, sleeve pulled up to expose graying hair curled over tattoos blue with age, and then the rest of his brother steps into the mirror, the set of his face an all-too-familiar expression to Trin. Holding his breath, Trin comes off the last step slowly, careful not to set his full weight on the floor so the boards won’t creak. There’s something about the way Blain glares at Gerrick, who leans over his food and either ignores or doesn’t notice the other man, something that cautions Trin not to go busting out there right this second. Just wait.

  The staircase comes out in a dim corridor, separated from the bar by a length of wall that runs to the public toilets in the back. On tiptoes Trin creeps over towards the wall. He sees the mirror behind the bar reflected in the mirrors framing the door, his brother’s and Gerrick’s glossy faces reflected back, the mirror behind the bar again, the mirrors by the door leading out to the street. A dozen common rooms echo in the tempered glass. A dozen Gerricks shovel eggs into a dozen mouths that are still imprinted on Trin’s skin. A dozen Blains wipe down a dozen bars. Trin wants to run out in the midst of those reflections and shatter that scene. Blain’s hand rubs over the bar again and again. Gerrick eats as if he doesn’t know the other gunner is even there.

  “Gerrick,” Blain says, his deep voice carrying into the hallway. Trin steps up to the wall, listening. Eavesdropping. The word sparks in his mind and is gone like a comet in the night. No, I’m just waiting for the right moment to come out, he thinks. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

  The gunner grunts in reply. From where he’s pressed flat against the wall, Trin can’t see much of the mirrors now—just Gerrick’s proud back, the ends of his hair that curl over his collar, the hem of his shirt pulled free from his jeans. The fabric stretches taut across his back as he takes another bite. Then, as if noticing Blain for the first time, he laughs. Hearing that rich sound weakens Trin’s knees. “You son of a bitch,” Gerrick says, amused. Trin imagines his brother’s mouth tightening at the phrase, his lips bloodless lines in his face. The gunner’s manner is friendly enough but there was nothing civil in Blain’s voice. Gerrick has to be the only man Trin’s ever known to blow off his brother’s obvious anger—he does so with another laugh and the clatter of his fork against his plate. Trin dares to lean out from the wall enough so that he can see the second mirror. The gunner holds a hand out to Blain, who glares at it like road kill or something pecked to death by the preybirds in the wastes. Gerrick doesn’t appear to notice. “Blain! Give it here, man. I was just asking about you, too. Your brother said—”

  “I thought I told you never to ride through here,” Blain says. Each word is as final and as deadly as a gunshot and Gerrick’s hand falls to the table, shot down. “I thought I said I didn’t want to see you around.”

  The gunner’s laugh isn’t so quick this time. “That was years ago.” Awkward silence stretches out between them and Trin wonders how he can shrug off Blain’s hateful stare so easily. The fork scrapes across the plate and when Gerrick speaks again, it’s through a mouthful of food. “I like your brother.”

  Trin flushes, suddenly hotter than the sun at high noon. I like…Gerrick just said—I like your brother. His brain shorts out like an overheated engine and he’s vaguely aware that he’s grinning like a damned fool. I like your brother. See? Trin wants to crow. See?

  “You leave him out of this,” Blain hisses. The grin slips from Trin’s face and he strains to hear his brother’s lowered voice. “I told you to stay the fuck away because I knew you’d pull this shit. It’s like that kid in Danac all over again, isn’t it?”

  Gerrick’s voice explodes. “That has nothing to do with this!”

  But Blain ignores him. “You hear someone has the hots for you and you just have to go see for yourself. Roll into town like a fucking god and rock their world a bit. Does it make you feel good, Gerrick? The way he looks at you, the way he idolizes you?”

  That kid in Danac…Trin’s mind stumbles over that but he tells himself it’s cool. Of course the gunner’s had lovers before. Trin knows he likes boys, that’s part of his appeal. Danac’s one of the inposts, a few days’ worth of hard riding to the east, and whoever this kid is, he isn’t here now. But what happened with him?

  “I want you out,” Blain is saying. “Today. I’ll put your truck together myself if I have to but I want you gone by sunset.”

  Trin shakes his head. “No,” he whispers, then covers his mouth with one hand and bites into his palm so no one hears him. Tears prick his eyes, no.

  With an uneasy laugh, Gerrick starts, “Blain, really, I think you’re overreacting here—”

  “My brother’s not going to end up with a bullet in his head,” Blain spits. Trin’s pulse quickens…a bullet? Sweet Jesus. He’s never heard Blain so livid before. “You’re nothing to him, do you hear me? I won’t let you fuck him over the way you’ve always done before. He’s not another one of your sluts, he’s not some nameless boy you won’t remember five minutes after you roll out. He’s my brother. He’s the reason I gave up gunning. You hurt him, Gerrick, and you’ll answer to me.”

  Silence. Trin feels his heart twist in his chest at his brother’s spiel. No, he wants to shout, No! The gunner can’t leave. Who cares about some strung out kid pining away at one of the inposts? Gerrick’s staying with him, Blain can’t threaten him away. He just can’t.

  Quietly, so quietly that Trin has to strain to hear him, Gerrick whispers, “Don’t fuck with me, Blain.”

  Blain’s reply is just as low, just as deadly. “Get out.”

  The fork drops to Gerrick’s plate, a loud clack that makes Trin jump. “I’m not here for you,” he says. Trin blinks back tears, hanging on every word. “You told me to stay away and I have, but you never told me why. Then I get wind of this boy who’ll entertain a man just to hear him talk of me.” His laugh is quick and dry. “You think I didn’t have to come see him for myself? To taste him? He’s sweet, Blain. Damn sweet, like sugar. Melts at my tou
ch—”

  “Get out.” Blain tries to keep his anger in check but the strain is in his voice, his control of the moment is slipping rapidly out of his grasp. Then what? Don’t provoke him, please, Trin prays. God, don’t fight over me. “He’s more than you’ll ever deserve. Just get the hell out of here, now, before I—”

  That damnable laugh again. “Before you what? Kill me? How will you ever explain that to your brother, hmm? You give up your whole way of life for him and then off me in a fit of rage, do you think he’ll forgive you for that? He’s damn near obsessive about me, that’s thicker than blood and you know it.” Blain doesn’t answer but Trin can feel his frustration in what he doesn’t say. “He’s old enough to figure out who he wants to fuck on his own, Blain. You don’t need to decide that for him. If he wants me out of that room, he can tell me himself.” More silence, Blain’s dangerous when he gets like this, Trin thinks wildly. Did Gerrick just say he’s staying? That he’ll defy Blain’s anger for him? He doesn’t hope to dare… “I suggest you close your eyes if you don’t like it. Keep that bitch of yours and let your brother open his pallet to me if he wants. I’ll be moving on soon enough.”

  Pushing away from the wall, Trin tiptoes towards the stairs. A quick glance at the mirrors shows Gerrick bent over his plate, intent on his food. Blain stands in front of him, hands clenched as white as the towel he uses to wipe down the bar. Without looking up, the gunner continues his meal as if he isn’t even having this discussion.

  “That’s the whole problem,” Blain mutters, pissed. As Trin steps up on the first riser, the board creaks beneath his feet and his brother’s gaze flickers to him. For a moment their eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror. Trin holds his breath, sure Blain will direct his anger towards him, but he turns back to Gerrick. “You move on and then what, huh? He wastes the rest of his life waiting for you to come back while you fuck your way through the outposts? You bastard.”

  The gunner’s laughter rings out through the common. “You’ve gone soft,” he says, amused. “I’ll fuck him as long as he wants me to.”

  “And anyone else who drops their pants for you,” Blain counters.

  In the mirror, Gerrick’s shoulders rise and fall in a disinterested shrug. “You get what you can. Don’t get all holy on me, Blain. Like you never played around. Anything to get off…weren’t those your words, once upon a time?”

  Trin grasps the railing in one hand and starts up the stairs. “Times change,” his brother growls.

  “Well I don’t,” Gerrick shoots back. “I’ll do what I want, and right now that’s your baby brother.”

  He just said he wants me, Trin thinks. He hurries up the steps and wishes he had stayed in bed. Why did he want to come down here anyway? To hear him say something, anything, outside the pallet and he did, didn’t he? He said he likes me. He wants me. Me. And that’s good, right?

  He’s not sure. His mind hurts turning over all that he heard, everything the gunner implied and his brother hinted at but yeah, he thinks that’s good. He likes me. That’s damn good.

  * * * *

  When Gerrick comes into the room, Trin is sitting on the windowsill, staring out at the junkyard below. Chrome and metal gleam in the morning sun and above the palisade, the sky is already the washed out color of the gunner’s jeans. Trin’s been thinking about what he overheard downstairs. One word stands stark in his mind—bullet.

  Out in the wastelands, Gerrick wears a pair of revolvers slung low on his hips…Trin saw them when he rode in. His saddlebags are filled with gunpowder, wrapped in little twists of paper like party favors. He’s the fastest draw in all the outposts, shoots with a deadly aim, both hands equally sharp. He’s a gunner, for Christ’s sake. He makes a living from bullets and pistols. He kills.

  Devlars, Trin assures himself. He looks up as Gerrick enters, a little surprised the gunner came back. Preybirds. Not people.

  The corner of Gerrick’s mouth pulls into a wane attempt at a smile. “Thought you’d still be in bed,” he says. He kneels by his bags and starts to root through them, but when Trin doesn’t answer, he glances at him again. “You okay?”

  Fine, Trin wants to say, only what comes out sounds more like, “What happened to the kid in Danac?” As soon as the words are free, he wishes he could take them back.

  “The kid…” Gerrick raises an eyebrow and sits back on his heels, the bag in his hands forgotten. The look he gives Trin is unnerving. “Listening in when you ain’t invited is bad form, boy.”

  “I was coming to sit with you,” Trin whispers. He doesn’t like the glint in Gerrick’s eyes, it’s hard and uncompromising and suggests that tonight he might sleep alone. “I didn’t see you all yesterday, and last night you came in so late. I just wanted to maybe spend some time together before you left again today.”

  With a grunt, Gerrick turns back to his bag. “I’m a busy man,” he says. He digs into the bottom of his bag and starts to pull out the twisted paper pieces that hold his gunpowder. “I didn’t come here for a visit. My shocks are about gone, I’m low on ammo, my knife’s dull, I need food for the run, whole lot of shit I need to get done here. I can’t afford quality time. Trin, isn’t it?” He glances up to confirm the name and Trin nods. “The only time I get to myself is at the end of the day. I would think you’d appreciate that I came all the way back here to spend that with you.”

  “I do,” Trin assures him. “Gerrick, I know—”

  The gunner interrupts him. “What happened wasn’t my fault. No matter what Blain tries to tell you otherwise, you got me? I had nothing to do with it.”

  Frowning, Trin asks, “Is this about Danac?” Gerrick claws through his bag, his anger like his guns or his knife, deadly despite it silence. Still, Trin wants to know, has to, and if he asks Blain then his brother will be more than a little upset that he was in the hall listening to their conversation. He’ll be fucking insane if he thinks Trin’s sneaking around him because he’s not the secretive type. If someone were talking about him, he’d walk right up to the person, ask them what the hell they were saying. He’s blunt like that. Aissa too, she doesn’t linger in doorways to overhear gossip. If Trin dares to ask her did she know about a kid in Danac who took a bullet in Gerrick’s name, she’d drag him with her to find out from the gunner himself. Gerrick’s the only one who can tell him straight. He just said Blain would lay the blame on him. As the gunner spills clothes and toiletries from his bag, Trin asks, “Who was this kid?”

  “I don’t even remember.” Gerrick’s voice is surly like a sullen child’s. “About your age maybe, but this was years back, when Blain was still gunning. Someone who heard about me and thought I was the best. I am the best, but this kid took it over the top.” He gives Trin a look that says, same as you, just as sure as if he spoke the words out loud. “I’m out on the run for a month or more straight and you can imagine what it’s like—hot and sandy and mean, and I’m all too ready to find a soft place to crawl into for a couple of days, you know? And all I keep hearing from the gunners coming out of Danac is look, this kid has the hots for you, ride in there and see for yourself. So I did.”

  Trin wants to ask if he was riding with Blain at the time, but he keeps quiet. Now that Gerrick is finally talking to him, more than moans in the pallet or whispered lines to get him hard, he doesn’t want to say anything to stop the story. He loves the man’s voice, an octave or two lower than his own and gravelly, as if he’s been in the wastelands so much that the sand and sun are now a part of him. It’s how the dunes would sound if they could speak. Trin could listen to the gunner all day, hearing only the voice beneath the words, the cadence and rhythm of hot days and lonesome, chilly nights.

  Emptying his bag, Gerrick begins to sort through the things he’s laid out in front of him. His fingers dance nimbly over short rounds of bullets tied side by side on strips of rawhide, his lips moving as he counts the ammunition. Trin bites his lower lip and waits. Finally the bullets are set aside and, satisfied, the gunner pulls h
is gun belt out from between the folds of a shirt. It’s made of worn leather, etched with a design so faded that Trin can’t decipher it, the guns in holsters stained dark with years of sweat. With reverent hands Gerrick extracts the guns, touching their pearlized grips and steel barrels the way he touches Trin at night. Sitting down, he sets one gun in his lap and empties the rounds from the other. From among the items on the floor he finds a chamois cloth and a small vial of oil. Trin wonders if he’s through with his story, and is debating whether or not to ask him what happened next when the gunner speaks. “He was something else,” he says, his voice carrying to where Trin sits in the window. “Great boy, really, and all tied up in me it wasn’t even funny. I had no idea one person could know so much about another, could want so much from him, when we’d never met.”

  He starts to clean the gun in his hands. The oil darkens the chamois and leaves dark streaks on the metal. Gerrick watches his hands work as if they belong to someone else, his mind in the past. In Danac. “Lovely boy,” he sighs. “Soulful eyes, you know the kind I mean. Dark, too. Damn, I’d never seen eyes so dark. You’d drown in him, I swear.”

  Trin thinks maybe he doesn’t want to hear this after all. The man’s had lovers before, he tells himself. He’s twice my age and too good in the sack. I know I’m a far cry from his first. Still, he doesn’t want to think about anyone else with the gunner, and he surely doesn’t like the wistful way Gerrick recalls the kid. That boy is dead, he remembers. No contender for his attentions, not anymore.

  “I did that,” Gerrick whispers. “Got completely lost in him for a few days. He was too good to be true. I’m sure you don’t know how heady it is, having someone cast you in that role. I should’ve stopped it maybe, put an end to the charade, but I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you now that I loved every damn minute of it.”

  That glance again, the one that says Trin reminds him a lot of the boy. Too much perhaps, or maybe not enough. “So what went wrong?” Trin asks. He talks low, keeping this between them. He likes any intimacy he can get.