Dreamspinner Press Years One & Two Greatest Hits

by J. M. Colail

  It didn’t matter. He had to put it out of his mind, and fast. He’d be spending a lot of time with D in the coming weeks, maybe months, and he had to nip it in the bud before it made him miserable.

  He got up from the table and went to the cabinet over the fridge, where he knew there was a mostly full bottle of Wild Turkey. He trudged to the sofa and sat down heavily, uncapped the bottle and took a swig, wincing over the bite of the whisky.

  He’d drunk another four swallows before D finally came back inside, the setting sun silhouetting him in the doorway. “Gettin’ drunk, Francisco?” he grumbled.

  “What’s it to you?” Jack said, feeling his tongue slow and stupid already. Jesus, you’re a lightweight, Francisco. Couple of pulls and you’re already half in the bag.

  D came over and took the bottle, but instead of putting it away he upended it and drank two long swallows. He sat down at the other end of the sofa and passed the bottle back. “Jus’ don’t wanna listen ta you bitch about bein’ hungover in the mornin’.”

  “Why, we got something to do?”

  “Gotta be leavin’ soon. Once ya give my arm the seal of approval.” He flexed it in Jack’s direction. He’d stopped wearing the sling the day before.

  “No rush,” Jack said, taking another drink and handing the bottle to D, who did likewise.

  “Nope, no rush.”

  They sat silently passing the bottle back and forth for a good half hour, staring into the flames of the gas fireplace. Jack began to feel weighty and relaxed. Words were rising unchecked to his tongue and it was only with effort that he barred their way.

  Some escaped, though. “How long since you got laid, D?” he asked.

  D made an indistinct grunting noise. “Why?”

  Jack shrugged. “Dunno. Middle of a bit of a dry spell myself. Betcha it isn’t hard for you, though. Mysterious black-clad specter of death; bet the babes can’t get enough.”

  D shook his head. “You drunk already?”

  “That isn’t an answer.”

  “I don’t do that, all right?”

  “Do what? Fuck?”

  D’s jaw was grinding. Jack watched his profile. “I don’t… I’m not….” D sighed and reached for the bottle, taking another swig. “I jus’ cain’t,” he said, quietly.

  Jack’s brow furrowed. “Whaddya mean, you can’t?”

  “Don’t feel nothin’. Ain’t no kinda human bein’.”

  “Well… but….” Jack hesitated. “You don’t feel nothing?”

  “Jus’ shut up about it.”

  “What, you can’t get it up?”

  D turned to face him, his eyes glittering in the dimness. “You watch yer mouth, Francisco. Ain’t too late ta kill ya, ya know.”

  “Oooh, I’m so fucking scared. You’re not kidding, are you?” Jack hitched one knee up and turned to face D. “You’re telling me that you’ve dug yourself into a cave so deep you don’t even have a libido anymore?” D’s silence was confirmation enough. Jack shook his head. “That is hard core, D.”

  There was a long silence, and more passing of the quickly dwindling bottle. Finally, D spoke again, his voice low and sibilant, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I do things,” he said. “Too many ta count or measure. Gotta cut it off ta bear it. Cut it all off.” His chin set in a hard line of determination. “You tryin’ ta sew it back on and it’s too goddamned late.” He stood up abruptly and went into his room, shutting the door behind him.

  Jack faced forward again and drained the rest of the bottle. He slumped into the corner of the couch and gazed numbly into the fire until his eyes closed themselves.

  WHEN THE crash woke him, Jack was dreaming about shooting a gun. He was in the backyard with D’s Glock in his hands, firing away, trying to aim, but the bullets kept coming back toward him and he had to duck time and again.

  He sat straight up, disoriented and still a little bit drunk. It was deep night, he couldn’t read the clock above the stove, and his head felt muzzy and thick. What the fuck was that? It had sounded like something heavy falling.

  He heard something else. Another thump, not as loud, and an incoherent half-muffled cry. Shit, it’s D. He’s having another nightmare.

  Previously, Jack had let him alone during his nightmares. Best to let him sleep through them. But now, sitting right outside D’s door, still half-asleep… he stumbled to his feet and over to the bedroom. He pounded on it with one fist. “D? Wake up!” Another thump and a strangled yell, no words.

  Jack opened the door. D’s head was thrashing from side to side on his pillow, his hands clutching at the bedsheets. He’d knocked his lamp off the side table, which had probably made the crash that had woken Jack.

  Jack didn’t think. He staggered to the bedside and grabbed D’s shoulders. “D! Wake the hell up! Just a nightmare!”

  D spluttered a few nonsense syllables and then snapped to lightning-quick action, grabbing out blindly and shoving Jack away. He fell backward onto the foot of the bed. D was sitting up now, but Jack didn’t think he was really awake yet. He sat back up and seized D’s upper arms. “Calm down! It’s me, Jack!”

  D lashed out, struggling against Jack’s grip, and all was confusion and tangled arms and Jack took a glancing blow to the side of the face that made him see stars. Jack grabbed D’s arms and held them fast between their bodies. D’s forehead was against Jack’s, his chest heaving. “J… Jack…,” he stammered.

  “Yeah, it’s me… it’s okay,” Jack whispered. “You’re… you just….”

  He trailed off, his own breath quickening. D’s fingers were gripping Jack’s forearms and everything was crackling, snapping like a static charge off a doorknob, heavy like the air before a lightning storm. He was practically gasping for breath; they both were.

  Jack drew back a little and looked into D’s face, flushed and sweaty, his eyes lowered. Jack felt himself hardening. Oh Jesus, get out. Just get out. He can’t see you like this. He probably won’t remember… just don’t let him see….

  D’s eyes flicked up to meet his, wide and surprised like Jack had never seen them, the pulse visible in D’s throat, quick and fluttering. Jack could smell the sharp tang of D’s sweat and feel his muscles taut and thrumming beneath his hands; he held D’s gaze, eyes side-lit by the glow from the living room, and saw there something raw and scrubbed blank by time and neglect, creaking to life and crawling out of the darkness.

  Jack would never know how he’d let himself do it, but without lowering his eyes he took his hand from D’s shoulder and slid it down between his legs. D hissed and flinched, his eyes slamming shut. Jack felt D hard beneath his hand. He leaned his forehead against D’s again. “You feel it,” he whispered, barely breathed, not really a question.

  D just shook his head, turning against Jack’s, but it wasn’t a denial. Jack felt arousal spiking through him, clouding his mind with the wanting, wanting this man, all of him, black and tarry, rotted with disuse, glorious and fractured and spilling out of the cracks.

  His hands went on their own to his belt buckle and fumbled it open. D’s hands were on his neck now, gripping and squeezing it, kneading the damp skin. Jack heard him suck in a breath and hiss it out, and then suddenly he seized Jack’s shoulders and turned him toward the bed, onto his stomach, pulled to his knees. Oh Jesus, this is happening. He felt the humid air of the bedroom hit his bare skin as D yanked his jeans down off his hips. The bed creaked as D moved up behind him; he could hear D’s breath scraping in and out in harsh bellow pulls, a faint mumbling beneath it, the heat of his hands on Jack’s hips. He put his head down and tried to relax; then a press and a deep throb and D was inside him.

  Jack groaned and grabbed at the sheets, wincing against the pain; D let out a strangled cry and Jack felt his hips tight against his ass, his weight pressing him forward, his hands hanging on to Jack’s shirt, then scrabbling beneath for skin. He pushed back, the discomfort fading, D thrusting forward again and again, rough and eager with denial. Jack’s brain
emptied of all thought and he let himself go, giving himself over to D’s urgency, low-pitched whines coming from D’s throat and then Jack lost it, crying out as he came without even a hand to himself, D’s hands on his back beneath his shirt greedy, then seizing and holding as D thrust deep and came into him without a sound, rigid and overtaken before he flopped forward with a quiet groan, bearing Jack down onto the bed with him, slipping out of him and rolling to his back. Jack turned on his side, whirling and dizzy. He kicked his jeans off and lay there in just his T-shirt, pulse slowing and sleep racing to overtake him, cautiously extending one hand to rest on D’s chest before it caught them both.

  CHAPTER 12

  D WOKE up slowly, the curtains blocking most of the morning sun. The room felt humid and closed in, and he was unusually warm.

  That’s cuz there’s somebody else in the bed with ya, dumbass.

  He turned his head and saw Jack’s sleeping face, half-buried in the pillow, his hands curled under his cheek. He stayed very still so as not to wake him, because as long as Jack stayed asleep D would not have to school his expression, wouldn’t have to erase any trace of alarm or regret or confusion or even tenderness that might have shown in his own features. He could just lie here and look at him for a moment, and try not to think ahead, or wonder what the hell had happened, or how he’d allowed it, or what it meant, or if it was too late to take it back.

  One of his hands drifted toward Jack’s face, all by itself. D stared at it hanging there in the air, then drew it back. Jack stirred slightly and D turned away, slowly sliding his legs out from beneath the covers. He rose from the bed and tiptoed into the bathroom, which was shared by both bedrooms. He made the water as hot as he could and abraded himself with the stupid little fluffy scrubbie thing, squinching his eyes shut and letting the steam surround him like a shield of invisibility.

  You fucked a man last night. How about that? You gonna think about that? When ya gonna start dealin’ with it? Or with the fact that it may a been the first time ya did it, but weren’t the first time ya wanted to?

  He rubbed soap through his hair, being careful of his still-tender shoulder wound. He rinsed his head and stood there blinking, unsure of what came next. He’d washed everything, but he didn’t want to leave the sheltered dimness of the shower quite yet.

  Finally, he made himself turn off the water. Jack would probably want a shower, and not a cold one, so it wouldn’t be too nice of him to use up all the hot water just because he was scared to face life outside the bathroom. He stepped out and toweled off, eyeing the bathroom door. Was Jack still asleep? Was he sitting in bed, waiting for D to come out so they could have some kind of heart-to-heart conversation about What It All Meant? Worse, was he waiting there for D to come back so they could… do it again? Would it be weird to walk out naked? He wasn’t sure he wanted Jack to see him naked.

  That ship’s kinda sailed, ain’t it? You’ve screwed him but ya don’t want him seein’ ya in the buff?

  Well, ya cain’t stay in the fuckin’ bathroom all day.

  He eased the door open and peeked out. The bedroom was empty, the covers on the other side of his bed thrown back, and he could hear Jack out in the main room. Heaving a sigh of relief, he hurried out and yanked on clean clothes.

  He paused at the bedroom door, shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and walked right out like it was any other morning, and he and Jack would be having breakfast as if they hadn’t had sex the night before. Jack was at the counter making coffee. He’d put his jeans back on.

  “Morning,” he said, casting a quick glance over his shoulder.

  “Mmm,” D grunted.

  “You done in the bathroom?”

  D blinked. No, I jus’ took a little breather in the middle a my mornin’ beauty ritual ta come out here ’n’ chat with ya. A course I’m done. He restrained himself to a simple nod. “All yers,” he muttered.

  Without another word, Jack went into his own bedroom. A few moments later, D heard the shower running. He leaned on the counter and stared at the coffee dripping slowly into the coffeepot, concentrating on a caffeine fix to keep himself from thinking of Jack in the shower. Naked in the shower.

  He’d more or less put the image out of his mind by the time Jack emerged, fully clothed and shaven, a task D hadn’t had the mental wherewithal to remember. “That’s uh, the last of the coffee,” Jack said. “Are we leaving soon? For good, I mean.”

  “Dunno.”

  “If we’re not, we need to get some groceries.”

  D made himself turn and look Jack in the face for the first time. He looked the same. What’d you expect? A big pink triangle on his forehead? A giant letter Q on his chest? A course he’s the same. Jus’ like yer the same. Same old Jack. Except it wasn’t. Jack looked the same, but he wasn’t the same, and neither was D. He felt it in himself, and he saw it in the stiff set of Jack’s shoulders and the fidgety way he had his hands shoved in his pockets. Mostly he saw it in Jack’s eyes. They were veiled, cautious. He looked… defended. He didn’t know what was going to happen now and he was bracing himself against whatever did. D knew the feeling. “Ya want some breakfast?” D asked, turning back to the stove.

  Jack sighed. “Sit down. I’ll do it. You could burn water.”

  D glanced at him, detecting a slight trace of normality in the jibe. Jack’s lips were curled into a hard, tight little smirk, but he didn’t look D’s way. “Yer the boss,” he said, and adjourned to the table.

  Jack made eggs and toast, lifting the cholesterol embargo for the time being. They ate in silence. D concentrated on his food, not lifting his eyes from the plate in case they should see anything that would require him to respond.

  The silence wasn’t fooling anyone, though. It was miles from the easier, more companionable silences they’d enjoyed just a few days ago. D could practically feel the tension thrumming in the air, like he was vibrating with it and through him the chair, the floor, the table, and all the way over to Jack.

  He pushed his plate away and folded his arms on the table. “We’ll head out tonight,” he said. Just making a definite statement about something—anything—felt like progress.

  “Where are we going?” Jack asked. He sounded like he was a little afraid of the answer.

  “Redding.”

  “What’s in Redding?”

  “A place we can hide out, maybe until the trial.” Wait. Did that sound like some kinda come-on? Get all comfy and cozy and intimate in some house somewhere? Does he think I’m…. What if he thinks I mean…. Fuck it, I don’t even know what I mean. Good Christ, I am fuckin’ bad at this. Whatever “this” even is.

  “A house?”

  D nodded. “My brother’s house.”

  There was a pause. D risked a glance upward to find Jack staring at him in amazement. “You have a brother?”

  “Had. He’s dead.”

  “You… had a brother?”

  D shrugged. “Yeah. What’s the big deal?”

  Jack shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know. Just… it’s weird to think of you having relatives. Like a normal person would have. Siblings and parents.”

  “A course I got parents. Ya think I sprung up outta the desert sand full-grown?”

  Jack blinked. “Kinda, yeah.”

  D sighed. “Well, my parents died when I was a kid. My brother ’n’ sister took care a me. Didn’t see neither a them again after I left the army. My brother died in a car crash five years ago and left me his house. I put it in a fake name, one a my aliases, so it couldn’t be traced ta me.”

  “Where’s your sister?”

  “Dunno.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  D glared at him. “Which part’s givin’ ya the trouble? I. Don’t. Know.”

  “You could find out!”

  “Don’t care ta. She don’t wanna see me nohow. Anyway, she’s part a… who I used ta be. That man’s dead. Jus’ me left now, and I ain’t got no family.”

  D waited
for Jack’s reaction, but it wasn’t what he expected. Seemed like only a few days ago that his “the man I used ta be is dead” speech would have gotten some awe, or quivery-chin empathy, or some damn humility at being in the presence of such hard-bitten emotional deadness. Now, Jack just shook his head with a cynical half-smile on his face. “Sorry I asked,” he said, his tone clipped and sharp. “You know, your fear-me-for-I-do-not-exist routine is getting pretty fucking old.” He stood up abruptly and stalked over to the sink, tossing his dishes in. He just stayed there, his back to D and his head bowed.

  “Old, huh?” D said, more as a placeholder than an actual question.

  “Yeah, old. And it’s insulting that you’re even laying that line of bullshit on me anymore, after… everything.”

  “You’d like ta think it’s a line a bullshit, wouldn’t ya?” D snapped, his temper flaring. “Be nice fer you ta believe it’s all some kinda act and that I got a nice little life tucked away somewhere ta go back to when I’m done playing Hit Man. Well, it ain’t no act, doc. I ain’t never bullshitted you, not about that.” He stood up and went to the patio door. “We gotta go into Carson City fer some supplies before we head out. Leave in ten minutes.”

  “Whatever,” Jack muttered as D escaped into the backyard, his bench calling to him and promising quiet, if not peace.

  JACK STOOD in the aisle, both hands on the shopping cart, staring sightlessly at the rows of coffee cans. Need coffee. Do we need a big can? Will there be coffee at the new place? Better get the big can. Which one does D like again? He didn’t like the last one. I’ll get this one; it’s expensive so he’ll have a hard time bitching about it. D and I had sex last night.

  All morning it had been like that. A string of ordinary thoughts capped off by another jolt of reality to yank him out of the careful scrim of normalcy they were both maintaining.

  The ride into town had passed in excruciating silence that they had both passed off as casual. The conversation in the store had been confined to which granola bars to buy and if they should get a case of Red Bull for the road.