by Lanyon, Josh
Ireland?
“Why Ireland?” Rick asked. The bedroom window was open and he could hear the chimes on the front porch tinkling eerily in the summer breeze, the rustle of the old elm tree, the far off roar of traffic on the 405. Even at three-thirty in the morning, the L.A. freeways were busy — people on their way to airports, no doubt.
Keir gave a husky little chuckle. “We talked about Ireland.”
Astonishingly, given how much he’d had to drink, Rick’s cock twitched into life. It was that throaty bedroom laugh that did it. Bringing back memories of things they’d agreed to forget.
His hand moved. He scratched his belly instead and said, “Two guys named Monaghan and Quinn, I guess that’s no surprise.”
“No. No surprises,” Keir agreed.
“Tonight was a surprise.”
Keir seemed to be thinking over Rick’s objection. He said finally, “It shouldn’t have been.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He could hear the sodden belligerence in his voice. Yeah, he’d had too much to drink, no doubt about it. He wasn’t used to it. Didn’t like to lose control — and he was losing control, that was obvious.
Keir said levelly — his voice already sounding far away, “It means if this is a surprise to you, you haven’t been listening to me for the last three years.”
“Come off it,” Rick said uncomfortably. He had a sudden vision of Keir in this house…this bedroom…this bed. That lean, muscular, brown body leaning over him, the soft gilt fall of hair in those wide, green eyes. Smiling eyes. Irish eyes.
It occurred to him that Keir hadn’t answered. He said, striving to move the conversation back into shallow and familiar waters, “I hear the Guinness is like creamy, black silk over there.”
“I’ll have a pint in your honor. Two pints.”
“Cheap bastard. Look…” Rick was nonplussed to hear that tiny fissure of emotion in his voice. “You’re not really going, are you?” And he was aware — and was sure that Keir was also aware — that he was no longer talking about unplanned vacations.
“I am, yeah,” Keir said.
In the silence between them Rick could hear the hiss of static on the line, the music of the chimes. The lilt of bells sounded vaguely Celtic.
In a broad brogue, he said suddenly, briskly, “Two Oirish cops are walking the beat one night after stopping for a wee nip. A severed head comes rolling along the pavement toward them.”
Keir snorted, but said nothing.
Rick said, “Monaghan picks it up, looks it in the eye, and says, Jez, that looks like Murphy. To which Quinn replies, No, Murphy was taller than that!”
“Say goodnight, Dick,” Keir said.
“Goodnight, dick.”
Chapter Two
He’d had some bad ideas in his time, but this was probably the worst: a GLBT singles bus tour through Ireland. And yet it had seemed like such a great notion when he was booking his trip. No need to play down his sexuality, a selection of available men with at least one thing in common — two things, counting Ireland — and someone else to do the driving. But he’d have been happier with a rental car and a map.
To start with, the available men were either too old or too young. And it turned out all Keir had in common with them was the obvious; he’d been out of the civilized mainstream for too long. He didn’t know how to talk to anyone who wasn’t a cop.
That had been another mistake: revealing what he did for a living. He should have known better. He did know better in real life, but the artificial existence of life on a touring bus had lulled him into uncharacteristic candor. The second night out in Galway he’d confided to Terry Schweitzer over a couple of pints. Terry offered a glazed smile, excused himself early, and by morning it was common knowledge that back home in the good old US of A. Keir Quinn was Detective Keiran Quinn of L.A.P.D. He found himself spending a lot of time with two very nice lesbians from Milwaukee — ex-FBI agents who’d had the survival skills to keep mum about it.
He missed Rick.
He missed Rick even worse than he had imagined he would, and he’d known before he ever started this that it was going to hurt like hell.
He tried not to think about it. No point. Rick was very clear about what he wanted and what he didn’t want. He wanted Keir for his work partner and best friend. He didn’t want him for his lover or life partner. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to listen to Keir talk about it. As far as Rick was concerned they had tried it and it hadn’t worked.
That was the part Keir didn’t understand. Because it had worked. They had been good together. It had been comfortable and easy — the sex had been terrific. God, it had been nice to be with someone who knew him as well as Rick did — and accepted him as was. Liked him as was.
But then there had been the thing with the Holland chick. They’d been investigating the supposed suicide of Deanna Holland’s boyfriend. Third interview, Holland had freaked and pulled a gun. Keir had moved to disarm her and the gun had gone off leaving a hole in Deanna Holland’s ceiling, powder burns and a wrecked relationship for Keir.
“I think we’d better cool it,” Rick had said the morning after what turned out to be the best night they’d spent together yet. Nothing like a close call to give the fucking a certain intensity. Nothing too kinky, just…well, a little emotional, maybe.
“Why?” Keir had asked.
“It’s getting…too heavy.”
What the hell did that mean? Rick’s hazel eyes met Keir’s impassively.
“Okay,” Keir said, shrugging. “Me first in the shower or you?”
He didn’t think Rick meant it. Or at least…he thought Rick just needed time to work through whatever was bothering him. But Rick had been serious. No more sleepovers. In fact, no more hanging out together at all for a time — until Rick had started seeing the twink flight attendant from Colorado. Then they’d slowly drifted back to spending off-duty time together.
Gradually it had sunk in on Keir that it really was over. Over for Rick, anyway.
Keir had tried, but for him it was like trying to stuff the genie back in the bottle. He couldn’t go back — and he wasn’t going to be allowed to move forward either. The practical thing, the only thing to do, seemed to be to disengage. That was easier said than done. It had taken him four months and Rick dating a handsome, well-to-do West Hollywood veterinarian to make up his mind for him.
Anyway, he didn’t regret his decision, and Ireland was beautiful, it was just that he could have done without the group tour experience. Not that it wasn’t sort of relaxing sitting there on the bus watching the green countryside flash by. Everywhere you looked were the ruins of castles and towers, grazing sheep, old graveyards. They’d yet to pass through a village that, no matter how small, didn’t have at least two pubs, and even the ugly little industrial towns seemed quaint and exotic because it was Ireland.
He just wished Rick were there to share it with him.
He just wished he could stop thinking about Rick.
* * * * *
The phone rang and rang, and then Rick picked up. “Monaghan.” He sounded curt.
“Top of the morning to you,” Keir drawled. He was lying on the bed in his “posh” hotel room staring up at the pattern cast by moonlight through lace curtains. He wrapped one hand around his cock, stroking leisurely.
“Jeeesus,” Rick said, but Keir could hear the smile in his voice all the way across the Atlantic. “It’s about time you checked in, you asshole. Having fun, I take it?”
“You bet.” Loose limbed, he half-closed his eyes, moving his hand. He imagined it was Rick’s big hand on him….
“What the hell time is it over there?”
Keir made an effort, glanced at the hotel clock. “Late.” Like three a.m. late. Which put it about seven o’clock in the evening in Los Angeles. Rick was probably on his way out. Was he still seeing the veterinarian? Keir’s hand tightened; he pumped himself a little harder, a little faster. Said breathlessly, “H
ow’s tricks?”
“Same old, same old.” But Rick promptly launched into a description of his case load. Once it would have been their caseload, but Keir would only have two weeks on the job when he returned, and gradually that awareness tinged Rick’s tone and slowed his words until he came to a full and awkward stop.
It was during that pause that sensation shivered through Keir. He bit his lip on the sound threatening to tear out of him, feeling the quicksilver release spill through his fingers, spatter belly and chest.
From a long way away Rick asked — changing the subject, “So how’s the Guinness? Did it live up to expectation?”
His pulse was already slowing, his breath evening. Not like the earth had moved; just a little tremor. He got out, “Yep. It really is different over here.”
“Going to a lot of pubs? Listening to a lot of music, I guess?”
“Yep. We’ve had a seisiun pretty much every night. It’s great. You’d have loved it.”
“Yeah. Well.”
Keir opened his mouth but found nothing to say. No. Wrong. There was too much to say. And even if he knew where to start, what was the use? One thing about Rick: he knew his own mind.
Instead, he tried to move the conversation back to shop talk. Rick interrupted him to say, “Was it the Martinez case? Is that why you’re resigning? I know you hate it when kids — teens — are involved.”
He took the comfortable lie handed to him. “Partly, I guess.”
“You didn’t have to resign, though. You could have transferred to another division. You could have —”
He hadn’t wanted to bring this up long distance, but he couldn’t lie, either. “The thing is…I’m moving out of state.”
The silence was so abrupt and so profound, Keir thought they’d been disconnected.
“Rick?”
“You’re leaving the…state?” Rick sounded dazed.
“I am. Yeah.”
“I don’t understand.”
It was difficult, but Keir said it. “Yes, you do.”
Another trans-Atlantic silence stretched.
Finally, harshly, Rick said, “What? Is this like some kind of ultimatum?”
“Come on, Monaghan. You know me better than that.”
“I don’t know you at all.”
Rick disconnected the call.
Half an hour to departure; he had just enough time to run downstairs and grab something for breakfast if he moved fast. A piece of smoked ham — the Irish version of bacon — or one of those funky “puddings.” He put his suitcase in the hotel hallway so the bus driver could collect it with the others, and behind him the phone began to ring. Loud, insistent…American. Keir plunged back into the room and leaped across the bed to grab it.
“Yep?”
“Two Irish cops walk out of a pub,” Rick’s voice announced.
Keir gave a half-laugh.
“Hey! It could happen!”
Keir caught a glimpse of his expression in the mirror over the desk. His smile faded; that was just sad. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I don’t know. Look, we’re friends, right? Whatever else happens?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Just wanted to make sure.”
Now how weird was it to get choked up over this? Very. “We’re good,” Keir said.
“Good? We’re the best.” Rick added awkwardly, “I feel like I did all the talking last night.”
Keir did laugh then. His gaze fell on the bedside clock. “Hey, I’ve got to go. We’re catching a ferry to this island.”
“What island?”
“Inishbofin. The Island of the White Cow. It’s off the west coast of Galway.”
“As in home of the Inishbofin Ceili Band?”
“Right.” Irish music, mountain climbing, Truth, Justice and the American Way. Just a few of the things they’d had — still had — in common. Too bad it wasn’t enough. Keir said, “I’ll send you a postcard.”
“I probably won’t get it till you’re back.”
Hell, he probably wouldn’t get it till after Keir was gone.
They both silently absorbed that. Keir said, “Well, it’s not a secret. I wish you were here.”
The pause that followed was excruciating. Finally, haltingly, Rick said, “Keir —”
It was just too hard to hear it.
“Later,” Keir said, and put the receiver down.
Chapter Three
Deanna Holland was a little woman with a big gun. Not that you’d know it to look at her. Polite, quiet, well-groomed. Even as they ran out of suspects in her boyfriend’s homicide, they’d treated her politely and respectfully. They didn’t meet a lot of Deanna Holland’s in their business.
They didn’t have enough to arrest her, but Deanna didn’t know that, and the third time they’d interviewed her in her Sherman Oaks home, she’d freaked and pulled a Ruger Rimfire out of an expensive Chinese vase.
Keir had been faster, going for her before Rick was even on his feet. Rick heard the shot as Keir jerked. Rick’s own heart seemed to stop — the world seemed to stop. It was like that scene in that Hitchcock film when the merry-go-round spins out of control and smashes apart. That’s what it felt like. Like gravity had slipped and he’d just gone hurtling into black space, and the earth was a blasted, empty shell falling in pieces around him.
Game over. Everything over.
But then Keir had still been on his feet, and he had the gun, and Deanna was shrieking like a banshee, pouring out her rage and terror. Keir was unharmed beyond powder burns on his neck and sports jacket. He’d been mad as hell about that jacket, which had been new.
That night the sex was phenomenal. It was always good — they were getting to know each other very well that way by then. Knew exactly what turned the other one on, what felt great — well, what didn’t feel great? And the funny thing was how new fucking seemed when they tried it together. Yeah, it was always good, but that night…
But later Rick had made a fool of himself. Said things he should never have said, wrapping Keir in his arms and spilling his guts. Luckily Keir had slept through most of it. Not much for afterplay, Keir. He lived on his nerves too much, and when he let go…but Rick sort of liked the fact that he was one of the few people Keir could let his guard down with.
By the time morning rolled around, though, Rick’d had plenty of time to reflect on what a bad idea it had been to get this involved. They were already about as close as two guys could be — sex was really just confusing things. Rick didn’t want to feel any more than he did, and, God help him, he didn’t ever want to feel what he’d felt when he heard Deanna Holland’s gun go off.
So he’d told Keir — they were always honest with each other. Keir seemed to take it all right. Better than Rick expected. In fact, if Rick were completely honest, he’d been a little irritated at how well Keir had seemed to take it. Okay, granted it was a little…quiet between them for a time. Each of them trying not to set the other off or send the wrong message. But then it gradually fell back to the way it had been before. It was good. It was safe.
And then, out of the blue, Keir had sprung this resignation bullshit.
Rick stood in the shower the morning after his phone call to Ireland. He dealt efficiently with the hard-on he’d woken with — thanks to painfully vivid dreams about his partner. His soon to be ex-partner. Then he quickly soaped up and rinsed down.
It was weird how much he missed Keir already.
Why couldn’t Keir at least have talked it over with him? Not that he’d have been able to convince him to change his mind — there was no more stubborn sonofabitch than Keiran Quinn once he made his mind up.
Rick toweled off rapidly. He was running late, having overslept when he did finally manage to drop off. The news that Keir was moving — leaving the state had shaken him badly. It just kept getting worse and worse. Every time he managed to convince himself that he could deal with one piece of the puzzle Keir had become — like staying friends
even if Keir wasn’t on the job with him — he spotted a new tidal wave-sized wrinkle headed his way.
The leaving the state thing…that was the worst so far.
There was no going back from that. It was possible Rick might never see Keir again.
He’d already had a week of what that tasted like, and rat poison would be sweet by comparison.
But what was the solution?
There wasn’t one.
He looked at the clock in his bedroom and swore. If Keir had been here picking him up for work like the bastard was supposed to, Rick wouldn’t be running late — for the first time in God knew when.
He buttoned his shirt, zipped his pants. He reached for his shoulder holster and was hit by the memory of the last time Keir had been in this room, stretched out long and brown and lazy in the sheets of the unmade bed. Keir grinning up at him, alive and in one piece. Keir reaching for him…
These were the memories he didn’t want. But it was all tangled together now. The man who stood shoulder to shoulder with him on the job and the man who lay in his arms at night. When Keir went he would take both those men with him — he would take everything. And wasn’t this exactly what Rick had been afraid of?
* * * * *
The island made up for the rest of the trip. Not that the trip had been bad, but…Inishbofin was the real deal. From the blow holes and sea stacks to the ruined pirate fort…there was plenty to see, plenty to explore. He could be by himself as much as he liked — and he liked. Keir hiked out to the seal colony, walked the beaches, climbed in the green hills. The water around the island was supposed to be some of the clearest in Ireland, and he could have gone swimming or diving if he’d felt more energetic. He slept well on the island. The best he’d slept in a long time. He ate well too — he liked seafood, and the Doonmore Hotel had a good chef.