Chapter Two

Chapter Two

One of the perks that came along with being an award winner was the use of a rented limousine. The driver picked Declan up at the office, then drove the short distance to where Charlie was living.

Declan rang the doorbell for the second-floor unit of the modest, neatly-kept two-storey detached house. Carrie, Charlie's roommate, answered. Declan recognized her the moment she opened the door even though they had only met once before. Carrie looked Declan up and down, then smiled.

"Looking good," she said, nodding her head. "Come on in. Charlie's still getting ready."

She led him up the stairs and into the living room.

"I don't know what's keeping him. He never takes this long to get ready. Can I get you a drink?"

"Thank you." Declan took a seat on the couch. The room was filled with over-stuffed furniture that was far from new. The couch was covered with a hand-crocheted afghan, and the rest of the furniture had a sense of second-hand-chic. It was a comfortable home. Carrie came back in with a couple of glasses of wine. She gave Declan one then took the chair opposite him.

"So…Declan. That's Irish isn't it?"

"Yes. My mother's family was Irish. I was named after her father."

"It's a beautiful name."

"Apparently it means ‘man of prayer', although my father claims I don't have one. A prayer, that is."

Carrie smiled.

"I hope the same won't be said about Charlie. As I recall, the last time you picked him up here, you brought him back in rougher shape than he left."

Declan remembered the night he had driven Charlie back home from Airdrie after his second undercover mission.

"I can promise you that tonight will be a party compared to that."

Declan realized that they were no longer alone. He looked towards the hallway, and there was Charlie, perfectly handsome in his tuxedo, every hair on his head tamed into place. He was the vision of an angel. Declan had to remember to breathe.

Carrie turned and let out a near-silent "Oh my God."

"I hope I didn't keep you," Charlie said.

"No. Not at all." Declan couldn't take his eyes off of him.

"Now, before you two head out, I have to get a picture," Carrie said, pulling out her cell phone.

"Carrie," Charlie whined.

"I'm not going to miss getting a picture of you looking this fine. The next time might not be ‘til your funeral."

"Come on," Declan said. "Where would you like us?"

"Over there," Carrie said, pointing to a wall covered in large framed photos.

Declan led Charlie over to the wall, and pulled him near, putting his arm around his waist. They let Carrie take several shots before Declan said, "We should probably be heading out."

As Charlie passed Carrie, Declan heard her whisper, "So sweet. Just like going to prom."

"Bitch," Charlie whispered.

"That's jealous bitch to you," she whispered back.

* * * *

The limo pulled up under the ornate marquee of the Fairmont Palliser Hotel. The doorman instantly appeared and opened the door of the car. Charlie slipped out first, hoping that maybe a photographer would be there to notice them. Declan exited the car with less haste. As he did, an older man burst through the hotel doors and scurried down the steps. He looked like a rat escaping a cat. His nose was aquiline with a hooked tip. On his upper lip he sported a wispy, unshaped moustache which nicely complemented what little hair he had on the top of his head. His teeth were somewhat crooked and bucked.

"Mr Hunt," he wheezed out. "I'm so glad you're here."

Charlie wondered if they were late. He checked his watch and they were only a few minutes behind schedule.

As the man caught his breath he said, "I'm Roger Honeyfield, Chair of the ALGBTQ+BA. I'm your host for this evening."

Honeyfield reached out his hand towards Declan, who shook it firmly. Honeyfield then turned to Charlie. "And you are?"

"Charlie Watts. I'm with him," he said, pointing to Declan.

"Charles. So nice to meet you."

"It's Charlie—"

Honeyfield cut him off abruptly, turning back to Declan. "I'm sorry I wasn't here waiting for you when you arrived," he said as he leaned in towards the open car door, "but your driver didn't give me the requisite notice…like he said he would."

"I did call you in time. Maybe if you'd had your phone turned on…" the driver answered in a sarcastic tone.

"That'll be enough from you, Douglas," Honeyfield snapped, slamming the car door as he did.

Honeyfield sighed. "To think I used to date him." He shook his head and sighed again. Charlie looked at Declan, stifling a smile.

"If you'll please follow me," Honeyfield said as he scurried back up the stairs ahead of them.

When they arrived at the entrance to the event's venue—the Crystal Ballroom—Honeyfield pulled the two aside and confessed in a hushed tone, "We have uncovered a little…challenge that I would prefer not to get out. Many of our…members"—he rotated his head to glower at the other guests in the room—"would love to get wind of this. They'd do anything to see me fail."

He leaned in closer. "I was the one who, unfortunately, nominated Frasniak. How was I to know he was a crooked politician, or at least a politician who was inept enough to get caught? They've had their knives out for me ever since. And now this!" He paused for a moment.

"If you don't mind me asking, Roger, what is this?" Declan asked, in a hushed tone. Charlie was enjoying himself.

Honeyfield continued, "The award, of course. The medallion we're presenting to you. It's been inscribed with that moron Frasniak's name, not yours." He grabbed Declan by the sleeve of his jacket. "If they ever find out, I'm done for."

Declan smiled and took Honeyfield's hand. "Roger, don't worry. My job is to keep secrets. I'll make sure no one finds out."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you so much," he said as he spun on his heels and entered the ballroom.

"Really? ‘My job is to keep secrets'?" Charlie whispered to Declan with a grin.

Declan shrugged his shoulders.

"Mr Hunt, Charles, would you follow me, please?" Honeyfield called out.

"Uh…it's Charlie!" Charlie corrected again.

Declan looked at him and smirked. He offered Charlie his arm and the two of them entered the ballroom.

The room was decorated in soft blues and golds and illuminated by thirteen large crystal chandeliers. Charlie had read that it could hold over three hundred guests. He estimated that there were only about a hundred there tonight.

"I'm so pleased to see a big crowd," Honeyfield crowed. "Ticket sales really took off when we announced you as the recipient of this year's Vriend Medal."

When they walked into the room, all eyes turned towards them…hungry eyes of gay men scoping out the handsome detective and… Their gazes said it—Who is that slim young man with him?

"The plan for the evening," Honeyfield said as he paraded them around the room, "is drinks and canapés, followed by introductions and the presentation of the Vriend Medal. Then your speech, of course, before we move on to…well, more drinks and food and dancing! Now, I'll leave you to mingle with the guests."

Before Declan or Charlie could say anything, Honeyfield had spun around and headed towards the nearest drink-toting waiter.

Declan had a concerned look on his face. "A speech? I didn't know anything about a speech? Did you know anything about a speech?"

"No," Charlie replied. "No one said anything at all about you making a speech. But I wouldn't worry about it. Just say something like, ‘Thanks, this really means a lot to me. It justifies my existence', that sort of thing. From the looks of it, these people are just happy to throw back a bunch of drinks and stare at a hot award-winning detective."

Declan stared at Charlie.

"Oh, come on," Charlie said, "You do know how great you look in that tux, don't you? It fits you like it was painted on."

"Look," Declan said as he grabbed Charlie by the shoulders and pulled him closer. "I can face a killer with a gun pressed against my head, or take a few good kicks to the gut, but speaking in public…it really isn't my thing."

It was at that moment Honeyfield mounted the steps to the podium, tapped the microphone and started to talk. Declan looked towards the door like he was going to make a run for it. Charlie reached over to an older gentleman and grabbed his drink which had just been delivered by a waiter. "I need this. Emergency," Charlie said.

"Drink this. Now!" Charlie handed the glass to Declan. The detective did as he was instructed.

Charlie continued, "Okay, when the time comes, you are going to walk up to that podium. When you climb those three steps, you are going to flex those ass muscles of yours. I don't care if that tux is made of painter's canvas, people will notice. They're going to give you that medal, or whatever it is, and you will turn to the audience and smile. Just say ‘Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me.' At that point everyone here will be thinking of nothing else but how gorgeous you are."

In the background Honeyfield's speech droned on. He spoke of the man that the medal was named for—Delwin Vriend—and how his fight for equal rights should be a lesson to everyone there. He continued to deliver the speech with a complete lack of passion, which didn't surprise Charlie in the least.

"… And as you all know, this year's recipient of the Vriend Medal, for his support of the LGBTQ+ community, is Declan Hunt, a man who has dedicated his career to fighting for individuals who have been forgotten by the public servants who have been entrusted with that…sacred task."

Charlie managed to get one more drink into Declan before the moment came. Honeyfield crowed, "And now, please welcome to the stage, this year's winner of the Vriend Medal, Declan Hunt."

The detective walked with confidence, then climbed, flexing with every stair. Honeyfield placed a beautiful silver medallion suspended on a rainbow-coloured ribbon around Declan's neck. The detective turned and smiled. A hundred hearts fluttered. Declan looked around the room, then locked eyes with Charlie.

Declan took a deep breath and began. "The thought of speaking in public terrifies me, but my assistant, Charlie Watts, told me simply to say, ‘Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.'"

Declan held the medal and looked at it.

"I didn't understand how much this would mean until Roger put it around my neck. Looking at it now, I realize why I do what I do." Declan cleared his throat. "You see…one of the first cases I worked on as a police constable was the disappearance of a young boy. His name was"—he swallowed again—"Freddy Whitcher. Two days ago would have been his birthday. He was only thirteen back then and, when his father found out that he was gay, he beat him. He beat him every night for two weeks until Freddy had finally had enough. So he ran away from home and away from his family who were supposed to love and protect him. He wound up living on the streets."

There was a catch in Declan's voice. Charlie stepped closer to the stage, in front of the podium and willed him to keep going.

Declan took a sip of water and continued, "Can you imagine what it was like for that thirteen-year-old kid trying to survive alone on the streets of Calgary? In the winter? Can you imagine the things he had to do just to stay alive?"

The room was silent. No one moved. All eyes were focused on Declan.

"I was the cop who found Freddy, or what was left of him. No one knew whether he just got too close to the fire trying to stay warm or… It was at that moment that I knew that I was going to dedicate my life to helping people like Freddy or anyone in our community who needs help fighting against prejudice, discrimination and hatred, especially from those who are supposed to be out there protecting them. I discovered I couldn't do that fully as a member of the Calgary Police Service so I had to go out on my own. And if I can succeed, maybe, just maybe, Freddy can forgive me for not finding him in time. So I accept this award in honour of him. Thank you."

Declan stepped down from the podium, and the room erupted into applause. As he walked towards Charlie, people shook Declan's hand. Others hugged him after wiping away their tears. From behind him Charlie heard, "How could you not fall in love with that man?"

Charlie made his way towards Declan and put his arms around him.

"Freddy's the boy in the picture on your desk, isn't he?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah." Declan just kept holding on to Charlie, and Charlie didn't mind.

The moment was broken as a live band began to play an upbeat song and people started to dance. Charlie pulled himself back from Declan and started gyrating and stomping his feet to the beat, smiling and never taking his eyes off Declan.

"What are you doing?" Declan asked.

"Dancing," Charlie called out. "Carrie and I go out every weekend. You should try it!" Charlie spun around, almost taking out Roger, who was zeroing in on Declan.

"Mr Hunt, would you care to dance?" Honeyfield said, awkwardly moving his arms and swaying his shoulders.

"I'm afraid Mr Hunt has promised me the first dance," Charlie said, then took Declan by the hand and moved onto the dance floor.

Declan mouthed the words ‘thank you' as he followed.

Over the next thirty minutes, whenever Charlie saw Honeyfield approach, he would start to flail his arms and take leaping strides, spinning around Declan, building a shield of limbs to shelter the handsome detective from the approaching enemy. Declan just laughed.

There was a brief lull in the music. Charlie and Declan were both panting from the exertion of dancing. When the band began to play again, it was a slow dance. Charlie moved to leave the dance floor when he felt a hand in his. Charlie turned and saw Declan standing there, no smile on his face, just a look of…something.

"Now it's my turn to ask you to dance."

Charlie allowed himself to be drawn in close. He could feel Declan's muscular chest against his slim torso. One of Declan's hands pressed against the small of his back, holding Charlie close to his body. Charlie hesitantly put his arm around Declan's back and held tight. He'd never slow-danced with a man before. Charlie nuzzled his face into Declan's neck as they swayed across the dance floor to a song that Charlie hoped would never end.