Chapter Four

It was Saturday, July ninth—his mother's birthday. Had she still been alive, Declan would have spent the evening having dinner with her. But she wasn't alive, and he'd woken up fuelled by anger. The night before had been punctuated by one of his recurring nightmares—the one where he'd hidden under his bed as his father had yelled at his mother, "You're the reason he's nothing but a God-damned faggot! You and your mollycoddling. This is your fault."

Declan hadn't been able to focus all day and there'd been no further leads on the Attwal case, so he decided to head down to Bar-None. The place was just the way he liked it—empty, except for Mickey tending bar and a couple of old-timers talking to their best friends—the dregs of beer left at the bottom of their near-empty glasses.

Before Declan could say anything, Mickey had placed a tall double-shot vodka and soda on the bar.

"Thanks, Mickey," Declan said.

"Good to see you, Dec." Mickey was one of only a few to call him that and not be corrected. Ever since he was a kid, Declan had hated that nickname. Dec Hunt had quickly morphed into the juvenile moniker De-cunt, which even more rapidly morphed into Declan's fist connecting with whoever had said it. They'd quickly learned that they could only make that joke once. Mickey always said Dec with overtones of friendship and a smile that came across as a visible hug. Declan liked that, and on many days needed it.

The detective took his drink and headed off to his regular corner table where he sipped and watched. He'd been coming here since he was legally allowed to drink. A gay bar rarely carded patrons unless they were obviously underage. Even so, if it was crowded, which it usually was after ten o'clock, they ignored the occasional under-eighteen-year-old. Most of them were street kids just looking for a warm place to hang out, or to make a few bucks from a discreet hook-up in the toilet. They weren't hurting anyone, and gay men looked after each other. No one else did, and that was why Declan was in business—Calgary's only openly gay private investigator. He hoped his mom would be proud of him.

He raised his glass. "Happy Birthday, Mom."

* * * *

Time was a blur. Declan had polished off several drinks. He made his way back to the bar, slightly glassy-eyed.

"Another?" Mickey asked.

"I'm done for the night," Declan slurred.

Mickey rang up the bill and took Declan's credit card, which he tapped. Mickey knew Declan would have a hard time with the buttons, so he usually did it for him, and he never gave himself more than a fifteen-percent tip.

"You're not driving tonight, I hope?" he asked.

"Nope. I'm just a short walk away from where I'm headed."

"Good. Now hand them over." Mickey held out his hand. He had a gentle, mothering smile on his face.

"Right," Declan said, handing Mickey his car keys. "I'll see you tomorrow to pick ‘em up." He turned to walk away, then stopped. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For watching out for me. If only I was your type, I'd—"

"Get outta here, Dec, and have fun."

Declan headed out of the door and made a right up the street. He was drunk and on nights like this there was only one place for him to go—The Greek.

* * * *

The Greek, formally known as The Greek Men's Health Spa and Steam Room, was Calgary's largest gay bathhouse. It had been opened in the late 1960s by Spiros Adamos, a Greek émigré who had escaped the actions of the Greek military junta of 1967.

In Adamos' mind, every city needed to have a men's steam room, and Calgary was no exception. Over the decades, the focus of the steam room had shifted from older European men looking for relaxation to younger gay men looking for anonymous sexual release. It was into this world that Declan entered.

"Hey, Declan, good to see you back."

The guy at the desk seemed happy that Declan had arrived. Declan paid him twenty dollars and headed for the locker room.

The smell of male sweat and body odour attacked his nostrils. This was where he started his search for the night. Declan was shopping for just the right body. He opened up his locker and stripped down to a jock strap. His head was dulled by the alcohol. He scanned the small crowd of men heading back out into the real world. Back to their families, their wives and children and the lies.

He checked out the guys who were just arriving—flushed with excitement as they began their own conquests. Declan was surrounded by men peeling off tight jeans and western shirts, cowboy hats still in place—a sign that the Calgary Stampede had truly begun. Some would walk around in hats, boots and a towel. Some, like him, in just a jock strap. Declan wondered how many of them had actually seen a horse, let alone ridden one. This was bathhouse chic, Calgary-style. Tonight, they would be riding something a lot harder and possibly more dangerous.

Declan headed into the dimly lit hall. He passed one cowboy. The guy looked him up and down, raking his chest hairs with his eyes. This cowboy was the real thing. His legs were bowed out from years of riding horses, not like the Kmart cowboys from the locker room. But Declan wasn't in the mood for western today. He continued his hunt down one hall, pausing to look into every open door.

He knew every turn of the hall maze. A newcomer would often tread the same path over and over again. Not him. He never wasted time. It was like a military mission or a bank robbery—get in, get out. He stopped at the open door to room thirty-two. He looked in. There, stretched out on the narrow bed, lay a short, sinewy guy, maybe twenty-five, with a military haircut and a muscular ass that jutted out like a shelf. The guy probably got in with a Military Active Duty discount. But he had the look Declan needed. He looked like a cop.

Following protocol, Declan stepped into the room and waited. If the guy smiled, or nodded, he was in. If he turned his head away, Declan would continue down the hall. The occupant nodded and Declan closed the door.

This guy liked it rough. He was strong, but no match for Declan's muscles—even after the vodka. They played like a couple of dogs trying to assert dominance. They sniffed each other, licked the other's heavily scented pits, and their tongues probed every orifice. Finally, as the guy began to tire, of the game at least, Declan, normally a bottom, took the dominant position, pushing the guy's head into the thin pillow. On nights like this, Declan needed to be in control.

He slid a condom over his thick cock. He preferred to bareback, but he didn't know where this guy had been. He might eat food that fell onto his own kitchen floor, but he never ate off a stranger's.

He penetrated him quickly. When Declan was in a mood like this, he went in fast and furious, fucking him hard. When he was spent, Declan pulled out, and slapped the guy hard on the ass. He left him on the narrow bed looking like a deflated blow-up doll.

After a spell in the steam room where he fended off a couple of suitors, Declan showered, changed back into his clothes and headed for the exit.

* * * *

Luke Fraser sat in his apartment, a two-bedroom condo in the Beltline district of Calgary. It was a nice building, well kept up and only a five-minute drive from an off-track betting establishment that showed the races.

It was looking like another night alone, which made no sense to him. He was perfect—five-foot ten, and a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle with short strawberry-blond hair, a dimpled chin and dark-blue eyes. He would have been at home on the cover of a high-end fashion magazine. Why was he still single? He just wanted to find himself a partner, someone he could share his life with—a lover and a friend. He'd tried hard, but hadn't had any luck.

It was true—he could be opinionated at times, and maybe that came across as too pushy, but for whatever reason, he was just plain lousy at meeting men in gay bars. The one guy he used to play darts with had dumped him because he said that Luke was too competitive and was a sore loser. There was a guy out there for him, but where?

It was his first full weekend off in months, and he wasn't about to spend it alone. Luke wasn't in the mood for shopping on Grindr. He wanted to see what was on offer in person, so it was off to The Greek.

He parked his car on the street six blocks away, in front of a busy restaurant. He didn't want to take the chance of anyone spotting it near the bathhouse. Luke walked the rest of the way there, always aware of who else was on the street.

As he approached the doors to The Greek, a handsome, dark-haired man careened out of the exit and stumbled into his arms. Their combined momentum caused them to rotate on the spot, like two dancers. For a brief moment, as they spun, they locked eyes on each other and the previously sullen man's face broke into a wide, beautiful smile before he whirled Luke out onto the deserted street where the dance ended.

"I am so sorry," Luke offered.

"Why? It was the best dance I've had all night."

The guy gave Luke a kiss on the cheek, detached himself and continued on his way.

Luke watched him weave his way down the street. There was something about this beautiful, drunken man that sent a small shockwave through his body.