12. Bede

Chapter 12

Bede

A fter dinner was another campfire and, wondering if anybody ever got tired of them, Bede made himself sit through it, creating and eating a s'more, engaging in small talk he couldn't remember a second later. Barely aware of the perfect summer night all around.

When darkness had truly fallen and he was back in his tent, Kell, high on chocolate and sugar, talking a mile a minute, got ready for bed. When he was tucked in his cot, Bede said that he needed to take a trip to the facilities.

He made it sound boring because he didn't want Kell coming with him. He just wanted a moment alone, a moment in a lifetime of being alone.

He shoved his bare feet into unlaced work boots, jammed the laces down around his ankles, grabbed his flashlight, and headed along the path to the fire pit. It was empty now, quiet, still smelling faintly like ash and chocolate and the cool sand that had been poured over the coals.

Beyond the fire pit loomed the lake, flat and still in the darkness. Beyond that, the layer upon layer of pine trees surged upward along the hills to the barren rocks of Guipago Ridge.

Going a little way along the path by the edge of the lake, he didn't quite know where he was, only that the faint breeze across the still lake was cool on his skin, and that his boots were rocketing around his ankles. So he stopped and took them off and stood barefoot in the uneven grasses, feeling them along the sides of his feet, his toes, a nighttime caress, absentminded. Soft.

It was that softness that broke him. Dropping his flashlight, he crouched down on his heels, face in his hands, and sobbed.

Winston was never coming back to him.

During Bede's five years in prison, he had played a continual game of make-believe. That he never heard from Winston because Winston was in hiding. That Winston never called Bede in prison because those calls could be traced back to him. That Winston never wrote an old-fashioned letter, because the postmark might lead the cops right to Winston's door.

And last, the most painful hope of all was, upon his release from Wyoming Correctional, that Bede would find Winston outside the prison, keys to a 440 Dodge Monaco in his hand. Saying, Lookit what I got. Cop car. Cop tires, cop suspension, cop shocks . Laughing, mouth open, head tossed back at the joke.

But instead of being met by Winston, Bede had walked out of prison empty-handed, and only a white van, the driver, and two fellow ex-cons were waiting for him. All of which was geared to blast Bede toward a Winston-less future, with uncertain horizons and along the bumpiest, most flint-flecked road he'd ever had to go down.

In prison, Bede had never cried, so he'd never needed to hide, either from his cellmates or the guards. He'd held back the tears and the pain in his gut every time they spiraled upward, tearing at him, razor-toothed. Relentless. He'd locked it all down, bolted it tight and never looked back.

Now, it all came pouring out, floodgates unleashed. A torrent of black-ripped grief that left him shaking, crouched down in the grass. Hiding, his palms pressed to his eyes as if to hold back the tears.

But they would not be held. Having waited five years, their turn had come, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Maybe this was good. He'd get it all out and then bolt everything back down again. Continue on with the only the memories of Winston and their time together, the rough drug life contrasting with the silk-soft cotton sheets, the open window carrying the soft breeze and the sounds of the city.

He could carry with him the memory of traces of love on his skin, Winston's low laugh in his ear as he reached across Bede's body to the nightstand and the half-smoked joint that he obviously intended to finish off before the sun came up. Make Bede share it with him so their bodies could curl around each other, relaxed supple warmth pulling them into deep sleep.

"Bede?" asked a voice that cut through his grief so sharply it was like a blow. "What are you doing out here?"

Bede leaped to his feet, face damp, his eyesight blurred with tears, the rustle of the woods all around him fanning coolness across his hot skin.

"Bede?" asked the voice again. The beam of a flashlight swept across him. "Are you okay?"

Wiping his vision clear, Bede blinked at the figure in front of him.

It was Galen, the flashlight beam drawn to his side as he held it away from glaring into Bede's eyes.

Bede could see that Galen wore cowboy boots. Clamped to his chest was a bundle that might be folded clothes and certainly was, for Galen was naked except for a snap-button shirt, currently unsnapped, and a pair of tight skimpy briefs.

The visual caught Bede so off guard that, his hands in fists, all he could do was roar in response. "What are you doing out here?"

Who the fuck walked around half-naked in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere? Weren't there bears or some shit like that, roaming around, looking for snacks?

It didn't matter. The worst person in the world had caught him doing one of the most intimate things. Bede could jack off in front of the chief of police if they'd wanted him to, but he would never have cried. Would never have felt as vulnerable as he did now, tears drying on his cheeks. More exposed than even Galen in his state of half-undress.

Galen would blab or consult one of the other team leads or whatever. Didn't matter. Bede was going to leave the valley first chance he got, so he would never have to live through this moment again.

"I went for a swim," said Galen, his voice as calm as if he'd just come across Bede waiting for the local bus. And while somewhat astonished, as the bus didn't run through the valley, he seemed completely unperturbed by Bede's presence, or his emotional state.

"In the middle of the night?" Bede didn't even bother to lower his voice, and heard the echo of his quiet rage across the surface of the lake, bouncing back from the gray ridge beyond. "The fucking middle ?"

If there'd been moonlight, maybe Galen would have seen the tracks of tears on his face, but since the moon was only a silver fingernail brushing across the trees, that part would remain known to him alone.

Or maybe Galen had seen Bede's face in the light of the flashlight. Plus, his voice was thick, he could hear his own sorrow ringing in his ears. Embarrassment flurried hot around the back of his neck, along his cheeks.

Galen stepped forward. Instinct kicked in and Bede shoved Galen in the middle of his chest, which sent Galen's clothes flying.

"Hey, back off!" Galen's voice was strident and as loud as Bede's had been. "What is your fucking problem?"

Keeping his balance, Galen was silver-shouldered and slender, in dark-colored skimpy briefs that looked like they'd be dry like the rest of Galen's body, at least the part that Bede had shoved with his palms. Galen'd brought a towel, now snagged in the grasses, and probably had dived into the water stark naked, because who would want to walk around in wet briefs? Nobody.

Naked. Galen had swum naked in the dark lake. Unconcerned equally about who might be watching, or what might lurk in the lake's depths, waiting to eat the next human who dared trespass its waters. Rubbing himself dry with a towel before donning those briefs again. Collecting his clothes so he could enjoy the cool night breezes.

Bede stepped back, but not away, and in an instant, they were grappling, like two junior high boys with the impulse to fight over something that wouldn't matter come lunchtime, and who didn't quite know how. Pushing and pulling, with grunts, up close, and while the fight was a decoy for Bede's own sorrow, he had no idea what Galen's deal was.

Anyone else would have backed the fuck down when Bede Deacon stepped up for a fight. Anyone else.

Up close, Galen's skin was scented with lake water, and was warm in the coolness of the night air, the damp ends of his hair sticking to his cheeks as he clutched at Bede's shoulders. Tearing his shirt. Growling, like he was the wild beast in the woods, and not bears.

In an effort to get away before his body betrayed him, Bede stepped back, which sent Galen tumbling to his ass, pale legs sprawling in a come hither manner, one boot flying, leaving his foot bare, and Bede just had to look away.

" Seriously ," said Galen. "What is your fucking problem? I just came for a swim to be alone for one damn minute, and you're acting like I caught you jacking off or something. Man."

With a groan, Galen started to get up and, on impulse, Bede grabbed his forearm, curling his fingers around Galen's elbow, hauling him all the way to his feet.

His chest heaved, and he didn't even know how to ask himself what the fuck was going on, though there was a voice shouting in his head. It was making his head hurt, and he felt bad about what he'd just done to Galen. Galen would ache in the morning, and he didn't deserve that.

Galen was up close again, their arms still clasped, forearm to forearm in the dark. Galen's eyes tracked across Bede's face, and one eyebrow dipped. Then he pulled his arm free.

"Didn't your mama tell you it's rude to shove people?"

Bede'd never had a mama, though he'd had his Aunt Lorraine. She'd raised him as best she could, which still left him exposed to bad elements in the neighborhood, and allowed him easy access to drugs and crime and the lifestyle he'd enjoyed for many years.

Until he'd gotten arrested in that alleyway when he'd lost everything that meant anything to him. Leaving him with thoughts that jerked forward and back as he sank beneath waves and waves of jagged images, of Winston bleeding out, of the alley smelling of cordite, dying because of Bede's insistence that they could make so much money. Of the cop in the driver's seat, unconcerned that Bede's heart was breaking, saying I've got the main drug dealer in custody, cuffs on .

He let go of Galen and Galen stepped back to pick up his flashlight, and it was at that ordinary motion, so familiar, of a man collecting himself after a scuffle that tears spilled out of Bede's eyes again, rolling like hot mercury down his cheeks.

Horrified, Bede clapped his hand to his mouth to stop the gasp that followed, the hitched breath, a barking gasp, as he tried so hard to stop. And failed. And failed. And failed .

"Are you crying?" asked Galen, and then a second later, "Oh."

Galen moved closer, his fingers brushing Bede's hand, still clamped over his mouth, a gesture he'd probably not meant to make.

"Hey." He paused, blowing out a slow breath, then turned away, nonchalant, as if he'd not just caught the valley's most hardened criminal sobbing his eyes out like a little kid.

"You know." He grabbed for his jeans and pulled them on, zipping and buttoning up like it was just another day at the gym. "It's got to be hard coming out of prison after five years."

He tugged his snap-button shirt back into place, and fiddled with the snaps, looking down at his hands before lifting his chin to look at Bede again. "I don't think I could have lasted one minute behind bars. But you did. And now you're here. It's going to get better, I promise."

Galen slipped his boots on over his bare feet and slung his towel over his shoulder. As he picked up the flashlight from where it'd been shining a stream of white light across dried pine needles, he said, "I was in Torrington for two weeks for the training. They even took us on a tour of the place. You were probably there. In that yard with—everybody."

Bede knew how those prison tours went. Wanting to make the best impression, visitors were shown a fake version of the prison, all cleaned up, devoid of trash and smell, even prisoners. Meanwhile, everywhere else was crowded and dank and smelly and noisy.

The thought of white-bread Galen trotting around the shiny-floored halls of Wyoming Correctional, being shown the nicer parts of the prison, getting little glimpses of one-man cells, empty and tidy, ready for their next occupant, was almost surreal. Or the dining hall, clean and swept between meals. Even the yard, but only when it was empty—the thought just about made him bark a loud laugh.

Bede felt like he'd been behind bars forever and then some, and now, standing in the cool dark woods in a hidden valley in the wilds of Wyoming, it hit Bede with a sudden clarity that he did not want to go back there. Ever.

There was a risk that Galen would mention to one of his fellow team leads that he'd caught Big Bad Bede in the woods crying. But maybe he wouldn't say anything. Bede couldn't make Galen not talk, so he was just going to have to risk it. After all, he'd taken bigger risks than this one. All that was at stake was his pride, not his life.

"Maybe I was there," said Bede, answering the specific question rather than respond to Galen's sympathy. He wiped his upper lip with the heel of his thumb. "They herded us around when there were tours, you know. Keeping us out of sight."

"Oh, I figured as much." Galen tilted his head back, as if appraising Bede. "You going to be okay?"

Bede couldn't take it anymore. The kindness, the concern. Galen had seen him at his most vulnerable, and he needed to get away before Galen was even nicer to him, because that would surely break him.

He turned on his heel and strode down the dark path like he had done it every day of his life, and knew where every bump and knot of grass was. He didn't and stumbled in the dark, and kept on going. Anything to get away from Galen.