15. Bede

Chapter 15

Bede

M aybe Bede should not have taken over corralling Toby and Owen, even if Galen had seemed a little in over his head. But, if there was anything Bede knew how to do, it was control a pack of unruly criminals, ready to shoot first and not give a fuck after.

And even if that pack consisted of only two somewhat lame and not very effective thieves, at least it gave him something to do. Something to think about other than his own woes, though maybe he'd strong-armed them too hard, harder than he should have.

He'd already been thinking about not ordering Toby and Owen around anymore when Galen had stepped up to him and jabbed him in the chest with a stern finger and told him to back off. Like he wasn't afraid of Bede at all .

The quarrel had continued to get out of hand when Bede had accidentally clipped Galen in the nose.

He'd fully expected that would get him kicked out of the program, and he would regret that, because he was starting to fall in love with the valley and all of its moods.

Except Galen had just said, Oh, for fuck's sake, just as his nose began to bleed in earnest. Tipping his head back, clamping his nose with his hand as he squinted up at the sun, was just about more than Bede could resist.

Sure, with one of his own men, he had always been stern. Walk it off. Bleed somewhere else .

But with Galen, Bede had gathered ice and clasped it to the back of Galen's neck, almost without thought. Made him rinse and spit. Wiped his face with the cloth that Owen had raced to get, after dampening it first.

Then, hunkered down at Galen's side, Bede had dispensed sage wisdom, when all the while he wanted to run and fetch a pillow so Galen could lie in the shade and just rest. Wait till his nosebleed had stopped.

Galen would have a hell of a headache come morning, but when Bede had explained he'd not meant to do it, Galen had understood.

I know, he'd said. And then he'd told Bede he was going to put on a clean shirt and that he'd meet Bede in the mess tent.

Once there, Galen had not only failed to mention their tussle from the night before, but when Gabe asked Galen about his nose, Galen out and out lied. He said that he'd lost his grip and that a shovel had whacked him in the face.

Then, in the afternoon, Galen had surpassed himself because instead of telling Toby and Owen what to do, making them feel safe the way Bede would have done, Galen had turned it around.

It happened when Toby raised the question about what they were going to do with the knapweed. Galen had said, That's a good question, Toby , when surely, surely, he already knew the answer.

Then he'd offered up his own laptop so they could research the best answer.

Back in the day, Bede had owned a top of the line MacBook Pro, and had created dozens of spreadsheets to help him keep track of shipments and the weights of cocaine bundles, and the rent on the meth house in a dodgy part of Denver, and utility payments that must never go unpaid, lest drugs stored in a warehouse might be spoiled by heat or cold.

It was a pleasure for Bede to use Galen's fairly fast Dell, and to search for basic things like knapweed and dispose of .

Bede had to hand it to Galen for being so clever, because everything seemed to shift, and the tone of the team changed right then and there. And Bede felt his own spirits being lifted up, just like Toby's and Owen's seemed to be.

From there, the afternoon leaped from good to great, because not only had Bede been able to use a super-fast laptop, they'd also gone to coffee.

Sure, he'd thought for certain that when Toby had demanded they go get coffee, Galen would say no. But Galen had said yes, looking adorable as he joked about being able to afford pup cups, seemingly pleased that Toby had suggested it.

Going into the air-conditioned coffee shop, with its round marble-topped tables, and glass case full of baked treats, was a little like Bede imagined arriving in heaven would be like. The place smelled like good coffee and baked sugar, and of the scent of good coffee beans being roasted in the back rising in the air.

Sitting across from Galen as he savored his lavender espresso buoyed Bede up more than he thought it could.

He saw Galen watching him as he sighed into his frothy drink and smiled from behind the foam of his own white chocolate mocha. It was as if the two of them shared a secret that Toby and Owen simply couldn't understand.

The conversation turned, naturally, to coffee. Bede had complained about prison coffee, and from there, Galen had told them all about his love for the kind of coffee mugs that a diner might use. That, along with a brief mention about the family farm, the pang in Galen's voice quite clear, at least to Bede, gave Bede more insight than he had only moments before.

But what was he supposed to do with how that made him feel, kind of jumpy and interested at the same time? And how was he supposed to stop staring at Galen's pretty face, flushed pink with the rush of overly sweet caffeine? Stop staring at those gray eyes that sparkled with laughter?

Bede loved to laugh. He and Winston used to laugh all the time. In prison, there had been no laughter, and no reason to smile. Sure, he'd laughed and smiled, but it had all been faked, just to keep up appearances.

Now, though? He'd laughed more than he had in five years. Plus, at the end of his first week in the valley, it was starting to feel different. He was starting to feel different. And what was he supposed to do with that?

After the coffees, they piled back in the truck and Galen drove them to the ranch, trundling up the dirt road that went through the middle of the ranch, them with their elbows hanging out the truck's windows as they went past a line of ranch guests with binoculars over their shoulders, guests who waved at them, and they waved back. Just like they were regular guys. Just as though nobody in the place had any idea that any man in that truck had spent time behind bars.

It made everything feel new and possible and just fucking different from Bede's old world, where everywhere he went he was known and recognized as a highly regarded lynchpin in the drug world. There was no way he could go back to that, not with a feeling like this sinking into his bones. Making him feel good all over.

Another surprise came when Bede was in his tent after dinner, alone, his blood-dark boots in his hand.

He debated whether he would put them on and go to movie night with everybody else. Outside the tent, in the woods, warmth was fading from the day, slow, low sounds and high, quick sounds, and small chirr-chirr sounds. He had no idea what was making any of it.

He took a pair of new white socks and his cowboy boots, and sat on the bottom step of the wooden platform, the boots on the step, his feet in the dust.

Somewhere he'd read that the earth was electric, and that it got recharged from above whenever lightning hit it. That electricity could be soaked in through bare skin. Which was probably all bullshit, but he did feel a sense of calm wash over him when he sat like this, with the low purple cloak of dusk settling all around.

"Barefoot, eh?" asked a voice.

Bede looked up. Galen was coming up the path with an armful of Amazon box.

For a second, he just blinked as Galen plopped the box down on the ground at Bede's bare feet, and sat on the bottom step next to Bede as he waved a hand over the box, which sat between them like newlywed bundling.

"What's that?" asked Bede. It was all so very surreal, having Galen there, noticing his bare feet, acting like them sitting there in the middle of the woods in a purple dusk was actually quite ordinary, when it was anything but.

"It's your books, from the list you wrote down," said Galen. "I figured I'd let you take your pick of what you wanted to keep with you, then put you in charge of putting the rest on the bookshelf in the mess tent."

When Bede had been with Winston, and even before that time, he'd never considered a book anything he'd want to spend time with. Even in school, he'd done his best to avoid actually cracking a book open unless he had to.

But once in prison, books had become his lifeline. The prison library had an odd selection of both fiction and non-fiction, everything from how to build a fire to the history of football.

The books had been old, worn at the edges, frankly unloved. He'd read everything he could get his hands on, just the same, to keep his mind occupied, to keep thoughts of Winston from creeping in like stray shards.

The books in the Amazon box would be brand new. And, being from his own list, however haphazard, they'd be something he'd actually want to read.

He'd want to keep all the books, but he didn't mind sharing them.

"Here." Galen stood up, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small jackknife. He opened the blade and, with one smooth motion, cut open the Amazon box. "There you go. Have at it, and we'll see you at movie night."

Evidently Bede's absence had not gone unnoticed. Probably Kell had said something about it.

"Didn't realize it was required attendance," he said, making it a joke.

As Galen walked away, back into the woods toward the main compound, Bede thought he saw a hitch in Galen's shoulders, as if he'd snorted laughter at the odd comment.

Turning his attention to the box, Bede pulled out book after book. The titles were all the ones from his list and included a whole bunch of books he'd not asked for. Which meant that Galen had thought about it, too, and ordered anything he thought might be enjoyable to read.

Bede reached in and pulled out The Road, The Water is Wide, The Shining , and Demon Copperhead , and took those to his shelf in the tent. Coming back out, he pulled on his socks and the blood-red boots and, packing the remaining books back in the box, he made his way to the mess tent, the books getting heavier with every step.

The lights were on when he got there, with everyone milling around the crock-pot of nacho cheese and laughing at someone's antics in taking too much, waiting for the movie to be set up.

Ducking down, Bede quickly put the books on the shelf, rearranging them to suit himself, rather than anyone else, and left the box for someone else to dispose of.

By the time he'd put the books away, he stood up and realized that nobody was paying him any mind and that all the good seats in front were full.

So he sat in the back row, enjoying the press of the inside of his new boots against his toes and realized he could see Galen's profile.

Galen was smiling as he was talking to someone, Gabe, probably. And he was lovely to look at. So pretty.

Bede shifted in his seat, and rocked his booted feet, taking a long slow draw of breath.

Knowing that he didn't want to watch a movie, not all stirred up like he was, he slipped away. Trotting down the steps, he thought he smelled something dark and rich in the air. It sure wasn't the odor of woodsmoke from the sanctioned campfire, that Bede knew for certain. No, it was pot, and the good stuff too. Freshly flown in.

He followed the scent all the way to the first aid hut and then went around it.

There, an autolight on the side of the roof illuminated a young man with sloppy dark hair, and a five o'clock shadow that looked too perfect not to be carefully groomed. Around his wrist he wore a bracelet that looked like it was made of thin strips of braided leather.

He was slouched against the wall, one booted foot propping him up as he spun a spiral of smoke from his mouth. He pulled the joint away from his pursed mouth, looked at Bede, and winked at him.

"Is that pot?" asked Bede. He'd never gotten high a lot, his business had required him to be too much on the ball for that, but it'd been ages since he'd had any, and he needed something to relax him, just now.

At the young man's nod, Bed asked, "Can I get some?"

Wordlessly, the young man handed over the joint, the moisture from his mouth still on the tip as Bede pulled in a long, slow draw.

Yes, the stuff was fresh, the smoke smooth around the edges. It was as good as Bede would have sold, back in the day, before he'd gotten into dealing cocaine. And the effect, rather than feeling like a clap upside the head, like cocaine tended to give him, the few times he'd taken it, was a gentle ease into relaxation, the aftertaste holding only the slightest trace of bitterness.

"Thank you," said Bede, holding the joint out.

"Take another," said the young man. "I got plenty." He pulled out a battered Sucrets box, held it up, and pulled out a stubby white joint.

Bede bent and touched the smoking end of the joint he held and waited till the joint in the young man's hand caught and began to smoke.

As the young man drew in a lungful, the smoke swirled above their heads, limned by the auto light as it blended with the spicy pine scent all around them, both of them looked up to watch the moths dance in the autolight.

"Share your troubles, man," said the young man.

"There's this guy," said Bede.

"There's always a guy," the young man said with a low laugh that sounded rueful.

"I've been here a week." Bede paused, taking a draw from his joint, pausing to lick his lips as his sense of relaxation deepened. "Never thought I'd make it even this far. But this guy."

Bede paused, not quite sure what to do with all the feelings let loose inside of him.

"This guy," prompted the young man.

"He's so annoying." Bede let out the smoke, swirling it on his tongue as he turned this thought over. "But kind of sweet, too. And so fucking pretty."

Maybe his attention shouldn't be turned by a pretty face. Maybe he should still be mourning Winston, clamping back his sorrow. Not moving on. Being faithful. Maybe he should. But it'd been five years. How long was long enough?

"How pretty?" asked the young man.

Bede glanced at him as he inhaled another lungful of smoke. Then he looked away and imagined that as the blue twilight came fully down, he could see stars poking through the darkness above the tops of the pine trees.

"Really pretty, but it's not just his face, which is, you know, sculpted." Bede made a gesture, drawing his fingers in the air in front of his face. "Or his long legs. Or his hair, always in his face. He's just one of those people."

"Those people," said the young man.

"You look at them, and you just know—" Bede paused to exhale, licking his lips again. "He's a real person. There's nothing fake there. The lights are on in those gray eyes and everybody, and I mean everybody , is home."

"You like ‘em smart, then."

"I don't know." Bede inhaled a lungful of clear, pine-scented air, an apéritif to his next draw of pot, and let it out slowly. "Maybe I do."

Winston had been smart, with a brain for numbers and a knack for sniffing out undercover cops, or drug dealers who would welsh on you as soon as they'd walked out of the alley.

Maybe smart wasn't the word to describe Galen, and pretty didn't seem enough. And maybe it'd taken Bede a whole week in a strange place and several tokes of the good stuff to realize it. That Galen was nothing like Winston.

Yet something inside of Bede stirred at the thought of how he sure as hell hadn't laughed as much as he did when he was around Galen. Never enjoyed delivering dry zingers just for the pleasure of hearing Galen laugh.

It was as if, when he'd gotten out of the white prison van, he'd stepped into a whole different dimension.

"I like ‘em smart and annoying."

Just as Bede was about to take another draw, footsteps came from around the corner, and Galen was there. There were sparks in his lovely gray eyes as he scraped the hair back from his face, as if he simply could not believe what he was seeing. Looking even prettier than in Bede's mind's eye.

"Are you smoking pot , Bede?" Galen asked, loud and angry. "And you, Beck. What you doing? Smoking is not allowed in the valley, you know that."

With a laugh, Beck took a draw, held in the smoke, and blew it out slowly, like he was the toughest kid on the playground and simply unafraid, or at least unworried, about getting a whole lot of detention. He pinched out the orange-embered end of the joint with his thumb and forefinger, then drew out his Sucrets box to tuck the joint away.

"Just don't tell Royce, okay?" Beck said with a jaunty smile.

"Honestly, what the hell are you playing at?"

Galen directed this fully at Bede.

"It's been so hot," continued Galen. "The woods are dry as a bone. It's a fire hazard. You could start a forest fire."

"Not playing," said Bede, casually, slowly, enjoying the pleasant eyeful of Galen, hopping mad, flushed. He drew himself up straight, his back pressed to the side of the first aid hut, and couldn't hide his slow smile. "I'm just smoking. And looking." His eyes swept Galen up and down, slowly, a warmth spreading through him. "Enjoying the view, as well."

At Galen's rough sound of astonishment, Bede chuckled as he snubbed out his joint between his thumb and forefinger and handed it to Beck. Who added it to his Sucrets box, which he placed in the pocket of his blue jeans as he picked up an army green duffle bag that had been waiting patiently at his feet.

"That the guy?" Beck asked, pausing at the corner of the first aid hut, one hand spread across the wood.

"How could you tell?" asked Bede, turning to look at Beck.

"Sparks are flying, man," said Beck, and then he was gone, disappearing around the corner of the building like so much pot smoke.

In his relaxed state, his first truly relaxed state in over five years, Bede did not care that Galen was right there, witnessing this particular conversation.

Who knew what conclusions Galen might draw from such a confession as Bede had just made, but he was a free man, wasn't he? Free to think whatever thoughts came to him. Free to feel whatever he felt, including a hot streak of desire for a man that he wouldn't have even noticed five years earlier. A man that, according to every convention he could think of, he simply could not have.

Well, he could look. So he did.

"What is going on with you?" demanded Galen, taking a step closer. "How much did you smoke?"

Bede shifted up from the wall of the first aid hut and also took a step closer to Galen. Now they were less than a foot apart, standing in the smoke-laced glare of the auto light.

Bede's impulse was to answer the call shifting inside of him, from his belly, along his thighs. The relaxation brought about by the pot shifted into desire, released on a cloud of inhibition long gone.

As Bede well knew, the lights were on in those gray eyes and everybody was home, and he saw exactly the nanosecond that Galen figured out what Bede's intentions were. Or what they would have been, had Galen not flat-palmed Bede against the wall and taken a step back.

"You're high," Galen said, his voice low, accusatory.

"That's an understatement," replied Bede, equally low. "But just sos you know, I don't do it that often."

He could move forward or he could stay where he was and draw Galen to him, but again, Galen surprised him.

"This is bullshit," he said, and turned on his heel. "I'm going back to the movie. You can do what you want, but if you do join, change your shirt because now you smell like pot."

Now Galen was gone and Bede was all alone. The high of pot, an elusive mistress, was fading by traces in his system, but the smile remained on his face.

Maybe in the morning, when he was fully sober, he might think differently, but as for right now, he knew he was right. He liked ‘em feisty and smart and high-minded. The sharp gray eyes didn't hurt at all, not one bit. Or those long legs. That hair.

He'd confessed this to Beck. More importantly, he'd all but confessed it and to Galen.

There was no taking it back. He didn't want to.

He had no idea how any of this would look come the morning, but in that moment, he was glad about the pot, so he could say what he thought.

He knew that Winston would have approved of Bede speaking his mind.

Winston was a moment-to-moment kind of guy, always striding into the future. He would have been disappointed in Bede if he let himself be held back by a memory of what was.

Yes, he could keep Winston in his heart as long as the memories lingered, but maybe it was time for a future of his own.