5. Bede

Chapter 5

Bede

B ede moved up the steps to the wooden platform. Galen was right behind him, silently directing him as to where the line for the buffet dinner began.

The sizzle beneath his skin, the urge to fight, seemed to dissipate within Galen's nearness. Normally Bede would have turned that closeness into a shoving match, because having someone so close that he could feel their breath on his neck was worthy of retaliation.

But somehow, this time, when Galen took a breath, Bede took a breath. He felt a flicker drawing him closer, as if there was more to discover there, but Bede shook this off. It wouldn't do to count on it, and besides, he was at the buffet line.

The food laid out on a steam table was an array of temptation, so unlike prison food that for a moment Bede found himself dizzy. To begin with, there were BBQ ribs with crisp edges, juicy meat. Nothing dry or gray, like in Wyoming Correctional, where food was punishment.

Here, the mac and cheese had a crispy crust, rather than consisting of noodles lying in a soup made of fake cheese. There was warm cornbread, still hot from the oven. Fresh butter in little tiny paper tubs. Baked beans that looked heavenly. Coleslaw that actually looked appetizing, rather than a gray soup of old cabbage and Miracle Whip.

Bede took too much of everything onto his plate, just about smiling when he sat across from Kell and Marston at one of the long tables. There was probably some sort of pecking order for seating arrangements, but he was too hungry to pay it any mind. He'd figure it out in time. Screw Marston and his scowl. Not worth Bede's time. Not with food in front of him.

In the meanwhile, not paying much attention to the general chatter around him—though he should, he really should, as it was important to get a bead on who everyone was, how important or dangerous they were—he ate. And ate some more until his stomach was pleasantly groaning.

In prison, he'd made himself eat everything on his tray to keep his strength up, no matter how bitter or made of gristle. Here, it was easy. His foodie nature could have a good time, and he'd work off the extra pounds doing whatever stupid shit they asked of him.

"Save room for chocolate cake," said Kell, his voice cutting through the fog of Bede's gluttony. "You don't want to miss out."

"Is every meal like this?" asked Bede, scrubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. He ignored the fact that Marston was still glaring at him.

"Every meal," said Kell. He pointed to the quart bottle of milk in front of him. "You can have some of this if you want."

"No thanks. Iced tea is what I like."

He took a sip, relishing the crisp clear taste of unsweetened tea as he looked around the mess tent, more cozy than spartan, as he scoped out the place. Taking in the placement of the tables, who was sitting with whom, as he had pretty much every day of his life.

Every man was focused on his meal, and a low chatter swirled in the air amidst the clank of a fork on a plate, the clink of ice in a glass. He was going to get spoiled and quickly, too.

The chocolate cake was amazing, as promised, and the general din faded as the chocolate kicked in. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone had gotten up to clear their place.

When that man moved out of the way, Bede could now see that Galen was sitting by himself at the end of the next table over, half-slumped over his slice of cake. He ate slowly, eyes closed, as if he were experiencing a rush of pleasure, a sugar buzz, and it was all too much.

When he opened his eyes, cake finished, he cast a half-sleepy look Bede's way. It was almost a come-hither expression Galen probably didn't know he was making. It was on the verge of being flirty, and Bede looked away. That expression was not on purpose, of course not.

"You coming to the campfire this evening?" Kell asked. "It's totally cool."

Bede looked at Kell, and at Marston on the other side of him, a silent watchdog.

"Sure," he said. Over the prison phone, Kell had told him in detail what the campfire entailed. How much fun it was. All of this had seemed rather lame to Bede, but considering how high-end and lush everything else in the valley was, it probably wouldn't be so bad.

"You might need a jacket," said Kell. "It gets cool when the sun goes down."

"You might need to wash up," said Marston, looking pointedly at Bede's front. "The program provides clean clothes, you know."

Bede looked down. A small smear of bbq sauce was emblazoned right in the middle of his t-shirt. Then he looked up.

Everyone else was wearing crisp, clean snap-button shirts of various colors, cool blue, cool white. He alone was still in his prison-issued, once-white t-shirt.

He alone hadn't showered and shaved because he'd been busy helping Kell move into tent number eleven and there'd not been time.

Before he'd gone into prison, he'd worn high-end clothes and taken pride in his appearance. Now, he stood out, like some newbie who was just asking to get jumped at the first opportunity. But he couldn't show he was embarrassed, no way.

"And you might back the fuck off." Bede looked around. Nobody but Marston had heard him. "Just back the fuck off."

Marston stood up, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape. Bede stood up as well. He wasn't intimidated, even if Marston was half a foot taller, and brawny by anyone's standards.

Every head in the mess tent was turned toward the little tête-à-tête between him and Marston.

"Oh, not again," he heard someone say. Probably Galen, who was up and coming over to them, wading into the melee without any fear whatsoever.

"Get it through your fucking head, Marston," said Bede quite clearly and loudly. There was no point pretending they weren't on the verge of coming to blows. He wanted to say more, but held back from exposing even more about himself in front of a crowd of near-strangers.

"That's enough," said Galen.

He came right around the table to where Bede was. Unafraid.

He looked up at Bede, chin out, eyes glittering. There was a lovely flush to his cheeks, and in his anger he was even prettier than before, pulling Bede's attention to him like the call of a bright blue sky.

"What did I tell you before?" asked Galen, stern. "Marston. Bede. I want you outside. Now."

"Can I come?" asked Kell.

"No," said Bede and Galen at the same time. Marston shook his head.

"We'll see you at the campfire," said Marston.

Following Galen, Bede came out of the mess tent into the slanting shadows of evening. Long shadows of trees cut along the ground in rows, like bars in a cage.

Galen took them all the way to the gravel parking lot, then stopped and looked at both of them.

"We don't get into fights here," said Galen. "What is the problem? Marston? Bede?"

Neither of them said anything, but only glared at each other. Bede realized he was breathing a bit hard and took a deep breath.

A fight with Marston seemed the obvious next step, but Bede didn't like feeling so out of control. Not to mention, he was distracted and intrigued by Galen. By his lack of fear. The way he stood between the two of them, quite calm, as if he felt his very presence was enough to make them stop.

"Are you fighting over Kell?" Galen asked now.

Bede knew it was a question of dominance about Kell. About who was his friend and who wasn't. In prison, you always had to fight your way to the top of the pecking order. For some reason, Marston was acting as if that was what he was doing, too. As if he had to fight Bede to keep Kell safe.

Bede could sense Kell watching them through the trees.

That stopped him. He was in a new world with new rules and he'd not even paused to figure them out.

If he was going to give himself time and space to decide what to do next, he needed to stay out of trouble. And that included not giving Marston the slap-down he so obviously needed. Kell deserved a stable world, not two guys fighting over him.

"We're not," said Bede, short. "But Marston here's got it in his head that I'm a danger to the kid. I'm not, you know." He settled himself, made himself breathe slower, stop glaring. Uncurl his fists. "Kell is like a brother to me. You read his file, I'm sure. I'm always looking out for him. Always."

Marston's eyes lifted. Then he paused. Bede looked over his shoulder to see what he was looking at.

Yes, Marston had seen Kell, and once again, his expression softened like butter in the sun. The guy was crazy in love with Kell. Part of that crazy had taken Bede as a threat, even though he probably knew better.

"Hey," said Bede, more softly, drawing Marston's attention to him. "I'm just his friend. That's all. I could see that Wayne has been a problem about sharing. Kell and I know how to room together. Wayne's got his own tent. He's a happy camper now. Literally."

Bede heard Galen's half-smothered snort of a laugh. He found himself returning that laugh, a half-smile, then he had to put the brakes on that to deal with the situation at hand.

"I'm not here to get in anyone's way, least of all Kell's. " He said with a small shrug. He emphasized Kell's name to draw Marston's focus to the most important part of all this. To help Galen by defusing the situation. "He's going to be upset if we keep going at each other like this. You know?"

"Okay," said Marston. His shoulders relaxed a little, and he too took a deep breath.

Bede could almost see the thoughts behind Marston's hard eyes. Love for Kell battled with his animosity toward Bede. Obviously love had won this round, but Bede would make a special point to stay out of Marston's way, just the same.

"Okay," said Bede. He held out his hand for Marston to shake and Marston did, though his lip curled in derision.

"Okay," said Galen, with a hearty sigh. "This was not in my job description. Well—" He shook his head. "Actually it is. So. Marston. Go look after your guy. And Bede? Maybe a shower is a good idea."

"Got it."

It was almost as bad as prison, being told what to do. How to act. But if he was going to get through this, he needed to buckle down and learn what the rules were. Abide by them. Then figure out what came next.

For a moment, the smile that brightened Galen's eyes made him seem like a regular guy, rather than someone set on making Bede's life difficult.

So far in the valley, it hadn't been anywhere near hellish as prison. Far from it, in fact. Not to mention that the idea of a hot shower, especially the way Kell had described it to him, and the fact that Bede had seen the high-end luxury of those showers first-hand, made a very fine prospect.

"Maybe I will take that shower," he said. After all, he owed this chance, this rustic interlude, to Kell and, for that reason, Bede was going to do his best not to cause another ruckus.

"Good idea," said Marston.

"Hey!"

Marston's lip curled and maybe he was laughing at Bede a little bit. "Just joking," Marston said. "But as Kell would say, the showers are heavenly."

A hand of peace, maybe? Well, Bede would take it.

"See you all at the fire pit," said Galen, as if the quick talk was enough to settle the matter. And, unlike prison, it obviously was enough. There was no penalty, no threats of time in solitary, no black mark on his record.

A little dumbfounded, Bede, on his own, trundled through the woods, following the path that led to his tent.

Once there, he sat on his cot and pulled off the bbq-stained t-shirt. It was the same shirt he'd worn while in prison, part of his uniform there, along with the thin canvas slacks. Those damn slip-on sneakers.

Clutching the t-shirt, he held it to his nose. It smelled like sweat, the dank, cloying smell of prison soap, old onions. A prison smell. Not a valley smell. No wonder Marston had been up in arms about him. He smelled like bad news.

Well, he was bad news. A criminal with a hard background and the tattoos to prove it. A history of drug dealing. A rap sheet a mile long.

Compared to him, Kell must seem like a fawn in the grass, hiding for its life. Bede, the sharp-toothed wolf.

In prison, their relationship had served a purpose, but suppose he really meant it that Kell was like a brother to him? Well, maybe Kell was like a brother to him, even if only for a summer.

What would it hurt? Would anyone care if he started acting like a nice guy?

Probably not. Least of all Galen, who seemed to enjoy laughing at Bede's very small jokes, and who seemed smart enough to see right through to the real Bede. Like he'd be easy to be with. Easy to trust.

It was too bad that Bede had to keep Galen at arm's length because he had a great laugh, half snigger, half belly laugh. Like he blissed out when things got funny.

And the blush Galen had, pink as a rose. Soft as a petal, that skin of his. It must be. As if Galen had barely started shaving, though he was obviously old enough to be a team lead for a trio of ex-cons.

Bede needed to set his sights elsewhere, and pronto. Five years was long enough to go without affection, without sex, so maybe now that he was out from behind bars, was it time to pick up the slack? Sure, but with who?

Never mind. He'd figure it out eventually and, all the while, tell himself that it wasn't scary as shit to take a risk with someone new.

First, a shower.

He gathered his shower things and managed to stumble through the woods like he had no sense of direction until he found the facilities.

Everything in the showers had looked rustic when Galen had taken them on a tour around the place, but Bede had been in enough five star hotels to know high quality when he saw it. The faucet handles at the sink gleamed low with expensive brushed nickel.

The shower heads in the stalls were quality too, and when he turned the shower on, it dispensed hot water right away. Steam roiled up, and he got undressed as fast as he could and stepped beneath the stream, almost rising on his bare toes to get that clean, hot water all over him.

Other than Winston, of all the things he'd missed while in prison, amidst the lack of privacy, the shitty food, the constant sounds all around, a good, hot shower had been at the top of the list.

This was his second moment alone in five years. The second time he'd experienced the lack of clatter in his ears, with only the soft sounds of the water swirling around him.

As he lathered himself all over, reveling in the clean smell of soap, a faint pine scented breeze came through the screened-in transom high up in the shower stall. It rocked him on his feet and he had to place his palm against the wall of the shower stall to hold himself steady.

On the evening before the disastrous drug deal gone wrong, Winston and he had taken a shower together, as they often did before sex, after sex, and during.

That time, though, it had just been a shower, the closeness of their bodies, chests touching, thighs brushing, creating a swirl of intimacy around them. They bonded anew amidst bubbles of soap, the scent of lavender, the brush of a kiss on Bede's shoulder meant to comfort and connect rather than arouse.

That was one of the things Bede had loved about Winston, among a thousand other things, his ability to create a life that was more than just the thrust and grind, getting off, getting high. The facade of a drug dealer's life paled in comparison to one simple touch of Winston's hand. The stroke of fingers on Bede's cheek. A sleepy smile over early morning coffee.

Bede had disguised his joy in all of this beneath bluster and a sleek three-piece suit. But Winston knew better. He'd always known better and had told Bede as much with a single glance.

The pain of the memory of that day, the day he'd lost Winston, shocked him now, even as the water streamed down in a cloud around him.

In prison, he had not let himself feel any of this. It was as if the valley, its gentleness, was slicing through that bluster, right through the stone walls Bede had erected. Cutting to the bone of him, making him feel it for the very first time. The grief. The loss of love.

He scrubbed at his face, and shook himself all over, pretending that he had soap in his eyes and that was why they were watering.

The irony of it. After five years of concrete walls and razor wire and bad food and the cruelty of guards—none of this had broken him. But give him one hot shower, and he was crumbling into pieces.

He needed to get hold of himself. The lushness of the valley, the slow pace, the good food, the clean sheets that awaited him come nightfall—surely all of this was a fluke and not meant to last?