Microsoft Word - Talkers_Redemption_Lane.docx

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    arrest me. They don’t need to know. It’s not their business.”
    God, look at him. He was pissing blood and could hardly see.
    His arm and shoulder were plastered and screwed together in some
    hideous way that probably hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, and he was still
    trying to protect Tate.
    “It’s my business,” Tate said after a moment of just looking his
    lover in the (swollen) eyes. “Look, baby, I know why you beat up
    Trev. I thanked God every day that he didn’t show up, because I
    might not have made it if he’d ended up in the club, looking at me,
    trying to touch me… I swear….” Brian knew. Brian had checked on
    him every night after The Worst. Date…, fuck it. After the rape. After
    the fucking rape. Brian had opened the door to Tate’s darkened
    room and listened for his breathing. Tate had pretended to sleep, but
    he’d heard. Tate knew that he wouldn’t have made it, if Trev had
    walked in.
    Talker made himself face Brian, as he hadn’t been able to face
    anything else these last months. “You saved my life, Brian. You know
    it. I know it. You took Trev out to protect me. Now it’s my turn to do
    the same for you.”
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    “Mr. Walker?” The blond detective, Mr. Moby Dick himself, was
    looking in, and Tate gave up on some dignity-saving clothes and
    nodded at him as he stood at the door.
    He stood and lowered his face to Brian’s, barely brushing lips,
    because Brian’s were split and sore, and mostly just rubbing their
    breath together. “I love you, baby,” he said softly. “Don’t do anything
    scary while I’m gone.”
    Brian grunted and then said, “Aunt Lyndie, go with him.”
    “Aunt Lyndie’s staying with you, Bruiser,” Tate said, brushing
    that wheat-colored hair away from his battered face. “But I’ll take
    Doc, if that’ll make you feel better.”
    “Doc?”
    “Yeah, he came in to check on us. It was solid of him. I think
    we’ll keep him around for a while.”
    Brian managed a little bit of a smile, but his eyes were sagging
    shut, and Tate had a date with a couple of cops. He rubbed Brian’s
    wrist with his thumb and then turned to go.
    “Doc?” It was as close to a plea as he would ever get, and
    bless Dr. Sutherland, he knew it too.
    “Absolutely, Talker. Let me get my knitting.”

    THE detectives had secured a small conference room somewhere
    far enough away from the Trauma ICU that Tate knew he’d have to
    ask for directions back. Dr. Sutherland panted by his side, and
    looked relieved to sit down in the offered chair, with an offered glass
    of water.
    Tate took the chair, wished desperately for a soda, and
    downed the water in one gulp.
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    “Do you smoke?” the blond detective asked. “We could take
    this outside if you wanted a smoke.”
    Talker frowned at him. “You can’t run track and smoke,” he said
    with a shrug. He crumpled the paper cup in the working two fingers
    of his right hand, and the detective followed the movement.
    There was a horrible silence in the room then, and Tate
    watched the realization—he could practically see the guy’s eyes
    track from his scarred, damaged hand, up his arm, to see that the
    tattoos on his arm covered scars, then up to his neck, where the
    scarring was shadowed by the creases in his neck, and then up to
    his face, and then his head, where the line of his Mohawk was
    dictated by the line where his hair would actually grow—aha!
    Epiphany. The only time he hadn’t hated that epiphany had been
    when Brian had made it. Brian had been nice to him anyway, before
    he knew the “why” of the tattoos and the hair. Brian had sought out
    his company, in spite of his own shyness and reservation. Brian
    hadn’t shown any pity or awkwardness.

    “OUCH.”
    “Yeah, it hurt. My mom fell asleep with a lit cigarette and a
    bottle of whiskey. My blanket was soaked in it.”
    “She make it?”
    “No.”
    “My folks neither.”
    Leave it to Brian to find the most painful (or was it second now,
    or third?) moment from Tate’s life, and to find the way it made them
    the same.

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    “WHAT happened?” the detective asked, and Tate swallowed,
    wanting more water. Enough, maybe, to drown out the sound of his
    heart in his ears.
    “Fire,” he said briefly. “Did you have something you wanted to
    talk about?”
    The detective widened his eyes and said, “You don’t