Microsoft Word - Talkers_Redemption_Lane.docx

than I
    deserve, period,” he said, meaning it.
    “You mean an all-male review lined up to blow you isn’t on your
    list of things you’ve earned?” Brian kidded, and Tate had to smile at
    that.
    “Well, you know, besides that.”
    “Well, you’ll have to settle for a couple of people that care,”
    Brian told him, all serious again, and Tate wanted the light moment
    back.
    “I’d rather have the naked men.”
    Brian wasn’t fooled. He gave Talker another whisper kiss on his
    temple and said, “C’mon, get your coat. I’ll take you home and make
    you dinner.”
    Tate had recovered some of his “Tigger-bounce”—as Brian
    called it—as he put on his denim jacket and red scarf and took
    Brian’s hand as they went out the door. It was two a.m., and
    Gatsby’s Nick was closed, and it was time for all good bar-backs to
    go home with their ever-patient boyfriends and make love. Or at
    least this good bar-back, Tate thought with a little smile. He needed
    Brian’s bare skin on his and those wide shoulders to shelter him
    from the bad thoughts and the pain.
    “’Night, Jed!” he called to the bouncer who still stood at the
    door, making sure the last of the patrons left peacefully.
    “’Night, Talker, Brian.” Jed nodded, and Brian smiled his quiet
    smile. “Be careful on the way home. There’s supposed to be ice!”
    “I’m always careful,” Brian called back. “The damned Toyota
    doesn’t go fast enough to be reckless!”
    Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
    9

    Jed’s white smile was a surprise in his night-dark face, but a
    pleasant one, and his chuckle followed them out into the crystal
    December night.
    Jed and Brian were pretty tight these days, and Brian wasn’t
    tight with anyone except Tate, and maybe his ex-girlfriend, Virginia.
    He might have had a few co-workers he talked to, but Talker’s
    Prince Charming was, perhaps, the quietest, most self-contained
    person Tate had ever met. But Jed had helped Brian get Tate out of
    a dangerous frame of mind when they were first getting together,
    and of all the people in Gatsby’s Nick, he seemed to be the one
    person Brian had really gotten to know.
    If Jed hadn’t been straight, with a wife and two kids, Talker
    might have been jealous, and that wasn’t fair, because if anyone
    deserved a busload of friends, it was Brian. Brian had a few co-
    workers at his own work, and his aunt, and… and….
    And Talker.
    And Talker had him. It was the one truth he knew.
    The parking lot was dark and poorly lit. Talker guessed if more
    women came to Gatsby’s Nick, they might have fixed the broken
    soda lights, but men didn’t like to whine about getting mugged and
    the heebie-jeebies—not even gay men—so the lights stayed
    broken. Until The Worst. Date. Ever., Talker hadn’t cared about the
    broken lights either, but in the months since, he’d been more
    susceptible to the willies than eleven years of foster care should
    have left him. Every night Brian or Jed walked him out, he told
    himself that nothing was going to get him, nobody was jumping out
    at him, he was safe, he was safe, he was—
    “What in the fuck?” he stuttered.
    There were three of them, and one of them looked like Trev,
    except the last time he’d seen Trev, the guy’s nose had been
    Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
    10

    perfect, and he hadn’t had gold crowns on his teeth. And he hadn’t
    needed a chain, jangling ominously from his hand, to seem like a
    threat.
    Brian took a deep breath and grabbed his shaking hand. “Don’t
    panic,” Brian said harshly. “He’s not here for you. Go get Jed.”
    “Brian?” Why wouldn’t Trev be there for Talker? Trevor had hurt
    him. God, it had hurt, and so had the betrayal and so had the
    helplessness. Tate dreamed about Trevor, sneaking into his room
    and ripping his asshole open with a four-by-four and whispering,
    You want it, you little bitch, you know you want it....
    “Talker, just go!” Brian ordered harshly, and Tate looked around
    them to the three advancing figures in the darkness. Except for Trev,
    the other two had dark stocking caps on, the kind with spaces for
    their eyes and nose and mouths, and nondescript clothing, right
    down to their dark parkas against the December cold.
    Talker might have stood there, mesmerized, terrified, until his
    brains were turned into pudding, but Brian grabbed his shoulders,
    turned him toward the door to the club and shouted, “Run,
    goddammit! Get Jed, now!” just as