Games Boys Play (18 page)

Smiling a little, Dylan shook his head. “And the crazy asshole who’d rather be tortured than say a name we both
already knew
would sit there till the bucket was empty and then bend over to lick the last dregs on the bottom.”

“And then find out that the bucket is too narrow for my tongue to reach the bottom anyway.”

Dylan laughed. “You’d be stuck bent over with your head in a bucket.”

“Okay, that part’s not funny,” Brian said, smiling a little.

Dylan threw his head back and laughed.

“Not funny at all. I can’t believe I said all that.” Brian pulled on his door handle. “I’m going in and getting breakfast. I don’t know about you.”

Dylan, two fingers feeling along the circle tattoo on the inside of his wrist, didn’t move to get out.

Brian leaned down and raised an eyebrow.

“I need a minute. The whole thing…” Dylan waved a hand.

“Okay. See you inside.”

“Order me a coffee.”

“Okay.” He pushed the door closed and walked into the near-empty diner. With his choice of seats, he grabbed a booth in front of the window that overlooked the car, but when he looked out, a menu open in his hands, Dylan was already on his way in.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A day passed, then another. Brian went about them as he normally would, aware of but trying to ignore the thorny vine of second thoughts taking root inside him, until the third day, when a thorn pricked him, scraping him with the taste of its poison:

“I need a minute. The whole thing…”

The whole thing what?

They hadn’t talked about it in the diner—they hadn’t talked about any of it. Dylan had sat down, saying,
“So, where do you think we should record the next album?”

And now Brian wanted to know: The whole thing
what?

One thorn led to catching himself on another: Why did I go and run my mouth about all that shit in the car?

“The whole thing.”
The whole thing
what?

What if Dylan had started having second thoughts even before that stupid ode to strappado and rope ratchets?

And the duffel bag, sitting like a tumor in the back of his closet, the whole inventory having been laid bare on his bed.

His chest tightened.

Four days passed with no call, text, or word from Dylan. Maybe he’d gone off on one of his trips—but no, driving out to the grocery store on day five, Brian caught a red light beside a new drugstore going up, one of Frank’s crews working on it; he recognized Paulie and Joe. And then saw a mess of dark hair, a familiar back, headed toward the job site with a load of two-by-fours hoisted up on one shoulder. He wasn’t out of town; he just wasn’t in touch.

Brian had pulled away as soon as the light turned green, getting out of there before Dylan saw him.

By the seventh day, wounds had opened up all over his psyche, shame seeping from each one: the way he’d tasted Dylan’s glove when his hand was clamped over Brian’s mouth, his moans as Dylan had touched his nipples, his hard-on pressed against Dylan when he was tied to the door.

He was in the shower when the poison reached critical mass, in the shower with a different horrifying image in front of him every time he blinked his eyes: being walked in on in the bathroom, spitting on Dylan—twice. Humming “The Imperial March” through a gag. Begging Dylan to “take anything” from his apartment. Fighting the foam ball the first time, so Dylan had to practically suffocate him to get it in. Hardly fighting it at all the next time, practically grinding up against him instead.

The way he’d wanted Dylan’s fingers shoved back into his mouth.

He was bent over in the shower, his arm clutching his stomach, the emotional pain physical. His breath came ragged from his chest. He staggered against the fiberglass wall, slipped down it to the floor. Hot water beat against his scalp.

The images flashed faster, going back before Dylan, all those times alone, tying himself up to get off, all the way back to quietly, desperately humping a bunk mattress with his hands bound in a belt, imagining he could hear the protests and moans of pain as the hostage takers had their way with the others on the bus. With Dylan, even.

With Dylan, especially.

He swiped water from his face, not sure if it was from the shower or his eyes.

This is stupid.

Get ahold of yourself.

But, God, it was hard to catch his breath.

Chapter Twenty-Three

When the phone rang that evening, he was cross-legged on the floor in the fading light that fell through the balcony door, his acoustic guitar in his lap, a mug of spiked coffee by his knee, and pages sprawled across the floor in front of his bare feet.

A lot of blackness had washed down the shower drain, leaving him hollow, cored out, the raw ends of his nerves dulled if not deadened.

He padded across the rug to the phone, its face lit up in the murkiness that had overtaken the rest of the room. Dylan’s face looked out at him from the screen, that little twist of a smile.

“Hello.”

“Hey,” Dylan said. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

“Life happens. What’s up?”

“I was wondering…” Dylan started.

Brian walked back toward the balcony door, silent.

“Shit,” Dylan said. “You know what? I don’t actually know how to ask you if you just want to hang out anymore, you know?”

“I guess you could go with, ‘Hey, Bri, want to hang out?’”

“Right.” Brian heard him take a drag before he said, “So, if you have some time when you’re not doing anything…”

“I don’t really have any plans, so anytime you want to come over…” He scraped at a spot on the glass with his thumbnail.

“What about tonight?”

“Like I said, I’ll be around.”

“You want me to pick up something to eat on my way over?”

“If you’re hungry.”

“Okay.”

There was silence. It had the sound to it of Dylan wondering if he should say something else. Brian preempted him: “So, I’ll see you.”

“Okay.”

He hung up. In just those few minutes, it had gotten too dark to make out the words on the pages he’d scattered on the floor. Crouching, he gathered them into a pile before dropping backward on the floor, the papers grasped in one hand against his belly.

The pulse in his stomach beat against his wrist.

By the time the knock came, the apartment was a shroud of shadows. He set the pages down and switched on the lamp by the couch. At the door, he put his fingers against the wood and looked through the peephole. Dylan was standing in the hall, looking down it, waiting. No mask, no hoodie. He had his leather jacket on, his motorcycle helmet hanging from one hand.

Brian opened the door.

“Hey. I didn’t stop for food. I figured if we wanted something later, we could call out. Or go out.”

“Okay.” He stepped aside to let Dylan in, took his time closing the door and turning the lock. “Something to drink?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Dylan set the helmet on the table. They both headed for the living room, the only light in the dim apartment.

“Working on something or just fooling around?” Dylan asked, nodding at the guitar and pages.

Brian scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Working on something.” Then: “Want to hear it?”

“Shit yeah.” Stripping out of his jacket, Dylan settled on the couch.

Brian sat on the floor, his back against the balcony door. He started into the song he’d been working on, his fingers remembering most of how it went, his mouth not quite as adept with the words. He hummed through the parts he forgot, stopped to go back and do a section differently. Finished it off, head bent.

Dylan clapped, slow and earnest.

“Well, that one part still needs work.” Brian walked the guitar over to its stand.

“We need to hang out and play again sometime. You know, not touring, rehearsing, recording, or writing, just kicking back, goofin’ off.”

“Like I said, I don’t have any pressing plans.” They’d be writing the next album before long once they started that—it’s where “goofin’ off” always led. He folded a leg and took a seat on the other end of the couch.

“Yeah. We’ll do that,” Dylan said.

With his elbow propped on the back of the couch, his cheek propped against the heel of his hand, Brian said, “We could do it now.” He held his other hand out toward the clutter of stands by the wall. “It’s not like I don’t have enough guitars for both of us.”

“Maybe. Maybe in a bit.”

“Okay.”

They sat in silence, Brian wondering if they were going to move on as though the past few weeks hadn’t happened. He supposed maybe. Over twelve years, they’d moved on past a number of things without much comment: crazy girlfriends; brief musical flings; differences of opinion about fans, venues, management, posters, videos, session musicians, tour schedules, modes of transportation, and everything else it was possible to fight over.

Dylan pulled his gaze away from the balcony doors. “I should have been in touch sooner. I’m sorry.”

“My phone makes outgoing calls too, you know. It wasn’t just your responsibility.”

“Fair enough. I wanted to tell you why, though. Okay?”

So much for it passing without comment. Brian found a tiny bump in the couch’s fabric, a spot where the threads had gotten bunched together, and started to pick at it. “Shoot.”

“I was having trouble…” Dylan took a breath, patting his pockets for his cigarette pack, gathering his words. “I felt like I’d crossed a line. I know I said that before, and I know you said you’d stop me if I did.”

“Right.”

He shook a cigarette free, then pushed it back into the pack. “I just went too far. And I’ve been kind of killing myself over it. And don’t start telling me it’s okay, just to make me feel better.”

“It’s not just to make you feel better. It
was
okay. Everything was okay.”
Everything was fucking okay.

Dylan dragged his hand through his hair, pulling it away from his face. Too much white was showing in his eyes. Too much anxiousness. He swore quietly, getting to his feet.

“I don’t get the problem,” Brian said. “You’re worried if everything was okay, and I’m saying
everything was okay
.”
Was
, at least.

Dylan had paced to the balcony door, where he stood with his hands on his hips, staring out, or staring at the reflection of the room in the glass. Or staring at nothing. To the glass he said, “I had second thoughts on my way over that night, thinking, ‘Maybe you shouldn’t do that. Or that.’”

“And did you?”

He put the side of his fist against the glass and leaned his forehead on his arm. “I’ve been sick about it all week. I shouldn’t have done
that
, and I shouldn’t have done
that
.”

“Shouldn’t have done what?” Fuck. “Everything was
fine
. I told you that then; I’m telling you now. Whatever it was you think you should or shouldn’t have done, it was
fine
.”

Dylan was shaking his head, reaching for his pocket and the cigarettes again. He pushed back from the door to fish one out, put it between his teeth.

Brian said, “I would absolutely use the safe word if anything had gone out of bounds. I promised you that, and I fucking would. But I
didn’t
, because I was okay with everything. All of it. Even you going through—” His throat hitched for a second over the memory of the duffel bag. “Even you going through my shit.” They watched each other for what seemed like a long time before Brian said, “And this is fucking crazy anyway. I spent the whole week eating myself up over the feeling like
I’d
fucked up. I mean, seriously. I’ve been a fucking wreck.”

“What were you worried for? You didn’t fucking do anything.”

He made a motion with his hand. “All that talk in the car, for one. Once I started, I couldn’t shut up. I’ve been playing it over in my head all week, thinking, ‘What the fuck were you thinking?’ I don’t talk to people about that shit, but once I opened my mouth…”

“Fuck off. I’m glad you told me about that. I liked hearing about it. I mean, otherwise I’m just feeling around blind, hoping that you’re into what I’m doing and not sitting there wishing I was doing something else. Tell me about all the shit you want.” Something came across Dylan’s face, some trouble. Quietly he said, “Shit.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I was just supposed to be here
ending
this, is all.” He yanked at the balcony door, but the bar was down. The door bounced in the jamb. “Fuck.” He jacked the bar up, pushed the door open, and stepped outside, digging in his pocket for something to light his cigarette with.

Brian needed to get up off the couch and go over there and say,
What?
Say,
End it?
Say,
Fucking why?
But something was lodged in his throat, and he couldn’t move.

End it.

Of course.

It had to come eventually, right?

The lighter rasped, the light of the flame licking Dylan’s fingers, his cheek, before extinguishing.

Brian dug his fingernails into his palm.

Shit.

He got up and crossed to the balcony. “Why?” He pushed the word up around the boulder in his throat. “Why fucking— Fuck. I thought you were enjoying it.”

Gripping the balcony rail with both hands, Dylan said, “Yeah, I enjoy it.” He swore softly, then lifted his head. “I’m just starting to worry that it’s gonna blow up in our faces.”

“How? I mean, we can— That’s what limits are for, aren’t they? Rules. The fucking safe word. So we don’t fuck up and ruin everything.”

“Yeah. Well.” Dylan pulled in a drag, let it curl out his nostrils. He shook his head. “It all sounds good in theory.”

“I don’t want to stop. I mean, I know I can’t make you if you don’t want to, and I’m not— I wouldn’t hold it against you. If you want to stop, we’ll stop. But I want you to know—” He caught hold of Dylan’s upper arm, and Dylan turned to look at him.

“If it were up to me,” Brian said, “we wouldn’t stop.”

Another soft curse. The hiss of paper as Dylan pulled on his cigarette. Smoke coming out with his answer: “I don’t want to either. I’m just worried. We’ll wind up doing something we’ll regret if we keep on.”