Doubt

Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother. ~~Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Joe Deacon, my insurance agent, isn't one of them. You didn't have to be a sentinel, someone like me with heightened senses, to catch the drift of where the conversation was going.

"What is this, Detective Ellison? The third - no, fourth -- time your vehicle has been involved in a mishap?" The bad cell phone connection was making it sound even tinnier - and more ominous.

I heard the laundry list of "mishaps" I've had over the past few years. "First, there was ..."

I was hearing, but had stopped listening. It did sound pretty bad when you strung them together like that.

I was picking up a pattern of common words, as my ex-anthropologist partner, Blair Sandburg, was so fond of saying.

" ... A high speed chase through Cascade proper which ended with the Ford losing ... is this correct? ... One fender ..."

Not to mention parts of me being more or less folded, spindled, and nearly mutilated in the bargain. I'm still not quite sure how the accident happened, but the rain was "a contributory factor," according to Joe. (If it was early fall in the Pacific Northwest, it was raining. Wet weather was pretty much a given; so much so, you could almost feel gills sprouting on your body.)

Anyway, slippery streets, high speeds, and two crazy bastards who'd just stolen a Humvie resulted in the passenger side door of my truck practically ending up in my lap. Shows you what bad luck and centrifugal -- or is it centripetal? I always confused the two - force can do for a guy.

The only lucky thing about the Turturro Brothers having rammed into me three Mondays ago was that Blair hadn't been in his usual shotgun seat. The impact alone would have killed him, and what was left would have fit neatly into a sandwich bag. So thank heaven for little favors. And somebody up there was looking out for yours truly. My right arm hadn't been ripped off; my shoulder hadn't been crushed or broken into a million pieces -- just bruised about as badly as I've ever seen me look.

In the past, I'd draw on all those years of Army Ranger training to bite the bullet and get through it.

I guess nothing lasts forever, including sucking it up. I'm telling you, over the past few weeks, there was no way I could position myself that didn't hurt. I'd never felt so much pain in my life; and believe me, I've been hurt much, much worse. But the "dialing" thing Sandburg taught me didn't seem to be working. It hadn't for a while now. The fact is things weren't behaving the way they should. Sure, I could still smell Cinnabons on the other side of the mall and see the Craftsman Tools' display across the entire length of Sears, but everything was just ... 'off' is the only way I can describe it.

Or maybe it's just that they lose something - or someone - more important. When the one person who's centered you, kept you focused, watched your back, and helped guide you through rivers of bullshit is pretty much M.I.A., you've got trouble. Trouble right here in Cascade City. Which starts with T. Which rhymes with B. Which stands for Blair. Blair Sandburg.

Back to my sad story. (Job had a better one.) The "T"s - Pauley and Tommy - were nabbed on the outskirts of town by two other Gold shields, Joel Taggart and Megan Connor, our Aussie transplant, even as I was being cut out of the wreckage and the EMTs were carting me over to Cascade General. The ambulance crawled through rush hour traffic to the ER. The only good thing about my predicament was that I looked a lot worse off than I was. Paramedic Tina Yeager, who Blair and I both knew, stroked the back of my hand, her smile, steady voice, even breathing and heart-rate all letting me know I wasn't too messed up. "Jesus, Detective Ellison. Aren't you getting a little old for demolition derby?"

Anyway, when we finally rolled in, Dr. Barbara Penrose was on duty which qualified as a godsend in my book -- a friendly face and someone who knew what my particular story was. I didn't need to arm-wrestle with some stranger (okay, I promise not to try to be funny again) about batteries of tests and trays full of drugs. Both could be hazardous to a sentinel's health.

Doc Penrose's patched me and my partner up more times than I care to remember, and she's been the attending physician when other detectives from Metro have been brought in to the emergency room. Major Crime could have put her on retainer. Great MD. Lousy bedside manner. With that "tsk-tsk" in her raspy voice and disapproving look in her "nun" eye, I knew I was in for one of Bab's standard lectures. ("Detective Ellison, the human body can stand only so much abuse." Like it was my fault Pauley Turturro spun the Ford and me around like one of Sandburg's dreidels.)

Once we got past the friendly chat, the doctor gave me my S.O.P. treatment options: I could: stay in what's laughingly referred to as the Ellison-Sandburg wing of the hospital; take pain killers, lots and lots of them; and pee into a bottle held by somebody I didn't know.

Or, I could shoot for door number two, which consisted of: medical leave from the P.D.; bed rest at home; wearing an immobilizing sling until she said different; and peeing into a bottle held by someone I did know. I chose the lesser of two evils - which I always did, unless I was unconscious.

Door number two it was. That's how I found myself here back at 852 Prospect, Apartment #307. I was over the worst of what had happened in the accident, but I still looked like hell.

I was still cranky, sore and alone. Big surprise there. My skin itched like a mother where a Velcro contraption strapped my arm right arm tightly to my chest. I couldn't do any kind of paperwork because sitting at Sandburg's computer for any length of time made me stiff.

And my jaw ached this morning from clenching it as I listened to Joe Deacon and his explanation of why I probably was going to be dumped by the "Good Hands" folks.

My ears were also ringing with every damned thing going on in a supposedly empty building. It was almost noon. Why wasn't Sue Clark at work? And why did she have to watch that god-awful soap opera? The Baylor twins ... they were in bed with colds, wheezing and crying to beat the band. Apartment 203's refrigerator was making a kind of grinding noise that guaranteed to blow the top of my head off. Oh, yeah. Recuperation was certainly proving to be a snap here.

Well, at least Sandburg had left me a carafe of his twig tea sitting on my nightstand table and a couple of Ring-dings because I threatened him with one-armed bodily harm if he didn't. That was the extent of the good, old-fashioned T.L.C. I was getting on this medical leave at home.

My partner didn't have the time to fuss around me the way he used to in his pre-cop days. Back then, when he was a student at Rainier, if I were hurt or wounded, it was pillows and chicken soup and the remote control secured to the back of the sofa in an ingenious way. But then we're talking about one of the smartest, most resourceful, and, and the same time, flakiest people I've ever met.

I take that back. It's my sore shoulder talking. That, and being bored out of my skull. It's not Sandburg's fault I've made him into my de facto S.O. (I would say the words 'significant other' but then I'd have to kill myself.) Usually, when I've needed somebody to take care of me - or do important stuff like opening up a jar of Skippy Extra Chunky or a can of Hormel Chili - Blair's always been there to do the honors. In the time we've shared the loft, my roommate's nurse-maided me over chickenpox and bullet wounds and a surprisingly bad reaction to Flintstone Chewable Vitamins. (I was done in by a rogue Barney, I guess.)

If there had been some long-legged redhead who'd volunteer for the job, I might have considered trading my partner in - at least to play Florence Nightingale for the past few weeks. But there's nobody remotely like that on the horizon. Most of the women I'd been going out with weren't looking for anything too serious, and certainly nothing permanent. (I think they used to call it the zipless fuck back in the Stone Age.) So, I honestly couldn't see myself picking up a phone and asking, "Can you please come over and wipe my face, my chin, my ass?" (And if I couldn't get them to warm my soup, well ... that's why sex for me these days was limited to my right hand -- except when I wanted go wild and use my left.)

That's why the "honors" of taking care of me fell to Sandburg. Again. Of course, he had to pencil me into his busy schedule. It seems there's not much time in my partner's life for anything but his career. There's a laundry list of things that have changed over the past year or so. Like my partner's work style. Nowadays, it was more efficient and task-intensive as they say in the manuals. A lot different from when I met him four years ago. Back then, his projects seemed never-ending, as he went back and forth with things when his "muses struck." The place was in a constant state of turmoil, punctuated by peanut butter and sprout sandwiches on whole grain that turned into experiments in germ warfare.

Four years -- the "just for one week" that's now about 207 weeks over the limit. Why did I let Sandburg stay? The truth is, I'm not sure. But once Blair's Barbary ape pal, Larry, went to live with some of his other primate friends, I couldn't see myself chucking the kid out on the street. I had five haywire senses and needed help. And strange as it may sound, Sandburg could - and did.

I also needed some "tough love" for my black and white attitude about pretty much everything. Sandburg jumped into the shambles that passed for my life back then. With way too much enthusiasm and asking very little in return, he taught me a lot of valuable lessons about being strong without necessarily being inflexible. You might not believe this, but I've been known to be ... rigid. And, what's the old joke ... does anal-retentive have a hyphen?

Blair Sandburg succeeded in transforming the miserable bastard I probably was into someone who was, all in all, pretty decent.

That part wasn't easy. After the time I spent in the Army and particularly that last mission to Peru, I came back home, a 24-karat prick. I was a bastard to what little family I had and to Carolyn Plummer, the woman who married me and eventually became my ex-wife because, how did she put it, "The light's out, and there's nobody home. Or if there is, how would I know?"

I was downright miserable to the cops I worked with and partnered with. But I saved the worst for Sandburg, who deserved a medal for putting up with my moods, my idiosyncrasies and my unpredictable behavior. Did I say a medal? Jesus. (I probably should nominate him for sainthood, except for the Jewish thing.) For a while, I acted like he was only a boarder and that his being an "unofficial" PD observer was a colossal pain in the ass.

When some of Cascade's "finest" pulled macho cop bullshit with him, I just told the kid that it was the way you earned your bones. I remember one particular night, after a particularly gruesome murder scene we'd both witnessed, Blair asked if he needed to check his humanity at the door if he was going to hang with cops. I can't believe I actually had the balls to say, "Whatever it takes to stay present. You've got to learn to do the right thing because your life and the lives of many others are going to depend on it." What grade-A crap.

I told Blair to suck it up, like he somehow owed it to me. I never even said thank you for everything he did. I said it more often to the corner newsstand paper vendor. Thanks to the guy who handed me a 50 cent paper, but not to Blair Sandburg, the one who kept me sane - and alive. But Blair's got stones. Ask anyone. He hung tough, yet stayed true to himself. Sandburg made it work.

Just like when he was a student, Blair still tries to get "it" right. He says God's in the details. (I always thought it was the Devil, but what does a "behavioral throwback to a pre-civilized breed of man " know?) Of course, Sandburg's also been known to say that aliens landed in Roswell, NM, that Santana isn't the last great group around, and his Volvo is a classic, so you have to take everything coming out of his mouth with a grain of salt. Me, I'm more of a big picture man. I guess we're a good match. At least, we were.

My life's turned out better than I could have imagined, even with all the changes I've gone through. Blair had a lot to do with all of it. Hell, he was the architect of the makeover. Sure, I was a good a cop before I met him. But, I wasn't the kind you'd put on your short list of people to hang out with or get to know. Professionally, I'd probably be the first one you'd want to partner with. But share a pizza or a life? I don't think so.

Now, I'm just ... better. The universe must have known what it was doing when it threw us together. And, even after everything we've been through - especially during that whole dissertation fiasco - I've ended up ... happy. I wish I could say the same about my friend. Get a few beers into him and he'll share some bottom-of-the-bottle philosophy: "If this is happiness, then I guess I'm happy." I don't always believe him.

But, you have to play the hand you're dealt. I'm just relieved he didn't cut and run. If things had been reversed - if I'd been asked to give up everything I'd ever worked for in my life -- I don't know that I could have. I guess Sandburg's a better man than I am.

Except now there's something ... different. I can't quite put my finger on it. I mean besides his short hair, sensible shoes, and contact lenses now, almost always. Sandburg's clothes are "regular guy" off the rack stuff. The flannel, the grunge, and the thrift store overcoat that used to be his calling card are history. The Zuni fetishes, the Masai bracelets and the silver earrings have been packed away. I don't remember what they looked like on him. He's even wearing a Timex watch, for God's sake.

Blair Sandburg now walks past other cops and no one gives him a second look. I mean people still "look" - he's easy on the eyes. But Sandburg's not out of place any more. He's not bouncing around and off the walls like the damned cartoon character he used to be.

And I woke up the other morning realizing that that scares the hell out of me.

The changes haven't stopped with what Blair Sandburg's wearing. His taste in women has done a 180. There used to be a time when Sandburg would pretty much jump a table leg.

Now, the girls - sorry, women - in my partner's life are more ... 'subdued' is the best word I can come up with. They're serious, professional, and attractive in an understated way. Sandburg avoids dating anyone from his previous academic life or from the PD. (The on-again, off-again tango with Sam from the Forensics department was enough to sour him on workplace romances for the next couple of decades.)

One of the ones I met, a CPA named Sharon Bracken, came over to dinner the loft month or so ago. He'd bumped into her at some seminar run by the mayor's office. It was a pretty nice evening, all things considered. She was pleasant, and polite, and ... unremarkable. And I don't mean that as a putdown. She just was. For his part, Sandburg was pleasant, and polite and ... like someone going through the motions. I couldn't image them kissing, much less having sex. Not that I try to conjure up that picture too often. I mean, I don't expect fireworks in my own love life anymore. Dating known felons or anyone you've exchanged gunfire with will pretty much make you reevaluate what you're looking for in a relationship. I guess I wanted more for Blair, because I think he is pretty damned remarkable. I wanted him to work at a job he loved, have people he could count on, and find "the one" to share his life with.

But Sandburg had to get off the stick - he wasn't getting any younger. When the big four-oh hits my partner (not tomorrow, but soon), where would he be? Still living in the room under my stairs? Still taking courses and attending seminars, not with joy or some sense of accomplishment, but just to fill time? Still calling his mother Naomi, the original flower child, if he can track her down in West Bumfuck? Still my partner?

I think what was hitting me like the Ford's door was that for Blair to get from Point A to Point C, there would have to be some changes in his life. Big changes. What I hadn't considered was what would happened to Point B, which would be me, if -- make that when -- Sandburg started to trade-in one thing for another, and another, and another. Would I make the final cut?

With his background and abilities, and being able to handle all the day-to-day bullshit, Detective B.J. Sandburg's made himself a force to be reckoned with on his own terms. He could fast track to places I've never dreamt of going in the Police Department.

The days of Sandburg being "Ellison's Shadow" are long over. That's why he wasn't in the truck that day. Blair had been tapped to co-chair a panel with our boss, Simon Banks, on a new high-school outreach program. The captain's taken Blair to a half-dozen meetings just in the past few months, because he says, only half-kidding, that my partner's initials aren't B.S. for nothing.

Nobody, but nobody, can waltz around reports or bureaucrats like Sandburg. Carly Simon said it best: "Nobody does it better."

Before, I was about the only one who knew it. Now, everybody else did - and I felt like I was becoming a face in the crowd. Just like Sam, and Maya and a whole bunch of other left-behinds.

I was considering pulling my gun and making 38 mm statements about how unhappy I was when Sandburg called. He said he was coming home early just in case I was tired of being on my own.

"Because the damned villagers are going to storm the loft with torches and burn you out if you don't."

"That's me. 'A buck a yuck; a dollar, a holler.' Anyway, I'll be there in about 45 minutes. Don't forget to take your pills."

"I don't know. How about something that goes with black and blue?" He hung up before I could think of a witty comeback.

Forty-three minutes later, having stripped off sweats that were to the left of 'ripe,' I was still wandering around my bedroom, trying to find anything that was clean and relatively easy to get into. I hadn't relished Sandburg's slash and burn technique, so I shaved for the first time on my own earlier in the day -- with my left hand. I remembered now why I didn't use an electric razor if I could help it. Every whisker stubble the Braun left behind made me even crankier than the All State version of the Spanish Inquisition.

Clean socks and underwear were the first order of business. Getting into my black jeans wasn't too tough. I passed on my favorites - the tight ones -- because I would have had to leave a suicide note trying to get them on by myself.

As I was looking through my closet for some kind of shirt and slip-on shoes, I started feeling light-headed. Maybe Ring-dings and meds didn't mix. I plopped onto the edge of the bed, and figured I'd just sit there until it passed. Besides, without a shirt, trying to slip my arm into that frigging sling which I'd torn off and thrown onto my comforter was sort of jumping the gun.

"Jesus Christ, Sandburg, sneak up on a guy, why don't you?" I hadn't even heard my partner come into the loft. There he stood, at the top of the steps, dressed in black from head to toe. Everything smelled new, including his boots. The outfit was unrecognizable - like this character, Detective B.S. Sandburg. How had I missed the Johnny Cash wannabe? Then I remembered I hadn't seen my partner this morning. He'd placed a note next to the tea. "Going in early. Take meds. Talk to you later. B."

Sandburg looked at my semi-dressed state, then flashed me a lopsided smile. "Uh, it's a little casual for my tastes, but hey, if it works for you ..."

Blair had reached into my closet and pulled out a soft black shirt his mother, Naomi Sandburg, had sent me last Christmas. She'd gotten it from one of her New Age friends -- the 'vibes' had said 'Jim Ellison.' I've rarely worn it because makes me look like a damned buccaneer. All I needed was the eye patch and a squawking parrot to complete the look. But, now, as Sandburg wove my forearm through the sleeve, I had to admit, it felt good. It didn't rub or chafe the worst of my bruises.

As Sandburg worked the shirt over my right shoulder, he stretched the left sleeve out, threaded my other arm through it, then reached out to button me up.

"You weren't so old in the old days." Blair was right. But then, he almost always is. "It's okay, man. We're aging together." That was a disturbing thought. I just flashed on a 100-year-old Guide helping his 110 year old Sentinel. It wasn't a pretty sight. "And at least you won't have to worry about losing much more up there." He pointed to my ultra-short hair cut.

"You WISH you could have a bad hair day. EVER. Okay. Let's do the sling and blow this popsicle stand. Lift your arm, Jim."

Blair tried sounding pissy. "Where's a villager with a torch when you need him? You're good to go."

"Wanna check my zipper while you're at it?" I growled, to cover the humiliation at being dressed by my ... by Sandburg.

"Watch it, Ellison. You're talking to the guy who's got to get you out of those clothes later."

With all my buttons done up, the Easy Glide safely in place, Sandburg gave me the final once-over, nodding his head in approval. He walked downstairs in front of me after my eyes dared him to try to help me navigate the steps.

Blair retrieved the rental car keys sitting on the island counter. (Between the Volvo being in Mechanic's Limbo, and the Ford being in Accident Hell, we had to rent something. It was an undersized box on wheels sitting out front on Prospect. The agent laughingly referred to it as a "mid-size." I'm still trying to figure out a mid-size what.)

We almost reached the door when Sandburg caught sight of something sticking half-in, half-out of the kitchen trash can. It was an old, blue polo shirt I'd tossed out earlier in the afternoon when I couldn't find anything else to do around the loft but clean. I used to pair it with a gray jacket that had been donated to the Salvation Army last Christmas.

"The first day we ... the day you showed up at Hargrove Hall." He waited for me to say something. I didn't. Blair was right. I'd worn both the day I knocked on "Artifact Storage Room 3" with a handwritten paper sign tacked on the door reading "Blair Sandburg." I was remembering back to a geeky kid with long hair, a blue vest and enough energy to put Cascade Utilities out of business.

"I was listening to music in that shithole of an office the dean gave me." His eyes suddenly matched the faraway sound of his voice. "We talked ..."

"I guess it was fate. You're getting rid of it?" Sandburg stood there, rubbing the material between his thumb and index finger.

I half-expected my partner to give me one of those goofy grins of his, like old times. But he just tossed the shirt - the rag - back into the bin, brushed his hands together as if ridding himself of the memory. I suddenly felt sorry that I'd thrown the shirt away. It was like a piece of history - our history.

Sandburg and I headed on over to La Famiglia, a restaurant I knew would have a table for us, even on a busy Friday night. It was also the default choice, after we'd sparred back and forth about places to eat. The polo shirt thing had left a bad taste in my mouth. Hopefully, a little cappellini would get rid of it. I was being sort of surly. It wasn't the shirt. Well, not just the shirt.

I hated feeling weak. I hated being weak. I hated being a passenger in this awful little car.

Most of all, I hated not being in control. Yogi Berra was right. It was d�j� vu all over again. We always came back to control. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to think about it. Blair played chauffeur, doing pretty well for the "non-driver" in our twosome. While we cut through some of the back streets to avoid the heavier traffic, Sandburg rambled on about the upcoming conference Brian Rafe was going to attend in Seattle. Next were the highlights of Naomi's trip to Chaco Canyon for a spirit quest, followed by Cliff Notes on some course in International Law he was thinking of taking.

"Would you feel any better if I decided to go back and get my doctorate in ... I don't know ... anthropology?"

Suddenly, Sandburg and I were two sentences away from a fight we'd never finished. Luckily, we arrived at La Famiglia and had to retreat to our respective imaginary corners. Through a light drizzle that had just begun, he looked at the postage-stamp sized parking lot that was full, and slammed his foot on the brake, probably harder than he meant to. My knees banged up against the miniscule dashboard.

I started fumbling left-handed with the door handle because my damned sling was in the way. "Wait a minute, Jim." My partner yelled, looking irritated as all get-out. He got out, and with the car still running, ran around the other side and opened my door. I was just about to fumble with the seat belt, when I felt Blair's hands below my waist. They were a hair's breadth away from where I ... live. He didn't even notice. Sandburg sidled one hand behind my back and around my left shoulder. He slipped his other under the sling on my right arm, and tried to slide me out.

"Thanks a lot, Chief." I snapped sarcastically. There was going to be yet another contusion on my ridiculously "contused" body. Once upon a time, Blair would have probably rubbed it for me.

Well, an evening of firsts. Jim Ellison apologizing. Kind of. Who says people can't change?

But Sandburg wasn't letting me off the hook that easily. He didn't even acknowledge my feeble attempt at fence-mending. "I'll be back in a few. Unless a circus train comes by. Then you're on your own."

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they did. As I sat at the bar, unhappily waiting for Round Two, a tall, dark-haired man in a Burberry raincoat walked up to me. He looked vaguely familiar. "Excuse me."

"Jim Ellison." I skipped trying to do a left-handed handshake. "Do we know one another, Mr. Grossman?"

"Okay, 'Eric.'" It looked like the ball was in my court, so I added, "Food's great," just for something to say.

I was trying to figure out where this conversation was heading. In point of fact, it was heading to Hell in a handcart. I just didn't know it at the time.

"I ... wanted to ask you a question." The timber of his voice had changed. My radar was up and running.

"About you and your ... the shorter man you usually come in with. Blair ... right?"

"Uh-huh." My Sentinel senses kick-started into full alert. I focused on this joker and gave him what most people call my "laser look," the one Sandburg says scares the crap out of perps. "Who are you again?" I started making some mental notes: Grossman, Eric. Probably spelled with a "c," not a "k." Caucasian. Dark brown hair, brown eyes. Five feet, 11 inches. Approximately 170 lbs. No distinguishing marks or characteristics to speak of. Except that he was beginning to piss me off. I could do a search for a rap sheet when I finally got back to work:

"Eric Grossman. Look, I saw your ... Blair outside parking his car around the corner. You haven't been in here for a while, and wanted to know if ..." he stammered to the point. "...you're still together?" Eric the Gross's voice rose on the last word.

It was official. The day had gone from bad to "suck-worthy" - one of Sandburg's favorite expressions.

"I'm a little slow on the uptake tonight. Tell me again how you know my partn - ... uh, Sandburg and me."

"I told you, I've seen you in here, and sort of asked around." Eric with a "c" was beginning to look uncomfortable. "It's not like I'm stalking you or anything."

"Good." I threw him the kind of smile that shows all your incisor teeth. "Because I have to tell you that we're both detectives with the Cascade P.D. And we wouldn't appreciate that at all." I took a lot of satisfaction in seeing Grossman's Adam's apple bob up and down nervously and his features become pinched. As Eric hemmed and hawed, trying to climb out of the enormous hole he'd dug himself, I realized the truth of what my unwelcome bar buddy was saying. La Famiglia had become a favorite place for Sandburg and me early on in our relationship. We had a regular booth. We'd fought here and had make-up dinners here. I'd even thrown Blair his graduation from the Academy upstairs in the large private room. It was the only place big enough to hold all our family and friends and ... Wait a minute. Relationship ... Relationship? Fuck. First, my own truck beats the bejeezus out of me, and now I think I've just been broadsided by the clue bus.

Sandburg and I are a friggin' couple. We were even wearing matching outfits tonight, for Christ sake. Is that what I've been afraid of? Not that I was losing my partner, but that I was losing "the one" for me? All this time, I've loved Blair Sandburg. Me. Straight-as-an-arrow James Joseph Ellison. I loved and was in love with my male partner.

And in the middle of all of the ... misha* ... misha* ... whatever the hell the Yiddish word for craziness is, this stupid Grossman bastard was still talking. I had to stop him.

"We're together." The poor chump took a swallow of the beer he'd ordered, looking resigned to the news. "Sorry." I added because I almost of felt bad for him.

I was chewing ice like there was no tomorrow. Too bad it hadn't been soaking in a trough full of Johnny Walker Black, but with the painkillers, it was wishful thinking on my part.

And where was Sandburg parking the car anyway? In Seattle? Why wasn't he in here, sitting next to me, helping me figure all this out? I'd just had my eyes opened by some clown - some male clown - who wanted to take Blair out. I should have said, "No fucking way," and finish it off with, "Hands off. He's mine." You think there's a Hallmark card for a situation like this? How many times in your life do you finally wake up to the fact that "the one" for you has a five o'clock shadow thick enough to hide Arizona in it?

So now what? Supposing - and that's all it was, right now - that I asked Blair Sandburg to take that final step with me. If he said 'yes,' would I be able to ... to put aside a big chunk of who I thought Jim Ellison was? Cutting to the chase, could I turn over for Sandburg? Could he do the same? I honestly didn't know the answer to either. But the alternative ...

Life really was a bitch. And then, sometimes, you found out you wanted to be one for your best friend.

Sergio, the head waiter, saw me perched uncomfortably on a barstool as I waited for Sandburg to join me. With apologies flowing in two languages, he walked me past at least a dozen other hungry diners waiting for tables and showed me to our regular booth near the back. I'd just gotten settled when Blair came in from the rain, damp and a kind of frazzled that had nothing to do with being wet. The way my partner was looking through me was like a banner that read: Be afraid. Be very afraid. But then he took a deep breath, one of those cleansing yoga things he didn't seem to do much anymore, before giving a cocker spaniel shake of his head. Nobody around him seemed to mind, probably because he combined it with that deadly puppy dog look of his. He's raised that particular piece of business to an art form. Nobody can stand up to it.

God. Sandburg is really good-looking. Wearing black everything, and without that mop of hair he used to sport, all you could see were his eyes. There were no dark-rimmed "professor" glasses anymore to hide behind. Now, those blue babies were out there, flecked with gold and green and emotions I guess I never noticed before.

As he walked toward me, Blair drew appreciative glances from every table he passed. More than a few were from men. Funny, until tonight, that little fact had never registered in the jumble I call my mind. I mean, I figured in college, a lot of stuff came knocking on Sandburg's door, and he sometimes didn't get out of the way.

While I was considering just what kinds of mischief and mayhem might have had Sandburg's name stenciled all over them, he slid into the booth on my right side, careful not jostle my arm, and draped the blue linen napkin across his lap.

I'd told Sergio to bring some of Blair's favorite wine to the table when he seated me, but the bardolino hadn't arrived yet. So Sandburg and I clinked water glasses and sipped our Pellegrino in rhythm -- just like we'd done the first time we ate here together.

My partner opened up the enormous leather-bound menu, noticing mine was sitting closed at the edge of the table. "Have you decided?"

I almost did what comedians call a spit-take. Christ. How did he know? What I'd been thinking was still illegal in a handful of states. Maybe it was written on my face, which had to be shining with sweat and guilt.

"Pay attention, man. Food? Ordering? I'm not asking you to spill state secrets here."

In rapid succession, Sandburg looked exasperated, amused, perplexed and finally concerned. He reached out, brushing my forehead to see if I was feverish. The skin under his fingers almost sizzled from the touch. I tried to swat his hand away and succeeded in knocking breadsticks halfway across the dining room.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Do you want to get some food 'to go' and head back to the loft?"

"No, I don't 'want.' I want to stay here." I sounded worse than a kid having a tantrum. If I'd ever pulled a whiney stunt like this in public on my pops, Bill Ellison would have let his fingers do the walking. Across my face.

"Okay. Okay." Sandburg lowered his eyes back to the menu. He couldn't have read more than two lines before he spoke again. "Jim, level with me. What's wrong? You've been acting like ... I don't know what. And it's not just from the accident."

I wanted to say, "The guy over there in the trench coat wants you ..." and add ... "over my dead body" ... finishing off with the big declaration ... "because I've just realized I love you." Instead, I held back, like always. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I wasn't ready to come out yet."

Suddenly, what I just said hit me. And it would have been pretty damned funny, if the joke weren't on me.

"Jim ..." Then came the pregnant pause. If Sandburg said, "We need to talk," I was going to grab his gun and shoot myself. "There's something else I need to talk to you about." The paraphrase was just as bad.

"So talk." I'd pushed an entire breadstick down my throat. Combined with the dry mouth fear creeping up from the pit of my stomach, I started to choke.

"You're really having a bad night." Sandburg was thumping me on the two square inches of my back that didn't ache like a son-of-a-bitch. "That better?"

When I finally stopped coughing, a clearly relieved-looking Blair sat back down, but almost immediately began fiddling with his knife and fork. "Look, Jim, you know I'll always want to be your ... cop partner ..." He turned his dish first clockwise, then counterclockwise to get it in the right position. Either that, or he was trying to find the combination that unlocked our table. The "but" was a breath away.

"But ..." Megan Connor was right. I should have added "psychic" to my business card. "... Don't you think it's time for me to get a place of my own?"

"Don't you want me to move out? I mean, aren't you tired or my being underfoot, always sticking my nose into your business ... and, well, aren't you ready to explode from no sex? Ever?"

"Okay. Hardly ever." It wasn't going to be a smooth ride. "Jim, this is me you're talking to. Your 'Sentinel' nose may be able smell a woman on me. But my 'Guide' eyes can see the ones you've been with." We were off the access ramp, we'd passed weird and were vectoring hell-bent for bizarre, not to mention embarrassing.

"You know, Chief, this conversation wouldn't sound half so screwy with a few tall ones under our belts."

"No way, man! You can't drink." My partner's voice shifted gears. "Jim, what's the thing I do best?"

"You mean the thing involving you, a copy of NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC, and a locked door?"

Sandburg threw his balled-up napkin at me. "I observe. And whether you know it or not, you look different when you've been with somebody. Your face ... the way your body ... you just look ... as opposed to when you ...you know ..." His head bobbed back and forth, trying to lob the delicate subject to my side of the table.

"What's the matter, Sandburg, you squeamish about saying 'jerk off'?" We hadn't even ordered, and already this was going to be the worst meal I'd ever had, including the one during survival training that was made up entirely of grubs, tree bark, and a bottle of Coca Cola.

"Sandburg. I hurt all over. My arm feels like it's going to fall off. I have a headache, and you've giving me a pain in the ass. Can we just order?"

"Whatever." I also think I heard "dickwad" under my partner's breath. We were both quiet for a few minutes. Reverting to habit - something Sandburg did when he was particularly stressed - he lifted both hands to smooth the long-gone mane of hair away from his forehead. (It was going to be quite a while before we'd have to worry about hanks of brunette hair clogging up the shower drain, unless one of us started dating its owner.) Still, Sandburg's thumbs managed to tangle in the thicket of curls around his ears. He cleared his throat.

This time, when Blair spoke, his voice was less sure of itself, younger-sounding, somehow. "Jim ... I have to ask you something."

God, I could be such a shit when I set my mind to it. "Hey, Chief, I'm sorry. Chalk it up a couple of really lousy weeks."

"I hear that." Blair was channeling Naomi. The family resemblance was frightening. My partner chewed his bottom lip for a minute. God, that was so... was I about to say sexy? And now he had that look on his face.

"Giving me that look." I nodded my head vaguely in his direction. "The one that always ends up costing me something. So, before you ask, I don't have any spare cash, I can't give blood for at least three months, and --"

"It's nothing like that." Sandburg was now looking distinctly uncomfortable, like he'd gone commando in a Harris Tweed suit. "What I have to ask ... It has to do with ... Robert."

"No Robert Redford. He wants to remake 'THE STING' and thought I'd be perfect for it."

"We were grabbing some coffee and bagels at Barson's ... catching up ... you know, the usual ... when he said something ...

" ... Anyway, one thing led to another ... and I ended up sort of shoving him ..."

"Shoving him? As in 'hitting' him? You?" I probably looked as surprised as if Blair announced that Robert had been elected Pope.

"No, I didn't 'hit' my cousin. I told you, I shoved him." Suddenly, Sandburg looked furious. That meant I'd nailed it, probably like he'd done his cousin.

The only thing I could think of that would make my Blair ... uh, Blair ... angry enough to end up rolling around at the deli he liked so much was that his sorry-ass relative had something said about his mom. "What happened, Chief? He accuse Naomi of joining the Republican Party?" I laughed at my little joke, with one of those "heh-heh-hehs" that Sandburg usually ignored.

"What, what and what? Bottom line, Sandburg, while I'm still young enough to understand the question."

Christ. The ultimate loaded question. "Not gonna happen, Chief. What did your cousin want to know?"

"Well ... he asked ... if you were ..." Sandburg examined a non-existent spot on the table cloth, " ... free."

"Me? I'm not the one - how did he put it - 'up in your face with that tight black tee-shirt and those ass-grabbing jeans. 'That's a direct quote!"

"Say it a little louder, Chief. The people over there didn't quite catch all of it."

My partner looked around, mortified, as every eye in the place did turn our way.

"So because your cousin thinks I walk that side of the street, you popped him one?"

"Let me get this straight." I may be on the way to being one of the unintentionally funniest s.o.b.s in Cascade. "Robert thinks we've been warming the sheets together."

"No?" I'll admit I was having the dickens of a time riding Sandburg's train of thought.

The little hamster just popped back onto its wheel. My brain was up and running again. "So, we're not a couple, but - hypothetically - if we were, you'd be pissed that somebody would move in on your turf." Sandburg's handsome face looked conflicted, as though he'd just stumbled onto a big "something" he hadn't even been looking for. My guide needed his own guide for this little journey.

"I'm just trying to make a point. How does the idea of your 'bro' and I doing the horizontal mambo grab you? Wait a minute. What do you mean ... 'too'?"

I ignored my Freudian slip of the tongue. The tongue I wanted to slip Blair Sandburg wasn't old Sigmund's. "I guess I'd be really P.O.'ed. I don't know if you've ever noticed, Chief, but I don't share very well."

I stared at Blair's face looking for ... I don't know ... a sign. I felt like I was seeing him for the first time. I'd never say 'through the eyes of love,' because I'd have to cut my tongue out afterwards, but that's what it was. I laid my left hand over my partner's and patted it. I didn't want to spook him any more than I had to.

"So, I guess the real question of the night, Sandburg ..." It was my turn to stay centered and calm, "... do we deep-six this hypothetical crap?"

"You heard me. Or hasn't it occurred to you that that's what all this has been about? Moving on?"

"Are you having a bad reaction to the Pellegrino? Or to Arrivederci, Roma?" My partner asked, waving his index finger like a metronome and trying to keep the smile out of his voice.

"Sandburg, don't be a moron. In a little while, I'm going to have to jam this battered old carcass into that Tonka Toy rental car, and have my teeth rattled for the ride home. I'd really like the light at the end of my tunnel not to be a freight train." I squeezed the back of his hand tighter. "So, what do you say, Blair?"

"Jeez, Jim, except for the moron part, that's like the nicest proposal I've ever had. That is what it is, right?"

I nodded, probably looking foolish. I actually didn't seem to care. "I may have to plead the fifth on that. At least here." I swear Sandburg's face was glowing, as though something deep down inside him had been switched on by what I'd just said. He wasn't handsome anymore - he was so fucking beautiful, I almost got choked up. Almost.

My practical partner brought me back to reality at warp speed. "So, Jim ... have you always liked dick?"

"We can eat back at the loft." The look in Blair's eyes made my mouth start watering.

He laughed as though there was feather tickling the inside of his throat. Feather ... tickling ... it's official. I'm hot. I'm horny. I'm his. As I laid down $40 to cover the water, the breadsticks, the wine that never made it to the table, and taking up one of the restaurant's prime spots for however long we were there, I caught sight of a hopeful-looking Eric Grossman. He waved at Blair who politely waved back and said "Good night" as he headed out the door. Sandburg probably had no idea who the poor slob was, but my partner's a damned friendly guy. Grossman's face fell about three feet.

I think we made it home in record time. I also think I lost the use of my kidneys somewhere around Roslyn Avenue. Parking, wrangling out of the car, maneuvering into and out of the elevator ... it was all a blur. Then, the door to the loft closed on the rest of the world, and Blair and I were alone. I couldn't wait to touch him. I couldn't wait to get this damned sling off my arm.

If someone had told me 24 hours ago I'd be trying to shuck my clothes off and jump the bones of Blair Sandburg, I'd have called Conover Psychiatric and reserved a room with extra padding. Who would have thought my "caveman" itch could be scratched by some former "neo-hippie witch doctor punk?" Even Robert the bookie wouldn't have taken those odds.

We'd started off as strangers, moved onto acquaintances, friends, best friends, and even enemies once or twice. We'd never made out, never kissed, never even touched one another. Well, we had touched one another, but I had to think that what was going to happen between us would be a lot better than giving one another nogies in front of the guys at Major Crime. If it didn't pan out, I was going to be Major League disappointed.

It was sort of amazing that over the past four years, while my back was turned, the persistent little bugger somehow dug in, marked his territory, and had me, hook, line, and sinker. And I just knew I was never, ever going to be the same. My head was spinning. Here we were, ready to take that last step to ... lovers.

Getting undressed for Blair Sandburg was the first big hurdle. Getting undressed by him was ... another story entirely. With the Army background and all, I'm not shy about my body, or being nude around other men. "Naked" was different.

What's the damned etiquette while you're standing in your kitchen, near your Cheerio's, for God's sake, just about to throw everything you're wearing to the four winds and be bare-assed? While I was thinking about saying, "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours," my goals-oriented partner started our little dance around one another by undoing the Velcro closure on my arm sling. He slipped the device off easily and tossed it on the counter. As I was wondering if this wasn't the worst mistake of our lives, Blair disposed of the pirate shirt, stripping it off me like locusts on crops.

Sandburg had done this before. Even taking into account natural talent, the kid was good. Then, he stopped and took his time to check me out. His face was awash with a combination of tenderness -- probably at the way my bruised skin resembled marbled rye -- and plain old-fashioned lust for what he wanted to do with me. And to me.

I could smell the need, the want rolling off my partner's body, just like they were off mine. Blair's pheromones were swirling around me, making me light-headed. Everything was being pushed into overdrive, like the time I took "non-drowsy" cold formula medication.

Then, without a single word spoken between us, Sandburg navigated me to the front door and stretched my hands out, chest height, until they touched the irregular surface. He made sure that the position didn't put any more strain on my poor, aching body.

"S'alright." Not to worry. I was so juiced by Sandburg's nearness, I could have taken a hit from a stun gun full blast, and not noticed.

My lover ghosted his folded knuckles along the curve of my spine. It probably wasn't the most erotic thing I'd ever felt, but the evening was young, even if I wasn't. I heard his breath ratcheting up a notch as he changed tactics, and zigzagged his palms slowly downward, from my hairline to the edge of my pants. Then he pushed past my belt to trace the crack of my ass for the very first time.

"Sorry, Chief." I tried to loosen the death grip my butt cheeks had around them. "Sort of virgin territory."

"Christ. Jim Ellison. Cherry." Sandburg inhaled sharply, with a mixture of awe and humor in his rich voice. "I may shoot in my pants right now." He segued into his really deep, stop-you-from-hyperventilating breathing.

"Join the club, Pal." I grunted in answer, even as I felt the hundreds of bumps in the wood where my skin pressed against the surface.

Blair's laughter rolled over my skin, warm and golden like butterscotch. Jim Ellison Junior and all of his major "sac" buds were gearing up for action. The last time I was this hard, I was the "old man" of my Army unit - 25, if memory served - and we were in Manila for weekend leave. That's where the guys and I met Frenchie Tickler, who was headlining at one of the seedier nightclubs in the red light district. (A surprising double threat, Frenchie sported a little something for everyone - a rack that could nurse a water buffalo and a cock that was probably a lethal weapon under the right circumstances.)

No. I was harder right now, standing half-dressed in my own living room with Blair's hands caressing me all over. I could hammer nails with my dick.

For his part, I could feel Sandburg ready to bust out of his slacks, as he was busy kissing me between my sweaty shoulder blades. It was a kind of wet, open-mouthed humming, as nasty as it was nice. My shaky knees were starting to buckle, and I figured I was going to hit the hardwood floor, leaving tracks of different body fluids cascading down the back of the door. I'd have to clean them later. But later. Much, much later.

From behind, Sandburg reached around and slowly unbuckled my belt, unzipped the jeans, and pushed everything past my hips. "Jim ... Jim ... Jim ..."I heard him whisper over and over.

"Christ ... I love you." To emphasize the point, he leaned in, rested his chin against my shoulder. "You know that, right?"

"A-l-l-r-i-g-h-t!" Blair ran his tongue around the rills of my ear, sucked in the lobe, and nibbled playfully at it with those small, even white teeth of his. Just like any other puppy. It briefly crossed my mind that I was one mother of a chew toy. But, the thought flew out of my head as Sandburg blew warm air over the wetness. My dick rose like Ben and Jerry sales in July.

I didn't know what he wanted to do exactly but, at this point, who the hell cared? "Gimme what you got, Sandburg."

"Wait a minute." I heard him putting his finger between his lips, and sucking on it. I could almost see the saliva running down from the corners of his mouth, he was that excited. But then Sandburg hesitated.

"Spit isn't such a good idea, Jim. Hang on. I have something better in my room. Let me go get it."

"Don't you move, Sandburg. I'll manage." I was ready. Or at least I thought I was. But even as he eased his right index finger into my body, I started to shake. I could feel the blood pumping at the end of his fingertip. I was breathing like a racehorse at the clubhouse turn.

I tried to find the words to tell him how he was turning me inside out, but couldn't. "Jim, are you with me, man? This isn't hurting you, is it?"

When Blair's knuckle pushed past the rim of my hole, my cock almost smashed itself to smithereens. I screamed and almost bit my tongue in half.

I felt Blair laughing that gorgeous head of his off between my shoulder blades. "Anybody ever tell you you've got a way with words, Ellison?"

"Yeah. A smart-mouthed kid I once knew." The smart-mouthed kid probed determinedly until he struck gold, raking over the little nub. This time, I actually banged my head - the big one - into the door, trying to get away from the incredible pleasure of having my prostate stroked, even as I rocked back onto that wicked intruder of his. I was one deliriously happy camper.

It was just too good - and too much. My senses were being pulled in a thousand directions.

Blair's body stilled, as though the starch went out of him. Or maybe the life. He pulled his finger out of me and took a step backward. "I knew it."

"Understand? Sure, I do. You thought you wanted it - wanted me - and now you ...don't. Or can't. Simple."

"I just mean I can't do it against the door, you goober. Could we try something a little softer - like asphalt?"

Relief poured out of my partner as he leaned back onto my body, mouthing "asshole" against my skin. That, and "I love you," then louder, "Come on, Jim. We need maneuvering space. Let's go to 'my place.' But first, you'd better step out of your pants, or you'll be kissing the floor instead of on these." He planted a big, wet one on the nape of my neck. The slobber was driving as a nice little added touch.

When you're face down on a bedspread in your lover's room, naked, backside pointing toward the North Star, with him getting ready to "do" you, you ask yourself a bunch of questions. Like, how the hell did I get here? Was Sandburg always bi, and I hadn't noticed? Was this going to be my cup of tea? When was the last time he swept in here?

My partner had played tonsil-hockey with me all the way from the living room to the edge of his futon. It sure looked a lot shorter than I remembered.

I was pretty sure I was going to like having Sandburg crawl up my ass, but there were still a couple of "no way" minutes. Not about the love part. That was a given. But the guy/guy sex thing ...

Sandburg needed to stop making me laugh. Prone and floundering, I was going to smother. And who wanted the paramedics to find some big, hulking, stiff-as-a-board cadaver with a smile on its face that wouldn't quit? Blair distracted my mental meanderings by kissing my ass cheeks. Not-so-little Jim tried to do a one-armed push-up to get closer to those greedy, moist lips.

"Keep that thought, man." I felt Sandburg straighten up and heard him fumbling with his own clothes. Lust was clearly getting the better of Blair, too, because he got all bollixed up trying to taking off his jockey shorts and pants. Still flapping in the breeze, he banked off the brick wall. Jesus. I bet that smarted.

Over the edge of the futon, I looked up at a grimacing Sandburg. "Please don't tell me you hurt anything important." With my Sentinel vision, I checked out his family jewels Thankfully, they seemed intact.

"You don't know what kind of imagination I have." That megawatt smile on Sandburg's mug was fucking hypnotic. I'd seen him flash it around before, but now it was for me. Only for me.

"First, let me flip you over. It'll be easier on you." As he rolled me onto my back, I breathed in, shallowly at first, then more deeply. It was positively intoxicating. In this position ... in Sandburg's bed, under Sandburg's body, ready to be Sandburg's ... whatever ... I smelled him all around me: in the linens, in the books, in the air, and now, hovering just above me like a second skin.

I stopped moving. He must have thought I was zoning out. "Jim, you with me here, big guy?"

Climbing on board carefully, knees on either side of my thighs, my lover bent down to lick just below my collar bone. Then, things really got interesting. His talented mouth made its way down my torso, stopping for a minute at the point between both of my hipbones and my bush. He nibbled and sucked and blew. I had to get more. Now. If I'd ever wanted anyone in my life as much as I wanted Blair Sandburg, I don't remember when.

"Are you paying attention, Jim?" Blair asked unnecessarily. Spit ran down my chin onto the comforter. Between the saliva I was oozing and the buckets of come that would be spilling helter-skelter in the next few minutes, I was going to have to send this thing to the drycleaners. I didn't trust Sandburg to do it.

"Uh ... uh ..." was about all I could reply, since the bulk of my blood was surging south to the non-verbal parts of me. Gently, Blair lifted my legs and, pointed my knees up to the ceiling, and planted my feet flat on the futon.

Good call. I couldn't prop myself on my elbows because of my shoulder. Sandburg's face disappeared below my line of sight. And then I felt something unfamiliar ... and it wasn't Sandburg's finger. It was ... Jesus H. Christ ... his tongue. Nobody I'd ever known had gotten remotely close to doing that. Ruthlessly, Blair tunneled further in, past the guardian ring of muscles.

I grabbed one of the pillows and shoved it in my mouth. The neighbors didn't need to know what was going on, and I knew it was going to get ... loud. Then, I felt him pull out, and was about to yell something filthy when my partner's unrelentingly cheerful voice rang out. "Jim, stop grinding your teeth. I don't want you 'all gums' on our 25th anniversary."

"Only 25?" I gasped. Then, I stopped talking. Blair's tongue was having its wicked way with me, turning me into Sentinel jelly.

Blair Sandburg tongue. I was having my first salad tossed by the tongue of legend. The strongest muscle in my partner's body. The one that was going to bring me a monster share of happiness for the rest of our lives, one way or another.

Sandburg didn't let up for a second. Just as I was catching my breath from the onslaught, thinking it couldn't get any better, the pushy little bastard abruptly stopped, and reappeared between my legs. Before I could utter a single syllable of encouragement, he fell onto my erection, swallowing it whole, from crown to root. There I was, on my back, practically paralyzed with astonishing sensations, even as two fingers, slick with the coconut-scented suntan lotion he always keeps handy, burrowed their way into my loosened channel.

Being blown and finger-fucked was just one thing too many. I rewarded Sandburg's efforts with a mouthful of liquid Jim Ellison. A couple of seconds later, Sandburg's matching orgasm almost scalded my thigh, and his surprising wail of passion almost deafened me. I was quivering with the aftershocks of losing so much fluid, and just plain embarrassed that I'd shot off like a damned Roman candle. A short-fused one.

"I'm not." I didn't have to open my eyes. I could "see" the sappy grin on Blair's face because it matched the one on my own. Exhausted, he rolled off, wiped his mouth theatrically before wedging himself carefully between me and the wall, so that he wouldn't jostle my sore shoulder. Funny, I didn't feel any pain at all. And I was ready to sleep for days.

"Better than okay?" Sandburg's hand was making designs in the thickening mess on my chest, belly, and thigh.

"Hell, Sandburg. 'We joined in the unspoken language of love.' 'The earth moved.' 'I'm ruined for anybody else.' Satisfied? Now, can I get some shuteye?"

"You wanna nap? Jesus, what are you, like 80 years old?" My partner grumbled but fondly patted the little Sentinel who was drooling a bit in "his" sleep. "Okay. The both of you rest up ..."

A couple of hours later, I woke up to find a snoring Blair Sandburg next to me, one arm thrown over my chest, the other buried under his pillow. My partner's face was shining in the pre-dawn light that filtered through the glass panes of his French doors.

"Go back to sleep, Chief." Somewhere down the line, I'd get around to telling him that "Sunqullay" meant "my beloved" in Quecha.

"Nah. I'm up. I'm up. Wanna feel?" My lover took my hand and placed it on a boner that should have had its own zip code. I gave my best shot to the serious business of pleasuring Blair. Good thing the futon was small. Sliding my walking-wounded self down a little, as Sandburg wriggled upward until his cock was lip-level to me, I decided to give as good as I'd gotten. I scraped the edges of my teeth over the entire length of the Sandburg's pulsating shaft. Then I sucked Blair into my mouth - I almost got the "whopper" in -- and let my throat muscles go to town massaging his gift to me.

Savoring the exotic tastes and the pungent smells of his groin, I would have loved to try breaking some weird Guinness record by giving Sandburg head forever. But biology played its trump card. The next thing I knew, Blair was howling like the wolf man he probably was, spurting hot ribbons of cum against the roof of my mouth. I milked Sandburg of all his salty, wonderfully bitter fluid, even as his dick softened. I kissed my "party favor" on one side, then the other, gently nuzzling and lapping up the pools of love juice I could find.

Not bad for a novice, I congratulated myself. Then, The Voice spoke. "Jim, man, calm the fuck down. You're going to lick me raw. Leave something for later."

"Mmm. Sandburg tartare." An intriguing new item had been added to our take-out menu.

Blair and I were sitting on the couch, watching the second quarter of some pre-season college football game. There wasn't much daylight between us.

"I am not cuddling, Sandburg. Jim Ellison doesn't cuddle." To illustrate my point, I bit his ear because it was there.

"Oh, then I guess we're just trying to swap our underwear without getting undressed." "My lover quasi-punched my thigh, which turned into a grab for the "gold" in my lap.

"Goof." I kissed the side of his unshaven jaw. "And it's to the left, just in case you're interested."

"But, I'm your goof. So, what's happening with your insurance?" He asked, as he continued his unique brand of foreplay, kinky enough in my book to qualify as five play.

"The bad news is I think I'm going to have to sell you to gypsies to cover the rate hike. Either that, or you're going to have to move in with Joe Deacon."

"Maybe I could trade sexual favors for a lower deductible." Blair wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Well, at a quarter a shot, it'll take you some time, but thanks for the offer. You're a real team player, Chief."

It had to be love because Sandburg was laughing his ass off at my joke. "The truck's going into the shop for repairs next week."

"Yeah. I kinda of figured that. You never get rid of a classic." My partner fell forward into my arms, then onto my neck, trying to give me a massive hickey. "Like you, man." He was really laying it on thick.

"Hey ... you believe me, don't you, Jim?" Blair flashed a blinding smile that was somehow reassuring and alluring at the same time. As I realized just how much I really loved this little guy, I pressed him as tightly as I could against my chest with one and a half good wings. He returned the favor and undid my shirt as we began making love -- a much more productive halftime activity.

"Come on, 'Doubting Thomas.' " Sandburg whispered before his mouth latched onto my left nipple, still rosy-red from the going over he'd given it the night before. "Have a little faith."

The end.

[Feedback to author] [Back to index]

Authors Acknowledgements: This story is dedicated to Suki who "won" me in the 2003 Moonridge Animal Park auction, and wanted powies, owies, and wowies in her SENTINEL story. She graciously offered to let me post it for everyone to enjoy. And, of course, a big, sloppy wet one -- thank you, that is -- to all of the MMEers, the other writers and artists, who keep us rolling along.