Author's disclaimer: The Sentinel and all related characters are the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. Please don't sue me. If you do, you'll get $12.00 in cash, my sympathies for your being so anal-retentive, and two dogs, Teddy Bear, the spawn of hell, and his sister, BooBoo Bear, the big old donkey girl. (Trust me, you don't want to go there.)
Author's notes: This takes place before TBbBS.
Warnings: If you can't imagine Blair as an 'in control' kind of guy, you'd better hit the delete key now.
"You have seven messages."
"Message One, Friday, 9:15 AM: Congratulations, James Ellison! We here at First Cascade Bank have pre-approved you to receive our new platinum card ... " Lucky me.
"Message Two, Friday, 9:40 AM: ... " Click. Hey, pal, some of us have to work, you know.
"Message Three, Friday 11:03 AM: "Detective Ellison? This is Phil from Santori's Electronics. Your VCR's been repaired. You can pick it up anytime after 3:00 today ..." Sandburg's going to have to explain to me again how his Cree fishing spear accidentally harpooned "Smokey and the Bandit" while it was running in the Panasonic.
"Message Four. Friday 12:00 PM: ... " Click. Thanks for being so polite.
"Message Five. Friday 12:01 PM: ... " Click. Asshole.
"Message Six. Friday 12:02 PM: ... " Click. Super asshole.
"Message Seven. Friday 1:23 PM: Hi! This message is for Blair Sandburg. It's Joni from The Book Nook, on Montrose Ave. 416-2257. Your copy of 'Matriarchal Societies' is finally in. I'll put it on the hold shelf for you . Uh, did I ever tell you, Mr. Sandburg, just how much I loved taking Anthro 101 with you last semester? It was so ..."
Sorry, sunshine. I can't get that excited about anything at 5:40 PM. Especially on a Friday that's ending of one bitch of a week for this Cascade Police Department cop. Some of the cases that came through Major Crimes were just downright annoying, a waste of taxpayers' money. Three that hit my desk (two murders and a brutal assault on a deaf, pregnant woman) were so god-damned awful I felt like I was drowning in a sea of inhumanity. And my human life-preserver wasn't anywhere in sight.
It was a tough week all way 'round. See, Sandburg was otherwise engaged, as in snowed under with his 'real' career at the University. So, I had to go back to working solo.
All work and no Blair makes Jim a dull boy. And a surly bastard, to boot.
Simon Banks, our captain, was clearly delighted with my behavior, both in and out of the Metro building. He made passing reference to it early this morning. ("Ellison, your brother officers are ready to take you down with a tranquilizer dart. If they don't, I'm thinking along the lines of a bazooka. So, today, you do paperwork. You take no calls, do no interviews. Don't move out of that chair. End of discussion. And let's just hope that Sandburg deigns to grace us with his damned presence sooner than later. The alternative isn't pretty.")
We then exchanged pleasantries and points-of-view on the subject of my attitude. At the top of our lungs. People in Seattle probably heard it, and were taking bets on the outcome.
I lost.
The truth is, I hate handling paperwork by myself, just like I hate going out on calls without benefit of my hirsute 'safety net.' I hate turning to say something to my unofficial partner, and having him not be there. And I hate reaching across the truck seat out of habit when I slam on the Ford's brakes, only to restrain thin air. I hate it.
I need a beer.
Ring.
"Hi, you've reached --" Click.
Jesus. The kid and I are going to have to stop leading such whirlwind lives. What with credit cards, appliance repairs, books and hang-ups, does the excitement never end?
Ring. Apparently not.
"Hi, you've reached Chez Ellison-Sandburg ..." Why did I let Sandburg re-record the message? How fucking pretentious does that sound?
"We're sorry you didn't catch us in. ..." Speak for yourself, kiddo.
"But please leave your name, phone number, the date, time of your call, along with a brief message, and either Jim or I will be glad to get back to you." Yeah, hold your breath waiting, why don't you.
"Thanks for calling. Have a great one!" Oh, puke.
I think my message was better: "You've reached 555-1014. Start talking after the beep." Short, to the point, and under five seconds.
Blair Sandburg, anthropologist, teaching fellow, official police observer, unofficial partner, roommate, and de facto 'Mr. Manners,' tells me it sounded cold, aloof, and just to the left of ominous. He omitted "Like you." My intelligent young friend may have a smart mouth, but he's got a smarter brain, and knows when to put a sock in it. Sorry if I mixed metaphors, or whatevers, but you know what I mean.
Ring. Uh-oh. Incoming.
"Hi, you've reached ..."
"Uh ... hi, Blair? This is Jessie Milton. Tom Gilford's friend? Are you still interested in attending that topology lecture on Tuesday night? If so, give me a call at 636-4145. Then, maybe, if you want, we can grab some dinner afterwards. Please come. I promise, it'll be fun. Hope to hear from you. Bye!"
Topology. Topology. Top-ol-o-gy. Topology? Wait a minute ... that's ... mathematical, right? Sky-high-IQ mathematical? Steven Hawking mathematical? Like turning stuff inside out, and bending it into weird shapes? (The way Sandburg does with the truth?)
Where's the damned dictionary? Top ... Top ... Top-heavy ... Topiary ... Topless ... Topography ... Topology.
Top-ol'-o-gy, n. "In mathematics, the study of those properties of geometric figures that remain unchanged even when under distortion, so long as no surfaces are torn."
Well, that certainly makes everything clear. Wait, it's coming back to me now. During my Army days, I knew a lieutenant doing hush-hush work at STRICOM (that's Simulation, Training, Instrumentation Command for the civilian types among you) who was a certified whiz at this. Over drinks at the Officer's Club one night, he tried to explain how you could theoretically turn just about anything into anything else. Like turning a donut inside out and making it into a cup of coffee.
I didn't get it then. I don't get it now. All I got was a buzz in my blood from doing shooters with the guy. (I also thought he was the weirdest person I'd ever met, in or out of the military. But, then, I didn't know Sandburg at the time.)
Maybe I'll ask my resident brainiac to do one of his impromptu lectures when he hauls that cute little bu -- uh, keester up here. His E.T.A. on Fridays is usually around 4:30, unless he gets roped into something or other.
Hang on. I suddenly smell and hear my roommate walking up the street (actually, shuffling is more like it). It makes my ears rings, my nose twitch, and my skin start to ... well, react.
A whole bunch. I swear this is how a bird dog feels when its quarry is nearby. (Well, if the dog wants to play bouncy-bouncy with said prey. Or maybe just eat it alive.)
No drug can be that ever be this good.
I guess you've figured out by now that Blair's 'it' for me. And has been for a while now. He's brought back feelings and drives I thought I'd walled up behind the "100% straight" label I've worn throughout my police academy stint, my career on the force, and my short-lived, disaster of a marriage.
Since the day Sandburg saved my carcass from being mowed down by a garbage truck, my life hasn't been the same.
Hang on. There's something wrong. The kid's coming from the wrong direction. (The parking lot we use is south of the loft.) Under the three layers of clothing he always wears, he's sweating buckets, breathing hard, like the little engine that couldn't, as he mumbles to himself, "Fucking car. Mother --"
Another heartbeat and voice suddenly join the mix of sounds on the street.
"Hello, Blair dear. How are you? My, but you frazzled! Bad day?"
"Hi, Mrs. Gemelli. One of the worse. I'm hoofing it today and I'm late. As usual."
"Your car again?"
"Yeah. The Volvo gave up the ghost, and its will to live, this morning."
"Oh, that's terrible. Well, I have something that will lift your spirits."
"You mean -- don't tell me ...?"
"That's right. It's waiting for you. Come inside."
"Mrs. Gemelli. You're a treasure. And a lifesaver. I want to bear your children!"
"Blair ... what a tease you are!"
I imagine Sandburg's wiggling his eyebrows and batting those lethal baby blues right about now as I pick up a coquettish giggle from the 72-year-old grandmother of 11. Mrs. Gemelli will probably leave 'Tutti Dolci,' our favorite Prospect Ave. bakery, to Sandburg, just because she loves talking to him. And because he's been a hell of a lot nicer and more considerate to her since he moved in with yours truly than anyone in her 'real' family.
My Bl ... uh, Blair affects people that way. When he turns on the charm, well, let's just say that poor Mrs. Gemelli doesn't stand a chance. I'll be eating muffins or some chockful-of-calories cake until a year from 'Shavuos.' (Translation: a VERY long time.) For some ungodly reason, several of Sandburg's Yiddish phrases have crept into my vocabulary since he started rooming with me. He thinks it's hysterical to hear me pronounce words like 'schpilkis' because, how does he put it, I'm such a white-bread with mayo, country club Gentile, whose 'sch' was cut off at birth.
That's one thing we have in common. We were both 'snipped' early on. The only difference is that after my cut, nobody threw a party. Even though Blair's explained the concept of a bris to me more than once, I still don't get. (Tell me again how after the circumcision is performed, you can turn around and serve a deli platter?)
I'm trying to figure out what happened between 7 AM this morning when I left the loft (Sandburg was already gone) and now. Guess my roommate had another in an ongoing series of car crises, and missed a scheduled meeting about the upcoming, big-deal seminar that Rainier is going to host. (At least, I think today was the appointment with Dr. Riger.) Unless Riger, that bastard, blew him off. Again. Blair's been the associate professor of Anthropology's assistant this semester. More like an unpaid servant, if you ask me. He does 100% of Riger's work, and gets zero credit for it. And the petty tyrant enjoys making Sandburg jump through hoops, knowing the kid's got to perform or lose his stipends. If Jonathan T. Riger isn't careful, he's going to have to see a proctologist real soon. To remove a size10 boot from his ass. Mine.
Sandburg's still downstairs, scoring a sugar-laden dessert from the lovely old woman. But I'm not listening. Everybody deserves some privacy. Which is a rare commodity if you live with your own personal Sentinel, who has the ability to hear, see, taste, smell and feel everything hundreds of times more keenly than the average Joe or Jane. Or Blair, for that matter.
Not that there's anything average about my Bl- ... about Blair.
I need another beer to get me into the Friday evening rites of passage. Sandburg's always going on about the rituals of moving from the mundane work week to the weekend, which usually include "the hunting, gathering, and conspicuous consumption of 'special' foods." He translates it into 'Jim-speak' for my benefit. The technical term Blair uses for my favorite end-of-the-week meal is 'crap.' Or 'crap au gratin' if I opt for cheese on it.
I used to call it delicious. A six-pack of beer, a couple of Wonderburgers or Beef Taco Supremes, curly fries, and about a pound of dark chocolate candy or pint of Ben & Jerry's finest. What could be better?
Now that kind of eating's only a distant memory, since my friend made it his life's work to rag on me about the junk food I was putting into my body. "You know, Jim, none of us is getting any younger, and we can't afford to eat like that." I can hear him in my sleep and pretty much do the nutrition diatribe by rote. "You have to start taking better care of yourself, big guy. More fish, less meat. Lots of vegetables. Cut out refined sugar. And bulk. You need bulk in your diet. I hate to think of what you're doing to your colon ..."
Leave my colon out of it. (Christ, it's like having with Richard Simmons in your faces 24/7, without the good '50s music.)
I guess I'd better start getting dinner ready. Sandburg's probably dated up tonight. So it will be a table for one at 'Chez Ellison.' I was right. That doesn't sound pretentious. It IS pretentious. Salmon in herbs and wine sauce, brown and black rice (the organic kind Blair's got me eating is pretty good), tossed salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing, and a nice, crisp California Pinot Blanc to go with it. Jesus, when did I start channeling the Food Network?
It's official. I'm buzzed. I should have had lunch. Beer usually doesn't hit me like this. But without my buddy sharing the blizzard of paperwork, I did crime reports from 8:00 AM this morning until I hustled out of the bullpen at 5 tonight.
I wanted to catch up with Blair on our home turf, even if it's only for a few minutes. I ... missed not seeing him today. And I know, from past experience, once he's out the door, I may not see the little guy again until Sunday.
You know, I have to stop calling Sandburg that. It's just that he is, well, 'little,' compared to big, hulking character me. Blair always jokes that the only one smaller than him at Metro is the bagel girl. ("And that's because she hasn't hit puberty yet.")
But the size of my Guide's spirit is equal to anybody's. It's one of the things about him that I lov--
I better snap out of it, if I'm going to get through cooking this meal and still be standing upright. I should have a little something to snack on. Where are those Ringdings? Where did the tricky devil hide them? They'll tide me over until the 'real' food is ready. Maybe I should switch to a better brand of beer, an imported one that would "please the palate, complement the food, while retaining its own unique texture and character," according to the bullshit line Sandburg tosses around while trying to impress the ladies.
Texture, my ass. Character, ditto.
A beer is a beer is a beer. Unless it's a brew. Which I think I need another one of.
Why is Sandburg suddenly interested in topology? I didn't think he'd taken many -- make that any -- undergraduate math courses, much less something that advanced. So why the interest now? What's going on?
It's got to be '5:56 PM' Jessie Milton, the one with the smart and sexy voice. It's always a woman. Day in, day out, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year. It's always a woman.
Sandburg and women. He loves them. They love him. But then, he's pretty lovable. I know he loves me (at least the 'idea' of me) in his own peculiar way.
Me, I'd like to love him in all the ways I can think of (and believe me, we're way into double digits here), and some I'm only just beginning to imagine.
Shit. In Coors, veritas. If I go on, I'm going to end up telling you that I could become a romantic, slobbering fool over Blair Sandburg. That I could think of nothing better than to have the 'Hardy Boy' wannabe in my life forever. Not just as my Guide. But as my ... That's it. No more beer for me. We share one more touchy-feely moment on this particular taboo subject, and I'll be forced to kill you.
I finally hear the steps up to our third-floor loft being taken very slowly. Finally, he's on the landing. Blair pauses and fumbles his key until he hits the lock. Before he's had a chance to twist the Schlage clockwise, I open the door. (We're up to the fifth copy of the key. Numbers one through four disappeared into the Sandburg Zone and its suburbs. This latest clone always seems to stick for him.)
"Hi ya, buddy."
"Jesus, Jim! You scared the hell out of me. Don't do that!"
"Sorry, chief. I 'smelled' that your hands were full." For effect, I add a sniffing nose gesture over the bakery goods container. "Come on in. Put your stuff down and I'll get you a beer." I stop, and actually look at my partner. I'm shocked at what I see.
"God, Sandburg, you look awful tonight."
He does. His face looks pinched. His body screams 'defeat.'
"Thanks for bringing it to my attention," Sandburg snipes sarcastically, still holding the box of tiramisu (my absolute favorite Italian pastry) in one hand, while he hits the 'playback' button on the answering machine with the other to pick up his phone messages. He stops at Jessie Milton's.
"Learning how to top?" I try a little banter, sensing somehow that we're about to start duking it out, and for the life of me, I don't know why. "Didn't know they gave lessons on that."
Nothing. No response. I can just tell it's going to be an anchovies-on-the-pizza free-for-all.
Not familiar with the concept? Well, it's the kind of fight you have when you've been with someone for a while. Someone important to you. You think the two of you are on the same wavelength. And then, one night, he or she brings home a pizza with those disgusting, smelly things strewn all over it.
That's not the part that starts the fight. The salty critters are just the fuse. Ignition occurs when the alleged innocent asks: "Oh, you don't like anchovies?" To which you reply, somewhat tersely: "Jesus H. Christ! I fucking loathe them! I've only told you about a thousand times that I can't even stand looking at them! For God's sake, how could you not remember that?" Or words to that effect. And then a battle royale begins, and rages for hours. But, deep in your heart of hearts, you know it ain't about fish.
This is that kind of conversation. How did I figure it out in my less than sharp mental state? The biggest clue: Blair 'Shecky' Sandburg didn't joke back.
And that's one of the things we do best together.
Definitely, the beginning of something. His answer is a cross between a nasty retort, and a distracted statement of fact. "Been there, done that, have the T-shirt."
"What put the twist in your shorts, Sandburg? Somebody stand you up? Is that why you're so prickly, so ... "
He turns on a dime, and throws a furious glance in my direction.
"Jim, not everything in my life revolves around my dick, and where I stick it. So, take this in the spirit with which it's said. Go fuck yourself. And your whole throwback family." With that, he heaves the box filled with the delicate liquor-doused cake across the kitchen counter toward me.
"Bon apetit, you dumb shit."
Sandburg storms away from me, toward his bedroom. I can smell the anger and frustration sizzling off his body.
Definitely an anchovies alert.
You have to understand that my friend can be a lot of things: brilliant, funny, articulate, exuberant, and brave. On occasion, he can be insecure, unfocused, less than truthful, and scared spitless.
What Naomi Sandburg's pride and joy rarely ever is, is mean. Blair's literally one of the kindest people on the surface of the planet. In comparison, muppets are vicious. I think I only remember hearing him rip someone a new hole once before. A big, loud-mouthed uniform who had treated him badly, just because he was Ellison's 'hippie ridealong.' And even though the cop/jerk deserved being shot down in flames, Blair beat himself up about it for days afterwards. ("I shouldn't have done it in the middle of the bullpen, Jim. It made him look stupid in front of you Major Crimes 'gold shields.' It was 'low-road.' So not good. I bet I've messed up my karma for like the next few lifetimes." See, Blair's a 'high-roader' all the way.)
I follow him, beer in hand.
"OK, chief, whatever I did or didn't do, I'm sorry. Just do me the favor and tell me what it was or wasn't."
The pacing stops abruptly, as Sandburg literally drops onto the book-covered futon, still wearing his coat.
"God, Jim, I'm sorry. You didn't do anything. I shouldn't be taking my ... frustration out on you, but you're the only one handy." Some color and humor starts to reemerge. "And let's face it, you're a pretty big target, tough guy."
"No problem. I'm as tough as I look."
"Yeah, well, maybe you could give me some 'Man of Steel' pointers."
I guess I could push to get at the truth, but I bite my tongue and exercise the one braincell that's still functioning. I just take a draw on the beer bottle, and wait, with what I consider a sympathetic look on my face.
Blair lifts his right forearm and settles it over his eyes. It's the only way Sandburg can shield his soul from me. (As his Blessed Protector, I always find it leaking out of those bottomless blue wells for the world to see.)
Finally, my clearly unhappy roommate begins haltingly. "Hell, Jim, everything is ... passing me by. And it's ... beginning to piss me off." After taking what I recognize as a cleansing breath, he continues. "Remember Hal Tepper?"
"The T.A. computer whiz who left Rainier last year?"
"That's the one. Dropped out of the doctoral program, went to work in Silicon Valley? Well ... he hit paydirt. Developed some damned high-tech Y2K thing that's suddenly hot. Everybody wants it. Mark my words. It's going to be worth millions. No ... 'fillions' -- fucking millions."
There's more.
"And he's ... three years younger than me."
"So, let me get this straight. Somebody else's good fortune, and the fact that you're not being carded as often as you used to be, is making you crazy? Or should I say 'crazier?'"
"No ... yes ... no ... It's alot of things, not the least of which is that I'm pushing 30, the university creep I'm working for is making my life even more miserable than it usually is, I have a car that should've been put out of its misery during the Reagan Administration, I have -- had -- $50 to my name, until the next Rainer check arrives, and, of course, it's late. The sum total of the Sandburg fortune is now in a tow truck operator's pocket." The litany of woes still is incomplete. "And Anne broke up with me ..." Ah, Sandburg's on-again/off-again squeeze, the barracuda that walks like a woman, "... over the phone, yet, because she's says I'm unfocused, I don't know what I want or who I want, and that I can't even scrape up enough money to take her out on bad date, much less a good one. I am like so bummed out."
Blair's voice and body language tell me he's winding down. My friend lifts his arm away from his face so he can look up at me. Christ, those sad, glistening eyes ..."I'm reduced to bartering for loft food. Sorry, man, but I can't even buy you Cheerios this week, unless they're on sale at the Dollar Express."
I'll take 'Heartless, Insensitive Clods' for $800, Alex. Why didn't I even catch a hint of this? Why do I never? If the situations were reversed, Sandburg's radar would be up and running, and he'd just 'know' what the problem was, or do his damnedest to discover what had crawled up my butt. But, then, we're talking about Jim Ellison here. Repressed, self-centered, self-absorbed ...
Let me see if I can decrease my asshole quotient a notch.
"Hey, Darwin, you're just hitting a rough patch. That's all. Tomorrow, you'll wake up, someone will invite you to faraway places with strange-sounding names ..." I don't sing the song lyrics because I'm not that drunk, "the check will be in the mail, and a new, improved 'Ms. Right' will call and tell you you're No.1 on her hit parade."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Honest." Then I add: "And all the mysteries of Sentinels, past, present, and future will be revealed to you."
I sound a lot wittier to myself when I'm toasted.
Even in his clearly miserable state, Blair takes pity on my poor attempt to cheer him up, and tries to laugh. Ya gotta love him for giving it the old college try. Among other reasons.
"Turning psychic, too, oh Watchman of the Great City?"
"Damn straight, 'Shaman.' So, why don't you get a shower, then come on out and join me for some dinner?"
"You have enough for two?"
'I've always got enough for you, Sandburg." I warm like being in the noonday sun as he smiles at me. "Especially if you don't mind my stretching everything with peanut butter."
"You're so not funny." He says affectionately. "That's one of the things I love about you."
What else, chief? What else?
As I look at that glowing face, now clearly flushed with pleasure and just a tinge of shyness, I find myself pitching forward into those magnetic blue eyes that are dancing in the muted, pale light of the small room. I want to reach out and ... I suddenly feel awkward. Like that horror of a nightmare, the one where you're giving a speech in front of a huge audience and you suddenly realize you're standing at the microphone, wearing only underwear with holes in it.
"Well, s'OK, then." I slightly slur my words as I trip over a tongue that's been rendered thick and uncontrollable by too much alcohol, too little food, and hormones pushing my extremities into fifth gear. "When you come out, I'll be rea-- ... it'll be on the tabl --- ... I'll keep it war-- uh, just join me when you're done."
Christ, when did it get so hot in here?
"Come on, chief. Sit. Eat."
Dinner begins innocently enough. Considering I was three sheets to the wind before Sandburg and I did our little dance around one another earlier.
"Wow, Jim. This is ... spectacular."
Freshly-scrubbed, barefooted, with semi-damp hair billowing around his shoulders, my young friend has ensconced that killer ass of his in the softest, most faded pair of jeans he owns. Even if I didn't have five heightened senses, I could trace his nice, firm, and surprisingly well-endowed assets in front, unencumbered as they are by boxers or briefs.
Commando.
OK, I can deal with it.
Sandburg's got his old, thread-bare plaid shirt on, so thin that it's virtually transparent. I see the soft, furry mat of hair stenciled across Blair's broad chest and sloping down to his waist. My super-sensitive eyes detect the subtle movement, just under the fabric, of the ring that pierces his left nipple. I actually 'hear' it rub against the material. I don't know what it's doing for Sandburg, but, it's making the lower parts of my body definitely sit up and take notice.
OK, I can deal with this, too.
Blair drops into his chair gracefully, and I begin by serving both of us, then pouring the first round of the white wine. As my friend savors the pale straw-colored liquid, his pupils widen further and further as he looks over the table setting. (OK, so, I decided to go with candles and the good dishes. Is that a crime?). My Guide begins to shift subtlely in his chair. Across from me, only an arm's length away, Blair's maneuvering the family jewels into a less restrictive position. The long and the short of it, is that it seems he's opening his body up to me, becoming even more vulnerable to my senses which are now dialed up farther than they've ever been. Like the stratosphere.
OK, I think I can deal with this. Maybe.
The food is aces, if I do say so myself. Although you wouldn't be able to tell from the little that Sandburg and I are eating. He's nibbling at the fish. With rapt attention, I watch Blair's mouth move. To stop myself from blurting out, "I want to kiss you from head to foot, starting with that mouth of yours," I chew the fleshy part of my index finger, in between sips of the dry Pinot Blanc. As my roommate sucks on some of the sauce that splashed on his thumb, I inadvertently bite myself. Hard. It makes me wince, and forces me to lick over the self-inflicted gash.
Suddenly, a tide of pheromones floods from Sandburg's side of the world, rolls across the table with a vengeance, and under my apparently non-protective alcoholic bubble. It hits me like a tsunami of passion and desire. And there's more. He's sporting an erection that's as hard as diamonds. Unless someone wandered into this surreal evening that I didn't catch sight of -- a highly-unlikely possibility, given that I'm a Sentinel -- it's yours truly cranking up the action.
Blair wants me.
OK. This I cannot deal with. No way. No how. The thing I've been dreaming about, despairing over, wishing for like nobody's business, lighting votives and offering up silence prayers to whomever might be willing to listen, is falling into my lap, so to speak.
And everything in my lap is rising to the occasion.
My senses are so attuned to my partner, sitting there, watching me intently, running that provocative tongue of his over the rim of the flute, and hitting the edge with perfect white teeth, that I'm able to feel and hear the tiniest vibration from his side of the world.
The goblet is making sounds that are as clear as, well, crystal to me. Like a cascade of wind chimes mixed with the rasp of wet flesh across the intricate, raised pattern.
"Jim, hey, Jim .... Food's getting cold, big guy. Come on back." My Guide's voice is somewhere above me, concerned, gentle, and reassuring. Confident hands touch my arm and shoulder, stroking them to bring me back from edges of the zoneout I've tumbled into. It's like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, but alot more serious, depending on when and where it happens.
Christ, I am in deep, deep kimchee.
If just the sound of his lips on a glass can send me packing, what the hell's going to happen, if we... when I finally see... and taste ... and, oh, please sweet Jesus, touch his ...
"Jim, for God's sake! What's wrong with you tonight? Two zoneouts in less than five minutes!" He's way past being concerned, panic appearing on his knock-them-dead and take-no-prisoners gorgeous face.
"Are you feeling sick? Did something happen today? What did you eat? And just how many beers did you have before I got home?" Blair trots over to the fridge, opens it, and scopes out the contents. He does the same for the trash can which he peers into.
"Four? You drank four beers? Since you got home? What the hell were you thinking? Is it some big Sentinel holiday I don't know about? And you're having a wine chaser, to boot? Well, listen up, mister. You are flagged."
This is where things start to get a little ... hazy. Normally, I'd want to yell at Sandburg to 1) mind his own damned business, thank you very much; 2) stop trying to be my mother/keeper/handler; 3) quit treating me like a child/lab rat/subject in an experiment; and 4) give up the title of the biggest pain in the ass ever created by God or weird science to who's ever in second place.
But, right now, I actually like, no relish, someone else making decisions for me.
Go figure.
So, we go back to our original, pre-zoneout positions: Sandburg, with wine, relating the woes of the day in comic detail; me, without benefit of the grape or hops, listening, making sympathetic noises, and happy to have turned the reins of the conversation, and the evening, over to my animated dinner companion.
"Jim, no more butter, man. I can practically hear your arteries clogging."
I put the pat down.
"Hey, Ellison, you better be reaching for the water there."
My hand banks off the Robert Mondavi and veers toward the Poland Spring.
"Eat more rice. You did a great job, and it's good for you."
He's right. It's tasty and ...
The short lull is broken in classic Sandburgian style.
"I do know all about it."
"All about what, Chief?"
"Topping."
"You mean, 'topology,' don't you?"
"That too."
Fuck.
I mean, well, fuck.
I'd hand you a line of B.S. about not knowing what's happening, but you're too smart for that. Blair Sandburg, the best partner I could ever wish for, the truest friend, and the one and only Guide this Sentinel will ever have, is making a pass at me.
No, it's way beyond that. It's a declaration of ... I don't know what the fuck of ... but it's finally out in the open.
And whatever it is, he'll take charge.
"Sandburg, just what do you think you're doing?"
"Stand up, Jim."
"What?"
"Stand up. Now." My napkin falls; my blood pressure rises. We mirror one another's movement and find ourselves inches apart.
"Good. Now put your hands by your side."
"But ..."
"Did you hear what I said? Put your hands by your side. Excellent. Now, bend your head and face down toward me."
"And why should I do that?"
"Because I don't want to get a crick in my neck. Because I'm tired of waiting for tomorrow, and for you to make the first move. Because I'm going to kiss you before I'm 30, you putz."
"You're going to ..."
"What part didn't you understand? Down. Here. Now."
"Is there something you want to tell me, chief?" Like you've done this before? Like I'm not your first?
"You're a smart man. Figure it out."
I feel like a deer in headlights. (OK, I'm pretty big for Bambi.) There's no escaping what's going to happen.
It's a done deal. I'm dead in the water. Blair Sandburg, the temporary inconvenience ("It'll only be for a week, and then I'll be out of your hair. I promise."), and object of my raging one-sided, three-year love affair, is going to kiss me.
Strong, square hands grab both sides of my clearly dumbfounded face and pull it down to make me a littler more accessible. Sandburg rises on his toes to get us roughly in the same ballpark. With great deliberation, my Guide begins to milk my lips wantonly, until they feel bruised and tender. His wickedly talented tongue darts purposefully into my mouth and down my throat trying to see if he can reach and swab my tonsils.
I put up no resistance. Couldn't, even if I tried. Aladdin with his 'Open, sesame' didn't have a thing on anthropologist Blair Sandburg. We finally break apart, because the oxygen deprivation is making the both of us lightheaded.
"Jesus, Sandburg. That ...was ... really ... good."
He's pleased with my ... willingness, I guess, is the best word I can think of, since 'surrender' isn't one I normally toss around.
"So, Jim ... you know what comes next?" Sure. Me.
"Yeah. I can guess." OK. Definitely me.
"You guess?"
"No. Yes. No. I mean, yes, I know."
He smiles encouragingly.
"But, only if you agree, Jim." His hand runs fluidly, effortlessly from my collarbone out toward my shoulder, and down my arm. He barely touches me, but I am primed for action. God almighty, if this is only the beginning of a Sandburg seduction, no wonder women camp out on our doorstep.
"So, what do you say?"
What can I say? He's won. And he knows the answer already, the smug little shit.
"What do you think?"
"I think the answer is 'yes.'"
"What, you read minds, too? Any other secrets you're keeping from me?"
"Besides loving you just about forever?"
"Yeah?" I can see his heart pounding under the flannel material, and hear its beating in my ears. Mine echoes the cadence in a matching tattoo.
"Well, sure. And I don't have to be clairvoyant to see what's happening in your pants."
Right again, Professor. 'Little Jim' should be listed in the Mobil Guide to the Pacific Northwest under Points of Interest. (Something like: The Ellison Monolith. An impressive natural wonder which should be viewed in conjunction with the Sandburg Obelisk.) Jesus, am I a funny son-of-bitch, or what?
"So, is the answer 'yes'?"
I nod my head. Or maybe blink my eyes in agreement.
Blair reaches over and softly strokes the back of my hand. I grab for his roughly, and bring it up to my lips to kiss.
My almost lover stops me with a voice I've never heard before. It's a velvet growl, with a steel-edge overlay that's somehow both soothing and unsettling at the same time.
"Don't." Don't? As in stop? Now? I don't think the old ticker can stand it. (If I have a heart attack, I hope Sandburg will be a prince and kick-start this balding, old cop with a little CPR.)
"But I thought ..."
"Lick."
"What?"
He rubs the back of his hand from side to side across my mouth.
"Lick."
I do. I snake my tongue out of its cave, sluicing a bucket of saliva with it, all over the proffered hand, from top, to bottom, to wrist, to fingertips, which I then suck furiously into my mouth.
As seductively as I've ever seen anything done, my partner uses his free hand to unbutton and push aside the halves of his shirt. In the candle glow, the glint of the nipple ring acts like a beacon. A beacon calling me home. With the hand that's still in my mouth, Blair presses on my bottom teeth, while his thumb under my jaw pushes upward. As though he's at the rudder of a ship, Sandburg steers me back into a sitting position on the chair nearest my ass. His torso is teasing me into action. I hear the insistent order again.
"Lick."
I pull that compact body toward me, craning my neck and stretching my tongue out to reach and suck on the rosy-tinted, temptingly erect, pierced nipple. I skate across it, feeling the hundreds of little bumps and valleys on the sweet-tasting flesh. So different from the sleek surface and metallic bite of the jewelry. I jerk the little hoop and am rewarded with a gasp from my friend, and a shiver that ripples though his body. Rivulets of perspiration are beginning to run freely down through his golden thatch of soft chest hair.
I lift my eyes up questioningly. The nod comes first. Then the word is repeated.
"Lick."
As I release the last of the control I was clinging to, I desperately try to staunch the flow of the moisture on his pectorals and abdominal muscles, replacing it with my own juices. I'm so totally focused on this task, I lose track of time. There's no yesterday. No tomorrow. Only here and now. I feel my upper arms being grabbed hard, pulled on, and my body being coaxed out of the chair, back on unsteady feet. Sandburg maneuvers the two of us so that we exchange places.
Sitting, no, installing himself, like some pretender to his rightful throne, the love of my life unzips his fly so excruciatingly slowly that I can hear it open tooth by tooth. After some minimal rearranging, he produces his shiny, wet, stiff dick. Blair begins to caress himself slowly using just the tip of his middle finger. Hypnotized by the motion, I watch in fascinated silence, concentrating on the sight, sound, and smell of flesh against flesh.
Having me right where he wants me, Sandburg kicks free of the jeans, and says it again.
"Lick."
I fall to my knees (which will undoubtedly be black and blue tomorrow) and replace that single digit with my tongue. I trace every vein, every ridge, every difference though the filter of my hyperactive senses. Just as I'm about to swallow him whole and never give him up, I hear the admonition: "Don't. Lick."
My brain isn't in gear, but the rest of my body parts are old soldiers who obey orders. I slide further down to pay equal attention to the underside of Sandburg's cock. My saliva is now flowing like the Mississippi. It's running down, over and past his brindled balls to that most secret of places.
With my Sentinel eyesight, I can see Blair's hole vibrating as though it's issuing its own separate invitation for me to come in and play.
Just to see if I'm paying attention (I am), Sandburg slings his right leg over my left shoulder giving me better access to his center. His voice now sounds whisky-hoarse with desire and arousal. He grinds out "Lick," almost angrily.
Want this show on the road, chief? OK, here goes.
I lick back and forth, up and down, over and under, until the pucker looks pink and expectant, offering me a 'way in.'
"Oh, God, Jim ... yes ... more ... faster ..."
My Guide is practically breaking my shoulder, the crux of his knee exercising a startling amount of pressure. I feel Sandburg's body beginning to tense, his balls drawing up toward his body, when he yells at me. "Stop! If you ... touch me ... there again ... I'll come ... not ready ... yet."
And that would be wrong ... why?
Kreskin answers my thoughts. "Can't ... I want to ... inside you ... upstairs ..."
Well, why didn't you just say that three years ago?
Blair slides his trembling leg down over my bicep to the floor, then yanks me out of my kneeling position and up toward the steps to my -- make that 'our' -- bedroom.
I wonder what position I'm going to be in next? Hell , that's easy. The one my Guide, my mate, my love chooses.
My God. I'm a goner, aren't I?
I can't even begin to tell you how our first time together went. Check back with me next week. (The way Sandburg's mind works, I'll probably have photos for show and tell.) It was a whole fucking list of firsts, the biggest of which was that I took it 'like a man' from my spanking (another story) brand-new lover. And I liked it. Who am I kidding? I loved it. I'm also sore as hell. And properly put in my place. On the bottom, in case you haven't figured it out. Who would have thought?
I do remember that we tumbled onto my nicely-made bed. Then, I guess I was nicely-made.
Details are a little vague and slow in coming. Which was the only thing slow in coming anywhere in the vicinity of 307 Prospect.
Conversation was kept to a minimum. A curse here, a prayer there, followed by a grunt, a gasp, a scream, a moan, an invocation of the deity (several times), and finally the 'L' word. 'L' as in 'Lick.' (The other one came later. The word "come" keeps coming up, doesn't it?)
I still can't seem to fathom it. Blair laid claim to me while he was laying me good and proper. He fucked me within an inch of my life, until I couldn't see or stand straight. Or think straight. Straight. (A rather irrelevant word, considering.) My little 'top' fucked me up my ass so far, I could taste him in the back of my throat. And he did it his way. In his own good time. Until he made me fall utterly, hopelessly, and irrevocably in love with him.
The brute.
Truth is, I'm just knocked out by this banty rooster of a guy.
Even if Sandburg's decided I should have a nickname. One guess what it is. If you said 'Lick,' you're smarter than you look.
Now, I'm lying here, on the wetspot, wrapped around my snoring bonafide bundle of contradictions, with that sable-colored unruly mane of his flossing my teeth, and his fleshy, round ass cheeks nestling my cock between them. In his sleep, Sandburg shifts back toward the warmth of my body, and, in the process, gets a better grip on the 'Little Sentinel,' which has become his exclusive property somewhere along the line.
From the netherworld of dreams, I hear Sandburg mumble one word: "Lick."
My half-hard dick suddenly snaps to attention (surges, is more like it), to a pretty noteworthy width and length. It's brandishing a vibrant, robust color, with the head, a bright plum, if you're interested in that kind of thing. I begin to swirl my tongue down the golden skin covering my Guide's spine. The taste drives me insane. I travel erratically upward, ending in-between the angular shoulder blades. With a sweaty palm, I push that riot of curls roughly to one side, and tongue-bathe the nape of that elegant neck. My cock's swinging like Mark McGwire's bat. It homes in on the perfect rosebud opening.
Lube. Where the hell is it? As I scramble like a madman under the pillow to find the almost-empty tube, I hear the first groggy request of the morning. Make that a command.
"No fingers. Your ... tongue."
Like magic, Sandburg's body opens to me, relaxes and waits.
Jesus. In all my years, I've actually never ...
"Did you hear me, lover?"
"Yeah, babe ... it's just ..."
"Lick ..." The smoky voice whispers. " ... inside." Well, fuck. So what if I've always been ... 'top gun' where sex is concerned? I may not be young, exactly, but I'm still trainable.
You know, as a former Army Covert Ops man, I survived in the jungles of Peru for 18 months by eating some pretty exotic stuff. And what could be more exotic than Blair Sandburg?
It's been a little while now (44 days, 17 hours, 11 minutes, give or take a lifetime), since Blair and I made the ultimate Sentinel/Guide connection. What can I say? It's still new, and exciting, and raw, and sexy as all get-out. But it's also warm and inviting and familiar and comforting. Like being in bed on a cold, winter's night, with the remote control in one hand, milk and cookies on the night table, a Chuck Norris film festival on the tube, and, of course, the right 'someone' to share it. That someone is Blair Jacob Sandburg.
And it's forever. Trust me on this one.
I've just heard him come into the bullpen, stopping to shoot the breeze with Henry Brown, Brian Rafe's partner. I haven't looked up from my work, but as soon as I hear the tag end of the conversation, I do. "Uh, H., I'd love to let you do it. But, this belongs to Jim. And he'd go ballistic if I let anybody but him run his tongue over it."
I spit French Roast coffee out of my mouth and cross the Seevers file.
I zero in on Sandburg, who has a double-dip ice-cream cone in each of his hands. With mine outstretched in front of him, he walks toward our desk, teasing me with the melting treat. A huge smile curves those chewable lips of his so temptingly, I don't think I'm going to last until tonight. When noone's looking, Blair tosses a surreptitious, sexy thrust of his hips in for good measure. I mentally run through a list of trysting possibilities, from the interrogation rooms on the other side of Simon's office, to the broom closet on the third floor.
Immediately, the 'Little Sentinel' rouses from its afternoon siesta as it senses the approach of 'the good stuff.'
"Want some?" He looks at me in that quizzical, quintessential Blair way of his. "Yours is Rocky Road."
I have no idea why, but an old biblical passage starts to run through my head: Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. Of course, in my case, this is no stranger we're talking about. And I'd be willing to bet cash money that if Sandburg were playing third base for a heavenly team, his division uniform would have hooves and a decorative tail attached to it.
"With you in my life, chief, what else would it be?"
"Shut up, Ellison ... and 'lick.'"
Yep. It's going to be a long, LONG afternoon.
End
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