 Title: "Track 15" --- Brian stood frozen with surprise for an instant -- just long enough to allow the man a clean getaway. Shaking himself out of his stupor, he gave the broken screen door a firm shove and quickly stepped out on the porch. Too late. The all-too-familiar backside had retreated and climbed inside the same old convertible. Before Brian could take another step, he saw that the car had driven off in the gathering dusk. He struggled mentally, trying to get his mind around the idea that his former S.W.A.T. partner, Jim Street, had actually been standing within inches of the front entrance to this broken-down house where Brian had finally landed after one-too-many mishaps. It had taken months away from his Los Angeles Police Force job for Brian's lack of resources to finally drive him to this sorry end of a sorry boulevard -- in a very sorry section of town. Brian swallowed thickly and ran a hand through his tousled hair. He stumbled as he reached out to open the mailbox, blinking rapidly. What the fuck had Jimbo said? Something about a CD? Something about J. Lo? The sound of movement outside his front door -- and the familiar creak of the rusty mailbox -- had quickly roused him from where he'd been sprawled on a dilapidated sofa in the middle of the front room with a bottle of whiskey close at hand. Even after all this time (and numerous deliberate attempts at being a 'bad boy'), Brian still couldn't quite turn off his 'cop senses' -- the ingrained training that made his ears prick at certain noises. He often found himself automatically letting his eyes follow the actions of the people around him as they moved through the city streets. He couldn't help it, even when he fought to. Brian's hand made contact with paper; he wrapped his fingers around an envelope and withdrew it from the mailbox. He stared down at the CD that stuck out of one raggedly torn side before letting the lid fall shut. He had to grin, as the creaking that had given Street away was repeated. 'Can't trick a cop,' he thought, not even aware he had just characterized himself in his former role... Once back inside the house he let his eyes sweep the room, reassuring himself that all of his hangers-on had departed for the day. One of the men shared the place most of the time -- helping to pay the bills. Brian couldn't bring himself to think of the guy as either a friend or a roommate, but it had proved handy to have his extra bucks. (They had an unspoken agreement not to ask one another exactly where they found the money that covered their costs. Fair means or foul really didn't matter when you were down and out, Brian realized.) He breathed in and noticed a staleness in the air that took him immediately back to his youth -- those days when there'd been a neighborhood bar not far from the tiny house where he'd grown up. Brian had strong memories of riding his bike past the small building, pedaling faster while trying to avoid the sour, unpleasant odor that seemed to cling to the place. Door opened -- or closed -- the smell advertised a certain wretchedness that consisted of sweat, booze and cigarette smoke. Brian could remember how his face had twisted as he'd sniffed it all in -- even in spite of his best intentions not to. 'Funny,' Brian thought. That wasn't how he felt when he'd grown up and started spending his free time in bars... The room he stood in wasn't quite dirty, though it was far from clean. The furniture was random and ugly, pieces Brian had garnered from here and there and mixed with the weary sofa and battered armchair he discovered when he moved in. He'd been in 'furnished' places before, so he knew the drill -- whatever the owner felt was crappy enough to be useless anywhere else was stuck in to try and fill the rooms. The house wasn't much, but the rent was cheap enough for Brian to still be able to afford the payments. (For now, anyway.) Brian's head was rapidly clearing. His mind was on 'repeat' -- and he could hear Jim's voice, see Jim's back as he moved to his car and drove off. 'What the fuck?' His CD player was sitting on a small table pushed against the wall. Brian opened it and put the CD inside. He let the envelope float to the floor as he debated whether or not to turn on the music... He stood rubbing his chin absently, wondering. How had Jim found him? He'd moved out of his old apartment almost immediately after leaving S.W.A.T. Then he moved in with a cop friend from Vice for a few weeks. He'd been in three other places since, each a little less pleasant than the one before. He realized it was a steady downward spiral, but somehow he'd been unable to stop the decline. This past month he'd stopped caring as much; this house was just a place to hang out and sleep, little more. What difference did it make whether it was nice or not? When he went out and hooked up, he either ended up going home with the woman or taking her to a nearby motel. The room was growing dark. Brian moved away from the table and switched on a lamp. On one wall several neon forms were glowing red and blue. Brian walked into the hall heading to the bathroom. He snapped on the light and moved to the toilet, unzipping his pants with shaking hands. After he relieved himself, he moved to the sink and turned on the water, holding his hands under the cold stream as he studied his face in the mirror. He needed a shave. He was pale and needed some sun. His eyes were bloodshot with dark smudges underneath. He needed to quit drinking so much and get some decent sleep... What was the message Jim wanted to send? Was there a song on the CD that would tell him how the man felt -- that would tell him what Street was thinking? Moving back to the front room, Brian plucked the CD out of the player, studying it. 'Now' was printed in large, capital letters, with the number seven below. He could make out smaller print. 'NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL MUSIC 7' was the full CD title. None of the names of the tracks were on the circular disk, but that wasn't unusual. 'What the hell,' he thought, dropping the CD in place and shutting the lid. He pressed the 'play' button and listened, curious. The first track was familiar. He soon realized it was an old 'Destiny's Child' hit. After a few seconds he pressed another button and moved on to the next track. It took him a bit longer to determine the second song was Janet Jackson before he again skipped forward. He listened for several strains to a woman singing "Baby, Come on Over," before deciding he had no clue who she was -- nor did it matter. The song was entirely foreign and didn't interest him. The next track seemed familiar, but again the singer did not. He rapped his fingers on the table in time to "In My Pocket" for a few seconds then pushed the button. J. Lo's voice filled the room singing "Play." Wait a minute! Hadn't Jim said something about J. Lo before he walked off? Brian moved away from the CD player, his interest fading. The music continued as he sank down on the sofa and reached for the neck of the half-empty bottle; he brought it to his mouth and took a long pull, letting the liquid burn through him. Was he hungry? He tried to recall the last time he'd eaten, but finally shrugged off puzzling it out. He might have chewed some toast that morning, but it was more likely he hadn't bothered since the previous day. As the weeks had turned to months, Brian had discovered he didn't care about food the way he used to. He'd been careful in the past to make sure he was getting enough protein and plenty of supplements to keep his body strong and well-muscled. S.W.A.T. was physically hard work that required a fit body. Now, though, he was happy if he had enough booze to drink. Yet tonight things were different; Brian felt a peculiar emptiness that made him want to try to fill himself up. In the background the music continued to play as Brian drifted. He hoped the alcohol would warm him and let his mind blur enough to invite sleep. He didn't want to feel the pang that had started as he'd stood looking at Jim's departing back... It was strange, but suddenly the music seemed to grow louder. Brian sat straight up, listening to the words pouring from his CD player. "Everybody's got something they had to leave behind "I've never had a dream come true Damn, it was an entirely schmaltzy song, even if there was a trace of huskiness in the woman's tones. Pretty much another old pop song, full of the angst of breaking up... Tears were pricking his eyes. Jim Street's dark features were floating in front of his face, deadly serious, just as they'd been that day in the locker room -- the day that Brian had said, "Fuck you and S.W.A.T." -- right before he slammed Jim's head into the long wall mirror. The round dent of broken glass had smacked of more than seven years bad luck as Brian strode angrily out of the room. Brian had been long used to being alone in the world when he met up with Jim. It had been a happy surprise to find they immediately clicked. The resulting partnership -- and friendship -- had been the most meaningful relationship in Brian's life, though he'd never made a point of it to anyone (Jim included). "Somewhere in my memory There was no use in looking back. No point in wondering what might have been, had things been different. And it had seemed easy enough to let Jim go -- hadn't it? Brian jumped up and dashed across the floor, almost slamming his finger down on the 'stop' button of the CD player. Then he picked up his cell phone and held down a key, letting the speed dial work. "Hey," he said, hearing a familiar voice answer. "You remember that gay bar you were telling me about a couple months ago?" He paused and listened as the other man responded. "Yeah, yeah. Well tell me again what it was called? Right. And where is that, exactly?" Brian fumbled for a pen lying on the table and then glanced around for something to write on. He saw the envelope that had fallen on the floor and bent to retrieve it. Then he jotted down an address on one edge and laid the pen down so he could fold up the paper and stick it in a back pocket of his jeans. "Thanks," he said into his phone, pressing a button to abruptly end the call. He had the info he needed and didn't want to be forced to answer any probing questions... He grabbed up a jacket and slung it over his shoulder, heading out the door. He wanted to move quickly, before he had time to change his mind. --- It wasn't long before he found the place, parked and eased his way through a packed floor to the bar. Brian ordered a shot and a beer and sat with his back to the crowd, using the mirror that hung behind the bar to surreptitiously observe various men as they walked or danced around the room. A handsome blond nudged Brian's shoulder. He turned and stared as the tall man smiled an invitation, leaning close. "You alone?" the man asked, not hiding his interest. Brian smiled back. "Sorry. You're not my type," he replied in a soft voice, shaking his head. "Sure. No problem." The man moved away and Brian went back to his people-watching. He started at the sight of a familiar face, swinging quickly around on the bar stool. Then he realized that his eyes had played a trick on him. The man he was staring at wasn't Jim Street. There was a marked resemblance, yet several telltale differences when he looked more closely. Still, this was precisely what he wanted -- someone who looked enough like Jim to be able to fill the bill. Brian rose and moved through the crowd, not taking his gaze off the attractive double. "Hey," he said, moving close to the other man. The stranger turned until they were face to face. His look wasn't coy, though he didn't seem as obvious as many of the people around them. "You want to get out of here?" Brian asked. He could hear the loud thunder of his heartbeat warring with the music that blared through the room as he struggled not to let his nerves show. The other man nodded firmly. Brian's breath caught at the sight. There was something there -- an expression, attitude -- something that strongly reminded him of Jim Street. The resemblance was obviously more than just his facial features and dark hair, Brian decided. "My name's Steve," the man said, the words spoken in a clipped and husky tone. "I'm Brian," he answered, too flustered to think of a pseudonym. Steve took a firm grip on Brian's arm and guided him as they moved through the room and out the door... --- Brian let the man steer him into the parking lot and carefully shut him into the passenger seat. 'Just the way I'd help a woman,' he thought, stifling the sudden laughter that bubbled up. "Where'd you want to go?" Steve asked, after climbing behind the steering wheel of his clearly expensive sports car. "Any motel," he replied. He didn't want this upscale guy to see his crappy house, and he wasn't quite ready to be 'taken home' by another man... "Sure, I know a nice place," Steve said, smoothly moving the car into traffic. 'Everything about him seems smooth,' Brian thought. Man, it wasn't that long ago that he'd been the one with the smooth moves! He had to admire the guy's style. Steve left him in the car while he went to register for the room. Brian was glad not to be forced into figuring out how to act in front of the motel clerk. It was funny, really. He must have checked in at dozens of motels over the years -- why should this be so different? Did it matter what some anonymous clerk would think of him? Did he really give a damn about someone speculating whether or not he was gay? Brian wasn't ready to answer that, just yet. He saw Steve walking in his direction and he climbed out of the car and nervously smoothed the front of his shirt. Steve pressed the button on his keychain remote to set the car alarm before putting an arm around Brian's shoulders. "Come on, it's actually looking like it's going to rain," he said, again guiding Brian. They entered the room and moved inside, Steve snapping on the typical dim motel lights. "Maybe we should have stopped for a bottle," Steve said as Brian broke away to stand in the middle of the room, rubbing his left hand with his right. "Screw that," Brian said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "That's not what I want. I can get drunk any time." Steve sat down next to him and casually dropped a large hand on Brian's thigh. "I'm glad, Brian. I'm all for skipping the formalities, but I just thought you seemed a little distant." Brian held his breath and considered. Should he tell this stranger he'd never been with a man before? Should he pretend to be experienced? Would Steve be able to tell the difference? Steve ended his mental debate by taking both of Brian's shoulders firmly in his hands. He turned Brian so that his back was exposed. Then he began to gently knead the taut muscles of Brian's neck. "That's... great..." Brian managed to gasp. Strong fingers moved to his shoulders and down his back, pressing and working Brian's shirt-clad flesh. "Want to get undressed, Brian?" Steve asked. Brian turned around and stared into the other man's eyes. "Steve, can you do me a huge favor?" The man's eyes were locked with his. Brian blinked quickly when he felt tears threatening. In the dim light he could easily believe that it was Jim sitting beside him. Suddenly he could hear the driving beat of that damned song filling his head! Fuck, how could a corny 'break up' song get to him this way? "I've never had a dream come true Jim Street had never been his 'baby.' They'd never managed to take their banter and laughter and whispered secrets beyond friendship -- had they? Sure, they'd been the closest partners around, up until the end. But it hadn't been different from any other set of good cop pairings -- had it? "What do you need, Brian?" Steve asked. "What's the favor?" "There's this guy..." Brian trailed off and swallowed hard. The lump in his throat refused to budge. He dropped his chin and gazed at the man through his lashes. Steve smiled. "I get it," he said. "What's his name?" "Jim," Brian stammered. "His name is Jim. He was... my partner." Steve's expression softened. "I lost a partner, too," he whispered. Brian's head jerked up. Was this guy a cop? What the hell were the odds? "He died a little over two years ago," Steve said. "He was my whole world. At the time I didn't think I could go on without him." 'Huh?' Brian stared at the man, not comprehending. "Do I remind you of him? Remind you of Jim?" Steve asked. "God, yes," Brian blurted. "So much." "Okay, Brian. For tonight I'm Jim. Just call me Jim." "Jim," he said, his voice soft. "Jim." "Do you want to tell me anything about... how it was for you two? I mean, what do you want me to do, Brian?" "I want you to fuck me," he replied, leaning in against the man's strong body. 'His partner died,' Brian thought. Would it have been worse if Jim had died that day in the bank? Probably, he decided. He'd have ended up blaming himself. In the end he'd finally started to blame himself for shooting that hostage. He remained halfway convinced he'd saved her life -- but only halfway. Maybe he should have waited. It had been a judgment call, after all. He remembered hearing those fateful words: "S.W.A.T. means Special Weapons and Tactics. Where were your tactics out there?" Had he done the wrong thing? He'd pondered that moment hundreds of times since, each time becoming more and more unsure of his decision and actions... I'd have been through even if I'd stayed. The realization was like being struck by lightning. Brian knew well that S.W.A.T. members couldn't do their job if they suffered self-doubt. Doubt meant hesitation -- and hesitation could result in lost lives. He squinted as he considered. And didn't hesitation mean hostages might die? Didn't it mean others could die, as well -- innocent civilians, fellow cops -- even a partner? Brian noticed that Steve had stripped off his clothes. Then strong fingers plucked at him, helping him to doff his shirt. Brian stood up and slipped out of his shoes, jeans and shorts. Then he sat and peeled off his socks. It felt strange to be undressing while another man sat naked watching... "Let's get under the blankets," Steve suggested. He rose and snapped off several lamps, leaving only a corner light still burning. The bed was now almost entirely hidden in shadows. "Sure, Steve," Brian said, not looking at the man. "Don't forget, Brian. Call me Jim. I'm Jim." Jim. Brian burrowed under the covers, feeling gooseflesh break out as the cool sheets struck his naked skin. Then a hard body pressed insistently against him and hot breath blew in his ear, making him shudder. "Brian," Jim/Steve whispered. "Brian." The soft words could have come directly from Jim's own mouth. Suddenly the illusion was complete. It was now dark enough to hide the unfamiliar aspects of the room; the face beside him looked enough like Jim to pass and the voice was blurred enough to be his former partner's. "God, Jim. I've missed you so much," he said, not caring that there was raw emotion in his words. "I've never had a dream come true That fucking song! Why couldn't he shake it? "I've missed you, too." The words were husky, needy. Two hands were traveling his body, tracing his stomach and chest insistently. Brian pushed against Jim's heat and pressed his mouth forward. They kissed on and on. Both men gripped the other deeply, their fingers digging into one another's shoulders. Brian groaned when he felt Jim's tongue thrust inside his mouth. They finally broke the kiss, both gasping for breath. Brian could feel his erection pressing against Jim's thigh. He reached down, finding it easy to take Jim inside his hand. He pumped with care, thinking about the way it must feel. He could imagine the same pressure being applied to his dick. Hell, it hadn't been more than a few days since he'd done the same thing to himself! "Stop!" Jim ordered. "You'll make me come if you keep that up." "Not such a bad idea," he answered, chuckling. "Too soon," Jim hissed. "Okay, okay. I suppose you've got a better idea." "That's right," Jim said. Brian could hear the grin. He glanced up and saw a flash of Jim's white teeth. Then he was being guided to turn, turn, turn. They spooned briefly, Brian gladly pressing his ass into the curve of Jim's body. And then an insistent finger began to prod, pressing against the puckered flesh. Brian could feel wetness on the questing digit as he was tickled and explored. 'Now or never,' he decided, shoving back. The swift impalement shocked him -- he struggled to move forward, away from the invasion. The finger pulled out and Brian breathed a sigh of relief. Then he felt more --and different -- pressure, pushing firmly against him. Two strong hands gripped his hips and pulled and he was filled in one easy motion. It wasn't what Brian had expected; there was only the briefest flash of hot pain. But the sense of... of violation... totally surprised him! Brian felt opened -- he felt entered and exposed. There was no way he could hide... Did he really want this? Or had he made a mistake to try something this incredible -- even dangerous? He needed a moment to breathe; he needed time to mull over his feelings. He wanted to shout, 'Wait!' Why didn't Jim understand? The moment passed as quickly as it had come. "Jim! Oh, God, Jim!" he shouted, feeling the strange pressure inside him suddenly turn to pleasure. He sprawled forward -- face flat against the mattress -- Jim moving with him. Brian wanted something solid he could grasp with his two working hands and he was immediately balling the bottom sheet in his fists. He continued to maneuver his body until he found leverage, then he shoved back, urging Jim on. He could feel Street's hard muscles thrusting against him in a steady rhythm of lovemaking, the friction both odd and delicious. And it was love -- Brian knew it was! It wasn't just a random sexual act... "Take me," he growled. "Fuck me." He knew the words weren't romantic enough, but he didn't care. Jim would surely know how he felt, no matter what was or wasn't said out loud. "Yes! Yes, Brian!" Jim's voice was a hoarse mumble as he continued to drive in and out. Brian could imagine the sight of the thick layer of Jim's sweat as he listened to the wet smack of flesh against flesh. He could feel rivulets of perspiration trailing through his hair and down his spine, and he realized he couldn't recall a single time when Jim had sweat harder than him. There was something comfortable about finding this new physicality they could share. It reminded him of all the times they'd hit the gym together, working out side-by-side or spotting each other when using heavy weights. It reminded him of all the times they'd spent on a track, running while they joked and talked -- or doing sprints, their competitive juices pumping... Then in some impossible way Brian realized the sheer physical pleasure he was experiencing was actually growing! Brian couldn't believe this was anything like his usual climb toward orgasm; surely this was more than a mutual longing to finish and spurt! Brian's brain seemed unable to ponder things in his usual exacting fashion. He'd let go of all control and was filled with a feeling of wonder mixed with passion. He couldn't recall a time when sex had been such a pinnacle of sensations and emotions... "Jim, Jim, Jim." His moans were nearly a musical litany as he used the one word his lips were able to form. Suddenly his body seemed to convulse. He could feel his heart racing and see sparks flashing against the inside of his tightly shut eyelids. Brian knew he must be climaxing, but there was nothing in his life that he could use as a comparison. He was certain this moment went beyond anything he'd known in his many past couplings with women... Brian felt giddy -- even joyful -- as Jim continued to pound his body with a mounting fury, clearly close to his own culmination. "I'm coming!" He heard Jim shout. He struggled to concentrate, fighting his own post-orgasmic insensibility; he wanted to remember each second of Jim's climax -- each throbbing sensation. It was over too quickly. Jim barked something undecipherable and Brian could feel a fleshy thrust and wet explosion inside his body. Jim shuddered and collapsed over him, groaning with pleasure. There was such comfort in the pressure of Jim's spent form lying heavily against him. Brian could hear Jim's quiet murmuring and allowed his mind to drift... He felt Jim's body shift away and groaned a noisy protest. Then strong arms were wrapping around him and pulling him close. Brian opened his eyes and found himself face to face with a stranger. "That was good, Brian," Steve said, smiling. A bolt of adrenaline surged through him and Brian felt the tangy salt of nausea in his mouth and throat. He pushed away from the other man and quickly sat up, rubbing his face with both hands and swallowing hard. "Ah, reality sucks, doesn't it?" Steve's voice was gentle and commiserating. But it wasn't Jim Street's voice. This voice didn't belong here! Brian forced himself to stand and begin retrieving his clothes. Then he swiftly yanked on his jeans and shirt, not bothering with the underwear or socks. He shoved his feet inside his shoes and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I'll get a cab, okay?" he said, not looking at the other man. "Brian, I know where you're coming from. Just let me drive you back to the bar, at least. It's fine. I really do understand." Steve's voice was deliberately soft and reasonable. Brian forced himself to peer into the almost-familiar face. "Thanks. Sorry about this..." He trailed off, not knowing what else to say. "It gets better with time," Steve said. "You don't believe that right now and that's okay, too. But it does get bearable in time." It was too much. It would have been easier if Steve hadn't been so kind. Brian felt his emotions erupt into tears. The sound -- and his own erratic breathing -- reminded him vaguely of the chatter and jitter of an AK-47. He was sobbing harder than he'd ever sobbed in his life... Brian let Steve hold him while he cried. He felt vulnerable and exposed. He couldn't stop even when he silently jeered his own weakness. 'Quit being a pussy bitch!' his mind shouted. 'You're acting like a little girl!' Those were exactly the taunts that would have stiffened his spine -- and his resolve -- in the past. Why wasn't it working now? Then Steve began to coo softly and pat his back. 'Just like a baby,' Brian reflected. That did it. He wasn't going to let this break him! No matter what he was still a man. His head jerked up and he clamped his teeth together, swallowing thickly as he pulled out of the embrace. He used his hands to roughly wipe his wet face. "Thanks," he said, voice terse. Steve just nodded. Maybe he did understand what Brian was feeling. Maybe not. It didn't matter, really. At least the man was able to show genuine empathy. Brian doubted he could have done the same if things were reversed... "Listen, Brian. Don't say anything and don't argue. I'm going to give you my cell number. Don't shake your head, just listen! I'm going to give you the number and you keep it somewhere. Later on if you ever want to talk, you phone me. We don't ever have to do this again if you don't want to, but maybe we can both just sit and talk about our partners. Okay?" "Yeah, okay." "I'm serious, Brian. Don't throw the number out the minute you get home. Just put it somewhere safe and wait awhile. Can you do that?" "Sure." Steve moved across the floor, still naked, and Brian deliberately tore his glance away from the muscular back, shoulders and ass that still seemed uncannily like those of Jim Street. Then Steve walked back inside his line of vision, a pen poised in one hand as his eyes hunted the room. "Looking for paper to write on?" Brian managed to inquire. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out the creased envelope he'd stuck there earlier. "Use this." Steve scribbled in one corner and handed the paper back to Brian who shoved the envelope back inside his pocket. "Sit down a minute," Steve instructed. "I'll get my clothes and then drive you back." It didn't surprise Brian when they discovered it was raining as they left the motel. Somehow that seemed exactly right... --- Within minutes they were back at the parking lot of the bar where they'd met. Brian climbed out of the car and then leaned back in, cocking his head and forcing a crooked smile. "Thanks, again. I mean it," he added. It felt like a lame thing to say, but the man had been really decent and deserved something in exchange for his kindness and concern. "Hang in there, Brian," Steve said. "And call me sometime." Then Brian found his own car and drove back home. -- The house seemed far more dingy and dirty as Brian walked wearily across the porch and inside the front room. He stood and glanced around him, not knowing what he should do next. Then his eyes fell on the CD player. He walked over and pressed the 'play' button, quickly navigating from track to track. "Everybody's got something they had to leave behind "I've never had a dream come true "Somewhere in my memory "I've never had a dream come true "You'll always be the dream that fills my head "I've never had a dream come true Brian stood listening, letting the words penetrate. He didn't have a tear left to cry -- and he figured it wouldn't matter much if he had. He was over the crying. There really was no use looking back -- or wondering. As hard as it was to face, that part of his life was over. Yet what the song said was true. Though Brian knew there wasn't much good left in him anymore, some small part of him would always be with Jim Street. (And maybe that part was actually the best of who he was.) Brian smiled. Thinking about that just might help him get through the days to come... As he slipped out of his clothes his pants dropped to the floor. Brian failed to notice the envelope that stuck half out of the back pocket with 'Track 16' scribbled on the front... -the end- Want to listen to the SONG that inspired the fic?
"Never Had a Dream" [right-click and 'Save Target As']
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