Landfall - 25. "I've Really Fucked This Up, Haven't I?"

The drive back to the hotel was in silence.

I'd obviously pushed Barry's buttons with the house discussion, but he's just not getting the big picture. I'm hoping he'll listen to reason. I can't read his face—it's a combination of stoic and rock-hard set jaw. He fiddles with the car's touchscreen, changing the radio between a couple of channels and then watches the road. And he's not looking at me. Nor grabbing my hand on the console like he normally does. It's a very quiet car, so I'm glad for the radio to fill the silence.

He's pissed.

At least we didn't have a scene in the restaurant. This is not a discussion to have in public; despite his initial shock at my comments about the houses. He looked like I'd hit him—totally surprised and confused.

Inside our room, Barry walked over to the small dining table and whirled around to glare at me. “Just what do you mean, 'We won't make it with the Olympus house' ? You think our relationship is driven by what we buy? Hell, it'd be a big stretch, but I can do this.” Bulldog's grumbling as he sits at the table, looking at me like a prosecutor at a murder suspect.

“No, no, no! Hear me out. I'm just saying there are lots of good reasons to not buy the Olympus property. First of all, that's just it—it is a stretch, financially. It's way above the price range you'd wanted to consider. It might not clean you out, but you for sure wouldn't have the reserves you do now. And that doesn't include what happens with the bar—what if you have to support it if the economy goes south? What if the profits aren't there like you're thinking?

“Secondly, it's a fuckin' huge house. And a lot of property to maintain. For just the two of us? What the hell do we need with all of that space? And the guest house? Are we going to be entertaining so much we need it? The monthly expenses of utilities and grounds maintenance, in addition to everything else, have gotta be huge.” I'm just getting warmed up, and really need to keep the emotion out of my voice—but it's a challenge. Barry's surly attitude has spilled over to me, dammit.

He tries to interrupt, “Well, I'm thinking there's got to be a way to finance a big chunk of this, and I was thinking someone in the Bureau could tell me how that's handled, then I'd ….” I cut him off at the pass.

“Bulldog, even if financing is an option—and I'm sure it is, I just don't know about all of that—do you know what the payments would be on that? Think about the cash flow every month that's locked away that we can't use for anything. What if we want to take a big trip? Or we find a fuckin' huge flat-screen TV to fill the wall in that den for Sunday football games, can we afford that with those kinds of payments? And shit, that doesn't include buying furniture and all the stuff we'd need in a new place.

“And here's the third reason, and for me, it's a biggie: I can't afford it. There's no way in hell I can contribute my fair share toward the cost of the place. I don't make that kind of money. I'm not in a relationship with a sugar Daddy, I want to be partners, and doing this will totally fuck up what I think we've got going. Hell, I can't even touch half of the monthly payments plus utilities, plus, plus, plus …. “

The silence is deafening. Hadn't realized just how much my voice had amped up in volume; guess my emotions on this are hotter than I'd first thought. At least I've stopped pacing the room. Barry's looking at me with shock.

“Dave, I … well, I hadn't even considered your income in any of this. I just knew what I had to work with and ran with that. And guess that means we should have had a finances discussion before we ever started looking with Rex. Ok, you know what I make; what do you make?” Barry asked the last question in a low tone—almost like he was afraid of what I'd say.

I sit at the table, and told him my income. He was surprised, and said so. “I just thought, considering your seniority and position, it'd be a lot higher, that's all.” He's looking at me like I'm the poor relative at Christmas, with dollar store gifts.

“Look, Barry, it's a good middle-class income. I'm not rich, I've never had a lot of money. I grew up on a farm, we worked hard, we saved, we did ok. And that's where I am now: I've worked hard, I've saved, I've done ok. I've got a nice-sized savings account, and a good retirement fund I can borrow against for the down payment on a place. My truck is paid for. We'll do just fine if you'll just let me participate in this as your partner, ok?”

Bulldog looks like he's about to cry. “Bubba, I'm so, so sorry. I just didn't think ….”

I hold up my hand in a “stop” motion. “Hold off on that thought, Bulldog. Here's the fourth and final reason we won't make it if we buy Olympus. We might as well paint bulls' eyes on our backs. We aren't being inconspicuous if we buy the biggest house in the flashiest neighborhood, and if we go out and put everything on a black AmEx credit card to leave a paper trail. Even though we've taken every precaution to keep you safe and keep the boys safe, the job's not over yet. We still need to keep you low-profile, and you can't do that if we buy Olympus.

“You just bought a nice car, and put it on your card. You've gone on a shopping expedition and filled the trunk with new stuff. And then you buy a bar. All that is high profile stuff, Bulldog. Too many people already know you're new in town and dropping cash left and right.

“Look, I love you, and I'm gonna take care of you the best I can, but we don't need to set ourselves up for problems. And each one of those items are big issues alone, but together, well....it just means Olympus isn't for us.

“Now, you've heard me out, Barry; what are you thinking?”

Tears start to roll down those noble cheeks before Bulldog props his elbows on the table, and buries his face in his hands. He takes a few moments to pull himself together.

Shit, I let my emotions run away with me. I've beaten Bulldog up emotionally and I didn't hafta do that. FUCK!

Barry looks at me, and lets out a long sigh. “I'm so, so very sorry, Bubba. I really am. I just didn't think—at all. I was so excited to finally have something to do; a purpose. I've been at such loose ends I've been ready to lose my mind. And in between those long moments of nothing, all I've had was terror and worry. Guess I went more than a little overboard with the taste of freedom from that confinement—ok, a lot overboard.

“I haven't been thinking, and certainly haven't thought about the big picture in the middle of all of this. And worst of all, I was doing it on my own, without thinking about you. By the time Jackie died, we were pretty much living our own lives, and I guess I carried that forward.

“I've really fucked this up, haven't I?” And he starts quietly sobbing in his hands.

Please stop crying like that; you're breaking my heart.

I move to one knee on the floor beside Bulldog's chair, and grab his hands, make him look at me.

“Look, there's nothing here that we can't fix. You've got a good cover story. It's just a matter of sticking with your story, and to keep telling it over and over. And for those people that already know the details, well, we'll just review what they know, and re-emphasize the details of your story that make sense in helping you hide a little better. We can still make this work, Barry.”

“I promise I'll really try not to fuck up on this stuff, Bubba.” Barry's promise is like a little kid's through his occasional sniffles and tears. Thank God that emotional storm is passing.

“Probably the first thing we need to do is review where we stand,” as I move back to take my seat. “For example, who all knows about the bar purchase? How can we emphasize and encourage them to think it's just a quiet business transaction and no big deal?”

Barry started going over everyone he could think of. The previous owners. “We've got a confidentiality agreement, and they're moving next week anyway.” The attorneys at the title company. “I don't think they'd say anything publicly, and I specifically asked for confidentiality.” Rex, the Realtor. Maybe Joe his partner, if Rex had said something at home. “He doesn't feel like someone who talks his business a lot, but I think we can handle that. Besides, they've invited us for dinner, so we can review our story again, and make it a non-issue.” Bryant, the bartender. “Seems like a good guy, and he likes his job; he's not gonna talk.” Chuck, our deputy. “Oh, he's definitely not gonna say anything after last night.” Bulldog starts laughing. “He'd be afraid of what I might do.”

“What do ya mean, Bulldog?” He goes on to tell me about finding Chuck at the bar last night hooking up with a guy when I was home recovering from my office's “welcome happy hour”. He'd apparently headed to the bar after he dropped me off.

“Yeah, he tried to explain what he was doing, and I just waved it off; but, now that he knows I know about him, he's not going to risk me saying anything. Kind of a 'mutual assured destruction' thing.' Barry's laughing. “I don't think he'd have said anything about me owning the bar, but this will guarantee it.”

Guess now is as good a time as any ….

“Yeah, he's a horny bastard.”

Bulldog looks at me with curiosity. “Why'd ya say that?”

“Well, he made a pass at me in the car when we were coming home from the happy hour last night.”

Barry's face goes red, eyes narrow to slits, arms cross over his chest. He looks like he's fighting an explosion.

“Wait ...he did what?”

“It's no big deal, Bulldog. We were riding back last night, I was half-drunk, he put his hand on my thigh while he was driving, and said he always had fun with me, and he'd like to have more fun.”

Interrupting me, Barry's voice has dropped to a low growl. “So you came back here, got naked … and played? That the reason I came in to find ya lying naked on the bed last night—too worn out to get under the covers?” Yup, he's boiling.

Shit, should've told him when emotions weren't so high. I'm an idiot.

“No, no, no. It's nothing like that—not at all! I knocked his hand off my leg, told him I was a one-man-man. He guessed it was you. He dropped me off here, I made it back to the room, and guess the alcohol really kicked in. Barely got my clothes off before I passed out. Totally innocent.”

Barry's looking skeptical and his voice is so low I have to strain to hear him. “And he'd said he had fun with you before—so you've played with him before?”

“No, no, NO! I'm telling you exactly what happened! I told him I'm in a committed relationship, and I don't play. And that was that. Absolutely NOTHING happened and NOTHING has EVER HAPPENED!” By the time I'm finished, I'm shouting—it's like he's not even hearing what I'm saying.

We stare, glaring at each other.

Ok, cool the situation down, he'll understand. Just bring the temp down.

“Seriously, Bulldog. Nothing happened. Nothing will happen. I made a commitment to you, and I'm stickin' with it. I do hope we'll see each other more when we get in a routine—between your shifts at the bar, and me having to catch a ride back and forth to work, we haven't had the time together I'd like. But, I'm not being tempted---and I'm very happy with the man I selected and the man who selected me. Ok?”

I can see the gears in Bulldog's head turning as he gives me a hard intense stare. Finally the stare softens into a very slight smile. “Ok, ok. I believe ya—and I'm sorry I over-reacted.” He pauses for a moment, then bashfully says, “I'd forgotten I have something of a jealous streak over you. Guess I need to work on that. I'm sorry I got so angry.”

I race around the table, grab Barry in a bear hug, lift him off the floor, and kiss him for all I'm worth. When we're both out of air and break the kiss gasping, I bump my forehead against his. “Now, we got this issue behind us?”

Bulldog grins. “Kiss me like that again, and I'll think about it to make sure.”

I pick him up in another bear hug, spin him around. Another kiss. “Now?”

“Yeah, we're good.” He's grinning big.

That started an incredible three-hour sex marathon. Not calling it “make up sex”, but it was damn hot. I think we licked and sucked every square inch of the other's body. Intense. Fun. Kinda rare to laugh during sex, but it was so energetic and so outrageously out-of-control fun, it was natural. We made out, traded blowjobs, sixty-nined, sucked everything suckable---hell, best time I've had in the sack since ...well, since I don't know when. Well, that's not true; every time I have sex with Bulldog, it just gets better.

We'd both shot three or four times and lying back sweaty and damn near unconscious, neither one with any energy. Hell, it was now past 8:00 pm, we both needed to get cleaned up, probably needed to get something for dinner, or something frozen out of the refrigerator in the kitchenette—and neither one of us really cared.

“Bulldog, I'd like to go back to Dallas tomorrow, get my truck, maybe prep my apartment for packing and moving here. I'm thinking I'd be back on Tuesday. Are you ok with me doing that? I'd love to take you back with me, but …. ”

“Sure, you need your own vehicle, and besides, I wanna see the truck with the hat rack.” He giggles. “I'll check in on the bar. And talk with Sid about how to do financing. I don't want to use all the money for the place we're buying.” Barry emphasized the “we're” as he said it. “I was an idiot trying to do this on my own, and I'm not making that same mistake again. Just make a point to grab your financial records. If we do a loan, they're gonna ask for the last two years of tax returns. Since I don't have that as Barry Evans, I'll hafta get direction from Sid—unless you know how it's handled, Bubba.”

'Only know we've got a lender we work with, but don't know exactly how that'll be handled with you. Generally, when someone's in protection, that logistics officer coordinates all that with them. Your situation is different just because of the money you've got. Give Sid a call; he'd love to hear from you.”

Bulldog sits up wide-eyed in bed. “Oh shit, it's Saturday night, and the bar has a drag show tonight! I need to be there, just to see what they do to handle it. It's supposed to be really busy during shows. Come on, we've gotta move, Bubba—the show starts at 10:30pm!”

Thirty minutes later we're cleaned up, eating a bargain burger from one of the fast food chains, heading to the bar. Get there maybe thirty minutes before the show.

Barry walks in first, and as soon as he's inside, Bryant, the bartender, flags him over. “Can you work the door, Barry? The guy didn't show. Just collect the $5 cover charge and check their ID's. No ID, no admission. Sorry to throw that on you, but we'll be busy enough I can't be slinging drinks here and collecting cover charges here as well. Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

There's already maybe a dozen or fifteen in the bar now, but fifteen minutes later, you'd have thought buses had arrived. The dance floor is mostly covered with portable tables and chairs brought in to handle the crowd. People are still lined up at the door and despite every seat taken, plenty of folks are standing around. Probably bumped up again the fire marshal's limits on occupancy—it was that packed. And the moment the show started, the crowd was on their feet, yelling, dancing, and during the performances, tipping the drag queens.

There was a steady stream of people in and out, including lots of straight couples. Amazing that Bulldog was able to collect money and check ID's once the show started—he was blown away by the quality of the performers and the sheer spectacle of it all. I found out later he'd never seen a drag show. Watching him at the door from the bar and seeing his reactions was fun.

Admittedly, it was as good a drag show as I've ever seen. Some of these “girls” were so real looking, you could've taken 'em home to your mamma, and she'd have never known they were guys. A couple of 'em performed using their own voices, singing against background recordings, the others pantomimed to popular vocalists. Two of the 4 performers were former Miss Gay Americas, the third was a former Miss Gay Louisiana, and the fourth drag queen was on her way to the Miss Gay Louisiana pageant in a couple of months.

Yeah, they were serious about their performances; their outfits, their performances, their professionalism in handling the crowd were all that good. And Bulldog was blown out of the water by them, and the size of the crowd.

After the show, the bar emptied somewhat, but still a big Saturday night. Barry and I hung around, meeting new people, dancing a little. When the bar closed, he got behind the bar with Bryant to see how he handled the door admissions and performance costs for accounting.

We left the bar around 3:30am or so after the bar closed at 2:00am. We helped Bryant clean the place to get ready for the next day, but no lying here—after the day of looking at properties, our fight, the rowdy sex, and a night at the bar, I'm bone tired. And still need to book a flight to Dallas. But I get that done in the room on my iPad.

Sleep comes quickly; even though I need to lightly pack for my trip, I've no problems in going to sleep.

We're both up Sunday morning around 10am or so, I pack, and Bulldog drives me the forty-five minutes or so to Armstrong International for my flight. Bulldog kisses me a hot goodbye on the sidewalk, I go in to go through airport security and check my gun after providing them with my FBI ID, and the flight is off on it's 2:20pm takeoff schedule.

Once in Dallas, take a cab to my apartment, and start looking around the place. The move won't be that bad—I just never have collected a lot of stuff, so the packers will have an easy time of it. I'll just need to box a few personal items, and take clothes and such back with me; the rest will go into storage until we agree on a house.

After going out to pick up some boxes from a moving supply place, I come back in and tackle going through the small amount of stuff I'm taking back with me. Remarkably, get most of my clothing sorted through quickly and packed. Go through the socks/underwear/oddball drawers of a small dresser, throw out some stuff, pack the rest. By 8pm, I'm pretty much done with the clothing. Tomorrow, I'll go through old files, and the other personal stuff.

By 8pm, I'm ravenous, so jump into my truck, heading to my favorite cheap Mexican restaurant. Good food, and margaritas in a color green that doesn't exist in nature. Relaxed, but still not ready to go back home—too much nervous energy from the travel and packing I guess. I decide to head to my favorite hangout bar—the Roundup. I'm in jeans and boots, but didn't wear a hat, but I'm fitting right in with the crowd.

I run into some old friends, we share a couple of drinks and catch up. By 11pm, it hits; I'm officially exhausted, say my goodbyes to my friends, then head back home. I'm stripped and in bed in 20 minutes, lights out and sleep won't come. I'm thinking about jacking off to help me sleep, when my phone beeps with a text message from Bulldog.

Been at bar, quiet night.

Now in room. Missing you.

First time we've been apart

since all of this started.

LOVE you!

Been out myself. Ran into friends.

Can't sleep I'm missing you too.

You're the best thing to happen

to me. I LOVE you too!

Sleep well, gorgeous!

Now I can sleep.