A Place in the Sun

Part 1

Could have been Scene 1, Act l out of some steamy film noir; the kind that opens on a hot night in a soulless city. A flesh-pink finger of sodium-vapor light betrayed two men in a parked car. One of them was a cop, the other had once been. However, these men weren’t on any police stakeout, and they were still far from the urban jungle. Sitting so close they made one confused shadow, thigh to thigh on the front seat, they wrestled with their own illicit love affair.

They were former partners–estranged friends who had thrown away something special with their partnership. Drifting apart had been terrifyingly easy, like being on parallel conveyor belts going in opposite directions. A shadow between had threatened both. Their life together became a series of feints, blocks and knockout punches, directed at an enemy neither wanted to see. Too much pain, too much love, too much fear–a sickness made worse by a chronic need to also get away, by the purest instinct of all: self-preservation. And nothing spoken, not a word…. What it had added up to was paralysis.

There had been lovers…a wife…children…. Complications, changes of job…changes of mind. The final rift came without either of them lifting a finger to stop it. And the sky hadn’t fallen. But the result: that had been three years of twin heartsickness that neither man had been prepared to acknowledge–even to himself. Both got used to the taste of ashes, to a steady diet of self-delusion. Somehow life had gone on for them against their will, without the relationship that had been at the heart of their lives together.

Two days ago, out of ashes, their relationship had been reborn, but in a way never dreamed of by the men involved. A hunger without name had drawn them to each other sexually. Why had they needed each other that way?

Starsky still wasn’t sure. But here in the dark they were just coming to realize the hunger’s breadth and depth, and its power over them. Their bloom of love had thorns that went too deep and drew blood.

But even the pain was sweet.

“Starsky, what’re we doin’ here?” Hutch groaned, leaning back against the car seat. “I mean, what is this?” Hutch was clearly trying to reach high ground, find some place he could take a stand, regain a sense of direction. “Tell me this isn’t crazy.” For the last twenty minutes he’d resisted Starsky’s mouth and embrace, looking for other answers, or even the questions. “And it’s not fair to either one of us. You–” A vehement exhalation.

Recognizing that the blond was on empty, Starsky moved in, using what he’d learned in the last 36 hours like a nightstick to quiet his partner, to demand the acquiescence he was after. Without mercy, his left hand corralled Hutch and squeezed. He had no interest in rehashing the difficulties or being fair. He wanted to feel the intensity of what was going down, to be right here and right now, in the moment. “This is part of what it’s about,” he said. “High time you accepted it.”

Hutch couldn’t deny what was happening to him. Truth lifted the heated denim under Starsky’s hand, moved; there was no mistaking it. Hutch was on the fence, strung between the restraint he seemed to feel he had to impose on himself, and a sexual nature Starsky knew for a fact was anything but restrained.

Obviously he couldn’t manage both; and Starsky wasn’t about to give him a chance to try.

“Gonna be difficult bein’ an angel with me around.” The taunt was gentle, but pointed, as he rubbed the shape inside the jeans.

Sparks flew. With a dangerous look in his eyes, Hutch leaned forward in answer. Their mouths met with a dry-ice burn, began a slow, deliberate give/take; each action decided by a sorely provoked Hutch.

Starsky followed, willingly. Man to man kisses were, in his opinion, the sweetest part of all this. To share one they had stopped here against any logic, less than 30 miles from home. It was tragicomedy; Starsky parking his car on this endless, deserted lot behind some shopping center off the interstate, wordlessly reaching for Hutch–and being reached for.

The big blond turned his head aside, finally, catching a breath. “Ask me when I last made out in a car,” he exuded, huskily, finishing with a raw sound of misery. “Oh, Christ, David….” He came back, kissed Starsky’s lashes.

Starsky relented. “All you gotta do is say the word,” he offered, steeling himself against the pain it caused him. Resting his forehead against his friend’s, he reached up from behind to tug at the short, silvery hair. “Before we get any deeper. But tell me now, Hutch.”

“I want it,” Hutch muttered, touching him briefly, almost pensively. “I want it, that’s obvious. And by the way, thanks for not making this any easier.”

“Nobody said it’d be easy, did they?” Starsky commented. “Ain’t never gonna be.” Hutch knew as well as he did.

“You must have been…” a pause to take a soft breath. “…hell on wheels back at the drive-in.” Hutch accused him, edging away to sit facing front. Closed eyes for a moment, knit brows. “Come on, Starsky. We’ve gotta go. A couple of hours, and it’ll be daylight. This isn’t doing us any good.”

Sitting back, Starsky took a long, level look at his most intimate, most cherished, now much-more-than-just-friend. All his life a lover of the femininity of women, he’d never thought of Hutch as a temptation. Wanting this proud and inarguably masculine individual, being so fiercely attracted to his brother in arms, went along with all the other discoveries, even the wacky, simple stuff, like beard burn–something brand-new in his experience. But he liked every bit of it and wanted more. What he felt was a potent mingling of love and lust, a volcanic surge of emotion that caught in his throat, seared his heart. “Last time I felt even remotely like this,” he said. “I did somethin’ crazy.”

“Yeah, like what?” Hutch asked, skeptically.

“Drove to Vegas,” Starsky replied, deadpan. “Got married.”

They both laughed, just this side of hysteria, startling themselves.

“That isn’t even a little bit funny, Starsky,” Hutch scolded, when the giggles petered out. He shook his head. ”Not in our situation.”

We’re punchy, Starsky decided. He sighed, stifling it before it escaped. And it’s some kinda mean joke, us gettin’ this way about each other; now, when we’re not free. “I’ll take you home.” He leaned forward and started the car. “Know somethin’?”

“Yeah, damn it.” Resigned, Hutch was staring out of the window on his side. “I know something.”

“Must be an echo in here,” Starsky muttered. He smiled, limply, and Hutch didn’t smile in return; didn’t look at him. He hadn’t really expected more, and started the car.

~*~*~

Cool fingers squeezed Starsky’s for a bare instant. The fingers were trembling.

He watched with not one word to say as Hutch got out of the car in front of the high-rise he lived in, nylon satchel in one hand, pulling out a brand-new guitar case with the other. I made love to you, he wanted to shout at his departing friend. You made love to me, brought me out here with you. That’s a giant step into the unknown…into a whole new world. Now we just go our separate ways?

“Got everything?” he asked, instead, inadequately, fast losing his bearings. There wasn’t a single signpost here, nothing familiar yet about any of this.

“Pretty much.” Setting his stuff on the sidewalk, Hutch made a quick check then leaned to look into the car. “There’s one thing I’m leaving behind. Something important.” A sudden breeze lifted gleaming hair off his forehead. “See you in the funny papers,” he said, awkwardly, with a tiny smile. His eyes shone in the streetlight, devouring Starsky with that graveness that was peculiarly Hutch’s. “It was a good couple of days, partner,” he said.

“Mn.” An understatement if Starsky had ever heard one. “Yeah,” he agreed, taking his cue from Hutch. “Best I ever had. We’ll do it again, huh? Soon as we can.” How is this done?

Hutch stared down at the curb for a second. “You may find me camped out in your front yard one morning,” he said, looking up. “Jeri’s my landlady. Her maiden aunt died last year and left her the building.” It was a strange attempt at humor, inimitably Hutch.

“Be your own fault,” Starsky chided. “If you’re set on discussin’ it all with her right away. An’ you don’t have to, Hutch. You shouldn’t have to be the one–”

“Honest to God, Starsk, I don’t think I could keep it inside.” Hutch wasn’t joking, now. ”Not tell her…. Y’know what I’m talkin’ about? Being so wrapped up in somebody else that you–” His glance was a kind of unintended sword, going straight through Starsky without meeting resistance.

“Hutch,” Starsky cautioned, breath coming faster. “Don’t do that. If you talk that way, or look at me like that, I won’t have the strength to leave.” He draped his arms over the Volvo’s steering wheel, dropped his chin onto them. “It’s bad enough sittin’ here, thinkin’ about–what we–” He swallowed, closed his eyes, heart pounding suddenly with the memory. “What happened up there. What it all meant–”

“There’s nothing else to think about! That’s the problem.”

Starsky sat silent for a moment. Then, he decided to try his luck. “If I asked you to, would you put your stuff back into my car? Come with me. Wherever I said?”

“What.” Hutch’s eyes were questioning. “To go where?” he teased, solemnly. “Back up to your place at the lake, maybe? Vegas, for the justice of the peace? ‘Course there’s always the nearest Motel Six–”

Starsky lifted a shoulder, knowing it was hopeless, but hoping. “Why not?”

“Starsky–”

“Why not?” Starsky slid across the car seat to the window, anxious to make his point. “All I’m sayin’ is we might as well stay together for what’s left of tonight. Hm? I’ll even wake up early enough t’bring you back here so you can change, get to work, if that’s what you wanna do–” He cut off Hutch’s rising protest. “Doncha see? It’ll all be different after this, Hutch. After this, whatever we have together’ll be in bits and pieces; it’ll be pretendin’ there’s nothing more between the two of us than friendship. Excuse me if I can’t go runnin’ toward that.”

“You and me running away together now for a couple of hours isn’t gonna change a thing,” Hutch said, harshly. “Is it?” His hand came to rest on Starsky’s head like a priest’s, stroked down over his hair and neck with surprising compassion. “Friendship’s okay with me,” the voice above him said, with more of a question in it, less certainty. “That’s still there…we still have that part of it.”

“Sure we do.” He didn’t look up at Hutch. “Sure.” Is this what it’s gonna be like? Him an’ me wearin’ hairshirts for the rest of our lives? Makin’ like plaster saints ’til we’re too old for it to make any difference–even to us? Disgruntled, he just had to ask. “When are we gonna see each other again?” He glanced now, searched Hutch’s eyes, wishing there was something in them he could fight against. Finding nothing, he tried anyway. “Or have you decided we shouldn’t?”

Clearly Hutch could say nothing to that, anguish and denial and confusion like clouds chasing each other across his face.

”I’m sorry, Hutch, I–” Starsky began, then sighed with frustration. What use was an apology? “I’m really scared,” he blurted out then, admitting to it. Everything’s upside down and sideways. What do we really want from each other? ”I’m scared to death.”

“So am I,” Hutch replied. “God, Starsky, me, too. I don’t want to get lost.” His other hand covered Starsky’s then grasped it firmly, big and cool, authoritative. “I don’t have the answers. I’m trying to do it right, start out the way we mean to go on…face up to what this is really about, beginning right now.”

“I need you,” Starsky stated unequivocally, barely listening. “And I don’t mean in bed. Hell, it could be sittin’ on a park bench, somewhere. But with me. You an’ me, ’til it’s light. Then we take the blindfolds off for good.”

He felt Hutch’s agreement with his skin. Looking up, cautiously, he saw it, too. Saying nothing, he opened the car door and moved back behind the wheel to make room.

~*~*~

“We’re gonna need some self-control.”

“Sure you don’t mean thought-control?”

Hutch shook his head. “I’m beginning to wonder.” He rubbed absently at Starsky’s shoulder. “Something should have stopped us from doing this, and nothing and nobody could have. I wanted you as badly as you wanted me. Maybe more.”

He’d simply denied his desire out loud better than Starsky had. And here they were: the Lucky Leaf motel, where the “No Vacancy” sign had gone up when they checked in.

“What’s the mystery?” Starsky queried, as if he really did not understand. His voice dropped slightly; confidential. “We wanted to make love. Why fight it so hard, huh? It’s nice….” He was looking; Hutch could feel the eyes, almost guess what expression they held. “What we’re doin’ ain’t exactly illegal.” He mumbled the rest but Hutch heard it anyway. ”Not in every state.”

Why fight it so hard? Because the future I see scares the hell out of me, Starsk, that’s why. “Somewhere along the line we’re going to need to be able to say no. We’re gonna need whatever it takes. And what do we do?” he asked the ceiling. “We’re in a motel for Christ’s sake. We fall through that door, strip each other in world record time, and go off like two Roman candles almost as soon as we lie down. The whole thing’d be laughable, if–”

“–if we hadn’t given each other what we did just now,” Starsky interjected, effectively silencing him, sliding over to nuzzle his ear, lazily. “The best yet, maybe.” A stream of warm, moist air. ”No talkin’. No words. Just me an’ you….” More breath touched and teased as the description continued, pornographic, devastating.

Listening, Hutch lay still, as aroused by the memory as he was amazed by his fledgling lover’s talent with the terms; damned if they weren’t working. His face flushed–he could feel it–and he faced his partner, to look at him, scraping his knuckles across the whisper of stubble beginning on Starsky’s right cheek. “You bastard,” he said, with annoyed affection. “You think you’ve got my number.”

”What’s the big secret? I know you comin’ an’ goin’. Ten years worth.” Starsky sidled near, restive under a caress, giving his own. A beat of silence was prologue to something. “One thing I shoulda warned you about, Hutch. I’m good; ‘specially in a cheap motel room with flyspecks on the walls. Here, I’m in my element.” There were marks of insecurity around his mouth that Hutch just couldn’t bear. Amazingly, under the surface, Starsky was asking pleading for some kind of affirmation. From me. Starsky looked to him, more vulnerable than he’d ever been, and very, very beautiful.

“With you in it, Starsky, this cheap motel room is a luxury suite at the Mark Hopkins. And those aren’t flyspecks, they’re part of the delicate pattern.” Attentive to him, Starsky snickered a response. “We’ve got clean sheets and towels,” Hutch continued. “So consider yourself pampered.”

He took hold of the sandpapery chin for a thoughtful moment. He rubbed his fingers over the unaware mouth, making the insecurity go away. His hand was kissed, fervently, Starsky grabbing his forearm. The best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I lost you; I forfeited, and let you get away without a contest. So forget the problems. Right now you need me, not my doubts. And I must need you more, because here I am, doubts and all….

“Pampered and loved,” he went on, holding Starsky’s gaze. “You hear what I’m saying to you? Starsky, I’ve loved you…. I do love you. I always will love you. You can’t doubt that. Not ever.”

“I’ve loved you, too,” Starsky answered, tangibly relieved, rubbing at Hutch’s shoulder. “Like crazy, Hutch. Past, present, whatever future we have–” He took a small kiss and gave Hutch an assessing look. “And look at it this way; tomorrow might never come at all. I saw this Twilight Zone once, you know the one I’m talkin’ about–”

“Stop wasting our time,” Hutch ordered gently. They had precious little, as it was. He easily diverted his friend’s attention. “Morning’s here.”

~*~*~

Dawn crawled home ahead of him. The sun had been up for over two hours when Starsky finally parked the car in front of his house. Dog-tired, he rolled out, leaving everything he’d packed where it was. Ploughed under, entirely sated–in body at least, he almost left the keys in the ignition. His mind was, for tacit reasons, troubled. What was he going to do and where would he find the guidance to do it? In himself? In Hutch? There was always Dear Abby’s column, still running every day in the Examiner….

The kids would be at the Blue Bird day-care center by now, Liz on her way to work at the gallery. My wife, my children…. He felt as if he hadn’t seen them in a long, long time. It’d be hard when he did, and a part of him was shamefully relieved and grateful, that they were gone. God, help me.

He unlocked the door, let himself into the house. The familiarity of his home wrapped itself around him as if to make a heavy-handed point. Copies of Redbook and Cosmopolitan on the coffee-table, toys–his own and the kids’–lying where they’d been played with…. His eye traveled over to his favorite easy chair beside the picture window; to the view of backyard trees and distant city, the wall over his desk covered with photographs he’d taken–himself and Liz and the children, empty sky and seascapes….

Hutch was there, too, and Starsky went to look at that single picture of his friend as if track was being laid down for his feet. Why not torture myself? For what I’m contemplating doin’ t’my family, I oughta be tortured.

The photo was of Hutch leaning expansively on one hand against his car, clad in faded denim jacket, pale gilt hair tumbling over the upturned collar. Not many knew what lay behind that face and smile, the gold surface. For sure Hutch had looked in the mirror more than once and wondered himself. But I know. I know as much about him as anybody’s ever gonna know; the tenderness and the laughter and the cold, blue steel; the bad, and inside him, where it counts, so much good. And I’ll take him anyway he wants me to.

Starsky came to a sudden, crystal-clear decision. If he just wants to be my friend, that’s okay. I’ll count myself lucky and find the strength to live with it. I have to. He groaned aloud, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. But dear God, I like the love we make. Don’t wanna give it up….

Wearily, he headed for the bedroom, shedding his shirt, unsnapping his jeans. He was brought up short by the sight of Liza’s long body curled in the blue-striped sheets. She stirred as if he’d called out loud to her, lifting her tousled head from the sun-barred pillow. “Dave?”

“Yeah–honey–it’s me.” He was standing absolutely, stock-stilt shirt clenched in his two hands. “What’re you doin’ at home?”

“I took the day off.” She turned over, looking like a green-eyed kitten under her rumpled cloud of dark chestnut hair. “I wanted to be here when you got back.” She drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, tossing her head back. Her neck was long and strong, tanned. “Carl’s been calling here for two days,” she said, yawning. “I got the impression they need you down there. They want you badly.”

He had no intention of calling in, and said nothing.

She inspected him, perhaps really seeing him clearly for the first time through her sleep haze. “So, how was the big male bonding weekend?” An imperceptible pause–or maybe it was his paranoia, as he started, rattled by her question. “And Hutch?”

“Everything was great. Him, too.” They’d bonded, alright, for keeps, and he hated himself for thinking what he was thinking, right here in front of her. Here he stood, weak in the knees after spending two days and three nights learning how to fuck and suck with a man she knew, after finding in Hutch a kind of joy he should not have been still looking for.

“Did you remember to close the shutters up there?”

“Yeah, sure,” he answered, distractedly.

“Why are you staring at me, Dave? You look like you got caught cutting school. Hand in the old cookie jar.”

Starsky realized he’d been reacting to her almost as an adversary. Only he didn’t know how he was supposed to react to a woman he’d just been completely and rapturously unfaithful to–with another man. “I’m not staring at you. And stop talkin’ t’me as if I was seven years old.”

“Touchy this morning.” There was a silence, like a depth-charge going down. “You know, I have the feeling you’re not terribly overjoyed to find me here, like this. Am I right? Why would that be?”

“I didn’t expect you to be here. I wanted to come home, fall into bed, and sleep for twenty-four solid hours. I wasn’t prepared to do any verbal fencing.”

“Look, I’m sorry. Okay? I missed you, damn it.” A womanly shrug. “A little.” A flare of self-righteousness. “Believe it or not, I didn’t want to wait all day to be with my husband.”

That wasn’t really like her. The days when they had grasped for every moment to ”be” together were over. What was she after? Starsky threw his shirt on a chair, feeling cross, feeling on the spot. “Where’re the kids?”

”They’re at the center. Sarabet had a bout with her asthma on Saturday. But she seemed all better this morning, stopped wheezing; so I packed the two of them off.”

For want of any safer topic, they talked about their children for a few minutes while Starsky prepared for sleep, closing the blinds. He walked around the bed and got in, feeling her lovely eyes on him all the while. Thinking about it, he reached for her and kissed her. Uncomplicated, physical affection he could always give. It was part of him, and he loved to give like that–couldn’t help giving that way.

Her kiss said a little bit more, but he couldn’t respond in that way. He was drained, emotionally and physically, sore inside, outside. Hutch had it all.

She dug her knuckle into his spine when he lay down. “Da-vid. I arranged for us to have the whole, entire day to ourselves.” Her voice teased. “So, whaddya say?”

”Liza, please…. I’m beat. I just wanna go to sleep.”

“I hate being called ‘Liza.'” She punched him, not so playfully. “Damn you.”

“I need some shuteye, that’s all. It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart.”

“Dave. You know what I think? I think that whatever’s going on with you hasn’t had much to do with me for a long time.” Her voice had an edge of impatience.

He didn’t want to ask her what she meant by that. She was swinging blind, but she’d come weirdly close to home. He denied it, with his eyes closed. What else could he do? “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Liza was getting out of bed. “Just the truth,” she said.

~*~*~

To Hutch, the impeccable apartment he lived in seemed vast, and despite its profusion of plants, its tropical fish, the two blue Burmese and the seal-point Siamese–empty of life; a southern California warehouse of style and compromise. And tonight, anger. He was wrung out from conflict.

That afternoon he’d told the woman he’d been living and sleeping with for two years that he believed he was gay. Presented with no embellishments, the statement was a half-truth designed to protect a more important whole. The hours since the revelation had ticked by heavily, ineffectually, while they talked around and around it. They were at war, both coincidentally wearing white–like crusaders.

The two of them had been sitting at opposite ends of the cream-colored sofa without a word between them for an excruciating twenty minutes now. Stalemate. Jeri lit yet another Benson & Hedges with trembling hands.

”I just don’t get this whole thing,” she said, blowing out the smoke. “Any of it. I know you. You’re not a homosexual. And I don’t understand where this ‘I’m gay’ nonsense is coming from. It’s so ridiculous.”

“I don’t need your understanding,” Hutch said, sharply. “That’s not why I’m telling you this, Jeri.” A harsh thing to say to a woman struggling to comprehend what–for her–must have seemed incomprehensible, but after three hours of this, he no longer cared so much about sparing feelings. “I’m not looking for understanding.”

He’d anticipated Jeri’s confusion and possible anger; he’d known he would get no mute acceptance from her. But he had been completely foiled by her tenacity, her will to hold on. He hadn’t expected it of the woman her enemies–and some friends–called “Icy”; the woman who loved her freedom and spent it wisely, who’d agonized for months about asking him to live with her. But here she was, suggesting shrinks for him, couples counseling for them both. She’d even blamed herself; she’d cajoled, taunted–argued rationally, philosophically, ethically. It was her pride wounded, her life unbalanced and threatened. Maybe it was only that she hated to lose.

And she did. Livid with rage and impotence, she’d slapped his face; hit him. He’d absorbed it all trying to make her believe what he wanted her to believe. And all the while discovering that this beautiful, patrician woman cared much more than she had ever let on. They’d never exchanged the words, “I love you”–not once.

“The hell you’re not looking for understanding.” She sat head in one hand, tender nostrils reddened. The cigarette she’d lit dangled from the manicured fingers of the other. Her blonde hair, straight and fine, hung like a champagne waterfall. “Hutch– Do you do–all those things they do? You know…. The–” Her voice broke off, torn, slightly hoarse, as if she needed to cry. She was hurt and she wanted to hurt him. “I just– I cannot envision you fucking a man. Or being fucked by–”

“Then don’t,” Hutch said, shortly. He reached out and took one of her cigarettes, lit up angrily. He coughed when he inhaled the second time, and stubbed it out, grimacing. Staring at the pair of ebony Dika sculptures on the coffee-table, he rubbed the palms of his hands together.

“Look, I wanted to be honest with you. I owe you that. I wanted to state the facts, honestly. I’m not apologizing or begging you to understand me because there’s no guarantee that if I sit here all night I could make you understand. You’re my friend. And I wanted to tell you that something important’s happening to me, happening in my life. Jeri, I’m a lover of men. Maybe I always have been. All I really know is that there’s something else I need to do, some path I’ve got to follow to find myself again.” It struck him abruptly, how accurate that really was. He looked at her with the realization. “I’m remembering who I am.”

Her soft, brown eyes hunted his, looking for truth. Prosecuting attorney Eastman. If anybody could find a hidden truth, she could, but he wasn’t going to allow it. He was telling her only what she needed to know. Starsky’s name had not entered into this, and never would.

“Find yourself?!” Her sarcasm had never been turned full on him before today. “Hah! Kenneth, you’re forty years old! It’s a little late, isn’t it, to be swishing off on some god damned quest to ‘find yourself’? Why don’t you just admit that you are terrified of getting older? And if all this is real at all, then it’s just the fallout of some freaked-out midlife crisis.”

“Scared of getting old?” Hutch looked at her and snorted. His patience was worn whisper-thin. “Take it from a former cop who’s seen some good friends get it in some bad ways. I’m happy just to be standing.”

“Okay, then tell me. I am fascinated. How do you go about finding yourself when it’s obvious–to me, anyway–that you don’t know what you want? You’ve never known.”

“Don’t try to tell me what I’m feeling,” he grated. “Jeri, we’ve been all through it. That’s enough. I’m tired, I’ve had it. I’m going to bed.”

“I may never have said it, but…I do love you.” Her voice was eerily child-like. “In my own way.”

She’d caught him by surprise. His move to stand was aborted.

“Does that count at all with you?” she asked.

“Of course it does,” he said, stammering. ”It–”

“You’d leave somebody who–believe it or not–really appreciates and admires you, Ken, for a–a maybe? A pretty boy?” Her bright eyes stabbed his heart, seeming to ask the same questions her voice had been asking all day: Why are you doing this to me, and to yourself? He couldn’t ever answer them to her satisfaction.

He had to think of Starsky, of a precious friendship, rare as the tears of the sun, the rock of his life, goodness offered with no strings attached and all the more valuable because of that; of their perfect physical compatibility, unlike that he’d known with any other human being. I may not know what I want, but I’m finding out what I can have.

“Jeri, this is about contentment. And commitment. We’ve talked and talked around it. But that’s all we’ve ever done. Well, I’m ready for that commitment, like I’ve never been before in my life. And I can’t make it with you, Jeri. You’re a talented, ambitious lady and I enjoy your company; I like you. But you don’t want to be tied down any more than I did a year ago.” He couldn’t afford to be less than honest, now.

“Let’s face it, we’re living together because it’s convenient, because both of us want what we want, when and how we want it. In all this time we’ve never talked about permanence. Neither of us has ever been really interested in a permanent commitment to each other or anybody else. Me, because I’ve been burned one time too many. And you because–who knows? You never trusted me enough to tell me.”

She knew. Even now she wasn’t asking for it. Yes, she loved him, and out of her stubborn perfectionist pride, she’d fight to keep him, but she couldn’t promise anything. Now, neither could he.

“If you want to get married, we’ll get married,” she said, then. “If you want some kind of commitment, I’ll–” She broke off when Hutch touched her, to stop her.

“That’s not exactly an awe-inspiring proposal, is it?” he asked, with no wish to hurt her. “Besides, do you really need a husband who’s gonna be lying awake nights, yearning for a man?” One man…. “You deserve better.”

“Jesus Christ.” She shook her head in numb disbelief. “Yearning, Ken? Have you been yearning all this time? Is that it? Is that the–the closed door I’ve glimpsed in you?” She looked away. ”I’ve come up against that door once or twice, that shrine you’ve built inside your heart; and I never felt more…goddamned ill-equipped to deal with anything in my life. And I knew–I knew–I didn’t have what it would take to find the key, to enter the holy of holies. I couldn’t bring myself to ask for any promises from you, or from myself. I already suspected I could never, never have the best part of you.” She turned, focusing on him like a naturalist on a specimen. “I guess I was right.”

For whatever reasons, it was true. “I couldn’t give it,” Hutch had to agree. “You were right.” There was another attenuated silence. “Why didn’t you ever tell me–? Any of this.”

“That’s–” Jeri began, then sighed. “My affair, now. You should pardon the expression. You don’t expect us to go on living and working together every day, do you? Because, baby, I’m not that sophisticated and adult.”

“Give me a couple of weeks,” he said. “I’ll sleep in the spare room, ’til I move out.”

“Yes,” she said. “Consummate lover that you are, sleeping with you would indicate a teensy lack of pride on my part.” A short, defeated laugh, her wet eyes taking him in. “You’ve drained a few quarts of pride out of me today as it is. I don’t think I’m capable of forgiving you, Ken. And I wish I could.”

“If it weren’t the most important thing in my life,” Hutch offered, stiffly, “I wouldn’t have put either one of us through this. Believe me.”

“Why should I?” Jeri asked. “I believed you wanted me as a woman, too.”

~*~*~

There was a small, comfortable weight on his stomach and he smiled, knowing what it meant. The only man Starsky could honestly say he loved more than Hutch had climbed into bed with him. When he took a minute peek, a pair of fey, feather-lashed green eyes was staring back at him. Kenneth David Starsky, three-years-old, had a sure technique for waking his father. Starsky waited.

He was kissed on the lips by his son, his nose squeezed with a delighted “Beep–beep!” Then came the usual summons/complaint/demand because he’d dared to close his eyes again. “Daddy!”

Sarabet clambered up to join them. Starsky listened to her grunt and strain her way onto the high bed. “Daddy, are you awake?” The voice was suddenly right in his ear.

“No,” he growled, doing his hibernating bear, the grouchiness completely fake. Kenneth bounced up and down on him, belly-laughing.

“Yes, you are,” Sarabet yelled, grabbing him around his neck. He grabbed both of them for a playful mauling, causing squeals of laughter and screams of pure pleasure.

Afterward he talked with them, listening raptly, looking at them as if he’d never seen them before. Sarabet was most like him superficially. She had the color of his eyes, the shape of his face, and hair like his; a whisper-soft tumble of dark curls that–unlike his–reached the small of her slim little back. Kenny’s hair was curly, too, but dark-russet, his eyes like Liza’s, though of a more oceanic, deeper, more thoughtful green.

Kenneth was more like him, on the inside. Seeing himself in his child, seeing how easily wounded his young son was, how easily the sun came back out for him, was weird, scary sometimes. To watch Kenneth growing up was to be reminded of his own childhood, of a need to please and to entertain that was like breathing; to be reminded about monsters under the bed and monsters in the closet. He knew from experience that there never were enough hours in the day to play, explore, or simply be.

Sara was a gypsy. She was Liza all over again, all the best parts of Liza, creative, impulsive, kooky, very feminine–at five, already irresistible. She had her papa wrapped around her little finger and knew enough not to take advantage of it.

He spoiled both of them, terribly. His own childhood hadn’t been exactly pampered after Pop died; he remembered threadbare coats, and Christmases–which they’d always celebrated–when Saint Nick brought nothing but his mother’s love. He lived to make sure his own children lacked for nothing. Spoiled or not, they were his, and he’d give his life for either one of them. But maybe that didn’t necessarily entail dying. Maybe it meant giving up the life he desired to live.

Kenneth was looking at him very seriously, as if reading his mind. I swear, he thought, looking back. No matter what happens, you two are never gonna want for anything. Not love, not affection, nothing…. You may never understand how this could happen, that Mommy and me could fall out of love. That all started before Hutch came to me. Honest.

Starsky sighed. What he was mentally putting before them was something no kid would ever understand about his parents, that they weren’t one unit forever and ever. I love a man and I’d like to spend most of my time with him. But is that so bad? He wondered how they would answer, if they could. With a father’s hands, he stroked their hair, appreciating the softness. I’d never stop taking you to the park, or giving you piggyback rides…. I’d never stop loving you. I’m still your old man, your papa, no matter what. And you know something? That’s the best thing there is to be in the whole wide world.

“I love you two,” he said, aloud, the impetus behind his voice, lost. “Do you know what I’m talkin’ about?”

“I love you, Daddy, too,” Kenneth said, with absolute certainty.

“Me, too,” Sara sang, petting him like one of her dolls. And in the next breath, “Daddy? Will you watch us in our pool?”

“Sure I will,” Starsky said. “I’m gonna shower and put some clothes on, okay? Go wait for me on the deck. And I mean wait.” They scrambled down off the bed with his assistance. “Where’s Mommy?” he called after them, in afterthought.

“Making dinner,” Sara said, grinning at him sweetly before closing the bedroom door.

He showered, put on fresh clothes, and played with the kids for an hour or so before dinner. Dinner went smoothly–hell, they were the All-American family, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. After dessert, and shared clean-up, Starsky headed for the TV while Liza took the kids up for bath and bed. It was her turn. In a few minutes, he’d go up and kiss them goodnight.

He sat listlessly, watching the motion and not the meaning of a baseball game. He went to the refrigerator for a bottle of pop, opened it, and returned to lie sprawled on the couch. Suddenly, loneliness–frustration–swamped him. Here he was, in the bosom of his family, longing for the person who deserved to have a place here, but had never been given one; Hutch, with whom he shared everything under the sun except name and blood.

The phone at his elbow rang, and he picked it up. “H’lo.”

“Starsky.”

His whole body flushed, stunningly, the hair rising on his bare arms. “Hutch.” Relief was like finding the mainline. “Ah, Hutch– I didn’t think I should call you–”

”That’s over, now,” Hutch said. “Is it all clear?”

“Talk t’ me,” Starsky urged. “Just keep talkin’.”

“I needed to call. To hear you, at least.” Hutch sighed, audibly.

“You sound–”

”Like I need a shot of whiskey?” Hutch laughed, but there was an acidic note in it that didn’t mean amusement.

Like you could use somebody on your side, Starsky thought. “What happened?” he asked, aloud, digging for the trouble he could hear was there.

“I told her.”

“You did?” At that, Starsky wasn’t sure what else to say.

“We got home around three this afternoon, started talking,” Hutch said. “I gave my confession and signed it. She just went out someplace for a drink. And ‘some laughs,’ as she put it. Leavin’ me feeling lower than a toad’s belly. She cared, Starsky, more than I ever knew, and I feel like a heel.”

Let him get it out of his system; it doesn’t mean anything. He’s done what he told me he had to do. His call. “What’d you tell her?”

“What’d I tell her? Something between the truth and a lie. That I was gay and I couldn’t commit to her.”

It seemed improper to ask for details. Starsky settled for, “And now?”

“Well, let’s see; I won’t have a place to live in two weeks and I’m out of a job. She and I agreed that it would be pretty damned awkward, me working for her father’s firm, with her office right down the hall from mine.” The voice was faintly sardonic; “So it’s done. That’s why I called you. Part of the reason.”

“You need a place to stay? ‘Cause you’re welcome here.”

“Oh-ho, that’s rich,” Hutch said, scornfully. “Me and your old lady sleeping under the same roof.”

“If you’re in trouble, I want you to do just that. I wouldn’t have it any other way. What’s mine is yours.”

Hutch’s refusal was short. “I can’t. I called you to say that I’m going to need a little time. Time to myself. I’ve got some thinking to do, some business to take care of, and I want–I think I need–to do it alone. So I may be out of touch for a few days–weeks. It’s not that I want to be–”

“What’s goin’ on with you, Hutch? Why won’t you let me help? You want me to just stand by while you turn your whole life upside down?” He was appalled. A few weeks!?

“There’s nothing for you to be angry about,” Hutch placated. “You’re not being left out. This doesn’t really have that much to do with you. With us, I mean. Look, I just–I have some decisions to make about my life that I should have made three years ago. And I leaned on somebody then, Starsky, I leaned so hard the decisions I made weren’t even mine. I want to be sure they are mine, this time. I want it to be right, this time.”

“And you’re invitin’ me to back off,” Starsky stated the terms as he understood them, but stiffly. “Leave you alone ’til you have everything all squared away.”

“Starsky, maybe it’s a good idea for us to back off from each other–for a couple of weeks, at least. Maybe we’ll–I don’t know–find out how much we really do want this.”

“I don’t haveta think about that.” He tried to peer into the silence coming out of the mouthpiece. “You do?”

”I’m going to be thinking about a job and a place to live,” Hutch said, briskly. He paused, to soften his tone. “And you. Did I have to say it? I miss you.”

“How long?”

“I’ll call the second I decide anything.”

“Hutch, this ain’t fair. Not one bit. You’re not giving me any say….” It was hard to accept, and he wondered why he should. Everything he was, everything they had always been, impelled him to Hutch’s rescue, to be directly involved in his friend’s life and troubles. “Don’t I have the right–?”

“You know you do,” Hutch interjected. “You’re the reason I can go through with this.”

There was only one response to that. “You’re my reason, too.” The words petered out.

”I love you.”

“Same here.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Hutch said. “Soon as I can.”

Starsky wasn’t going to pretend that Hutch’s intent pleased him. “Whatever you say.”

“Good night, love.”

“Bye.”

After hanging up the phone, Starsky just sat, suddenly drained, cold and full of doubts. Do you love me, Hutch? Do you? Is it the same for you as it is for me?

At the top of the stairs, on her way down, Liza tried to analyze the bits she’d unintentionally overheard of the one-sided conversation. At the sound of the receiver being returned to its cradle, she turned and walked back up.

~*~*~

The importance of good contacts should never be underestimated, Hutch mused wryly, pulling into the tree-shaded driveway at 426 Hibiscus. Following the smooth asphalt around the U-shaped drive, he arrived at the red brick stoop of a white stucco house. It was a gracious, rambling California classic with beautiful proportions–a true Spanish gem with the patina of age. There was a good feeling about the house. This was a place–a dwelling–that showed it was loved, kept. Flowering shrubs and fruit trees graced it like garlands lying on a woman’s white breast.

Hutch had met Quentin Cohen at a party given by the Eastman’s three or so months before, and found him…eccentric…to say the least–but impressive; that rarity–a man who fully lived up to his looming reputation. Cohen, a late-middle-aged lawyer with a lucrative and eclectic private practice, had been looking for a–as he’d put it– “dogsbody,” to do the legwork he was getting “too old and fat” to do himself. Hutch had brushed him accidentally at the party, sensed the hard bulk of him, and thought, Watch out for this guy. He feints and then jabs.

He hadn’t been looking for a job, then, and he’d dismissed Quentin from his mind. Well, he was looking now. To his frustration, he hadn’t been having much luck. There were moments of paranoia when he wondered how much Robert Eastman’s clout had to do with the difficulty he’d been having in finding employment.

It had been three-and-a-half weeks since he’d last spoken with Starsky, and that on the phone, not even face to face. He’d been living in a modest hotel for almost two weeks now, going on interviews practically every other day–going a little crazy. Instead of being solved, his problems seemed to be piling up in front of him. His stuff was in storage, his mail was still going to Jeri’s address, and he wanted to make some serious love with a certain dark, curly-haired acquaintance. Calling Quentin had been the act of a grimly desperate man.

Cohen had invited him over for a drink. It seemed the legend was still in the market for an associate, had gone through three in three months. Hutch had confessed to being very much on the market. “We’ll talk,” Quentin had chuckled.

The front door was heavy-looking, planks of some rich, dark–almost black–wood. The brass knocker was so beautiful it seemed a shame to put it to such mundane use. At the third knock, the door was opened by a lovely woman of perhaps 50 or so. She was ash-blond, and…comfortable-looking, soft-edged, as clear-skinned as a girl. She looked like the lady of the house, wearing a white sweater with pushed-up sleeves, slacks and moccasins, modest pearls. Her blue-gray eyes greeted him warmly. “Hi, I’m Grace Wesson.” She held out her hand and Hutch took it. “I’m Quentin’s secretary. Quentin’s something or other–I’ve never been sure, but I live in. You’re Kenneth Hutchinson, I guess?”

“Yes, I–”

“He’s expecting you. This way. He’s in his study. Or would ‘playroom’ be a more apt word?”

The inside of the house was cool, richly paneled, with high ceilings and dark, heavy beams; full of dark-leaved plants and potted trees. Quentin seemed to have a fondness for Indian pottery and brass. The door to his study was as impressive as the one belonging to the front door. But it was open, and as Hutch approached, a fat, orange cat slunk out and waddled down the hall.

“That’s Dick,” Grace announced in passing.

Behind her, Hutch did a quick double-take.

“Your guest is here,” Ms. Wesson announced, addressing the man sitting behind the desk as she showed Hutch in. “I’ll be in my office if you want me.”

Quentin Cohen stood, motioning Hutch to take a seat. He was in his shirtsleeves. “Thanks, Grace. I always want you.” His eyes found Hutch’s, the easy humanity in them like refuge. “How do you do, Kenneth? It’s nice to see you again.” They shook hands. Quentin’s was a big meat hook, sporting one heavy gold ring. Not surprisingly, the hand was callused, but warm, the man’s grip firm and business-like.

Hutch sat down and Cohen reseated himself heavily, his big, leather-upholstered chair protesting. He was smoking a rugged-smelling cigar, utilizing a huge brass tray as a receptacle for the ashes. He was an ethnic, balding bear of a man, with a crafty intelligence that was like radioactivity around him.

“You were a cop?” he asked, inspecting Hutch with his dark, incisive eyes. “I never would have figured it.”

“Ten years in homicide,” Hutch replied. “All told. I quit a couple of times in there. And I went back.”

“Do any undercover work?”

“Some.”

”I’ll bet it was tough for you to blend into the wallpaper.”

”I always thought it was best not to even try.”

“I think I know what you mean.” Cohen sat in thought for a brief moment. “Let’s not be too businesslike, Kenneth,” he said, then. “Care for a brandy?”

“I’d be grateful. And please, call me Hutch.”

Quentin poured the brandy, asking inconsequential things: Where had Hutch been born? What had his father done for a living? Any brothers or sisters? Ever been married? The questions got subtly sharper: What made him decide to become a lawyer after quitting the force? And what made him quit?

After these explorations, they sipped their brandy in silence for a moment. Then Quentin leaned back in his chair and smiled puckishly. “What I need is…something out of Salvador Dali, I think. A pair of legs blessed with brains, intuition and the rare ability to take a ball when it’s thrown and run with it. You think we can help each other?” He had an emphatic way of speaking; natural showman.

“I don’t have your status as an attorney,” Hutch began. “You’re a celebrity.”

“That’s all bullshit. But believe me, legal genius is not a prerequisite for doing the kind of work I do. Look, what is primarily required of any kind of lawyer is a strong stomach. Second is a high tolerance for human stupidity and frailty. Personally, I think your experience with the LAPD has over-qualified you. This isn’t your Eastman kind of corporate law–you know what I call that? Fast-food law, filling the order from a list of choices; taking the money and keeping the counter clean. My law is messy, sweaty. It’s about human beings, contracts, arbitration, more often than not representing little guys against big guys. It’s about fairness, rolling up your sleeves and going for agreement, justice–whatever you can get for your client–and doing it face to face.”

“I’ll second that.”

“Despite anything you may have heard or read about me, I’m not an extremely well-to-do man. I am extremely…comfortable. This house is my family’s; I grew up here. The things in it I’ve either inherited or spent a lifetime collecting. What I can do is make you the best offer I have.” He took a slip of paper, wrote on it and handed it to Hutch. “Which is this to start. A nice, odd figure.

“Raises, when I can, as much as I can; some sweet bonuses once in a while. And come hell or high water, three weeks of vacation every year. Unless of course, the caseload is overwhelming,” he parenthesized, loosening his tie more. “Which it usually is. I haven’t taken a real vacation in two, three–I’ve lost count.

“I’m sure you would have done better over there at Eastman and Eastman or anywhere else. But with me, you don’t have to pick your way daintily through the fertilizer. You can call it shit, if that’s what it is.” He re-lit his cigar, making a kind of ritual of it, carefully torching the Havana’s circumference. “I won’t pretend I’m all that easy to get along with, either. Witness my need for an assistant. I speak my mind and I need somebody who can appreciate that.”

“I do appreciate it,” Hutch said, with sincerity. Quentin was real, like a breath of salt air. Hutch looked at the older man straightforwardly and Quentin looked back. There was a certain rapport between them already, a mutual respect, and a budding awareness of both their self-admitted, self-conquered flaws. At bottom, below the level of employer/employee, they were equals, and they both seemed, in a weird way, to know it. “I guess it’s my turn to lay some cards on the table. Frankly, Mr. Cohen–”

“Quentin.”

“Quentin, I need the job, no matter what it pays. But I can do the work, and you will not regret hiring me. I meet all the requirements, that’s for sure.”

“Why did you leave Eastman, anyway?” The question had been beautifully placed, by a master attorney. “You were sitting pretty.”

“Complications,” Hutch answered, hoping he wouldn’t have to elaborate.

“If those–complications–are going to impinge on your performance here or our relationship in any way, it’s only fair that I know what they are.”

Without much choice, Hutch began. “Just one.” Jump right in, Hutchinson. Time to start fresh–and honest. “My friend.” That wasn’t so hard to say. “My male lover.”

“Yes, I’d call that a complication.” Quentin was visibly surprised, but not thunderstruck. “For somebody, somewhere.”

“It was for Jeri Eastman.”

“I see.” Quentin was looking at him intently. Would he have agreed to the interview if Hutch had told him before? “I have a great many dear friends who have–alternative lifestyles,” he said, then, tactfully. “You don’t have to fear any kind of simple-minded prejudice from me, Hutch. Your life’s your own business and your personal affairs are absolutely none of my concern unless they interfere with the job I have to do. And I don’t foresee that happening.”

“Quentin, I’ve gotta tell you–it could get messy. He’s married–”

“I see.” Quentin was silent for a long minute, putting his cigar in his mouth, taking it out. “Well, it’s not my specialty,” he said. “But maybe he’ll let us handle his divorce, if it comes to that.”

For an instant, Hutch recoiled at the audacity of the statement, then was chuckling before he knew it, enjoying the joke with a whole heart.

“The job has one fringe benefit,” Quentin declared. He laughed. “And only one. An apartment goes along with it. Nothing too fancy–originally it was living space for my daughter, Jenna. Entirely up to you whether you choose to live there or not. You don’t have to. One or two of my former assistants have chosen to and they seemed to like the situation. Lots of space, private entrance–close to the job. Hey, no commute! Would you like to see it?” He stood. “Sure. C’mon.”

Hutch nodded, for a moment in awe of this incredible godsend. It was almost as if Quentin knew that he was living out of his suitcase.

The apartment was an odd-shaped, bi-level chunk of the house’s rear wing. It had lustrous wood floors, high, narrow, arched windows and a patio that led into a walled garden. He could smell wild roses. The languid breeze was laden with their scent when Quentin opened the French doors.

“No free rides, Hutchinson,” Quentin said after showing him around. “You pay all the utilities.” He held up a set of keys. ”Move in at your leisure.”

“Does this mean I’ve got the job?” Hutch asked.

“If you want it, I want you to have it,” Quentin said, grasping Hutch’s hand briefly as he handed the keys over. ”Hutch, I know when a man’s worthy of trust. I’ve learned never to throw that away or let even one little grain of if slip through my fingers. Trust is the rarest thing in this world. I think you know that as well as I do.” He patted Hutch’s shoulder almost as a father would before releasing him. “Let’s get things started, huh? We’ll go look at your office now. It’s not as big as mine, of course, but then, mine isn’t as big as Grace’s. She’s the quarterback on this team. The rest of us are just linemen.”

~*~*~

There was a dog barking, far away, a lonely, compulsive sound in the night. There were tree shadows on the wall, unseen ghosts rustling in the corners. Starsky turned restlessly in bed. He could hear his own heart beating, fast. Liza was fast asleep, cuddled beside him, content after his loving. He had orgasmed, yes, but it was as if any emotional release had been indefinitely postponed. The pleasure had left him depressed, empty, remorseful; regretting the emptiness with all his heart. It seemed he would feel no real joy until he could feel it again with Hutch.

His desire for contact with his friend was a low-grade fever, chronic, like molten virus under the skin. More than anything else, he wanted Hutch’s company, the simple pleasure of existing in his friend’s space.

Oh, God, Hutch. It’s like you drove me right off the road and left me there to die. Can’t stop thinkin’ about you and I don’t know what to do about it. Is this what you wanted? Okay…. I’m on my knees.

How long had it been, his indeterminate sentence? This Friday, an entire month. Hutch had had his reasons and maybe they were good ones. But for Starsky, day had piled upon day, and he’d burned through them one by one, his guts wound tight and hard, the experiences he’d had up at the lake and at the motel playing and replaying in his head.

And not a word, no glimmer of hope for him, not even the certainty–bitter though it would be–that it was all over. Hutch had been true to his resolve, in the process teaching Starsky what real loneliness was. As if he’d needed to be taught. He’d spent three years pining for Hutch and he was tired of it. If you meant t’ hurt me, it couldn’t a been worse than this.

Liza sensed his turmoil, but completely misunderstood its roots. She wanted to save him, heal him; but in his state of mind, he could only interpret her overtures as further pressure. She had no idea what was going on inside him, what he was battling, but she wanted to win.

He felt a lot of guilt when it was hunger for Hutch that sent him to his wife and he resisted giving in to the hunger because she did deserve better. Liza couldn’t see that he was trying to spare her the humiliation of being used. For her, any denial from him meant total rejection. For her, all the effects would, sooner or later, add up to only one cause–he didn’t love her anymore. She was human, she was his wife, and after almost a month, her resentment had begun to reach measurable levels.

A meltdown was in progress, a candle guttering; an angry silence growing between the words. Would it do any good to repair the damage that had been done? He didn’t regret his marriage–he’d wanted her and had wanted to be married–but Liza had made that contract with a very different man. Now he wore two faces. Maybe he always had.

Sadness crept over him when he realized that he still loved his wife, but did not adore her; that he respected, but did not honor. She was mate, but not soulmate; friend, but not best friend. Hutch’s was–from the beginning–a brighter light.

But the separation scared him. It had forced him to ask himself how real his feelings for Hutch were. Three weeks ago, those feelings had been immediate; undoubted. He wasn’t as sure of them, now. Maybe what he and Hutch had found, sexually, was never supposed to last at all. That one-time baptism in semen had healed the breach in their friendship, and it had been beautiful, but that didn’t make it a salve for everything that had gone wrong in their lives. We shoulda never drifted apart, that’s all. And we’re both to blame.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around his pillow; no closer to the answers–and no closer to his heart’s one desire. Right now, he felt little older than his three-year-old son…and obviously not as wise. He closed his eyes and made a wish that had no clear parameters or target and was only half expressed in his mind.

~*~*~

Starsky had spent his Friday hacking away at drifts of paperwork on his desk, hating every redundant sheet of it. Frustrated and impatient, he couldn’t home in on anything worth a damn. The high point of his day had been chewing out a pair of peach-fuzzed detectives. Now that had been a real pleasure. The two–Evans and Silvera, partnered for less than a year–had engaged in a little unauthorized hot-dogging during a stakeout the night before.

He remembered the old days. What these two had done was pretty tame stuff by comparison. At the end of his spiel, completely unfooled by their contrite expressions, he’d dismissed them, knowing from personal experience that, though subdued by the weight of his anger, they were sure they’d gotten away with murder.

Sensing the nascent bond between them, he’d thought cynically, Build a partnership, but don’t fall in love with each other, guys. Don’t let it get that serious, or as good as him and me…. You pay a price you may not be able to afford. As that thought nicked his own thin skin, he cut the reverie–and the discussion–short.

At seven he grabbed his jacket and briefcase and headed for the elevator. He rode down alone, rubbing the bridge of his nose, fighting off a tension headache.

~*~*~

A handsome, dark-haired man came out of the building, light-colored sport coat and briefcase slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, thoroughly absorbed in the series of pebble-mosaic steps under his feet as he descended. He was a little boy after a tough first day at school; a convicted man with the world’s whole weary one-track weight on his shoulders. Right now, he had no idea he was being watched.

From where he stood near the curb, Hutch’s body reacted to his lover’s. He’d expected to feel the old feelings–and the new. But he hadn’t imagined the emotional toll seeing Starsky would take on him–empathy, remorse; an intense and fiercely-stabbing love that bested him…. His knees were rubber; his heart pounded like a man locked out of the house.

At the foot of the steps, Starsky looked up finally and noticed him, one hand grasping the steel banister, the prominent knuckles pale.

“Would you like to–have a drink with me?” Hutch asked hesitantly, as Starsky approached him. “I’m buying.”

No wisecrack came to Starsky’s lips. He looked like a wallflower, finally being asked to dance. “Mm-hm,” he said, flatly, swallowing the double sounds, Adam’s apple jumping. “I’d like it fine.”

“Want to walk? Somewhere?” Hutch couldn’t take his eyes off Starsky’s face, getting slightly tipsy on the familiar features, the wind catching his coat–and his heart. ”Uh, there’s a little place called Scarlett’s, right down the street here…. Not far.”

“That’d be okay,” Starsky said. He kept trying to clear his throat.

The three-block walk was somehow the most adventuresome in Hutch’s life, the most mysterious. His life with Starsky seemed to be beginning right here, a completely unknown quantity, a diamond in the rough he hoped he had the skill to cut.

They were all alone on the street, or so it seemed. Neither of them spoke, but they kept looking at each other with a compulsion that was fueled by questions and doubt and the still-new erotic current. There’s so much sweetness in bed with him, Hutch acknowledged.

Scarlett’s turned out to be a dim hideaway full of business types with all the stock details–bowls of peanuts, a frizzy-haired waitress, a tinkling piano that was an aural cliché. They sat at the bar and the neat, trim bartender looked at them with inquiring brows.

“Coors Draft,” Starsky said.

“Same,” Hutch added. His eyes found Starsky, eagerly. “I have good news.”

“Besides the fact that you’re here at all?” Starsky asked, gaze traveling over Hutch’s face, searching. A clipped glance down his body and away spoke volumes.

“We’re here,” Hutch amended. “I missed you, and I hated myself for doing that to you. I think–I know–it had to be, but I’m sorry.”

Starsky turned from him. “It’s okay,” he said. “You know that. It always will be.”

“Maybe. But I can still apologize.”

“I feel like cryin’,” Starsky said, dazedly, staring straight ahead. “Y’know that? Christ, I’m a sap. My knees are Jello.”

“Mine, too. When I saw you….”

The beers came and they drank, in silence, for a moment.

“What’s your news?” Starsky asked.

“I found a job,” Hutch said. “Working for a lawyer named Quentin Cohen. I like him. He’s a decent man. Hell of an attorney, too. I think I’m gonna learn a lot.”

“Does he handle divorces?”

”No,” Hutch said, struck by the irony in Starsky’s tone. “But he might make an exception.”

Starsky merely grunted, looking into his glass.

“Anyway, I finally had some luck,” Hutch said, rerouting the conversation. “Quentin works out of his home and an apartment goes with the associate’s job. Private entrance, roses….”

Starsky sipped his beer, then looked straight at him, smiled with a little heart. “I’m glad everything worked out, with the job, with the apartment–” He seemed about to say more, but didn’t, as if to start would be to keep on going, say too much.

“Want to help me move?” Hutch asked.

Starsky’s violet glance was charged. ”You know I hate movin’ furniture. I can give you the best damned housewarming you ever had, though.”

Hutch swallowed dryly and took a sip of his beer. “Actually, I thought of you when I first looked at the place.”

”Yeah?” Starsky asked, with a tender, crooked, helpless almost-smile that should have been X-rated. “What’d you think about?”

Hutch couldn’t stem a surge of desire. Can’t you guess? You. Lying in my bed, all man, blue eyes and silk, my friend, waiting for only one thing–to love and be loved. A lamp within had been lit and his body warmed from it, heat spreading across his chest; up his throat and face to the top of his head.

“Listen, Hutch–”

Aladdin’s eyes were right on him, making their wish.

Starsky spoke with immovable certitude. “Let’s get it clear. I don’t wanna be just your best friend anymore.”

~*~*~

They walked back to the police station, their mutual need distracting and disorienting them at the same time it isolated them. East was West, lights were too bright–suddenly there were too many people around, being too busy, too loud, too clumsy. Hutch felt stripped, unprotected, as if the world, like a criminal, had made him and his cover was blown. What was the point of secrecy?

After all, you could tell who the lovers were. With intimate understanding, Hutch could sense the subtle magnetism that bound the pairs together, making them one being–companioned, in a whole city full of lonely people. The particular circumstances were unknown. Chances were good that a few of these passing strangers were undercover, too, in a way; married to somebody other than the person they were with. Some of them were inescapably the Other Woman–or maybe the Other Man.

Like me. That’s all I am, with the beauty of it stripped away; some kind of thief; a fool who doesn’t know any better than to grab for a full moon in the water; facing an empty bed by my own choice. But he’s worth it.

If there was any value in their clumsy, bittersweet love affair, it came from Starsky. A look assured him. He’s worth all of it and I got no pleas to make for myself, no excuses. I’m not going to give up one minute of the time I can spend with him.

He stopped at a crosswalk and held Starsky back for a moment. Lamplight starred nearly black eyes that turned, questioning, to him. ”Right or wrong?” he asked. “All of a sudden, it doesn’t seem that important.”

“Why don’t we find someplace and talk?” Starsky suggested, evidently tired of pussyfooting around. ”Nobody else around.”

“Want to risk my apartment?” Hutch asked. “There’s no furniture, boxes everywhere…but….” It was a foregone conclusion; they were going through the motions. “We could– ”

“I’ve got a sleeping bag in the trunk. A couple of blankets, too, I think…. I’ll follow you in my car.” Starsky’s tone was as cautious as his–and, in its way, just as sure.

Hutch caught Starsky’s hand–briefly–as they crossed the street against traffic.

”I–I’ve gotta call Liza,” Starsky said, suddenly, stopping.

“Okay,” Hutch said, too quickly, observing the averted head, the knit brows. “Sure thing.”

He waited uncomfortably outside the phone booth, listening to Starsky lie to his wife. What did he owe her? The call or the lie?

“Yeah. Yeah.” The familiar voice rose. “Sweetheart, I’m swamped down here. Eleven at the latest.” A listening pause and a visible spark of anger. “That is traffic you hear. I’m at Tiny’s, grabbin’ a sandwich. Is that okay with you?”

He hadn’t looked toward Hutch throughout the entire conversation, and did not now as he placated his wife. His face (perhaps more so because Hutch knew so many of its secrets)–his body–seemed closed off; for the moment, as inaccessible as a total stranger’s. This was a married man, a person Hutch did not really know and what that man was doing–being forced to do–was obviously hard for him, shamed him.

He’d confessed, sometime during their weekend together, that he’d never been unfaithful to Liza; never ’til Hutch. Implicit in that statement had been his almost childish belief that marriage was some kind of inviolate state, an absolute.

Hutch remembered his own infidelities, reckless reactions to Van’s self-absorption and inattention, her belittling of his job, his life ambitions. Starsky wasn’t built to take an affair any more lightly than he. For Starsky, even divorce was preferable to living a lie, breaking a vow he’d made.

Hutch realized that he had asked his best friend to live this double life, and now–right now–he accepted the responsibility. Starsky was doing it for him and paying his price.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” Starsky said into the phone. “G’night.” He clicked off and just stood there, hand still curled around the receiver, looking down into himself for a moment.

“Want to talk about it?” Hutch asked, carefully.

Starsky glanced up, eyes widening when they found Hutch, their secrets taking hold of his heart. “No, not now.” There was a silence, but it was around them, thank God, not between them.

“Okay, we won’t talk,” Hutch said, softly. He tried a smile. It tasted bittersweet on his lips, but he kept it there.

~*~*~

Hutch found candles and a brass candleholder. “Menorah,” Starsky murmured, absently. He stood looking on as Hutch lit all the candles he had. Their eyes met and Starsky sighed with feelings that were obviously mixed. ”We haveta cram eight nights into one, somehow,” he said, watching Hutch who set their light down by the spread-out sleeping bag before coming to him.

They unbuttoned Starsky’s shirt together, feeling the shared knowledge of why they were here between them. It had been a long time since their tryst at the motel and they both realized a lot was riding on this–maybe more than any single human act could support.

Their lips touched, then lingered. Hutch slipped the cool, white shirt off, kissed along the sleek shoulder, hands sliding to the small of Starsky’s back.

“There’s no hurry,” he breathed, not being entirely truthful, even to himself. The body he was settling cleaved to him, shivering, Starsky’s shoulders and waist hot. Starsky wanted no space between them tonight.

“Hutch,” he breathed. Just that; one groaning syllable. “Hutch.” His hands moved to capture Hutch’s face, too hungry for gentleness, fingers holding on hard, his eyes penetrating. “I did what you said, didn’t I?” he demanded. “I stayed away exactly like you said. But don’t ask me to do it again. Please, huh? Maybe we can work things out, maybe we can’t. But don’t make me promise not to see you.” His sex was as insistent as his words, if not more; a source of hunger and heat that couldn’t be ignored.

Hutch wasn’t surprised by the offensive stance Starsky was taking. He understood. He’d denied himself, too, and reveled in having the place above his mouth kissed, and then his mouth, again and again; his lips and chin and throat bitten, licked by Starsky’ s rough tongue, having his shirt unbuttoned. Warm hands stole inside to stroke, pull roughly. A thumb rubbed across his navel. Starsky was setting him on fire. “Take it slower.” The words broke from him in a hungry whisper and they kissed, tasting as they began to disrobe each other. The sound of belt-buckles, zippers, the thump of shoes were accompaniment to some hurried, forbidden rite.

Warmed by candlelight, they tumbled onto the makeshift pallet and wrapped each other up, sharing one long, eager thrust of their loins and dewed bellies. Twin groans, born out of sheer relief at being together, was cause for a bout of laughter.

“Pretty good harmony,” Starsky said, lying back, radiating vitality and desire, some of the tension in him broken. His face and chest were flushed, his briefs full and hot where Hutch welcomed them in his hand and with his next glance.

“A couple of tomcats in heat,” he commented with a smile, beginning the process of disposing easily of the tiny bit of cloth that Starsky called underwear. ”Lift up….” He bent quickly to kiss the furred belly as it surged toward him. “Aren’t you ashamed?” he muttered, brushing the crumpled wisp of brief against his cheek before tossing it toward the rest of Starsky’s clothes. “To be seen wearing those?” As he spoke, he gathered up the dark cock to weigh and thumb.

“I like ’em better off,” Starsky teased. His eyes softened, body helplessly responsive as he was caressed. His hand slid around to the back of Hutch’s neck and under his hair. “C’mere, beautiful. Ohh…. Just c’mere, willya?”

They kissed in more exacting reunion. Starsky held Hutch as if to prevent any escape. He tasted of longing, ashes, worry, his mouth like a desert. He was tinder dry; requiring just a little water to survive in this waste of duty and obligation they’d walked into–separately because Hutch had wanted it that way–four weeks ago.

Hutch pulled away, but hovered above the waiting lips for a moment. “I’m right here.”

Starsky looked him over, eyes half-closed, a man of few words. “Show me.” He’d always preferred action to talk.

Hutch acted, planting moist kisses on Starsky’s mouth, along his jawline and throat, down the whorled chest to the bushy pubic hair and shuddering penis. Starsky hissed, arching anxiously toward him, muscles in his belly bunching into relief. There was a sharp odor around the dusky body, like before a storm; the smell of ozone, of the first drops of moisture. Hutch inhaled it, let it undo him.

Already well-practiced at one or two of the joys of man-to-man sex, they took positions at opposite ends of each other. It was like coming home, to each other, to their private discovery. Their mouths knit them closer.

Hutch gave Starsky all the surprises, all the tenderness–every delight he had imagined giving his lover–and himself–through the days and nights they’d been apart. Starsky’s body moved, resonant, nipples hardening under his hand. He clenched, then cherished his friend’s ass, weighed the heavy testicles, caressed the downy stomach.

Following the contours of a shapely thigh and calf, he found every muscle defined, alive to his touch. Starsky’s hand, strong and knowing, moved over him in turn, restless, as if trying to please all of him at once, pleased by all of him. The dark man was meticulously serving his cock, probing and squeezing its root with natural aptitude fueled by Starsky’s still-growing understanding of what he needed, how he was made.

He had a few new skills himself, and swallowed his lover whole, making Starsky whimper, and climb over, onto, into…. The dark man’s loving was pure and vehement–and yet, heartbreakingly sensitive. Hutch was being treasured, tended to–and owned. They prolonged the act for each other, each man rebelling against letting his partner go; holding closer, tighter, ’til they had become one animal, struggling by instinct toward its release.

Hutch was right there on the edge of it–agonized, feeling Starsky with painful intensity. White-hot, he couldn’t distinguish who was doing what; if he was blind, he didn’t care. He accepted the perfect fact of their sharing. The sense of oneness was overwhelming and ecstatic. They were equal. This was the difference, the quality of Starsky’s giving to him that–for Hutch–made anything else a poor substitute. He asked nobody else to understand his feelings or what they had together.

I know what you like…. Completing the intimate act, he watched now for reaction, feeling the clenching flutters spread out from the center to the rest of the strong body, shaking it in his two-sided grip. Starsky held him there, pounding at him, and Hutch took what was suddenly offered. Slick, pungent, Starsky’s semen was still a surprise to him, an acquired taste. Its source was what he loved.

A stifled exclamation, and Starsky bore down abruptly, sharp teeth grazing him. The strong mouth circled, pulled, almost turning his cock inside out, forcing a hoarse shout from him. The shock of release stole his breath away as he thrust too deep, blacked him out for a prolonged moment of aching bliss.

The stunning quiet of after became the sound of a clock ticking before they gave each other up even a little, rolling, still opposite, onto their sides.

“Beautiful,” Hutch whispered, drawing off of his lover’s still-tumid sex, loving the look of it, the feel. Starsky was engaged in a sweet, slow sampling of him; lips, tongue, lips again. Awash in afterglow, in joy, he caught his breath as Starsky intercepted the last faint shudders, amazed that anyone could know just how, and when. He leaned down again, returning the favor. They lingered for a long time over each other, expressing nothing more than love.

Starsky released him slowly, stroked down then up Hutch’s thigh. “Ah, darlin’,” he whispered, softly. “You’re so good f’me.” The words were heartfelt, exhausted; a broken exhalation.

“Did we manage to make up for three-and-a-half weeks?” Hutch asked, gently, somehow still needing to be forgiven for his one-sided decision.

“Not hardly,” Starsky said, grasping his wrist in limp fingers. “And it was four weeks; I counted every single day.” The fingers tightened. “Come up here. I need to kiss you.”

When he was there, and they were face to face, Hutch said, “We’re in too deep.” He knew it now. Too late to cut any deals. “Aren’t we?”

”We sure are, babe,” Starsky agreed, eyes soft and unguarded, messengers of love.

“Do you care?”

“No.”

The kiss was unlovely, furnace-hot. They were both sweating. Starsky’s hair was soaked, a wet, short tangle that felt good to the fingers. Suddenly, with a desperate sound, he turned away, turning over. “God…. S’too much.” Taking a deep breath, trembling, he tried to slow his respiration. “Gimme a minute…. Okay?”

Hutch stroked the dark head, comforting. “Anytime,” he whispered. “I love you.” It was still the one real truth in his life. “So much, Starsky.” His feelings almost got the best of him. “Oh, David…I don’t think you know how much.” I don’t want to lose you because of it.

“I know,” Starsky whispered, sighing against him. “‘Course I know.” They lay, spooned on the sleeping bag, limbs weighted and loosely involved, looking at the candle-light. The faint odor of roses and sex colored their separate daydreams.

Soon, maybe, they’d make more love, but life was left uncluttered for now, and for drifting moments.

~*~*~

“The Dodgers are playin’ this Saturday,” Starsky said, out of a comfortable nowhere. “I think I can get tickets…. Like to go?”

“Sure.” Hutch stroked the warm side. “I’ll be all moved in here by then.” He moved closer to the curve of Starsky’s ear. “Know what I mean?”

“I know.” A smile warmed Starsky’s voice. “A bed, for Chrissake.” He paused, letting himself fantasize. “I was thinkin’, maybe we could go away, later this summer. Someplace nice. Blue skies, white sand and palm trees. Huh? A week would be great. Can you picture it? A whole week swimmin’ an’ baking in the sun, havin’ our way with each other…. Just the two of us.”

The proposition sounded good–too good. Hutch allowed himself hope because he wanted it so badly. “Could you do that?”

Starsky sighed. “‘Course not.” He was silent, briefly. “Liza is expectin’ us to spend two weeks at her parents’ place at Tahoe, in August, like we always do. But I can dream, can’t I?”

”How are things?” Hutch asked. “There.”

“I haven’t been able to stop analyzin’ my relationship with you long enough to deal with it. It’s hard, I’m not gonna tell you it’s not.”

“You don’t have to,” Hutch said. “I have some idea.”

“Maybe with my head clear, I can–” Another sigh. “I don’t know. Think about her and everything.”

“Save it,” Hutch said, touching Starsky’s temple with his lips, feeling the pulse. ”Why don’t we make an agreement? When we’re together, nothing exists outside.”

“Think that’s the answer?” Starsky mused, stroking Hutch’s forearm. He craned his neck to get an incomplete look at Hutch’s face. “Tell me one thing. No reasoning it out or thinkin’ it through first. I–I gotta know what you really want for us.”

Hutch had to answer with the truth. “I want a full-time relationship. What do you expect me to say? I’d like to build something permanent, but I got nothing to build with.” The feelings poured out, as if Starsky had pressed a “release” button somewhere and lowered barriers he’d carefully built up in this matter. “I’m not accustomed to taking second place with my lovers, and I don’t like it. Especially with you. But she’s your wife. I can’t pretend your lady doesn’t exist.” Or that she–that the idea of her–doesn’t bother me. “I don’t enjoy handing you back to her.” He urged Starsky over to him. “I want you all to myself. I’d like us to spend our whole lives together, Starsky.” But….

“Me, too, Hutch. But I can’t do both. I can’t be–married to two people– It’s that simple.” He shifted in Hutch’s arms. “Or if you prefer, that complicated.” Starsky’s face showed his frustration, and a terrible desperation about his marriage he’d tried to keep mostly hidden tonight–til now.

Starsky’s statement about being married caught Hutch unprepared. The idea filled him, momentarily, like a gentle flash of lightning inside a cloud, edging everything else out. “You–you feel that way?” he asked, startled. “About–about it?”

“Man, if you could see your face right now….” Starsky commented, looking at Hutch appraisingly through languid lashes, patting his cheek. “Yeah. I feel that way. Commitment. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” His expression became rueful and his hand slid away. “Or should be. I’m no-one to talk.”

You hold your morals too high, Hutch thought. Even for yourself. It seemed best not to say that aloud. But your sense of morality is part of the reason I love you.

”We have to give it time,” he said. “Let it work itself out. If you force this, Liza could–who knows?”

“Take the kids?” Starsky said what Hutch had been unwilling to say. Starsky looked at him, face touched by resignation, not disbelief. “I already considered her taking Kenny and Sara from me; goin’ that far.” The pain of it welled in his eyes. They were inky, the pupils large. He pressed closer, all there, all muscle; warm and cool. “Only–how much is it worth?” He moved, tightened. “This. Bein’ together…with nothin’ held back anymore. We earned this. This is our happy ending, Hutch. What kinda price-tag do we put on it?”

~*~*~

According to Hutch’s wristwatch, it was 12:15. Damned hard to keep to a deadline when both parties involved are concentrated totally on wringing every drop of goodness from each minute–and each other–and giving every drop back. It only got better.

Starsky was getting dressed after a quick shower, moving around the empty room to locate his scattered clothing. Hutch lay propped on an elbow, still naked, and relaxed in the extreme. For the moment, the blond found pleasure in watching Starsky–the action of the muscle groups in his broad back as he drew on his briefs, the practiced way he adjusted them. He could easily have been accused of displaying himself, but his pride in his gifts was natural, a part of him, and completely justified.

The candlelight turned his skin a mellowed bronze; his body seemed shaped and polished by an artisan who loved real men. His scars were old, faded; part of him, like watermarks. He turned, fastening the catch of his gold watch, absent, his dark chest of hair and bunchy navy-blue briefs making Hutch’s breath come faster.

He shook his head with slow amazement. “You’re a beautiful man,” he said, softly. ”Just–beautiful.”

Starsky looked over at him, and smiled, easily. “Your opinion doesn’t count, Blondie. You love me.”

“The hell my opinion doesn’t count,” Hutch said, getting up, slipping his slacks on for the moment. “I happen to have an artist’s sensibilities.” Sliding his hands into his pockets, he inspected his lover for a moment, thoughtful. “I’m sorry you have to go.”

“Me, too,” Starsky said, simply, watching him as he came near. “I wanna stay.” Admiration unfurled like a flower in the wide eyes and the old affection. “You’re beautiful, too, y’know. Always thought so.”

Hutch wanted to hug him, make him know his words were appreciated. “There’s never going to be enough time, is there?” he realized. To sleep with you, wake up and shower with you, scramble up some eggs for your breakfast…make you smile at me. Their glance held. “Have I ever mentioned how good you are to be with?” Hutch asked. “One hour, one minute…. Starsky, I’ll take one second if it’s all I can get.” The embrace that followed was necessary; and they let it take its own course.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Hutch asked.

“Sure I am.” Starsky moved away, reluctantly. “A little the worse for wear, maybe, but not so’s you could notice.”

Hutch looked the question. Worse for wear?

”Let’s just say that when Hutchinson gets the job done, it’s for keeps.” Starsky’s lashes lowered, slyly, and he looked at Hutch through the pretense.

“Oh, I see,” Hutch said, comprehending. ”Well, I really wish I could say I was sorry.” A discarded towel was thrown at him, landing damply over his smiling face as he headed into the bathroom.

When he returned, Starsky was just finishing dressing–light years more carefully than he’d undressed. Hutch drew his own shirt on, watching Starsky in the mirror. He smoothed his hair with his fingertips.

Starsky waited while he snuffed the candles. They stepped out into the cool of night. It was late. The silence of the posh neighborhood was profound.

“Alright if I call you tomorrow?” Hutch asked. The night shade under Quentin’s fruit trees made it easier to reveal his own insecurities. How long would Starsky accept things as they were? “On the job?”

“You better,” Starsky said. “I think I was good enough for a phone-call the next day, wasn’t I?”

“David….” Hutch sighed, not wanting to start anything.

“Just kidding,” Starsky muttered. “Okay.”

They stopped, stood there together for a moment. Starsky leaned dose, grasped him at the back of the neck, bringing Hutch’s face to his. “Don’t forget the game this Saturday.” He pecked at Hutch’s cheek in a sweet, impulsive way, before turning quickly to get into his car.

Hutch hated to see him go away alone. “It’s a sure thing,” he said, trying to be upbeat. “You’ve got a twenty in your wallet with my name on it.”

 

Part 2

They were strolling shoulder to shoulder down the main concourse of the stadium, heading for the parking lot after the game. Starsky was cracking and eating peanuts, talking about the game, looking at Hutch who was smiling and talking quite happily over his words. They were in no hurry. Right now he was happy just to be with this familiar presence, making him smile, listening to him bitch before, during, and now, after, the game…. It was all…ordinary and wonderful; and he’d missed it more than he’d ever suspected.

“You’re dead wrong, Starsky. It’s their pitching. The bullpen’s lame. What’s the use of paying a million bucks to some showboat hitter if we can’t strike the other team out? And you can’t buy heart. How many times have you heard me say, ‘You can’t depend on the owner’s checkbook to win ballgames.'”

Starsky recited it with him, sarcastically, then tried again. “Carreza’s worth every cent of that 1.1 million–”

“And he’s in the longest slump of his career.”

“You got no loyalty, Hutch. Fair weather fan, that’s you all the way.”

“You owe me twenty bucks, Diamond Jim. Just cough it up.” They found Hutch’s car.

Starsky stopped before getting in and looked hopefully at his bright-haired lover over the car’s roof. “What say we go back to the house? How ’bout it, Hutch? I could throw a coupla burgers on the grill, take a six-pack out of the ‘fridge….” He hoped the message was in his eyes, ’cause for sure it was in his heart. I’d like to stay with you awhile. At your side, that’s enough.

Hutch’s smile didn’t survive as he looked down for a moment, then back up. “No, Starsky–“ He opened the door and moved to get in, brow stormy.

“Don’t say no,” Starsky ordered, arresting Hutch’s action. “You’re my best friend and I want you there. As my guest, nothing more. Liza and the kids are at her parents’, if that’s any consolation.” He was supposed to have gone with them.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea–” Hutch was about to surrender.

“An’ I do,” Starsky differed. “We need to put things on an even keel. Agreed?”

Hutch gave him a reluctant look, wary of this kind of spontaneity in their relationship. “Agreed.”

“For me that means not avoiding what shouldn’t be avoided. And not hiding the fact that we enjoy each other’s company as much as we ever did.”

“Alright, already!” Hutch said, brusquely. “Let’s go.”

~*~*~

Juggling a six-pack of Coors, a bag of charcoal, a platter of raw burgers and a bottle of Quick-Lite lighter fluid, Starsky re-entered the room.

Hutch was standing in front of the photographs on the wall, light touching his hair. He turned as Starsky came in, his eyes taking in his lover’s predicament with amusement. “Need help?”

“Uh-uh,” Starsky demurred. “You’re company.”

“Who’d have me for company?” Hutch replied, smiling.

Starsky watched him approach, admiring the way he moved, the way he looked in that oversized charcoal-gray sweatshirt, noting the way he stopped–judiciously–three feet away. Starsky stood there for the scrutiny, trying to breathe a little easier before venturing to speak. “I-uh, I forgot the buns. For the hamburgers–” Nobody should have this effect on him. Few ever had, and none–not one–this serious. He found himself besotted.

The whole thing was out of their hands. There was a chagrined, almost comic, expression in Hutch’s big eyes that felt like it could have been a reflection of Starsky’s own.

Hutch heaved a tremendous sigh, completely unraveled. He began to stammer something. ”Take this crap, willya?” Starsky demanded, trying to defuse the connection they were making without even trying to. “I’ll meet you outside in a minute.”

He hurried back to the kitchen, spent two minutes hunting down the hamburger buns, convincing himself that entertaining Hutch in these familiar surroundings should be gift enough. Only there was still so much to learn–and joy in the learning.

Things were good in bed, no two ways about it. Quality–almost–made up for quantity. Starsky loved Hutch’s strength, his beauty, the care he took with a lover, his sublime delicacy in the art of foreplay, the incredible passion that came at the climax of loving. With Hutch, Starsky’s whole body–in a way, his soul, too–seemed to have become an erogenous zone.

Many women had passed through his life, and his bed–he’d thought he’d known every pleasure–and maybe invented a few. But now…. Places he’d never known were so sensitive were capable, with a single touch or breath of air from Hutch, of the most intense sensation; fingertips, shoulder-blades, the insteps of his bare feet…. Or a certain word or look…. Doesn’t even have to touch me, does he? There was no part of him where Hutch couldn’t find secrets he didn’t know were there.

Never having made love to any other man there was nothing he could use for comparison. No priors. His grandmother used to say a person didn’t need to eat all the chili peppers to know the one they’d tasted was hot. He was a lucky man and he knew it. Retrieving the bottle of sauce from the refrigerator, he went outside.

The ground beef was sizzling on the red Weber, the sun covering the deck and the men on it like a melting flow of honey. There was a naggingly regular pulse in the head of Starsky’s cock that had nothing to do with the beat of his heart. A bead of sweat trickled down his side, inside his shirt. He sighed, outwardly at least, concentrating on the grill. A moment later he looked up, sixth sense telling him he was being watched. Hutch’s eyes were intensely blue, reflected light from the pool shimmering across his face. The communication was there, the next moments finding him sleepwalking into his house, sunblind, his friend following him inside, into the cool shadows to hold him.

They stood just inside the patio doors, stealing a quiet, open-mouthed kiss spiced with the clean taste of beer. Starsky’s thumbs pulled the side belt loops of Hutch’s khaki shorts and he looked into the blond’s now-opaque eyes. Hutch looked back into his, gravely, his impulses–as always–guarded. “C’mon,” Starsky coaxed. “We got the place to ourselves. Nobody’s comin’.”

“Yet.” Hutch warned, but he obliged just the same. It was so easy to play with fire.

Starsky was losing the ability to think logically. He retreated with reluctance after a moment or two, slowly unhanding Hutch. “More of that and I won’t care who walks in here.” Moving the lower part of his body away from the other man was a necessity.

“Yeah, I know.” Hutch held him back for a moment before letting him go, eyes narrowed with diverted passion, very serious. “Maybe we shouldn’t’ve started it.”

Starsky looked at him, intending a joke. “From the very beginning, you mean?” The “joke” didn’t come out sounding like one and obviously Hutch didn’t hear it that way.

”No!” he exclaimed, exasperatedly. “You know damned well I wasn’t–”

“What do I know? That I’m crazy to be havin’ an affair with my best friend? Another man? It is crazy, Hutch. Look what we’re doin’.” Starsky turned away, walked across the room, riled for some reason. Maybe it was having to hold back as he’d never had to before, to meter out the most intense feelings he’d ever had for another human being. No shouting it to the skies, not even a whisper to the wind–no safe house. To him, those things summed up love. He snapped on the TV set and quickly snapped it off. “Damn it!”

“Starsky–“ Hutch’s voice behind him was tinged with pain. “There’s one thing we might be able to agree on, huh? Besides the sex being great.” He sounded bitter, hitting back, hurt maybe, by Starsky’s words.

“Qh, yeah? What’s that?”

“We love each other. We always have.”

“Yeah, I love you and you love me. And what’s it ever brought us? A lotta hurt. Even before all this.” He could hear Hutch’s approach, then, feel strong–and astonishingly gentle–hands circle his neck. He sighed, put at ease despite himself. Wasn’t there any limit to his new dependence on this man?

“What we’ve got….” Hutch said, meaningfully. “It’s brought us more than just pain. Don’t sell it short. Or me.”

Starsky knew. Comfort, protection and shelter from a thousand storms; laughter and someone to share the heartache with. “Okay. I won’t.” He turned around, giving in. “I always heard about loving somebody too much,” he said, losing some control over his voice. “S’posed t’ be the most romantic thing in the world, bein’ so much in love you ache? Never thought it’d hurt like this.”

Hutch reached, unsmiling, for his hand, brought him near to hold tight with an aura of cherishing Starsky could feel. He felt himself being reminded of his value.

“Share it with me,” Hutch said. “That’s what I’m here for, remember? And I’m never gonna be sorry about what’s happened. If I’m wary, it’s because I want to protect it.”

Starsky accepted the loving care, unconcerned with troubles or time. Moments passed and he let Hutch heal him. The hurt fell away. The last few moments were just for the pleasure of holding on.

“Starsky? Love of my life?”

“Hm?”

“I’m really hungry. I had peanuts and beer for lunch.” Hutch’s stomach growled.

Starsky had to snicker at that and Hutch did, too. “The burgers are probably sittin’ out there like live coals.” He leaned back and looked over Hutch’s face, appreciating the man, seeing himself very much appreciated–and understood in his turn. “Let’s go see.”

~*~*~

Sunset had slowly come and slowly gone. The two men had talked–just talked–and in a way it had been like becoming friends again. Night had fallen and their day was ending.

“I think I better get out of here,” Hutch said. “It’s late.”

Starsky watched Hutch hoist himself up from the chair beside his. “How about it?” he asked. “Just a quick one, to remind me what I’ll be missin’.”

Looking at him with knowing gentleness, Hutch leaned down without protest. “Glad to.”

Their mouths had scarcely brushed–they’d gotten just a taste of each other–when a tumult of tiny storm-troopers landing inside the house thoroughly demolished the moment.

Hutch pulled away–pretty smoothly, considering his awkward position, and the fact that something like this happening was one of his major apprehensions.

“Daddy!” Like beagles baying on the hunt, the children wasted no time looking for their favorite person. “Out here!” Starsky yelled, looking at Hutch. “Coulda been a lot worse,” he offered, quietly.

“Small favors,” Hutch said, jarred but taking it in stride.

The children tumbled out of the house onto the deck, running headlong toward Starsky. He was happy to see them, like always. They climbed onto him and he gave and received kisses, asked about their day.

“Gran made cookies for us,” Sara said, gleefully, Kenneth faintly lip-synching, word for word. “We helped Grandpapa in his garden, too.”

”That’s great,” Starsky said, a little overwhelmed. “Really great.”

“We brought you some cookies,” Sara sprayed. She held up a big paper bag. “Oatmeal raisin.”

Starsky was keenly aware of the situation, and of Hutch’s presence. But when he looked up, his lover was beaming just like the sun, Hutch’s pleasure in children as always unfeigned, unforced. “Say hello to your Uncle Hutch,” he announced, proudly.

The children turned their attention to Hutch, curious about this uncle they had only heard about til now. Their necks craned to take in his countenance and he squatted considerately to their level, face soft-edged, handsome, made fairer by a smile.

“Any cookies for me?” he asked.

Sarabet was in charge. ”Uh-huh. How many can you eat?”

”I dunno,” Hutch said, thoughtfully. ”Thirty or forty, maybe.”

Sara giggled. “We don’t have thirty or forty!” She had trouble with the numbers, substituting a “d” and an “n” for the “t’s”.

“You can have one,” Kenneth decided, pragmatic though he had barely learned to talk, reaching into the bag. “One of ’em.” Starsky watched Hutch cup the curly head as it bent over, then catch his eye with delight.

”This is a real surprise.” Liza was standing in the doors that led onto the deck.

”Uncle Hutch is here, Mommy,” Sarabet declared. “Did you know he was our uncle?”

“No, but if he says he is, he is. Hello, Hutch.”

Hutch stood again. “Hi, Liza. How’ve you been?”

”Dandy. Couldn’t be better. Dead on my feet after six hours of running behind these two–and my father.”

“Guess there’s no point in asking about your day,” Starsky said to her as she approached.

“I probably couldn’t answer politely. How ’bout you? Full day?” She leaned down and kissed him.

“Dodgers lost,” Starsky said, thinking of Hutch watching the display of marital affection, feeling keenly the differences in his two loves.

“What else is new?” Liza asked. She turned her attention to Hutch then back to Starsky with a smile. “You haven’t been lonely I see.”

“I was just heading out,” Hutch stirred. “As a matter of fact.”

Liza turned. “Oh, don’t. Just when I arrive? Stay for dinner. Please.”

Ill at ease, Starsky watched her wide green eyes travel over Hutch’s face. Her face, he thought, seemed a little tight behind the easy smile.

Hutch excused himself with grace. “I’d like to stay longer, but there’s a lot to do at home. I’m still moving in….” Arms akimbo, shifting his legs, he seemed completely untroubled, a study in relaxed charm. “Can we make it another time?”

Yeah, Starsky thought. When iron floats. He read the disguised tension in Hutch, feeling the discomfort in his friend’s stance, the torque of his body.

“Of course we can,” Liza said. “Any time. With or without the Dodger fan’s permission. Do you still like veal Marsala?”

“Love it.”

“I remember you ordered that the night Dave introduced us. What was the name of that restaurant? You know the one, Dave. You said it reminded you of the Italian restaurant you lived over when you were a kid.”

Hutch looked quizzical, catching Starsky’s eye. As Starsky remembered it, Hutch had hardly touched the food that night and had left as early as it was polite to. Liza had been so unbearably patronizing toward him, Starsky had cringed with embarrassment for all three of them. It occurred to him that his wife probably remembered the evening as a triumph–her personal triumph over Hutch for David Starsky’s affections.

~*~*~

As Hutch’s car turned the corner, Starsky closed the front door. He heard Liza in the kitchen and joined her, pouring himself a cup of coffee before sitting down at the table. Liza was tossing out some leftovers, grumbling at the unpleasant task. “There are things mutating in here!” Starsky looked at her back and didn’t know what to say. He tore open and poured a packet of lo-cal sweetener into his coffee, stirred it, tasted it.

“Dave.” She didn’t turn around. “I wish you wouldn’t encourage them to call him ‘Uncle Hutch.’ He isn’t their uncle.”

Starsky looked up, caught off-balance. “You’ve gotta be kidding. Kenneth is named for Hutch. He’s Hutch’s namesake.”

“I know that. But they have two uncles. My brothers–”

“Like Mark, the dullard,” Starsky commented, impolitely. “Who never even sends ’em a Christmas gift.” Hutch’s had always arrived right on schedule, even when the two of them hadn’t seen each other in over a year–always a gag gift for Starsky, for Liza something very practical, very Hutch. But for the children, wonderful, carefully-chosen presents. The big softie. “Hutch is closer to me than my brother,” Starsky said. “I’d trust him with my children’s lives.”

“Hasn’t he really just met them today?” Liza asked, looking at him over her shoulder. “They don’t know him, and it’s too soon. Kids take things like uncles pretty seriously.”

It wasn’t worth a battle. Save that for the things that really mattered to him. “Okay, okay. I won’t encourage them.”

~*~*~

Driving back to his apartment, Hutch felt small and petty. Call it what it was. His jealousy of the woman Starsky was married to embarrassed him. There was nothing that she’d overtly said or done, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was fully aware of him as a rival. And that feeling put him on the defensive.

He didn’t want to be anybody’s rival. He wanted to be above competing with her. Yet that was the essence of the situation. They were characters in a soap opera, and Hutch hated the part he had to play. But he had no choice if he wanted to continue loving and making love with Starsky, and he did.

~*~*~

Liza was the one who lay awake that night; watching her soundly-sleeping husband. His face was buried in his pillow as usual, and she moved it away from his mouth and nose, as usual. A soft snore escaped, and warm air. In sleep, those extravagant lashes of his fluttered; his eyelids creased, but didn’t open. When she touched, then stroked the smooth, cool skin of a shoulder, down the sinewy back, he snuggled instinctively closer, without waking.

He’d always been different from any man she’d ever known; totally unpredictable, with too much charm to be safe; too wise for his own good. And at the same time, so terribly, achingly vulnerable; as vulnerable as a child. David Starsky was a walking paradox; an innocent, with a street-fighter’s experience and the scars to prove it.

But more than anything, he was a man who was just plain good to be near. When he left a room, the lights went out. It was so easy to be jealous about him, over him, to want to possess his incredible personal warmth and sweetness exclusively. All his life he had been loved, for himself–not because he had rich parents or wore the best clothes, or been given the best education money could buy.

He was a scruffy young cop when she’d first met him, and he was still unpolished, rough around the edges. But he had strength and pride. She’d always believed that she could bring out the best that she knew was in him. She wanted to believe that she knew him very well.

His fires had always matched hers, high and white-hot. In the beginning they had fueled each other. Maybe they’d consumed each other. When had she begun to taste ash, to feel that certain scary chill?

But this can still be a good marriage. If we work at it, make it work. I believe that. I don’t give a damn what he does outside–if he’s done anything at all–as long as he takes care of me.

Liza sat up in bed, irritated by the knowledge that she was really lying to herself. Who am I kidding? This hasn’t been a “good” marriage for such a long time, it’s probably past hope. And I hate the idea of him being with someone else. At times I can’t even bear his friends. Or his job. He just–gives too much of himself, and when he comes home there’s nothing left for me.

She had found it hardest of all to accept Hutch’s place in Dave’s heart–or more specifically, Hutch’s assurance of his place. The myth, the golden man, the Partner, could not be touched. Dave’s love for him was inviolable, unassailable. Worse, the man seemed to know it and, intentionally or not, to mock her with it. Like tonight, standing there looking larger than life, like a chunk of sun that had fallen into her living room, as if he had a perfect right to be here, in her home, on her ground, to have her children respond to him. He made her feel like an outsider, and Dave, wearing that patented, awestruck, “Oh, God, it’s Hutch” look on his face, allowed it, didn’t stand on her side, or show her any favor.

Tonight, as always, there’d been something strong between them, that thing they had together that pushed her right out of bounds. But underlying it had been some new tension she couldn’t pin down–or maybe didn’t want to. She couldn’t shake the feeling that all this was related to the fragments of a phone call she’d overheard. She could not forget Dave’s words: “You’re my reason, too.” Reason for what? Living? It hurt so much to think of that. She looked down at the sleeping man. Is Hutch your reason for living? Not me? Not your children? If he is, then I hate him.

She felt cold and wrapped her arms around herself. Yet her thoughts were fevered. Strange, wasn’t it that such great friends had not even attempted to see each other for nearly a year-and-a-half? Out of the blue, they’d gone off together for a private weekend, and now, it was as if a year and more of separation had never happened. Everything was great between them. Or was it? If everything was grand, what could explain the desperation in Dave’s voice that night on the phone, or the infuriating backing-away she’d felt in him since that weekend? Nothing was fine for any of them, it seemed, but what was wrong?

Should I talk to him? What good does talk do when this stubborn guy makes up his mind that he’s not going to talk? We haven’t in months; in too long.

That did not mean she was resigned to the problems. I still love you. I can’t help that, I guess. But…. She looked down again at the slumbering, shadowed face, thought of how he’d been keeping her out. But I could begin to hate you, too.

They had to talk.

~*~*~

Hutch stood looking around, watering can in one hand, in the other, a bottle of cold beer sweating from the refrigerator.

The apartment was shaping up. Long used to doing his own housekeeping, he had brought in plants, linens, his books, his stereo; the kitchen and wine rack were well-stocked. What more could a man possibly need? “Couple of cats, maybe?” he asked, aloud. Or a picture of Starsky on the mantelpiece….

That was something he refused to do to himself. Tossing the bottle cap toward the trashcan, he sat down on his new couch to finish his beer. Sunlight touched his face through the garden doors.

He’d spent a few evenings perusing Quentin’s records; documents and legal briefs going back to the late fifties, acquainting himself with the man’s methods, and a little personal history at the same time. Studying these papers, he’d discovered his employer to be a complex man with a past; at some points in the written record an open book, at times a tightly closed one.

They’d talked, too, at great length. Quentin had started out as a trial lawyer, a defense attorney back in New York, handling homicides, the rough stuff. Not hard to figure out what had wrought such a shift in the direction of his career. There were more effective ways to uphold the law than standing over dead bodies, making bargains. He’d become district attorney for the city of New York and worked at it for almost a decade before going into private practice. Over the years, sought after for his expertise, his way with people, Quentin had virtually invented his own branch of the law–professional legal arbitration and consulting. He brought people together; he orchestrated deals in every sphere, from Wall Street to the Texas oilfields to the Ginza Strip.

His list of clients was stellar. Some of the names–companies, individuals–astounded Hutch. But there were ordinary people, too, on the list, and more prosaic cases; contested wills, compensation claims…the kind of thing Quentin could afford to handle for little or nothing, or for friends.

The bulk of the cases were mediations–in partnership and union disputes. In his work, Cohen had mediated between sanitation workers and the city of Los Angeles in the five-day garbage strike the year before–the shortest on record. He was the go-between for the NFL players and management in history’s first football strike. His biggest case had involved helping the Battelle Corporation retrieve its assets in Iran after the fall of the Shah, a famous feat of negotiation. No other American corporation had ever managed to regain a penny of its investments from the Ayatollah and his mullahs.

The work would be interesting…more than a vocation; more like a way of life. Hutch had begun to realize that he would be required to travel a lot…and that was maybe just as well. After all, he was going to have a lot of long, lonesome evenings to fill, wasn’t he?

That he was in love with Starsky–emotionally, physically; forever–that was diamond clear. He knew he’d never love anyone in quite this way again, might never in his lifetime feel this much for another human being. But the road to and from that love had no exits, and he was alone on it. To take a girl for himself was, literally, unthinkable. Nobody was worth it to him.

None of their old friends–whether they assumed it or not–had been told. For that matter, even a casual acquaintance would need to be handled with care. The tender structure of what they were doing, the relationships–all of them–that he and Starsky were trying to maintain, could collapse at any time, leaving everyone shattered.

So what else was new? Nothing; not even the fact that he was a lonely man; that he’d wanted to see Starsky yesterday, and today, and tonight…and couldn’t plan on it or hope for it. A few years ago, a lifetime ago, they’d spent most of their time together, enough time that they could–and did–get on each other’s nerves.

He found himself looking at the wall-clock. How much time, and how much wasted? All day in the car, most evenings he seemed to recall, because with or without female company, they usually had dinner together; weekends, holidays, vacations–not all, but many. People who’d once been wealthy and were suddenly poor remembered their fortunes maybe, the way Hutch now remembered the time he’d once had with Starsky. Riches to burn up and squander away….

Now. Now he’d have called himself happy to have one hour. “That’s enough,” he announced, aloud, quietly berating himself, checking the self-pity. He had a lot to do. Introspection was only keeping him from it.

~*~*~

The dome of sky over Los Angeles was pristine. It was a clear-blue, cool Friday; an anomaly in late July. Quentin had just asked him to fly to San Francisco on his first real assignment, to lay a little groundwork for a merger Cohen would be overseeing. He’d gone straight back to his office and dialed Starsky’s work number. For private reasons, he’d been planning to do this tonight, but Quentin’s request had made it a priority.

Since he was dialing Starsky’s office directly, it was Starsky’s voice that answered, sounding gruff and sleepy. Must have had a late night, Hutch determined. That much hadn’t changed. After a hard night Starsky wouldn’t really come to life until after noon, and several cups of coffee.

“Lieutenant Starsky.”

”Hey, mister, is your refrigerator running?”

Starsky’s voice and manner were mild with recognition. He laughed. ”No, but I’ve got Prince Albert in a can.”

Hutch leaned back in his chair, feeling cheerful. “Well, let him out.”

“You are an idiot,” Starsky accused, with affection. “Hold on a second, will ya? I wanna shut the door.” He was gone only the time it took Hutch to take a breath. When he got back on, Hutch heard him take a breath of his own before saying, “Hi, there.”

”Hiya. Rough night?”

“How’d you guess? One of the guys in the unit’s gettin’ hitched and they threw a bachelor party for him. I stayed too late, got a little drunk….” A sigh. “Shouldn’t have….”

“You miss me?”

“Don’t start. Knew you’d be busy so I didn’t try to call. I’ve been humpin’ it, too. We’ve got a case goin’, so big you’d have to take a plane to get out from under it. Series of murders tied to our old buddy Reverend Sung’s organization; some of ’em goin’ back five years. But I think we’re in the slot; the dominoes are startin’ t’ fall.”

Hutch felt a painful twinge of concern; old habit interbred with something still brand-new. “Are you gonna be okay?”

”I’m on the inside, remember? I don’t even see the sun anymore.”

That was an exaggeration, but Hutch asked, “Do you want to?”

“Yeah, sure.” The shrug might as well have been audible. “There’re times.”

”Now, maybe?”

“You want the truth? No. Sure, sometimes I think I might be able to get more done if it was me on the outside. Really out there, you know? Day in and day out. But it’s not me. I can’t fight all the battles. When I start believin’ I can, one look in the mirror at these souvenirs is enough to pull me up. Or one damp, cold morning. I know I can’t cut it.”

There was a thoughtful silence on both ends of the line, which Hutch was first to broach.

“We caught some big fish,” he offered. “You did your share….”

“Chapter and verse, buddy-boy. An’ I’m here.”

“Still my partner.” It was an open-ended, gentle statement. ”In every way that counts.”

”Nobody else ever wanted the job,” Starsky replied, lightening up. “That I can recall. Nobody with any class worth mentioning.”

“Actually I interviewed quite a few people,” Hutch rejoined. “But I got what I needed. Found out it was what I wanted.” The statements vibrated.

There was a soft exhalation on the other end, and a lengthening silence. “Hutch,” a vigorous throat-clearing, “did you call down here just to give me a–,” Starsky’s voice lowered precipitously, “gimme this hard-on?” The voice rose, breaking like a boy’s. “You’re that cruel?”

Hutch suddenly felt, despite all the difficulties, the tensions, that he’d never really been so happy in love. He’d never known and liked someone, as he had Starsky, for years, before he’d desired them. It made a difference; they could laugh. He chuckled. “I didn’t plan it, Starsk. Honest to God.”

“Maybe. But you are definitely a carrier, Hutchinson. If the Queen of England walked through that door, I couldn’t get up and bow.”

“Yeah? Well, if it makes you feel any better, this time it backfired.” Hutch paused, edgy, then unable to dance around it anymore. “I’d sure like to see you, love.” He hesitated. “Tomorrow, maybe? All day?” If you don’t say ‘Yes’ I’m pullin’ you through the phone.

“To talk?” Starsky asked him, quite solemnly, considerately almost.

“First, you mean?” Hutch asked, teasingly. “Sure. I’m flexible.” He grew a little more serious. “I want to spend some time with you, that’s all. If it sounds like I’m begging, okay, I am. It’s only been two weeks, but it already feels like another whole month’s gone by since I last saw you. If I have to be away from you for two more weeks–”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I mean that if you look for me on Sunday night I’ll be on a plane to San Francisco. And I’m assuming I’ll have to stay up there for however long it takes to get what Quentin wants.”

“I’ll make time,” Starsky said, decisively. “Hutch. All you ever have to do is ask, and I’ll make it happen.”

“But is tomorrow really gonna be okay for you? A Saturday? I know it’s short notice–” Hutch was very interested in the answer. He wanted to have everything special waiting to pamper his love; a bottle of the best bubbly, a pleasing brunch….

“I don’t care if it’s okay.” Starsky was adamant. “Nothin’–I repeat, nothin’ is gonna interfere with you an’ me tomorrow.”

“Around eleven?”

“Count on it.”

~*~*~

Rooted to the spot, Hutch stared at Starsky’s companions.

He’d been expecting one randy Jewish warrior, and the warrior was here, alright–with his two young children; Sarabet and Kenneth, dressed in bright pink and turquoise sunsuits respectively, each clinging to one of their father’s hands. Daddy looked–very tame.

He gazed into Hutch’s eyes, his own apologetic, bright-blue in reflected morning light. “Babysitting,” he said, shrugging eloquently, then smiling with hope. “Liza cut out on me early.” His eyes said, I’m really sorry.

No sweat, Hutch communicated back, then at a tug on his fingers, looked down.

“Hi, Hutch.” Sarabet’s eyes, eerily similar to Starsky’s, were frankly admiring him. They were both so much like Starsky, with their stubborn brows and sunbrowned skins.

“Hi there, face.” He bent to accept her friendly hug, and picked her up into his arms. She wore white sandals, and a tiny bracelet, and she smelled so sweet and clean, hugging her was a real pleasure.

He looked down at Kenneth, who was examining him from foot to head and back as if to decide just how tall he really was. A breeze ruffled the halo of smoky red-brown curls, some of them gold from the sun. “What’s shakin’, sport?” Hutch asked him.

Kenneth raised his arms, plaintively. “Pick me up.”

Hutch obliged, unable to resist either male Starsky, it seemed.

After cups of strawberry-apple juice, the kids scampered off to explore Hutch’s apartment, and the sunny, flower-filled courtyard where he’d been having coffee and reading the morning paper.

“Don’t try to pick the roses,” Starsky had warned them, obviously familiar with his children’s usual behavior. “The thorns’ll hurt you.”

When they were gone, Hutch took his friend by the waist, gave him a friendly hug.

“‘M’really sorry about this, Hutch,” Starsky muttered. ”Liza woke me as she was leaving, and I couldn’t find a sitter –”

”Ease up,” Hutch chided. “I love your babies. I think they’re as cute as you are.” He wiggled his eyebrows, teasing. ”We won’t be able to–“ Starsky glanced over his shoulder then back to Hutch. “You know…. Before you go away.”

“Hey,” Hutch soothed, laughing a little at Starsky’s circumspection. “Friends, too, right? We’ll go to the beach or something and have a great time.” He took a chance and leaned to give the tense mouth a peck. “Relax, why don’t you?”

With an animal’s suddenness, Starsky grabbed his arm in an iron clinch. “‘Cause I’m scared,” he said. ”What we’re doin’ scares me, Hutch; more than anything else ever has. I’m playin’ a game, only I don’t know the rules.”

”What?” Hutch grew more concerned, seeking his partner’s gaze. ”What is it?”

“I dunno…. Everything, nothing…. Liza and me can hardly exchange a word anymore without arguing, and it’s my fault. She knows somethin’s goin’ on with me. I can’t hide it, and I can’t talk about it, either.”

“I know. You’re under more pressure than me–”

“That ain’t so, Hutch,” Starsky said, pulling back to look at him hard, brows knit. “You lost your job–”

“–Probably the best thing that ever happened to me,” Hutch broke in, wanting to relieve any extra stress. “I’m happier scrapping along with Quentin than I was toeing the line for Chuck Eastman. You are under more pressure than me–in every way; emotional, sexual…all of it. The least I can do is take some of the weight.”

“I wanna tell her, Hutch,” Starsky said, flat-voiced, slowly walking away. “And sooner or later I’m going to.”

Hutch shook his head, withdrawing. “Despite everything?” he asked, wearily. He indicated the direction of the sun-filled garden with his head. “Them?”

Almond-eyed, mouth set, Starsky watched him. “I can’t think logically about this, so there’s no sense trying to get me to see reason. I chose her and I can unchoose her–”

“Alright, alright,” Hutch said. “This isn’t the time.”

“The time’s gotta come, soon,” Starsky said. “Y’know, there’re moments I feel like I’m losin’ my mind? An’ I even start thinkin’, if I only hadn’t– If we’d handled the break-up better…”

“Starsk–,” Hutch began, but was cut off.

“No. We’ll leave it. For now.”

Hutch followed in Starsky’s footsteps, reaching him with longer strides. Starsky’s entire persona radiated the warning: “Back off.” Only Hutch would have dared to touch, and capture, like he did now, with ease. “Starsky, God knows this arrangement–whatever it is–isn’t fair to you. But what else’ve we got?”

“I said leave it. So let’s leave it. Like you said, now’s not the time.”

“Please don’t be pissed off at me, today. I don’t think I can handle it.”

“This was supposed to be ‘our day,’ wasn’t it?” Starsky was sourly cynical. “That day may never get here.”

“Starsky, please.” Hutch reached up to stroke his lover’s hair and pull him closer, worried, his mind going a mile a minute. For a moment, Starsky was unyielding then seemed to allow his body to melt into Hutch’s.

“Uncle Hutch!”

They moved apart, not wildly, but tautly, concentration absolute.

Sarabet was looking at them crossly. “Kenny won’t get down off that little gate.”

Hutch, realizing he was the only one of the two of them capable of movement, went out to see what was happening. When he re-entered the room, his partner was obviously still shaken, hands braced on the sofa-back. “Grace took the kids into the kitchen with her,” he said. He examined the tense figure. ”Hey, it was really nothing. Sara didn’t even notice. We hug. Men hug. It can’t be completely new to her.”

“We both jumped apart,” Starsky said. “Remember that when you’re feelin’ philosophical again sometime. Maybe when she’s thirteen and somethin’ like that happens again.” He took a deep breath. “It’s the way I feel about it that makes it different. Doncha see?”

Hutch nodded, squeezed the bronze nape. “Come on. Help me stuff a picnic basket.”

“What was my son up to out there, anyway?” Starsky asked.

“Well, let’s see if I can reconstruct the crime. He got his tennis shoe stuck in the gate. Climbing, I guess. And rather than admit he was stuck, he just ignored Sara when she told him to get down. Come to think of it, he looked just like you when I got to him. In a fix, lookin’ for help; I had to laugh.”

Their eyes met, with a uniquely-flavored kind of closeness.

“I love ’em both,” Hutch said with a smile, approaching Starsky. “If you think about it, it’s really just more of you for me to love.”

“Let’s run away with ’em, Hutch,” Starsky suggested, morosely. “Take’em to some sunny little deserted island somewhere, where the fishin’ is good and livin’s easy. We’d have blue skies everyday, and we’ll all get real brown and drink cocoanut juice–”

“And once the kids are tucked in, Hutch will make crab tracks in the sand with Daddy.”

“Yeah, every night,” Starsky murmured. He shook himself. “God, one night feels like I’m asking too much.” He came closer, laid his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “Why don’t you show me around the place, huh? Give me the guided tour.”

Hutch showed him the apartment. They came to the bedroom and Starsky just stood in the doorway, looking. The covers had been neatly and carefully turned back, revealing pristine sheets. There was a single white rose in a tall slender vase on the night-table.

Starsky walked in to the bed and sat down slowly. He looked back at Hutch still in the doorway. “Oh, God, babe.” He seemed incapable of saying any more.

“I’ll give you a rain-check,” Hutch said, mildly, as if it didn’t matter. “That’s yours, by the way.” He indicated the maroon silk nightshirt lying across the foot of the bed. ”I got it at Hyatt’s. Covers but doesn’t necessarily conceal.”

Starsky touched it, feeling its incredible texture. He looked at Hutch again. “C’mere, willya?”

Hutch sat down near his lover on the bed, being taken hold of before he was even aware of reaching out very far. Both sets of hands roamed, easing the hunger–or whetting it–holding on. In a few moments, by silent agreement that this could only end one way, they pulled apart.

“I could use a drink,” Hutch said, rising with impatience.

“Make that two.”

Hutch went into the kitchen to pour them both a shot of his rarely touched bourbon. To his surprise, Starsky had followed him, finding him at the sink crashing glasses together, a couple of ice-cubes bouncing onto the floor. His pursuer’s arms came around him, tightly, holding him still, and his neck and back were kissed. “All I’ve got is bourbon,” he breathed.

“I came out to–to help you,” Starsky said, before turning him around and finding his mouth, rudely searching, handling him. What had happened to the caution?

When he was allowed, Hutch exhaled shakily, clamping his hand around Starsky’s wrist. “What about–?” Looking down at the other’s evident erection, his groan was pained, sincere. “What the hell’re you gonna do? We can’t just–”

“I’m a hypocrite. Don’t throw it back in my face.” Starsky sounded out of breath, face intent, his color high. “It’s all your fault.” Hutch’s jeans were unsnapped, anxious fingers tugged at his T-shirt. The next words were tender, as Starsky looked at what he’d found. “Didja have to be so beautiful? Look at that….” This wasn’t about hypocrisy; it was biology. Starsky sighed. “The bathroom, huh? Somewhere we can lock the door? Ten minutes, tops.” With one of his hands almost inside Hutch’s jeans, he could have been asking for dessert before dinner.

“Okay.” Without a shred of resolution that could stand before the needing eyes of his lover, Hutch’s decision (perhaps Starsky’s, too) was made for him.

They rubbed off, hurrying; standing with their jeans pushed down around their knees. Making love was awkward as hell against the bathroom wall, and they had to yell into each other’s mouths to keep quiet when the orgasm roughly overtook them.

Tucking away and buttoning up after, they looked at each other.

“We’ll be able to function now, anyway,” Hutch said, wryly. It had happened, what could he say? Grabbing a quickie was nothing new, no matter what the sexual orientation.

“You mad at me?” Starsky asked, not looking at him now as he pushed a straying pocket down into his cut-offs. Lashes concealed his expression, but his brows were troubled.

“Hell, no,” Hutch said, slightly surprised. “Should I be? This was as much my fault as it was yours–if there’s any fault to be handed out.” He finished buttoning his shirt. “And after that, I don’t think so.”

Starsky moved away from him to the sink, turned on the water and picked up a bar of soap. “I–I kinda forced the issue just now.”

“Hear anybody hollering rape, sweetheart? No? Okay, then, no guilt trips necessary. We’ll clean up, grab the kids, and just go.”

The dark eyes glanced at him–no, to him–not for sex now, but for love and reassurance; yet they were full of doubt, as if Starsky was not certain either should be given to him. For a tiny moment, just one, Hutch let himself fully envy Liza her marriage to this priceless man.

“How could I say no to somebody so damned wonderful?” he asked, smiling.

Starsky relaxed. “Actually, I think I’m runnin’ a close second t’you,” he declared, with a quick grin. “Think I better find my kids.”

~*~*~

Hutch helped Kenneth build sand fortresses. The little boy was a dynamo of directed intensity, his feet and hands delicate miniature copies of his dad’s. Enchanted, Hutch assisted, falling into Kenneth’s tiny orbit and under his spell. Starsky was walking along the beach with Sarabet, collecting “she-shells” in a paper sack. A little later, Hutch was rubbed with suntan oil by three enthusiastic Starsky’s.

On this mellow afternoon, they were all good friends. The kids had long since trusted and accepted Hutch. The four played and picnicked, both men sharing the grownup burden of wiping up spills, cleaning faces, and taking to the bathroom. “Partners in every way that counts,” Hutch observed drily, making Starsky laugh out loud. That was good to hear; a pleasant sound.

Sarabet ran up and asked for another sweet pickle. Having seen that she was fond of them, Hutch was about to give her one, when Starsky stopped him. “Uh-uh. She loves ’em but she’s had enough. She’ll eat those things ’til she gets a bellyache. No, Sara. It’ll spoil dinner.”

“You have known her longer than I have,” Hutch said, watching Sara pout and walk away. “I’m not exactly a magician with kids, anyway. I have no idea what gives ’em belly-aches.”

“You’re great with kids,” Starsky said, earnestly. “Look at Kiko, a freshman at UCLA now; would’ve been easy for him to take the wrong turn, if you hadna been there. You’ve got what it takes. More than most. Sometimes I wish mine were….” He gave Hutch a straight and true look. “Ours.”

Hutch smiled. They understood each other. “Well, as long as I can share, huh?”

~*~*~

On the way home, Sarabet slept with her head in Hutch’s lap. Kenneth was in the back, sleeping curled on a faded old Indian blanket. The sun was as big and red as a children’s storybook sun, beaming low in the west.

Turning his attention from the traffic for a moment, Starsky glanced over at his partner and his sleeping daughter. He caught his big blond moving a spider-strand of hair off Sara’s forehead, touching her open flower-bud of mouth. “She’s really out, isn’t she?” he asked, pretty tired himself, but full of peace. Hutch’s hand reached out to cover his knee, communicating the good feelings.

“She sure is,” he agreed. “All played out. Me, too.”

“It was a great day, wasn’t it? Oh, I’ll get your shirt cleaned, by the way. That grape juice can be pretty hard to get out.”

“Forget it,” Hutch said, yawning.

“No way. In fact, I’ll buy you a new shirt. Yellow. You look good in yellow.”

“Starsky–”

“I like givin’ you things, is that okay with you? I’m gonna do it more often.” A jackass in a Pinto tried to cut him off and he stood on his horn. “You should talk, anyway, after that night-shirt. First present you gave me since we happened.”

“That was just practical,” Hutch said. “Can’t have you catching cold, can I?”

“With you around? Fat chance.”

~*~*~

“Seeya soon,” Starsky said, looking over at Hutch. “And take care of yourself, up there in ‘Frisco. Hurry up home.”

“When I get back….” Hutch let the promise hang in the stillness for a perfectly timed moment. “I’m going to corner you in my bedroom, not let you out for at least two days.”

“What gives you the idea I’d even wanta get out?”

They touched; that was all, the brush of Hutch’s thumb across the back of Starsky’s hand, his own turning over to grasp and hold.

“Crazy, ain’t it, Hutch?” he asked, getting misty, rubbing at his nose with the other hand. “You an’ me, after all these years?”

“Crazy?” Hutch looked into his eyes. “Yeah. But I’m learning to live with it.”

~*~*~

On a rainy Friday night, several days later, Starsky came out of the bathroom, hair squeegeed back, tying the drawstring of his pajama bottoms. He picked up his le Carre novel from the dressing table and got into bed.

As he was propping his pillows, Liza came in. “They asleep?” he asked.

“Yes, they are. They wanted a story,” Liza said. She approached the bed, stood looking down at him from the opposite side. “Me? I want to talk.”

Starsky couldn’t pretend he hadn’t been expecting this, but to get clear what the parameters were, he asked, carefully. “Talk about what?”

“Just that. We haven’t.” Liza sat on the edge of the bed. “And I want it straight, David. Look me in the eye and tell me. What the hell’s going on here? There’s no more talking, no more emotional involvement. When we’re together, you’re someplace else. Oh, yeah, you screw me as regular as clockwork, but it’s like being with a gigolo.” She paused, primly tightening the belt to her robe. “Now you know what I want to talk about. No excuses, anymore.”

”Yeah.” Starsky laid his book aside. What could he say? What he really wanted to? He was staring right into the face of his own decision, one exhalation away from letting it all out. He wanted to take that breath of relief. A tiny pinprick of intuition was all that stopped him. The time had to be his to choose, not hers.

“It’s not you,” he improvised. “It’s me.” That wasn’t completely false.

“Dave–” The voice was warning.

“You can’t help me,” Starsky overrode her. ”Nobody can, okay? I’ve got to get through whatever it is myself before I can bring it to you. I’m sorry, if I made you feel–”

”No, David.” Liza cut him off, raising one hand then lowering it clenched. ”Not good enough! I don’t want an apology! You’re too good at apologizing. It’s too easy for you, and if I let you get away with it, nothing gets settled.”

“Settled? Is that what you want? For everything to get ‘settled’? Nothin’s ever settled. You oughta know that by now. You’re not Daddy’s little girl anymore.” How long could he keep the ball in the air?

She eyed at him, askance. “Sometimes you are so full of it.”

“You want more time with me? Okay. You want more emotional involvement, I will try. I promise.”

Liza shook her head, disbelievingly. “My God, is it that hard for you?”

Weariness infiltrated Starsky’s limbs. “Liza, why all this, all of a sudden?”

”No, not all of a sudden.” She was very serious. “This has been going on for a pretty long time, Dave. But lately…the last few months–” She sought his attention. “Something’s changed.”

Starsky sat up. ”I’ve changed. Maybe I want something more than 9 to 5, more than a desk job; more than cleaning out the pool and taking out the garbage.” That much was easy to admit.

“More than me and the children?”

”Not more than. Just more. More out of life.”

“You’re bored.”

Starsky sighed. “You’re gonna dig until you hit paydirt, aren’t you?”

”Until I’m satisfied.”

“You’ve changed, too.” Starsky looked at her. “Or did you always wanna own me, lock, stock, and barrel?”

Undaunted, though her eyes were pale, chilly, Liza said, ”In a way, that brings me to my next question.”

“Which is?”

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“No.”

“Have you ever–?”

Starsky stared hard at the wall. “No. Anything more?”

“And the subject is closed?”

“Shoulda never been opened.”

There was a brief silence; too brief for respite.

“Do you still love me?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.” It was true. “I still do love you, Liza.”

She looked at the ceiling, tears starting. “Even when I’m being this way? Demanding, pouncing on you like some kind of a shrew? Begging? I don’t want to be like this, and I don’t want to push you. I’m just so…frustrated, by how you’ve been treating me, looking at me…. I’ve been feeling for weeks like our–our whole marriage is crumbling away faster and faster while I sit, not doing a thing to stop it; just letting it go. I have nightmares about it…. I had to say something, talk to you–communicate!” Her eyes found him and she moved to his side of the bed. “Honey, I know we can’t stay a couple of crazy, passionate kids for our entire married lives, but I’m not going to accept this–this–nothing–from you. I love you too much to settle for indifference. If you love me, show it! Treat me like your wife, not a distraction.”

“You’re not a distraction. But I don’t need a wife who’s gonna nag me to get what she wants.”

“And if I do? If nagging is the only thing that seems to work?”

“You’re gonna get exactly what you say you won’t accept from me. Indifference.”

She flared. “That’s all I’ve been getting for weeks! It won’t be new to me.” Their voices had been rising, though both of them were still maintaining a rigid control. This “talk” was turning into an argument. “That’s the most worthless threat I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t wanna be nagged. I already told you my reasons. I asked you to understand–”

“I understand that there’s probably nothing holding us together except two babies, a matched pair of rings, and a piece of paper.”

“Those aren’t the only things.”

“Dammit!” Liza pounded at a pillow. “Then what else? The loving? The long talks, and games of tennis? The plans for the future? All the things we used to have.”

“Understanding,” Starsky said, softly. “Time and understanding, that’s all I’m asking for. I need a friend.” He looked at her, stern. “Put the shoe on the other foot. Do you love me enough to give me one thing I ask for?”

There was a silence while Liza looked him over, all eyes. She sighed, helplessly. “Oh, damn you.” She looked down, shaking her head. “Damn loving you.”

She took the easy way out. There was no help for her; he made the first move, and the discussion was forgotten.

His lovemaking was considerate, patient, and yes, passionate, as if he meant it. He worshipped–that was the only word for it–her breasts, her belly; between her thighs. Driving deep inside her, he came to an earth-moving orgasm, owning her, and even better, belonging in that moment only to her. She loved to keep watch, feel him, knowing she could satisfy him. It was an out-of-body kind of thing, feeling her own sensations and at the same time, floating outside, watching her husband. He was beautiful, sheened, his experience clear in every muscle, every move.

She knew the process intimately; she knew his body, all its signals. He was ready now, making her ready. His eyes drifted closed, his mouth opened with a show of white teeth. A gruff shout, one moment of stiffness and then the bucking, wild release, as he filled her with his heat. She followed, surrounding him with hers.

After, there’d always been such tenderness, his urgent need to be close, be soothed, show his appreciation. He’d kiss her, sink deep into her arms and they would snuggle that way, holding each other as if there were no one else in the world but them.

It happened like that tonight, too. Later he made love to her all over again. But when it was finished, and she lay in a drowsy dream-state, she had the impression that she had just been given a keepsake to remember someone by. Who was going away? Then before she could grasp it, feel its sadness, the impression was gone, and couldn’t be retrieved. Just a dream….

The next morning, she awoke first and stretched, lazily, with a content she hadn’t known in many a day; feeling like a woman, her body quiet and whole and alive. She took in her husband, fondly. Dave looked a lot like Kenneth, lost in innocent sleep. He lay in one of his favorite pre-waking positions, on his side, arms folded comfortably over a pillow on his stomach. One naked thigh displayed itself outside of the bedclothes.

“What are you hiding?” she asked the child-like, sleeping figure, smiling. She took the pillow from unresisting arms.

Turning over in his sleep to find his lost pillow, he tented the sheet, erect after a night of sex. She gripped him, felt that amazing heat, rubbed him with the heel of her hand.

Dave growled, pleased, coming to life. He stirred and then suddenly woke, looking straight at her so intensely, she almost recoiled. “Hey, there,” she soothed. “It’s me,” She drew the sheet back, exposing his body. Still so fit and hard…. Bending, she took his scented, stiff cock in her mouth, aware of him watching.

She thought she was doing pretty well, even when she heard him say, raggedly, “Liza– Don’t.” She paused long enough to tease him. “Your friend here loves it when I do this.”

“Not now.”

“You shouldn’t tell lies.”

“You know what that is. S’momin’, an’ I’ve gotta get to the can. It’ll be gone in a minute.” Moving out of reach, he sat on the edge of the bed. He sighed, rubbing his face before getting up and staggering sleepily out of the room.

“What?” She lay, bewildered, a little stunned, for a moment.

“You woke me out of a pretty rough dream.” He returned from the bathroom, not looking at her. “I’m just–not in the mood, that’s all. Don’t read anything into it, okay?”

She was practically in a state of reverie. Maybe he had had a bad dream, like he said. Maybe that’s what it really was, and nothing to do with her; just as he’d said, and kept saying. Don’t read anything into it. “I don’t,” she answered, not wanting to test her very shaky faith. “I won’t.” Her faith was getting shakier all the time.

Starsky had been dreaming about Hutch, his mind replaying intimate experiences with his friend and lover in ways almost as sweet as the reality. He’d come awake in a state of helpless confusion, not sure who was making love to him. Nothing like that had happened up to now, but no law said it wouldn’t happen again. But why hadn’t he expected it?

 

Part 3

L.A. was already two sweltering, white-hazed weeks into August when Hutch returned to town. He’d been in San Francisco twice as long as he’d expected to be, and Starsky was away now on vacation. That fact–and the heat and smog–only fueled an already unattractive mood.

Like a bedraggled Bedouin he roamed the airport parking lot looking for his misplaced car. When he found it he got in, promptly burning his hands on the steering wheel and his backside on hot leather. With a silent curse, he stripped his tie off and threw it recklessly out of the window. He turned on the radio long enough to hear, “It’s 104 degrees in cool L.A.–“ before snapping it off. The button came away in his fingers.

During his business trip, he’d talked to Starsky twice on the phone. That was the limit of their contact. There had been a tentative plan for either of them to fly to where the other was, spend a few hours and take the red-eye back, but the proposal should have been diagnosed terminal from its birth. Starsky’s big case had broken; Hutch had, for his part, been kept busy literally every minute in San Francisco–on call twenty-four hours a day, a service his clients had taken 100% advantage of. There’d been no spare time.

Hot, sweaty, and dangerously irritable when he finally arrived inside his front door, he found it was actually good to be there. The apartment’s interior was cool, welcoming. A little lonely, but that suited him right now. He set his suitcase down, called Quentin to arrange a meeting later (much later–and Quentin didn’t press), then headed for a shower.

He came out wrapped in a towel and padded to the kitchen to find a chilled bottle of something…anything at all would do. There was a note on his refrigerator, penned in Grace’s hand. “Hutch, D. called, sorry he missed you before going away, did leave a phone number where he could be reached.” It was a Nevada area code. The Starsky family was enjoying its Lake Tahoe vacation with the in-laws.

He yanked the note from the refrigerator door, went back to his bedroom and, arranging himself on the bed, picked up the phone to dial the number. It rang a few times, before a woman–sounding older, most probably Liza’s mother–answered it. He held off for a split-second, deciding whether he should ask for Starsky, or chicken out and hang up. His rising need to talk to his lover swung the balance. Damn all.

“David Starsky.” It’s an emergency; officer down.

“Oh, let’s see,” the woman said. “I think he’s here, but he might have gone for a sail with my husband. May I ask who’s calling him, please?”

“It’s an old friend of his. We, uh–we served together. I wanted to surprise him.”

“Why, that’s nice, isn’t it? But how did you know he was here?”

“He left the number with another mutual friend.” Give me a break, old lady. I don’t need to be grilled about this. He certainly did not want to give her his name.

“Wait a moment.” There was a pause. He sensed her holding her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Oh, here he is after all, Mr….”

Hutch said nothing.

“He’s just walked in. Looks as though he could use a little good news.” Farther from the receiver, he heard her say, “Dave, darling, there’s someone on the phone who wants to speak to you, says it’s some kind of big surprise or something.”

Hutch shook his head. Not any more.

A second or two passed and then Starsky spoke. “If it hadda been a surprise,” he said in a familiar way, obviously knowing who was on the other end of the line. ”Mrs. Frieda Meyerhof woulda beaten it into submission.” Starsky was apparently addressing his commentary to Frieda, too.

Hutch heard her amused ripple of laughter, the sound of a lady completely charmed by her daughter’s slightly rakish husband. “I’ll lay odds nobody’ll let her plan their surprise parties,” he observed.

“And she wonders why,” Starsky commented. “Hi there, by the way.”

“You knew it was me?” Hutch asked.

“‘Course I did. Been waitin’ every day for your call.”

“That was Liza’s mother, I guess.”

“Yeah, that was her. Queenie. She just left the room. By sundown tonight, the whole neighborhood’s gonna know her son-in-law the cop got an anonymous phone-call.”

Hutch laughed. “Are we having fun yet?”

“I’m havin’ a fine time. I just got back from fishing with the old man.”

“Catch anything?”

“Nah. Never do. We smoke cigars and tell each other whoppers.”

“You finally found a soul mate.”

“Jacob’s a good guy. He’s an immigrant; started his own business and hit the jackpot…. Damn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Look, Hutch. I’m sorry. Liza’s on her way in here. I–I can’t talk, now. I’ll call you tomorrow, for sure.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said, let down. “For sure.” He hung up, slowly, feeling strange, his ends untied. His cock, chafed at his every move by the damned towel, made its appetites known, trying to get his attention. That’s all I need.

Used to plentiful sex, he was finding his normal drives inconvenient–to say the least–in this new relationship. It was a novel situation for him. What did you do when thinking of someone got you excited, only that person was never there and consequently you couldn’t help but think about him day and night?

He had a sensuous, imaginative lover, who matched him need for need. That was the crazy, unexpected beauty–and frustration–of it, their being so well matched, even in this. Hutch had married at twenty; foolishly sure, but with his twenty-year-old body, at least, adamantly decided. People who thought of him as some kind of choirboy, would have been very surprised to discover how powerfully raw sexuality ran in him. And even more surprised to find that, at the age of 37, a man was the key to his lock.

Many times in his past relationships, he had been the passionate teacher, the one who brought his lover awake, sexually. But he and Starsky were both wide awake. And they were teaching each other.

Unable to live apart; the only choice left was to be together. The problem was getting a chance to try.

Bitter, lonely deep in his soul, Hutch measured out the few moments of pleasure he’d had with Starsky. Not enough of them. Still, even here alone, he could fill up with his lover’s dark handsomeness, with Starsky’s male smells and sounds, a body that seemed made not only for his enjoyment but for his need to please someone.

With a soft groan, he considered bringing himself a partial relief, but didn’t. Sex was only part of this, and without love meant little beyond the spilling of a few drops of water.

~*~*~

He walked into Quentin’s office after a short nap, a change of clothes, and a light lunch. Quentin wasn’t alone, Hutch found. Both men stood when he came in.

“Hutch, here’s somebody I’ve been wanting you to meet. One of my former protégés, Taylor Montgomery. He’s had a successful career since he left me, so there’s hope for you.”

Montgomery and Hutch shook hands.

“I can tell my mama I shook hands with the Second Coming.” At the contact, Hutch felt something he couldn’t identify at first: a spark of attraction for another man. Taylor looked his face over, interestedly. “Glad to know you, Hutch; Quentin sings your praises. Says you’re a natural.” Montgomery, auburn-haired, possessor of a pair of almost Asian, dark-chocolate eyes, was of a height with Hutch. Physically he was bigger by about twenty pounds; a tight end to Hutch’s long-legged runner and swimmer. But his face and smile were boyish, disarmingly attached to such a big, solid body. The accent, a faint lilt, was south of the Mason-Dixon line, like his manner.

”Texas?” Hutch asked.

“Galveston,” Montgomery said. “Originally. I’ve lived in Miami for about nine years, and as far as I’m concerned, I’m home.”

“The man lives on a goddamned boat, Hutch,” Quentin informed. “When he gets hungry, he just throws a line overboard.”

Hutch chuckled. “Like to fish?” he asked Montgomery.

”No, sir, live to fish,” Montgomery came back. In fact, he looked like a man who spent most of his time outdoors; sun-beaten, finely etched lines around the eyes and sensitive mouth. Even without a tie, his expensive–and rumpled–dark suit seemed to chafe him. The suede cowboy boots he was wearing looked like old camarados. “I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve got three boats. My own fleet. And I wouldn’t part with a one of ’em. Ever sail, Hutch?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Hutch said. “Card-carrying Sea Scout. Earned every badge. I got my first sailboat when I was eleven.”

”Me, too. A little Aerostar cat. I called her–check this out, and be gentle with me, ’cause she was the love of my life–Misty. Now if you tell me yours was an Aerostar….”

“I nagged my father for…must have been six, seven months.” Nodding, Hutch smiled and shook his head at the memory. He looked at Montgomery. “Misty, huh?”

Taylor showed a shallow set of dimples when he laughed. Obviously he laughed often, was a happy, gregarious man. “Go on, Hutch,” he drawled. “Prepare to be blackmailed for life. What’d you name her?”

“Belle.”

Quentin took their arms. “I thought you big tough guys might hit it off. Let’s have a drop to drink; belly up to my chemistry set, here.”

Taylor’s life would have made a worthy script for a TV crime drama–highflying trial lawyer in one of the most turbulent cities in the country. Yet he seemed a decent man, really just a big country boy–down to earth, with simple, All-American tastes. He liked the sea, fishing and sailing and having a beer with the guys; playing one on one basketball. He and Hutch, Quentin, too, had a hundred war stories to share. The three talked the rest of the afternoon and evening away, and half the night.

Taylor was in Los Angeles for a friend’s funeral. “They don’t even know what killed him,” he said, bemusedly at some point. ”He just–wasted away. Some kind of chronic pneumonia. Gil and I had known this guy for years. I tell you, this man ran twelve to fifteen miles a day, every day, he skied, did white-water kayaking, you name it. He was an all-around athlete. Then, wham, flat on his back. Never got up again.” Taylor shook his head, looking at the ice-cubes he was swirling in his glass of scotch.

Gil was Gilbert Bloom, Taylor’s business partner. The name came up once or twice over the course of the evening.

“Gil was always a mensch as far as I’m concerned,” Quentin said. “I’ll never forget–Hutch, you’ve got to hear this story. 1970, and I’m giving a lecture at Harvard School of Law, doing a favor for an old friend of mine, Frederick Rosten. Taylor and Gil were students of Rosten’s, and they attended the lecture. Of course, I didn’t know either one of them at the time, but there was a question-and-answer period at the end of my talk. Gil came up to the podium. Coal-black hair practically down to his ass, one of the political Young Turks on campus, but very quiet, respectful. He’s calm, he’s clear, knows what he wants to say: ‘Begging Mr. Cohen’s indulgence,’ he said. ‘On behalf of the SAOI’–or whatever it was–”

“Students Against American Overseas Involvement,” Taylor clarified.

”I stand corrected. Anyway, Gil’s statement went, ‘I, Gilbert Bloom, would like to use this public forum to read a statement protesting both the war in Vietnam and Cambodia as well as Mr. Cohen’s personal involvement with South Africa and with the right-wing dictators in Chile and Iran, etc. It wasn’t all true. I hadn’t been to Chile or Iran at that time, but admittedly I had dealt with businessmen in South Africa. My priorities have changed since then, but that was in the late 50s, early 60s, after all, and I make no excuses. Business was business. My view, like a lot of other people’s back then, was simply quiescent about apartheid. It was and is wrong, but who dreamed in 1958 of substantially changing South Africa’s policies; except maybe the survivors of Sharpeville?

“The boy read his statement, and Christ Almighty, it was long. Three, four pages of political indictments. Must have been single-spaced. And the audience was booing, throwing programs–it became absolute chaos. Gil couldn’t be heard. But oh, he was completely poised and self-possessed as he unbuttoned his jeans, pulled them down, and bent over, formally inviting all and sundry to kiss his ass. Shocked silence fell over the hall. Then catcalls, then a huge uproar of laughter; all the tension in that room was released. Gil pulled his pants up, zipped them, and went on with his statement. I called for order and asked the audience to allow a free exchange of ideas.”

“‘That’s what America–my country and yours–is supposed to be about,'” Taylor quoted the Quentin of eleven years before. “You said that, Quentin, and everybody accepted it. These weren’t your America love it or leave it types and they didn’t want to hear you say anything good about America. But they bought it. Gil charged you, and you answered the charges. Free exchange. You argued and never could have agreed on anything.”

Taylor smiled at Quentin. “You know what happened? Gil and I left the lecture hall and he was turning white as I watched him. When we were outside, he collapsed; knees went right out from under him, like he’d had a bullet in the head. He looked up at me, sweat streaming off him, and said, ‘I didn’t know I was gonna do that. Taylor, six hundred complete strangers just saw my bare ass.’ You know, it was like he’d lost his virginity on prom night. Here he was, first in our class, genius IQ and everything, the original Brainiac, but his intellect could not handle the fact that he was capable of doing something totally unexpected and totally crazy. I think he’s been a little bent ever since. He keeps surprising himself and everybody else. And me.”

~*~*~

Taylor intended remaining on the West Coast for at least a week, maybe two, to look up old friends in Los Angeles and, to finish off his stay, in Santa Barbara. Hutch was invited down for a day of deep-sea fishing off the coast.

Hutch hesitated, but Taylor was a persuasive man; his undisguised desire to enjoy Hutch’s company again was affecting. He didn’t hide his warmth. If circumstances were different, Hutch felt he could’ve become this man’s friend.

“Bring somebody if you want to,” the odd dark-brown eyes petitioned. “If there’s–”

“That presents a little bit of a problem.”

“Say no more. I know how it is. My heart’s three-thousand miles away.”

“Oh, and my heart’s breaking,” Quentin said, with a laugh. “You poor saps will have to entertain each other.”

Taylor winked at Hutch and grinned at Quentin. “I may have given you the impression you were exempt, old man,” he said. “You’re not. The invitation goes for you, too.”

“No, sir. This potato’s roots are firmly in the earth.”

“When was the last time you were on a boat?” Hutch needled his employer and friend, who’d made a sour face at the mention of going out to sea.

“The last time I ate chicken Kiev.”

~*~*~

Only a short time ago, after giving in and making it a firm date for the following Saturday, Hutch had left the stag party. Taylor was about to. It was late–or early. Depending, Taylor said, on whether you were putting your clothes on or taking them off.

“You and Hutch have more in common than I hoped,” Quentin said to Taylor. “Seemed to really like each other. Made me happy to see that.” He scoffed gently at his own sentimentality. “You know I enjoy seeing talented people meet each other, becoming friends.” He paused, meaningfully. “And he needs a friend.”

“Which is why, somehow, you managed to bring us together. I had a feeling there was something behind our pleasant reunion. You didn’t arrange my friend’s death and funeral, I hope.”

“I’d tell you if I had?” The two had always bantered like this. ”Now, listen to me. Hutch is a kind of special man. Former cop, a good one–well, you talked to him. I’ve looked into his past. He and his partner brought down my old bête noire, James Gunther. I know you remember the case.”

Taylor nodded. “Of course I do. I heard his partner was killed behind it.”

Quentin shook his head. ”No. That soft prick, Gunther, contracted for his death. Almost succeeded, but he survived.” He sat down. “And I believe he’s still with the LAPD. Hutch left the force. Who knows? Maybe there was no place for him to go as a detective but down…. Maybe he felt like he’d end up being corrupted. He told me he was completely burned out, that death was riding his shoulder.”

”Understandable he’d feel that way.”

“But you see, now, he’s regaining his ideals. I don’t believe he ever really lost them, but I think he thought so. He’s at a turning point in his life. I’d like to see him make contact with somebody who can help him cope with his situation.”

“His situation?” Taylor’s brows knit.

“Married lover, all of it new, I think; none of it easy.”

Taylor was thoughtful. “Shame.”

“I think he needs an ally. Somebody to talk to, for God’s sake. I thought of you, yes, for obvious reasons, but it was just good luck that your paths met here.”

“Don’t tell him I’m gay.” Taylor saw understanding in Quentin’s eyes. “Let him find it out, from me. My way. Let me tell it.” There was a gentle pause. “I do like the man, Quentin. But I don’t play-act. If the two of us did make a friendship, I’d want it to be a real deal. I’m not very much interested in being some kind of a counselor for the newly-gay.”

“Hutch wouldn’t accept you in that role, either,” Quentin said. “He hasn’t asked for any help and probably never would. You know, I’ve never met anybody like him–except you, of all people. Diligent, stubborn; caring, but capable of uncanny detachment, insight–and nobody’s fool. He’s the one I can see taking up where I leave off.”

“Hold on to him,” Taylor said. “Your friends are mine, sensei. You know that.”

~*~*~

Saturday dawned sunny, a spectacularly gorgeous day. Taylor picked Hutch up at his door at sunrise in a navy-blue Mercedes.

“Belongs to a friend,'” he explained, with a laugh at Hutch’s expression.

“A good one.”

The two men drove up the coast, radio blasting all the way. Once in Santa Barbara, they picked up (courtesy of another friend) the boat–a thirty-foot sport fisherman–at the marina and headed out.

On board, Taylor was funny and autocratic. “You’re asking for a mutiny,” Hutch said once, pointing a warning finger at him. “And you’re gonna get one.”

“Shape up or ship out, city boy.”

“I’m hooking all the fish.” Hutch had landed a twenty-pound swordfish, as well as a brace of sea-bass. “Deal with it.” With a sea wind in his hair and face, he was delighted.

“Ah, but that rusty gas-can I caught allows me to still hold up my head. Somewhere, I guess.”

Wickedly, Hutch laughed. By day’s end, it was like they had been fishing every weekend together for years. Hutch thought about Starsky back in Tahoe with the in-laws. He’d enjoy this. An hour of bitching, maybe, and he’d settle right in.

Taylor knew of a cove, “down the coast a piece,” where they could anchor and wade in to a rocky shore. He looked at Hutch, smiling. “How’s this sound to you? A fire, a sunset, cold brew, and the catch of the day. God, I love this life.”

Swordfish grilled over a charcoal fire was a simple delicacy.

Leaning against a convenient rock, Hutch idly watched Taylor who was poking at the fire, the Tom Sawyer face concentrating. The sun was only now setting and they’d both expressed their extreme well-being more than once. The wind had come up, but the fire warmed. It was a time for quiet confidences, for exchanging the kind of information new intimates needed to. Hutch felt the urge, but didn’t accede to it.

Taylor sat down beside him, offering him a fresh beer. Hutch took it, and they sat watching the surf and a dusky sun descending. ”I’ve been with Gil a long time, you know?” Taylor said. “And I just can’t teach him to enjoy this kind of stuff.” He shook his head, bemusedly.

Hutch looked at him, struck numb.

”I just–felt like sharing.”

“Sharing–?”

“Sharing,” Taylor amended. “You know. Breaking the bread, splitting the six-pack? Telling the truth?” He settled back, comfortably sharing Hutch’s rock. ”It’ll be twenty years for me this coming September. Twenty years. That’s a goddamned eternity, in any relationship. With two men…. Shit, Hutch. Two men can really hurt each other.” Shaking his head, he grew palpably reminiscent, as if totally unaware of Hutch’s piercing stare. “Let’s see; I was eighteen, starting out in Pre-Law. And I got to know this intense, brilliant and special man as well as I knew my own self. We were as different as two people could be–he came from a ton of money, I was piss-poor; I had to sweat for my grades, he didn’t find law school much of a challenge. But we were best friends. Then I went and fell in love with him. Don’t know to this day how it happened to me. I was a kid off Atlatch Street in Galveston. I liked girls…. I’d have busted anybody’s jaw who even suggested I went DC instead of AC. It was him. I just–loved him. He’s the only man I ever slept with, or ever wanted to.”

“Gil?” The fact was obvious in hindsight.

Taylor chuckled. “Out of all the gin-joints in the world, he had to walk into….” He turned to Hutch. “I show you mine, you show me yours. That’s usually the deal.” His expression was gentle. “I’m not an enemy, Hutch. I don’t go around sharing the most private part of my life with everybody I meet. I wanted you to know. I just couldn’t come up with a subtle way to bring this out to you. Easier to plow right through.”

“It’s been,” Hutch stammered, frowning. “Three, almost four months.”

“Thunderbolt out of the blue.”

“Yeah,” Hutch rubbed his knee, brushing off sand. The burning-red crown of the sun, sinking beyond the surf, held his gaze. “Partners, best friends, both of us straight as it’s possible to be. It wasn’t planned. Or maybe it was, subconsciously, I don’t know. Like we were acting out a story we already knew.” He shook his head in disbelief, seeking Taylor’s eyes. “How’d you know about me?”

“I wouldn’t have known. No, really. It was after you left last night. Quentin talked about you. He told me then; a few things. Not everything, because he doesn’t know everything. Maybe he told me because he knows that I, of all people, would never ever betray you.” Taylor laughed, affectionately. “Nah. The man doesn’t give up his secrets that easily, you know that. I guess he knew I could be, for want of a better word, trusted. And you’re like a son to him, Hutch. Really.”

Taylor stretched his long legs out on the sand. “I think you’ve gone and made the old guy soft. He thought you were hurting, and he wanted to help. He didn’t set you up. It wasn’t like that. Things just shook out like this.” There was a glance Hutch’s way. “I’ve decided I’m glad they did.” Smiling, for him, was an effortless thing. “You’re kind of an easy guy to get soft about.” Somehow there wasn’t a hint of sexual overtone in his statement. It was…kind, and honest.

“I’m not sure I know what to say.” Taylor had gently stripped Hutch of his secrets. But was he ready to give them up?

“You can say everything–or nothing. I’ve shared this day with you, and I think I’m a friend. You got something to say, I can listen with my ears, and my heart, too. We have a lot in common, don’t we? We both know what it’s like being a basically straight guy who falls in love with another basically straight guy. Not too many of us.”

Hutch listened, made a decision. “Like you said, a deal’s definitely a deal.”

“I gather that what you’ve got is less than a ride into the sunset.”

Hutch shook his head. “We’re not together.”

“Something big in the way? It’d have to be, to hold you back.”

“Yeah. A sense of duty.”

Taylor chewed that over, decided not to sample too much of the bitterness behind Hutch’s statement. “Lot of people don’t even know what that is, Hutch,” he said.

”It means something to him.” Hutch sighed. “And to me.”

“Tell me his name.”

“David.”

”Tell me about him. Please?”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin. Ever see a fireworks display that just–took your breath away? I mean, you’re ready for it, but still….”

”How long you known one another? Long time?”

Hutch was distant. “Give or take a few weeks, fifteen years. Too many of them wasted, tossed away like so much confetti. We were team; inseparable. But when it ended, we–we just fell apart. Before we became lovers, I hadn’t seen him in over two years. Not a single day went by that I didn’t think about him, or want to see him. I thought he was through with the part of his life that I represented. Or maybe I thought I was….

“Then when we saw each other again, it was like–nothing could have kept us out of each other’s arms. We stayed in bed for three days. And then, he went home to his loving wife and two of the sweetest kids you ever saw.”

Taylor stared at the strong face, wondering at the strength it must have taken for Hutch to let his lover go like that. How strong is he going to have to be? “Does David want to be with you?” he asked.

”What difference does it make? Taylor, he’s my heart, but I won’t take him under any circumstances. I couldn’t live with hurting his family.”

“Kids are tougher than people give ’em credit for. They can learn to handle whatever life throws at them.”

“I can’t take that responsibility.”

Taylor felt he had to press. “Don’t have the courage?”

“Am I selfish enough, isn’t that what you’re really asking me?” When Taylor was momentarily silent, Hutch insisted on an answer. “Talk to me.”

“I’m talking about…owning your life. Saying, ‘this is what I want, these are my needs, and they deserve to be filled just as much as anybody else’s.’ Why don’t you take what you want?”

Hutch was staring at him, so hard, Taylor felt like something on the other end of a microscope. There was a sense of recognition in his eyes.

“So you are right,” Taylor went ahead. “I guess that is what I’m asking. Are you selfish enough to make yourself happy?”

“Evidently the answer’s no. I wish I were.”

“I’m sorry. Because, Hutch, it can be so easy, being happy.”

They talked–shared–until the stars began to appear. For Hutch it was an unburdening; a relief.

When they parted, the friendship was real. “Keep in touch with me, Hutch,” Taylor urged. “I’d love to show you around Miami.” He leaned to Hutch’s ear and muttered under his breath. “We can double-date. Give it some serious thought. It’s not as god awful queer as it sounds.”

~*~*~

“Want some company?” Starsky stood there, peeking in, straightening as Hutch opened the front door.

He was stubbled, very tanned, and–Hutch groaned inwardly–infinitely touchable, wearing a navy-blue T-shirt with a quarter-sized hole in one shoulder. Gray sweatpants, worn in places, made his slight arousal public domain. With his hair windblown and not noticeably combed, wearing a pair of white Adidas and no socks, he looked like he’d dressed in the dark and driven over here on sudden impulse.

“Bed,” he stated, the one word, simple as it was, carrying weight and many shadings–a question, a command; the first thing chosen from a short menu.

Hutch opened wide, pure pleasure filling him. “Get in here, Curly.” He was unaware of closing the door behind them. Starsky was in his arms, kissing him, first with gentle rediscovery and love, then–with a close, sapphire-blue look into his eyes and over his face–more thoroughly. Shaky right from the start, Hutch felt the effects of the kiss all the way down to his knees, and he responded. They pretended to bargain for ascendancy, playing the game just for its own sake, and not to decide a thing.

Hutch marveled, privately, making some rediscoveries of his own, hands cradling Starsky’s face, finding familiar angles, inhaling familiar scents, lips brushing the soft wisps of hair at Starsky’s temple. It was forever since he’d had the luxury of being this close. His thoughts were almost child-like; relieved and transported. You’re not just some dream I’ve been having. You’re more real than anything else….

Starsky drew away, a little, looking for his glance because it was slow to return, warm hands on both sides of his face. “C’mon.” The voice was coaxing.

Hutch followed.

“You promised you were gonna lock me in here.” Starsky went ahead into the bedroom, pulling off his T-shirt, continuing when his head was free. His eyes slid sidelong at Hutch. “Read me the riot act.”

“Consider it done.” Loosening the belt of the robe he was wearing, Hutch couldn’t take his eyes off his lover, wondering at the vulnerability and masculinity that combined so perfectly in Starsky. The two elements had always been there, always had touched him deeply. Now they touched him in a different place and made him hurt with wanting. Not hard to desire a man, not difficult at all…. Not when that man’s slender fingers tugged, only once, at the drawstring of heavy sweats and he stood naked, penis half-erect. In an offhand gesture, one bowed leg kicked the sweatpants away.

~*~*~

Starsky handled himself, easing the sting. He looked up, only then becoming aware of what he must be doing now to Hutch. He could see it in the luminous serious eyes, see it rising. Hutch’s hunger was there in every flexed muscle, in his high color, his tense waiting to be set free.

“What’s the matter?” Starsky asked him. “You shy?” The questions were hard to ask. That body, totally exposed, touchingly aroused, did things to his breathing.

Shaking his head in the negative, Hutch came to him, took brief proprietary hold of his aching cock, soothing it before embracing the rest of him with a sharp sigh that said everything. There was intense pain, and the same measure of tenderness, in coming together. Starsky consciously gave himself, hanging on tight. “You got somethin’ special in mind?”

“Ah.” Hutch’s voice was smoky. “Just come over here and see.”

Starsky was backed to the bed, being given soft, open-mouthed kisses, Hutch’s hands guiding his ass. No rose in the vase on the night-table now, just the remains of a sandwich and a half-glass of milk. An open book was lying prone on the spread. Hutch had been reading, spending a quiet evening alone, but he showed no sign of being annoyed by an interruption. The book was tossed onto the floor, superfluous.

Lying down together was a fait accompli. Hutch reached up and stroked Starsky’s hair, gripped a handful; quiet eyes observed him, warming him dangerously, on purpose. He couldn’t bear being this close without taking Hutch in his arm with a growl of possession.

They made love, quickly exciting each other’s bodies with hands, lips, pressure, heat; getting wet, finding that place where they were one in desire and intention.

Starsky stroked, teased the other man’s swaying erection, feeling Hutch start inwardly, shake, each time he was touched. Their glances shared the tension. Starsky wanted very much to go down on his friend right away, and began to. But Hutch took the initiative, pushing him back, and he was too hot to disagree with the arrangement. When his own cock was taken, hungrily, all he could do was clamp down on his yell.

Hutch settled between his thighs and worked him over. He was outnumbered and he knew it. So he just lay there, propped on his elbows, watching the show, being burned by this passionate man’s mouth, enjoying the sweet sensations. Perspiration cooled his upper lip as a swift conclusion, too swift, gathered behind his cock, in his tight sacs. When Hutch urged his thighs apart for better access, he almost blew it. Not yet.

“Wait. F’ chrissake– I’ll lose it–“ Starsky laid a hand over Hutch’s forehead, forcing a reprieve. Only it wasn’t a full pardon. A decision was made and his opinion wasn’t asked. The blond got to his knees, nailing Starsky’s attention.

Waiting, he lay still, wanting it bad like always, the breath he’d been holding going out of him when he was grasped. With thumbs digging hard into the hollows of his pelvis, he was pulled down the bed, to Hutch, with an authority he wouldn’t have resisted tonight even if he could have. And then his body was appropriated, not with the considerate, endearing hesitance Hutch had always employed with him up til now. This was so sudden, a yowl of protest erupted from his center. His hissing expletive made its own point–and served as a fair description of what they were doing.

When Hutch was there, they found themselves at the eye of a hurricane, gazes meeting for a split-second with power, renewed amazement at the mechanics of the act, at being this, too, for each other.

“You’re in my throat,” Starsky whispered, startled, even a little apprehensive for a second or two. “–Have some pity, Hutch–“ He panted, breaking out in a slick sweat, trying to relax; trying to swallow. From the back of his brain the notion arrived that this was somehow the first time he’d been really taken by a man; that tonight was serious; the real thing.

Mind clearly on other matters, Hutch said nothing, shifting his body and his weight forward to bestow a fleeting, apologetic kiss. Starsky heard himself groan, thoughts running wild, whirling away. Lips brushed his brows, eyelids, taking away the fear. Some slight adjustment and he was suddenly at ease with the intrusion.

“Oh, God, you feel like–” Hutch’s words dissolved in a yearning sound, then into laughter that melted the heart in Starsky’s chest. For the next few moments he allowed the man inside him to please himself. He had no real objection; Hutch was easy to please. And he could derive a great deal of happiness from just giving to someone.

Murmurs of love became harsh statements, questions. When Hutch asked, “Is it good?” Starsky answered with the truth– Yes, yes, it was good. But he saw, suddenly how different it was for him this time.

Never had you this way, Hutch. Starved. The insight, fleeting in his feverish brain, that Hutch was actually hungry for sex–for him alone–brought mixed feelings. A point of pride, maybe, to be desperately needed by Hutch in a physical way. But there was injustice in a man like his partner, sensual, sexual, all that, sentencing himself out of love, to near celibacy. If any man shouldn’t have to do without….

Starsky did for him, solicitously, feeling some sadness even as he was urged to delight. The mix of emotions was overwhelming. Gotta show you I’m here for you. He anchored thighs and arms around the lean body he loved, clenching. Hutch thought it was a fine idea and kissed him, stroking him, encouraging him to hold even closer. They could go all night, this way. For a while, it seemed that they were aiming to prove it.

Then Hutch handled him, meaningfully. The blond was all business when it came to obtaining pleasure, but still careful, pulling out gently. “Turn over, love.” Essentially without a choice, mind fogged, Starsky obeyed. Aah, darlin’…. Royal treatment. He allowed his shoulders to be pressed against the mattress, and Hutch resumed, their: short, sharp collisions quickening. Fingers had slipped under Starsky’s body to pull sighs from him, heighten the deep-seated pleasure that was part of this kind of love. From behind his cock the climax was about to burst; into bloom, into seed, into fire.

No question who was in charge here; Starsky was pinned, Hutch’s breathing piercing and hot against his neck and shoulders. The blond was driving, lost to it, using all his strength, making their bed complain. His sounds counterpointed Starsky’s own as they moved, helping each other. How thick are these walls, anyway? Starsky wondered, and didn’t care. Bracing himself, hands gripping the headboard, he wanted everything, the noise, the sweat and stink of it, the force of one man loving another.

Then he did lose control, the pressure unbearable and delicious, forcing his joy out of him, into the damp sheets and the pillow. Hutch flooded him seconds after; so much life he felt it overflow and spill between them.

~*~*~

Starsky sighed. Hutch was heavy on him, cheek pressed against his, sweaty, affectionate, loving. He was complimented, kissed on his ear, the nape of his neck. Hutch had made him forget everything in those last moments…up to and including his own name. I think you made me yours just now; for good–as if I wasn’t already.

“Is that what you’re really like?” he asked, softly, after a time, limp, wasted. “Totally merciless?”

“Maybe,” Hutch laughed, the breathy sound mild as a summer’s night. “I think so.” Lips touched Starsky’s shoulder, and he was squeezed. “I was trying my best to impress the hell out of you.” Hutch laughed, pleased with himself.

“That was your best?”

Hutch chuckled, making Starsky smile wider. Then he sighed with unabashed contentment. All well and good, but….

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“Was it okay f’ you?”

“Ah, Starsk,” Hutch groaned. ”How in the world can you ask me that? Couldn’t you tell?”

“I just–I wanna make sure,” Starsky said. He was thinking about Hutch’s nights alone.

“You just wanna be told, you mean.”

Starsky went along with the teasing. “Sure, I do. Anything wrong with that?”

“No.” Hutch sank his nose into Starsky’s curls. “Nothing at all. You’re the best lover I’ve ever had. You suit me. You’re hundred-year-old brandy with a cold beer chaser….”

Starsky stretched, drunk on unmixed afterglow, his eyes drifting shut. “I’m definitely gonna return the favor next time. Why should I have all the fun?” He yawned widely. “But right now all I wanna do is lie here with you, take a catnap, maybe.”

“Really took it out of you, huh?”

“Not yet. How d’you do that?” He made Hutch laugh. A hand caressed his hair, ruffled it. He would have fallen asleep smiling, given half a chance. The second yawn escaped, despite his best effort. “M’sorry. Just gimme a few, huh?”

“It’s alright.” Starsky felt the movement as Hutch lifted his head to check the clock. ”There’s time. Relax.” He slid away. Starsky turned and with a gusting sigh, moved into his arms, throwing a leg over him.

~*~*~

Hutch watched him for a moment. A little startled to realize how few times they’d actually shared sleep in a bed. He closed his own eyes, mind and body at odds. He’d wake Starsky soon, but not too soon.

~*~*~

“Ah, Christ, Hutch.” The distant words were aggrieved. “It’s light.”

Hutch woke with a start. Starsky was sitting up in bed beside him, scratching his head, and frowning. Early sunlight filled the room. 7:02 A.M.

“Can’t believe I overslept.” Bleary blue eyes squinted at him and Hutch squinted back, feeling ill prepared. He’d been so comfortable, subconsciously aware of, and glad of, the warm friendly body sharing his bed.

“Don’t worry about it,” he muttered. “Get dressed and have a cup of coffee.”

”No time.” Starsky got up and stumbled into the bathroom. The toilet flushed, water ran in the sink for a minute and Starsky came back. “I used your toothbrush.” He collected his clothing and dressed quickly, pulling on his running shoes without untying them, exactly the way he’d taken them off. His short curls, standing on end, caught the morning sun.

“Starsky, you already spent the night. What the hell’s the difference?”

“And jeopardize everything?” Starsky’s voice was morning-gruff. “After last night, not a chance, boy. I’m gonna crawl home and lie like a rug.”

Hutch leaned up on one elbow, running a hand over his face, sleepy and disgruntled. “Tell her you put away a fifth of Ripple and fell asleep on a park bench.” Would they ever get a real chance to sleep together? He got out of bed, found and cinched on his robe tightly, giving Starsky a–he hoped–meaningful look as he put it on. “Wait for coffee. At least?”

Starsky knew an order when he heard one. So they sat at the breakfast table, drinking steaming mugs of black coffee, not saying much. Starsky’s hand stole over Hutch’s, lifted it to rub the back against his morning beard before putting it down.

“Thanks for making me slow down. I feel a whole lot better. I guess I forgot; once in a while you know what’s good f’me.”

Hutch gazed into the dark depths of his coffee, inward. “I was being selfish, that’s all. Making some kind of a claim…I don’t know. Last night was incredible. But it’s a long time between stops, and I–” I just don’t know if I can take it. He seemed to come back from a great distance to find Starsky looking at him. I don’t have to explain it to you. We’ve said it all before, haven’t we? Neither of us can take it, but we’re going to.

“I love you, that’s all,” he said, instead. “I’m not trying to do any numbers on you.” Only it’s so hard needing somebody who’s not there.

“I’ll spend the weekend with you, Hutch. This weekend. We’ll drive up to the lake, or somethin’. Somewhere.”

“I won’t hold you to that,” Hutch said. He had no expectations. “I’ll probably be working this weekend, anyhow.”

“Is it a date?”

Hutch looked at his well-meaning friend and didn’t answer. “Call me, okay?” Starsky’s sharp-cornered eyes held his, boring into him. The dark man pushed back his chair and stood, picking up his car-keys.

“Sure thing.” Starsky turned to go. Hutch rose to follow him, but he turned to forestall the escort. “I can find my way out.” He hesitated before going any further, to speak, point a finger. “Hutch, we gotta have faith in each other. Don’t we?”

“But why make promises we know we can’t keep?” Hutch asked, telling himself he was only being a realist. He watched Starsky turn abruptly and go.

~*~*~

Hutch looked around the empty room. Cynically, his eye fell on the small tree drenched in lights and tinsel. Starsky’s presents for him, and his for Starsky (a sweater, a heavy gold chain) were arranged tidily underneath.

In the last months, they’d seen each other as often as they could swing it, usually for lunch at a diner they both knew. Sometimes, they enjoyed a genuine boys night out, for a beer at Huggy’s place, to play pool, or take in a basketball game. These were the public performances, approved for general audiences. Privately, they made love on rare afternoons, bringing each other off quickly in a series of out-of-the-way hotels and motels. Not often; not enough to stir any suspicions. Not enough to suit either one of them; just enough to bring the guilt home.

If it weren’t for Starsky–notable tonight by his absence–Hutch wouldn’t have had a tree at all. Starsky had bought the stupid thing in the first place. Hutch hadn’t planned to celebrate Christmas; not wanting to open himself up for just what was happening, to feelings he would have gladly spared himself, if he could. As it was, he couldn’t remember a more solitary Christmas Eve. Long before it happened, he’d accepted that Starsky wouldn’t be able to spend this one evening with him. A father of two young children had one place to be on Christmas morning–and that was where Starsky would be, where Hutch couldn’t feel welcome.

The reality was a classic bummer; depressing and slightly pathetic. Here he sprawled, barefoot, unshaved, on his couch, pouring the last drops of the loneliest-tasting champagne he’d ever swallowed into a paper cup. He felt as sober as God, riding the kind of drunk that sent him right inside his own head.

Other friends he kept at arm’s length, to protect his secret. Taylor Montgomery was an important exception to that. But Miami was a long way to go, and an even stranger place than L.A., to find some Christmas cheer. Going home to Duluth held little appeal. His parents had a busy social life; always had. They wouldn’t be expecting him, and would’ve made no plans that included him. Not that they wouldn’t have turned all their plans upside down just for him, but he didn’t want that kind of attention. He didn’t need the spotlight. All he wanted to do was curl up with his dark-eyed treasure and listen for the sound of sleigh-bells; to cherish someone and to be cherished. He wanted to taste this Moet on Starsky’s tongue; wanted to talk to him, laugh at his jokes, look into adult eyes that held a child’s joy in Christmas.

If his lover were here tonight, Hutch would have outdone Santa in the euphoric sentimentalism department. Instead he sat here, a reluctant Scrooge, all revved up and no ghosts on the way; no redemption. Any sentiment he might have felt was going awry, becoming something else.

He set the empty champagne bottle on the floor beside the couch, but it tipped, fell over, and rolled. As he got up to retrieve it, there was a knock at the door. He straightened, swaying, realizing just then that he was a lot more loaded than he’d thought. ”Whoa.”

The empty bottle was still clutched in one hand as he opened the door. Quentin and Grace smiled in. If they noticed his state of dishabille, they seemed determined not to call attention to it.

“Thought you’d like some company,” Quentin said. Grace was carrying a small, elegantly wrapped package, Quentin a bottle of champagne and three tulip glasses. “Did you think we forgot you, boy?”

“We’re going to toast Christmas, hooray!” Grace said, happily, cheeks flushed. She was dressed in an iridescent green cocktail dress with a holly spray brooch. She and Quentin had obviously been indulging in a little Christmas cheer themselves. “And then you’re coming with us for a late supper. How about it, big, blond, blue-eyed and handsome? Clams Casino, seafood brioche, prime rib and green beans; my rum-cake with fresh strawberries for desert. Any of that stuff appeal to you?”

It was a sweet offer, made out of real affection for him, and Hutch smiled, sheepishly, because it was welcome. “What choice have I got?” he asked, ushering them in.

“None whatsoever,” Quentin said. “You are ours, earthling, for as long as we want you.”

They all sat, informally, on the couch.

“Cute tree,” Grace observed. “A little small…”

“Give him the box, lady,” Quentin said, opening the champagne.

Grace did so, with all the grace she was named and known for. “This is yours, Hutch. It’s for you, from both of us.”

“That reminds me,” Hutch said. He went to the tree and brought back their gifts. “I was going to give these to you tomorrow….”

“Thanks, but open yours first.”

Hutch opened the gift. It was a superb tank watch, and in the box with it, a slip of gray notepaper, two airline tickets, and a key.

“Read it,” Grace said. “Out loud.”

“‘We have taken the unpardonable liberty of making reservations for two–for you and a friend–to spend New Years Eve and New Years Day at our favorite retreat, Clancy’s Ridge, near Aspen. Everything’s all arranged for you. All you have to do is show up. The watch is to make sure you know what time to catch your flight back home.'”

Hutch looked at them, overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say….”

“Say thank you,” Quentin suggested, mildly.

~*~*~

In Quentin’s paneled dining room, they shared a delicious meal, good talk, laughter, toasting each other continually. Quentin put on the phonograph, and the two men took turns dancing with Grace to old forties tunes.

Finally, pleading total exhaustion–and drunkenness–she departed for bed, kissing each of them once on the cheek. “Thank you for the lovely evening, gentlemen. No woman could ever be,” one generous smooch, “as lucky as I’ve been tonight.” She pecked the next cheek, Hutch’s. “With two such fabulous partners. But I must bid you both a fond farewell. Mother’s had it.”

~*~*~

“Have a cigar with me, Hutch,” Quentin suggested when she’d gone, offering one of his Havanas from an inlaid box. “I know you don’t smoke, but sometimes it’s good just to hold one while you’re taking things easy.” He sat down at the disordered dinner table, kicked off his shoes, and leaned back, a sketch of unfettered relaxation. “Feel like a man-to-man talk?” he asked.

“Sure, why not?” Hutch asked, sitting opposite him. He leaned across the table to get a light for his cigar. He could certainly appreciate the rich, fertile aroma–the smell of manly indulgence.

“Thattaboy,” Quentin said, approvingly. “Civilized ending to an uncivilized evening.”

“Thanks again for inviting me. It was just what the doctor ordered.”

“We took it as read that there was someone you’d rather have spent your evening with.” Quentin understood, obviously, without saying too much. “But when we found out you didn’t have any company, my God…. Grace couldn’t stop picturing you over there, poor little tow-headed rich boy, sitting by the window, all alone on a Christmas Eve…. And on and on. She’s got a real streak of melodrama in her.”

Hutch smiled, wryly. “Well, she left out the part about me being half-crocked and barefoot, but she came amazingly close.”

They drew companiably on their cigars, lazing out smoke rings, and engaging in small talk–the Raiders, their current case…. It was 2 a.m.

“Can I ask you something, Hutch?” Quentin asked, quietly.

Hutch squinted at him, curious. “Shoot.”

“When’s the last time you saw Jeri Eastman?”

He’d have expected anything but that. The question was out of left field. “I, uh, I’m not sure. Since June, early May. Why?”

“I saw Jeri Eastman at Lorenzo’s the other night–we spoke, naturally–having dinner and very, very pregnant.”

Hutch’s emotions boomeranged from pole to pole, and his body felt it, going from ice to heat to ice. “What?”

“She’s out to here. I know a little bit about this stuff. I’ve been through a daughter, and two grandchildren. I’d say Miss Eastman is about six or seven months along.”

“I think–” The truth came like a tropical storm, ripping his fragile house off its foundation, flattening tender new crops.

“Doesn’t take a genius to figure this out, you know,” Quentin said. “About the time you left the firm. And her.” He examined Hutch. ”I did not intend to hang a dark cloud over your holiday. I thought you ought to–maybe–know. You read me, son?”

Hutch did. ”There’s no maybe about it. It has to be.”

“You’re sure?”

“We lived together. We were both satisfied with the arrangement.” Hutch pushed back his chair and stood, stubbing out the cigar. ”Hell, we were complacent about it.” Going to the window, with its view of Quentin’s garden, he shook his head, half-laughed. “What was the dinner and the booze for? To soften me up?”

“No,” Quentin said, annoyed. “Hell, no. Look, you want to talk about this?”

Hutch was unintentionally sharp. “I don’t know what I wanna do! Go over there and make a damn fool of myself? Or sit here and ponder the mysteries of birth.” A baby. The phrase stuttered in his mind.

“It’s my opinion that you can never be absolutely sure, one way or the other, until you communicate with her.”

Quentin was right but for the wrong reason. He had to see her, but not to determine his paternity. He had lived in Jeri’s universe for two years and was sure of two things about her–that she was personally incapable of putting up with the indignity, the aura of sleaze and smut that was always the price of trying to have a little something on the side. When she was with him, she was monogamous.

He also knew she wouldn’t have dived headfirst into another relationship immediately after him. She wasn’t a diver–certainly not into something as deep and permanent as a baby. He was the father of her child, nobody but.

Hutch looked at his employer irritably, dragging his eyes away from the view of the dark garden, looming hedgerows. “Quentin, if she wanted to communicate with me about it, she would have. She wants me on the outside. That’s pretty plain.”

“Yes, but by the same token, it’s certainly not something you can keep secret,” Quentin said, musing. “I’m not proud of myself for wondering if she counted on the news getting back to you eventually. If she knew you well enough to expect you to confront her. If you never did, just as good, but she wants that meeting. On her terms. You coming in there, hat in hand. That’s how I see it.”

Hutch thought back to the last meeting he’d had with Jeri, the things they’d said to each other, that last look they’d exchanged. Did she want to mete out some retribution? Small odds…. He returned to his seat, sat down, feeling exhausted, bent out of shape. “That’s how it is.”

 

Part 4

Two days after Christmas, Hutch stood in the open doorway of Jeri’s office for a minute, looking at his ex-lover. For the moment, she was unaware of him. Sitting behind her desk, she was looking through a pile of folders one by one. The phone was cradled between her shoulder and cheek, her fair hair pulled behind her ear.

Her model’s slenderness was a thing of the past, temporarily. Her face and upper body–all of her he could see from his vantage point–were in full bloom. Wearing a yellow silk dress with Mandarin collar and long, flowing sleeves, she looked–he admitted it–truly lovely.

“Jeri.”

She glanced up, and like a sphinx, held his gaze. The startled thought came to Hutch: I was right, and so was Quentin; she was expecting me. His visit was by no means a total surprise to her. She made an excuse into the phone, hung up the receiver.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello.”

She stood. The swell of her belly was plain. He couldn’t take his eyes away. She walked around him to close the door. “Sit down.”

Hutch did so, and watched while she took her place. From their respective seats, they examined each other for underlying motives. Hutch had no idea how to begin. The woman in front of him seemed enigmatic, her potential for harm or decency unknown.

“Would you like some espresso?” she asked. “Herbal tea?”

“Uh, no. Nothing, thanks.”

“How’s it going with Quentin?”

”I’m finding my way. It’s interesting work; takes up all my time.”

“And your personal life?” A barely perceptible beat. “Do you have a lover?”

He answered truthfully. “Yes.”

”I hope it’s the real thing…for his sake.”

There was cruelty, and old resentment underpinning the statement, but he did not acknowledge it, or make a reply.

Jeri picked up a silver pen. ”You look well.”

“So do you,” Hutch said. “You–” He looked at her and there was a strained moment of waiting.

“You’ll have to ask,” Jeri said, cutting him no slack. “Because I’m not going to tell you.”

“When did you find out?”

She was tapping that pen, but he felt her total concentration on him. ”Three or four weeks after you left.” The tapping stopped; she slid the pen into a crystal holder on her desk. “Imagine my shock. We’d always been so careful.” There was a faint echo of honest pain in her voice. Her next words were a statement for the record. ”The baby was an accident.”

“Is it–?” Not knowing how to ask, he regrouped. “I’m assuming it’s yours and mine.”

“Yes. Yes, of course it is. He is. I’ve had the sonogram, amniocentesis…all the tests. A healthy boy…. Should arrive here by late February.” She made a tiny gesture with her shoulder. “These things happen. No birth control is 100% effective.”

Hutch had nothing to say that wouldn’t come out sounding Neanderthal. His rising indignation threatened to choke him.

“I don’t want one single thing from you,” Jeri declared. “I have every intention of raising this child, by myself, on my own. I make plenty of money, I’m responsible, and if I need help, I know enough to get help. I don’t need any from you.” She said nothing about wanting to be a mother.

“Half of him is mine.” Hutch’s sentiment was unrehearsed and makeshift, awkward, but it was a new feeling knowing that a little person existed because of him, already had an identity. As far as he knew, he’d never fathered a child before. “He should at least know I exist.” That seemed the most he could ask for.

“I don’t deny that. But you and I don’t have a future together, do we? Do we? It’s not a rhetorical question, Ken. Answer.”

“I made a choice. And it doesn’t mean I can’t make room in my life for anybody else. I can. We can work something out.”

“Ken, you chose the life you wanted and I don’t want any part of it. I don’t see how we can get past that. You’re gay.” For some reason, the term made Hutch wince. “And I made a choice, too. This kid doesn’t need a gay father and he’s not going to have one. He’s not going to grow up, trying to deal with that.” When he didn’t reply, she asked, infuriatingly, “Is it all clear to you?”

“Well, no, not really,” Hutch said, with a sarcastic edge. “There are a couple of things I’m not too clear about.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, are you going to tell him anything? About me? Don’t kid yourself that he’s not gonna be curious.”

“When the time seems right; if and when he asks. I’ll tell him–” She seemed to be stemming her emotions, looking down at her hands as if it was hard for her to look him in the eye. “I’ll tell him you exist.”

“And you intend to be fair?” Would she tell the boy his father hadn’t wanted him? That would be far from the truth.

“I’ll do my best,” Jeri said, stiffly, still not looking at him. “Admittedly, it won’t be easy.”

“To be open-minded?”

”I’m just being honest with you. My feelings may change.”

Hutch’s laugh was sardonic. “Then again, they may not?”

Her silence was answer. He tried again. “Jeri, I’d like him to be able to depend on me, even if I’m not there every day.”

”No. Absolutely not.”

Hutch sat back, knowing there was nothing either of them could do about this sloppy situation. What it came down to was that she was making the terms and his hands were tied. There seemed nothing more to add or subtract. Or if there were, he didn’t know what it was. “Are you–are you taking care of yourself?” He couldn’t help his concern.

She rubbed at her temples, sighed heavily, shook her head; as if to deny him even his concern. ”Ken, what is the purpose of this? What good is it doing? You walked out on me! The goddamned door only goes one way.”

“Okay!” he said, exasperated. “Okay. I just wanted to know, call it for old time’s sake. I’m not completely indifferent, Jeri.”

“So you know,” she replied. “And by the way, you do also know that, legally, you’re in a pretty poor position?”

This was her trump card, her master stroke. Hutch stared at her, numbly. ”You must have wanted this to be as ugly as it could possibly be,” he marveled at last, sure of it.

“I’m simply covering my behind. I knew you’d come, once you found out.”

“You counted on me.”

“Oh, my darling love, I looked forward to you.” There was a crash of empty silence as they came to the end of the barely civil words. Nothing left but bad feelings.

Hutch got up to go. “I guess the fun part of this is pretty much over, then.” He stopped before leaving. “Jeri…. If you ever do need–anything…. Anything I can do…. Please let me help.”

~*~*~

The only thing remaining was to tell–or not to tell–Starsky. Hutch debated–very seriously–not telling him a thing. After all, why? The child was never going to play any part in their lives.

But he decided in the end to share this, because they shared almost everything else. His reasons were entirely selfish. Starsky was his right arm, his life-partner, and right now he needed his partner’s strength, and someone to lean on, just for a minute.

~*~*~

Starsky listened carefully, head down, keeping his expression scrupulously neutral. When Hutch had finished condensing for him what had happened earlier today, he looked up. “That’s all of it?”

The day was cloudy, and Hutch was a silver-edged silhouette at the French doors that led out into his small garden. “That’s it.”

“She did that to you?”

“Can you really blame her? Be honest.”

“Yeah, I can blame her. Maybe I’m not as thoroughly decent as you are.” She looked forward to you finding out, knowing you’d come to her. “She won’t let you share in him at all?”

“No. And there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. The chances of a gay father gaining even partial custody are nonexistent.”

There was no response to that. It was barren fact.

“It’s not even as if–I was ready to step in and be–I don’t know.” Hutch sighed. “I have no idea how to be a father in the first place.”

“Babe,” Starsky began, stepping into the minefield. “I–I wish it could be different.”

“Different? How?”

That you hadn’t come outside to find me that night. Not a happy thought, and not one he could easily share with Hutch, who’d reject it categorically. But the truth was, Starsky would have given up all the riches he’d found with this man for Hutch to have a fair chance with the son being denied him. His own boy was the joy of his life, the apple of his eye. He couldn’t help but want Hutch to know that same joy and even more.

“I don’t know how,” he said. “I just wish it could be.”

“You want to have it all? All the apples? We both knew we’d have to give up something in this relationship.”

“But not everything.” Starsky thought about their lives since they’d become lovers. Had it been worth it? Hutch didn’t look at him, or respond.

There was one possible answer for Hutch. Starsky had to suggest it, if only to exorcise it from his own thoughts. God, it scared him. ”If we–if we called it quits, you might have a shot.” His eyes traced the tall fine shape at the door. “Be a long shot,” he muttered. “But maybe….”

Hutch turned and stared at him. An adversary would have frozen, turned to cold stone under the intensity of that gaze. Starsky only felt the breath of the chill.

“Just what the hell are you talking about?”

“M’talkin’ about you becomin’ an ad for the straight life, an’ maybe gettin’ a–a fair shake at knowin’ your son.”

“Starsky, this is the second or third time you’ve said something about us splitting up, or ending it, or maybe if we had never started. Is that what you really want?”

“No” Starsky said, humbly. “I want you to be happy.”

“And I want to be with you. Starsk, without you, none of the other stuff–”

Exasperated, he paused, then came toward Starsky and sat down at the kitchen table. “Besides, it wouldn’t solve a thing,” he said, eyes soft. “There’s nothing I can do now to patch things up with Jeri. But giving you up would be too big a price to pay, anyway.” Leaning forward, he seemed to shine, but coldly. “How many times? Starsky, how many different ways do I have to tell you that? I’m not going to give up the love of my life for anybody. Not even if he asks me to.”

~*~*~

Hutch lay down on the couch, folding an arm behind his head. Watching him for a moment, Starsky went to the stereo and turned on the radio, left it playing the kind of soft country-rock Hutch liked. The things you do for love….

He went to the couch, stood looking down. Hutch’s eyes lifted to him, showing it all, sadness, and deep deep down where only Starsky could see, anguish. His lover had hidden it well, hardening his exterior in the face of Jeri’s action, but inside, he was hurting over it. And because Hutch hurt, they both did. Starsky wanted to help, even if he wasn’t sure how.

“Hey,” Hutch whispered, eyes on him. The voice was hesitant. “C’mere, willya?” He opened his arms to make good his invitation, adjusting long body and limbs for Starsky to lie down on top of him.

Comfortably in place, Starsky observed him, eyes traveling over the clear-carved face, feeling the beating of the proud heart. This was not the time to make love. Hutch needed warmth and companionship much more than sex tonight–as good as that would be.

As good as I could make it. He played with a few silver slips of hair falling across the furrowed brow, appreciating the loveliness of the rest falling back in a brief, bright wave.

“Y’know, there’s a lotta people in this world that’d envy me bein’ here with you.” His blood had begun to run under high pressure, and he guessed it couldn’t be helped. ”Listen t’me, huh?” Despite all his good intentions, he was passionately in love with this man. Their relationship was simply not going to be platonic anymore. “You’re beautiful, inside and out. And–“ How to say it without sounding like a valentine card? “I’ll always be there for you. You’re never gonna lose me.”

“I hope not.” Hutch stroked his arm, gently. ”’Cause right now, I don’t feel so beautiful.”

“S’all in the eye of the beholder, Blintz. An’ that’s me.”

They spent the evening lying together on the comfortable couch, not talking much; listening to music, being tolerant with each other; keeping it simple. Eventually, Starsky fetched a bottle of wine and half a roast chicken from Hutch’s refrigerator, and they shared it. Cloth napkins were arranged by Starsky with a waiter’s flourish, spread across their laps.

It was twilight, now; the room had darkened around them without their noticing. The light was violet-gray. Starsky leaned across to turn on the lamp but Hutch caught him, taking a kiss from him. This time, it was more than a request for comfort.

“How long can you stay?”

No mystery why Hutch had asked the question. “I dunno,” Starsky said, doubtfully, though his body had been on alert for quite some time. “You sure–?”

Hutch interrupted him, a lilting light in his eyes. “Are you telling me you’re not?”

Their lips met again, and this time Hutch thrilled him to his core, leaving him shaken by the expertise of the kiss.

He breathed out, afterward, already rising from the couch. ”Nice. Let’s find the bedroom, huh?”

~*~*~

He fucked Hutch wickedly–exquisitely–on the carpeted floor beside the bed; left them both tangled, in disarray. To his surprise, Hutch was ready again, needing attention, just a heartbeat later. That hadn’t happened before, but he suspected that it was not a rare event for Hutch. He climbed on and brought the sweet second erection off inside his body, watching Hutch, glorying in the power to make his partner look and sound like that. Hutch’s renewed excitement and the beauty of the man in climax were wonderful miracles to him.

Ridiculously pleased, he couldn’t stop looking at his breathless lover afterward. They shared a smile, hugged, rolling on the floor like two kids, before lying in shameless abandon on the rug, just breathing. Starsky raised his head to survey the landscape. The scene–tumbled hair and yards of gold skin, one knee raised, blue eyes soft and rainy with afterglow, and looking deep into him–was very appealing.

Hutch seemed totally released from care. “Didn’t expect that,” he said, very softly.

“Me, neither, hotshot,” Starsky answered. “I think you finally really impressed me.” He took a smooch, then several more, while having his backside tenderly investigated. The moments that followed were playful, blissful, existing outside of time, and worry.

Starsky sat up, stretched, feeling great, glad to be alive and to be Hutch’s.

“You’re going soon?” Hutch’s voice asked, at his back.

“Doncha think I better? I was lucky to get away with a whole skin the last time I went AWOL.”

“You never did tell me what you said.”

“Just a lie. Livin’ like this is like bein’ undercover. You lie to protect yourself.” He shrugged. “Told her I got busy; fell asleep on the couch in my office.”

Hutch kept him from moving out of reach. ”How about spending a few days with me?” he asked.

Starsky turned to him, brows drawn together. “New Year’s?”

“It’s kind of a surprise. Quentin’s letting me have his place out in Colorado for New Year’s. I–uh, I hadn’t decided whether to take him up on it. But you and I could sure use some time together. We deserve some time, after the last few months…. Patronizing all those classy hotels, for crying out loud.” As he talked, he began rubbing thoughtfully at his smooth chest, looking at the ceiling. “Our plane reservations are already made…there’s no excuse for us not to go. You know?”

Starsky already knew what his answer was going to be. ”Yeah, I know, I–”

“Tickets waiting for us at the counter….”

”Hutch, it’s–”

“Rental car standing by on the other end. All we have to do is show up–”

“Hutch.” He got the blond’s apparently abstracted attention, realizing, when he saw the playful smile tugging at Hutch’s lips, that his lover had only been teasing him. “Think I need a sales pitch?” he asked, accepting the invitation. “I wanted to spend it with you, anyhow, knowin’ we couldn’t have Christmas. Just wasn’t sure how to manage the whole thing. Now I’ve got an excuse.”

“A note from the teacher?”

“‘Hide it where you can see it,’ partner. Two buddies takin’ a ski weekend and it’ll work. Wanna know why? ‘Cause it’s the truth.”

Hutch snorted, chuckling, raising up on one elbow. “Two buddies taking off during the biggest party weekend of the year. If Liza doesn’t suspect us of sleeping together, she’ll think we’re going out after the babes.”

“Okay, I’ll have to be twice as convincing when I make my case.” A little practice had definitely hardened him. He paused in consideration, reaching for his socks. “Hey, Hutch. I don’t like t’bring it up, but…. You think she’d ever?” He paused, considering it. ”Think she does?”

”Who’d ever what?”

“Liza. Suspect me an’ you of sleepin’ together. She’s pretty sure I’m sleepin’ around with somebody.”

“She’s asked you?”

“Sorry to say.”

“And?”

“I think she really tried to believe me.”

“Well, is that the first thing you’d think?” Hutch took hold of Starsky’s chin, affectionately, looked into his eyes. “These two guys are getting it on?”

”If memory serves, they said it about us even before.”

“And anybody who knew us, knew it wasn’t true. The two of us being lovers, now, after all this time, is pretty far-fetched. I mean, if there’s no evidence….”

”Maybe. I dunno.” Starsky mock-shivered. “Let’s change the subject. Here we are planning a woodsy weekend together. I don’t wanna think about gumshoes hidin’ in the bushes.”

~*~*~

He sucked it up and told her his plans. They were in their bathroom together, Liza just out of the shower, tying on her black and white bathrobe. She was looking past him at his reflection in the mirror. “I thought we’d spend New Years’ with Pat and Jason.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” Starsky said, pausing in the act of shaving, turning away from the mirror image to look at the real woman. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I just–assumed. We had such a great time at their party last year.”

“Fair’s fair. Hutch asked me first.”

“And you’re going?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “Oh, why do I even bother to ask? If Hutch says ‘Starsk, take a flying leap into the Grand Canyon,’ you head for Arizona.”

Starsky ignored that. “Honey, I accepted the invitation so there’s no use arguin’ about it,” he said mildly. “You shoulda told me about this Pat and Jason thing sooner.”

“So what am I supposed to do while you’re doing God knows what in Colorado?”

“Get a sitter for the kids, go out and have a good time. With my blessing.”

~*~*~

Arriving at noon, they stood there staring, their breath smoking in the frigid mountain air. The “cabin” turned out to be a skillfully rustic chalet of wood and stone and glass. When they went inside, the brilliant outdoors–mountains, trees, the sky, and the snow–seemed to follow, allowed in by the architect at every opportunity by windows, bays, skylights.

“Wow,” Starsky said, looking around. “Even I could get used t’living in the woods in a great shack like this.”

Impressed, they explored. This “shack” had three bedrooms, and every possible amenity. There was a ceiling-to-floor stone fireplace in the living room, a redwood hot tub, a sauna.

They set up light housekeeping, puttering around together in the bright kitchen.

”We’ll have to bring in some of that wood if we want a fire,” Hutch said, looking through the big kitchen window at the cords of wood stacked just outside.

“Okay,” Starsky said. ”Let’s do it now.”

Putting on coats and gloves, they went outside. It was cold, but sunny, the air unearthly still, the sky cobalt blue. Starsky engaged Hutch in a titanic snowball fight, snow coming down everywhere in rainbowed clouds of spray.

Hutch was a Viking, completely in his element up here. When they brought the firewood inside, he was glowing. ”Wait’ll you see what I have planned for lunch,” he said, happily, ditching his down parka. “Tell me somethin’, Starsk.” He’d opened the refrigerator and was rummaging around inside. Now he peeked over the door. “How do you feel about an eggplant and tofu sauté? A little cumin, a little basil….”

“You never quit.” Starsky hoped his look of threat was sufficient.

Lunch turned out to be salmon steaks a la Hutchinson, carefully prepared with avocado and tomato slices and new potatoes. After, on a whim, they drove down to the ski-lodge nestled in the valley below Clancy’s Ridge and spent the afternoon on the junior ski-slopes, horsing around in the peppery cold while Hutch gave Starsky a skiing lesson.

“Hutch, I think I’m gettin’ real frostbite out here,” Starsky complained, finally, pulling a hand out of one of his gloves to look for signs of blight.

“Oh, yeah, Jean-Claude? Well, a nice après ski toddy oughta set you right up.”

Starsky did a patented double-take. “A nice what?”

They had their toddy and decided on dinner in the crowded restaurant-lounge. Their food was good, the atmosphere was holiday, and people were friendly, uninhibited. They found themselves invited to party after party by the most spectacular Aspen beauties.

When one last brace of these walked away, the two men looked after them and sighed reminiscently, breaking into laughter when they caught each other’s eye. “Gone are the days,” Starsky chuckled. All the invitations were accepted with equanimity. No one would notice if they didn’t show up.

Starsky found himself studying his partner, registering how handsome Hutch looked. The blond was wearing a heavy brown plaid shirt and rough cream-colored sweater that suited him well. Starsky couldn’t blame any lady who might want to meet him–he was natural, a wealth of man; he shone like a Colorado morning.

Starsky considered the lovely women that had just left the table. Hutch had looked, sure–as he had himself–but Hutch was single, and technically available. Did he still sometimes want a girl? An expert cocksmith like Hutch? He has to.

“Yknow,” he ventured. “You don’t need my permission, if you want to….”

Sipping his beer, Hutch looked at him, curiously.

“What I mean t’say,” Starsky continued, cheeks warming. “Is that if you happen to meet some fascinatin’ lady, an’ she really liked you, and you really liked her, I wouldn’t want you to think twice about–”

 “What’re you telling me, Starsky?” Hutch’s smile was in his eyes. ”You want an open marriage?”

“Seriously, Hutch. I know we have some kinda commitment to each other, but by the same token, a man shouldn’t have to live like a priest.”

“Priests do, don’t they?”

“I don’t remember you bein’ ordained.” Starsky had to chuckle. “Shut up, willya? I’m offerin’ you your freedom.”

“Okay, look. If it happens, I’ll go with the flow. But, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to think about somebody else. I came out here to be with you.”

A jazz band had been setting up and started its set.

“Want to wait around for midnight?” Hutch asked, over the noise.

”Nah.” Starsky yanked him close to speak directly into his ear. “I wanna see the old year out in more private surroundings, with more exclusive company.”

~*~*~

The snowfield fell away gradually down the mountain, flowing like ermine around the dark trees and out under the moon, untouched. A shimmering fireworks display had just begun down at the ski-lodge, lighting the valley, painting cold intense colors on the snow. Standing at the window that was nearly all of the eastern wall of the cabin, Starsky couldn’t stop looking. He’d never seen a sight so achingly beautiful. He sighed with happiness, hugging himself.

The room behind him was fire lit, cozy. He turned, wearing, he knew, a big, sheepish grin, and found another beautiful sight: Hutch, in a coal-colored sweater, tending their fire, graced by the warm illumination.

His partner’s hair had gradually lengthened over the last few months, til now it fell like burnished silver, just covering his neck. Hutch had been playing his guitar but had set it aside to poke idly at the fire in the enormous fireplace, throw another log or two in. He’s a caretaker, Starsky thought. A provider; a good man. If he had a family of his own he’d break his back to keep food on the table, keep ’em warm. And he loves me.

“A good man is hard to find,” he murmured, catching Hutch’s attention.

“Don’t you mean it the other way around?”

“Yeah, that, too.” He went over, laid down, plopping his head into Hutch’s lap. Gentle fingers sank into and stroked his hair. The fire crackled, to get their attention. “Fire’s noisy. I like it popping.”

“It’s knotty pine.”

“I’ll file that information away for future reference.”

Hutch ribbed him. “In the dusty attic of your mind, you mean? His fingers circumscribed Starsky’s skull. “There might not be any room.”

“Watch your step. Is it midnight, yet?”

Hutch lifted Starsky’s own wrist without comment and read the time. “11:52. Think the bottle’s properly chilled?”

Starsky sat up to check the bottle in the bucket nearby. “Perfect. Why wait ’til midnight? You want ze champagne now, m’sieur?”

“You bet. This minute.”

Starsky poured for both of them, held his glass up to the fire-light for a moment to watch the string of bubbles. “Here’s to you an’ me,” he said, then. “To bein’ here together.”

Hutch clicked his glass, smiling. “Here’s to happiness.”

“Perfect toast. Here’s to happiness. All we can grab, beg, borrow, or steal.”

The minutes counted down, the time spent watching the fire and each other; the fire less as time went on. Starsky felt the effects of the champagne–or was it just being here all alone and at momentary peace with his love, that was getting him high? Maybe a little bit of both. At the stroke of midnight, the brand-new year arrived in Colorado, accompanied by the incoming sounds of firecrackers and rockets.

“Happy New Year,” Hutch whispered, wearing his big, open heart right there on his sleeve. Hope and love and friendship–and that poignant gentleness that made Hutch–Hutch…. And none of it hidden.

Starsky felt as if he were falling in love all over again, right at this moment. “Ah, happy New Year, Hutch. An’ many more, even better.” He had to believe there would be.

Already close, they touched, and kissed, meeting softly and slowly.

~*~*~

They’d gotten riotously drunk, played like kids before dropping into bed. The evening ended with the miracle of being able to sleep undisturbed in each other’s arms. In the middle of the night, with the room cool and still, Hutch woke to diffuse snow-light and not much more, to make sure his companion was still with him.

Starsky was here; every warm, sensuous foot of him, breathing heavy, but not quite snoring, with his face punching the pillow. Hutch smiled in the dark, knowing the man lying beside him could probably breathe just fine with a king-sized mattress over his face. Not intending to disturb Starsky’s sleep, he reached out anyway, wanting to enjoy the gifts of his only love, and to take his time, for once.

Sleeping, Starsky was accommodating and–in his sleep, anyway–pliant. His body was trusting, an offer of fur and silk and steel, of resistance and unexpected yield.

Hutch couldn’t resist sampling Starsky’s surface; he’d rarely had the leisure to. The always surprising lushness of ass, the shallow valley between the broad muscles of Starsky’s back, the corded swell of a thigh, silky tantalizing ridge of runner’s girdle…. Heart pounding, he kissed his lover’s ear, temple, catching the echoes of cologne and soap, letting his nose drift through the short, strong curls. Everything–the whole sweet package–delighted him.

The weird and wonderful part was, he longed just as much for the simple sound of Starsky’s voice; Starsky being away from him in sleep was almost beyond his capacity to bear. You still don’t get it, Hutchinson? This is the real thing. At last, always…. He’s here for you.

Wretchedly in love, he exhaled a held breath and lay back on his pillow, all his nerves and muscles wide awake. The fire had long turned to embers, red eyes staring back at him in the dark. Left on his own resources, he would without a doubt stay awake, sighing until dawn.

“Hutch?”

That small sleepy whisper made his heart quicken with delight, anticipation. “Yeah?”

“Whassamatter? Can’t sleep, somethin’?”

Hutch leaned close to pull at the curls, soft as feathers, at Starsky’s nape. “Don’t want to.” He didn’t feel any guilt at breaking his lover’s rest.

The dark head lifted in the gray-velvet gloom, periscoped around. After a thorough rubbing, shadowed eyes found him. “S’still night, ain’t it?”

“It’ll be light in a couple of hours.”

“I get the feelin’ you’ve been makin’ big plans without me,” Starsky murmured, moving nearer to slide a leg between Hutch’s. A friendly kiss dusted the side of the blond’s mouth.

Starsky couldn’t have expected the reaction he got. Still half-asleep, he had no idea of the pent-up longings and intentions that had ended Hutch’s rest. Wordlessly, Hutch bore him to the pillow, and pinned him there, invading the soft, unprepared mouth. He exulted when Starsky regrouped and plundered his.

“Hey,” Starsky managed, breathless when they had finished with each other. For a hushed moment, they were face to face in the dark. Starsky ran his thumbs down along Hutch’s cheekbones, observant with a sixth sense.

“All you gotta do is ask. It’s yours.”

Hutch accepted the gift. “So many things I want to try with you,” he breathed against Starsky’s mouth. But what good were words? He had a way to demonstrate the depth of his feelings. It was something he’d never thought about doing. Now, so much in love he hurt with it, he couldn’t resist the impulse. He made his way slowly, down Starsky’s body.

His partner gave out a gut-wrenching “Ahhh.” Testing his lover’s reactions, Hutch had to wonder, Didn’t anybody else ever–?

Appreciative, Starsky lifted his hips, parting them wide, offering all of himself up to a fresh form of sex play. “…that’s….”

To the senses he was natural; no more, no less. But he was so sweetly vulnerable, so responsive. For Hutch, the act was its own aphrodisiac. Aching, he probed deeper and Starsky pushed back, breathing his name. He pulled the cock through and bathed it, too, concentrating all of his attention on it.

Finally, with a soft, wordless sound, Starsky rolled over, sex leaping eagerly to him. “I want you to have it.” He caressed hard across Hutch’s chest, anxious to make love to him, please him as he had been pleased. “God, it’s–”

“Not now.” Hutch knew he couldn’t have waited for it. Silently letting Starsky know what he wanted, he barely waited to be accepted and finished hard and fast, in a flurry of raw greed. It ended too quickly to share and the regret he experienced was real. “I can come again,” he promised, touching himself with reassurance.

“Damn right you can, buddy-boy,” Starsky breathed, eager after tending to Hutch, more than prepared. “I’m gonna make you.”

Hutch’s mouth was grazed roughly by Starsky’s, his stomach rubbed, heated eyes pinning him. More kisses, commands, Starsky hauling him onto his side, moving behind him, taking him close–with very little help finding, entering. Hutch grabbed for something, the bed, Starsky; pushing through pain into pleasure, into…no words to describe the sensation. As if there’d never been any other way for him.

So little time they’d had to experiment, the position, mundane as it was, lying on their sides, was new for them, exciting. Starsky, providing pleasure for both, strove single-mindedly for both results. Hutch was being speared, burned. When it happened, with Starsky swearing at him, grabbing him in a painful bear-hug to share the climax, Hutch’s soul hit the ceiling. Us. It happened again, coming together. They were good for each other, it was that simple, that easy. The release was long-drawn, piercing.

Water burned Hutch’s tightly shut eyes at the fulfillment he was being given. Tears…. That had honestly never happened to him. Satisfaction pulled a soul-deep cry out of him.

Moments passed and his lover rested behind him, panting against his neck, thighs shaking slightly. Fingers slippery with his own semen reached up to stroke his side, the hand to rest there, Starsky content with him.

“I love you, Hutch,” came the tender whisper. ”With all my being.” A kiss moistened Hutch’s shoulder. “I love you more every time we’re together.”

“I feel the same– I love you.”

“Don’t even know how it can be.” Starsky pulled his lover closer, to comfort. “Do you? It’s so strong….”

~*~*~

Using up what was left of this night, they slept the next day through. At a little after five in the evening, Starsky rose to make coffee, pulling on a pair of cotton briefs and Hutch’s black sweater–the first items he found. The sweater hung off of him, left only the tips of his fingers showing.

In passing he thought about filling the hot tub. A long soak might be good medicine for both of them after yesterday. Skiing and sex and two bottles of champagne. Hell of a prescription; bound to take it out of a person. His body felt the pleasurable strain of it. Hutch was stirring now in the other room, coughing, roaring with a good stretch.

“Starsky!”

“I’m here! You sound like a bear comin’ outta hibernation!”

They’d been together ’til the sun came up, and long after. Over the course of the night, with catnaps and showers, mutual massages and cups of hot tea between, they’d been preoccupied with each other; no sex marathon–though sexual things had happened–but mainly talking, making up for the hurried times. Worth the trip….

A happy man, Starsky set about preparing a light meal for them, more than content to, turning on the kitchen sound system, moving unconsciously as he worked, and singing.

“That for me?”

He stopped and turned in mid-lyric. Hutch was watching him from the door, vermilion towel tucked around his waist, a smaller white one draping his neck. He was damp, fresh, wearing an indulgent smile.

“The fruit salad?” Starsky replied, well aware that he was overdoing the innocent bit and that Hutch knew him well enough to be on to him.

“If the shoe fits.” Hutch had never been talking about what was happening on the countertop. “What’s in that?” he asked. “Jello?”

“On springs, blue-eyes.” Smugly, Starsky turned back to his fresh fruit. His work was done.

Behind, Hutch softly cleared his throat, in preparation for something. “Starsk, uh–?”

“Yeah?”

“Ever had it on a kitchen counter?” His lover was approaching–no, strike that. Impending.

Starsky chuckled silently, turning a banana into tender slices. ”Not with you. Think you’re up to it?” Was there any doubt?

Under the influence of Hutch’s gravity, he found himself touched gently, then pulled from aft, Hutch pressing close to him. He could feel the powerful body’s surrounding heat, the details of his friend through thin layers of toweling, and his cock stirred involuntarily. The things in his grasp were distractions, meaningless when his hands would have much preferred to gather in some of that muscle and gold skin behind him. “Hutch….”

“I just hate to see you dancing alone,” Hutch whispered.

“Instigator,” Starsky accused, tsking.

“Oh, yeah. You are,” Hutch turned the accusation around, correctly. “Absolutely. Incorrigible.”

They held each other for a time, listening to the quiet.

“Good, isn’t it?” Hutch asked, softly, sounding happy.

Starsky nodded, rubbing the lightly-furred arms around him. His sweater was pulled down from his shoulder, and a butterfly touched his shoulder, his neck Hutch’s lips, like velvet. Swallowing hard, he had to turn and slip his arms around. ”Never had anybody I wanted all the time,” he sighed, shakily. “You got an explanation?”

“Chemistry?” Hutch offered with a pleased expression, gathering him in.

“Whatever it is. It’s makin’ me completely crazy! Hutch, oh God….”

“We’ve got a day and a half to recover, if you’re interested.” Hutch sought a kiss, brushing full lips across the corners of Starsky’s mouth, teasing at first, tempting, then delivering with feeling. His taste was irresistible–mint, man, friend–hard to give up his mouth.

Starsky had to, to speak. ”Uh-uh, don’t think so.” He leaned against the counter, exposing himself to a sudden gentle aggression, having the outsized sweater pulled up and off him. ”Not yet.”

He held the shining water-smooth head, breathing hard as Hutch loved his body. He watched for a while. White teeth capturing a nipple expertly, applying just the right amount of pressure…. Easy, boy. Taking the other. He threw his head back. Slow, Hutch…. This kind of torture he could take for hours.

A moan slipped from him, as a pointed thrill shook his nervous system. By now, he was breathless, agitated. Arousal strained at the material of his underwear. Hutch fondled him through the soft cotton. “If that’s in the way….” he invited.

Hutch shared his mounting excitement, tracing the skin of his neck, chest, shuddering belly, then finding his mouth again. Hands slid south along his flanks, inside his scant covering, urging down until his cock leaped free. Felt so delicious, he cried out like a kid. In a hurry, he undid Hutch’s towel, pushed it away.

Definitely a first for them–slow fuck on a barstool. After, they both pulled for breath, taking each other’s. Hutch groaned, his color still high. Starsky rubbed at the beautiful bloom across his lover’s chest, then down the slick belly. Hutch was shaking, stroking him in return, looking him over. “Half the night… And I still–”

“That’s what it’s for,” Starsky offered, for his lover’s ear alone. Could Hutch really be apologizing for wanting and enjoying a lot of sex? This man’s thought processes had never ceased to befuddle him at times. “I’m your lover, Hutch.” He was truly confused, at a loss; and knew he must have sounded it because Hutch held him tighter. The blond’s cheek was moist, rough-silk where he rubbed his own against it. A moment passed like that. They weren’t looking at each other, but they didn’t need to. Hutch tasted his sweat.

“I want all of it,” Starsky breathed, suddenly vehemently determined that Hutch should never doubt that again. “Every drop of you. Get it through your head, willya? Once and for all.” He held Hutch close, worriedly.

My God, Starsky thought, a little startled. Sure, the time they’d had together had been limited. But he’s been holdin’ back from me up to now, anyway, not letting himself climb in too deep, or begin to depend on anything; time with me, this kind of sex. How could he? Deep down he musta thought it was gonna end any time. He’s been preparin’ for it since we started. ‘Friendship’s okay with me.’ Wasn’t that what he’d said back at the beginning, what he’s been tryin’ t’tell me?

“You’re mine, Hutch. You belong to me. Hear what I’m sayin’?” In a second he half-laughed, hugging Hutch tight. “Me, talkin’ about lettin’ you step out with some lady. It’d kill me.” He grasped the way a less forbearing individual than Hutch might have felt about Liza. “Enough, already,” he distracted. “Shower time, huh? C’mon.”

~*~*~

After freshening their bodies, they composed, then hungrily disposed of a fruit salad. A friendly bottle of red wine went back to bed with them. There, quiet, close, they held each other, noting with shared wonder when it began to snow, the flakes enormous, like white palms pressing against the window before sliding down.

Some kind of restraining order had been lifted; in an ironic, sudden way the desperation was gone. Hutch was wonderful to be with; romantic, unconsciously, impossibly seductive…had been from the first. But today he was a man at peace, finding his dream and realizing it; accepting himself, his nature, and love–for the first time in his life maybe–and hiding nothing, not waiting for any axes to fall. Once at ease with the notion, a Hutch in love was a force of nature.

He also loved with his body. Today Starsky was initiated, shown how far Hutch would go to explore the limits of his fine senses. And Hutch wanted a friend and lover to accompany him. Starsky was ready to follow, but this was something very different, being planted just for the joy of the sowing, taken through a learners manual of positions, techniques, pressed and pursued by a lover–a friend–for whom he’d have done anything without question. He trusted and in return he was loved; brought gifts, delighted in a dozen different ways. Hutch wanted him all, and wanted to give him everything.

For most of this time they were matched; Starsky did have resources of his own. At last even he admitted he was bested; he could go no more. It had been the most intensely sexual experience he’d ever had. Hutch, tenderly victorious, had taken no prisoners, and Starsky found himself just looking at him.

Toward morning, they soaked briefly in the hot tub and lay down, infinitely exhausted, arms and legs plaited.

~*~*~

She was a sleepwalker, following her worst instincts without question. A wave of shame came with the realization, like bathing in ice water. How does an intelligent woman allow herself to behave this way?

Very easily. Ken Hutchinson had been the best lover she’d had in her life, and a decent human being, besides. And she was still in love with the big blond son-of-a-bitch. She’d have gotten around to telling him sooner if she’d had an inkling he was going to leave her. But she was a weigher, a compulsive judger of her own moves. Fear of commitment had made her hesitate when it would have really counted. In many ways, she and Ken were identical twins.

It was early morning, a Sunday. Sam From Siam, her chocolate Siamese, snoozed on the window seat. Jeri lay awake in bed. Two nights ago she’d seen Quentin Cohen at Lorenzo’s, a place she hated anyway. They had spoken only in passing, but she’d seen the old adept size up the entire situation at a glance. Out of sheer integrity he would present the facts to Ken, with no embroidery.

Rubbing her hard hill of belly absently, she too sized up the situation. There were certain facts Quentin did not possess.

When she first discovered the pregnancy she had wanted to terminate it. But she was thirty-two, after all, and like many young women of her time and station, felt a queer kind of obligation to have a baby at some point in her life; before her biological countdown reached zero. Now was as good a time as any, and Kenneth Hutchinson–intelligent, from good stock, healthy, handsome, with beautiful bones–was as good a candidate for fathering, as she was liable to find. She’d decided to keep the baby he gave her.

The fetus she carried couldn’t help but be a constant reminder of Hutch, already too much on her mind in those late summer, early fall months. And still too much. Curious about his new life from the start, she wanted to know what he’d found to take her place. Her reaction could have been considered a natural one.

Any woman might want to know for what or whom she’d been so unceremoniously dumped. But as an attorney, her curiosity led to concrete action; somehow, any itch that had to be scratched, got scratched.

She went a little crazy when she found herself, like some naïve little girl of sixteen, good and knocked-up; a mild schizophrenia, maybe, in which she was able to lead two entirely separate lives–one as a high-powered, highly competent corporate lawyer; the other as a quietly obsessive and slightly pathetic spurned woman. That woman could see herself as a victim in all this, as someone who’d been put in this unsightly position through no fault of her own. That second woman had misplaced her self-respect, and was now capable of acts the other would have found unconscionable.

Now she held some decent cards. Now she was suddenly in control of a snake she couldn’t seem to let go. She was capable of causing harm to a man who had hurt her, just by lifting her finger.

The investigator she’d “hired”–John Haddon, a family retainer and real old smoothie, was the best in the business. They had no contract; a word or two in the right ear and he was working for her. That was late July. Dapper, in his mid-60’s, he had been toiling at her behest, in his rather old-fashioned, but scrupulously expert way, ever since, and had compiled quite a dossier. The information it held–dates, times, places–added up to a damning schematic of Hutch’s recent life.

In her safe at the office, she had pictures and documents and, so far, two investigator’s notebooks crammed with firsthand notes. Hutch’s visitor on a late August night, the two men who checked into the SeaView Motel in Venice on two widely-separated occasions in September and October…. The hotels, the bars where the two played pool, or enjoyed a beer. On and on. Sketchy as all of it was, she held it like treasure.

Hutch had been impeccably careful, but Haddon was just as impeccable in his methodology. He had an advantage over the man he was investigating–Hutch did not know he was there. Early on, she had been apprised of Hutch’s steady relationship with a handsome, dark-haired man. He hadn’t been lying when he said he had someone, but it was far more complicated than that. The lover was Hutch’s former partner on the force, a lieutenant with the Los Angeles Police, and a married man with children. The relationship was illicit.

Perceptive, as she read between the lines she realized with a sense of shock that Starsky–this man–was the love of Hutch’s life; that he owned, and had perhaps always owned, what she’d been too self-centered and afraid to take when it was (temporarily) hers. He owned something she’d known she could never have because of him. David Michael Starsky was the hidden adversary whose identity she’d only guessed at before, the god locked inside the shrine, the precious holy relic.

He’d been Hutch’s best friend. How long had it been going on between them? Years? The evidence showed clearly that the affair the two men were having now was heated and committed…a case of love.

She came to the conclusion that Hutch had only ever loved one person without reservation in his entire life, and that was David Starsky. He had come to her only after his lover/partner–whatever–married. She’d never met David, and Hutch had never spoken of him, except in passing. The two may have simply fought and decided to go their separate ways. More likely it had been a case of homosexual panic on one of their parts (logically, the one–David–who’d rushed headlong into a marriage).

Jeri felt sorry for the wife, who probably believed her husband to be faithful, heterosexual, and who was actually living with a mirage, a faker. Someone ought to tell her, but it won’t be me. I have my own agenda.

She was not sure yet what she wanted to do with this data she had, the goods. Did she want to “get” Ken Hutchinson, take some kind of revenge? Was all this about simple pettiness? Or was it insurance, stock held against some future market? Her desire to keep him out of his child’s life gave a modicum of satisfaction.

But when Hutch had come to her office to see her, though his typical efforts at decency irrationally angered her, for some reason she’d said nothing about the dossier. His wish to help, to make some room in his life, had made her feel something for him, and know she still appreciated him, loved him, in many ways. She’d seen that her ambivalence toward him would not be easily dealt with.

But the time had not been right, and she had no idea when that time would be. Sitting there with a bloom of love about him he was not even aware of, Hutch had been satisfied as she’d never ever known him, deep down inside. He obviously lacked only one thing to have complete happiness. The undivided love of his David.

That love was very much divided. Jeri knew where Starsky lived, information not hard to obtain under any circumstances. But she knew how he lived, also. Two young children, three and five, the wife, and Hutch…. And they all had a piece of him, a right to him. What kind of man was he who could do what he was doing to his family (and his lover) out of love? It was insane.

Intrigued by him, it became surprisingly easy to find herself at Parker Center, on a single, shame-filled occasion, using some pretense to watch him for five minutes through the glass walls of his office, and to take his measure. Masculine, and, according to Haddon, well-liked and respected by his peers–a tight package of concentrated energy. He worked in shirtsleeves, hair mussed; he drank too much coffee and worked too many hours. But….

He was a man, not at all the beautiful pampered kid of twenty-five she’d pictured. Hutch had good taste. This man complemented him in a physical way sweet even to her eyes. And probably in other ways she could never know. No doubt, this was he who filled Hutch’s lonely places, and who’d seen the joyful ones, too; the carefree countries inside Ken she’d never seen, of comfort and sunshine; a man’s heart, a man’s mind. Starsky was probably the only human living who’d been given a set of keys to turn all the locks there, to open the doors and let out the light.

For Hutch to lose David would be to lose half of himself. Did she care to be responsible?

~*~*~

There was a new ease between them on the flight home. Some tension–more than sexual–had relaxed, some bow unstrung and laid to rest. The urgency seemed to have become something slightly deeper-flowing and a little truer…shaky, but on course.

Their dilemmas still loomed, ghosts at their shoulders, but what they made was good; would survive. They were a couple, and today they could be mundane if they wanted to be, talk of smaller things–sit close without needing to devour the closeness–or each other.

We started building a future back there, Hutch mused, taking a look at Starsky’s intermittently dozing profile in silhouette against the sunlit glass of the window. I think he’s been feeling it, too. Something about his eyes when he looks at me. He was open to me, before, but more times than I like to remember, I couldn’t read him. He can shut down tighter than a cyclone cellar.

But now…. Since last night he hasn’t had a single defense up, not one; eyes so unshielded they’re like a sky washed clean with rain, like he’s entrusted the entirety of his soul to me. Am I seeing the real David Michael Starsky for the first time? Is that possible? My best friend still to be discovered?

~*~*~

He and Starsky parted at the airport, taking separate cabs as they had done when they departed for Aspen. Starsky’s had only just now pulled off when the sound of screeching tires turned heads, including Hutch’s. When he turned, there was a man ostensibly looking for a taxi, also. But while almost every head had turned at the sound, that man was looking right at him, right into his eyes. Only for an instant…. The older man smoothly altered his reaction, turned to investigate the momentary hubbub of a fender-bender. But not quickly enough.

Something about the old man registered with Hutch. Some buried impression stirring, trying to grab his attention…. It was a sensation he’d had before, many a time. Faintly bothered, he knew he would not be satisfied until he had placed the man. White-haired, spectacled, expensive rain coat, mid-60’s -he looked like a banker or a stockbroker, carrying his newspaper, smoking a pipe….

Is that where I know him from? Business connection? Hutch’s mind ran over the possibilities, times, events, places, of the last several months. An ability to remember faces and places was a tool that had helped him function as a good cop. But picking up insignificant details, almost unconsciously, was a gift of his own. More than once it had kept him –and Starsky–alive.

And he remembered when and where he had seen this guy: at Metro, the night he’d picked Starsky up to go someplace for a drink and later, back to his place. A chill caught his backbone.

You were standing there, taking a newspaper out of the vending machine, looking over the front page under the streetlight. I noticed you because there was nothing but the passing crowd to be a part of until Starsky came out of the building. But you were outside it all. I remember your solitude, old man. Got me to thinking about mine.

Seeing that same man again could have been a coincidence, of course; something simple enough to explain it away. But Hutch had always trusted the unpleasant feeling he was experiencing now. It was like having a fish-hook bedded in the soft tissue of his brain, a sign of, if not outright danger, then trouble; it had never failed him, and it was usually on the money. Right now, it was telling him something that he would rather not have known. How long had this man been–been circling him, keeping just out of sight, like a flash seen out of the comer of the eye? A week? A month? There must have been other times, other places. He’s keeping tabs on me. On us…. For whom, and why? The answers–the suspicions–were not welcome. Hutch realized that one way or another he had to know.

Without his presence ever being suspected, the well-dressed geezer must have felt invisible, cloaked–probably got off on the challenge of concealing himself in plain sight, thinking we didn’t know he was there, thinking he was covered. Well, friend, that’s fine. Two can definitely play the game.

Hutch looked at his watch, buying a split-second to think, plan. Then he went back into the terminal and rented a car. Let him wonder why.

In twenty minutes he had the car, a new Ford. He knew his escort would catch up to him; he drove normally, keeping a cool eye on the rear-view mirror.

That had to be it, the sedate green Chrysler, not too close, not too far away.

We were careful! Hutch pounded his fist against the steering wheel. So goddamned careful. Denying ourselves moments we could’ve easily taken. For what? Oh, God, Starsky. It wasn’t fair.

Hutch had to find out who was pulling the investigator’s strings–if that’s what his escort was. He checked his rear view again. The green Chrysler was still there but the man driving it was a professional, keeping well back. No wonder I never noticed him. Then again, why would I? I wasn’t looking.

He drove through town toward Venice, down streets–and into scenes, places–he used to know like the back of his hand.

To be continued…

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