DOUBLE YOUR PLEASURE

This is like the steak specials at my local market: buy one, get

one free. When you buy this book, 100% of the proceeds go to

the Lambda Legal fund, to help in their fight against California’s

Proposition 8. That’s a good thing in itself, as I’m sure you will

agree. But, not only are you making a donation to a cause we all

care deeply about, you also get—this is the FREE part—a

collection of 20 stories from an elite list of M/M and LGBT

writers. How can you beat a deal like that?

And what a collection! There’s surely something here for

every taste: man on man and woman on woman; fantasy and

funny and sizzling and sweet. Swans and Snow Queens and

salty sailors and slithering serpents, oh my! And Holy Macaroni,

but you’re going to have to buy the book to figure that out.

French Legionnaires do it in the mud; little girls grow up

married from childhood, and first timers discover the magic. All

of the myriad elements of love lost and found and refined and

redefined. I could go on and on, too, but every story here is a

treasure on its own; together, they make up one of those rare

“read-over-and-over-and-keep-forever” books.

I recommend stocking up. Get some steaks while you’re at it,

you’re going to be doing a lot of curling up.

Victor J. Banis

Author of The Man from C.A.M.P.,

Lola Dances and Deadly Nightshade

  

Something old, something new, something borrowed,

something blue: twenty tales — funny, sweet, erotic, poignant

— from some of the best and brightest writers in GLBT

romance. Never has support for a good cause been more

delicious, more delectable than in this generous helping of life

— and love — affirming stories.

Josh Lanyon

Author of the Adrien English Mystery Series and

Man, Oh Man! Writing M/M for Kinks and Ca$h

I Do!

ALEX BEECROFT, CHARLIE COCHRANE,

FIONA GLASS, JEANNE BARRACK, P.A. BROWN,

ERASTES, TRACEY PENNINGTON,

CLARE LONDON, SHARON MARIA BIDWELL,

LISABET SARAI, STORM GRANT, MARQUESATE,

LEE ROWAN, ZA MAXFIELD,

MOONDANCER DRAKE, MALLORY PATH,

EMMA COLLINGWOOD, ALLISON WONDERLAND,

JERRY L. WHEELER, ZOE NICHOLS AND

CASSIDY RYAN

mlrpress

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are

used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or

persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2009 by Alex Beecroft

Copyright 2009 by Marquesate

Copyright 2009 Charlie

Copyright 2009 by Lee Rowan

Cochrane

Copyright 2009 by ZA Maxfield

Copyright 2009 by Fiona Glass

Copyright 2009 by Moondancer

Copyright 2009 by Jeanne

Drake

Barrack

Copyright 2009 by Mallory Path

Copyright 2009 by P.A. Brown

Copyright 2009 by Emma

Copyright 2009 by Erastes

Collingwood

Copyright 2009 by Tracey

Copyright 2009 by Allison

Pennington

Wonderland

Copyright 2009 by Clare London

Copyright 2009 by Jerry L.

Copyright 2009 by Sharon Maria

Wheeler

Bidwell

Copyright 2009 by Zoe Nichols

Copyright 2009 by Lisabet Sarai

& Cassidy Ryan

Copyright 2009 by Storm Grant

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole

or in part in any form.

Published by

MLR Press, LLC

3052 Gaines Waterport Rd. Albion, NY 14411

Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:

www.mlrpress.com

Edited by Kris Jacen

Cover Art by Alex Beecroft

Additional cover work by Deana C. Jamroz

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN# 978-1-934531-70-9

2009

TABLE OF CONTENTS

HEAT RATING:

Sweet

Spicy

Scorching

m/m The Lindorm’s Twin

by Tracey Pennington ................................................. 1

m/m Desire and Disguise

by Alex Beecroft

................................................... 27

m/m The Roaming Heart

by Charlie Cochrane

.............................................. 45

m/m Outed

by Clare London ...................................................... 55

m/m Lust in Translation

by Storm Grant

.................................................. 63

f/f Making Memory

by Lisabet Sarai ....................................................... 93

m/m Swansong

by Sharon Maria Bidwell

................................... 111

m/m Finally Forever

by Jeanne Barrack .................................................. 121

m/m Code of Honour

by Marquesate

..................................................... 127

m/m Tango and Temptation

by ZA Maxfield

.................................................. 159

m/m The Mistake

by P.A. Brown

.................................................. 179

f/f Holy Macaroni (and Cheese)

by Allison Wonderland .......................................... 193

m/m The Snow Queen

by Erastes ............................................................. 199

f/f Better Than Beautiful

by Zoe Nichols & Cassidy Ryan

......................... 221

m/m Semi-detached

by Emma Collingwood ........................................... 235

m/m Rules of the Game

by Mallory Path

................................................. 247

m/m Templeton’s In Love

by Jerry L. Wheeler ................................................ 253

f/f True Love

by Moondancer Drake ........................................... 271

m/m Salad Days

by Fiona Glass ...................................................... 279

m/m Wedding Announcement

by Lee Rowan ....................................................... 285

FOREWORD

The passing of Proposition 8 in California outraged a huge

amount of people. I think it takes a special kind of blindness to

human suffering to feel the need to legally dissolve someone

else’s marriage. In my view it’s ridiculous to say that allowing

people to get married is somehow a threat to the institution of

marriage.

This book came about as a result of the passing of

Proposition 8. Many of my on-line friends took part in protest

marches, but many others were not able to do that, because —

like me — they lived in the UK or in Australia or Canada. Our

joint frustration at being unable to do something to help

combined in my head with a throwaway remark of Josh

Lanyon’s, and I thought well maybe we can at least make money for someone who is fighting for marriage equality? Maybe if we can’t march, we can write for the cause.

So the idea of this book was born. I would ask other authors

of LGBT fiction, if they would contribute stories towards an

anthology, and all the profits from the sale of the book would

go to the Lambda Legal fund, the USA’s oldest and largest legal

organization working for the civil rights of lesbians, gay men,

and people with HIV/AIDS. http://www.lambdalegal.org/

I admit, when I made my first post about this anthology on

my blog, I had no idea there would be such a massive response.

Everyone seemed desperate to help. The message spread

throughout the LGBT fiction writing community like wildfire,

and within days MLR Press had offered to publish the book for

nothing, and we had a volunteer editor, proof-reader and

acquisitions team. Within weeks we had more stories than we

could fit in to our initial word count. We asked to make the

book bigger and were allowed to. More stories arrived until the

larger word count was still too small, and we began to have to

turn stories away.

The book you see now, therefore, contains an attempt to fit a

quart of support and love for the LGBT community and

outrage at Prop 8 into the pint-pot of this volume. More people

have come together to express their support for marriage

equality through this book than I can possibly mention. But I

would like to at least thank:

The submissions team: Erastes, Lee Rowan, Charlie

Cochrane.

Our editor: Kris Jacen

Our proof reader: Emilie Pitt

Laura Baumbach of MLR Press for volunteering to publish

us.

And all the authors who offered a story for inclusion in this book, whether your story was accepted or not. You all lit a

candle rather than cursing the dark. Thank you!

Alex Beecroft

The Lindorm’s Twin

TRACEY PENNINGTON

There were two princes. People forget that now, for the older one got into the stories and was remembered, however

imperfectly. The younger vanished from sight and from men’s

minds, his family and people forgetting him even as he rode

through the castle portcullis for the last time. Only his twin

brother remembered him, even after the whole country had

forgotten. Snakes have long memories.

There were strange tales about how they were conceived, for

the king and queen had long needed an heir. If there were no

heir, the kingdom would collapse into ruination when the king

and queen died. Once this happened, one or another of their

nation’s neighbors would invade, claiming the land by right of

conquest.

Some said that the queen drank foul herbal concoctions,

submitted to the prying fingers of healers, and made countless

pilgrimages to holy places, beseeching Heaven for a child.

Others said that in desperation she went to a wise woman who

dwelt in the wood, a woman said to have delivered a thousand

healthy babes to mothers who had never expected to give birth.

No one knows what the wise woman — if indeed there was

a wise woman — told the queen. Rumors flew about that the

queen had been bidden to eat one smooth flower bud, but to

leave one covered in tendrils, or a white rose but not a red one.

Others said that the wise woman commanded her to eat two

onions so that she would have two sons, but that the queen

forgot to peel the first before she ate it. All the tales agree on

one thing, however: eating the wrong thing, be it crimson

flower or unpeeled onion, would cause the birth of great evil.

All nonsense, of course, for what woman was ever brought

to childbed by eating an onion? And yet it cannot be denied that

nine months later, the queen did give birth to a fine boy, to the

astonishment of the entire nation.

Only the queen and her midwife knew the truth. Before the

healthy baby boy was born, the queen birthed a hideous

lindorm.

Even newborn, it was huge, as long and thick as a man’s

arm. It was covered with greenish-black scales and bore two

twisted black horns on its head. Its eyes were the dark of

2 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

moonless midnight. It opened its jaws so wide that it looked as

if half of its face had dropped off, and its fangs dripped with

thick, yellowish venom.

The midwife did what any woman would do; she screamed

at the top of her lungs, and flung the serpent out of the queen’s

bedroom window, hoping that it would perish.

It didn’t die, of course. Evil is hard to kill.

The little prince grew, as children will. He was never an

exciting child — neither unusually strong nor exceptionally wise

nor very innocent. He was liked by his family and his people,

and if he wasn’t loved, he didn’t know the difference. Not then.

Then one day, when he was twenty or so, he went for a hunt

in the forest near the castle. He soon became separated from

his companions, and no matter how diligently he searched for

his friends and servants, he could not find them. Wherever he

turned, there was a thick, yellowish fog separating him from

them, and however often he called out, he heard only a faint

rustling noise that neither he nor his horse liked at all.

At last the prince grew angry and called out, “Whoever you

are, cease this! I have no time for such enchantments as this. I

must go home!”

“You are home, so far as I am concerned,” said a cold and

terrible voice.

And there, lying directly in front of the prince’s path, was a

gigantic lindorm—nine times as large as a man, and gazing at

the prince with cruelly amused eyes.

The sight of such an enormous snake was too much for the

prince’s horse, and it reared, flung the prince to the ground,

then bolted.

The prince stood up, rubbing his sore back and aching legs.

“Greetings, Sir Lindorm,” he said politely. “I thank you for

your gracious hospitality, but I cannot remain. My parents will

be expecting me at home, and I have a wife that I am to meet in

three days’ time.”

“A wife!” This roused the lindorm to anger. “You are

married?”

I DO! 3

“No,” said the prince, “but I’m to be married soon. My

betrothed and I are to meet for the first time three days hence.

All I’ve seen of her ere now is her painting.”

“Then let me tell you this, young prince,” hissed the

lindorm. “You have no right to be wed before me, for I am

your elder. Tell my parents that before you marry, I must marry

and spend a night in bed with my bride. And unless this is done,

I shall lay waste to the entire kingdom.”

The prince stared at the lindorm in amazement, wondering

how he would find the creature’s parents among all the snakes

and serpents in the world. He said as much.

The lindorm’s mouth gaped open. It looked as if it were

both grinning broadly and horribly hungry. “Your parents are

my parents, young prince, and were it not for a spell, I would be

handsome as you. Tell them of my commands. Now go.” And

with that, it faded into the shadows of the trees and vanished.

The young prince made his way home—though, as he was

on foot instead of on horseback, it took some time—and when

he arrived, he hastened to his parents to tell them what he had

seen.

And what did they do? Why, they summoned healers, for

clearly the prince was out of his mind with brain fever.

Or so they thought—until the tales began seeping in from

the countryside about an enormous lindorm whose breath

poisoned the very air, whose venom tainted wells for aye and

for all, who devoured men and beasts with equal indifference.

Then they began to realize that the prince had told the truth, at

least about there being a monster. But that the monster was

truly their son—no, that they could not believe.

The king and queen set knights against it at first. When the

knights failed, they offered a reward to the first person who

could bring them the lindorm’s head. They were horrified to

find the lindorm lying before their castle one morning, saying,

“Greetings, mother and father. You wanted my head, so I

deliver it to you, along with the rest of me. And in return I

claim my reward—a mate. For my forest home is damp, and my

blood is cold. And I want someone with hot blood who will

keep me warm.”

4 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

After that, the queen could no longer keep secret the tale of

the horror she had birthed. But there was little time for

recriminations, as the country was being devastated by the

lindorm, and a bride had to be found for the creature.

They tried peasant girls at first, thinking that any girl would

do for a snake. But the lindorm tore each one to shreds on its

wedding night, and returned to the palace the next day to tell

the king and queen that his bride had yet to live through the

night. Daughters of wealthy merchants and poor nobles were

given to the lindorm next, but the same cruel fate befell them.

By now, the prince was no longer being kept abed by

healers, but was up and about once more. And he noticed a

very strange thing—that despite the lindorm’s evil deeds, no

one whispered against it, or spoke of it in words that were not

honey-sweet. In spite of the devastation it continued to wreak,

no one recollected the lindorm’s crimes from one moment to

the next. Now people swore that madmen must be poisoning

the land and its waters, that vicious bandits were killing beasts

and common folk, and that only the foulest of demons could be

slaying the lindorm’s brides. Strangest of all, it was often called

“the prince” now, as if the human prince had faded away into

air.

The prince sought learned men and wise women—anyone

who could tell him how to overcome the lindorm. But no one

seemed to understand his questions and the instant he left

anyone, man or woman, that person would forget that the

prince had been there at all.

At last...well, the spell on the lindorm was broken by an

impoverished young countess from no one knew where, the

latest in a long line of princesses and noblewomen condemned

to wed the evil snake. What she did to break it remains

unknown. She claimed later that she had donned seven shifts,

and that when it came time to undress for bed, she bade the

lindorm to shed one skin for every shift she took off. When it

had shed its last skin, the lindorm’s bride said, their bed and

even the floor became covered with a sticky whitish substance,

which she had to scrub away with bucket after bucket of hot

soapy water.

I DO! 5

And the next morning, she said, she woke to find a darkly

handsome prince lying beside her, completely naked and sound

asleep.

When he heard this tale, the young prince felt a sinking

feeling in his stomach. Prince Lindorm might have changed his

heart with his skin — but the young prince didn’t think so. A

snake, he thought, will remain a snake, even though it walks like a man.

For days, perhaps weeks, the young prince avoided his

parents, the couriers, and even the servants. In particular, he

avoided Prince Lindorm and his bride. He caught glimpses of

the two as he scurried about the castle. Prince Lindorm now

looked regally handsome, with long black hair and a lean face

that seemed to speak of years of suffering, while his bride,

Mergelein, gazed at her new husband and at the court with

joyous cornflower-blue eyes. Only the young prince saw and

heard what no one else did: venomous words, poisonous to

peace, fell from Prince Lindorm’s mouth with frightening

alacrity, and that Mergelein’s blue eyes were as flat as those of a

serpent about to strike.

Did he not try to leave the castle? Of course he did. But

each time that he set one toe outside any of its doors, he would

find himself back in his rooms, held as tightly in the coils of the

lindorm as ever.

And he knew he was not dead solely because Prince

Lindorm found it more amusing not to kill him.

At last Prince Lindorm came to his brother’s rooms to speak

to him.

“You are worthless,” he said with a faintly sibilant lisp. “And

yet...I owe my bride and my future kingdom to you. So I will

give you your freedom. Leave now, with only what you wear on

your back and one horse from the stables.

“Only know this—once you leave the castle, no one will

ever remember you. And once you leave the kingdom, you may

never return, for the land, the water, even the very air of this

kingdom will be poisonous to you. Try to sneak back for one

more glimpse of the country, or come back with fifty thousand

6 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

head of horse to overthrow me, and you will die. Slowly, dear

brother. And in a great deal of agony.”

“And if I do not leave?” asked the prince. In truth, he had no desire to remain, but the idea of leaving his people to the tender

mercies of Prince Lindorm and his witch-wife was sickening.

Prince Lindorm smiled cruelly. “Why, three months from

now you will fall ill and die, even as my wife gives birth to

twins. You live in this castle, after all. All those who dwell here

with me must either die and become food, if they insist on

remaining human, or...change. Would you like that, brother—to

become a serpent in human form? No? I thought not.”

And, gazing into those dark, cruel eyes, the young prince

knew that he had no choice. Riding out on the king’s highway

with neither cloak nor water, nor aught but a knife and a

second-best sword, was certain death—but at least he would die

as a man, and not as a serpent or a serpent’s prey.

“I accept,” he said.

“Good,” said Prince Lindorm, looking surprised and

pleased. “Then I shall take a small token from you as a pledge:

your name.” And he opened his jaws wide, wider, widest, until

the young prince feared Prince Lindorm was going to eat him

alive.

Then Prince Lindorm bit down—and in that instant, the

young prince’s name was lost. It faded from documents as from

memory, vanishing so completely that it seemed never to have

been. Even the young prince forgot it completely.

“And now, dearest brother, you had best begone,” said

Prince Lindorm. “Letting you leave—letting you live—still

amuses me. Go before I change my mind.”

And the prince obeyed. He went to the royal stables, picked

the strongest, fleetest horse he could find, and rode off, not

daring to dismount until he’d left the borders of the lindorm’s

land far behind him.

The first land he arrived in was the home of the princess to

whom he’d once been betrothed. He thought of going to her

for help, for she was queen now, but then he recalled that she

had broken their engagement the instant that she had heard of

the lindorm. Besides, he had undoubtedly faded from her

I DO! 7

memory as he had faded from everyone else’s. What he needed

to do was to find a land where no one had ever known him, or

heard of him. Then, perhaps, Prince Lindorm’s curse on the

memories of those around him would no longer apply.

But getting to such a land proved difficult. The prince had

not been allowed to pack food for himself, oats for his horse, or

water for both of them. Soon enough, both were starving. At

last, the prince was forced to kill the horse and eat its flesh in

order to survive. He did so, for he had no choice, but he felt as

guilty as if he had killed and eaten a man.

Then winter came.

It struck suddenly, howling in on the heels of a warm

autumn day. Overnight, the earth turned to iron and the sky to

lead, and a vicious wind blew out of the northeast, making the

prince’s bones ache as if they were filled with shattered glass.

Days wore on, and the wind didn’t let up. The sky opened,

letting loose rain, sleet, and finally snow. The prince kept

walking, mostly because he didn’t know how long he’d survive

if he stopped. Every step required more and more effort; every

movement cost more strength.

In the end, he wasn’t even aware of falling half-asleep into a

pile of soft, cold snow.

  

He woke in a warm feather bed covered with thick, downy

quilts.

He looked around. He seemed to be in some sort of cabin

in the woods. Whoever lived here had cared for the place well,

for the wooden floor was spotless, the pots hanging near the

hearth gleamed in the combined light of tapers and the fire, and

the air was filled with the delicious smell of roasting meat and

baking apples.

And sitting before the hearth with his back toward the

prince was a young man with reddish-brown curls, who was

slowly turning a roast over the flames. As the prince watched

him, he realized that there was something wrong with him. His

cloak was drawn tightly about him, and from what the prince

8 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

could see of the left arm outlined beneath the cloak, it was sadly

misshapen.

As if the young man had felt the prince gazing at him, he

turned around. A brilliant smile lit up his freckled face. “Hello!

So you finally decided to wake up, did you? Good. I was

beginning to worry. You slept for such a long time.”

The prince tried to ask a thousand questions — Who are you?

Where am I? How did you find me? — but all that escaped his lips was a useless hiss.

“No, don’t try to speak yet,” said the young man, moving

the spitted meat away from the fire. “You’re far too weak. Rest

now.”

And with that, the young man walked over to the prince’s

bed, placed a cup to his lips, and carefully poured the most

delicious drink he had ever tasted — ice-cold water — down his

aching throat.

The prince spent the next few months recovering from the

lung-flux, with the young man acting as healer. And as it grew

easier for the prince to breathe and to speak, the two began to

talk.

“What’s your name?” the young man asked one day as, with

his good hand, he chopped up vegetables for rabbit stew,

leaning against the chopping board with all his weight to keep it

steady. “Mine’s Andor.”

The prince could not have said why this question wounded

him so sorely, and yet it did.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember my name. I—I

forgot it before I got sick.”

“Ah,” said Andor, his agate-colored eyes meeting the

prince’s blue ones. “What caused it? Injury? Sickness? Evil

stepmother?”

“Evil brother,” said the prince bitterly. And as if the words had been a sluice gate holding in the tale of Prince Lindorm,

everything spilled out.

“So your brother condemned you to live as no one of

nowhere,” Andor said when the tale was done—and something

in his tone made the prince study Andor’s features most

I DO! 9

intently. “That may be fine for a snake-kingdom, but it’s not all

right here. Would you like me to give you a name?”

The prince nodded mutely, hoping fervently that Andor’s

concept of a decent name coincided with his.

“Then,” said Andor, “I hereby dub you Stefan, as I found

you asleep in the snow on St. Stefan’s feast day.”

Stefan, thought the prince. My name now is Stefan. He rolled the name over in his mind and on his tongue before smiling at

Andor in gratitude and pleasure.

  

It was the turn of seasons — no longer winter, yet not quite

spring — when Andor told Stefan about his misshapen arm.

Stefan, who was no longer ill, was sitting near the fire with

Andor eating rabbit stew when suddenly he heard something

overhead that sounded like the dry rustle of taffeta. Triumphant

horns blew, only to melt into the sound of ravens cawing. He

shivered, thinking of the rustle of scales over flagstones,

trumpets announcing the arrival of a king, and ravens waiting

and watching for their legitimate prey — the dead.

He turned to Andor. “Hurry,” he said through nearly

paralyzed lips. “Grab what you can and run. We have to get

out...” His voice trailed away as he saw the half-joyful, half-

wistful look on Andor’s face.

Andor blinked, set down his bowl down on the

hearthstones, and spoke soothingly, as if trying to calm a wild

animal that might bolt at any moment. “It’s geese, Stefan. Geese

returning north. Spring’s almost here.”

Stefan could feel his cheeks growing hot. “Oh. I thought—”

“—that it was your brother,” Andor finished for him in a

gentle voice. “Stefan, I know about those kinds of nightmares. I

had them for years. Only the monster I kept looking over my

shoulder to find was my stepmother. She was a sorceress, you

know.” As if he had said too much, he lifted his bowl in his

right hand and began drinking the stew once more.

“Why are you afraid of your stepmother?” said Stefan,

casting a cursory glance toward the ceiling as he heard another

flock of geese approaching. “And why don’t you ever use your

10 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

left hand to eat with? Wouldn’t it be easier for you? I don’t care

what it looks like, I swear!”

“You’re asking the same question twice,” said Andor, in an

odd tone.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t.” Andor drained his bowl of the last of

the stew, then put it aside. “You’ve never seen me without this

cloak on, have you?”

Stefan shook his head.

“This is why.” And, turning his gaze away from Stefan’s,

Andor shrugged off the cloak. And Stefan gasped.

For Andor’s left arm wasn’t misshapen. In fact, it wasn’t an

arm at all, but an immense white wing pressed tightly to

Andor’s side. Where the sleeve to Andor’s tunic should have

been, there was instead a great hole that had obviously been cut

to accommodate the limb. Stefan could see where the man’s

shoulder began to change, gaining the muscle and the bone

structure needed to support a bird’s wing.

Not knowing what to say — for anything he could have said

seemed hopelessly inadequate — Stefan simply stared. “How?”

he said at last, speaking in a voice barely above a whisper.

“My stepmother,” Andor replied in a flat voice, still keeping

his eyes averted from Stefan. “She hated my brothers and me.

There were six of us, you see.”

“Ah,” said Stefan. “No chance of any son of hers

inheriting.”

“Not while we remained human. And so—” Andor

shrugged, causing his white feathers to ripple as though they

were being tousled by the wind—”she turned us into swans. I

don’t know what she told our father. That the older ones had

gone off to war and the younger ones off to school, I suppose.”

“We flew around the world ten times over before we saw

our sister again.”

Andor’s sister Elsie, Stefan learned, was no better loved by

the witch-queen than their brothers had been, though she

couldn’t be quite as obvious about her hatred as she’d been

toward the boys. The princess was the king’s one remaining

I DO! 11

child, and he doted on her, even as he mourned for the sons

that he presumed were dead.

But, as Elsie grew older and more beautiful, the witch-queen

grew more determined to destroy her. First, she tried to curse

her into becoming dull and sluggish and ugly. Then, when that

failed, she tried to have Elsie killed. Fortunately the assassin

believed, as so many did, that shedding royal blood was

unlucky. So he abandoned her in the wilderness, without food,

water, or even the flint and iron needed to build a fire.

Starvation, thirst and freezing did not involve bloodshed.”

“She found us eventually,” said Andor. “She wandered into

a house we’d been using. This one, in fact.”

“But why? I wouldn’t think that swans would need a

house...”

“No. Swans don’t.” As though it took enormous effort,

Andor lifted his head and met Stefan’s eyes. “But humans do.

And in those days, there was nothing we feared worse than the

possibility that we would grow so used to being swans that we

would forget that we were human. We didn’t dare think of

ourselves as ‘ formerly human.’”

“Then, after several turns of seasons, Elsie had a dream

about how to save us.”

“We didn’t know at the time,” Andor said pensively. “We

thought she’d gone mad at first, and she couldn’t tell us

otherwise, because one word from her lips—even one sob or

peal of laughter, once she’d started her task—would have killed

us as surely as an arrow piercing each of our hearts. She plucked

churchyard nettles and beat them into flax and wove them into

shirts for us for seven years. She got married to a prince who

thought her a beautiful mute foundling, and never said a word.

She gave birth to three children, and never cried out in

childbed. Elsie was determined to succeed.”

“So what happened?”

A bitter mocking light filled Andor’s hazel eyes. “Why, my

stepmother came on a visit to my brother-in-law’s kingdom.

And she began whispering terrible stories about the mute

queen...tales of unspeakable foulness, of couplings with

demons, of obscene sacrifices of her own children, all of whom

12 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

had mysteriously vanished. And — even worse — tales of

necromancy.”

“And people believed this nonsense? When she’d never hurt

anyone?”

Andor’s sad smile broke Stefan’s heart. “Ah, Stefan, how

young you are. They were eager to believe it. They lapped it up and begged for more. And as she said nothing in her own

defense — said nothing at all, in fact — well, the tales spread

and grew even wilder. It wasn’t long before she was tried as a

witch and condemned to death. Only her husband believed she

was innocent, and he couldn’t command the law to free her

after she’d been condemned.” Andor snorted. “Our stepmother

even insisted that the flax and the completed shirts be burned

with her.”

“She wanted to make sure that none of you was ever freed,”

Stefan said, thinking that the witch-stepmother reminded him

uncomfortably of his brother.

“She did,” Andor said grimly, “but she failed. For we

couldn’t let our sister burn. As soon as we knew what was

happening, we flew across seven seas — stopping in a desert

here, a jungle there, a snowy wasteland in a third place — to get

there on time. We had to fetch her children back from where

our stepmother’s curses had sent them, you see.”

“Why didn’t she kill them?”

“Because they were more valuable as hostages. She could tell

the king after Elsie’s death that one had been found but was

being tortured by some vile monster. Do you think the king

wouldn’t have turned the world upside down and neglected his

kingdom to free that one child? And then...I think it might have

amused her to transform one into a hideous, slavering beast,

and to teach the last to worship evil, even as she did. No, her

vengeance wouldn’t have ended with Elsie’s execution.”

The instant that she’d seen the swans and her children, Elsie

had flung the linen shirts over her brothers’ heads.

“Mine wasn’t quite finished yet,” Andor concluded. “It was

missing a sleeve. So most of me changed back. But not all.”

“But what happened afterwards?” Stefan demanded.

I DO! 13

“Oh, Elsie told the whole story, and proved herself

innocent. I suppose some people didn’t believe it...but the

mood in the air altered after we changed back. Most of the mob

would have willingly torn our stepmother to shreds, if they

could have found her. But she melted away, like a snowflake in

spring.”

“What did she look like?” Stefan asked, for a dark and

terrible suspicion was growing in his mind.

“Fair,” said Andor, frowning. “At least, adults always found

her so. I thought her face as pale as a corpse’s and her blue eyes

as flat and cold as—”

“As a lindorm’s?”

There was a long silence.

“No,” said Andor, clenching his fist as his wing beat in

rhythmic agitation. “No, she couldn’t be your brother’s wife.”

“If she wanted a kingdom to rule and a mate like herself?”

Stefan scowled at the fire. “I’ll wager that she could...and did.”

“Two of a kind.” Andor shook his head sadly. “I pity your

homeland.”

So do I, thought Stefan, wondering what he could do. Being

unable to set foot in his own country had decided

disadvantages.

“We have to do something, though,” as the wing beat ever

faster, and ever closer to Stefan. “We must.”

Stefan lifted his right hand. He only meant to signal Andor

that he was growing too agitated, and to stop before the wing

struck something...but his hand landed on the outer curve of

the wing.

He’d half-imagined that the wing would be as soft and

unresisting as the down-filled quilts on his bed. Instead, he felt

powerful muscles tensing beneath his hand, and he was

absurdly pleased. It seemed so right that Andor should be

stronger than he looked.

Idly, he began slowly stroking the feathers, taking care to

brush down from curve to wingtip as he watched the feathers

ripple beneath his touch like white-capped waves.

14 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

He thought he heard Andor make an inarticulate sound —

something between a grunt, a gasp and a sigh — but he

couldn’t be sure.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here in this cabin, and

not in your homeland,” he said, and to his ears, it sounded as if

his voice was coming from very far away. He leaned in closer,

marveling at the way that firelight and candlelight shimmered

over the wing. How could he have thought that the feathers

were merely white? They were a million different shades of

white.

And for some reason, he was panting, as if he’d run for a

mile or two and was now hopelessly out of breath.

“It seemed better,” Andor said, sounding as if he, too, were

having difficulty breathing. “My brothers and sisters — they’re

kind, but...they’d rather live like normal people. Forget

everything they endured. But...” He lifted the wing a little.

“They can’t. Not with me around. I make them remember.”

“They mind?” Stefan said, feeling puzzled. He couldn’t

picture Elsie or her brothers hating Andor for something he

couldn’t help.

Andor leaned forward until their noses were almost

touching. “No. But I do.”

For one brief panicky moment, Stefan wondered why Andor

was leaning so close to him, why he wanted to hold Andor even

closer, and who he should blame this magical madness on.

Then their lips touched, and Stefan realized that he’d never

felt saner in his life.

The kiss, which was tentative at first, grew harder and more

desperate. In the back of his mind, Stefan was dimly aware of

his heart pounding so hard that it was surely about to burst

from his chest, and that both Andor and he were shivering as if

they were out in an ice storm, rather than sitting before a

blazing fire. Most of his mind was focusing solely on Andor’s

mouth, teeth and tongue, and the frantic beating of Andor’s

wing, and all these things were as intoxicating and irresistible as

spring after a seemingly endless winter.

I DO! 15

Andor gasped as he broke off the kiss. “What...I...this is

impossible...” he said, fumbling one-handed at both Stefan’s

tunic and his own.

Stefan, not entirely sure why he was doing this, struggled out

of his own tunic, and then helped Andor off with his.

“You want this?” Andor said in a harsh whisper, his gaze all

but scorching Stefan’s skin.

Stefan had to clear his throat several times before he could

speak. “I don’t even know what ‘this’ is. But yes.”

“If you don’t know, how do you know you want it?” Andor

said, sounding as if he were arguing with himself more than Stefan.

Stefan, his mind awhirl with scents, sounds, sights and

sensations that he’d never experienced before, fumbled for a

way to tell Andor that he’d never wanted anything more in his

life before admitting to himself that words, in this situation,

were useless.

“Andor,” he said in a husky voice, “be quiet.” And with

that, he gripped Andor tightly, leaned back with infinite care,

and pulled Andor on top of him.

For a few moments, Stefan and Andor were locked together,

half-embracing and half-wrestling. Then as he began tasting

ears, neck, nipples and stomach, Andor brought his wing

forward, the feathers tantalizingly tickling Stefan’s legs and

chest...and Stefan ceased to think anything at all.

But just as he thought he might expire from sheer pleasure,

Andor stopped. Stefan tried to object, but the words emerged

from his mouth in a grunt and a groan.

Andor didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he propped himself up

on what Stefan had to think of as his human elbow, frowning as

though he were battling an extraordinarily vicious dragon.

“Would you mind if I tried something?” The frown line

between Andor’s hazel eyes deepened. “I’ve got an idea...but

I’ve never done this. I’ve never even heard of anyone doing this.

So I don’t know if it’ll work.”

Stefan began laughing. He couldn’t help it. Andor’s grave,

solemn expression was just too much.

16 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

“Do you really think,” he wheezed between gasps of

laughter, “that this is really a time for...r-r-regal c-c-courtesy?”

Andor said nothing. He merely looked puzzled, as if he

wasn’t certain what Stefan was laughing at, and Andor rather

hoped that it wasn’t him.

That expression sobered Stefan as nothing else could have.

Andor misunderstanding him and being hurt was the last thing

he wanted.

“Of course I don’t mind,” he said, smiling. “Every other

idea you’ve had has been magnificent. Why would I want you to

stop now?”

The relief and joy in Andor’s face was almost tangible. He

fumbled awkwardly with the laces of Stefan’s leggings. Stefan

moved to help, or at least to help speed up whatever Andor had

in mind, but immediately received a glare, a fierce “I’ll do it,”

and a very strong wing pushing him onto his back once more.

Stefan felt warm flagstones beneath his buttocks and the

heat from the fire along his left side as Andor’s fingers guided

the leggings down, down, down. Andor looked up once, wicked

mischief dancing in his hazel eyes, and then bowed his head

with great concentration.

Stefan held his breath, wondering what Andor was going to

do next. His homeland’s court had not been a licentious one;

his parents’ marriage had been correct and formal. He could

not remember seeing his parents — or anyone else at court, for

that matter — hug, kiss, or even clasp hands. He could not even

recall his parents hugging or kissing him. That hurt. He wasn’t

sure why it did, but it did.

And then Andor’s tongue licked the tip of his cock, and the

hurt was washed away by a tide of bliss.

Andor used his tongue to full advantage, flickering here,

twining there, brushing it over his ballock-pouch. Carefully, he

pressed his teeth against the sides of Stefan’s cock; he sucked

on it as if it were a hollow reed. And just as Stefan, his pale

fingers entangled in Andor’s reddish-brown curls, thought that

this couldn’t possibly get any better, Andor, as he so often did

when he was focusing on doing a good job, started to hum.

I DO! 17

It was too much. Much too much. Stefan, gasping, felt as if

he were exploding into all the stars in the sky.

And then there was only darkness.

He awoke to find Andor gazing at him, looking exceedingly

pleased. “Well. I don’t have to ask if you enjoyed that.”

“Did you?” he blurted out. Then he mentally reproached

himself for being stupid. He should be able to tell...shouldn’t

he?

Andor laughed, and stretched both arm and wing. “Oh, yes.

I think you could say that I like it.” His face became serious

again. “Even love it.”

“Oh,” said Stefan, wondering what he was supposed to say

in a situation like this. There were no rules of etiquette

governing the proper compliment to pay a male friend who had

just become one’s...what? Seducer? Definitely not mistress.

Husband?

Beloved. Yes, that sounded right.

“I’m glad,” he added, briefly looking just as solemn as

Andor. “Because I love...it...too.”

  

Winter passed, then spring. The two settled into a routine,

mending the cabin, hunting, gardening...doing, in fact, a

thousand chores that Stefan had never done before and that,

save for the hunting, he did less than expertly now. He did not

complain. Memories of last winter’s hunger and cold were

excellent incentives, as was the growing pride in Andor’s eyes.

Then in high summer, a messenger arrived.

Anyone beholding the three of them would have sworn that

none of them were more than peasants. The messenger — an

older man with a thin, shrewd face — was clad in simple

clothes for hard travel, was covered in the dust of the road, and

was riding, not a fine stallion or a full-blooded mare, but a mule.

Andor was skinning rabbits, while Stefan was weeding the

garden. There was little glamour to the scene.

But there was no mistaking the messenger’s words. Andor

had been summoned back to his homeland — not, the

messenger hastened to say, because he was in trouble, but

18 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

because his family was worried. Harsh as the winter had been in

the forest, it had been even worse in the kingdoms where

Andor’s eldest brother and only sister reigned. For both were

mountain kingdoms, with both castle and capital high in those

mountains, and the winter that had recently passed had been

cruel beyond the telling of it, so much so that neither Elsie nor

her swan-siblings had known if Andor had survived. Andor’s

face turned a dull red as the messenger related this.

Stefan knew that his lover had to go; if he had not been

there, Andor would have undoubtedly returned to either Elsie’s

or his oldest brother’s kingdom in the spring, and saved his

family much anguish. But the thought of being alone, of never

seeing Andor again, cut him to the bone.

“When will you be leaving?” he asked, proud that his voice

hadn’t trembled as he spoke.

“As soon as may be,” said Andor, squinting at the sky.

“There are a few preparations I’d like to make, as well as some

packing...but yes, the sooner we leave, the better.”

All Stefan heard was “As soon as may be.” It was the

messenger who noticed the important word in Andor’s speech.

“‘We’?”

“Stefan will be coming with us,” Andor said, and such was

the calm command in his voice that the messenger instantly

agreed.

The journey — once the two youths had packed and the

messenger had purchased two more mules — was singularly

uneventful. No trolls blocked their passage; no ogres threatened

to devour them; no dragons charred the countryside. It made

Stefan nervous. This was not how journeys with enchanted

princes were supposed to go.

When they arrived at last in the kingdom of Andor’s eldest

brother...well, the reaction was what one might expect. The king

took Andor aside and shouted, stormed, fumed and

lectured...and then embraced him, and welcomed him — and

his new friend — home.

And that, some might have thought, was the end of the

story. But it was not. For three years later, on the bleakest day

of winter, the king summoned Andor and Stefan to his private

I DO! 19

study. One look at his taut, grey face and sick expression told

both princes that something was sorely wrong indeed.

“I have received a missive from your brother, Stefan,” he

said. “King Lindorm, he styles himself now.”

King? Not a prince, but a king? Stefan’s mouth went dry. “My parents...”

“My spies tell me they died recently and that death, when it

finally came, was merciful,” said the king. “Ask me no

questions. I would prefer to say no more.”

“What did the letter say, Hans-Otto?” Andor demanded,

before Stefan could brood too much on what the king’s words

meant.

“That he intends his eldest son to wed my eldest daughter.

Immediately.”

“Intends?” Andor frowned at that. “A strange way of

proposing to a maid, surely.”

King Hans-Otto smiled mirthlessly. “Oh, this is no

proposal. It is conquest. In the same letter, he chances to

mention that he is the master of all the beasts of field and

forest, and all the serpents of earth and sea. I would think that a

boast, were he not wed to our stepmother, but as it is...”

“Her magic is his,” said Stefan, glaring at the flagstones.

“Wonderful.”

“Only because she wants what he wants — power and a

crown,” said the king, and sighed. “It comes to this. Either I

willingly give my little daughter to the snake’s son in marriage

— and I truly doubt that any of our family would live long after

that — or I refuse the lindorm, thereby giving him an excuse to

wreak a war of evil magic on my land. You know him best,

Stefan. What would you do?”

Stefan shook his head helplessly. He was more than willing

to fight and perhaps kill his wicked brother, but how to do so

and succeed remained the question.

But the king was looking at him expectantly. More to the

point, so was Andor. So Stefan answered. “You have to fight

him. If you cooperate with him the way the people of my land

did, he’ll devour you, flesh and blood and bone. Or change you

into a thing like him.”

20 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

King Hans-Otto’s face darkened. “I’ve already

been...something not human. I will not endure that again.”

“We can’t fight him on the battlefield, though,” said Andor,

his wing beating rhythmically, as it so often did when he was

agitated. “Even if he didn’t have all the beasts and serpents of

earth and sea at his disposal, he’s conquered more than one

nation with his sorcery in the past few years. His human armies

are beyond counting.”

“And this is, alas, a little land,” the king added quietly. “Our

people are brave, but there are simply not enough of them.”

“Even if we could defeat King Lindorm,” Andor continued,

“we would still have to deal with his wife. Our dear, dear

stepmother.”

“And his children,” Stefan said. “If they are children, and not two beasts in the semblance of children, or clay figures brought

to life. Given the magic of the lindorm and his concubine,

anything is possible.”

“Are you sure that sword of yours isn’t enchanted to slay

dragons?” Andor asked—though not as if he had much hope

that it was so.

“He’s a snake, not a dragon,” Stefan replied, running a hand

through his thick fair hair. “And the sword is just a sword. Not

that it matters. I’m here and he’s there, and thanks to his curse,

I can’t return without the land itself poisoning me.”

“The very soil of a deadly serpent’s land, poisonous,” said

the king with a snort. “How appropriate.”

“Well,” said Andor with a shrug that sent several white

feathers fluttering to the carpet, “the king and the land are one,

after all. What I don’t understand is why he warned Stefan

about it.”

Wondering if he looked as puzzled as he felt, Stefan turned

to Andor. “What do you mean?”

“He cursed you. You’re sure of that.”

Stefan laughed bitterly. “I can feel it. Right down to my

bones. I would die if I set foot in my homeland again.”

“Yes,” said Andor, rubbing his chin. “That’s what I don’t

understand. If he could poison you, if he hates you enough to

I DO! 21

kill you, why let you go free? Why warn you not to set foot on the ground?”

Stefan held his breath, sensing the tiniest glimmer of an idea

in his mind. He approached it cautiously, afraid it would fade if

he got too close.

“Perhaps he dared not,” the king said wearily. “Evil has a

way of returning to the one who cast it, after all. Perhaps the

best he could do was dig a pit at your feet, and then tell you so

much about it that you couldn’t help but fall in. In any case, I

don’t see how that helps save this land.”

Evil returns to the caster. Who, in this case, is the king. And the king and the land are one. So the land — his land — is poisonous to me.

But evil returns to the caster...

The realization flashed through his mind like a bolt of

lightning.

“I think I know how to defeat him,” Stefan said in a dream-

like voice, startling both the king and Andor. “And all it will

take will be some cakes and red wine...and access to your

kitchens, Your Majesty.”

  

Neither Andor nor King Hans-Otto was inclined to accept

this until Stefan explained his plan. Then they were all too eager

to help.

Hans-Otto did indeed give commands that Stefan have

access to the kitchens, much to the astonishment and

indignation of the cooks. He also began sending letters to King

Lindorm, not quite agreeing to his daughter’s betrothal nor ever

inviting the snake-king or his family to visit, but dropping hints

nevertheless. King Lindorm eventually became impatient, and

told Hans-Otto summarily that he and his wife and children

would be happy to attend the betrothal.

King Lindorm would have been surprised to see Hans-Otto

smile when he read that letter.

Andor rode north, south and east, seeking out his scattered

siblings, and from each he obtained a lock of hair. When he had

locks from each of his brothers and himself, he went to his

sister, told her of Hans-Otto’s dilemma, and begged her to

22 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

weave the locks into a fine net as quickly as possible. And this

Elsie promised to do.

Stefan did nothing that could have been construed as heroic

or valiant. He spent his days taking orders from the irascible

Head Cook, chopping herbs, kneading flour and spicing mulled

wine. When the servants speculated as to why the prince’s

friend had been relegated to the kitchens, he gritted his teeth

and said nothing.

On May Eve, King Lindorm and Queen Mergelein arrived at

the great hall of Hans-Otto’s palace, and never had anyone seen

a more resplendent couple. King Lindorm was clad in cloth-of-

gold and black velvet, while his queen was garbed in a lace-

edged silk gown that was the color of new leaves in spring.

Both wore ermine-lined cloaks sewn with gemstones. The

lindorm’s was bedecked with onyx and discs of gold; his

queen’s was bedizened with diamonds and emeralds. The gem-

strewn cloaks caught the light from the tapers and torches

illuminating the hall, so that the lindorm and his bride glittered

as they walked.

An entourage of couriers and servants followed in their

wake, but none of Hans-Otto’s court had eyes for them — not

even for the three-year-old heir to the throne who was more

interested in racing his twin brother than he was in being

betrothed. What Hans-Otto’s couriers did notice was that, like

the servants scattered throughout the hall, their own king was

simply clothed, resembling a huntsman rather than a reigning

monarch. And as they saw this, they were ashamed.

King Lindorm strode forward, his queen by his side, about

to insist that the betrothal ceremony begin when a servant,

bearing a platter of sweet cakes redolent of piping hot apples

and pears, soft cheese and nutmeg, walked up to him. Both the

king and his queen took the largest and plumpest cakes from

the tray, and plucked goblets of spiced wine from the platter of

another servitor, this one twisted and hunchbacked.

“I thank you for the honor you do us, Your Majesty,” said

King Lindorm with a cruel smile. “There are not many kings

who would invite a crippled hunchback to serve their daughter’s

future father-in-law at her betrothal. One might almost think

you were ill-wishing the match. But no matter. I can afford

I DO! 23

your petty bad manners. I know you will not dislike me for

long.” So saying, both he and the queen lifted their goblets in a

mock toast, bit into their cakes, and washed the mouthfuls

down with their wine.

But almost at once Queen Mergelein turned paler and colder

than ice, and King Lindorm doubled over in agony, as patches

of black stained his face and hands.

“Poison!” he hissed, and his couriers looked sick at the

thought, for they had been sampling the cakes and wine

themselves. Most stricken of all was the nursemaid, who had

been feeding cakes to King Lindorm’s sons. “Poison! A curse

be upon you, for betraying a guest—”

“Not betraying, and not a guest,” said Hans-Otto calmly.

“For you demanded this betrothal on threat of war; you

threatened my family; you came here without my invitation; and

you served yourselves. You are no guest, but an invader, and to

you I say, ‘Die.’”

“And it was not poison, either,” said the servant with the

cakes, and King Lindorm and his wife looked as if they would

gladly tear his throat out, for it was Stefan. “There was naught

in those cakes that would hurt any but you two.”

“Impossible,” snarled Mergelein, shooting Stefan a look that

could not only kill, but draw and quarter. “Poison does not

work like that.”

“Ah, but this was no ordinary poison,” said the

hunchbacked servant, as he stood up straight and let all the

court see the wing he had in place of a left arm. He smiled at

Stefan. “Go on.”

“You set a curse upon my land,” Stefan said softly. “You

rendered it poisonous to me, and forced me to leave. It took

me a while to realize that the king and the land — like the king

and the queen — are one. As you and the land are poisonous to

me, so, my brother, am I poisonous to you. And you just ate

cakes mixed with my blood, and drank wine watered with my

tears.”

Even as Stefan finished speaking, a cry — half-whimper,

half-wail — echoed throughout the room. It was the nursemaid.

She was kneeling on the floor, staring wild-eyed at two young

24 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON

dogs gamboling where, only moments before, there had been

two small princes.

“You always were good at transforming humans into beasts

and beasts into humans, stepmother,” said Andor thoughtfully.

“A pity that as your husband’s life and magic ebb, so do yours.”

And indeed, the blood and tears were having a dire effect on

King Lindorm, for by now the witch’s enchantment was almost

entirely gone. His face was still human, but the rest of him was

the black and scaly serpent he had been since birth. No one

doubted that the lindorm would have called down a hideous

curse upon his brother, Andor, the king and the entire kingdom

if only he’d been able to speak.

The evil queen tottered to her feet — narrowly dodging the

lindorm’s fangs as he lashed out at her — and took three steps

toward the door.

“Now!” exclaimed Hans-Otto.

As he spoke, his other brothers and his sister Elsie, who had

been scattered about the hall in servants’ garb, each pulled a

carefully concealed rope...and a finely woven net of golden,

auburn and dark brown hair enshrouded Mergelein.

She shrieked and howled and tore at the net, but she might

just as well have tried to rip apart a catapult with her bare

hands. And the more she tore at it, the more bits of hair seemed

to be sticking to her hands and face and clothes. She seemed to

shrink, as if she were lesser and smaller without her magic. Her

voice grew harsh and screeching, as if she had screamed herself

hoarse. Within minutes, the fair green-clad queen was gone, and

a screech owl was enmeshed in her place.

Stefan studied the writhing lindorm and the frantic owl.

“No,” he said softly. “That’s not good enough. They could still

return. I can’t allow that.” So saying, he drew, from beneath his

cloak, the sword he’d brought with him from home.

But Andor caught his arm. “No, Stefan. Not your brother.”

“You want me to spare that monster?” Stefan demanded.

Andor shook his head. “No. I want you to deal with my

stepmother, as I cannot. The kinslayer is accursed, you know. It

would be an ill thing if you and I were to be cursed for giving

I DO! 25

these two the justice they deserve.” He smiled. “Go slay my

stepmother. I’ll battle your brother.”

Stefan hesitated a moment, then nodded. Sheathing his

sword, he walked over to the net, and picked up both it and the

owl.

The owl fought furiously, battering at Stefan with its wings

and tearing at him with its talons and beak. But the net of hair

wrapped itself around both beak and claws and blunted the

bird’s assaults, and Stefan had long since become accustomed to

the rhythm of wings beating against his body. Swiftly, and with

little fuss, he broke the owl’s neck.

Andor drew his own sword, and plunged it into the

lindorm’s heart.

  

Hans-Otto took no chances. He ordered the carcasses

burned, and the ashes scattered to the four winds at a

crossroads. Once this was done, he sent mages to what had

been the lindorm’s land to find out if the evil magic of the

serpent and the witch had truly been banished.

The mages found that all was well. The poison had vanished

from land, water and air, and the land was blossoming once

more. Those who had been changed by evil magic were now

free again, and they recalled that horror only as one might a

half-remembered nightmare. The kingdom mourned for those

who had been murdered or eaten, especially the old king and

queen...and wondered when the true king would return.

So it was that Stefan — who chose to keep the name Andor

had given him rather than the one his brother had stolen — was

free to return to his kingdom. On Midsummer’s Eve, he rode

back into his homeland, with Andor by his side, and all in the

land celebrated, rejoicing. King Stefan and Prince Andor ruled

wisely and well for many, many years...

...and as they have not died, they are living still.

Desire and Disguise

ALEX BEECROFT

Lydia sat at her dressing table, Bermuda’s vivid, bright

sunshine sleeking the tumbled curls of her black hair with

highlights of blue steel. Her nightgown was pulled up tight

against her neck at one side, and had fallen off the other round

shoulder, baring blushing, rosy skin. The window’s light turned

the thin lawn material translucent, revealing shadows of curves;

her full hips, the pink rounded swell of buttocks and swing of

full, hard breasts.

Kicking off the sprigged cotton coverlet (an end of roll

luxury he still considered extravagant) Robert squirmed to the

edge of the bed. Mattress ropes creaked beneath him,

overstrained, and his body groaned in answer, equally tight. It

hurt to walk, his prick so stiff, his balls and the pit of his belly

clenched and shuddering with need.

His hand left cold trails of sweat on her skin as he slid it

across her bare shoulder and into the fur-soft heaviness of her

hair. Oh God, please!

She flinched – like a slap across his face. “Lydia…” he

begged, months of need and pleading and physical pain

trembling in his voice. Her back seemed to freeze solid beneath

his fingers. That was fine, he could work with solid; he could

be another Pygmalion and love even this statue, if she would

only hold still and let him. Shakily, he rubbed the back of her

neck with his thumb, positioned himself so that the infernal,

burning torment of his prick lay rigid in the long faint shallow

of her spine. A little involuntary thrust turned his world dark at

the edges with need, almost too painful to be good.

Lydia breathed in with a gasp through her teeth and hurled

herself to her feet, off balancing him. She backed away, her

eyes feverish and her steps jerky with emotion. The movement

dislodged the baby suckling at her breast. As she pulled her

nightgown protectively up to her throat the child’s whimper of

surprise became a wail of protest.

“Lydia,” Robert tried again, unable to understand her

cruelty. “I need…”

Her face crumpled around her gritted teeth. “Oh yes! You

need, and our son needs, and between the two of you I am

become nothing but the flesh with which you slake your desire.

30 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT

Passed from one to the other, and what is left for me?” Toby

sobbed in earnest now, his little fist beating against his mother’s

collarbone, and for a moment Robert envied him – he too

would shove, would beat, even force if it wasn’t… if it wasn’t…

Lydia snatched up her unlaced stays from the table, held

them in front of her – a whalebone shield. Her frantic

breathing pulsed through her swollen breasts, making them

swing, but her gaze was icy water; frightened, frantic. “You

make me feel like a beast. As if there’s nothing human left of

me. I cannot bear it, Robert! I cannot! I will run mad!”

Didn’t she realize that she made him feel like an animal too?

That the only thing separating her from his bestial need to rut

was… “Aaah!” he cried, “aah, goddamn it!” and, overturning

the table with a crash that made her huddle further into the

corner, he hurled himself out of the room, slammed the door

behind him, and, leaning back against the wall, he stroked

himself furiously.

When he had come all over his hand and belly, he slid down

the wall into a crouched, shameful bundle, dripping and

trembling. If it wasn’t that I love her, God, how I would hurt her. So close he had come this time. So close, and he was ashamed.

This could not go on.

  

“And at least four bales of the finest grade canvas you can

provide.” The quartermaster of the naval dockyard – one Bill

Wilkins by name – was a young man, despite his steel grey wig.

The crinkles about his eyes had been etched staring into deep

distances and laughing, rather than by time. He had one of

those fine, open faces Robert had come to associate with sailors

– cheerful; not much troubled by responsibility or forethought.

“For skyscrapers,” he added, looking out onto the bustle of the

docks, where HMS Kingfisher was taking on barrels of salt horse under the direction of her lieutenant. “And royals.”

Robert made a note on his pad, pressing so hard that the

lead in his pencil broke, again. The bottom brass cover of the

notepad fell off the end of its screw onto his foot, and all the

little leaves went flying across the cobbles to scatter, bobbing,

on the murky, stinking water. He snatched a couple from the

I DO! 31

air, narrowly avoiding running into the traces of his own cart.

The horse’s head plunged, her nostrils wide and her flicking

ears unsettled. The jangle of the harness matched his nerves.

“Forgive me. Everything I do goes awry today.”

“I have known days like that,” Bill nodded with a smile at

the stump of his leg, the wooden pin that protruded from a

flapping gape of uniform breeches. “But for this I’d still be at

sea, with the prospects of honour and command. I literally put

a foot wrong, and bang, I’m an invalid, lucky to find work

ashore. If I lose this job, I’ll not find another one. At least you have only yourself to please, and all your faculties to do it with,

eh?”

It was, for such a relative stranger, a long and intimate

account. And yet his gaze never once touched Robert’s face,

but lingered out on the edge of the wharf, among the Kingfisher’s men. A soft gaze from those candid, blue, farsighted eyes.

Bill’s lips quirked up a little, and his hand rose to straighten the

set of his wig, lingered to play with the hairs of the pigtail. One

of the dockside whores must have sauntered up to interrupt the

loading, Robert thought, turning to look, but no. He caught

only the startled, accusing flash of dark eyes as Kingfisher’s lieutenant looked down, throwing the shadow of his tricorne

over his face.

Bill’s crutch slipped from a rounded cobblestone. He

lurched to one side, caught himself with a muttered oath. His

tanned cheeks burned dusky with a furious blush. “Well,

I’ve...I’ve to work. Good day to you, Mr. Digby, and may I

expect you within a sen’night with that canvas?”

Robert too lurched away, struck in the chest with the

certainty that yet again he had done or said something wrong,

still unable to understand what. Recoiling, his shoulder hit the

horse’s cheek just below the eye. Spooked already, she reared

backwards and set the cart rolling down the incline of the docks

towards the waterfront.

At the bellow of a sharp, commanding voice, a dozen of

Bermuda’s black sailors ran to intercept the now terrified,

plunging horse, and at this new threat she got her feet back

under her, strained against the wagon’s traces and threw it in a

rattling curve – sparks bursting bright beneath the metal shod

32 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT

wheels. The corner of the tailgate struck the Kingfisher’s neat pyramid of barrels, knocking out a supporting corner. As

Robert finally managed to seize the reins and still his errant

horse, the barrels came bounding down, thudding and crashing,

rolling like thunder. They scattered the sailors and went

barrelling into Kingfisher’s dark-eyed lieutenant, knocking him off the jetty altogether.

He fell with a soggy splash into a harbour where all

Bermuda poured its waste, the barrels falling after with heavy,

contemptuous splats.

Bill Wilkins lunged forward. “Oh my God! Mitchell!” He

brushed Robert aside and stumped, pain in the set of his

mouth, fast as he could towards the water. Robert lingered just

long enough to watch Lt. Mitchell struggle ashore, dripping

with mud, salt meat and turds, and reassured that no permanent

harm was done, he took the chance of Bill’s distraction and

fled.

  

He slept at the shop that night, soaking six feet of good

quilting in sweat and semen, and angry, frustrated tears. In the

morning he wondered if the two gentlemen who swung through

the door before breakfast could smell it still.

Robert brought out wax and covered over any lingering

scent with the turpentine and beeswax-honey scent of furniture

polish, attentively and silently watching them finger his best

brocades, and gossip.

“My dear, positively the most succulent girls on the island.

So obliging! So very talented, you understand me?”

“But not cheap, I’ll wager.”

The first gentleman – a rather affected, overdressed person,

Robert privately thought, while trying not to lean forward to

listen in better – tapped his white kid gloves to his painted red

mouth. “Oh but that’s the best part. Nothing so crudely

mercenary. La! They do it for the love of the sport, God bless

‘em. ‘Tis not far – on Blacksmith’s Hill. What do you say, coz,

will you walk up there with me tonight? Catch yourself a lovely,

or a brace of ‘em. They’ll thank you for it, I swear.”

I DO! 33

  

It seemed at first so innocuous that Robert wondered if he

had misunderstood. He looked around himself again, at the

heavy avenue of yew and box, shadows spreading like live

things from the roots of the trees. At one end an enclosed

garden reeled with the smell of honeysuckle. At the other stood

a tall, imposing building, too well-to-do for the down-at-heel

square in which it stood. The building’s doors stood open and

music spilled out into the gathering dusk. Lovers, framed in

candlelight, kissed in shameless, public exhibition.

The garden, its fountain trickling sullenly over a green-

stained marble urn, thronged with knots of ladies, taking the air

and showing off their most gorgeous dresses. Bird of Paradise

feathers and ropes of pearl gleamed with strange lustre among

the swags of their powdered hair. Behind their fans, the group

of three who stood closest to him whispered to each other,

watching him. He could feel their eyes, and he was

disappointed. He had not come to woo, to exchange

compliments, to flirt and dance. That would feel too much of a

betrayal. He didn’t want to get to know them - he loved Lydia -

he was here only to slake a thirst, to feed a gnawing hunger; to

become sane again, for her, so that he could go home.

As the first stars began to come out, so too the gentlemen

appeared, singly or arm in arm, to stroll among the ladies and

chat. There was much laughter and calling out of greetings and

names. Did they all know each other, and he a complete

stranger?

Robert considered giving this up, returning to the shop,

spending another lonely evening of self-abuse, but the scene

about him was rapidly losing the look of innocence. A couple

careened past him, tangled in each other, crashing into the

hedge by his elbow without breaking their kiss. Their breathy,

liquid noises made him flush, hot from toe to crown with

embarrassment and need. Yes, damn it, he was going to do this.

He had to.

There was a girl among the three who had been eyeing him

earlier; a girl in a green dress slightly less ostentatious than the

others - her wig more like hair than the bizarre beehives the

34 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT

more fashionable ladies wore. A tall woman, with the tanned,

lively look of a country girl and too large a nose for beauty. Her

companions had swept him with an outright lascivious gaze at

first, but her first reaction had been astonishment, and even

now she looked at him as though she could not believe her

eyes.

He walked over and bent low in a bow; put out his hand.

Her strikingly bold, dark eyes were wary at first, but as she

resolved whatever inward doubts plagued her, they lit with a

glow of secret amusement and she set her hand gently in his.

Even that slight, polite touch made his pulse bound.

This close, he thought perhaps he ought to know her - that

her doubt came from recognizing him, and realizing he was no

gentleman. Indeed she looked like someone whose name he

should know. A Lady to whose house he would not have been

admitted in the old days, perhaps; someone who might once

have looked on him with contempt. She was all smiles now

however; wicked smiles, laced with heat and devilry.

He lifted the gloved hand to his lips, smelled jasmine and

tuberose, before the fingertips escaped his grasp. They traced

the lines of his lips in a glide of ivory silk, slid over his cheek,

his throat, insinuated themselves beneath his collar. The cool

silk warmed against his skin, in a caress as knowing as her eyes.

A whole year of wheedling – for this had begun almost as

soon as Lydia knew she was with child. A year of denial,

rejection and starvation. He had learned to think of women as

cold creatures, above the torments of the flesh, and this silent

invitation took his breath away. He licked his lips, feeling the

firm line of her touch beneath his tongue, gasped, “Your

name?”

She laughed quietly. “I don’t believe you really want to

know. I’m quite certain I don’t want to tell you.” An alto voice

to suit her height, soft as the white ringlets that brushed her

cheek; a voice that made him feel as though he were stripped,

laid out helpless before her, fit to be consumed. “And I’m sure

you no more came here to talk than I did.”

Her kiss was as bold as she was; neither maidenly nor

professional - just confident, matching his hunger with her own.

I DO! 35

Desire came boiling out of its place at the touch, the slick,

inviting warmth, the taste of brandy and another willing human

body. The thought that all these fine lords and ladies were

watching him added a beating, illicit thrill to the embrace, but

when she reached down to slip her long fingers into his

breeches, to rub his eager cock in a slide of silken softness that

made him whimper, thrust against her, gritting his teeth because

the all encompassing skirts were tangled about his legs and he

needed, needed flesh - then a small remnant of middle-class

shame made him beg for the privacy of a room.

How they made it down the walk and into the large house

beyond, he had no recollection - dizzy steps among violent

kisses. She struggled to keep him away from the latchings of her

dress, but spread her legs and ground against him if he pressed

her into a wall. By the time they had made it into a small back

room, bare of anything but a bed, he was almost blind with

need, and as soon as the door was shut she renewed her attack,

pushing him onto his back on the bed, straddling him - still fully

clothed even to the gloves. She lay down over him, insinuating a

clever hand back into his breeches. The powdered curls of her

wig stuck to his sweating forehead as he buried his face in her

neck, kissing, licking.

When he bit, she made an impatient, hungry noise, pumped

him hard, almost angrily. He bit again, deeper, and she bucked

against him, whining. There was a fierce triumph in even so

small a mastery over such a woman, but now she drew his head

up, devoured his mouth, pressing herself into his thigh, rocking

as she handled him with that certain, vicious, overpowering grip

that made him want to scream with pleasure. God, it was all he

wanted, everything he wanted - hard, fast, meaningless sex, oh,

God, please. His hands scrabbled against the bloody corset,

tangled in bustles, skirts, petticoats, frustrated, unable to get at

skin, needing skin, needing to spread her legs and fuck her

without mercy, the way she obviously wanted it.

She came before him, from merely rubbing, came silently,

her eyes pinched shut and her spirit far, far from his. In the grip

of full, black, selfish desperation, he didn’t give a damn about

what she was concealing, who it was he substituted for. He had

finally got the skirts untucked, got his hands underneath and

36 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT

found sturdy legs in silk stockings. Sitting up, she gave him a

considering look, with an edge of ruthlessness that should have

made him nervous, but only inflamed, then bent to his straining

prick. He thought he might be undone just from the promise -

the heat of her breath on the tip - but when she leaned down

and swallowed him whole...

His hands found her hips, where the silk of stockings

became the damp heat and smoothness of skin. Oh, God, the

tongue, the teeth! God, the *teeth!*

Hips, ridged with muscle, a belly wet with release. Sucking

heat, intense, metallic need. He writhed and swore under the

weight, thrusting up into warm, welcoming flesh. Oh, *fuck*!

His questing hands closed on balls, a spent prick, and he came

with a rush of humiliation and horror in a bone-shattering

intensity that was every kind of pain.

“You bastard!” His body wanted to lie in pleasant heaviness, to bask in satisfaction, and he hated it for that. He surged up,

grabbed the pervert by the expensive, embroidered bodice and

threw him off the bed. He landed sprawling - half on the floor,

his shoulders and back colliding with the wall, and as Robert

fastened himself up with hands that shook from fury, he began

to laugh. A bright, delighted laugh.

“You didn’t know?! God’s truth! I thought you’d regret it,

but I had no idea you didn’t even know!”

“Know? How the hell was I supposed to know?” Moved by

the kind of trance that took him when he fenced, Robert was

hardly aware of vaulting to his feet, picking the little bastard up

- not so little, in truth, taller than Robert was, which surely

should have given him a clue, had he not been misguided by the

damn wigs - and slamming him into the wall, hands around his

throat.

“You were strolling down Sodomite’s Walk, checking out

the talent, Mr. Digby. Forgive me for not realizing you were

even more abysmally stupid than you look.”

His name. So this was someone he knew, or who knew him.

His fingers ached with the need to tighten. To strangle him

would be no more than he deserved. Robert’s hands or the

noose, what was the difference? Yet despite the pressure of

I DO! 37

thumbs on his windpipe, his...assailant? In all honesty, no, not

that. Lover? Certainly not! His partner in crime stood nonchalantly against the wall, watching him with a look of fearless curiosity

in his onyx black eyes.

A little movement against his fingers made Robert’s stomach

clench with realization. The man had begun to smirk, and was

trying to tilt his head to conceal the expression beneath the

shadow of his hat. Dear Lord! The lieutenant. It was the

lieutenant from the Kingfisher, none the worse for his dunking and obviously damn well pleased with himself.

Abruptly, though he would have said it was impossible,

everything became even more intolerable. To have done this

with someone who knew who he was! Someone he might be

forced to meet again - spend the time of day with, trying to

pretend that nothing had happened. Someone whose mere

existence would rub the memory of it in his face forever.

Sodomite’s Walk? He seemed to be grasping the essentials of

this sentence in starts - in separate shots of singular pain, unable

to encompass the whole of it at once. There was a place where

such people went to indulge their monstrous appetites?

Disgusting and inhuman! Like rutting beasts, like...

Like him.

Hands broke his grasp. He was dimly aware of the other

man - Mitchell, that was his name - rubbing his bruised throat

and watching him with a look of malicious pleasure. It began to

sink in that he had only himself to blame. If he hadn’t

eavesdropped: if he hadn’t gone where he wasn’t invited; if he

had only found out more before he rushed into action; if he had

been faithful.

“You thought I’d regret it, and yet you still did it?” He balled

a fist, drew it back. Mitchell circled him warily, with the

confidence of a man who was well used to hand-to-hand

fighting. The combination of alert, masculine competence, and

the rumpled, girlish looks was bizarre, appalling.

“You humiliated me in front of the one man whose good

regard means everything to me, Mr. Digby, you cannot possibly expect me to bear you a kindness.”

“This was revenge then?”

38 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT

Mitchell laughed again, the smug, careless laughter that made

Robert want to hurt him very badly. “I hadn’t intended to seek

revenge,” he said, grinning, “but when it fell into my lap, so to

speak, I found it very satisfying indeed.”

“You fucking bastard! You vile, whoreson pervert!” He

threw the punch, but the other man twisted aside and his fist

shook the flimsy partition wall, leaving a dent in the thin wood.

“No wonder they say you people deserve to die. I’d hang you

myself!”

The door opened and a man with the broken nose and

cauliflower ears of a professional prize fighter burst in. His huge

shoulders strained the rough canvas of his jacket, his hair was in

a sailor’s pigtail it must have taken ten years to grow, and his

eyes were insolent and dangerous. Surely, Robert thought, such

a man could not be, could not be a sodomite too? But it was to Mitchell that the newcomer looked, with respect and a certain

amount of concern.

“You ‘avin trouble, sir?”

“Mr. Digby is a little upset, Haslem. We can’t let him go

home in this state. Take him into the parlour and make him

drink something.”

A big hand with a palm like stone closed about his elbow,

and it dawned on Robert that he was friendless, surrounded by

men who had earned execution already, so had little disincentive

to murder. This was, in its own way, as lawless and dangerous a

place as any nest of pirates.

“Kindly, now,” said Mitchell. “I’ll be with you in a moment,

Mr. Digby. But I advise you not to throw such names about.

You are in a molly house, after all. In here, I’m the normal one.

Isn’t that right?”

“Oh, aye,” said Haslem with a gnarled version of the same

smile. He shook Robert, not to damage him, but to give him the

impression of enormous strength. “You’m the ‘pervert’ in here,

my lad. Not none of us. So best keep your pretty mouth shut,

eh? Now come along of me and sit quiet a while, while the

lieutenant decides what to do with you.”

He was gently but inexorably towed away to the large front

room, and given a chair and a glass of brandy with a blunt

I DO! 39

directness that said he had better take them, or worse things

might follow. When he showed no signs of fight, Haslem

nodded and leaned against the wall with a sailor’s watching

patience. Robert was left in nominal freedom to gulp the brandy

and wonder what the hell happened now.

The liquor filled his throat and stomach with a prickly

warmth that burnt away some of the feeling of uncleanness.

Looking up, he found his first impression of a ball was not far

wrong. A quartet played with sprightly enjoyment in the far

corner; the lead violinist an elderly man with a mellow virtuosity

of feeling and tone that turned the well-worn dances into art.

Two score men were dancing, with movements that ranged

from comically inept to startlingly graceful. Even now, it was

hard to believe some of the ladies were not exactly that. And

though it made his skin crawl to think it, there were still several

who caught his eye, who he could not prevent himself watching

with guilty pleasure.

Across the room from him, a good-looking, middle-aged

tradesman was sitting hand in hand with a blond youth dressed

in the extreme of high fashion. Their faces, gazing at one

another, were so aglow with love he had to look away,

unsettled.

“Feeling calmer?” Mitchell took the seat next to him. He

had washed his face and changed into coat and breeches a

shade darker than his uncovered oak-brown hair. He looked

tall, confident and unmistakably male, and Robert, even though

he knew, still found it hard to credit this was the same person as the girl in the green dress. He tossed back the rest of his brandy

to force down the disorientation, the nausea, and decided that

he had had enough of being pushed.

“Does your captain know about you?”

“About all of this?” a gesture took in the dancers, the many

coloured dresses and the powdered faces in flickering

candlelight, “What do you think?”

“I could tell him. I could have you dragged in front of a

court of law. You’d be drummed out of the Navy and pilloried

at the least. I imagine there are a lot of people who’d love the

chance to throw offal and half-bricks at you, Lt. Mitchell.”

40 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT

Mitchell curled his lip in disgust, and Robert longed to hit

him hard, split that lip and break his jaw. His knuckles ached

from where he had driven them into the wall. And yet...and yet

whose fault was it, truly? If he had made use of an opportunity

Robert had given him, wasn’t it Robert’s fault for providing it?

“When you’re telling him, be sure to explain how you found

out,” said Mitchell coldly. “Don’t come the moralist with me,

Mr. Digby. If I’m a sodomite, you’re an adulterer. If I stand to

lose my career and perhaps my life, you stand to lose your wife

and child. And there is every likelihood you would hang with

me. You are one of us now, after all.”

“I didn’t know!”

“Do you think anyone would really believe that?”

Of course they wouldn’t. Of course not. He would have said

himself, a half hour ago, that there was no possibility of being

so mistaken. How could a gown make such a difference? Mere

fabric and powder - how could they change a man so

completely? And if they could, what then was the truth? Was

there so little difference between male and female that a mere

change of clothes was all that told them apart?

What did that mean? He had been fortunate enough to

enjoy a good church school education, and emerged into

manhood quite sure of where he stood. It hurt to find the

world was altogether stranger than the certainties with which he

had grown up.

Why did everything have to be so complicated? Anger,

ebbing away, left him with weariness and a great feeling of loss.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Mitchell had got up to dip a glass into one of

the large punchbowls that sat on the sideboard behind them.

He flicked back his cuffs to keep them out of the liquid, and

Robert noticed the long seam of a cutlass scar on his forearm

that had lain concealed beneath the gloves.

“If you’re going to... If you’re going to fuck other men, why

not… just do it? Why the pretence? Why the dresses?”

“What is this?” Mitchell held out his hand for Robert’s

empty glass and filled it, hesitating over passing it back. “An

interrogation?”

I DO! 41

“No,” Robert said heavily, “Not that. You’re right, I know. I

can’t condemn you without condemning myself. It was an idle

threat, and I have no intention of going through with it. In fact

I hope to go away and get so thoroughly drunk I forget this

ever happened. It’s just curiosity - I want to understand.”

“For me…” in response to this capitulation, Mitchell passed

him the drink and settled back in his chair with a smile that

looked surprisingly like an offer of peace. Perhaps, now that

they had exchanged humiliation for humiliation, honour had

been satisfied; the retaliation found sufficient, and the grudge

withdrawn.

“It’s mere practicality. Don’t you know that some women

wear men’s clothes so that they can run away to sea? In one set

of clothes they are permitted to do what they could never in

another. It’s no different for me. I find it convenient to be able

to walk down the street with a lover, or kiss him in public

without risking being executed for it.” He shrugged. “But there

are those here for whom the pretty things are a thrill in

themselves, and others for whom they are...for whom they are

an expression of inward reality. A body more real than the one

they were born in.”

“I don’t think I know what you mean.”

“I’m not sure that I do either. But however it is with them,

this is a place where they can be at home. A place where we are

all normal.” This time the bright smile had no malice in it, startlingly pleasant. “I don’t think you can have any conception,

Mr. Digby, of what a relief that can be.”

“Why not just be normal then?”

Mitchell laughed, “Oh yes, because it’s that easy! For

Christ’s sake, man, do you think there’s a one of us here who

chose to be in this coil? No, we like living our lives in the shadow of the gallows. We like being universally reviled and hated by

God and Man alike. Of course we do.”

He looked away, and Robert was reminded of iron that has

been quenched too many times - a black, sharp brittleness,

dangerous to work and hard to salvage. Looking out at the

dancers, the musicians, the two besotted lovers, he felt his

42 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT

thoughtless distaste for them soften a little in concern. Did they

really not have the choice? What a terrible fate!

“I tell you what,” said Mitchell, looking down at the slices of

apple left at the bottom of his glass. “You’re a married man,

aren’t you, Mr. Digby? If I could have what you have, if I could

be married to the one I love, you couldn’t force me to leave his

side to do this. But the world doesn’t give me that chance, and

this is all I have.”

It was Robert’s turn to laugh, feeling older and more

experienced than the other man, more worldly wise. “You’re a

romantic, Lieutenant. Marriage is...not everything I had

imagined it would be. I know many married men who would

give it up eagerly for what you have here - the offer of

uncomplicated sex.”

“Yes, I’m a romantic.” Mitchell’s lips and eyes thinned as if

he was about to chop the arm off a marauding Frenchman, and

Robert thought simultaneously It would take a brave man to fall in love with him! and Romantic? With that face?

“Unfortunately, Bill is as pragmatic as you like. Maimed and

pensioned off, he says he can no longer afford the risk. I say

we never could, but we took it regardless. And I would rather

be united with him in a noose than separated in any amount of

pleasures!”

“You and Bill Wilkins?” Robert watched a young man

swing past in a flurry of golden skirts, his shorn hair the same

colour as the silk, every line of his body speaking of youth and

hope and love.

“You really didn’t notice it? I thought you had. I thought

you’d seen it then, when we couldn’t look away from each

other. I thought, ‘There’s trouble. We’ll have to do something about that.’ And then you dumped me in the soup.”

“That was an accident!”

“Oh, indeed?” Mitchell’s sneer was a supple thing of many

degrees. This one seemed friendlier than the last. “And does

that take the sting from it? At such a time! With him looking at

me so sweet…”

They had been standing there, him and Bill, pulling together,

as Robert was pulled towards Lydia, all the iron need and the

I DO! 43

soul deep ache, and prevented from acting on it. How could he

possibly not understand?

“I suppose I was careless, at that, and lucky no one was

worse hurt.” Robert put down his glass and extended his hand.

“I’m sorry. If I offer myself to someone I shouldn’t be angry

with them for taking that offer up. I apologize for the insults,

Lt. Mitchell, and I’ll keep your secret. May we shake hands on

it?”

Mitchell sat straighter, lifting his chin so that he could look

down his nose at Robert, while Robert wondered if he could

really bear to touch the man without throwing up. Then

Mitchell smiled again that surprisingly genuine smile and took

his hand in a firm grip - his palm warm and calloused, quite

different from the touch of silk. “I thought for a moment there

I’d have to knock you on the head and press you to sea, Mr.

Digby. I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”

He watched the golden youth circle, bright in candlelight,

refilled his glass. “But you, who already have what I would die

for? Is this really what you want?”

Robert thought of Lydia, alone with their baby. Did she

know she was not abandoned – that he always meant to come

back? Did she know that he loved her and did not merely wish

to use her as he had wished to use these ‘women’? He thought

he had some inkling now of what she had meant.

“I think this experience has put me off adultery forever,” he

said, smiling to take the sting out of the words.

“Let’s hope that’ll be counted to me as righteousness, then,”

Mitchell joked. “And may God prosper both our efforts to win

back those we love.”

Though it was but a little while since he would have happily

strangled the man himself, Robert found with immense surprise

that he hoped for it too.

The Roaming Heart

CHARLIE COCHRANE

“Linda, my dear, you look terribly tired.” Charles Prior laid

his hand on the girl’s arm. She did look weary, dreadfully pale

and drawn.

“It’s this wretched job; I can’t afford to give it up, Mama

depends upon me.” Linda fought back the tears, a fierce, brave

look on her lovely face.

“There is another solution — we’ve spoken of it often.”

Charles took her hand, gently caressed it. “If you would only do

me the honour…” His eyes shone with hope and a desire that,

this time, those expectations shouldn’t prove forlorn.

“No — no, my dear. It would never work. I could never

make you happy as you deserve to be.” Linda patted Prior’s

hand, smiled at him as a sister might. “You know that my heart

will always lie elsewhere.”

Charles glanced out of the café window, better to observe

the man who was coming, with an eager stride, down the street.

“Shall I go? I wouldn’t want him to be angry with you.”

“No. I won’t let him be rude to you as he was before. He

must understand that you are as dear to me as a brother.” She

stood up as Ralph Allen came through the door, a huge smile

lighting up her face, a smile she had never produced for

Charles. “I’m so pleased you could come. You’ve met before, of

course?” She indicated her companion.

Ralph scowled, fists clenching. “Oh yes, I remember you,

Mr. Prior.”

“Cut!” The director’s voice rang out and everyone relaxed.

“That was wonderful, my dears. All in one take as well,

excellent job. We’ll do the close ups this afternoon, everyone.”

He came across to where his stars were beginning to laugh and

joke with one another. “Alasdair, you were marvelous; your

Ralph really did look as if he was going to punch Charles there

and then. Toby, no-one does unrequited love like you can, dear.

And Fiona, that was simply wonderful. Now, my children, go

and take a rest so that you’ll sparkle again for me.”

“Are you lunching with the cast and crew, Alasdair?” Fiona

Marsden had eschewed the martyred persona she was displaying

as Linda Sheringham and was now much more flirtatious in

voice and manner.

48 The Roaming Heart ~ COCHRANE

Alasdair Hamilton shrugged. “I’ll see; I have a bit of a

headache coming on.”

Toby Bowe grinned; he too had reassumed his naturally

cheerful face. “Come on, you could do with at least a bowl of

decent soup — you can’t live on sandwiches forever. Or does

your housekeeper produce such lavish meals that the studio

canteen is beneath you?”

“I’ll have you know that my housekeeper…” Hamilton

didn’t finish his sentence, as the assistant director appeared with

a message about the last minute re-working of one of the

afternoon’s scenes. All three of Landseer Studio’s most

noteworthy stars came to the unspoken decision that they

would indeed eat with the rest of the cast and crew, then made

their way to the dining hall.

The Roaming Heart looked like being another success for the

directorship of Alexander Rattigan and the romantic triangle of

Hamilton, Bowe and Marsden. It would be brought in under

budget, well in time, and the handsome faces of the leads would

soon be plastered all over cinemas and billboards in every

corner of the kingdom. Toby and Alasdair would no doubt be

pictured on either side of Fiona, as usual, the former with the

expression of a spaniel seeking a crumb from its mistress’ table

and the latter with the quietly confident air of the natural victor.

It was a tried and trusted formula, delivering a nice dollop of

nostalgic enjoyment for an audience sick of meat still being on

the ration and wars still being fought in the butcher’s queue.

Hamilton and Bowe had both served, both acquired

distinguished enough records, although not as glowing as the

studio hinted. Fiona had been a volunteer nurse at Netley — all

the fulsome accounts of her service were, surprisingly enough,

true. They’d made two films together over the last year and a

half — Wings of Love and Valour Undeterred — both of which had been roaring successes. In the first Toby had even got the girl,

but only because Alasdair’s character had been killed in a

dogfight over Kent and she’d been on the rebound, swearing to

her best friend that she’d make a dutiful, attentive wife even

though her heart had gone down with her lover’s Hurricane.

In the second Alasdair was the winner, as formula dictated

he normally was, and Toby was allowed to suffer beautifully.

I DO! 49

Female filmgoers inevitably came out of the pictures in floods

of tears, while male filmgoers were grateful for the opportunity

to provide comfort, and for the chance of ogling Fiona

Marsden. The effect of these triumphs had been overwhelming.

Already popular with film and theatre fans, these three had now

become the hottest properties in British cinema; some folk even

muttered vague rumours of Hollywood beckoning. The postbag

from fans had swollen and proposals of marriage, alongside

other less respectable things, flooded in, not just to the lady.

The gossip columns adored them, too. Hamilton and

Bowe’s names were linked to a succession of leading ladies,

members of the nobility and, in one case, a foreign princess.

There were persistent rumours that one or other of them was

involved with Miss Marsden. It varied depending on the

magazine or newspaper you read, each newspaper having its

favourite.

The devoted readers of these rags would, depending on

whether their preference was for tall, slim and handsome or

short, muscular and handsome, imagine themselves into the

published stories with their own names linked to Hamilton or

Bowe. Not all those who held these fantasies were female.

Fiona was delighted to have the world speculating about her.

It was most pleasant to find oneself caught between two such

fine-looking and charming young men, to be often on their arm

at some occasion or the other, particularly now that the wartime

austerity was at last showing a sign or two of dissipating. And

the possibility of Hollywood was a thrilling prospect. The only

fly in the ointment was that these social occasions seemed to be

prompted by the studio, rather than by the actors themselves

and that, for all the linking of arms and dancing cheek to cheek,

there was never more than a peck on the hand to end the

evening with. She was beginning to suspect that the gossip

columnists who espoused the secret engagement to a foreign princess theory had got it right.

But at this juncture she sailed into lunch with both of them,

like some proud ship of the line and her escort of frigates,

earning admiring, jealous glances from the make up girls,

dressers and female extras. Fiona Marsden was a star and she

50 The Roaming Heart ~ COCHRANE

probably gets to snog one or both of those two matinee idols were the constant watchwords behind the scenes.

“And does your housekeeper prepare anything to match

this?” Bowe piled into a particularly tasty fricassee, although he

wasn’t sure he hadn’t once had ten bob at Ascot on the animal

he was eating.

“She does indeed; perhaps you should come and try it

someday. When you aren’t out eating with the daughters of

nobility.”

Bowe laughed. “It’s my dear Mama makes me do it; she still

doesn’t think that the son of a baronet being in moving pictures is quite the done thing. Even though I’m the sixth and have no

real expectations. Could you pass the salt please, Fiona?”

Miss Marsden obliged, rather peeved that she wasn’t being

invited to partake of the lady in question’s culinary skills. “Do

you have a good cook, Toby?”

“One without parallel, recommended to me by a friend of

my mother’s. Mrs Forrest may be stout, have wrinkles and be able to grow a more impressive moustache than my father can,

but her pastry is without parallel in the kingdom. I am truly

spoiled,” Bowe patted his muscular waistline as if to emphasise

the fact. Three young women in the vicinity nearly choked.

“And what about the daughters of the nobility?” Hamilton

had a small, secretive smile on his face although only Bowe

seemed to notice it. “Do they approve of the culinary delights

on offer?”

“They might if they ever were allowed to set foot through

the door. I also possess the most ferocious butler, who will not allow any of the painted minxes as far as the top step. When I

meet them it is strictly at an away venue.” Bowe cleared the last

of the fricassee from his plate. “And you, Alasdair? That

daughter of the Aga Khan or whoever it is that you trip the

light fantastic with — does she like Mrs Whatever-she’s-called’s steak and kidney pudding? Assuming Mrs Thingy has bribed the

butcher again.”

Hamilton grinned. “Like you, Toby, I keep my pleasures to

be partaken of away from the family hearth. Doesn’t do to let

these ladies become too ensconced at the fireside.”

I DO! 51

“Indeed. Well, cup of something alleged to resemble coffee

and back to the Grindstone, I suppose. Shame I gave up

cigarettes when I was twelve. I quite fancy one at pleasant times

like this.”

For some reason Hamilton began to choke on his coffee.

  

The close ups were eventually completed, Bowe being

praised over and again for the way that he expressed such stiff

upper lip and repressed emotion. Hamilton’s eyebrows seemed

to have acquired star status in their own right and were put to

the test from every angle and in every way.

At last the action was wound up for the day, people

repairing to dressing rooms to be changed, pampered and

praised, emerging eventually as something less than they had

appeared on set, something like ordinary folk.

“Are you two lads out with your girls tonight?” Fiona spoke

lightly, but the question was loaded with hidden agendas.

“I’m washing my hair.” Bowe laughed, using a voice which

exactly mimicked one of the starlets who had that particular line

to employ in the film and who had milked it for all it was worth.

“Alasdair?” Fiona was nothing if not determined; years

trying to break into films had eliminated all elements of natural

English reticence from her.

“Prior engagement for me — not like this old stick-at-home

here.” Hamilton poked Bowe’s ribs. “I appreciate a bit of

romance and joie de vie.” He lifted Miss Marsden’s hand and

kissed it. “Till Monday, then.”

  

The butler answered the door to the gentle knock, visibly

relaxed when he saw who the visitor was and bade him come in.

This was one of the few people allowed over Toby Bowe’s

threshold. Outside it was raining pell-mell, a fortuitous thing as

it kept the streets free from gawping eyes; not many fans knew

where their idol lived, but those who did made things jolly

awkward.

“Thought you’d get here, deluge notwithstanding.” Toby

came into the hall, helped divest his guest of his Mackintosh.

52 The Roaming Heart ~ COCHRANE

“Can you rustle us up some coffee, MacGuire? Decent stuff,

not like that chicory-infested rubbish they deliver at the studio.

I won’t enquire too hard as to where you got hold of it.”

The butler nodded, took the coat and shimmered away.

“We had a bit of an inquisition today.” Alasdair slumped

into his favourite seat by the fireside and started to thaw out a

bit. It wasn’t a particularly cold night yet the rain had gone

through him. “Do you think Fiona suspects?”

Toby grinned, settled down in the chair that was alongside

his friend’s. “No. I think she’s been reading too many

magazines, assumes that we spend every night chatting up some

lady or other and would like a piece of that particular action.

Wants to make those tender moments on screen spill over into

real life.”

They sat in quiet companionship until the butler had

brought some excellent coffee then been dismissed for the rest

of the evening. “Staying the night?” Toby laid down his cup,

sauntered over to his friend’s chair, plonked himself down in

Alasdair’s lap. Strong arms closed around him and he snuggled

his head into his lover’s neck.

“If you want me to. No filming tomorrow means no car in

the morning. No doubt I’ll read in the paper that I was at some

club up west seeing in the dawn with an heiress. Or Fiona.”

Alasdair lifted Toby’s face to his, the better to kiss him. It

wasn’t the sort of tender, butterfly kiss which was all he was

allowed to share with Miss Marsden on screen (for which

eventuality he was very grateful). This was passionate and raw,

all the better for being shared behind closed doors and with the

world locked out. And with the only person he had ever loved.

His eager fingers started to make their way down the row of

Toby’s waistcoat buttons.

“Now Mr. Hamilton, what would your adoring fans say if

they knew what you were about?”

“They’d say that I was jolly lucky not to get pins and needles

with you sitting in my lap. I dread to think how much you

weigh, but it’s all solid flesh.” He prodded Toby’s chest,

enjoying the feeling of the firm muscle beneath his touch.

I DO! 53

“Then do you wish to repair to my boudoir? Or as Fiona

said in her first film ‘ fancy a fourpenny one?’”

“She never did.”

“No. Actually she was playing an odalisque and said ‘ would

you like to partake of a sherbert?’ although the basic meaning was the same.”

“I think I’d like to sit down on that rug by the fire. It was

only a short walk from where I parked the car but I got pretty

soaked.”

“Then take off your shoes and socks and we’ll both toast

our tootsies.” Toby quickly bared his toes and sat in front of the

hearth, feet turned towards the homely blaze. Alasdair joined

him, sliding an arm around his shoulders, resting head against

head. “At least that rain meant that we were spared any

watchers at the gates. Not even the most ardent of Toby Bowe

fans would brave that downpour for a glimpse of their pin-up.”

“And at least that meant you didn’t have to scoot around to

the tradesman’s entrance. MacGuire hates it when you have to

pretend to be a delivery boy.” Toby grinned, twisting his lover

around for another kiss, while Alasdair began to get to work on

more buttons, Toby’s shirt this time.

“And what are you up to now, Charles? Does Linda

Sheringham know that you’re such a maniac for bare flesh?”

“No, she doesn’t and she’ll never get a chance to find out. I

just have a fancy to see the very vest that made, according to

the Daily Mail, three women faint when it was paraded in

Valour Undeterred.” Alasdair soon discovered that it wasn’t that particular grey silk vest which Toby was wearing but a fine

white linen one, in comparison to which the other was

positively monastic. “This is new.”

“Bought it for the latest film; always hate the ones that

wardrobe try to foist upon me.” Toby pushed his lover down

onto the Chinese rug, wreaking havoc with his fingers to

Alasdair’s tie, his shirt buttons, fly buttons. “Shame we’ll never

get the chance to play a scene like this for the cameras.”

“They wouldn’t even allow me to play one like this with

Fiona. One little kiss then fade to black. Not,” Alasdair fought

to get his words out against mounting breathlessness, “I hasten

54 The Roaming Heart ~ COCHRANE

to add, that I’m complaining.” He didn’t fight the depredations

of Toby’s keen hands.

“It would be nice though, don’t you think? Playing the

characters that we did in Wings of Love — a pair of squadron

leaders — but instead of dancing with Patricia Morgan or

whoever La Marsden was supposed to be, dancing with each

other and smooching a bit.” Bowe’s fingers had found a

particularly succulent piece of flesh to assault.

“How am I supposed to answer sensibly when you do that?”

Alasdair gasped. “It’ll never happen. They’d never dare show

such a thing on film, even one of those avant garde French ones.

Now leave off a moment.” He eased Toby’ shirt and vest off

his shoulders, letting them follow where the jacket and

waistcoat had gone. “It’s just as well, you know, all this

censorship. This,” he jabbed a finger at the rug, as if it were

responsible for their actions, “is strictly between us. I would

never want anyone knowing what went on behind our own

closed doors.”

“Given what usually happens, that’s probably just as well.”

Toby’s strong chest pressed his lover hard against the rug, his

mouth unleashing a barrage of kisses on any part of Alasdair he

could reach. “No need to put on a show for the cameras now.

Just you, me and the fire with no necessity to repeat things

again and again till we get them perfect.”

Alasdair, breathless, husky voiced and about to lose all

rational faculties, considered. “Actually, Toby, that wouldn’t be

a bad idea…”

Outed

CLARE LONDON

Guy said afterwards it was a relief to him that someone

finally said something.

But did it have to be Auntie Queenie’s apparently artless

comment, right in the middle of her eightieth birthday

celebration tea?

In the aftermath of the shock, when conversation and social

smiles froze like Siberian rain and Auntie’s shaking hand

scattered sugar frosting from her cake all over our carpet, Guy

took my hand and smiled and said yes, of course, what Auntie

Queenie said was true, and no, he hadn’t seen last night’s

eviction from Big Brother but he believed it was as

controversial as always, and – in the meantime – did anyone

want another cup of tea?

Guy was British equanimity to the core. No melodrama, no

fuss, and always enough tea to re-float the Titanic. Guy could

be accused, perhaps, of living in his own – comfortable, chilled,

charmed – universe. I often envied him for that, though I knew

in his case it was born of sincere confidence, not self-delusion.

Whereas I, on the other hand, lived in the real world, which

was messy, prejudiced and emotionally tangled, and happening

right now in my living room. The world where my mother

turned a shade of colour I’d never seen on anything except

museum parchment, and where my sister’s exclamation was rich

and alliterative, courtesy of her expensive, convent-school

education.

Guy turned to me, still smiling, and asked me to fetch some

more milk from the kitchen. His eyes danced with mischief. I

sighed to myself.

My sister was behind me all the way, her peep-toes tagging

against my trainers, her hissed commentary nagging at me.

“What the hell is going on? Rob, are you listening to me? I

don’t know what Auntie was thinking, saying something like

that. I mean, you’re not in trouble again, are you? At work? At

home? Whatever?” I paused to reach in the cupboard for a milk jug and Melanie halted abruptly, just before her knees bumped

against my legs. “Look, you know what Auntie Queenie is like,

she gets nuttier every birthday. Christ, she probably doesn’t

even know what the word gay means, nowadays –”

58 Outed ~ LONDON

“But it’s true,” I interrupted. I watched my hand open the

fridge door and lift out the milk carton, as if someone else were

doing it. The door sighed shut again: I sighed along with it.

There was a certain relief, at last. “She was right. I am living with Guy. We are gay.”

There have been few times in my life when I’ve rendered my

older sister speechless. There was some satisfaction that this

was one of them. “Will you fetch out some dessert spoons?” I

said, amazed that my voice sounded so calm. “Auntie Queenie

can’t manage her birthday cake with those daft little forks that

Mum brought with her.”

“You’re gay,” Melanie said.

“You know where the spoons are,” I continued.

“Guy’s gay. You’re living together. Together? Not just

flatmates. I can’t do this.”

“I don’t see that my sexuality affects your ability to open a

drawer and pick out some cutlery,” I snapped.

“What about Mum?” she gasped.

“Well, yes, I could ask her to get them, but it seems a lot of

fuss over –”

“Shut up, Rob. You know what I mean. What’s Mum

going to say? What’s she going to do?”

“Do?” I glared at her. Yes, there was relief, but there was

frustration, too. “Why the hell does she need to do something?

We’re not living with her, are we?”

“What’ll they say at the Golf Club?” I couldn’t help but

notice Melanie’s initial shock giving way to some rather more

salacious mischief.

“Glad to be the subject of your entertainment,” I said,

coldly. “I can’t believe you never guessed, anyway. This

shock/horror performance is rather hypocritical. Guy and I

have been sharing the flat since last summer. We both come to

all the family events; you know we go on holiday together.”

Short of giving guided tours around our double-bedded room,

what else did it take? Couldn’t social acceptability be achieved

with discreet familiarity, rather than wearing a lurid slogan on a

tight T-shirt? Instinctively, I imagined Guy in that T-shirt and

my breath shortened. Then I was ambushed by another vision,

I DO! 59

of Guy dressed in nothing but a golfer’s flat cap and chequered

trousers – unbuttoned – laid out on a lush, deserted green,

laughing and grabbing for me and murmuring of irons and

woods…

Hell, it was tempting, but not sufficiently so for me to join

the Golf Club alongside my mother.

“And Auntie was right about the rest of it, too,” I

continued, reckless now. “It is the reason I’m a lot happier nowadays. I’ve been in trouble, on and off, since I was a

teenager, haven’t I? You and Mum know that, you’ve bailed me

out enough times. God knows where I might have ended up if

I hadn’t met Guy.” If I hadn’t found a comfortable place in life

that owed nothing to a steady job, a particular neighbourhood

or the material state of our second-hand furniture. Or

membership of a local Golf Club, for that matter.

No, the comfortable place was being with Guy; the stability;

the belonging at last.

Melanie retreated from the kitchen, her wide-eyed gaze

trailing away from mine and the suspicion of a grin on her lips.

She clutched the spoons to the front of her silk blouse like a

talisman. I drew a deep breath, picked up the jug of milk and

followed her back into the lounge.

Heads swivelled around to face me, normal tea-drinking

service suspended. The gazes were curious, shocked and some

of them a little excited. Mum, the cousins, Auntie’s school

friend Madge, the family friends from Number 32. All of them,

looking at me.

I paused, temporarily unnerved. Guy was sitting next to

Auntie Queenie on the couch and he looked up too, but his

eyes were sparkling with amusement. I concentrated on them

alone and my spirits rose.

“Is that the milk?” he asked, brightly. “Good. Let’s have

that over here and I’ll pour Auntie another cup. She needs

another slice of cake, too; the last bit went down the wrong

way, apparently.”

I’m sure a couple of the cousins snickered.

60 Outed ~ LONDON

“Robert,” Auntie murmured as I passed her the plate and

spoon. I bent my head down to hear her whispery little voice,

squirming under the burning inquisition I could feel at the back

of my neck: my mother’s indignation, my sister’s anticipation.

“I seem to have caused a bit of a stir,” she said. “I only meant

that you’re both happy – that you’re both so cheerful nowadays,

especially you. Like a new man. You know, that’s what gay

means to me?” Her little old eyes looked innocent enough and

I smiled reassuringly.

“No problem, Auntie.”

Her friend Madge nudged up beside me, bringing the cup of

tea. She rarely spoke in company and always looked mildly

benevolent, whatever the occasion, so I may have imagined the

gentle smile as her eyes skittered over my face. There was a

murmur of voices in the background, and I thought I could

hear Mum being quizzed about her handicap. To give her

credit, she was responding gamely.

Auntie shook her head gently, her pearls clicking and the

scent of a floral talcum powder wafting up into my nostrils.

Her eyes narrowed. “There’ll be no trouble, Rob, I can assure

you. I’ll see to that. Not for you – not with this family of

mine.”

I frowned, puzzled.

Madge coughed discreetly and Auntie grinned. Grinned.

“Your sister wears her skirts too tight and is too fond of

mischief-making, but she’ll come around. And leave your

mother to me. I must say Guy is a charming young man, with a

rather wicked sense of humour; I like him a lot. Isn’t that right,

Madge?”

Her friend nodded, silently and benevolently, of course.

“And he’s built, I must say. You have good taste.”

“Auntie?” I was startled. Out of the corner of my eye I

could see Guy laughing.

She turned to face my lover, my octogenarian Auntie who’d

lived through two world wars, two marriages, and children

who’d caused her both tears and laughter. Who’d never asked

anything about my private life or miscellaneous mishaps, except I DO! 61

to express support and press twenty pounds into my hand when

it was most needed.

I couldn’t see her expression but I could see Guy’s – and he

winked back at her.

Lust in Translation

STORM GRANT

Tyler steered his SUV to the curb, sending a tsunami of

rainwater up and over the sidewalk. Usually a precise driver,

tonight he gauged his distance by bouncing against the curb,

first forward, and then in reverse: bounce, bounce, and park.

Rain sheeted the windshield, tracing eerie patterns across the

interior. He twisted the rearview mirror toward himself,

raindrop shadows painting false tears on his cheeks. He drew

his lips back in a rictus of a smile.

“Nothing between my teeth,” he said, despite being alone in

the car. “Guess I should go in.” Wishing he’d brought an

umbrella, he grabbed a baseball cap from the glove

compartment, the embroidered emblem reading “Mount Forest

P.D.” Carefully, he reshaped the bill and slapped it over his

short, spiky, brown hair.

Exiting the car, he anchored the cap on his head with one

hand, fighting the gusts of bitter wind threatening to snatch it

away. He dashed across the road to the bar, asphalt glistening

wetly, avoiding the deepest puddles as best he could.

He paused in the entryway, searching for the friends who’d

invited him out tonight, rainwater pooling on the parquet tiles

around him. He shook fat droplets from his hat and wiped his

feet on the little sisal mat near the door.

His cell phone shrilled from his jacket pocket, startling him.

“Tyler Cage,” he barked, hoping it wasn’t work calling.

It wasn’t.

“No, no. That’s fine. Bad driving. I get it. Maybe next

week.” He snapped the cell phone shut with an unsatisfying

click, shoving it roughly back in his pocket.

He adjusted his damp ball cap a couple times, and wandered

over to snag a seat at the bar. The place was nearly empty; he

could have had any seat in the house. He downed one beer

quickly, then nursed a second. He traced meaningless patterns

in the condensation, and chatted briefly with the barman.

After an hour, the deserted bar and overpriced beer lost its

charm. Tyler chugged the rest of his mug and caught the

bartender’s attention, requesting the bill. Although he’d had

only two drinks, the alcohol hit him hard; he’d lost his appetite

for drinking and partying following the nasty breakup of his last

66 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

relationship. Mostly he worked and hung around his condo

alone. Five nights a week he worked out at the precinct’s tiny

gym.

Paying his tab and tipping well, he jogged back to his car.

Soaked before he got there, he mused that an ark might be a

better plan than his SUV.

His years in Vice led him by habit through the dirtiest

sections of town; the parts the tourist brochures never mention

but the tourists often found anyway. Neon signs advertising

pawn shops and discount liquor stores glowed dimly behind

metal grates. Boarded-up, burned-out buildings lined one entire

block. Shot-out streetlamps stood uselessly like blind

watchmen. Great lakes of rainwater formed on the road where

clumps of wet garbage blocked the sewers. The smell of rotting

filth overpowered the pine-fresh scent of the little air freshener

dangling from the mirror. Neither hooker nor john ventured

out on a night like this.

Tyler white-knuckled the steering wheel, his SUV

hydroplaning around the corner. “Goddamn it!” He cursed the

road, the SUV, the weather, and most of all his goddamn

friends who’d convinced him to meet them for drinks and then

begged off. “You’re all a bunch of wimps!” he yelled at the

road.

He drove cautiously through the storm, unable to remember

the last time he’d seen weather this crappy. Must have been

winter of ‘99. He’d been on stakeout and—

He slammed on the brakes so violently his seatbelt locked,

knocking the air from his lungs. The car fishtailed wildly out of

control. He skidded sideways, halting just inches from the

bedraggled guy meandering in the street in front of him. The

drunk or whatever staggered straight into his SUV anyway,

careening off the bumper only to wander into the other lane.

Tyler squinted in the glare of oncoming headlights, their

halogen glow fractured and blinding through the sheeting rain.

He leapt from the truck and hauled the idiot out of the way

barely in time. The car sloshed past, horn blaring, sending a

spray of filthy water over their already-drenched clothing. Tyler

fisted the wet leather jacket and dragged his rescuee to the

I DO! 67

passenger side. “I sure hope you’re worth my ruined

upholstery,” he said, shoving the guy into the seat. He crossed

to the driver’s side, shoes oozing rainwater with each step, and

climbed in himself.

Maneuvering carefully, he pulled his SUV onto the nearby

lot of a boarded-up gas station. The vandalized gas pumps

resembled dismembered robots that might wake at any moment

to menace Mount Forest.

“Hey, you okay?” Flicking on the dome light Tyler checked

on his shivering passenger. He cranked up the heat. At least the

guy appeared clean, smelling of wet leather and not of months

without soap and water.

The kid waved one hand around. “Hey, thanks. Um. Sorry

I…. I’m soooo stoned.” His arm flopped back into his lap. He

stroked his hand over his crotch, jacking himself through his

sodden jeans. “And really horny.” He cut a sidelong glance at

Tyler. “Dude, you’re real pretty. Wanna fuck?” Reaching over,

he rubbed Tyler’s crotch once, twice before Tyler grabbed his

hand and pushed him away.

A hooker, Tyler concluded, ignoring his dick’s little twitch.

A hooker with a nasty habit and a nastier pimp making him

work the streets on a night like this.

“Buckle up, kid,” Tyler ordered although he ended up

helping the guy before clicking his own seatbelt into place. He

pulled a U-turn and drove toward the precinct.

The kid sat placidly during the drive, singing softly along

with the radio, some 80s power ballad Tyler might have danced

to at his junior prom. He was a little surprised the boy beside

him knew the words; he looked way too young for it, but maybe

his parents listened to that kind of thing.

They arrived to find the police station in near darkness.

Tyler pulled up in front but a uniformed cop in heavy rain gear

rapped on his window.

Tyler lowered the glass, blinded by the cop’s flashlight glare.

“Point that somewhere else, will you?” he shouted over the

storm. The cop lowered his beam.

“What’s going on?” Black spots danced before Tyler’s eyes.

“You’ll have to leave, Detective. We’ve got a situation here.”

68 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

“Situation? I’ll park and help.”

Vision clearing, Tyler could just make out the officer’s grim

expression. “No, sir. I have my orders. No one gets in or out

until further notice.”

“Officer, report!” Tyler ordered, pulling rank.

The uniform surveyed the area. Apparently finding nothing

else needing his attention, he focused back on Tyler, his eyes

sliding dismissively over the stoned-out boy lolling in the

passenger seat. Tyler hoped the other cop couldn’t see into the

car where the boy was running his talented fingers along the

inseam of Tyler’s jeans. “The storm, sir. Lightning hit a

generator. We’re running on emergency power.”

Tyler nodded. He’d experienced their antiquated backup

generators before. The dim, flickering lights lent the bullpen a

surreal cast, criminals, victims, and cops alike all wearing

shadowy death masks.

“Wasn’t there a big bust tonight?” He’d heard Robbery

Division was scheduled to take down a fencing operation the

size of an average Wal-Mart. “Do they need help in there?”

“No, sir. Sorry, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to leave

now. We’re expecting other units and you can’t block the

driveway.” He held up his radio mic as if it explained

something.

“Okay. I get it. It’s Robbery’s bust and they’re not looking

to share.” He raised his window and pulled away, tires

screeching on the wet pavement. He cornered too fast and the

hooker slid into him, landing with his damp head on Tyler’s

shoulder. It felt kind of nice so Tyler let him stay.

The kid alternated between sluggish and manically trying to

lick every available part of Tyler.

Against all better judgment, Tyler dragged the kid home with

him. Just to sleep it off, he told himself. Just to keep him from

staggering out in front of another car or dying of exposure on

the cold wet streets. To keep him safe from his pimp, a john, or

a dozen other things that might mean death for someone in the

kid’s condition.

I DO! 69

He also told himself a single kiss wouldn’t hurt. The boy was

so antsy, so aroused, so appealing. Maybe he’d settle down if

Tyler just kissed him a bit. Or, you know, got him off.

  

Justin lay spread like a sacrifice to the strange god who knelt

between his legs.

“Oh, God. Don’t stop,” he murmured, his dazed words

both an order and a plea. “Oh, yeah.”

He gazed along the miles of his sweat-gleamed body to see

the haloed head slowly rising and falling. “Pretty,” he said

tracing patterns along the gilded skin. The statue-come-to-life

toyed with his balls, fingers brushing lower. He shuddered with

pleasure.

“You say something, kid?” The god released Justin’s cock,

raising his head. “You okay? Should I stop? You’ll still get

paid.”

“I…. You…. Don’t stop.” Justin raised his lead-weight arm.

His arm had a halo too. He admired his wavy outline, tripping

on the iridescent trails that followed his movements. He twisted

his head on the pillow, surveying the room. A nimbus of

shifting light ringed furniture, walls, and windows.

The God Guy—Tyler, Justin recalled he’d said—Tyler

returned his attentions to Justin’s dick. Justin tried to focus on

feeling good but his mind kept jumping around, making him

dizzy, making him crazy. “God, dude. I’ve never felt anything

like this. I think I’m gonna come. I think I’m gonna be sick. I

think I’m gonna die.” His breath stuttered and his heart raced.

“Oh, oh, oh!”

Right the first time.

  

Tyler swallowed reflexively, the bitter-salt taste crossing his

palate. Eyes closed and enjoying the sensation, he focused on

the essence of the pretty young man spread out before him.

And quickly pulled away, heart thudding in panic. Latex. He

shouldn’t taste both latex and come.

70 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

He bolted downstairs to the bathroom, leaving the stoned-

out hooker still shuddering through the last of his orgasm. He

slammed the bathroom door and hastily swished around a

mouthful of hydrogen peroxide, spitting the foul stuff noisily

into the sink.

Tyler cursed himself for his negligence. He’d forgotten

about that ragged back tooth, the result of something

unexpected and unidentified in his chili at lunch. Now it had

worn a sore spot on his tongue and ripped the condom! “Oh,

Christ, no!” An open sore. A hooker’s jism. A recipe for

disaster.

While rescuing the kid and blowing him had seemed like a

brilliant plan at the time, it lost its luster now as Tyler sat in his bathroom wondering if anyone had invented a morning-after

pill for AIDS. His gut clutched in panic: latex, come, bile, and

hydrogen peroxide forming a bitter mélange on his tongue.

Tyler was pretty familiar with the kids who worked the

streets thanks to his job in Vice, but he hadn’t seen this boy

before. Maybe this kid was new to tricking or backed off the

hardcore stuff. The kid had felt pretty tight when Tyler shoved

two fingers in him.

“Okay, Detective,” he told himself. “Go do your job.

Interrogate the rent boy.”

He marched back toward the stairs leading up to his loft-

style bedroom. If he swayed a little on the journey he blamed it

on the beer he’d consumed earlier. Not to mention his current

state of panic.

Reaching the bed, Tyler gently shook his guest. “Hey, kid.

Wake up. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going

to answer me. Okay?”

The hooker stared, eyes dazed and unfocused. Tyler lightly

slapped the kid’s tanned cheek, admiring the boy’s tawny skin

color. He hadn’t noticed the healthy glow before. In fact, an

incandescent halo of soft light bathed the entire room.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision.

“Stay with me here, kid. This is important. How long have

you been hooking?” he asked, just a little distracted by the

shimmering highlights in the boy’s golden curls.

I DO! 71

“Not a hooker. ‘M a professor. Jefferson U.,” the kid

mumbled. Tyler shook his head, the slurred syllables difficult to

interpret. “Peeee ach deeeee!” the kid added, singing the letters

loudly and off-key.

Tyler wondered if the guy’s delusional state predated the

drugs. Growing more panicked he demanded, “Do you have

AIDS? Are you HIV positive?”

This appeared to reach the boy. He actually lifted his head

and met Tyler’s brown eyes for a long moment before

responding. Between the blown pupils and the golden fog,

Tyler failed to distinguish the kid’s eye color at all. Green

maybe? Blue?

Yanking his attention back from those pretty eyes, Tyler

repeated his questions. The kid’s gaze wavered a bit but he

spoke clearly this time. “Get tested regularly. Not sick.

Wouldn’t be here if I was.”

Tyler relaxed a little, finding it hard to stay panicked. He ran

his gaze over the boy’s handsome features. More pretty than

handsome really, although the dark stubble along his jaw

highlighted the boy’s masculinity. The bronzy glow outlining

the boy’s mouth caught Tyler’s gaze. He reached out a glowing

hand to trace the sparkling patterns.

The hooker’s head fell back on the pillow.

Tyler continued to admire the naked man in his bed.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, no longer wondering what inspired

him to undertake so many things against his better judgment.

Tyler’s mind wandered from danger and inexplicable actions

to his returning erection; reminding him that while he’d taken

care of the rent boy, the rent boy had yet to take care of him.

He caressed and petted the firm young body, gently at first, just

enjoying the intense sensation of touch. His touch increased in

sensuality as he grew more aroused. He licked and nuzzled his

way south, mouthing collarbone and nipples, down the fine flat

stomach. He swirled his tongue around the kid’s navel. The kid

moaned, so Tyler did it again.

He lay next to the pliant body and rubbed against him.

Feeling his sensitive skin catch he realized fuzzily that he hadn’t

removed the boy’s torn condom yet and rolled off to deal with

72 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

it. The dead soldier sailed toward the trash but failed to

complete its trajectory, puddling on the floor beside the

wastebasket. Tyler, normally a neat freak and then some, failed

to care. He rolled back against the closest body part, pressing

his cock against the firm, hot flesh.

Tyler’s thoughts ping-ponged around his skull, making it

hard for him to focus on any one thing, not even on his dick,

which usually managed to absorb his attention. A blunt hipbone

interfered with the delirious friction. He rolled away a bit and

pushed at the young man. “Roll over.”

After a couple of unsuccessful attempts the boy managed to

flop over onto his belly. Tyler rooted about the bedclothes,

eventually finding the tube of slick he’d used earlier to ease the

way for his fingers. He spread some on his dick. He shoved

himself across the boy’s ass, shifting around, lining up his cock

between the exquisitely rounded ass cheeks.

Retreating to his one-syllable vocabulary, the hooker

managed to raise his head and call “Nahhhh” back over his

shoulder.

Equally articulate, Tyler responded with “Whaaaa?”

“Don’ do that, dude. Don’ wanna.”

Gathering his minimal resources, Tyler slurred entire

phrases, a full sentence beyond him. “Don’ worry. Not gonna

fuck. Just rub off. ‘Kay?”

“‘Kay.” Reassured, the boy sank face-first back into the

pillow.

Despite his reeling thoughts and fired-up senses, or maybe

because of them, Tyler found the sensations of this basic act

absolutely incredible, positively transcending. He wanted more

of the skin-to-skin contact with this beautiful body, beautiful

ass, beautiful glowing man. Time stretched and distorted like

one of Dali’s dripping watches and, several hours or several

minutes later he experienced the most powerful orgasm of his

life.

He rolled off the kid and collapsed beside him, wondering

when the room had grown so dark he couldn’t see. At all.

  

I DO! 73

“Oh, shit.” Justin slowly raised one hand to the top of his

head, pressing firmly to keep it from exploding. He tried to sit

up.

Succeeding on the second try, he levered himself up, his

hand still buried in his sweat-matted curls. Turning his head

with care, he glanced at his sleeping host. His memory of the

previous evening was fairly clear. He pretty much recalled

everything, right up to passing out. He knew he’d been high

before he met the guy. He must have been, otherwise, he’d

never have accepted a ride from a stranger, no matter how tall,

dark, and gorgeous.

Justin checked out his surroundings. The bedroom occupied

the entire upper half-story, open to the downstairs. He

staggered to the edge of the loft, peering over the railing. An

open-concept living room, dining room, and kitchen comprised

the main floor. Straight lines and an overall sense of rigid

organization radiated from below, except for the messy trail of

clothing leading from the front door to the staircase. A sliver of

envy crept into Justin’s soul as he admired the well-maintained,

two-story apartment. Thanks to the burden of student loans

and a general sense of inertia, he still lived in the same tiny,

untidy apartment he’d rented since his undergrad years.

Trying not to wake his host, he descended to the main level,

grateful for the sturdy stair rail.

Reaching the bathroom, Justin rummaged through the

medicine cabinet. He grabbed the closest prescription vial,

squinting at the tiny type. “Valium,” he read along with the

name, “Tyler Cage.” A second bottle, “Rivatril” this time, also

dispensed to Tyler Cage, confirmed his host’s full name. Justin

explored further, worry overriding any guilt he might feel. The

cabinet held a bunch of other meds: for pain, for sleeping, some

antibiotics, plus some vials sporting unfamiliar, polysyllabic

names.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Justin experienced a moment of blind

panic, unable to breathe. He vaguely remembered Tyler asking

him about AIDS and HIV last night. He sat heavily on the

closed toilet waiting for the light-headedness to pass.

74 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

Still naked, Justin reached back and checked. White flakes—

come or lube or both—speckled his fingers. He remembered

Tyler had come on his ass. He relaxed a little. “Come on me,

not in me,” the safe sex mantra of the AIDS generation. And

he’d worn a condom during the brief but incredible blowjob.

For safety’s sake, though, he needed to address this with Tyler.

He frowned, knowing he’d lost his chance of escaping the

uncomfortable “morning after” by just slipping away while his

host slept.

When his heart slowed, Justin rooted through Tyler’s

medicine cabinet again. He located some Tylenol Twos just a

little past their expiration date. He chased them with antacids,

tap water, and a shudder, and helped himself to Tyler’s

toothbrush. He figured a guy willing to have sex with a total

stranger shouldn’t have any qualms about sharing a toothbrush.

He found a clean towel under the sink and climbed into the

shower.

Exiting the bathroom still toweling his damp, blond curls,

Justin collected his grungy clothing from their wandering trail

across the living room area. Sniffing at his shirt, he deemed it

not so bad and pulled it on, along with jeans and socks. The

underwear he tucked in his jacket pocket. At least yesterday’s

wardrobe had dried during the night, mostly. Once dressed, he

wandered into the kitchen to find a source of caffeine.

Two mugs of coffee later, the purloined meds kicked in.

Justin decided he should just leave after all, but a moan from

the upstairs bedroom stopped him from reaching for his jacket.

Now he had to stay and do the “nice guy” thing.

He climbed the stairs hesitantly, still considering making a

break for it. “How you doing?” he said softly when he reached

the top. He laid a tentative hand on Tyler’s shoulder.

Tyler responded with another moan, followed by,

“Bathroom. Now! Gonna puke.” Tyler’s hand clamped around

Justin’s wrist, nearly overbalancing him.

“Okay. Okay. Let’s get you downstairs.”

Without answering, Tyler heaved himself up using Justin for

leverage.

I DO! 75

Tyler staggered down the stairs, kept upright only by the

effective teamwork of Justin and the wrought iron railing.

Reaching the bathroom, he barely had time to kneel in front of

the toilet before the contents of his stomach put in a

reappearance. Justin looked away, hovering half in and half out

of the bathroom, not sure whether to stay or give the guy his

privacy. It was over pretty quickly, though. He watched Tyler

feel around for the handle, missing it the first three times. The

harsh flush echoed through the quiet apartment.

“Help me up,” Tyler called, waving his hand around, fingers

grasping at empty air.

Justin helped Tyler to his feet. “Here’s your toothbrush

man. I hope you don’t mind I used it.”

Several expressions chased each other across Tyler’s face—

disgust, anger, and finally resignation. He held out the brush

and Justin applied toothpaste to it—lots.

Tyler re-enacted Justin’s earlier hunt through the miracles of

modern medicine, pulling down bottles and squinting at them.

Leaning heavily on the sink he directed Justin: “Can’t see. Find

me Anaprox. And Dramamine.”

“Dude, I thought Anaprox was for menstrual cramps. You

got your period?”

Tyler glared at him.

“Sorry. Two of each?”

Tyler nodded, grimacing at the movement, and held out the

hand not clutching the counter. “Only painkiller I can tolerate. I

don’t do well with drugs. I have these weird and super-fast

reactions.”

“So you get a prescription, take a couple, have a bad

reaction, and stick the bottle back in the cabinet, right?”

“Something like that.” Tyler swallowed the pills Justin

spilled into his palm, chasing them with the glass of tap water

Justin handed him.

Tyler swallowed and replaced the glass by the sink. He faced

back toward the toilet. Justin lingered just outside the bathroom

door while Tyler used the bathroom for its original purpose.

“Should I take off now, dude?”

76 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

“Hang on a minute. I have something for you.”

“Something for me? What do you mean?”

“Help me to the couch. I can barely see through this

goddamn fog.”

Justin guided him over to the sofa.

“Hand me my jacket, will you? The brown leather one on

the hook there by the door. Can you sit down with me here for

a minute? I want to ask you something.”

Justin recalled he had a health-related question or two of his

own to ask. He fetched the jacket and sat on the couch next to

his host.

“Thanks.” Taking the jacket, Tyler groped around in the

pockets searching for something by touch. “Just getting you

your money, kid. You earned it.”

“My money?” Justin scratched one ear. “Hey! I told you last

night I wasn’t a hooker.”

“Yeah, right. You were hanging out on the street corner

with all the other whacked-out professors.”

Justin rolled his eyes, rooting around his back pockets for

his wallet to show Tyler some identification, wondering why he

cared what the guy thought. Sure he’d been a great lay and all,

but still— “Oh, shit. My wallet’s gone. Shit. Shit. Fuck!”

Justin buried his face in his hands. He had no idea who’d

slipped him the drugs or what had happened to his wallet. He

clearly recalled a night of incredible, if somewhat languid sex,

though.

He felt a warm hand on his wrist followed by something

cold. He heard the click of metal on metal. He pulled his hands

away from his eyes in time to see Tyler snapping the other shiny

chrome handcuff around his wrist, the first half clipped snugly

to his own.

Cold fear gripped him. “Hey, dude. I’m not into the kinky

stuff. If you wanna—”

“You’re under arrest,” Tyler cut in. “For drugging an officer

of the law. You have the right to remain silent.” Justin listened

numbly to his Miranda rights as the stranger beside him felt

around for the phone.

I DO! 77

Squinting at the receiver, the cop pressed a speed dial

button. “Captain Palomino, please. Detective Cage calling.”

  

The huge, imposing Captain Palomino arrived looking

exceptionally not amused. Tyler had insisted Palomino and only

Palomino come to the condo and help him arrest the man who

drugged him. Between the time Tyler called and Palomino’s

arrival some twenty minutes later, Tyler re-cuffed Justin to the

stairway railing and felt his way upstairs. He reappeared in some

raggedy old sweats, wearing his gold Detective shield on a black

cord around his neck.

Grimly, with a minimum of words, Tyler explained to

Palomino that Justin was a prostitute who had drugged him.

“Jesus, Tyler. You must have been really stoned to bring him

back to your apartment instead of the station when you arrested him.”

“Actually….” Tyler tugged at the collar of his baggy

sweatshirt. “He drugged me after we got here.”

“Didn’t you know he was a prostitute?” Palomino peered at

Tyler. “It’s an offense to pick up—”

“Hey, look! I am not a prostitute!” Justin cut in. “I’m a

professor at Jefferson University. I just look young is all. I teach

modern languages. And coach basketball.”

The two tall detectives gazed down at him. Justin stood as

tall as his five-foot six-inches—and the handcuffs—would

allow.

“Basketball,” Palomino scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“I—”

“Does he have any ID?” Palomino addressed his question to

Tyler.

“Claims to have lost his wallet,” Tyler said. “Just like he

claims to be a professor. A Ph.D. even.”

Palomino raked his gaze over Justin. Awkwardly aware of

his wrinkled shirt and pants, Justin fidgeted. He caught a

glimpse of his reflection in the window glass. His shoulder-

length curls had dried into a tangled ball of blond frizz after his

78 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

shower. Not very imposing, nor professorial-looking, he

realized.

“He was wearing this leather jacket,” Tyler offered, holding

the still damp garment pinched between fingers and thumb as if

it were dirty.

“What’s this?” Palomino extracted the used underwear from

the pocket. Justin tried burying his face in his hand again,

succeeding only in yanking painfully at the handcuffs.

“And would our professor have a name?” Palomino asked,

finally directing a question at Justin.

Fuck you, he wanted to respond. “Justin Kidman,” he said

instead.

  

Captain Palomino dragged both men to the hospital,

insisting on blood tests to determine what drug Justin somehow

slipped Tyler, and the extent of the damage to Tyler’s vision.

“There was, um…. You see. We—” The intake clerk cut

Tyler off mid-stutter and signed them both up for AIDS tests

too.

Despite Tyler and Palomino’s officer of the law status they

languished in the ER admitting area, waiting for a lull in the

bloodier and more critical cases.

Justin sat sandwiched between the large Tyler and massive

Palomino, hands conspicuously cuffed in front of him. He

slumped in his seat and focused on the gray machine coffee

they’d graced him with when they’d bought their own. He

raised the cooling paper cup to his lips.

“Dr. Kidman!” A pretty young woman hurried across the

waiting room to stand in front of Justin.

He froze, cup halfway to his mouth, the handcuffs clearly

visible like tacky chrome bracelets. He slowly lowered his

manacled hands to his lap.

“Amber,” he acknowledged. His joy at seeing a friendly face

outweighed his mortification—just barely. “I lost my wallet.

Can you tell these nice officers who I am?”

I DO! 79

“Of course I can. What happened? Why are you here? Why

is he in custody?” She addressed her final question to Palomino,

whose well-tailored suit and cashmere coat screamed authority.

“Who are you?” Palomino demanded. “Can you vouch for

him?”

“I’m Amber Silver. I’m a doctoral candidate at Jefferson

University.” She waded through her large shoulder bag,

eventually locating identification. “Justin must have drunk some

of the punch at last night’s dance. Everyone’s talking about it.

Some crazy spiked it with that new designer drug called ‘halo.’”

“There were drugs in the punch at a school dance?”

Palomino asked. “Don’t they have staff at these things? Who

was in charge?”

Amber fixed her gaze on Palomino. “I’m not answering any

more questions until you identify yourselves. I want to see some

ID now!” Even though she stood before his chair, she could

barely peer down her nose at the big captain. Somehow she

managed though. “My dad’s a lawyer. Darin Silver of Silver and

Goldberg.”

“I’m Captain Palomino with the Vice Squad and this is

Detective Tyler Cage.”

She seized Palomino’s badge and business card and

examined them closely.

A few seconds later Tyler located his badge where it hung

around his neck and offered it in Amber’s general direction.

“Feel free to call the precinct to check. We’re not going

anywhere soon.”

Justin sunk further into his seat.

“Fine. I’ll believe you are who you say you are. Dr. Kidman

was head chaperone at the party. Now tell me why he’s sitting

in a hospital waiting room in handcuffs.”

A crowd of hospital staff and other waiting-room occupants

began to take interest, some openly staring, some surreptitiously

watching the display.

“He really is a professor? He had no ID so we couldn’t

check.” Tyler hooked his thumb in Kidman’s direction. “Isn’t

he kind of young to be a professor? Looks more like a student.”

80 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

“Dr. Kidman isn’t even thirty yet. That makes him the

youngest professor in Jefferson’s history. His doctoral thesis on

the Language of Cyber-Culture set the academic community on

its ear last year.” She glanced with pride at Justin. “It’s an honor

to be associated with him.”

Tyler gawked at Justin, although a little to the left of his

actual position. Palomino rolled his eyes. Justin flushed.

“Yeah, that’s me all right,” Justin said. “Dr. Rent Boy,

Ph.D.”

Ignoring this last comment and the indignant Amber,

Palomino focused on Tyler. “But you weren’t at the party, were

you, Tyler? How did the drugs get into your system?”

A lengthy pause ensued. After several long moments Justin’s

head snapped up from his ongoing examination of his

handcuffs: “Transference, topical contact—trans-dermal or oral

ingestion.”

“And what, exactly, does that mean?” Palomino asked.

With an impatient sigh, Amber translated the geek-speak:

“You know, ‘transference’ like via body fluids—sweat, saliva,

semen….” Her cheeks glowed red, her gaze traveling from

Justin to Tyler and back to Palomino.

Palomino groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose and

sliding further down in his seat.

At that moment, the ER clerk called for Cage and Kidman,

directing them to Exam Rooms B and C.

TWO WEEKS LATER

“Come in. It’s open” Justin called out in response to the soft

knock on his office door. Panicking students, knowing his

tendency to work late, tended to drop by at all hours. He kept

on working until a large shadow fell across his desk.

He sat back in his chair and gazed up into the warm brown

eyes of his visitor. “Well. Well. Detective… Cage, is it? What

brings you to my humble office?” Justin remembered Tyler’s

name quite clearly, along with some other interesting personal

details, but he hardly felt charitable toward his arresting officer

at the moment. He watched Tyler glance around his office.

I DO! 81

He’d just recently moved up from the lower level and was

pretty damn proud of his new second floor office with a nice

view of the quad. Cage’s own office consisted of a little cubicle

in the middle of the frantic Vice Department. Justin had seen it

when he’d visited Captain Palomino’s office to discuss his

situation. Since a quick check with Jefferson’s student health

clinic had revealed several similar cases of involuntary drug

ingestion, all charges against Dr. Kidman had been dropped.

Still, quite a few parents felt Jefferson U. and Dr. Kidman in

his role of Official Chaperone at the party had a lot to answer

for. The deluge of angry parents had tapered off after the police

department succeeded in rousting the recently fired janitor who

had spiked the punch in revenge. The Vice Department, under

the supervision of Captain Palomino, had received glowing

press for the speedy investigation and subsequent arrest.

Detective Tyler Cage had been removed from the case due to

“personal involvement.”

Justin kept a close eye on the case, volunteering to testify

against the perpetrator. The janitor, however, in a bid to reduce

his sentence, not only confessed but also agreed to testify

against the dealer who sold him the drugs. Within a week, they

busted the dealer and sole manufacturer of halo, thereby

eliminating it from circulation. Justin hadn’t needed to testify

and Palomino’s career had received a nice little boost.

Clearing his throat, Tyler shifted from foot to foot. Justin

hadn’t invited him to sit down. Books and papers covered every

chair and flat surface, anyway. “Yeah. It’s Cage. Um. Tyler.

Um.” He trailed off.

Justin hid his surprise. Cage seemed an always-in-control

kind of guy. After a long uncomfortable pause Tyler continued:

“And thanks for calling to see if my eyes were okay. They are,

by the way.” He punctuated this statement by staring directly at

Justin for a second before returning his gaze to his shoes.

“And…” Justin prompted. Tyler needed to accomplish this

on his own.

“I’m here to apologize. I think maybe I didn’t handle things

as well as I could have. Maybe should have.”

82 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

Another long pause. Justin chose not to drag this out. He

just wanted the whole awkward scene over with. Even if it

meant Tyler leaving.

“Look, Detective. You don’t have to do this. I already told

Captain Palomino I wasn’t going to sue for false arrest. Or

defamation of character. Or public humiliation.”

“I know. The Captain told me. I just wanted to apologize,

anyway. And return your wallet. Somebody turned it in

yesterday. Without cash or credit cards, of course.” Tyler held

up the wallet for a moment before placing it on the desk before

Justin like an offering. To Justin, Tyler looked like a student

asking for an extension on a term paper. He almost expected to

hear “but my dog ate it.”

The silence stretched out. Tyler removed his ball cap and

skimmed his hand through his spiky hair. He plumped the cap a

bit, re-creased the brim, and slapped it on again, bill toward the

back this time. He gazed out the window.

Justin watched Tyler struggle and fidget, different emotions

flitting across his face—embarrassment, annoyance, longing.

Finally, Justin relented. “You were only doing your job.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“What?” Justin demanded. “If you don’t think you did

anything wrong then why the hell are you here? Why are you

begging my forgiveness, dude? Is your apology all just so much

bullshit? Why, I should call your—”

“I really just wanted to see you again, Justin,” Tyler cut in

softly. “I, uh…. I’ve been thinking about you. About that night.

A lot.”

Justin’s heart flip-flopped. Shifting gears swiftly, he asked,

“You want to see me again?” He rose from his chair. “You’ve

been thinking about that night?” He advanced around the desk

toward Tyler. “A lot?” Cage fell back a step before drawing a

deep breath and standing his ground. Justin strode right up into

the big cop’s face. “You wanna see me again? Make it up to

me?”

“Yeah, I do.” Tyler shifted a half step forward.

“Good.” Justin spun away back towards his desk. “You can

buy me dinner. Now. I’m starving. And somebody stole my

I DO! 83

cash.” He gestured at the wallet lying on his desk. He glanced

up at Tyler, trying for a stern expression but ended up grinning

instead.

Tyler’s head shot up; he looked cautiously hopeful.

“Dinner.” He leaned slightly towards Justin in

acknowledgement, the ghost of a smile hovering around his

mouth. “I can do dinner.”

“I’ll just be a second here.” Justin returned to his desk

gathering a few papers to finish grading at home. No matter

how much he enjoyed the dinner portion of the evening, he had

no intention of a repeat performance of the night they met.

Cage needed to work for that. Work hard.

TWO MORE WEEKS LATER

Justin demonstrated great fortitude and patience holding out

an entire two weeks; Tyler’s stint on night shift for the first one

had helped.

The two men had spent almost every night together for the

past week, limiting their intimacy to goodnight kisses and a little

making out in the car when Tyler dropped Justin off at his

apartment.

Once Justin had weakened and invited Tyler up, but

something had changed Tyler’s mind once inside. “I, uh….

Gotta go, Justin. I just remembered I’ve got an early briefing

tomorrow.”

Tyler had kissed him fleetingly and left. Justin picked his way

across the living room and sat heavily on his thrift store couch,

books and papers bouncing on the seat next to him. His boots

banged noisily on the coffee table, dirty plates rattling with the

motion. He wondered why Tyler had run off like that. They

could have been having hot sex right this moment. He kicked at

an old coffee cup with one foot but it was cemented to the table

with something sticky.

By the time Friday night and their eighth date in two weeks

rolled round, Justin no longer remembered why he’d decided to

wait. Something about respect, maybe. Allowing some distance

between their disastrous first time, perhaps. All he knew at this

point was that if he didn’t get together with Tyler soon, he’d

84 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

explode! Or maybe get fired. The Dean had had to call his name

three times to pull him away from his fantasies and back to the

curriculum discussions they were having. Who cared about

Communications 101 when hot cop action one-on-one was

burning up Justin’s brain?

So they’d waited long enough; tonight was the night.

Besides, Justin rationalized, I’ve had a tough week and don’t

feel like another night out. So when Tyler called, Justin

suggested they rent a movie and order some pizza instead of

going out.

“That’s a great idea but, ah, your apartment’s kind of…

small?” Justin heard the hesitation in Tyler’s voice even over the

phone. He figured “small” really meant “not hospital-clean like

my place.” Justin’s linguistic background proved invaluable for

translating Tyler-speak.

“Can’t afford a fancy two-story condo like some detectives I

know. Student loans, dude.” Justin glanced around his

apartment and kind of had to agree with Tyler. Still he had to

defend his apartment’s honor; they’d been together a long time

now. “While one can apparently buy a Ph.D. off the ‘net fairly

cheaply, I got mine the old-fashioned way.” He toyed with the

phone while waiting for Tyler to say something tantamount to

an apology.

Tyler had a knack for reading people even over the phone.

“It’s a great old building, though. Lots of ornamental trim and

stuff.”

“Forgiven, dude. Order something with lots of toppings.

Extra cheese.”

“That’s okay for you young whippersnappers but to a thirty-

something guy like me extra cheese means extra time in the

gym.”

“So we’re getting whole wheat crust and bean sprouts?”

“Something like that, professor. Just come over. I’ll see you

in what? Half-an-hour?”

“Make it 45 minutes. I’ll rent us a movie on the way.” Justin

hung up the phone, grabbing a quick shower and a close shave.

  

I DO! 85

Forty-five minutes later Justin followed the pizza guy up

from the lobby. Five minutes after that, he was curled up on

Tyler’s sofa, balancing a plate of pizza on one knee, with an icy

beer on the coffee table before him. On a coaster.

“Don’t worry about the sofa, Justin. It’s leather. It’ll just

sponge off.”

Which sent Justin’s mind spinning in all kinds of evil

directions.

Tyler fussed with the DVD player. Justin had picked up two

movies, too nervous to settle on just one. He’d rented a comedy

and a drama. They’d decided to watch the drama first. It was

some Mexican film about two best friends who meet a dying

woman and set out on a cross-country road trip with her.

“I’ve heard good things about it.” Justin finished the first

slice and dove back in for a second. “Pretty good pizza, dude.

For healthy shit.”

“Yeah? Glad you like it.” Tyler smiled.

They shared the rest of the pizza, finding the movie fairly

engrossing. After his third beer though, Justin started clowning

around, repeating bits of dialogue with a bad Speedy Gonzales

accent.

“Thought you were all about sensitivity and political

correctness, Justin,” Tyler said dryly.

“Bite me , Señor.”

Of course the movie climaxed with a ménage à trois between

the two guys and the woman. Surprisingly, though, the climax

of the climax featured the two guys getting together with a little

cheerleading from the girl. He found the boy-kissing

staggeringly hot and even though the movie ended on a down

note, Justin found himself breathing a little heavy afterwards.

He wondered if Tyler felt the same way.

Tyler didn’t comment. Instead he began tidying up the living

room, shoving the pizza box in the recycle bin and rinsing out

the empty beer bottles. Something about Tyler’s tidying seemed

to proclaim the evening’s end.

“You up for the other movie?” Cold sweat prickled the back

of Justin’s neck.

86 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

“No. I don’t think so.” Tyler didn’t turn around. “I think I’d

like to go to bed actually.”

Justin deflated. He’d grown to really like Tyler over the last

little while. Perhaps a little more than like.

“Okay. I’ll get my jacket and be going, I guess.”

“Do you really want to go? I thought maybe we could….”

Tyler strode into Justin’s space, looming over him, taking full

advantage of his extra few inches. He placed one hand on the

wall behind Justin’s head and the other on Justin’s shoulder.

Delighted with the turn of events, Justin curved one hand

around the back of Tyler’s head, drawing him down for a kiss.

At first their kisses were gentle and sweet but rapidly entered

the heady realm of devastating. Tyler attacked like a python,

wrapping himself around Justin and practically devouring him.

Justin responded in kind, sucking on Tyler’s tongue, chasing

it out and following it into the other man’s mouth, taking

control of the kiss, taking control of everything. He grasped

Tyler by the upper arms, pausing to admire the curve of his

well-developed muscles, yanking him in tight and grinding

against him.

Justin licked, bit, and nuzzled his way down Tyler’s neck,

liking the scrape of stubble against his lips, loving the taste of

salt on his tongue.

“Upstairs?” Tyler gasped.

Justin pulled back and nodded, words failing him now

although they never did in the lecture hall.

“Okay, good.” Tyler stepped back, running a hand across his

hair. He drew in a deep breath, visibly trying to gather the

threads of his slipping control. He glanced around the kitchen,

gesturing at the two greasy pizza plates sitting on the otherwise

spotless counter. “I’ll just—”

“You’ll just come with me is what you’ll just. The dishes will

still be dirty later. I promise.” Justin fisted Tyler’s tight black tshirt, using it as a very short leash to drag Tyler toward the staircase. Tyler groaned and followed without a struggle.

Justin wrestled Tyler up the stairs. From the corner of his

eye he noted the metal-on-metal scuffmarks on the wrought

iron banister from the day Tyler had handcuffed him there.

I DO! 87

Good, thought Justin. Serves him right. His inner voice moved

quickly from vindictive to kinky with thoughts of other fun

things they could do with handcuffs… but not tonight.

Once in the bedroom Justin stepped up to Tyler, kissing him

soundly, licking into his mouth. He ground up against him,

rubbing his groin against Tyler’s thigh.

“Dude, you are just too damn tall!” Justin shoved him hard.

Tyler hit the bed, bouncing a little. Justin leapt on him, landing

with a knee on either side of Tyler’s slim hips.

Tyler recovered fast and had a lot more physical training

than Justin. In one smooth move, he swept Justin onto his back

and rolled on top of him. He’d learned that maneuver at the

police academy. The part where he ground their erections

together, he improvised on the spot.

They kissed a long time, until Tyler began stripping Justin,

slowly, piece by piece, savoring each newly revealed bit of skin.

Justin returned the favor with much less patience, practically

ripping Tyler’s jeans and t-shirt off.

Tyler kissed and nibbled and caressed Justin everywhere,

neck, shoulders, nipples, belly. Justin shook and writhed at the

attention. “C’mon, c’mon, Tyler. Will you fuckin’ hurry up

already?”

“What’s your hurry? We’ve got all night, don’t we?”

“Yeah, we do. So we do it now, fast, and take our time later.

I’m frantic, here, dude. I need to take the edge off.”

Tyler rested his head on one hand, gazing fondly at Justin.

“Ah, youth. Always in a rush.” He stroked a hand over Justin’s

blond curls, ruffling his hair like a fond uncle.

“Yeah. Well, fuck that, old man. I could be dead by the time

I’m your ripe old age of what? Thirty-four.” Justin shoved his

way back on top again and quickened the pace. He kissed and

bit his way down Tyler’s washboard abs, bypassing his erection

and moving downwards to nip and lick his thighs before

moving back up to his straining cock.

Justin knew he had a pretty mouth. He’d heard early and

often that his mouth was “just made for cocksucking.” He

grabbed a pillow and mashed it behind Tyler’s head.

88 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

“Jesus, but that’s hot,” Tyler gasped. Justin locked his lips

around the head, swiping and teasing the slit with his tongue,

pulling off and sucking him in shallowly a few times, earning

himself a “Jesus, fuck!” when he finally slid it all the way to the back of his throat. He repeated this well-received maneuver

several times before returning to the teasing and sucking again.

He loved the warm taste of Tyler’s cock and the moans and

gasps he drew from him.

Tyler’s soft brown eyes grew dazed and unfocused. He

gasped and twitched with every pull. Justin slid his fingers

down, rolling and cupping Tyler’s heavy balls before moving

further back. He gathered some saliva from around his lips, and

eased one finger inside Tyler’s hot, tight hole. When he felt the other man opening to him, he slid in a second. Tyler spread his

legs in surrender and Justin’s heart stuttered.

Gently, Justin backed off a bit and sat on his heels waiting

for Tyler to surface.

“What, Justin? Something wrong?”

“Condoms?”

Tyler wrapped his long fingers around Justin’s wrist. “But

we both had clean AIDS tests only a few weeks ago. Oh, you’ve

been with someone else.”

Justin had never seen an erection deflate so fast.

“Oh, no. God, no, dude. Tyler. It’s just that…. I— I know

you by now. You like things tidy.”

Tyler gusted out a long sigh. “So, there’s no one else, then?”

“How could there be? Between grading exams and spending

every spare minute with you, I just don’t have the time to get

with anyone else.”

Tyler looked away. He yanked a corner of the comforter

over his nakedness.

“Besides, Ty.” Justin kissed him soundly. “I don’t want to be with anyone but you.”

Tyler laced his hands through Justin’s curls and kissed him

like he really meant it.

“And so? Condoms?” Justin asked again, more than a little

breathless.

I DO! 89

“Brand new box. Bathroom. Downstairs.”

“Dude, downstairs is so far away,” Justin whined, but he

crawled off Tyler reluctantly and wandered, naked, down to the

bathroom, taking advantage of the locale to pee and wash his

hands thoroughly. He peeked inside the brown paper bag,

finding condoms and lube, too. He pulled out the one other

item in the bag and smiled. Tyler had definitely set this up like a

sting. Once a cop…. He laid the unopened toothbrush on the

counter, grabbed the bag and a towel, and headed back up to

the bedroom.

He reached the top of the stairs to find Tyler slowly jacking

his dick. Justin’s erection twitched against his belly but he

smacked Tyler’s hands away. “Hey, hands off! That’s my job.”

Finished with foreplay, Justin refused to wait a second

longer. He shimmied down the bed and knelt between Tyler’s

legs, smoothing the condom on his achingly hard dick,

spreading the lube around generously. He grabbed Tyler’s

muscular legs and pressed them against his chest, at the same

time pressing his cock into Tyler’s body. Despite some initial

resistance, Justin fucked his way in with a series of short hurried

thrusts.

Once deeply seated, Justin paused, admiring the way they

connected, trying not to come just from that. “You okay, dude?

Ty?”

“Yeah. I’m good. Will you just get on with it? Please?”

Justin figured direct orders were almost like begging and

thrust in hard one time, eliciting a very satisfying groan from

Tyler. Tyler dug his fingers into Justin’s hips hard enough to

leave bruises.

Taking this as the sign he’d been waiting for, Justin got

down to some serious fucking.

Sliding in and out slowly at first, he listened for Tyler’s sighs

and muttered curses, gauging his strokes accordingly. Once

Tyler began bucking back into his thrusts, Justin picked up

speed, allowing pure animal instinct to guide his movements.

“God, Tyler. You’re so tight. I’m not going to last.”

Tyler huffed out a grunt with every stroke.

90 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

“Now you can jack yourself, man. Come with me. C’mon.

I’ve got you.”

Tyler obeyed without hesitation, wrapping his hand around

his red and swollen cock. Justin watched mesmerized, Tyler’s

hand sliding up and down his erection, giving it a little twist at

the end of each stoke.

“Now, Tyler. Now!” Justin pistoned his hips, slamming into

Tyler, their moans and groans competing with the slap of flesh

on flesh. “Yeah, man. Give it up. Give it up for me,” he ground

out.

“Yeah, here it comes. I’m gonna—” Tyler stilled his hand

and arched off the bed, shooting thick strings of come across

his belly.

Justin watched Tyler come apart beneath him, muscles

clenching around his thrusting cock. He felt his orgasm curling

at the base of his spine building, building, and finally releasing

in a heady burst of pleasure. He kept on fucking, filling the

condom with pulse after pulse of come.

He ceased thrusting and just held on for long minutes, riding

out the aftershocks and trying to catch his breath. “God, Ty.

That was awesome.”

Tyler glowed almost as he had that first night. Justin’s heart

swelled with… pride or possibly something else.

His arms quivered and threatened to collapse. Justin let

himself fall sideways, landing on the bed beside Tyler. He

grabbed the towel he’d snagged while in the bathroom, wiping

away the spatters from Tyler’s stomach.

“That was great,” Tyler breathed. “Been a while since I’ve

done that.”

Justin raised an eyebrow. “But just two weeks ago you

picked up a rent boy and brought him back here to fuck.”

Tyler rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, not meeting

Justin’s gaze. “It was such a bleak night and there was that thing

at the station when I tried to bring you in. I couldn’t leave you back on the streets in your condition. I brought you here so

you’d have a warm and safe place to sleep it off out of the rain

and away from your pimp. I never meant to fuck you.”

I DO! 91

“You do know I’m not really a prostitute, right?” Justin

rolled off the condom and tossed it in the wastebasket.

“Professor. Prostitute. It’s a fine line, you know.”

Justin laughed. “I guess. Cops too?”

“Yeah. We all get paid to deal with dicks every day, right?”

Justin chuckled and snuggled down, prepared to settle in for

the night. Drowsing a little he noticed Tyler fidgeting, restless.

“Something up, Ty? I can go if you need me to.” He hoped he

sounded more cavalier than he felt. In truth he wanted to spend

not just the night but also the entire weekend. In the trunk of

his car, he’d stowed two days’ change of clothing and a

briefcase of papers he needed to grade before Monday. Just in

case Tyler asked him to stay, of course.

“Go? No, but if you could just stand up for a moment I’d

like to get this bedspread into the wash. If the jiz dries, it’ll be a bitch to get out.”

“Dude, you are so anal.”

“You should know,” Tyler replied.

Justin chuckled and got up off the bed. He stood by,

watching Tyler strip off the bedspread and haul it down the

stairs.

Feeling chilly, Justin crawled under the sheets, dozing a bit

when he remembered the third item in the paper bag from the

drug store. He dragged himself out of bed, finding the

toothbrush where he’d left it by the bathroom sink. He carried

it to Tyler in the kitchen. Tyler hummed something

unrecognizable while he pre-soaked the bedspread in the sink.

“Uh, Ty?” Justin began shifting the package from hand to

hand. “Did you buy…? I mean, is it all right if…?” He held up

the brand new toothbrush by way of explanation.

“Oh, yeah. I bought that for you. You know, in case you

wanted to spend the night or anything.” Tyler pinked up a bit,

brushing hard at a sudsy spot on the bedspread.

“Yeah, Ty. I’d like that. I’d really, really like that.”

He kissed Tyler gently and carried his gift back to the

bathroom.

92 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT

“There’s floss in the medicine cabinet,” Tyler called after

him.

Justin smiled. He’d never felt more like Julia Roberts in Pretty

Woman, and he didn’t really mind, since he, too, had found his Prince Charming.

Making Memory

LISABET SARAI

When the tire blew, I was not paying attention. I was

thinking about Dad. The explosive report shocked me out of

my reverie. It took all my strength to wrestle the Honda to a

soft landing on the shoulder, just grazing the concrete post of

the safety fence. I was cursing to myself as I swung out of the

car to survey the damage.

The rubber was in shreds, as if a bomb had detonated inside

the tube. An ugly scratch marred the fender, but otherwise the

car itself seemed intact. I flipped open my phone to call Triple

A, but of course there was no signal. It served me right, taking

the scenic back roads home instead of the freeway. But I had

wanted the peace of the country and the sea. I had needed time

to think.

I had a spare, one of those half-sized, emergency-only deals,

but I didn’t want to risk ruining my linen pantsuit. I liked to

dress up when I visited Dad, though he probably didn’t notice.

At this point, he did not even know who I was, until I reminded

him.

We would sit in the sunny courtyard of the nursing home

where I had settled him after mom’s death, and I would tell him

stories of my childhood. I would invoke the camping trips, the

science projects, the tree house that he built for me when I was

nine. He would listen, smiling vaguely, his face occasionally

lighting up when he grasped some fragment of memory and

held onto it for a few moments. Then his eyes would cloud

again, and he would look puzzled.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Dad, it’s me. Nicole. Nicki.”

“Oh, right, of course. Nicki. Thanks for coming to see me,

Nicki.”

My chest ached, recalling his formerly fine mind, lamenting

its current splintered state. I could only imagine his own

experience, the terror and disorientation he must feel at his own

incapacity. Physically, he was in good health for his age. But his

memory was as shredded and scattered as my tire.

Despite the demands of my career, I tried to visit him every

week or two. When I was not with him, I dreamed of him,

horrible ravaging dreams in which I was a girl again, while he

96 Making Memory ~ SARAI

was a vacant-eyed creature whose shambling footsteps echoed

through the house behind me. I had taken to working late into

the night, trying to exhaust my body and silence my mind.

This last visit had been the worst ever. I was unutterably

weary, my limbs and my heart heavy. The blowout felt like the

proverbial final straw.

I looked up and down the two-lane road, thinking to hitch a

ride to the next town. The cracked tarmac was empty. All I

could hear was bird-song and the breeze, whispering of the

evening to come.

With a sigh, I retrieved my overnight bag from the trunk,

locked the car, and began walking in the direction I had been

headed. I hoped that I would come upon civilization before my

flimsy Italian heels disintegrated.

Late afternoon sun slanted across the fields lining the road.

The crisped remains of summer tangled in the steel safety

cables: Queen Anne’s lace curled into brittle fists, shaking

themselves at me; milkweed spilling silk into the mild October

air; tall grasses heavy with seed. The breeze was fragrant with

the sun-baked, browning vegetation. And the sea was not far

off; mixed with the field smells, I caught the faint tang of salt

and seaweed.

The beauty of Indian summer penetrated my distraction,

soothed my irritation just a bit, eased the tight knot of unshed

tears. A whippoorwill called, prematurely. Ten minutes into my

walk, I entered the village of Spruce Point.

It was not much of a town: a grocery, a gas station, a store

advertising “Antiques,” and a white-spired church, grouped

around a miniature green. At six thirty p.m. on an October

Sunday, all the commercial establishments were shut tight. I was

newly disheartened by the “Closed” sign on “Ray’s Auto

Service.” How in the world would I get my car fixed? I had to

be back in Boston; I had a critical meeting first thing Monday

morning.

Behind the gas station, sharing a drive, there was a white

clapboard house with green shutters. Bold in my desperation, I

knocked on the door. It was answered after a moment by a

I DO! 97

gnarled, skinny figure. His chin bristled with stubble, but his

eyes twinkled in his furrowed face as he gave me a warm smile.

“Good evening, young lady. Can I help you?”

“Are you Ray?” His oil-stained work clothes strongly

suggested that he was.

“Yes, ma’am. Thirty years experience, at your service.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I blew out a tire about half a

mile up the road. The thing totally burst. I really need to get

back to Boston tonight. Can you replace the tire for me? I know

that you’re closed for the evening, but it’s an emergency. I’ll be

happy to pay you extra.”

Ray looked me over. I could imagine what he saw: a slender,

athletic woman with short, dark hair, designer suit and

chocolate silk blouse, Gucci bag, impractical shoes. City folk.

He grinned. “What kind of car?” he asked.

“Honda Accord.”

“Miss, I’d love to help. But I don’t generally stock tires for

little foreign cars. ‘Round here, folks seem to prefer full-size

Ford station wagons, or Chevy pickups. I can get you a new tire

from Thomaston, but not until tomorrow.”

He must have seen the dismay in my face, because he patted

my shoulder kindly. “Look, I was just fixing my supper, but if

you’d like, I can go out now and tow your vehicle back here to

the garage. That way, it’ll be safe, and ready to be worked on as

soon as I can get hold of the replacement.”

I began to protest that this was unacceptable; I had to get

back to Boston. Then I realized that it was futile. I could take a

bus, perhaps, if I could get this man to drive me to Portland,

but then my car would be stranded.

With a sigh of resignation, I nodded. “I’d be very grateful for your help. But please, finish your dinner first.” I suddenly

realized that I was ravenous. I had taken lunch with Dad in the

nursing home dining room, but although he ate heartily, I had

no appetite. “Is there a hotel anywhere around here?”

Ray considered the question. “Well, there’s Maggie’s place,

the Bellweather Inn, down at the point. She’s closed for the

season, but I expect she wouldn’t mind airing out a room for

98 Making Memory ~ SARAI

you. I can run you down there before I head over to get your

car.”

“What about your dinner?” I said, eager to find bed and

food, but not wanting to seem impolite.

“Just franks and beans,” he said with a grin. “I can heat it up

again.”

We piled into his tow truck and he headed south through

the town. Soon the peaked roofs, shutters and picket fences

gave way again to autumn-burnished fields. He turned east onto

a dirt road marked with a weathered signboard.

Up ahead I saw a building, silhouetted against the fast-

darkening sky, flanked by two tall evergreens. “Them’s the

spruces that gave our town its name,” Ray commented.

We pulled up outside the inn. It was as weathered as the

sign, but despite the graying shingles, it gave an overwhelming

impression of solidity. Perched right on the rocky point, it had

a wraparound porch that overlooked the surf-splashed cliffs on

one side, a gently sloping lawn on the other. To the left of the

driveway, I saw a well-tended garden, still bright with drooping

sunflowers and brilliant purple chard. Lights shone in the

ground floor windows, welcoming me.

Memories washed over me, suddenly, memories of summer

places. The turn of the century resort in rural Connecticut that

we had frequented when I was a child, with its Adirondack

chairs looking out over the lake, linen-draped dining tables,

lumpy mattresses and bathroom down the hall. My dad taught

me to swim there, when I was six, while my mom tended to my

brother’s earache. The camp near Portland where I spent a

harrowing but instructive eighteenth summer as a counselor:

bundled in a sweater doing guard duty outside the cabin with

the pines looming overhead; sleeping out with my charges on

the misty shores of Lake Sebago and listening to voices drifting

over the water. The historic National Hotel on Block Island,

with its porch facing the harbor, where Michael and I spent a

romantic night the June before we were married, never

dreaming we would be divorced less than two years down the

road.

I DO! 99

I can imagine spending the summer here, I thought. My

musings were interrupted by Ray’s gravelly voice.

“Maggie? You there? I’ve got an off-season customer for

you!”

My first impression, when she pushed open the screen door,

was grace. She was middle-aged, plain, sandy hair shot with gray

pulled into a ponytail. She wore baggy jeans, a plaid shirt and

tennis shoes. Still, there was something about the way she

moved, light but sure-footed, the way she smiled, illumining her

whole face. Some part of me reached out toward her.

“Maggie, this young lady broke down on the road into town.

She needs a bed for the night, if you can manage it.”

“My pleasure,” said Maggie, turning the warmth of her smile

full upon me. I could see that all the lines on her face were

echoes of that smile. She held out her hand. “I’m Maggie

Benson, proprietor of this ramshackle place. It’s a bit rustic, but

I am sure that we can make you comfortable.”

“Nicole Stewart,” I responded, taking the proffered hand.

Her skin was surprisingly soft, given her rugged countenance.

“I’m really sorry to intrude, but it looks like I’m stuck here

overnight, and the inn seems to be the only candidate for bed

and board. Of course, I’ll pay your usual summer rate for your

trouble.”

“Nonsense! I’m glad to have the company. It can get pretty

bleak out here on the Point, once the summer folk have gone.”

“I insist...” I began, but Maggie had already turned and was

dismissing Ray with a wave and a jest. As his truck rattled back

up the rutted drive, she beckoned to me.

“Come on in, Nicole. Are you hungry? I was just sitting

down to supper. There’s plenty for two.”

She led me through the darkened dining room, where tall

windows faced the ocean, and into the bright kitchen. Delicious

odors assailed my nostrils. My stomach growled, audibly, and

we both laughed. “It’s nothing fancy,” she said, gesturing for

me to sit at the linoleum table. “Meat loaf and mashed potatoes,

with a bit of greens.”

“Sounds, and smells, wonderful,” I said, and meant it. We

ate, mostly, in silence. I could tell that she was curious, but she

100 Making Memory ~ SARAI

was too polite to interrogate me. I felt some need to explain

myself. “I was up in Augusta, visiting my father.” Deliberately

vague. “I live in Boston. I’m a financial analyst.”

“How nice,” she said, sincerely, though I wondered if she

had any idea what a financial analyst was. We lapsed back into

quiet mastication. Maggie radiated acceptance and comfort. I

felt better than I had all day.

“Do you live here all by yourself?” I asked after a few

minutes.

“I do now.” I caught a hint of sadness in her voice. I

shouldn’t pry, I thought.

“Summers, I have some live-in help, to clean and serve

meals. But they usually go back to college come September. I

don’t mind being alone, though. The sea’s company, and the

gulls. I’m happy to have the time to think, and remember.”

A dreamy look crossed her weathered visage. For a moment,

her eyes were focused on something I couldn’t see. I had a

sudden urge to rise and put my arm around her shoulders, but I

resisted, not wanting to intrude on her reverie.

The moment passed, and she turned her radiant smile on me

once again. “Why don’t you go out in the parlor and relax, while

I do the dishes?”

“Nonsense,” I told her. “I insist on helping.”

“But you’ll spoil your lovely suit.”

I removed the jacket and draped it over the wooden-spoked

chair. “Do you have an apron?”

Maggie produced a classic gingham pinafore from one of the

kitchen drawers. “It doesn’t quite match your fashionable

outfit,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

“It’s perfect,” I replied, tying the sash behind my back and

donning a pair of yellow rubber gloves. “I’ll wash; you dry.”

We worked well together. No sooner would I deposit a wet

plate or bowl in the drain board than she would have it in her

hands, energetically applying her towel. Every once in a while,

she would anticipate me too closely, and her fingers would

brush against mine. Even through my gloves, her hand felt hot.

She was flushed, too, the rosy hue of her cheeks extending

I DO! 101

down to the triangle of bare skin that I could see at her open

neckline. It must be the steam rising from the sink, I thought. My own cheeks felt as though I had been sitting too close to a fire.

We were finished in record time. Maggie put on a kettle. I

reclaimed my jacket. “Can I use your telephone?” I asked.

“Out in the parlor. Go ahead. I’ll just fix us some tea, and be

out in a moment.”

I put in a call to my office, leaving a message for my

secretary regarding my predicament. Then I looked around.

“The parlor,” as Maggie called it, was a cozy room on the

other side of the kitchen, also with an ocean view. A huge

fieldstone fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by overfilled

bookcases. A double-screened door led to the porch. I could

hear Maggie singing to herself in the kitchen as I stepped out

into the deepening twilight.

The eastern sky still glowed with the memory of the day,

luminous as the depths of a dark sapphire. A few stars flickered

overhead, as if mirroring the lights of fishing boats near the

horizon. The salty ocean smell was strong here. Looking down,

I saw granite boulders tumbled at the cliff’s foot, exposed by

the low tide. They were cloaked in seaweed, fronds swaying as

the waves lapped at them. The familiar scent stirred something

in me, some restlessness that I could not name. I felt the day’s

dread lurking at the edge of my consciousness and pushed it

away.

A seagull swooped low over the waves, scolding. A chill

evening breeze sliced through my linen jacket. I shivered.

The screen door squeaked open, and then Maggie was

beside me. She gazed at the sky for a long time before she

spoke.

“Peaceful, isn’t it? You should see it during a storm, though.

The breakers climb right up the cliff. The porch gets drenched

in salt spray. It’s frightening, then. But it’s still beautiful.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“A lifetime,” she said with a funny little smile. “My father

built this place just after the First World War. I was born right

there in the parlor.” She noticed me shivering. “It’s cooling

down. Come on inside now, Nicole, where it’s warm.” In fact I

102 Making Memory ~ SARAI

could feel heat radiating from her, as we stood shoulder to

shoulder, as if the sunshine that fueled her smile burned in her

body. I followed her back through the screened doors. She

bolted the shutters over them, sealing out the night wind.

“Have a seat and pour yourself some tea,” she invited,

pointing to an overstuffed sofa facing the fireplace, and the

teapot on the table before it. “I’ll just go and get some sweets.”

As I began to comply, I noticed that the chimney was

covered with photographs. I could not help going over to

examine them. Many were of Maggie herself, in earlier days,

kneeling in the garden, or swinging a hammer, or standing

proudly with a three-foot bass on her fishing line. A sturdy,

handsome man joined her in many of the pictures, with dark

hair, brilliant eyes, and a grin full of white teeth.

Then I found the wedding photo, Maggie graceful in her

flowing gown, the man proud, his arm linked in hers. The

photo must have been twenty years old, given its condition and

their fashions, but the luminous joy in their eyes had not faded

one bit.

“That’s my Jack,” said Maggie softly. I jumped, not having

heard her enter. “Our wedding day, twenty-three years ago. We

were married here, you know, right on the porch, with all of the

county in attendance.”

“You look as though you were very much in love,” I

commented, feeling once again as if I was invading her privacy.

“Oh, we were. We always were. Up to the very last moment,

last year, when Jack’s heart played him false.” I was alarmed to

hear a sob lurking in her voice.

“Oh, no! How terrible!” This time, I could not help putting

an arm around her shoulders. Maggie looked up at me and

smiled, though I could see tears brimming in her cornflower-

blue eyes.

“No, not terrible. He didn’t suffer. He just left me, rather

suddenly. That’s the way he would have wanted it, no fuss, no

long illness, just a quick kiss and then darkness.”

“Here,” she said a little too briskly, pulling away from my

grasp. “Have an oatmeal cookie. Homemade. I’m not one to

I DO! 103

brag, but my cookies have won first place at that last three

county fairs.”

I sipped my tea and took a bite of the cookie. “Delicious,” I

commented. I could think of nothing else to say. I wanted to

know more about her and her love. I couldn’t help it.

As if she sensed my interest, she continued. “We never had

any children,” she said. Her eyes still glittered with unshed tears.

“Jack knew when he married me that I couldn’t have any.

Something to do with a fever I had as a girl. He told me that he

loved me so much, he wouldn’t have wanted to share me,

anyway.”

She turned to look out over the ocean, where the moon was

rising. “We had so many good times,” she said, finally. “I have

so many memories. They keep me company through the long

winters here. Then when the summer people come, I’m too

busy to be lonely.”

Memories. All my anguish of earlier came flooding back,

tenfold. I was suddenly choked with sadness. My father would

never recall my mother and their happy years together. My own

eyes filled and threatened to spill over.

Maggie noticed immediately. “What’s wrong, Nicole?” She

moved closer on the couch and gave me a solid hug. I felt both

disturbed and comforted. “It’s okay. You can tell me, if you

want.”

So I did, all of it, my mother’s death, my father’s frayed

mind, my divorce, and my busy, empty life. I sobbed it all out,

dampening her blouse with my tears, while she patted my

shoulder and murmured words of comfort.

Finally, the storm was over. I felt exhausted, drained. Maggie

seemed to understand. “You look tired,” she said, kind as ever,

“and to be honest, I’m feeling a bit thin myself. But I’ve got just

the thing to pick us up.”

She opened the maple cabinet on the other side of the room,

and returned with a bottle and two glasses. With a mischievous

grin, she poured us each a generous portion of fine malt whisky.

“Jack didn’t drink much,” she said, “but he believed in a shot of

good whisky for comfort or for celebration.” She held up the

glass of amber liquid and looked me straight in the eye. “I guess

104 Making Memory ~ SARAI

this is both comfort and celebration,” she said evenly, and

tossed down the liquor in one gulp.

I sipped at mine, feeling its smoothness flow down my

throat and its warmth trickle into my extremities. The memory

of my pain receded rapidly into the distance. I curled my legs up

underneath me and relaxed back into the softness of the sofa. I

had not felt so well in months.

“Tell me more about Jack,” I said. “How did you meet

him?”

“We were childhood sweethearts. Went to school together.

In fact, we were kind of notorious, got into a certain amount of

trouble. I’ll never forget the time that we got caught skinny-

dipping in Hampden Lake.” She grinned at the recollection.

“We must’ve been fourteen or fifteen, tops. It was a glorious

July day, the air sparked with salt and fresh as wine. Old Miss

Robinson came down to the lake with her easel and paint box

to capture the beauties of nature. She didn’t quite expect the

kind of natural sight that we presented!”

“It was all completely innocent. ‘Least, it was then. We were

always totally comfortable with each other, naked or clothed.”

I had a startling mental picture of how Maggie must have

looked at fifteen, lithe and strong, bronzed skin and straw-

colored locks shining in the sun. A funny kind of pressure

invaded my chest as I listened to her tale.

“Later, of course, we became lovers.” A wistful look flitted

across her face, then evaporated as she turned her smile on me

again. “Jack was all for waiting until we were married, but I

brought him around to my way of thinking. Why deprive

ourselves, I asked him, when we’re so sure of what we want?”

“Valentine’s Day of my eighteenth year, we lay together the

first time. It was wonderful. It was always wonderful, with

Jack.”

I felt suddenly embarrassed at the way Maggie was sharing

her personal secrets with me. Embarrassed, and aroused. I had

never known the breathless excitement of teenage love, but I

could imagine it. I could hear the urgency, the exquisite,

irresistible force of it, behind her simple words. The whisky had

I DO! 105

done its work; I felt loose and free, cradled in the rhythms of

her voice.

“What about you, Nicole? How did you and your husband

get together? And, if you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t it

work out?”

Relaxed as I was, her questions did not reignite my anguish.

“I met Michael in grad school, while I was working on my

MBA. He had just finished law school, and was studying for the

bar. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but between Michael

and me there was definitely some kind of chemistry.” I paused,

struck momentarily dumb by a vivid recollection of Michael’s

black curls, bronzed muscles and lopsided grin. “When he was

close to me, I felt as if I was on a roller coaster: my head

spinning, my stomach doing flip flops, my breath coming in

gasps. We went to bed together on our second date.”

My companion’s attention was totally focused on me. I felt a

need to explain. “You have to understand, that wasn’t at all

typical for me. But the effect Michael had on me – well, it was

something special.”

Maggie took my hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “I do

understand, believe me. There’s something blessed about pure

desire.” She pronounced “blessed” as two syllables, as in the

Sermon on the Mount. “But do go on, Nicole.”

“Our first year together was a glorious romantic dream. We

married as soon as I got my degree. I started working for

Morgan Stanley right away, but at first that didn’t matter. We

found a fine apartment in Back Bay, with a view of the river.

We’d spend Sundays sprawled naked on the carpet in front of

the fireplace, alternately reading the paper, snacking and making

love. We took vacations whenever we could. For our first

anniversary, he took me to Provence for two weeks. I still recall

the saltiness of the olives and the hardness of his body as we lay

in those sagging pension beds.”

“So what happened,” asked Maggie softly, stroking my palm

with a work-calloused finger.

Her touch was making me nervous. Trying to avoid

offending her, I extricated my hand and plumped up the pillow

behind me. Her expression did not alter.

106 Making Memory ~ SARAI

“Work,” I said with a sigh. “Life. He passed the bar and

took a position at a firm where they milk every minute from

their junior associates. I got a promotion and suddenly was at

the office until seven or eight every night. Then my dad was

diagnosed, and I began spending whatever free time I had up

here, helping my mom. Michael couldn’t bear to come along.

He found my father’s condition deeply disturbing.”

“It got to the point where we didn’t really spend any time

together. Days would go by without our having a serious

conversation. Weeks would pass without our making love. He

was like a roommate, not a husband, though when I was away,

here in Maine, I ached for him.”

“Then my mother died. There was the stress of the funeral,

finding a home for dad, and so on. Three weeks after she was

buried, Michael told me that he wanted a divorce.”

The parlor was silent. I could hear the ticking of the banjo

clock above the mantle. I could hear Maggie’s breathing. I stole

a glance at her from under lowered eyelids. Her eyes were

glistening again.

Finally, she spoke. “Do you regret marrying him?” she

asked. “Do you think it was a mistake?”

I remembered Michael’s laugh, his touch that always drove

me wild. “No, but I miss him,” I replied, finally admitting it to

myself. “I feel so lost.”

Maggie leaned across and laid a soothing hand on my brow.

Something leaped up inside me. I felt suddenly confused,

remembering Michael’s magnetism, stirred by Maggie’s

closeness. I must be drunk, I thought. I smiled at my hostess and stretched my arms upward, working the kinks out of my

shoulders.

“Thank you, Maggie. You’re a talented listener. I feel better

for having told someone about all this.”

She shrugged. “Jack always teased me about liking to talk a

lot more than to listen. But maybe I’m learning something as I

get older.”

The clock above the fireplace chimed eleven. “Heavens, it’s

late. You must be exhausted. Let me show you to your room.”

She was all bustling energy again as she led the way.

I DO! 107

It was a wonderful room, on the third floor, with a glorious

view of the moon-silvered sea. Iron bedstead with handmade

quilt, warm braided rug on the polished maple floorboards, old-

fashioned chifforobe with a full-length mirror. I hung up my

suit and pulled a T-shirt over my head. Then I turned out the

light and sat among the moonbeams, gazing at the swelling

ocean. Numb, emptied, blissfully void of pain.

I must have slept, for I was wakened by the creaking of my

door hinge. I turned from the window to see Maggie standing

barefoot in a pool of moonlight. Her hair floated loose around

her face. A simple, sleeveless cotton nightgown hung from her

shoulders. She looked young, and somewhat confused, as if she

was not sure how she got there. She took another step into the

room. I rose to meet her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered, as if there were others

slumbering in the house. “I kept thinking about Jack. And

about you.”

Then, as if we had wanted to do this from the beginning, we

kissed. Neither of us took the initiative. It was a spontaneous

impulse, a reuniting of two halves into the glorious whole. A

drawing together, like magnets, or lightning pulled to water.

Her lips were sweet on mine, shocking and yet strangely

familiar. Her hands traveled under my shirt, seeking my breasts,

which she cupped and kneaded like bread dough. Her touch

ignited me, recalling hungers that I had tried hard to forget. I

brushed my fingertips over her nipples, poking stiff and girlish

through her gown. She sighed, a sigh so deep it seemed that her

soul was escaping her body.

Entwined, we stumbled to the bed, prostrate in our mutual

need.

She smelled of fresh bread, flowers and the sea. Her skin

was velvety soft, warm and welcoming as clean sheets dried in

the sun. I shivered when she touched me, all my senses newly

wakened as if from a long sleep. She moaned when I touched

her, half-animal, half-human, arching upward, offering all to me.

I will not recite the litanies of our lust, her tongue, my

fingers, our breasts pressed together, hearts beating in

synchrony.

108 Making Memory ~ SARAI

She must have been as much a virgin in the art of pleasing a

woman as I was. I was surprised by her knowledge and her

daring. “We loved to experiment, Jack and me,” she whispered.

“There wasn’t anything that I wouldn’t let Jack do.”

From Maggie, I learned again the language of the body that I

had pretended was gibberish after Michael left me. I learned

again to give and receive, to be at once subject and object, to

relinquish false modesty and scream with the joy of release.

Later, we lay together in the waning moonlight, my head on

her shoulder, while she stroked my cropped hair back from my

brow and told me more stories of her love. “Jack always said

that memories are fine things, but that the making of memories

was the only thing that matters.” Our woman-scent hung in the

air around us, and I felt again that lovely stirring in my sex.

“Well, then, my darling Maggie, shall we make some

memories?”

  

I slept soundly and late, blessedly without dreams. I woke

alone, in a bed full of her essence. When I came downstairs, I

discovered that she had cooked us a fine breakfast, hotcakes

drenched with butter and local bacon, with black coffee hot and

sweet as her kisses.

We were shy with each other, and spoke little as we ate,

almost as silent as at supper the night before. Whenever our

eyes met, though, we found ourselves wearing silly grins.

Clearing the table, our hands touched, and we burst into giddy

laughter.

I was drying the dishes when Ray arrived with my car in tow,

tire replaced, ready to go.

I found that I was reluctant to leave this place of autumn

still recalling summer. I wanted to stay there and savor her

wisdom and her kisses. But she shooed me away, telling me,

quite correctly, that my life was elsewhere.

“Still, next time you’re up this way, Nicole, you’re more than

welcome to drop by.” She gave me a hug, and once more I felt

her heart beating against mine.

I DO! 109

As I headed down the country lane toward the freeway,

thinking of Maggie’s smile, I resolved to live without regret.

And to remind myself often that memories are no more than

lovely shadows cast by life’s brilliance.

Swansong

SHARON MARIA BIDWELL

He broke the neck of the first swan the day after her funeral.

By the following weekend, he had destroyed them all.

  

The younger of the two men stopped to linger in front of

the large sepia print. Richard didn’t need to look at it; the poster

was forever entrenched and vibrant in his mind.

“Who is she?” Neil asked, his voice low, quiet, subdued,

speaking almost as though they were in a church, or library. A

mausoleum more like, although Richard hated where that

thought led. He breathed in, and for the first time realised how

stale and stuffy the house smelt. It made him think of little old

ladies soaked in lavender, cats curled up on their laps amidst

skeins of brightly-coloured knitting, jumpers made up and given

to sons with set grimaces they hoped would be mistaken for

smiles. He didn’t know where the vision came from. His Gloria

had never been like that. Neither was his mother. Maybe the

image was a memory of his grandmother, but he couldn’t

remember. He pressed two fingers against the spot of tension

that formed just between his eyes. Neil stood patiently awaiting

his reply. Neil shouldn’t have to be so patient with him. The

thought increased his irritation, but found no outlet. He had no

reason to be irritated with Neil, or with Gloria. That only left

one candidate, and he detested people who wallowed in self-

recrimination. He hated people who wallowed in self-pity even

more.

“It’s Gloria Swanson. The real one. I mean, the American

actress.” His statement seemed to imply that his Gloria hadn’t

been real. She might be gone, but he didn’t want to forget her.

She deserved better than that. The other Gloria Swanson’s

career went into decline with the advent of “talkies.” She had

died in 1983. His Gloria had died more recently.

Neil turned back to regard the poster once more. His lips

stretched a little as though he felt the temptation to smile and

was trying not to do so. “I think she had a good sense of

humour, your Gloria.”

“Do you?” The statement confounded Richard for a

moment. Then he remembered the times Gloria had made him

laugh. Neil was right even though he’d never met her. How

114 Swansong ~ BIDWELL

strange that Neil should be so insightful. It made the years

spent with her easier to bear, the fact that he’d married a good

woman. “I suppose she did, at that.”

Neil moved through the room. His presence alternately felt

intrusive and comforting. Anger rushed up through Richard

now, pushing back the sorrow. The emotion made him feel

better, but it was a fleeting moment only. He didn’t seem able

to hold on to his emotions for long these days. He often existed

in a state of numbness. He didn’t know why Neil put up with

him. The other man stopped walking. He stood in front of a

pile of black garbage bags. He gave Richard a questioning look.

“Her...clothes,” Richard whispered. In the stillness of the

house, he had no need to speak louder for Neil to hear.

“You’re finally getting rid of them, then?”

“I’m dropping them into a charity shop next week. You

said...”

Neil shot him a glance that made him fall silent. That look

said, “I shouldn’t have had to say, should I? And you shouldn’t

get rid of these things because of anything I say. You should do

it for your own sake.” He waited, breath bated, only letting it

ease out of his mouth when Neil’s expression relaxed.

“Everything else?” Neil asked.

“I’ve got rid of it all, except those things I want to keep.

There are things going to her sister. Some I’ve already had taken

away. This,” he nodded towards the heap in the corner, “is the

last.”

“You changed the bedding like I said?”

He couldn’t breathe. Richard imagined lying in a silk-lined

coffin, straining to get at the air through six feet of earth.

Closing his eyes brought no relief, just darkness. His eyes ached

suddenly with the force of unshed tears. This felt like grief and

yet, he’d shed his tears for Gloria.

“Richard?”

He couldn’t be sure if he heard Neil say his name first, or

felt the soft touch of fingers against his face, or did they arrive

together? It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did; he sought

distraction. He opened his eyes and blinked, surprised to find

I DO! 115

them moist. He lifted a hand to wipe those tears away, but Neil

caught hold of his wrist. Prevention.

Richard looked around, gave a soft laugh. “I thought I’d

cried all I needed to for her.”

Neil’s soft green eyes looked at him the way they always did,

seeing far too much. “These tears aren’t for her. You are

allowed to cry for yourself.”

The anger rushed in, and Richard pulled back. He had to, or

he was going to shove Neil away. He was the bigger of the two.

He could quite easily hurt Neil. Blind faith that he wouldn’t

gave Neil courage in the face of his anger, but Richard wanted

to tell Neil not to believe in him. Sometimes, Richard did want

to hit him. He’d wanted to hit him that night when Neil first

shoved his tongue into his mouth. Gloria had been dead three

months then, and people kept telling him that he needed to get

out of the house. The party given by a mutual friend had been

in full swing when Neil dragged Richard into the back garden,

both of them oblivious to the cold. In the heat of that kiss,

Richard hardly felt the bitter wind at all. He could scarcely

remember agreeing to leave, to follow Neil back to his house.

He had put all thoughts of violence aside until later that night.

Then later, lying there in the dark... Now, he could barely

remember how it had felt. Only Neil slumbering beside him had

told Richard it was real, no dream. All he could remember six

months down the line was the tearing of the condom packet,

skimming it over his cock, and the barest recollection of

burrowing in somewhere tight and hot. It didn’t seem fair that

the memory of his first time penetrating another man was such

a blur.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Neil’s question brought him back to himself. “No,” Richard

said, amazed to find that he meant it.

“Good. Because you’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

He couldn’t help it. The remark brought a smile to his lips.

That much was true. They’d moved on from condoms to the

point of no return: mutual trust. “I don’t deserve you,” Richard

said.

116 Swansong ~ BIDWELL

The other man looked a little awkward in reply. He

shrugged. “Hey. If I’ve stuck around through all this, all this

time, at least you know what I feel is real.”

Richard wanted to ask why. Why? Why do you love me?

Why would you, after all the crap I’ve put you through? He

didn’t ask. Neil wouldn’t answer him. Not now. Not yet. Not

this way. Answers to questions like that lay in the future and

besides, Richard already knew. Far from being a Narcissus, still

not many people felt that little of themselves. Neil loved him

for all the good qualities that Gloria had told Richard he

possessed. As he had said, a good woman was his Gloria. A

good woman...

“So, did you change the bedding?” Neil asked again.

Richard laughed. “I did more than that. I changed the

bloody bed.”

Neil’s eyes flashed in surprise. Then he smiled. They stared

at each other, grinning.

  

For a long time he’d thought of moving, but the house had

been in his family for generations. On the way to the bedroom,

they passed the glass cabinet in the hall. Even as he became

aware of Neil’s pace slowing at his back, Richard winced. How

could he be so stupid? He shouldn’t have brought his lover here

prior to getting rid of it. He should have at least cleaned out its

contents. He stopped, lingering on the stairs, and then looked

back. Neil’s gaze settled on the destruction lining the shelves.

Like the poster, Richard didn’t need to see.

“It was an accident,” he said lamely.

Neil looked up at him, his gaze once more burning through

layers of skin, into flesh, into Richard’s soul. “Liar. You did this

on purpose.”

What could he say? It became his turn to shrug. He tried to

keep the defensive tone out of his voice, but he couldn’t. “I

hated them. She loved them. She thought it a fine joke.”

He tried to stop then, but he couldn’t. The dam opened and

the words flowed. He could no more stop the confession than

deny the desire to fuck Neil. “I loved Gloria, I truly did, but this

I DO! 117

one little thing about her irritated me all to hell. Sometimes...”

He fought the urge to grind his teeth, and settled for looking

away from Neil to stare at the wall. “Sometimes I even

wondered if she married me just for the name. Swanson. She

married me and that made her Gloria Swanson. Everywhere we

went, she saw a swan, and we would have to bring it home.

Crystal ones, porcelain, wooden...”

He stopped, drowning in the deluge of words that coaxed

the sick feeling out of him as though it spewed out on a river of

bile. He could almost believe that if he looked down the front

of his shirt, he would see a spray of vomit. Neil drew closer, but

Richard turned his head to look over his shoulder, staring into

the cabinet now. “I can’t remember what made me break the

first one, but I snapped its neck, and it felt...so good.”

Richard looked down at his hands — his big hands —

puzzled. “I don’t understand why it should feel so good.”

Neil stepped in front of him. “Did it occur to you it wasn’t

the act of breaking the swans that felt good, but that with each

one maybe you were slowly severing a connection?”

Richard chuckled. He often laughed around Neil these days,

and it always felt so odd, though liberating. “Don’t analyse me.

I’ve done too much of that myself.” He looked up into Neil’s

eyes, and couldn’t help wondering what Neil saw when he

looked into his contrasting brown gaze. Gloria had always told

him his eyes were what won her heart.

“Many gay men marry. Particularly...” Neil stopped talking.

“Twenty years ago,” Richard finished for him. He wasn’t

old. He was in his early forties. Neil was nine years younger, yet,

often, he seemed the more mature of the two. Richard turned,

walking up the stairs, moving into the bedroom, and Neil

followed.

He opened the window and the still warm September wind

blew into the room. Richard breathed in. That was better. He

didn’t need to look at Neil to see the approval in his eyes, but

he did so anyway. He had left the bed turned down. It had

taken months of patient persuading on Neil’s part to get

Richard to bring his lover back to this house. A great deal of

patient persuading had gone into Richard’s first experience of

118 Swansong ~ BIDWELL

being penetrated, of making love face to face, of putting his

dick in another guy’s mouth. They still had a barrier to breach.

Richard had brought Neil home with the sole intention of

sucking him off.

  

Neil propped himself up on pillows. He sat on a couple, and

plumped the rest, spreading them around him for comfort.

Richard had wondered why Neil wanted so many pillows. Now

he knew. Neither of them were centerfolds, but Neil often said

Richard could give Harrison Ford a run for his money. Neil told

him he was magnificent in his nakedness. Such remarks had

always made Richard shake his head...up until now. Neil...Neil

was lean though lightly muscled, somehow soft despite the lack

of fat, his stomach, sides and hips so smooth. That luscious

body lay in presentation; the pillows lifted his hips, jutting his

cock and balls forward for Richard’s attention. Richard could

choose where to start. Mindful of his weight, he leaned over.

He started with a kiss, drinking in the taste of another man’s

tongue hungrily feasting as assertively as Richard did. It took

Richard awhile to work down to Neil’s nipples, and even longer

to work his way down the long line of stomach to that straining

cock.

Beneath him, Neil shivered. The reaction warmed Richard’s

heart and other things. When Neil squirmed, Richard held him

still. A hiss slithered out from Neil’s lips. He gasped.

“You’ve never...”

“Been so aggressive?”

“I was going to say enthusiastic, but yeah, that will do.” Neil

didn’t sound displeased. His chest heaved. He actually

whimpered when Richard’s hand enclosed his cock. The two

men stared at each other, in something Richard could only

describe as shock. Unconsciously, he licked his lips, only

realising he did when Neil’s gaze flicked down to the

movement. He swallowed and everything slid into place.

“It’s okay,” he told Neil. “I want this.”

As he tightened his grip, Neil let his head fall back, a ragged

breath escaping his lips. “Good,” he said, “because I think I’d

jump off the roof if you stopped now.”

I DO! 119

Richard heard the words as a backdrop to his movements.

He was already dipping his head. Prudence told him to lick first,

get used to the idea. Ignoring what his commonsense told him,

he went down, taking the soft glans into his mouth, taking it too

deep and gagging, coming back up for air. A hand on the back

of his head advised caution and took over, guided him. He

suckled and licked, bobbed his head, going on instinct, on what

he knew felt good, repeating an action when it wrung a sound

from his lover’s mouth. Richard drew back to kiss the salty tip,

and couldn’t help wondering if what he tasted was his lover’s

release mingled with his tears too long held in check.

  

“I woke and you weren’t there.” Neil’s voice whispered

through the darkness, but like the soft breeze that had finally

wound its way through the house, the sound of the man’s voice

no longer contained the quality of a whisper spoken in a funeral

home, but that of a lover’s sigh. Richard, standing naked before

the sepia poster of the Hollywood actress, almost raised a hand

to touch the smile that surprised him by appearing so readily on

his lips. Instead, he allowed his fingers to alter course. He took

hold of the bottom edge of the poster, and tugged it, the sticky

tack holding it to the wall tearing the wallpaper as the poster

came down.

“Whoops,” he said, looking back at Neil with a grin. He

folded the poster up, damaging it, screwing it up in his hefty

hands.

“Did she know?” Neil asked, surprising him yet again.

“She knew.” Richard didn’t need Neil to explain what he

was asking. He thought back to that last day in the hospital,

when she’d been so weak, so frail, not like his vibrant Gloria at

all. She’d reached up to touch his cheek, looked into his eyes,

and drew him down to kiss his lips. She told him what to

do...after, and in that moment he’d told her he loved her, and

knew it to be true. She wasn’t the love of his life, she could

never have been that, but he loved her well enough. A short

time later she died, quietly, when it seemed to him that her

death should have made more of a sound, some lingering

120 Swansong ~ BIDWELL

protest. That was it, done, all the glory in his life gone until

now.

“What did she tell you to do?”

He hadn’t realised he’d said all that aloud until Neil spoke

up. “She thanked me for loving her so well all those years. Then

she told me to do whatever it was I wanted to do. To love whosoever I wanted to love.”

“She wouldn’t have been happy about the way you’ve been

living these last few months.”

“No. She wouldn’t.”

“You’ve nothing to feel guilty about.”

“I know.” Richard stared at the torn wallpaper. The rip felt

significant, portentous.

“So, what are you going to do?”

Richard standing there in his naked “magnificence” smiled.

“Exactly what she told me to do.” Picking at the torn paper, he

managed to pull a strip off. The vandalism lightened his heart.

Neil returned his smile. Despite the property coming from his

side of the family, it had always felt as though this was Gloria’s

house. It was time to redecorate, time he made it a home for

him and Neil.

Finally Forever

JEANNE BARRACK

Manny’s voice wobbled fretfully as he read the first item off

his list. “Did you remember to cancel the newspaper?”

Rafe sighed, but kept his cool. “Yes.”

“Change our address with the post office?”

“Of course.”

“Get the vet records for Gershwin?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Get our clothes from the cleaners?”

“Of course.”

“Shut off the electricity?”

“All taken care of.”

“Tell the cable company we’re moving out of the area and

cancel the rest of the month?”

“Done and done.”

“Shut the phone off?”

“It’ll be disconnected by this Saturday. You’ll have to get in

touch with me on my cell phone.”

“Thank God I have you on speed dial. Did the movers get

there yet?”

“They just left. Sweetie, if you had taken some time off, you

wouldn’t be so worried.”

“You know I couldn’t. Jerry did swear he’d be at the new

place to let them in, right? He has the diagram to show where

all the furniture is supposed to go? He won’t decide to become

an interior decorator and switch the bed in front of the window

instead of opposite it?”

“Darling, I took care of everything, I promise. If you had

clients who lived in this country instead of halfway around the

world...”

“I know, I know. But Japan didn’t used to be

halfway around the world and away from where we lived. We

thought we’d be here for always, together, having kids,

celebrating our golden anniversary. It was supposed to be

forever.”

“I know, babe, I know. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“You do? Tell me!”

124 Finally Forever ~ BARRACK

“Then it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

“Please. I need something to make this whole damn thing

better.”

“I know, babe. Well, you twisted my arm. Season tickets for

the Boston Red Sox for next spring!”

“The Red Sox? Damn, all those balls! And strikes.”

“Now be good, you devil. You know I hate your lame

jokes!”

“Only because they make you laugh, they’re so bad! Did you

give Angie all the plants? I wish we could take that wandering

Jew. It’s gotten so big!”

“We’re the original wandering Jews, bubbeleh. We’ll start

another one in Boston, I promise you.”

“Boston. I hate the cold! If I wanted to freeze my balls off, I

would have stayed in Chicago!”

“But then we would never have met, darling.”

“We would have. You’re my fate. I would have found you.”

“Oh? It was a quirk of fate that we bumped into each

other at my book signing?”

“Exactly! I never go to those things. I saw you inside the

bookstore window on my lunch break and fell instantly in lust. I

never take lunch breaks. I just had the urge that day to get out

of the office. You think it was an accident that I knocked over

that stack of books you were autographing? Ha!”

“Oh, babe, you think I didn’t know? You looked like such a

dork standing there in your old-fashioned three-piece business

suit. Kinda like Superman in his Clark Kent identity. I thought

you were the most adorable looking guy...you’re right. It was

fate.”

“Of course. If I hadn’t been on loan at the West Coast

office for a month, I never would have been having lunch in

San Francisco. Then you convinced me to move to California

and the firm had an opening in California. My career took off

and it was all because of you. And now I’m moving again but

this time I’m doing it with you, thank God!”

“Now no more trips down memory lane. Let’s concentrate

on the future.”

I DO! 125

“Right. Did you book the hall? Did you make sure the rabbi

is still available that day?”

“Hartseleh —”

“Something’s wrong! I knew it! You never start speaking

Yiddish unless something’s wrong!”

“Easy, easy. Nothing is wrong, I promise you. I just wanted

to let you know that, are you sitting down? Are you alone?”

“I’m sitting. I’m sitting. I kicked the boy toy out of my hotel

room. Joking. Joking. Please don’t tell me you’re getting cold

feet. Not now, not after all we’ve been through.”

“Oh, babe, never, never. How could you even think that?

Damn, I knew we should have done this after we made the

move. This way I could have been with you in Japan and you

wouldn’t be acting like such an idiot! Listen, babe, I told you

this might happen, remember? I said it was tough enough for

them to find out I’m gay, but...”

“Your parents? They’re not coming. Oh, darling, I’m so

sorry. Are you sure? You couldn’t convince them?”

“Hartseleh, they said if we had a Reform Rabbi perform the

ceremony, they wouldn’t consider us married. Hell, they didn’t

even consider my sister married a Jew because Mark converted

through a Reform ceremony! You remember, I told you he had

to get his shmekie snipped and they had to do the whole thing all over again — conversion and the wedding!”

“I guess this means your grandmother isn’t coming either.”

“This is why I wanted you to sit down and make sure you

were all alone.”

“There’s more? Oh, God forbid, she died. That’s it. She died

and we have to postpone the wedding. Oh, darling, sweetheart,

I’m so very, very sorry. I know how close you and your nana

were. That’s okay. We’ll cancel the hall and —”

“Will you shut up for a minute? Nana Glassman is fine. In

fact, she’s coming to the wedding.”

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

“Geezh, you broke my eardrum! I knew you’d react that way

that’s why I wanted you to be alone. I knew you’d scream and

they’d arrest you for shattering the windows!”

126 Finally Forever ~ BARRACK

“But that’s amazing! Fantastic! Nana said she’d come?

Without your parents? Who’s taking her to the hall? Oh, thank

God it’s a kosher caterer. I’m so glad we sprang for that. She

must really love her little tataleh.”

“Yeah, she even joked about that. She said the only way

she’d see her little tataleh become a father is if he married his

beshert and adopted. Her little father would become a big father!

I think that trip she came out to us you infected her with bad

jokes.”

“But she’ll be there. Is your sister taking her? She’s still

coming, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s braving parental disapproval.

She’s

leaving the kids as a bribe for the folks not to make a scene

when they find out she and Mark are coming to the wedding.

All day with bubby and pop-pop. You know they can’t resist my

niece and nephew.”

“Maybe when we have kids...”

“Maybe. So, you feeling better now? I’ll see you in a week in

Boston. Everything will be taken care of and then the following

week we’ll be married. Finally. Forever.”

“Finally. Forever.”

“Love you.”

“Love you.”

Code of Honour

MARQUESATE

“Nos anciens ont su mourir. Pour la gloire de la Légion. Nous saurons bien tous périr. Suivant la tradition.”

The legionnaires who sang those words in unison were

dressed identically in impeccable parade uniforms. White kepis

on their shaved heads, white short-sleeved shirts and green

epaulettes with red tassels. Blue cummerbunds wound tightly

around narrow waists, held in place with leather belts over light

grey trousers, ending in polished black combat boots.

‘For the glory of the legion’, Joe thought, concentrating on the words as their combined voices trailed off. While the average

age of his comrades from all over the world was twenty-five -

old enough to have buggered up something in their lives badly

enough to consider a radical change, while young enough to

survive the gruelling training, he had just turned twenty. There

certainly hadn’t been any chance for glory in his life. He had

been an unemployed drop-out from a council estate in England,

with no hope and no future. Unlike now.

Despite being the youngest with the least service, he was

taken seriously for the first time in his life, because he held his

own, no matter what. He was one of them, and even though he

got the shittiest jobs, had to do corvee and carry the heaviest kit, he had learned to stand up for himself.

He’d become tough. Eleven months ago, at selection, he’d

managed seven pull-ups while kicking his legs like a girl, and

he’d thrown up after running five miles. Now, he did twenty pull-ups easily, climbed a vertical four-meter rope in under ten

seconds without using his feet, and ran with the best of them.

For the first time ever, he belonged to something greater

and bigger. The disciplined life suited him; it had given him

sense and purpose. Up at six hundred hours, duties until

eighteen hundred hours, then lights out at twenty-two hundred

hours. Obeying orders and excelling in military skills, instead of

being no one and nothing with nowhere to go except down.

To his surprise, he’d learned French faster than anyone else,

and after almost a year, he conversed fluently in the language

and hardly ever needed to ask.

He’d prevailed, and he’d become someone. He stood up for

himself. He was a soldier.

130 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

The lying had been worth it.

  

They had accepted his first choice, and together with other

legionnaires, Joe was carted down to Nîmes, to join 2e

Régiment Étranger d’Infanterie. At some stage, all of them had

fallen asleep in the back of the open truck, huddled into their

uniform parkas. The arrival was sudden and the awakening

rude, like everything in the legion. Tough soldiers, expendable

for France. They were just foreigners, after all.

Still bleary-eyed and cold, they jumped off the truck, one

after the other, to stand in line and at attention. Eyes straight,

shoulders back, chest out, not a muscle twitched. Awaiting to

be paraded in front of their new Sergent, the sous-officier in charge of their platoon.

Joe prepared for his roll call, the formal address imprinted

into his mind. Eyes ahead, he noticed the blur of a man in front

of him, before he took one step forward and sharply expelled:

“Legionnaire premiere class Evans, onze mois de service, Première

compagnie, Section de Lieutenant Leroy, à vos ordres, Sergent! ”

Only then did he focus onto the face in front of him, and

nearly took the step back again.

Holy. Fuck.

Joe almost jerked visibly, forcing himself not to move a

muscle while staring at the sergent’s face. Dark shaved hair,

incredibly pale grey eyes, sharp-angled, weathered face, possibly

thirty. Impossibly striking. If he’d ever been asked to describe

what perfection looked like, that would be it.

Damn.

The pale eyes focused on him, cool, dispassionate, studying

him with detached scrutiny, before the sergent moved on to the

next man.

Joe just about managed to step back into line before his

reaction became all too obvious, and he stood once more,

staring straight ahead, but shaken to the core.

Why, why now and here? He’d been too occupied, busy, or

exhausted to think about anything but food, sleep and training

for all these months. Why now?

I DO! 131

He was right back at the beginning.

  

They got shipped out to Mayotte, an island in the Indian

Ocean, which the legion used for jungle training. Joe found

himself in a place he’d never hoped to visit, and even the

excessive training didn’t subdue his spirits. Not the swimming

for miles in the crystal clear sea, with their kit heavy on their

backs, and neither climbing Mt. Kali Keni, eight hundred

meters straight up in full kit, and not back down in constant

rain, either.

Yet wherever they were, whatever they did, the sergent was

with them. No matter how much Joe tried to ignore his

superior, he was there. Getting over a wall? Sergent Roux did it

faster and with less effort. Jumping into a pit and back up the

other side? No one could beat Sergent Roux. Balancing along

poles, climbing ropes, crossing ravines on a tightrope, jumping

hurdles... Roux was there, with his grey eyes, his wiry strength,

and his measuring gaze.

Eventually, they got sent out for jungle survival training.

One week together as a section, then one week alone. Each

legionnaire was given a compass, a map, a bottle of water, and

sent into the bush to make their own shelter, find their own

food, and survive the week, while solving mock missions, such

as finding the supposed crash site of a comrade.

When they were separated in the early hours, it had been

raining steadily for days. None of the men had a dry shred on

them, and the morale would have been even worse, had they

not been kept on their toes by the sergent, who sent each of his

men off. Joe was the last one.

He had been given the details of the first mission for the

following day, checking over the map, when he heard a strange

sound: part voice, part roar. The moment he turned, he saw

Sergent Roux’s raised arm, a last glimpse of the green beret, all

rapidly disappearing, sliding, slipping, crashing downwards and

gone. The earth had opened in front of him, and the mudslide

pulled the man with it, tearing branches on the way, burying the

helpless body beneath the brown floods.

132 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

“Sergent!” Joe shouted, running after the man. Losing his

footing, he slipped forward, towards the drop, managed in the

last minute to hold onto thick, leathery leaves, which slowed his

fall.

He couldn’t see the body any more, a whole pile of dead

wood had fallen on top. He slid downwards on his belly, and

once he’d reached the bottom, he frantically pulled branches

and vegetation out of the way. Finally managing to grab what

felt like an arm, he pushed his legs underneath roots for

leverage, and pulled with all his strength. Everything was

slippery, soaked from rain and covered in mud, and he nearly

lost his grip, but with a last bout of effort, Joe pulled the body

free and to safety.

He was breathing hard as he knelt beside the sergent,

shaking him, but there was no sign of life.

“Sergent!” Clearing the mud off the face, Joe checked the

vitals. Pulse, yes, then he tried to clear the airways, but he

couldn’t get rid of the mud. Reaching for the bottle on his belt

kit, Joe didn’t think twice, using the precious drinking water to

wash the sergent’s face. Mud ran in ever-clearer rivulets down

the sharply cut face and over the shaved hair. Water gathered

on perfectly shaped lips that were relaxed now, not sneering,

nor shouting. Joe couldn’t look away, mesmerised by the face

that was revealed beneath the grime, and he found himself

staring at those lips.

He didn’t think when he leaned down, nothing held him

back or screamed at him to stop. All his hard work to ignore,

lie, and pretend had been in vain, when he pressed his lips onto

the sergent’s. Lingering against the wet warmth, he felt their

shape beneath his own, sensed the traces of mud, and he closed

his eyes for one brief moment, savouring the kiss; his first kiss.

Joe opened his eyes and pulled back. The shock registered

within a heartbeat as he stared down into wide open, grey eyes

that looked at him coldly. That was it. He was dead.

“Sergent... Je n’ai...” Joe never finished his frightened

stammer. A hand grabbed the back of his neck and he was

pulled down, crushed against the lips that parted now. Tongue

I DO! 133

and teeth clashing, demanding entrance, as the sergent claimed

his mouth, and Joe obeyed the order.

Taste, strength, everything different to anything before. He

was pulled on top; the sergent held him, then rolled them

around, changing positions. Joe groaned into the other man’s

mouth. Hands were suddenly on him, groping and taking, while

Roux thrust down onto Joe’s groin. Joe froze, unable to think,

act, caught in the fulfilment of a need he’d fought for all of his

young life.

Another shove, and the sergent’s hard cock ground into his.

That very moment Joe let loose, forgot who they were and how

forbidden this was. Lust won, conquering every thought. Two

bodies, mud drenched, wet, dirty and slippery, moving together

and against each other in frantic need.

He found total fulfilment in the strength of the sergent’s

body and the non-negotiable demand. No asking, but taking

and willingly giving. Joe struggled and fought, both muscular

and strong, he relished each grip and every forceful touch.

Thrusting their hard cocks against the other’s, lust built,

spiralled out of control, and seconds felt like eternities of

insanity and greed.

When Joe came inside his uniform, he wanted to cry out and

lose himself in the abandon, but the sergent’s mouth captured

his own, and a hand at the back of his neck kept him in a vice

grip, not allowing any sound to escape. Roux’s body bore down

onto his own, forcing him to lie still, while the sergent came

with nothing but a shudder and a strangled groan.

Joe was trapped by the weight, the hand and the kiss, and

for a while, there was nothing but heartbeat and tremors that

ran through him in aftershocks. All too suddenly, though, Roux

rolled off. Bereft of the heat and the strength, Joe forced

himself to move as well, but his mind couldn’t catch on to what

his body had just experienced. The whole magnitude of what

had happened was too much to comprehend.

He sat crouched, still breathless, trying to will his fingers to

do something, anything, like wiping mud off his drenched

uniform.

134 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

“You must learn to lie.” The sergent’s voice cut into the

silence, and the sudden English with its French accent didn’t

register straight away. It took Joe a second to make out the

meaning.

“You speak English?” The moment he’d said it, Joe cursed

himself.

“What does it sound like to you?”

“English, Sergent.”

“Clever.” Roux let out a soft snort. “You’ll go far.”

That stung, like everything the man was saying, or not saying.

Yet all Joe could do was swallow the jibe, like any other. Ranks

and discipline were everything in the legion, but he was too

curious to let go, despite the potential consequences.

“You are not ‘Belgian’, Sergent?”

“Wrong and right.” Roux stopped wiping himself down, the

mud would have to get washed off with the steady rain. He

didn’t bother to look up when he graced Joe with an

explanation. “Canadian. French Canadian.” Picking up his

beret, Roux put it onto his head after a disdainful glance at the

soggy mess. “You are too transparent.”

“Pardon, Sergent?”

“Your face. Your eyes. You were obvious.”

“I don’t understand.” The sergent had him outgunned like

an RPG against a pistol and Joe was certain he didn’t believe

the feigned ignorance.

“What were you trying to prove when you joined up?”

Not even the question if he did want to prove anything. Joe

swallowed hard. “That I am...a man, Sergent. Not...”

“Men don’t stammer.”

Bastard. “Not a fag.” Pédé, he’d heard it often enough as an

everyday insult amongst the legionnaires.

“And you joined the legion for that? Of all places?” Roux’s

brows rose with thinly disguised amusement. “Have you

forgotten to look into your trousers lately? That should have

given you enough proof.”

Joe felt anger rising, why the hell hadn’t he just let that

arsehole drown in the mud? Would have saved his water, too.

I DO! 135

And why the hell had he given into that stupid, dangerous

impulse to kiss that man?

“I wanted to be someone.”

“Someone who was tough and an elite soldier, or someone

who wasn’t a fag?”

Both, was the first thing that came to Joe’s mind, but he bit

his lip. No, wrong. Not both. He didn’t want to be a fag.

“An elite soldier, Sergent.”

From the minuscule flash in the remarkable eyes, Joe knew

that the sergent had caught his lie, but Roux merely nodded

curtly.

“You will receive a new mission tomorrow from the caporal-

chef, and I suggest you be more careful with your precious

water.” The sergent switched back to French. “Cinq jours de

plus. ”

Five days. The whole survival exercise with hardly any water.

“Oui, Sergent!”

Roux turned and Joe made the mistake of opening his

mouth before engaging his brain. “Sergent!”

“Oui?” Roux looked at him. Impassive, the same cool,

mocking gaze as always, and Joe felt that look twist his guts.

“Rien, Sergent!” Nothing. Nothing at all. “Désolé, Sergent.”

“T’as fini, Evans?”

“Oui, Sergent.” Of course it was all, what else could he

possibly want?

The next moment Roux was gone, vanished with a few steps

into the thick vegetation.

  

The following five days were the hardest since the month at

the “farm” during basic training. Without his full water ration,

Joe struggled through the tasks, while trying to find another

source. The first couple of days it kept raining, and he managed

to trap some of the water, but when it stopped, he eventually

got so thirsty that he drank from a puddle. Aware that he could

catch every goddamned parasite imaginable in that forsaken

place, but he got lucky.

136 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

The thirst and the hunger, the sheer extent of exhaustion

were at least keeping him from thinking too much. Even so,

when he lay in his makeshift shelter at night, he cursed his

weakness. It could cost him everything he’d gained so far.

  

The day after the end of the jungle exercise, the legionnaires

stood lined up and to attention. All of them had lost weight or

sustained visible reminders of the unforgivingness of the jungle,

but none of them allowed themselves to show any weakness.

Sergent Roux was slowly marching down the line, then

turned and walked back. He stopped in front of Joe, who had to

force down any sign of the sudden, horrible fear that froze his

blood and threatened to flush his face. What if the sergent made

his stupid, utterly forbidden faux pas public? No one would

believe him if he claimed the sergent had reciprocated. No one.

He was just a legionnaire premiere class.

“Legionnaire Evans, step forward!” The French command

was uttered with hardly any inflexion.

“Oui, Sergent!” Joe called out, stepped forward, eyes fixed at

a point above the sergent’s shoulder, standing ramrod straight.

Silence, and Joe wanted to throw up with apprehension.

“Congratulations.” Roux’s voice cut through the thick fog of

fear in Joe’s mind. “You did your duty in the jungle.”

Joe didn’t dare blink when he focused on the sergent, once

again noticing every detail in that face. The sharp cheekbones,

the dark, arched brows beneath the peak of the kepi. The eyes,

always the eyes, shadowed by those long lashes, and he

remembered them wet, glistening with the precious drinking

water.

“You acted bravely and level-headedly and saved my life.

The legion is proud of you.” The moment was gone too soon,

when Roux ordered, “Back in line.”

“Oui, Sergent!” Joe uttered sharply and took the one step

back.

The man had once more taken him completely by surprise.

  

I DO! 137

That same evening, right after work, Sergent Roux stopped

Joe as he was walking from the training area towards the

accommodation block.

“Evans.”

“Oui, Sergent!”

Joe stood to attention, then followed Roux when the sergent

gave him a curt nod. They stopped behind the stores, where the

area was deserted.

“I want you to be in the storeroom at twenty-one hundred

hours.” Roux had switched to English.

“Sergent?” Joe stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Are you British?”

“Yes, Sergent!”

“Then you do understand English?”

“Yes, Sergent!”

The cool, grey gaze remained level. “Do you know where

the store is?”

“Yes, Sergent!” Joe pointed at the wall in front of him.

“Here, Sergent!”

“Well done.” The mockery increased. “You can read the

clock, can’t you?”

“Yes, Sergent.” Joe felt the amusement burn holes of

humiliation into him. Bastard.

“Twenty-one hundred hours.”

“Yes, Sergent.” What the hell did that man want from him?

Joe was part mortified, part angry, and part confused.

“Meet me. Here. Twenty-one hundred hours. Alone.” Roux

cocked one sarcastic brow. “Do you understand?”

The realisation finally hit him. Yes. He understood, and the

understanding of what exactly the sergent had requested of him

got him like another punch in the guts. The desire was instant,

and Joe could do nothing but obey. No matter how angry that

made him with himself for jumping at the order as if he’d been

told to climb a rope or scale a wall, and not to meet a man to

get off. Pédé. Fag. Poof. Gay boy. He heard them again, those

taunting voices, but he couldn’t help it; couldn’t help himself.

138 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

“Yes, Sergent!”

Yes. Please.

  

Joe felt almost sick. He didn’t know what to expect, but he

was never going to admit – even to himself – that he was to all

intents and purposes a virgin. He hadn’t been with any man,

because he’d always fought against what he wanted. Back home,

in a run-down estate in a shitty town in England. A home that

was not his anymore. Legio Patria Nostra. The legion was his

home now, and he wasn’t going to risk this newfound life.

Then why did he sneak out of the common rooms at five

minutes before twenty-one hundred hours, and into the

deserted stores? The sergent was playing him and his weakness,

and Joe was perfectly aware of it. He didn’t want to be gay,

refused to be a “fag,” yet he quietly opened the door and

stepped into the darkness of the store.

A faint sound came from across the room, a deliberate

shuffle of a boot, and then the sizzle of a flame as a match was

lit, lighting a gas lamp. The yellow light illuminated the man

who leaned against a tightly packed row of boxes. The face was

cast in stark shadow, picking out the shape of the aquiline nose

and throwing the sharp features into an even more stunning

relief.

Joe didn’t know what was expected of him, but he

nevertheless walked across the room after closing the door. The

sergent gave him no order, not even a clue, just kept silently

watching, until Joe stood in front of him. At a loss.

Eventually, Roux reached for his own beret and pulled it off

his head, placing it beside the gas lamp. Joe tracked the hand,

the beret, the play of darkness and light, until he lost sight of

the hand as it reached for him, fingers splaying in the back of

his neck. A slight pressure, pulling him towards the sergent, but

there was no command, just a nonverbal request. Joe followed,

because there was nothing else he neither could nor wanted to

do.

The touch of his lips on the sergent’s was like a shock to his

system. Unlike the frantic madness in the jungle, this time it was

deliberate. The moment they kissed, Roux became demanding,

I DO! 139

and Joe was swept into the heat and lust within seconds. The

sergent’s hands were on his uniform, brushing his beret off,

pulling him close and pressing him against the other’s hard

body.

When Roux turned them round, Joe followed, took the need

as an order and obeyed the unspoken command. His back hit

the wall of boxes, and he couldn’t breathe in air quickly enough,

because need burnt all oxygen from his blood. It overpowered

him, and he submitted willingly.

Hands on both their trousers, belts, fumbling with buckles,

buttons and zippers while kissing and grinding. They pushed

fabric out of the way, releasing cocks, their fingers wrapped

around hard flesh. Cock against cock and body grinding into

body. Stroking while panting into each other’s mouths, the

sound of boots shuffling on the floor, harsh breaths and

swallowed groans.

Joe was close, thrusting against Roux, who suddenly pulled

away and murmured in a husky voice, “No stains!”

Joe didn’t understand, just wanted the strength and the heat

back, but the sergent went to his knees and reached for Joe’s

cock, just like that, and just like that he sucked down on his

cock. Joe nearly crashed into the boxes behind him, mind

tripping on the sight of the sergent on his knees. Overpowered

by sensations and sight, Roux brought him over the edge within

a few moments.

Joe’s hips thrust erratically; he had no control over himself

as he came, and he had to bite his own hand to keep quiet. Still

shuddering when Roux swiped his tongue along the spent cock,

cleaning him, before coming back up to stand. Roux didn’t say a

word, but the grey eyes looked straight at him, and Joe knew

what the sergent expected: to be paid back in kind.

Damn. He didn’t know...couldn’t...but he found himself on

his knees, the hard cock in front of his face. Roux stood still,

waiting, not demanding. The scent hit Joe’s nostrils. Male,

musk, pure lust, and he could feel the saliva gathering in his

mouth. He wanted that cock. Pushing all thoughts away, all

those years of denying what he was, the gay boy, the “fag” who

140 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

got onto his knees to suck a cock. If his sergent, that tough

bastard, did it, then it didn’t make himself less of a man.

He parted his lips, closed his hand around the base of the

cock, and pushed down to create suction and heat. He felt dots

of pressure from fingertips on his shaved head. Increased

tension in the body beneath his hand, a twitch of the cock in his

mouth and a faint sound from Roux through clenched teeth,

made him speed up, teaching him everything he needed to

know about giving lust in return.

He was still unprepared, though, for the sergent’s sudden

orgasm. He couldn’t read the man’s signs yet, forced to swallow

convulsively while Roux’s hand on his head tightened in a

painful grip. Neither did he expect to be pulled up the next

moment and into a deep kiss. Their tastes mingled, and Joe

closed his eyes, breathed into the kiss while relaxing into the

afterglow. One precious moment of feeling the body against

his, of holding and being held, before the spell was broken, and

the sergent returned to his usual self and let go.

Joe found himself in such a jumble of emotions, he had a

hard time tucking himself back in.

“You’ve never done this.” Roux stated calmly, once he was

dressed. Back to the impenetrable surface that Joe found so

infuriating and simultaneously irresistible.

“Was I that bad?”

“Evans, learn to answer a question.”

“With all due respect, Sergent, it wasn’t a question but a

statement.” Joe didn’t know where his bold objection had come

from.

No immediate reply, but Joe wondered if he detected a flash

of amusement in the pale eyes.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“No, Sergent!”

Once again, no reply, and Joe couldn’t decipher anything in

that impassive face in front of him.

“It’s late, go to sleep, Evans. Lights out is in thirty minutes.”

Dismissed, as if nothing had ever happened.

“Sergent!” I need to see you again.

I DO! 141

“Oui?”

“Rien, Sergent.” Nothing. Nothing at all. Again.

Roux switched back to English for his last jibe. “Learn to

think before you talk.”

“Oui, Sergent.” Joe picked up his beret, put it back to the

correct angle and left while cursing himself.

  

Joe’s life in the legion continued with the same routine,

structure and discipline. Training, guard duty, work, washing

their kit, ironing their kit, time off. Always the same, except for

one immense secret: Sergent Roux would tell him where and

when to meet, and without fail Joe would be there. He never

asked questions, he took what he got and gave in return. Hand

jobs in empty storerooms, blow jobs in deserted offices, and

frantic kisses, whenever Roux wanted him. Always standing,

leaning, or kneeling, and always in uniform, with their trousers

open, flies pushed apart and briefs down, but never the touch

of skin nor the heat of muscles and flesh.

Too dangerous.

Roux called all the shots, and Joe jumped at the man’s

request. He was addicted, but the need only grew worse every

time it was sated.

  

After Joe’s section completed their time in Mayotte, they

went back to Nîmes, then a four-months tour of duty in

Lebanon. France once more, and then finally Kosovo, as part of

the French NATO contingency.

They found hardly any opportunity to meet in the NATO

camp, which had proper accommodation and offices, and a

well-equipped gym. Despite plenty of British soldiers to talk to,

Joe was rapidly going insane. Doing his duty every day

alongside his sergent, and smelling his fresh sweat when they

worked out in the gym, but without being able to touch, made it

nearly impossible to hold onto the poker face.

Finally, over two months into the tour, Roux had somehow

secured the key to an empty office. Their mating was tinged

with desperation and Joe lost control the moment he had his

142 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

hands on uniform cloth, warmed from Roux’s skin. He buried

his face in the sergent’s neck to muffle his groans when Roux

stroked their combined cocks. This time, Joe forcefully pushed

him away and went to his knees. It wasn’t about keeping stains

off their uniforms, it was about wanting to taste Roux’s lust.

Eyes closed, Joe concentrated on the hard cock between his

lips, while viciously stroking himself. Nothing passive about

him, as he forced the cock deeper than ever. His reward was

sounds he’d never heard from the sergent before.

He got what he craved for; Roux came, fingers scrabbling at

Joe’s head, hips thrusting out of control, but Joe took it, wanted

it, allowed the cum to run down his throat, while coming

himself.

He was still panting, still coming back down, when Roux

pulled him up and into a kiss. Neither of them said anything

until they put themselves away and brushed down their

uniforms. Like they’d done for a year.

“You are a good soldier, Evans. You can go far. As long as

you learn to hide.” Roux watched Joe wipe the cum stain off

the floor.

“I was desperate, Sergent.”

“I noticed.”

“How do you do it, Sergent?” Joe tried to read anything in

Roux’s shuttered face, but to no avail.

“I have an apartment in Paris,” Roux answered

unexpectedly. “Le Marais. No one cares who or what I am.”

Joe nodded. Le Marais, the gay district of Paris. He couldn’t

imagine the sergent there, couldn’t even picture him in civilian

clothes. Watching him stand there, he remembered how he

hadn’t wanted to be who he was, how he’d fought against being

gay, and he wondered when he’d stopped fighting.

Roux broke the silence. “Have you got plans for your

summer holiday, Evans?”

“No, Sergent.” One precious week, and he’d probably just

get smashed somewhere close to the camp in Nîmes. It

sounded like a good idea.

“I want you to visit me in Paris.”

I DO! 143

Joe stared at Roux, shocked. “You do?”

“Would I tell you if I didn’t?”

“No, Sergent!”

One brow slightly raised with the usual infuriating mockery,

Roux gave Joe an address. “Can you remember that?”

“Yes, Sergent!” He’d memorised it already.

“I expect you to be there on the Monday of leave, for two

days.”

“Yes, Sergent!”

Joe broke into a grin when he left the office, to get back to

his bunk before lights-out.

  

Sergent Roux’s apartment was small, a kitchenette cum

living area, bedroom and tiny bathroom, up on the fifth floor of

one of the old granite buildings.

Roux had let him in without a word, and Joe put his

backpack down in a corner, looking around. Wondering where

on earth he was meant to sleep, since he could only see a bed,

no couch. Time would tell, he’d learned never to presume

anything.

When he turned back round, he found Roux standing in the

doorframe, cigarette in one hand, coffee bowl in the other,

holding it out to him. The sergent seemed to be a different man

in civilian clothes, if it weren’t for the shaved head, and the face

and eyes, as striking as ever.

“Thank you, Sergent.”

He was grateful for the hot, milky coffee, and at the same

time feeling oddly displaced by being given something instead of being told to fetch it, make it, do it.

“Don’t call me Sergent out there. No ranks.”

“What should I call you, Sergent?”

Roux huffed tonelessly at the address. “Roux. That will do.”

Joe nodded and took a sip from his coffee. They stood like

that for several minutes, until Roux stubbed out his cigarette

and Joe had finished most of his coffee. Roux took the bowl

out of Joe’s hand and placed it onto the breakfast bar.

144 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

Joe stood still, hardly daring to breathe, while Roux started

to undress him. His gaze dropped to the sergent’s hands as they

opened his belt buckle. Efficient movements, swiftly undoing

the whole row of metal buttons on his denims. When those

hands moved to his shirt, Joe looked up and into grey eyes that

were studying his face. Wordlessly staring at each other, while

Roux opened Joe’s shirt. The rustling of fabric the only sound

in the room, when it was slipped off Joe’s shoulders. No word,

when Roux swiftly pulled his own shirt over his head and

discarded it on the floor.

Joe looked at the body before him, had seen the bare chest

countless times during training, those sharp, chiselled lines and

the smooth skin with its two lines of irregular scars around the

shoulder, but the context was different, and the body was new,

exciting, as if he’d never seen it before.

Roux’s hand slid to the small of Joe’s back, and the contact

made Joe draw in a sharp breath, which quickened rapidly when

the other hand pushed the denims and briefs down his hips.

Joe’s cock hardened just watching Roux open his own trousers,

pulling them down, naked beneath. His pulse hammered in his

throat, from nought to overdrive, when Roux stepped closer.

Cocks trapped between their bodies, skin on skin, unlike ever

before.

Joe let out a strangled sound and let go, falling into the

craved-for sensation. He finally understood what he was and

what he wanted: another man’s body.

  

Hours later, after they were finally sated, Roux told Joe to

have a shower and get dressed. He wanted to take him to the

annual Bal de Pompiers, and when Joe asked why the fire-fighters of Paris had festivities and what it entailed, Roux shrugged and

lit a cigarette, telling him he would have to find out for himself.

The quartier le Marais was unlike anything Joe had ever seen

before. People of all creeds and colours milled around, scantily

dressed in the summer night, with music and dancing

everywhere. He stumbled along at first, wide-eyed, until Roux

placed a hand on his shoulder, cocked a brow with an amused

grin and told him to stop looking like a tourist and to enjoy

I DO! 145

himself. No one would care about anything, and to make a

point, he shocked Joe to the core when he pulled him close and

into a sudden kiss. That was the moment when Joe finally ‘‘got

it’’: right now they were just two men amongst many.

The Bal de Pompiers attracted everyone. Women, men,

crowds gathering in cafes and bars, and in the midst of them all,

Paris’ fire-fighters, stripping off and dancing. Some were down

to the nude, showing off bodies that were smooth, hard,

sculpted for speed and endurance. Just like a legionnaire. The

same short or shaved hair, and the same overabundance of

testosterone and adrenaline.

Roux took Joe to a club where a handful of fire-fighters

were stripping on a couple of tables in the middle of the crowd.

Pushing through, Joe followed the sergent, never taking his eyes

off the almost naked bodies.

Roux indicated that he’d be at the bar to get more drinks,

and Joe nodded, felt the rhythm of the dance music pound in

his ears, brain, body, and finally his guts.

One of the fire-fighters grinned down at him and shouted

something he couldn’t hear above the noise, but when the man

pointed at Joe’s shirt, he got the message. Why not? No one

was there to teach him the rules, because there weren’t any.

Freedom, an intoxicating idea. He took his shirt off, let the

other man take his hand, and pull him up and onto the table.

Joe looked for Roux, caught a glimpse of his sergent who

was standing at the bar, watching him with a drink in his hand.

But then he felt hands on hips, and he turned his attention back

to the man who was grinding against him while laughing and

dancing. When the music cranked up, he was pulled closer.

Hands grabbed hold of his buttocks, leaving no room for

misinterpretation. Joe turned his head once more, saw Roux still

looking at him. The sergent gave a small nod and turned. Gone

the next moment, swallowed by the heaving crowd.

Permission granted.

  

3 A.M., and Joe kept pushing the button impatiently, before

the buzzer sounded and the lock was released. Taking two steps

at a time, the door to the apartment opened the moment he

146 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

reached the top floor. The man in the doorframe was naked,

had clearly been asleep.

Joe was breathing hard as he stood in front of Roux, who

studied and silently challenged him. Why was he back already?

Why indeed.

The answer didn’t need any words. He knew what he

wanted; the freedom had helped him come to his own

conclusion.

Joe didn’t know or care if he still tasted of the other man,

because Roux’s scent and taste overpowered everything else.

Pushing forward, they stumbled towards the bed. He somehow

got his shirt off, trousers down and shoes off, he’d left the

socks and briefs in another apartment. Falling backwards onto

the bed, he pulled Roux with him.

“Encule-moi.” Screw me. Fuck me. Do it. Crude and

straightforward, and only French would do.

Roux studied him, as if measuring and judging, until grey

eyes flashed, taking on a sudden heat.

“Oui.” Request granted.

The condoms and lube were in the bedside table, but Joe

didn’t give a damn what that meant. All he wanted was to find

out why and how his conquest had enjoyed himself so much. If

a fire-fighter liked getting fucked, then a legionnaire wouldn’t

lose face if he offered his arse.

Legs up on Roux’s shoulders, Joe was open, vulnerable and

bared, but he liked being able to see what his request did to the

sergent. He read the lust in the sharp-angled face, and

deciphered the need, despite the time Roux took with condom

and lube.

“I’m not a virgin.” Joe murmured hoarsely.

“Yes, you are.” Roux bent down and over Joe, positioning

himself, “And no, you’re not...” he straightened back up, his

hand on Joe’s flank.

The discomfort was of no importance. Plenty of training

and exercise had hurt a hell of a lot more, and Roux’s

consideration allowed Joe to accommodate the cock that

entered him. Looking up at the face, the lust, every shade in

those eyes that were everything but cold and impassive right

I DO! 147

now. Each expression, smile, breathless parting of lips and Joe

drank it all in, soaked up the feelings that played across the

sergent’s face, until the ache changed into a new sensation of

being stretched, filled, taken and wanted.

Wanted.

Roux. The moment his lips formed the name he rarely

spoke, Joe arched up and pulled him closer, forcing the sergent

to push deeper and enter him fully. Roux’s groan sliced through

Joe’s mind, right down to his cock and balls. Stroking himself,

Joe breathlessly demanded once more, “Encule-moi!”

For the first time ever, a sergent obeyed a legionnaire’s order

and Roux let go, fulfilling with smooth, powerful strokes the

command of Joe’s lust.

  

The next day, Joe woke from the sensation of warmth on his

face. A touch, stroking, something tender and gentle. He

smiled, still half asleep, but the touch was gone when he turned

his head. There was no hand when he opened his eyes and

blinked sleepily into the sun that streamed through the open

window. He must have imagined things.

Roux sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him. Lighting a

cigarette, he asked after the first exhale of smoke, “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” Joe smiled and stretched, aching in a thousand

places and all of them good. He moved into a long, slow,

stretch that went all the way from his fingertips to his toes, and

when he finished, he was still being watched. As usual, he

couldn’t decipher the look. “Do you want me to make it?”

“No.” Roux got up, cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

It was strange to just lie there and wait, letting the sun shine

onto his face and chest. Even though corvee was getting less

frequent, he still had to jump at any request, and he was still the

youngest. He enjoyed every minute of this rare luxury. When

Roux returned with a couple of coffee bowls, Joe smiled his

thanks.

Roux sat back down on the edge of the bed and lit a second

Gauloise. “Do you want to stay longer?”

“Sergent?”

148 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

“You still understand English, don’t you?”

Bastard. “Yes, Sergent.” Best to sip his coffee, to hide his

anger at getting told off again. Way to spoil his good mood after

the best night of his life.

“Do you want to stay for the remainder of the week?” Roux

pronounced each word with exaggerated care, looking with mild

mockery at Joe, who couldn’t quite believe he’d really got that

lucky.

“Yes, Sergent!”

The mocking was gone, and Roux smiled briefly. The best

way to crank Joe’s mood right back up to ‘‘brilliant.’’

  

Joe never questioned that he slept in the same bed,

sometimes waking up with an arm around him, or a body close,

holding him. He relished every moment, each touch, every kiss

and the intimacy of skin on skin. He took his fill, and Roux

allowed him to. They didn’t talk much, but Joe felt increasingly

comfortable around the other man, and when Roux took him to

Fnac, to spend some of his wages on music, he found himself

pointing at films and laughing out loud at a dry remark.

Mesmerised by the way the sergent’s eyes warmed and darkened

when he smiled.

At the end of the week, Joe stood in front of the door,

backpack beside him, ready to leave. “Sergent?”

“Another question you’ll never ask and apologise for?” The

mask wasn’t back on Roux’ face yet and Joe managed to

decipher the spark of amusement, not mockery. “You’re

wasting my time, Evans.”

“No, Sergent!”

“No?” The amused gleam was still there, a thousand times

better than the ice cold, impassive gaze.

“When can I see you again?” There. He’d done it. Had only

taken him a year to ask that question.

“In Djibouti. With 13e Démi-Brigade. I’m your sergent,

remember?”

“That’s not what I meant, Sergent.” In for a penny, in for a

pound.

I DO! 149

“What do you mean?” Roux stepped closer, and Joe was

suddenly assaulted by the scent, reminding him of his addiction.

“You have to learn to ask the right questions, or you won’t get

the right answers.” Roux’s lips twitched with suppressed

laughter, and Joe wasn’t sure if he should feel anger or desire.

The man was infuriating, especially when he was right.

Joe took in a sharp breath. “Do you want to have sex with

me again?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you know when you will have sex with me again?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Will you …” Joe didn’t manage to finish his question nor

the dozen or so afterwards. Cut short by Roux.

“See? You can do it. Direct questions. Direct answers.”

That simple. If it really were that simple, then...

“Can I fuck you before I leave?” Joe suddenly broke into a

broad grin, not knowing what in the devil’s name had come

over him.

For the first time ever Joe saw his sergent taken aback, and

he felt ridiculously pleased with himself. The cool superiority

cracked and the grey eyes flashed. For a short moment the roles

reversed, until Roux pulled himself back together, and the

detached expression returned.

“No.”

“Worth a try.” Joe shrugged.

“You’re learning.”

“Au revoir, Sergent.” Joe had a hard time suppressing a grin

when he saluted, picked up his bag and turned to leave. He was

certain he could feel the other’s eyes on him long after he had

left the apartment.

  

Once they’d returned to the legion, things were back to what

they had always been. Joe wanted, needed, lusted and craved,

but he was once more reduced to being like a dog who waited

for a scrap of meat, jumping at every chance.

It was all he got, and it was driving him insane.

150 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

“Evans.”

Joe turned and saluted. “Sergent!”

“Twenty-one hundred hours. The storeroom.” English.

Their language. Whatever ‘‘their’’ was.

Joe was suddenly filled with anger, along with the immediate

lust. Another scrap that was being offered, and he knew he was

expected to ask ‘how high’ when told to jump. He’d do

anything to get his hands on that man, but the resentment

exploded in his guts and spread like wildfire.

“No, Sergent. I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?” Roux’ brows shot up, and the

arrogant look of disbelief turned Joe’s anger into a sea of lava.

“You treat me like a whore.”

“You have no idea how I treat my whores.”

“No, Sergent, I don’t. But I’m not at your beck and call

outside my duties as legionnaire.”

Roux’s reaction was not at all what Joe expected.

“Good.” The sergent nodded slightly and smiled.

“Sergent?” Joe was flummoxed.

“Would you like to meet me at twenty-one hundred hours in

the store room?”

Not sure if he’d heard the request right, Joe stared at his

superior, before he finally caught on.

“Yes, Sergent!”

Roux nodded once more. “Later, Evans.”

Joe left in complete bewilderment, trying to make sense of

what he’d just been told.

  

Over the next two years things remained the same - and yet

they changed entirely. Operational tours alternated with stints in

Nîmes, training exercises and overseas tournants. The section remained together throughout, headed by Sergent Roux, and

thus their pattern and quantity of lust continued, while its

quality changed.

Eventually, after a tour in Iraq in the second year, Roux

asked Joe if he had planned anything for his three weeks of

I DO! 151

leave, and if not, he could stay with him in Paris. He never said

it in so many words, but in his infuriating manner of questions

and answers. Still, by then Joe knew him well and played the

game with ease.

Those three weeks marked a familiarity that had become a

second skin, and while Joe finally accepted that he was

irrevocably in love with the man, he never knew what, or indeed

if Roux felt anything. Despite closeness, mundane tasks that

couples would do, and spending their days and nights together,

the moment leave was over, the freedom and intimacy were

gone, once more replaced with structure and discipline.

Homosexuality in the French Foreign Legion was forbidden.

That was that, and France would not budge. Joe had always

known what he’d got himself into when he’d signed the five-

year contract. He’d lied, and now he was paying the price.

Outside of Paris and away from a small apartment, he had to

pretend to be what he wasn’t.

The sergent gave him the keys to the apartment, and a few

months later Joe used the place, but it was not the same. He

found one-night stands, but sex with those men only made him

realise that he wanted someone else instead. Roux. Always

Roux.

When he eventually asked, in his third year, “Est-ce que je peux

vous baiser, Sergent?” Can I fuck you...in French this time, with a mischievous grin and in the politest way he could manage, Roux

huffed a laugh, told him he was finally asking the right

questions - and got onto all fours.

  

In his fourth year in the legion, Joe’s section was sent as the

French contingency to support ISAF. Afghanistan turned out to

be worse than any other tour of duty before. No opportunity

for intimacy, no empty offices or hidden stores. No safe places,

no chance to touch, and none to connect. The only contact

outside of the professional one was an occasional kiss, shared

for a few seconds in some deserted corner, before they had to

tear apart once more.

Afghanistan proved more dangerous than any of the other

operational theatres, and the international security force was

152 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

more often than not engaged in direct action. The land of

mountains and dust cost them more than they’d ever expected,

not just the inability of two men to share lust.

Six weeks into the tour, they drove through the moon-like

landscape in a convoy of light armoured vehicles. Joe was the

driver of the first vehicle, with the lieutenant beside him, and

Sergent Roux sat in the passenger seat of the second one, with

five more VBLs behind them.

All of the legionnaires had their weapons at the ready,

constantly scanning the area, but nothing prepared them for the

sudden explosion that tore into the convoy. The first vehicle

was ripped open like a tin can, a gaping hole where the

lieutenant had been. Instant hell, an inferno of glass, metal, dust

and debris.

“Arrête!” Roux yelled against the noise, and his driver

slammed the brakes, when a body was catapulted from the

driver’s seat of the vehicle in front. Crashing onto the road

amidst rocks and bursting metal, fire and deafening sound.

Despite the inferno, Roux recognised the man immediately.

Soldiers came out of the VBLs, throwing themselves behind

cover when bullets ripped through the air. Insurgents attacked

the convoy, while one man lay defenceless and bleeding in the

middle of the road.

“Evans!” Roux shouted. He kicked the door of his vehicle

open and jumped onto the road, straight into the line of bullets.

He sprinted across without cover, ducking as he ran, while

firing at the enemy. Dust everywhere, mixing with the screams

of the wounded, the staccato of the firing on both sides, and

the voices of the soldiers, coordinating their defence.

Roux reached the man on the ground, grabbed hold of Joe’s

webbing, and dragged him out of the firing line and into safety

behind the vehicles, where he shouted for a medic.

  

Joe couldn’t hear anything, deafened by the blast, couldn’t

see, couldn’t feel anything but pain and fear and ever more pain.

Hardly able to breathe, he tried to scream, to move, but the

pain had paralysed him.

I DO! 153

Alone. Darkness. Fear. But then a touch, someone wiped

over his eyes, cleared the blood away, and he was no longer

alone. If he had to die, he wouldn’t die deserted, because of the

face above him. Familiar, needed, and wanted. The same face

that would always be there.

Grey eyes looked down at him, the only colour in a face

smeared with grime and blood. Joe tried to say something, but

the dust was suffocating him and the pain was too great. He

reached out, and his hand was captured by strong fingers that

closed around his own, anchoring him.

Sergent Roux’s eyes were the last thing he saw, and the firm

grip of his hand the last sensation he felt, before he slipped

away when the medic began his work.

  

Joe couldn’t remember much of the flight, nor of arriving at

the hospital in Marseilles, and nothing of the surgery. Drugged

and floating, he lost track of time in the ICU, until he surfaced

from the drug-filled daze. He woke up in a ward, alone, with all

of the other beds empty. The drip had gone, but the pain in his

leg and down his side remained subdued.

He was exhausted, didn’t know how many days had passed,

didn’t see anyone but the nurses and the doctors. Nothing to

break the routine but checks of his vitals, bandage changes, and

ever more checks again. He slept a lot, couldn’t concentrate on

anything yet and didn’t have the energy to think much. Sleeping

and healing, while being taken care of. He’d shed blood for

France, one of the doctors said to him at one stage, while

changing the drainage, he’d be ‘Français par le sang versé’, French by spilled blood. Joe only nodded. He hadn’t applied for

citizenship after his three years, and he didn’t know if he was

going to. All he wanted right now was to sleep and not to think.

It was during one of his many daytime slumbers, when he

was woken by a touch on his face, similar to those he’d

imagined a few times, back in Paris. This time the touch

continued, and its tenderness slowly dragged him back to the

surface.

He felt fingertips, rough and calloused, but warm and

infinitely gentle. When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t believe

154 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

what he saw: Sergent Roux, in his Tenue de Sortie, the grey suit, white shirt, and green tie. Black kepi on the bedside table.

Roux; smiling at him, touching him, stroking his face. Not

the cool, dismissive gaze, but a smile full of emotions, which

gave those eyes their rare warmth.

Joe didn’t do anything but look for a long time, making sure

the sergent really was there and not just a figment of his

imagination. Roux. At his side. No one but Roux. He cleared

his throat eventually, and even to his own ears, his voice

sounded raw.

“How did you get here?”

“By plane,” Roux deadpanned, causing Joe to close his eyes

with exasperation. He was too tired to play that old game, and

in too much discomfort. Roux took mercy on him and

explained. “I dislocated my knee a few days after the ambush.

I’m on R&R.”

Joe opened his eyes and he couldn’t help feel thankful for

Roux’s almost normal human behaviour. Perhaps getting blown

up had its - minor - advantages.

“Thank you for coming.” Joe murmured. He stuck to

English, even though it didn’t feel right anymore. But thankful

he was. Deeply and truly, because he had no one else, and

because he didn’t want anyone else. When it came down to it,

there had only ever been Henri Roux, his Sergent.

“Nowhere I’d rather be.” Roux said nothing else for a long

while, and Joe was perfectly content to simply keep looking.

Convinced he wouldn’t get bored even if he did that for several

more days and nights.

“I need you to tell me something, Evans.” Roux finally said.

“I need you to tell me exactly what you want.”

Joe blinked, and for once he went for what he wanted the

question to mean. Maybe his brush with death had worn away

his worry of not being good enough, old enough, tough

enough, and a hundred other “not enoughs” on top of that.

“What I can’t have.”

“You’ve still not learned how to answer my questions?”

I DO! 155

Joe studied Roux’s face, but he was too tired to figure out if

the man was taking the piss or not.

“I need you to tell me what you want.” Roux leaned forward

a little, taking Joe’s hand into his own. “No more, no less, no

second guessing.”

Joe wanted to word a proper answer, find some eloquent

words, something to get out of this trap, but he didn’t have the

strength, and it all came down to one simple thing anyway.

“You.”

Roux smiled. The smile lit up those pale eyes, and it took all

the aloofness away, the sarcasm, and the judging mockery.

“Good.”

That was it? What the hell did it mean? Joe was confused,

but then he felt his hand in the Roux’s, the comforting warmth

and reassuring strength, and somehow the words came out

before he could stop them. Once again, only French felt right.

“Je suis amoureux de toi depuis longtemps.” Yes. I have been in love with you for a long time, and I am not going to lie about it

anymore.

“I know.” Roux said softly, in a voice he’d only rarely used

before, “I have known and felt the same for a long time.”

“Why didn’t you...”

Roux smiled again and leaned even closer. “Because you

were young, and because you never learned to have a poker

face. So I had to have it for you.”

“But...”

“No ‘but.’ Except for: but comrades in arms should never

be lovers. I would have risked my life in inappropriate ways,

and I would have risked the lives of a hundred men, if I had to.

Just to save you.”

Joe let those words sink in, gradually understanding the true

extent of their meaning. He moistened his lips. “What is

different now?”

Roux studied him for a while. “Will you sign another

contract? You would go far in the legion, you are a good

soldier.”

156 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE

“No.” Joe knew at last that there was only one place where

he could be who he was: outside. “I got what I wanted out of

the legion.”

“To be a man?”

“Yes.” Joe smiled, a big mistake, because the stitches pulled

in his face, “and a fag, but I don’t care anymore what anyone

says.”

“You’re growing up, Evans.”

“Perhaps...but I also know that there is something far more

important, and the legion can’t give that to me, on the

contrary.”

“Which is?”

Joe was convinced Roux knew damn well what that was, but

he said it anyway. Perhaps that was what Roux had wanted him

to do all along, to say things out loud. Simple truths, which the

secrecy had made so big, they had become suffocating.

“I’m gay, that’s not going to change, and I’m not willing to

live a lie any longer than I have to.”

Roux looked at him for a long time. “Remember what you

told me in that jungle? You wanted to prove that you are

someone.” He reached for Joe’s temple and gave it a gentle

flick. “You are, Joe. You really are.” He’d never used the first

name before, the one Joe had been given by the legion and

which he’d kept. “I have to decide if I sign on for another term.

If I don’t, I am out in half a year.” Roux took in a deep breath,

denoting a change in pace, thought, and a shift of life. “I want

out, and I want you to live with me.”

Joe stared, wide-eyed, unsure if he was shocked or

overwhelmed, or both. All he brought out was, “Is that an

order, Sergent?”

Roux huffed a soft laugh. “Do you want it to be?”

“What else could it be?” Joe suddenly found his footing and

at long last everything made sense. More than ever before in his

life. He smiled again, and this time it was easy to ignore the pain

in his face. “It’s not that you can ask me to marry you.”

“Not in France, no, but you still have your British passport

and I still have my Canadian one.”

I DO! 157

“What do you mean?” Joe looked up, puzzled. As always,

Roux had caught him unawares when he least expected it.

“That...” Roux smiled and leaned down, so close, his lips

touched Joe’s ear when he murmured, “you will have to figure

out for yourself.”

Tango and Temptation

ZA MAXFIELD

My career in deception started out as a way to get through

school. I began life in a bassinet in the corner of a dance studio

while my mother and her brothers, the famed Aimar Tango

Masters, sashayed their way into competitive ballroom dancing infamy.

So I came by my dancing persona honestly, copying the

mannerisms of my uncles; that is to say, how they behaved

when they taught dance and when they danced competitively.

Everyone in the family knew that around the house they were

simple men, guys in jeans and T-shirts who drank beer from the

bottle and watched soccer on television. But at the studio, and

more importantly while dancing in their many competitions

they became entirely different men, impossible divas, raving

lotharios, men for whom it was nothing to begin a terrible row

over a careless remark or a misplaced sewing kit.

It’s important to note that their dance partners adore them.

The women who grace the arms of my uncles in the fierce

battle for ballroom supremacy are their wives, and on Sunday

afternoons when they’re not on tour, or competing, they all

come over to my grandmother’s house for a vast meal, cooked

outdoors most of the year, like a large choreographed meat

ballet.

My mother fills the role of Wendy in this collection of boys

who never grew up. She regularly sews on their shadows, keeps

the studio open when they’re away, does their accounting and

advertising, and basically makes the whole thing work.

Naturally it fell to me to dance along in their footsteps

although I have eschewed the pressure to compete. Like my

mother, I practice that other discipline; staying in the

background, enjoying the view of the spectacularly plumed

birds while hiding in my own nondescript feathers against the

drab backdrop of academia. It was as a way to pay for my

degree in philosophy that first made me don the persona of the

Tango Master, teaching dance at odd hours in the studio. I sold myself as Gabriel Aimar, Tango Master, advertising in California Bridal Expos and wedding guides under the tag line, “First Dance

to Last a Lifetime.”

It wasn’t long before even the most sought-after wedding

planners started to bring me their clients for instruction and

162 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD

edification in the finer points of ballroom dance. All right, I

don’t have an Argentinean accent, I’m rarely seen anywhere

besides the dance floor in the tight black pants and poet shirt,

and I really, really don’t normally act like a raging lunatic.

But when Alexander Farmington and his fiancée, Alyssa, she

of the-dog-in-a-purse, came in with Sophie Edmunton, their

harried wedding planner—my friend and co-conspirator— one

look at Sophie’s face was enough to tell me the entire story.

Alyssa is what we in the wedding biz refer to as a Bridezilla-In-

Training. The wedding being graduation day, the day on which

Alyssa would blossom into the truly terrible to behold Full-

Mental Bridezilla, was only weeks away, and already cracks were

showing in her thin veneer of civility.

We all waited while she made several phone calls, pacing and

raving as she tapped her Bluetooth and lit a cigarette.

“I’m so sorry, Querida, but this is a no smoking zone,” I

told her, using my most effective purr next to her ear. She

stared at me as if I hadn’t spoken English. Farmington drew

her away and out the door.

“What the fuck have you brought me this time?” I asked

Sophie in my normal voice.

“Shh,” Sophie hissed as Farmington came back in.

I should make it clear that Alexander Farmington, Xander to

his friends, would take anyone’s breath away. He’s a perfect

storm of youth, vitality, money and good looks; he exudes the

same kind of charisma that makes you sigh over pictures of the

young Kennedy brothers. He had a cheeky grin and hair that

flopped insolently into his eyes just when you wanted to see

their astounding color, an arresting shade between blue and

green that was at once either, neither, and both.

Xander Farmington was not extraordinary; he went far

beyond that, and something about him, something about his

easy grace and masculinity compelled me to put my act in

hyperdrive, over the top and back again, just to piss him off.

It was an auspicious beginning.

I tossed my own hair. “The young Alyssa teases us with her

temper, does she not?” I asked. His eyes went wide with what I

like to think was polite reluctance to laugh in my face. “She I DO! 163

hisses like the kitten. Yet, we will make her purr in your arms

on the dance floor.” Dear heavens, the way he reacted to this.

My life was, in that moment, complete.

“Yes, er…” he hedged. “Well. She’s nervous.”

“I see.” I said. I let the series of things I wanted to say,

things about brides, about wedding nights, about love, and sex,

and death go… I wanted to reel this one in slowly.

“Have you decided on a type of dance? Perhaps the

‘Sleeping Beauty Waltz’ to mark the occasion when your first

kiss as man and wife awakens your lovely señorita and your first

night together brings her to married womanhood? Hmmmm?”

Xander might have said something after he got over his

shock but the lovely señorita in question exploded back through

the front door of the studio at that precise moment.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, can’t anybody get anything right?

Robin’s Egg Fucking Blue,” she shouted into the phone. “Not

turquoise. Robin’s Egg Blue. If you’re having trouble I suggest

you check the color swatches, Mother. Right. Love you too.”

It was only the intense training I’d had in dance and the fact

that I ground the heel of one of my feet over the toes of the

other that kept me from laughing with joy. We had six weeks

of lessons, two per week, at two hundred dollars an hour. The

night was young and so was I.

  

When Xander came in for the second week’s lesson, looking

at his watch and making excuses for his fiancée, I was

concerned. I continued my ruse, acting the part of the Latino

dance master, like a guest star from an episode of “I Love

Lucy.” But sadly, I had begun to like Xander Farmington, and

on those rare occasions when I had to go over a dance step

with him up close and personal, I discovered that he just might

like me too.

It was not the first time one of my groom-to-be clients

reacted to my close proximity in an unexpected way. Most were

horrified, and jumped away, for all intents and purposes ending

the lesson, keeping six or seven feet of air between our bodies

from that point on. Yet Alexander Farmington, damn him,

164 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD

dared to smile at me, a knowing, worldly little smile that did

nothing to put out the spark that jumped between us. His eyes

promised to fan it to a conflagration and it was I who backed

away.

“Our princess keeps us waiting again.” I smiled my “waiting-

for-princesses” smile and shrugged my “what-can-you-do-with-

women” shoulders. “Beautiful women are not to be rushed.”

“You find Alyssa beautiful?” he asked, although I think he

only said it because he knew that I did not.

“Certainly she is beautiful,” I told him, ignoring the twinge I

felt at the lie. “All brides are beautiful. It is their fairy story, is it not?”

He frowned at that; did I imagine the fleeting flicker of pain

in his eyes? “It’s a fairy story all right.”

I took my time responding. “The wedding, yes. It’s a

woman’s fairy tale for a day. But marriage is very real. One

mustn’t be so caught up in the one that one forgets the other.”

“Ah, marriage.” He gazed at me. I could not mistake the

challenge. “Of course, you’re an expert on the subject of

women and marriage.”

“I? No.” I told him honestly. “I have never had the

privilege.” I did that thing you do, the little bow, with my hand

on my heart to show humility. “I have never been moved by a

passion as great as yours for the fair Alyssa.”

“I don’t need to defend myself to you,” he said quietly.

“I meant nothing by—”

“Of course you did,” he said. It was then that I realized he’d

been handling me just as I had been handling him. “Anyone

can see she’s got all the charm of a Viking berserker. You’d be

preaching to the choir. I can honestly say that this whole

wedding thing has proved to be a fairy story for us both, but it’s

more like Hansel and Gretel. In this case our parents got

together to lead us into the woods, and they’ve left a trail of

incentives, if we go through with this charade, that have turned

out to be far more than either of us can resist.”

“You marry her for money?”

I DO! 165

“And status, and peace, and to merge two rather large

competing businesses into one all-powerful entity.”

“I see.”

“What do you see, Tango Master Gabriel?” he taunted. “Do

you see that the most genuinely authentic thing about the

marriage between Alyssa and me will be the wedding itself?

Sort of like a grand opening ceremony at a car dealership or a

ribbon cutting at the mall?”

“How truly sad.”

“Why?” He put his chin up a little.

“That is not what I believe marriage should be, Xander

Farmington,” I told him. “Marriage is for choosing a

companion to enhance your life. One whose joy makes you

radiate your own.” I admit that at the time I was thinking of

my uncles and their beautiful dancing wives. About the

fighting, the making up, and the children who ran around the

dance studio between the feet of their talented parents.

“I see, you’re an old-fashioned sort of tango master who

speaks in support of traditional marriage, even though your dick

gets hard every time you brush against me.”

“I beg your pardon,” I snapped.

“I would hardly call you,” he advanced on me, his very

proximity making my heart slam against my chest, “any sort of

an expert on traditional—”

“Oh, my fucking G—”

“What!” both Xander and I started guiltily.

“I can’t believe my hairdresser had her baby two months

early!” She was frantically scrolling through the address book on

her iPhone. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Is she all right?” Xander asked. I had to give him credit for

that. “Is the baby? Are you out of your mind? Who cares about your hair?”

She sighed, and for the first time I saw that they might be

friends. “Oh, shit.”

Xander took her phone away. “You’re getting completely

out of control, Lyssa.”

166 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD

“I am? I am! Oh my fucking gosh I’m a monster!” He took

her into his arms and she melted. It was completely at odds

with what he said about the mercenary beginnings of their life

together. I saw that they cared for each other. I saw they could

soothe each other. I saw it could work.

I hated her.

“Well, if we aren’t too distraught to work, today.” I looked

at the clock. Fifteen minutes of their hour was already gone.

“Fine,” Xander was curt. “You’re the maestro. Lyssa, let’s

find a nice place for your friend.” He took her voluminous

purse, and set it down on the side of the dance floor. The dog

rarely ventured a nose out while we danced; it didn’t seem as

curious as it was exhausted by being dragged around by its

owner.

Alyssa ventured a smile. “We practiced over the weekend.”

“Excellent,” I said absently as I went to the sound system

and cued up their music. “Shall you begin by showing me what

you’ve practiced then?”

I prepared myself to hate it. Xander Farmington had the

gift of natural grace, but used it like an athlete. He played

soccer, I knew, which required speed and fancy footwork, but

on the dance floor he lacked the required desire to be the center

of attention. He had pride, but it manifested itself in other

ways. Alyssa, on the other hand, adored the spotlight, and

swung and whipped and swirled around him like a bullfighter’s

cape. She could certainly sell the dance all by herself, yet I felt

something driving me that day; something that compelled me to

sit on Xander a little for his lack of spirit.

“Mr. Farmington. Is this or is this not the woman you

love?”

His mouth dropped open a little and his eyes narrowed.

“Of course,” he replied.

“Then I suggest you begin by making it appear that you

want her, Mr. Farmington.” I motioned with my hands. “Take

her in your arms, she will not break. Look at her with longing.

You will be the envy of every man in the room, make them feel

your desire.”

I DO! 167

He broke off his dance abruptly. “Perhaps you should show

me exactly how that’s done.”

“Of course,” I said, turning to Alyssa, fully prepared to play

the Don Juan. Xander stepped in the way as I went to take her

into my arms.

“I’ll get a better picture of the whole thing if you show me

like this.” He gripped me in his strong arms, but then changed

hands when he remembered I was supposed to teach him how

to lead. “Sorry, you be the man. ” He assumed the position.

“Go ahead.”

“Fine,” I murmured, pulling him close, even as I watched

his eyes go wary. “You, Mr. Farmington, are the spark,” I

executed the same steps I’d taught him. “The woman, she is the flame.”

I don’t know where I come up with this stuff. It’s a cinch I

heard one of my uncles say it to a client or to tease his wife.

That I managed it with a straight face was glorious, as was

Farmington’s face when I dipped him.

“To dance, Mr. Farmington, is to make love in public. It is

to allow all those present to share in the desire you feel for your

partner. You must always be aware of her. You must gaze into

her eyes and tell her without words what you feel for her.”

Suddenly, as I brushed against him, his swelling cock told me

something, no words required. The faintest hint of crimson

stole over those tanned cheeks and his lashes lowered. I

wondered if I dared let him go. My answering erection would

be apparent in the tight pants I wore. His eyes rose back to

mine just as his heel came down on my instep, crushing my

foot. I gasped in pain and I doubled over involuntarily, striking

his nose hard with my forehead. When I looked up I saw that

he’d done it on purpose.

“Shit!” Xander said as he cupped his nose and backed away.

“I beg your pardon”

“I’m so sorry,” I told him, limping over to the music player.

“You and Alyssa continue on, and be glad she’s not the klutz I

appear to be today.

168 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD

“It was entirely my fault,” he said sincerely, meeting my eyes.

“I’m sorry, I appear to be less in control than usual.” I eyed him, but he took Alyssa into his arms and began to dance.

They hacked their way through the opening notes of the

tango for another half an hour or so, until Alyssa’s dog started

barking and her attention was claimed by that. Farmington’s

focus was entirely on me, and I felt it all through my body like

poison, that answering hum in my blood that told me to be

ready for anything.

“Alyssa,” Farmington said as he was showing her out. “I

need to talk to the maestro for a minute; you go on ahead, I’ll

see you later, all right?”

“Sure.” She kissed him. “Don’t forget, tonight we’re going

over Dad’s plans for the new building.”

“Got it.” He shooed her out the door.

I thought I should be preparing for a confrontation. Instead,

he went to the CD player and cued up the music. He came

back to me and pulled me to him.

“I’ll lead this time, shall I?”

I didn’t have a chance to reply as he cinched me to him, his

entire body pressed to mine like it was velcroed there. He knew

the moves and didn’t hold back one bit as he put me through

them, lighting little fires along my skin with every brush, with

every touch. I whirled and dipped at least as much as Alyssa

did, automatically giving in to whatever his body told me to do.

He pulled me close one last time and backed me into the wall.

For a moment I just hung there, waiting. He lifted one of my

legs by the thigh and ground into me, hips first, just to see the

surrender in my eyes.

“This is wrong,” I told him.

“Alyssa knows I’m gay. We’re not like that, she and I. We

make our own way.”

“That makes it worse, if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking you.” He moved in to kiss me then, running

his tongue over the seam of my lips, trying to coax them open.

“Not about that, anyway.”

I DO! 169

His big hands cupped my ass in those damned tight pants

and I made a mental note to wear baggy blue jeans next time.

Touching my ass through that thin fabric had to feel like

caressing my naked skin. Somehow my hands had slipped

under his shirt in back, pulling the fine fabric out of his trousers

and seeking the skin underneath. I found muscle, hot and

flexing, as he humped against my thigh.

“Say yes, say yes, Gabriel,” he implored against my mouth even as he shook out of his jacket. It hit the ground with a

thud behind us somewhere, and the next thing I knew his

fingers were undoing the buttons on my shirt.

“Are you out of your—”

“You want this as much as I do.” He was fumbling with the

fabric, slipping a hand in to brush against a nipple. It was a

moment or two before I realized his hands were only free

because I had my legs wrapped around him and my back was

braced against the wall.

“Stop!” I said, and to his credit he froze.

“Don’t tell me you don’t want me; I can feel the evidence.”

“I want you. Of course I want you. I just,” I searched for

the right words and I had to work to keep the accent in place.

“I simply want more than this.”

He put his hands on my hips then and supported me while I

put my legs back on the ground.

“I know that you enter into this marriage as though it were a

contract. You see it as something legal, to be negotiated. Yet I

see that you begin a lifetime of dishonesty.”

“Alyssa and I have no secrets from one another. I’m sure

she knew I intended to hook up here when she left. She gave

me one of those looks, like, don’t make a mess.”

“A mess.”

“I know how to keep thing separate. We could have

something. I know you feel it.”

“There’s nothing to feel here but flesh,” I said, taking his

hand and pulling him to the studio office. Okay, since when was

flesh a bad thing? Xander confused me.

170 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD

“I’m okay with flesh.” He grinned cheekily and came along

with a sigh.

Once inside the office I indicated the pictures on the wall,

hundreds of them, a shrine to my mother and father, my uncles,

their wives, and their kids.

“I am more than flesh, Xander Farmington. What you see

here is the history of my family. We fill our lives with love, with

laughter, with children. We do not grope in a dance studio

because we feel like it and then move on to the next partner.

We understand that partnership is a commitment. There is trust

to be built. Intimacy to be explored. Time spent sharing and

giving and taking. You know nothing of this.” In that moment

the accent, the persona, and I became seamless. I realized that

Tango Master Gabriel was far more than a role I played. “You

know nothing of love, Xander, and you will never learn as long

as dishonesty and subterfuge have any place in your life.”

“You’re gay, Gabriel. You can’t marry in this state. You

can’t have a family in the normal course of things. Society

won’t permit it. What will you tell your family? Will they just

welcome the idea of gay Gabriel?”

In that moment I felt sorry for him. I could see his doubt,

his pain, and his fear of his family’s rejection. “I am truly sorry, Xander,” I told him. “I understand your fear. My family knows

all about me. I know it can be different for others, and I’m

truly sorry if I made it sound—”

“It’s all right,” Xander said, turning. “I don’t expect you to

understand. If I were honest I’d lose everything. It doesn’t

matter who I marry. Only that I do. Alyssa knows and

understands. It’s a match made in…” He swallowed hard.

“What about your children? What about when they

wonder—”

Xander straightened his shoulders defensively. “We’re a

family of disinterested fathers.” He turned and left the office. I

followed and watched as he picked up his jacket. “I’m

convinced that—straight or gay—I can imbue my children with

the same sense of obligation to tradition. I come from a long

line of unhealthy role models.”

I DO! 171

“Straight or gay?” I mocked. “How nice for you to have that

choice.”

“Yes, well. As far as I know, even if they were to autopsy

my cold, dead body, they wouldn’t find the answer to that

question.”

“As if you need the answer.”

“Actually,” he turned to look me in the eye, “I don’t need

the answer. I don’t care about the answer. I care about

expedience. I care about what gets me from Point A to Point

B. My family wants the package tied up with a nice little bow.

Marriage, kids, church on Sunday. Who the fuck cares whether

it’s real as long as we all play nice and nobody gets hurt?”

“Another compelling case for ‘traditional family values.’ I

am sold. Where do I renounce my citizenship in the human

race? I too, want to live my life in the ‘who the fuck cares

whether it’s real’ way.” I’m sure my accent got even thicker. He

was smoldering with anger, but controlled it magnificently.

Damn him.

“I’ll just be leaving now,” he said, marching to the door.

“See you next time.”

Xander left without a backward glance. I’m sorry to say that

I hated to see him go. I liked him. More than liked him. I felt

bad for him, hated his dishonesty, worried for his future, but I

wanted him.

  

When I thought about it I knew I was as big a liar as Xander

Farmington. I might have been a little ashamed. Dishonesty

for filthy lucre was, after all, my middle name. I spent several

sleepless nights over this, rationalizing the fact that I lied to him every time he set foot in the dance studio. It might have all

been easier to take if he’d shown by one solitary word or glance

that he regretted the fact that we hadn’t, to use his words,

hooked up.

When he came back to the studio with the fair Alyssa draped

over his arm like a waiter’s towel, he simply ignored the spark

that I still felt leap between us. I no longer had to show either

one of them the dance steps. Except for the fact that they’d

172 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD

paid for the privilege and Alyssa clearly needed something to do

besides go nuclear over every little detail, they probably didn’t

have come at all. Which made me feel uncharacteristically

melancholy.

That was why I joined my uncles at Champs bar where they

were watching the Angels play the Toronto Blue Jays. I was

feeling blue and needed a beer and the company of my family to

remind me that things would go on as usual even if I’d lost my

heart, for a while, to a man who didn’t have any use for it. I

was drinking and reminding myself that at least I hadn’t lost my

head.

“I’m telling you, Gabriel, this is going to be the Angels’

year,” my uncle Miguel was telling me. He waved his beer

bottle around when he talked, a sure sign that it was his third.

Good thing the bar was in walking distance of my grandfather’s

house where all the wives were gathered, cooking.

“You say that every year.”

“I was right once,” he defended his loyalty. “It could

happen again.” We all watched as Kendrys Morales, a family

favorite, came to bat with two men on. My uncles had a

particular soft spot for the Cuban-born Morales, and we all

watched with interest as he took a fastball high and a little too

far inside.

“They’ve got no call to brush him off like that.” My uncle

Hector watched carefully. I knew he calculated every statistic in

his head. “He’s only batting around .215 since he was called

back up. It’s not like he’s a threat.”

“I have hopes for him though,” said my uncle. He’d been

keeping an eye on the first baseman even after he was sent

down in 2006. “A buck says he gets a base hit RBI.”

“You’re dreaming, but you’re on,” Hector said.

I just drank and watched, eventually drifting away from the

conversation until Hector came right into my line of vision,

blocking the big screen, his warm brown eyes concerned.

“What’s up, Gabby? You’re off your game.”

“It’s fine.” I said. “I’m fine, just busy with finals and

wedding season.”

“How’s that going? Tango Master Gabriel?”

I DO! 173

“I’ve got enough business to pay for school next year, and if

I get a teaching fellowship I’ll be rolling in dough. For me

anyway.”

“Any chance of that?”

“Yeah.” I said. “Not to brag or anything but I’ll be the best

candidate.”

“So what will you do, give up teaching dance? Give up

dancing altogether to teach philosophy when you get your

graduate degree?”

This was a sore point with the uncles who always wanted me

to compete. They’d even capitulated and agreed that I could

compete on the same-sex dance circuit, as long as I continued

to dance under the Aimar studio name.

“I’m sure I belong in academics. I’m the official ugly

duckling of the Aimar dancing men anyway, no chance of

following in the exciting Aimar brothers’ footsteps.” I felt

particularly sorry for myself and didn’t mind if he saw it. “I

don’t think there’s going to be a partner for me, Tio.”

He reached over and smacked me on the side of the head.

“You’ll find a partner, little G. Someone who warms your

heart. You’ll love him and coax him onto the dance floor with

you. Thirty years will pass and you’ll still be looking at each

other with the same heat in your eyes. It will happen for you.”

“They don’t make many great guys like you here, Tio, but

it’s nice to dream.” Just then Morales poked the ball into right

field; it dropped right between the Blue Jays’ first baseman and

their outfielder for a base hit.

“Yes!” I shouted. “You owe Uncle Miguel a buck. Did you

see that? He just lobbed it in there like the Goodyear fucking

blimp!” Miguel got up and we slammed against each other,

belly-bouncing off one another and high-fiving like the South

American footballers we are instead of baseball fans. Baseball

doesn’t have exciting moments very often; the trick is to

celebrate each one as if it might be your last. “Hit ‘em where

they ain’t!”

“I couldn’t help but notice you seem to have left your accent

at the studio,” came a frigid voice from behind me.

174 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD

I spun around and found Xander looking like an underwear

ad model even though he had clothes on. “Xander!” I brazened

it out. “What brings you here, and where is your bride, the

lovely Alyssa?”

“You can cut the crap right now,” he fumed. “Your lecture

on honesty kept me awake the last few nights so I called Sophie

to see if she knew where I could find you. She gave me your

home number and your mother told me you’d be here. Nice,

Tango Master Gabriel. How refreshing to find you’re just as

big a liar as the rest of us. Diogenes would walk his feet off in

this town and find not one honest man.”

“A true follower of Diogenes, a functional cynic, would not

give up his personal freedom or his nature for money. And

technically he was looking for a human being.”

“So? I’m a dysfunctional cynic.” He raised his eyebrows.

“And it seems I have company.”

“The only thing I lie about? Is where I come from. I play a

role and most people enjoy it. I don’t lie about who I am

intrinsically.”

“I don’t have time for the argument,” he told me. “But if I

did you’d have the fight of your life. I have a wedding to

prepare for.” He walked away for the second time, and I’m not

ashamed to say I went after him and tried to apologize.

Xander got as far as his immaculate cream-colored BMW

before I caught up with him. “I’m sorry, all right?” I said,

catching the door before he could open it. “I’m sorry.”

He turned. “For what?”

“Excuse me?’”

“What are you sorry for? Are you sorry that you are just as

dishonest as I am? Are you sorry that you accused me of being

a jerk? Are you sorry you got caught in your lie? Which is it?”

“Yes.” I told him, and he made a noise like a pop can

opening. “Yes, all right? All of the above.”

“Thanks.” He glared at my hand on the door. “Now if

you’ll—”

“I meant what I said, though. You’re wrong if you think

marrying Alyssa will work. Sooner or later you’ll find someone

I DO! 175

who makes your heart sing and you won’t be able to go home

to the wife and kids and act like nothing is wrong. Sooner or

later you’re going to disappoint not only Alyssa, but your whole

family and, most importantly, yourself.”

“Why are you telling me this? Why would you even care?”

He ran an impatient hand through his hair. “I’m getting

married! It’s a ten-ton snowball rolling down a damn hill and

picking up speed. What the fuck do you think I can do about it

now?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry.” I felt like crap, and it wasn’t helping

to hear him yell.

“You just being Mr. Honesty?”

“I guess.”

“Do you have any lube with you?”

“What?” I looked at the ground. “Geez. No.”

“Well then I’m going to shove off. If you want to fuck me,

I’m there. If not? I have to get married and I don’t have time

for shit like this.”

I pulled my hand away from the door and stepped back.

He got into the car, but sighed, as though he deflated, then

looked back at me. “Do you actually think you’ll find that?

That person who makes your heart sing?”

In for a penny, I thought. “I have,” I told him. He could not have mistaken what I meant when I said it.

Xander looked at me, then at the keys in his hand. Then he

looked back at me and for a second, one incredible, tiny, brief

second, I thought he was going to get back out of the car.

“Good for you,” he said, and slammed the door shut

between us. The next day Sophie called to tell me that Xander

and Alyssa wouldn’t be coming back to finish their lessons.

  

Fall came, and with it my new teaching gig at school. The

first quarter was almost over and only a few of the students

were rolling their eyes behind my back. Wedding season was

behind me, and I was looking forward to a brief respite from

socializing. Sophie and her wedding planner friends still kept

176 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD

me plenty busy with December brides, as many as I could

squeeze in, and I’d gotten myself a better car because of it.

When I took possession of it the first thing I did was call

Sophie to show it off. She asked me if I’d meet her at the

studio; she had a couple that wanted to meet me. It wasn’t

unusual to schmooze couples before they signed on for dance

lessons, although I wasn’t planning on working that day, so I

didn’t have my “costume.”

I showed up twenty minutes later in a pair of blue jeans and

a tight T-shirt with a picture of Argentina on it and the slogan,

“Countries That Should Not Cry For Me.” Soph’s car wasn’t in

the parking lot when I pulled in with my new cashmere silver

BMW 128i coupe. And yes, it was obvious that I was still

chasing my thing for Xander Farmington in my heart even if I

knew in my head there was not a hope in the world.

I opened up the studio, and started the music in the

background to give it ambiance. When I heard the door open, I

turned to find Sophie coming in with Alyssa Farmington-

Kitchner. I grabbed for the accent out of my imaginary closet

of lame-things-I-do-when I’m surprised.

“Alyssa, corazón, how are you? You sparkle like the new

bride, where is your husband, the doting Xander? Is he not

afraid you’ll be stolen by the many men who will look upon you

and fall hopelessly in love?”

She raised one perfect eyebrow. “He told me you were full

of it, but you are the master of craptology. Awesome.” She

fussed with her purse for a minute, moving her hapless dog out

of the way as she searched for something at the bottom. “I

brought you a CD of the wedding pictures. There are also pics

on there of the honeymoon. Did Sophie tell you that we went

to The Seychelles and stayed at Lemuria? It was fabulous. I

couldn’t have asked for a better time.”

“Thank you, Alyssa,” I said, gifting her with one of my

humble bows. “I can see that my long and boring nights of

watching pay-per-view wrestling are over forever.”

Alyssa snorted out loud. “You really are something.”

“But what? I wonder,” came a voice I recognized all too well

from behind me. Even though in my head I was telling myself,

I DO! 177

‘ don’t turn around, don’t turn around’ my heart couldn’t take the strain and I did it anyway. Behind me stood Xander

Farmington, every bit as luscious as he ever was, wearing…

What the hell was he wearing?

Xander stepped forward in a pair of excruciatingly tight-knit

pants with flared bottoms, and jazz shoes. He wore some sort

of body suit, tucked in, over which he’d slipped a kind of

sparkly mesh bolero. It was exactly like my Uncle Hector’s

dance costumes. I stared.

“Yes,” he said, affecting an accent and reprising my role of

dance master perfectly. “What, I wonder, is this man, this

Gabriel? I wonder, does he understand the nature of dance,

hmmmm?”

I rolled my eyes at Sophie, wondering if these two had

gotten together today to mock me. I didn’t think my role-

playing had been a terrible crime or anything. This seemed way

over the top in the way of retribution.

“Look, Farmington,” I said in my normal voice. “I said I

was sorry for the deception. I really don’t think—”

“No, you do not think at all, Querido, if you believe I would

go to all this trouble because I was angry with you.” I had to

admit, as he neared me and I caught a whiff of his attractive

cologne, he was really good. “Your eyes betray you, and I can hear your heart hammering in your chest like the mouse, when

confronted by a hungry tiger.” I sputtered some inane response

to that.

“Watch closely, Alyssa, while I, Tango Master Alexander,

put this jackanapes in his place.” He pulled me to him, getting

a hold of my body and pressing himself close.

“I don’t understand,” I told him as he bent his knees and

stepped back, leading me into the first steps of the dance I

taught him and Alyssa for their wedding.

There was a twinkle in his eyes, the sure result of a joke

being played. I was beginning to feel a spark of hope that the

joke wasn’t on me after all.

“Your place is with me, Gabriel. When you watch the disc

of photographs from our wedding you will not be able to take

178 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD

your eyes off of us, especially as the last four photographs

depict us filing documents for an annulment.”

“Annulment?” I asked, still having a hard time catching up,

especially since he held my body so close and in those tight

pants there was nothing to disguise his desire for me. “Yet

more support for the traditional marriage argument; you must

be so proud.”

“Ouch, Querido. Alyssa, the little mouse, he bites. This is what one does,” he said in that thick accent, “when one chooses

to be honest about those whom one loves.” He spun me out

and reeled me back in, crushing me to him in a kiss that shamed

our ancestors with its sheer perfection.

I gasped for breath.

“What shall you say, mi vida, shall we dance together from

now on? Shall we show everyone that to dance is to make love

in public?”

What could I say? I loved him.

I raised an eyebrow of my own and asked, “Do you have

any lube with you?”

The Mistake

P.A. BROWN

Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. My

mother always said I’d end up in a bad way. Who’da thought

the old bitch would actually be right for once?

I mean the only reason I ended up at the Sleepy Side Motel

in the first place was the simple fact I hadn’t eaten in two full

days and my gut was telling me to feed it now. How can you

argue with your stomach? It’s not like you can tell it to shut up

or else, right?

So when the guy in the Lincoln stopped me on my stroll

through Boystown and offered me a C note to let him fuck me

how could I say no?

He left me in the car while he paid for the room. I spent the

whole time wondering if this was a major or minor mistake. A

minor mistake you just feel like shit the next day, wondering

how the hell you could have been so dumb. A major mistake

and you might not be wondering anything at all. But the guy

seemed nice enough. Horny and not bad looking. His eyes

weren’t crazy and nothing about him shouted serial killer.

Sheesh, like Jeffrey Dahmer wore a sign.

In the end my stomach overruled what little common sense

I actually possessed and I stayed there waiting for him.

Daydreaming about three-course meals with a cheese plate and

chocolate tray for dessert.

He climbed back into the car and gave me a nervous smile.

“There. We’re around back in Room 28.”

He parked the Lincoln in the last slot in the shadow of a

dumpster that stank of week-old garbage and together we found

our way into the room. He shut and locked the door and

dumped the key and his briefcase onto the rickety table beside

the door.

I looked around the hot-sheets hotel. Early American Motel-

dump. They had bolted a tacky landscape to the wall above the

queen-sized bed. As though anyone with two active brain cells

and an ounce of taste would actually want to steal the thing.

Andrew Pollock it wasn’t. A TV hung from one corner, and a

sign proudly proclaiming you could get ‘girls, girls, girls’ for only a few dollars. No thanks, I’ll pass.

182 The Mistake ~ BROWN

Mr. Lincoln removed his jacket and draped it over the only

chair in the room. He worked at his tie while he studied me.

“You’re a sexy little thing, aren’t you?”

I bristled. Okay, so I’m not big, barely topping five-eight in

stocking feet, but it’s not like I’m puny. When I can, I work out,

and until I lost my last job, I’d been a regular at Angel City

Gym. I thought I was pretty buff.

He tossed his tie on top of his jacket. With a languid wave

he let me know it was time for me to start unwrapping.

I dragged my leather jacket - courtesy of better times - off

and hung it in the tiny closet. I pulled my T-shirt over my head

and undid the button of my Levi’s.

He watched me avidly and I thought, well why not put a

show on for the guy? A happy trick was a generous trick, right?

So I slowly eased the fly of my jeans down, writhing my hips

more than necessary as I slid them down my legs and let them

puddle at my feet. I still wore my Calvin Kleins. I reached in

and adjusted myself, trying to stir up some interest in my dick.

A few strokes and I managed to get myself semi-hard.

It seemed to be enough for him. He had already stripped

down to his own skivvies and he stepped up to me. His erection

was not in doubt; it filled the front of his boxers and poked

through the fly. Just to let him know I was in the game, I

reached out and stroked the glistening head.

He responded by pushing me down to my knees and

thrusting his hips forward into my face, handing me a condom

which I deftly slipped over him. Then I slipped my mouth

around his fat six inches. This was going to be a snap; a quick bj

and I’d be on way to the nearest restaurant to shut my stomach

up.

He began pumping, grunting and muttering. But before I

could finish him off he pulled his dick out of my mouth and

hauled me to my feet.

“Not so fast, boy,” he said. He turned me toward the bed. I

noticed it had a nice old-fashioned headboard, brass piping and

all. “You want to earn an extra fifty?”

A warning bell went off in my head but my stomach chose

that inopportune moment to growl alarmingly. So of course I

I DO! 183

listened to my stomach and instead of hustling out of there I

made the mistake of asking, “What do you want?”

Damn if he didn’t haul a pair of velvet-lined handcuffs out

of his briefcase. He indicated the brass headboard. His voice

was hoarse when he said, “I want to fuck you. I’ve got lube.”

I stared at him. Now my inner voice was really clamoring.

But before I could say anything he pulled out his wallet and

withdrew a handful of bills, the smallest looking like a Jackson,

and a small tube of lubricant.

“Please...”

As though to encourage me he folded the bills up and

tucked them into the pocket of my jeans.

I slid off my Calvins and lay down on my back. I know, I

know, I’m an idiot. What was I thinking, right? Well by then I

guess maybe I wasn’t. I’ve always been a bit of a fatalist.

Remember Doris Day and Que sera, sera? Well there’s my

philosophy in a nutshell.

What will be will be.

He quickly cuffed me to the headboard. He was sporting a

pretty impressive boner now; I could see the glistening drops of

pre-cum smear the fat head and dribble onto his leg. I felt a jolt

of fear when I realized he’d taken off his condom. I was

helpless to do more than watch him strip his boxers off and

approach me. Was this turning into a major mistake? A little late

for regrets. Then he paused to put a second condom on and I

relaxed – as well as I could given I was cuffed to the headboard.

He slathered cool lube all over my hole, pushing several stiff

fingers inside me. I humped against his hand, trying to get in to

the proper mood. His fingers pushed and stretched me,

stroking my prostate. The pressure finally produced the desired

results and my dick saluted him. He seemed flattered by what

he saw.

“Hey, for such a skinny little thing you’re hung, ain’t you?”

Before I could respond to that backhanded compliment he

shoved my legs up and positioned the head of his dick against

my back door. I braced myself for the pain I knew was coming,

squeezing my eyes shut.

Which is why I didn’t see what happened next.

184 The Mistake ~ BROWN

There was a muffled thump at the door and a shouted

command. Then the door exploded inward and the biggest,

blackest cop I’d ever seen charged into the room.

He was followed by a fat white guy who waddled in and

stopped at the threshold, his piggy eyes sweeping the room. He

whistled.

“Hey, look at this. Doesn’t this look like fun?” Fatso

smirked at his partner. “Didn’t I tell you that was Malone’s car?

And you never want to listen to me.”

If I hadn’t been cuffed to the bed I would have crawled

under the floor and cheerfully vanished forever. As it was all I

could do was watch as the two cops dragged Mr. Lincoln off

me and apply their own cuffs to him.

“You should have stayed in Pittsburgh, Malone,” the black

cop said. “Now what is your wife going to say about all this?

Not to mention Uncle Guido.”

“Geez,” Fatso chortled. “What do you think the Family’s

going to think of a faggot in the ranks?”

“Don’t do this,” Malone cried, his face smeared with tears

and his eyes wide with terror. “They’ll kill me. You know they

will—”

Fatso hauled him toward the door, pausing to scoop up the

guy’s clothes and briefcase. “Well, maybe we can work

something out. Guess it depends on what you got to tell us.”

Fatso hesitated at the door and glanced at me briefly before

asking his partner, “You gonna be okay here? I can send in

backup.”

The black cop smirked. “Nah, I think I can handle it. Let me

just check this guy’s story. You take Malone in; I’ll join you at

the station later.”

“Sure,” Fatso said. He bounced the palm of his hand off

Malone’s head. “Give me the keys to the cuffs, lover boy.”

Malone stared at the floor and didn’t respond. I felt

something cold slither into my gut and it wasn’t Malone’s lube-

coated fingers.

Fatso cuffed him again. “You’re wasting my time, asshole.

Where are the keys?”

I DO! 185

Malone muttered something under his breath.

“Speak up.”

“I don’t have them.”

Both cops turned to stare at me. I blanched.

“Well isn’t this just fuckin’-A wonderful,” the black cop

muttered. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Malone. “You

telling me the truth here, Malone? Cause if I find out otherwise

I’ll ship you back to Pittsburgh in parts.”

“It’s true. I figured someone would find him and let him

go...”

“Sure, after you and your money were long gone. Nice one.”

Malone briefly met my furious eyes. “Sorry, kid.”

“Yeah, right.” Fat lot of good that did me. I turned begging

eyes toward the black cop. “Please, you gotta get these off me.”

He sighed and met Fatso’s grinning leer. “I guess you better

haul this jerk in and start processing him. I’ll call a locksmith.”

Fatso shrugged and dragged the still protesting Malone out.

The black cop went over and shut the door, propping the

chair against it to keep it closed. Then he pulled out a cell and

dialed a number. After talking a few minutes he dialed another

number and spoke to someone for nearly five minutes, finally

giving them the name and address of the motel. When he

turned around his gaze was apologetic.

“It’s gonna take them at least an hour to get here.”

“An hour.” I wanted to weep. This was insane. As though to

remind me of what had started all this my stomach growled.

He approached the bed, where I squirmed in shame and

swept his gaze over my goose bump riddled body. Before he sat

on the edge he gently pulled the covers up over me.

I muttered thanks and turned my head away from him.

“Looks like you got yourself in a bit of a mess here, son.”

“Geez, you think?”

“Well, while we’re waiting you may as well answer some

questions.”

“Questions? What kind of questions?”

“Let’s start with your name.”

186 The Mistake ~ BROWN

I thought of lying, but my ID was right there in my jean’s

pocket, so that wouldn’t be very smart. Finally I sighed and

admitted, “Rusty. Rusty Donaldson.”

“Well, Rusty, I’m Officer Hank Wilson.” He rubbed the

smooth skin of his face and flashed me a smile full of perfect,

even teeth. I couldn’t help but notice he had the deepest brown

eyes I’ve ever seen. “Most people call me Hawk. If I was to take

you into the station would I find a sheet on you? Got a record

for hustling, Rusty? Maybe drugs? B & E’s?”

“No. I don’t.” I put as much indignation in my voice as I

could manage. “I just met that guy tonight. He wanted some

fun so we came here. Honest, that’s all it was...”

“Well now, Rusty, the way I see it, it’s like this,” Hawk said.

“I haven’t seen you around the street, so maybe you’re telling

me the truth, but this,” he indicated the cuffs and my undressed

state, “you gotta admit it don’t look good.”

“Okay, you want me to say it? I fucked up big time. I’ve

never done it before and I swear to you I will never do it again.

Please.” I rattled the headboard and tears filled my eyes. Jesus, I

was not gonna cry in front of this guy. “This is really

embarrassing.”

Then my stomach growled again.

Hawk heard this time. “You must really be hungry.”

“I’m starving,” I whispered, flushed with shame.

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Rusty.” He stood up. “Since

we’re gonna be here a while how’d you like it if I grabbed you a

burger?”

I stared at him. My stomach rumbled at the thought.

“Would you?”

And he did. He was gone maybe ten minutes and when he

came back he had a bag stuffed with the most delicious

cheeseburger I’ve ever eaten, fries and onion rings, and a couple of Cokes. Apparently he wasn’t taking any chances I’d expire of

starvation. He even held the stuff while I wolfed it down,

wiping my mouth when I was done.

“Thank you,” I said softly, feeling almost human again. For

a minute I could almost forget the state I was in.

I DO! 187

He grinned, a big easy grin that lit up his whole face. “Hey,

think nothing of it.”

He stared at the TV for a while and I thought he was going

to turn it on, maybe watch some porn to kill the time, but after

a while he turned back to me.

“Where you from, Rusty?”

“Ah, Wisconsin. Madison.”

“Long way from home.”

“Yeah, well, Wisconsin isn’t big on faggots, you know. I

thought it might be nice to come someplace where I’m not a

total freak.”

“Hmmm,” was Hawk’s enlightened response. Like a cop

could empathize with a gay man. “Is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Nice.”

“You think?” I rattled the cuffs.

“I think Wisconsin’s not much different than Kansas,” he

said softly.

I stared at him, not getting what he meant for a minute.

Then it hit me. My mouth fell open. “You’re gay?”

It was his turn to look embarrassed. “Guilty,” he said, then

laughed. “Guess that’s not a good choice of words for a cop, is

it?”

“Jesus, that’s gotta be rough.”

He shrugged. “We all make choices. You comfortable

enough? Cold?”

“No, I’m okay.” Suddenly I giggled. “Well, considering.”

“Yeah.” Hawk gently grabbed me under my armpits and

levered me up a couple of inches. It immediately took some of

the pressure off my arms.

I smiled gratefully at him and I swore the guy blushed.

“Well, Rusty, what do you do when you’re not, ah,

indisposed?”

“Funny. I tended bar.”

“Boystown?”

“Yeah.”

188 The Mistake ~ BROWN

“What happened? You look like you’d be popular.”

“That was my problem,” I said and shook my head ruefully.

“I was - popular that is. But I wasn’t compliant enough and I

said no too often.” Again I rattled the cuffs. “Kind of makes

this look like a bad cosmic joke, doesn’t it? I get canned for not

fucking the customers and end up here for saying yes to another

one.”

“I heard Cavalcade is hiring,” Hawk said casually. “I know

the owner, I could put in a word for you.”

“You’d do that?” I frowned. “Why?”

“You seem like a decent guy. You get a real job and I won’t

have to go through this again. I should be out catching real

criminals.”

“Funny.”

“Instead of being stuck in a motel room with a really good

looking guy,” he added softly.

My mouth fell open and I stared at him. “You think I’m

good looking?”

“You looked in a mirror lately? You’re a really hot looking

guy, I can see why Malone took the chance he did.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The cop was flirting

with me. Suddenly I knew that under his perfectly creased

uniform he was hard. I swallowed against a sudden constriction

in my throat.

“You’re pretty hot yourself,” I said.

His right hand slipped down to rest on my hip, his big

fingers lightly stroking my flesh through the blanket.

I tried to breathe. I felt hot and cold and realized with a

shiver that I was getting hard again.

I never took my eyes off his face. “What time do you think

the locksmith is going to be here?”

In answer Hawk pulled out his cell. When he got off it he

shrugged. “At least forty-five minutes.”

“Be a shame to waste this,” I murmured. “Now wouldn’t

it?”

He paused for only a second, then lowered his head and

slipped his mouth over mine. I reached for him. He gently

I DO! 189

eased his tongue into my mouth and I groaned at the rush of

desire.

He broke away and laid a wet trail of fire along my jaw.

“You sure about this, Rusty? We can wait—”

“No.” I thrust my pelvis up and wished he’d take the

blanket off me. “I want you, Hawk. Please.”

In answer he threw the covers back. He stroked my chest

and let his fingers trail down to where my dick pointed at the

ceiling, already leaking pre-cum. I urged him on hoarsely and

begged him, humping my hips up in supplication. Finally he

leaned over and took my pulsing dick in his hot, supple mouth.

I gasped at the sensation and groaned when his tongue swirled

around my piss-slit and traced the outline of my dick. I bucked

my hips up again, driving my dick down his throat.

He pulled off me and smiled down at my heated face. “You

like that, don’t you?”

“Yes, oh Jesus, do it again.”

Instead of doing as I asked he stood up and began shedding

his clothes. When he was naked I stared at him raptly,

devouring the sight.

He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his huge body. I guessed

he must be six-four, six-five and he made my muscles look non-

existent. His chest was broad and hairless; two fat nipples rose

out of his bulging pecs and a perfect six-pack flowed down into

his slender hips. The trunks of his thighs were as big around as

my waist. But it was at the juncture of his legs that my eyes were

glued.

He was at least eight inches of uncut dick bouncing against

his flat stomach, over a pair of fat wrinkled balls as big as eggs.

I swallowed against a sudden rush of saliva and reached for

him, coming up against my restraints.

Seeing my dilemma he rose over me, positioning his dick

above my face. Eagerly I leaned toward him, sliding my lips

around the fat head and getting my first taste of him.

He moaned softly and his hands cupped my head, tangling

in my short hair. “Oh, fuck yeah,” he muttered as he began

pumping into me.

190 The Mistake ~ BROWN

I struggled to take him all in without gagging. I got maybe

six inches down my throat. He didn’t force it any further,

content to rock back and forth, and I eagerly stroked him with

my tongue and lips and even my teeth. His breathing grew

harsh and ragged and I knew he wasn’t going to last much

longer.

But this time I didn’t want it to end so quickly. I twisted

aside and pushed him away with my hips and when he met my

gaze I smiled into his glazed eyes.

“I got condoms in my pocket,” I whispered. “I think that

guy left his lube behind.”

He rolled off the bed and reappeared moments later with

the promised skins and something else - the money Malone had

stuffed into my jean’s pocket before the cops busted the door

down.

He was grinning. “I’d say your friend had a pretty high

opinion of your charms.”

I looked indignant. “Hey, the money was his idea. Besides,”

I sniffed. “It’s not like he intended to leave it.”

“Yes, but do you think you’re worth it?”

In answer I thrust my hips up at him, spreading my legs to

expose myself. “What do you think?”

His grin slipped. Without another word he tore open the foil

pack and rolled the condom over his glistening dick. I felt a

shiver of fear as he positioned himself between my legs,

knowing he could do some serious damage to me if he wasn’t

careful.

But for all his size, Hawk was very gentle. He slathered me

with more lube, then eased the head of his dick past my tight

outer ring, pausing often to let my body adjust to the invasion.

There was a moment of intense pain that faded slowly to be

replaced by a new sensation. I moaned and he lowered his

mouth to within an inch of mine.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Oh God, that feels good. I feel so full...”

“You are full,” he said hoarsely. “Full of me. Fuck, you are

tight.”

I DO! 191

At my urging he began to move, slowly at first, but quickly

picking up speed as desire overcame the last of my pain. My

head whipped from side to side and I arched my hips up,

wanting to drive him deeper into my gut. He obliged by lifting

my legs up over his shoulders and grasping my hips in his big

hands as he drove into me.

The bed under us began slamming into the wall and I swear

the picture bolted to the wall rattled in its frame.

This time when he lowered his face to mine I opened my

mouth. He rewarded me by jamming his lips over mine and

battering me with his tongue. I swallowed his heated moans and

fought with his tongue. Our breathing grew harsh and ragged

and his thrusts grew wild as he lost control. He wrapped his fist

around my dick and pumped me furiously.

“Oh yeah, oh fuck, Rusty,” he chanted. His dick swelled

impossibly huge inside my tight channel. I couldn’t reach for

him with my hands so I wrapped my legs around him and tried

to pull him further inside me.

My orgasm slammed into me with the force of a freight

train. I shouted his name and shot thick globules of jism

between us, smearing us both with juice.

Then I felt his orgasm start. His face screwed up in a

grimace and his entire body went rigid as he drove himself into

me one final time. A long drawn-out groan shook the whole

room and his impossibly huge dick pulsed and throbbed as he

emptied himself into me.

Finally he grew still. His arms came around me and he

spread hot, moist kisses along my face and jaw, ending at my

mouth.

“Wow,” was all he said.

Eventually he climbed off me and after disposing of his

condom, he went in to the bathroom and came out with a damp

towel, which he used to clean me off. Then he got dressed and

produced the remains of a Coke. I sipped it gratefully. While we

waited we talked and I found out he’d been a cop for six years

and despite the oddity of being gay in a such a macho

organization, he loved his job. He’d never had a boyfriend and

most of his sexual encounters were furtive at best.

192 The Mistake ~ BROWN

“That must suck,” I said, and he smiled tiredly.

“I’ve accepted it.”

“You ever think of not just settling?”

He shrugged and started to speak when there came a sharp

rap at the door.

We jerked apart guiltily. It was the locksmith, who had my

hands free in no time. I rubbed my sore wrists and watched the

locksmith pack up his stuff and leave, trying to ignore the smirk

on his face. Once he left, Hawk shut the door behind him and

came back over to the bed.

I stood up, still rubbing my wrists and arms. I collected my

clothes and quickly got dressed. I winced at the soreness in my

ass, but I was warmed by the memories the pain brought. I

knew if he wanted, I’d take him again in a minute.

“Thanks,” I said. “For everything.”

“Anytime.”

I sincerely hoped he meant that. I traced feathery lines

across his broad chest, pausing to tweak one hard nipple

through his work shirt. “So. Was I worth it?”

He grinned. “Oh, sweetheart. You were the best.”

So my mother always said I’d end up in a bad way. But I

guess I got the last laugh on her after all. Hawk wants to see me

again. In fact, he’s taking me to dinner tomorrow after we meet

with the owner of the Cavalcade. After that we’re going back to

his place to “talk.”

I’ve already made a mental note to pick up a pair of cuffs,

with keys.

Holy Macaroni

(and Cheese)

ALLISON WONDERLAND

I know we were only six years old at the time, and I realize

that first graders aren’t exactly famous for their fashion sense,

but it was our wedding day, after all. Maybe if we had known

that one day, our wedding portrait would be hanging in the

hallway of our home, its dimensions enlarged to three times

their original size, we would have tried to look a little more

presentable. I suppose it seemed like a good idea at the time:

neon green stirrup pants paired with a powder pink sweater, a

bikini-clad Ariel embroidered on the front. A dollop of fudge

dotted Ariel’s nose, enhancing the beauty of the redheaded sea

creature. The stain was also a lovely complement to the runnel

of vanilla ice cream streaking the leg of my pants.

On the sunny side, at least I can take comfort in knowing

that I was not the worst-dressed bride in the photograph. Teri

should have worn her matching mermaid sweater. I told her to

wear her matching mermaid sweater, begged and pleaded with

her to wear her matching mermaid sweater. But she didn’t wear

her matching mermaid sweater. Instead, she wore this… well, it

can hardly be considered an outfit, really. More like a

hodgepodge of Halloween costumes, an eclectic ensemble at

best. Her black Batgirl cape clashed with her Dorothy dress

and hot pink jellies. Her marabou tiara, which sat crookedly on

top of her braids, had shed half of its feathers and most of its

sparkle.

Our mothers thought we were the most dainty, darling

daughters they had ever laid eyes on. Seated in plastic lawn

chairs in Teri’s backyard, they made such a fuss that we almost

called the whole thing off. “Oh, how cute,” they would coo.

“Oh, how precious,” they would gush. And, when the

opportunity presented itself, they would pinch our cheeks until

our faces went numb. Years later, I wondered why they

indulged us the way they did. Maybe they thought I was

pretending to be a boy. I was the one wearing pants. More than likely, though, they probably thought of our marriage as a

rehearsal for the kind of wedding they expected we would have

when we were older. The authentic kind, with a gown and a

groom, and a gaggle of grumpy, frumpy bridesmaids.

Teri’s little brother, a year and a half younger than us,

presided over the ceremony, declaring that we were joined in

196 Holy Macaroni (and Cheese) ~ WONDERLAND

holy macaroni (and cheese) and that if anybody had any

objections, they should speak now or forever hold their horses.

Then he said, “You may now kiss the bride,” and we didn’t

know which bride he was talking to. All we knew was that we

were supposed to make our mouths touch and that we had

absolutely no intention of doing any such thing. Only grown-

ups did gross things like kissing, we insisted. Later, I swapped

my grape Ring Pop, which was half-eaten, for Teri’s cherry one,

which was also half-eaten, and didn’t think anything of it.

As we devoured our diamond baubles, Teri and I began

preparing for our domestic life together. We imagined that one

day we would live in a house made of candy, like the witch’s

dwelling in the story of Hansel and Gretel, but without the

witch, of course. It would have licorice doors and chocolate

floors, and we wanted gummy bear chairs, too, but decided that

the bears would stick to the seats of our pants and we would

never be able to get up.

My marriage to Teri outlasted our Ring Pops, partly because

we thought that only adults could get divorced, but mostly

because we had perfected the fine art of compromise. That

being said, our relationship was not without its discord. In

third grade, a dispute over a jump rope prompted my spouse to

take my special blue glue and paste the pages of my science

textbook together. I didn’t speak to her for two hours.

The next day, in an attempt to smooth things over, Teri

presented me with a white cardboard box bow-tied with dental

floss. Inside, nestled in a bed of white cotton, was a bracelet

made of pony beads and plastic pearls. I was ready to forgive

and forget. What can I say? I’m a sucker for fancy jewelry. I

didn’t even complain that the bracelet was too large or that I

had to wrap the string around my wrist twice in order to

prevent it from falling off. “I made it extra big so that it’ll last extra long,” my wife had rationalized, fingering the trinket.

“Because marriage is forever and forever is a very long time.”

Well, it wasn’t really a very long time. Forever ended in

seventh grade – or at least went on hiatus – when Teri and I

broke our vows by going on a double date with two boys in our

class. This became our routine for the next several years, and

we always doubled, always, so that we didn’t have to talk about

I DO! 197

the date afterward. We could just put it behind us like a bad

experience.

These obligatory boyfriends came and went, but our feelings

for each other didn’t. Whenever a guy flirted with one of us,

the green-eyed monster, never one for subtlety, would make her

grand entrance. Our friends could see what we couldn’t: the

clenching of our jaws, the stiffening of our posture, the

narrowing of our eyes. All the telltale signs of jealousy. But

what they couldn’t see was that the guys were not the objects of

our desire. We never coveted the guys.

It was for this very reason that Teri and I were able to save

our marriage, to restore the holiness of our macaroni. And

cheese. In our sophomore year, during one of our double

dates, Teri passed me a note. I loved Teri’s notes. They were

sweet (Thanks for helping me with that Spanish homework.) and silly (I got the hiccups. Holla if you hear me.) and sincere (I love your shirt. It looks so pretty on you.) But this note, this note that she passed me in our sophomore year during one of our double dates, was all

three of those things. With a few pen strokes, Teri had been

able to say everything that neither of us had been able to say out

loud.

On one side, the note read: I still think boys have cooties.

On the other side, the note said: I know you think so, too.

When Teri and I told our parents that we weren’t getting

divorced after all, they actually seemed… well, relieved is

probably the most accurate way to describe their reaction. I

have a feeling they saw it coming, though, and that they

probably denied it for a while. But the adjustment period

conveniently came with a ten-year head start, so they had plenty

of time to get used to the idea of their dainty, darling daughters

being wedded wives.

Even so, we hemmed and hawed for months before we

finally stood them up and told them. And I do mean stood

them up, not sat them down, because people only sit for bad

news and our news definitely did not qualify as bad news.

When my mother heard the good news, she said, “Now I

don’t have to tell you about the birds and the bees.”

198 Holy Macaroni (and Cheese) ~ WONDERLAND

And my father said, “Now I don’t have to worry about

sharing my daughter with another guy.”

Then Teri’s father added, “That’s right. We have the

privilege of being the only men in our little girls’ lives.”

And then Teri’s mother said, because she likes to have the

last word, “And no one has to worry about the two of you

knocking boots and getting knocked up, at least not out of

wedlock, anyway.”

Then our mothers pinched our cheeks until they went numb

and wished us the best of luck.

It wasn’t about luck, though. It was about love. Luck can

only take you so far, but love can take you anywhere. Teri and I

may not be the most fashionable couple in the world, but our

love will always be in style.

God, I hate that woman.

You see what she does to me? She’s reduced me to a

sentimental sap. A walking, talking chick flick.

God, I love that woman.

The Snow Queen

ERASTES

ONE - JOSH

We don’t get snow much anymore. That makes me sound

like some old fogy reminiscing about how the summers were

always warmer and better than now. I don’t know about the

summers. Summer for me meant enforced boredom at some

aunt or uncle’s house, an unfamiliar garden and the smell of

dying grass. But the winters? The old men in London pubs

wrap swollen-jointed fingers around their Real Ale and say that

kids don’t know what cold is. They nod, and take bright brown

tobacco from stained tins, wrapping their cheap roll-ups easily

without dropping a syllable. You’re too young, they tell me –

the winters they knew were cold enough to freeze your balls off.

No, I’m not quite as bad as that. But I do remember my

childhood, and it was snowy every year. I don’t hail from

London originally, and where I lived as a young child - before I

was brought to English summers and dog turd lawns - snow

was like clockwork, blew in on the tail end of fall and didn’t

leave till summer was knocking on its door. Here, in anarchistic

London, they are surprised by the white stuff every year and the

city grinds to an undignified halt, bumping its nose against

Christmas. When I was a kid, I had clothes “just for snow;”

special clothes that had to be replaced in the fall, because I

outgrew them each year. Thick corduroy trousers, padded boots

with soles made like animal tracks. Beautiful sheepskin jackets

with hoods. I was a clothes whore even back then and,

unnatural child, I looked forward to the fall break when one of

my aunts would take me shopping.

Then there was my sledge. I didn’t see Citizen Kane until I

was a grown man so I never thought of naming the thing, but it

was my most treasured possession none the less. I warm even

now when I think of its heavy, honey-coloured beauty with

smooth slats of solid warm ash. Two sturdy runners with

shining steel covers. She was fast, and she was so very beautiful.

When it did snow, I’d always know, somehow. I’d wake, like

a child hearing sleigh bells overhead and I’d rush to the window

leaving puffs of vapour on the glass. Wide-eyed, I’d see the first

flakes fall and I’d pray to the Snow Queen that it would settle.

Fanciful kid? Yes, I suppose I was. Being an only child will do

that, I guess.

202 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES

I used to watch for hours at time, tracking the progress of

every flake that I could, hoping that it would not land only to

melt away. Sometimes I was lucky, and the ground would

swiftly turn from black to white, but other times and bitterly,

more often than not, all it would end with was wet pavements.

When it blizzarded, and it did a lot in the memory of my

childhood, huge bird-sized flakes fell faster than I could follow

with my eyes. It was then that I felt safe. I didn’t need to watch

and hope, then I could bounce back to my bed and fall asleep

knowing that when I woke, the world would have changed, and

it would all be mine.

Outside in the white bright light, I was Kay, but a Kay who

had taken the Snow Queen to his frozen soul and loved her

with all of his ice-stricken heart. I would break off icicles and

kiss them in childish homage, imagining they were her stately

fingers. Or sometimes I was Gerda – battling through the

frozen waste on her beloved sledge to try save her brother,

never knowing, never guessing that his heart was given

irrevocably to an ice maiden. I never saved Kay in my stories;

when I finally reached the Snow Queen’s palace, I would always

switch my play to being Kay and I would abandon my sister for

the glory and magnificence of the Snow Queen. Gerda brought

warmth and thaw – whereas the Snow Queen could give me

what I wanted. Eternal winter.

Everything wonderful happened in winter. Christmas. Hot

chocolate. Presents and hot, hot water, blankets so warm as to

hurt, and someone who held you and rubbed your hair so hard

your eyes stung.

Everything wonderful happened when it snowed.

  

People talk about loss. Or rather – they used to. If you aren’t

grieving, you find that people will talk about the death of their

mother or the time their grandfather died, and how they felt,

how they coped. The sudden silence was like a burn; people’s

eyes glossed over me the first day I came back to work and I

could almost hear their unspoken words.

“I don’t know what to say to him.”

“It’s not like he’s lost a wife.”

I DO! 203

“I can’t just say ‘Sorry for your loss’ – it seems so – inadequate.”

Well, yes – it was inadequate. It couldn’t do anything,

anything constructive. It didn’t raise the dead. It didn’t make a

time machine. It didn’t make the bed warmer. Or smaller. It

didn’t compensate for the terrible falling feeling I got when I

turned over in the night and his back wasn’t there – his

omnipresent back, curved and so tactile, skin strained over each

kissing bump of his spine.

It didn’t do that. But it would have helped, maybe a bit.

People don’t think that you want to talk about the person that’s

died, and perhaps in the spring - when Sam slid away – when I

was left with only the shell of him to dispose of and the vacuum

of my life – perhaps I couldn’t have talked about him then. But

by the time I’d dried myself out, got my crying under control

and got back to work, I could’ve done with talking with

someone, even if they hadn’t known him.

Angie patted my shoulder as I slid into my chair. “You

okay?”

I shrugged, but I knew what she meant. Out of all the

people I’d called friends, she was the only one who had really

been there. For the midnight phone calls, the Friday night visits

that stretched into weekends because I couldn’t go home, the

whole sorry mess that I had been throughout the summer and

fall.

When the leaves started to drop, I sat in her loft cocooned

from the world with a duvet and Debussy - and I told her about

the Snow Queen. She had the grace not to laugh; maybe she’d

played with dolls in the same way, maybe she was just kind. All

the same, I was grateful.

I lost myself in work, the way I had dived into chardonnay.

Some people need crutches. I tried to ignore the silences, the

averted eyes and the way people no longer stopped at my desk

for a quick gossip, but it cut deep, it was loss on top of loss on

top of loss.

“If I’d lost a wife, would they have acted differently?” I

railed at Angie that night at the wine bar.

She paused, then looked me in the eye and said, “Probably, I

don’t know.” Her hands slid down to the Claddagh ring I

204 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES

rubbed constantly, as if it were an itch I could scratch or a

magic artefact that would grant a wish I dared not voice. “Don’t

be too hard on them, Josh. They didn’t know him. You kept

him so secret.”

“Because he was mine.” I’d said it a thousand times before,

but Sam had been mine. I could share TV shows and sports

results. I could give my opinions on the news of the day and the

typists’ clothes. I let people know my opinions on Obama and

Brown and the weather and films, but I never asked people for

details of their love lives and I never spoke about Sam.

It wasn’t through any sense of shame or concealment; it

wasn’t as if I were some hot-shot celebrity who was protecting

someone from the glare of the paparazzi. It was simply there

were things I couldn’t share. A throwback to a solitary

childhood; box of treasures under the bed, sealed with tape. I

didn’t know if straight men talked about these little things that

turned the day from Sunday to sundae, I had no way of

knowing. Surely wives and husbands shared the little

sweetnesses of a day apart that we did; the soggy Post-It notes

in my tuna sandwich, the unexpected e-mail with exploding

balloons, or the daily joy when I switched off my computer and

left the office, feeling the warm buzz of my phone going off

with the message, “Comin’ home, darlin’?” in that cheesy way

he had. None of that was anything I could share. I kept it sealed

in a box, hidden under my heart, sealed.

I still carried the phone, but it never vibrated in the same

way. It was a thing of metal and plastic, cold to the touch.

“You need to start going out,” Angie said. Her fingers

played with her drink distractedly.

Something thrummed in my chest. “You’re kidding, right?”

My tone was light, but my stomach felt cold, like she hadn’t

been there for the summer, hadn’t really been there.

“I don’t mean dating, you plank,” she said, looking shocked.

“What? Oh you idiot, how... Forget it.” She shut down like a

steel trap.

I had to touch her hand to get her to look at me again.

“Sorry,” I said, hardly knowing what it was I was sorry for.

I DO! 205

She shrugged it off, with an edge of irritation, “I mean, just

out. Fresh air. Walks. Get a dog.”

I slugged my beer with a well-practised wrist. I had a retort

on my lips but nothing that would help us progress. “Sure,” I

said, “sure.” I trusted myself less than her right that second.

She caught my hand as I went to ruffle her hair and she

kissed it, and I knew right then that I couldn’t impose on her

again. “Night, Josh,” she said. “Tomorrow will be easier.”

“Sure,” I said again, like some stuck record. “Call me.”

It was cold that night, but it smelled like hope. I went to bed

when I couldn’t stand the TV any longer and the phone sat

accusing and neglected on the nightstand. My sheets were as

cold as ever I remembered, the draught extreme, as it always

was when the wind turned. The sash windows rocked against

the buffeting wind and I found myself sitting up and leaning

against the windowsill, looking into the heavens in the same

way I did every year. My breath ghosted the glass and for a

fraction of a second I imagined that I could feel Sam breathing

just behind me, and that his fingers were moving soft and light

on my shoulder the way he did before he kissed my neck. I

didn’t look round; I tightened my grip on the windowsill and I

prayed to my Queen for snow, and for Kay’s iced heart and for

Kay’s frozen soul.

  

I woke with my cheek stuck to the windowsill and such a

crick in my neck I could hardly move my head. The light in the

room was the claustrophobic greyness that I recognised like an

old friend. Without looking, I knew, I just knew that the world

was blanketed in white and my Queen had listened - to half of

my plea, at least.

I dressed warmly, clothes and boots I stored for days like

these; most Londoners, like their city, were caught out by a

harsh winter, and struggled through the streets on leather soles,

slipping and sliding like Harold Lloyd, or picking their way in

fashionable Wellingtons which were not up to the task.

Then I just let my feet take me, finding patches of virgin

snow so I could be the first to imprint them, but as the morning

woke the sleeping city, the pavements turned from white to

206 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES

brown and even the continuing blizzard could not renew the

overtrodden carpet. So I turned aside and made for Regent’s

Park.

A few children were playing here and there, playing hookey,

their squeals carrying over the landscape made alien by the

snow. I cast a longing look at Primrose Hill; already there were

lines of people trudging up to the best sledging area this close to

central London, but I walked on, pushing my hood down and

letting the snow blind me to the sight of people sliding down on

sledges, skis and tin trays. The last time I’d been up the Hill I

hadn’t been alone.

I found I was walking past the outside of the wolves’

enclosure before I realised it and on impulse I turned into the

zoo. The snow was stopping at last, although the sky was grey

and full of the sweet promise of more.

I sunk on the first bench I could find; the café, I discovered,

didn’t open for another ten minutes and my stomach was

calling for a coffee. The bench was wet under my legs. I was

almost alone in the zoo this morning; a crocodile of uniformed

children went east from the gate, their tutors hurriedly studying

maps and shouting instructions to the rapidly fragmenting

group. My breath was dragon vapour. I sat there - the last ice

dragon in the world, lost in my thoughts.

A little girl of about six clambered onto the bench next to

me and I got that horrible sense of invasion of personal space

that children never understand. She was dressed in a dark pink

coat, the old-fashioned type with a big velvet collar. She sat

there for a moment, swinging her legs against the wooden slats

and humming tunelessly. I was just about to move when she

was gone again, a pink blur in the white, leaving me to wonder

who she was, and why she was unattended. Within seconds I

realised I was wrong, as a man picked her up and swung her

around, and she squealed happily before wriggling free of him

and running towards the aviary.

Her father, as I assumed he was, sat down and stuck his

hands in his pockets. I had to smile inwardly that he’d wrapped

his daughter up with gloves and a hat and yet was wearing

nothing warmer than a fleece. We sat there in silence for a while

and my stomach reminded me that it was empty, so I glanced

I DO! 207

toward the café, which was finally opening. I stood up and

bumped right into him, and there was one of those awkward

moments where we both apologised together, then we both

laughed.

He said he owed me a coffee for putting muddy prints all

over my shoes and I looked at him and grinned and said, “Hell,

why not?” The pink child ran to him and grasped his hand, her

cheeks as rosy as her coat; she looked up at him and the look he

gave her threatened the ice chips in my heart.

And then it started to snow.

  

TWO - SEAN

I didn’t even expect to have Bess over the weekend; and that

was the first of the unexpected things that happened. Her

mother rang me on Friday night, out of the blue, I mean, she

never broke with our routine. It was fixed: Wednesday afternoon, and every other weekend, so to suddenly find I had another

precious two days with her was something I grasped with both

hands without asking why. Ellie told me anyway, taking great

delight in showing off about her new Chelsea lifestyle and I

listened politely. Our arguments were legend, and like a lot of

legends were now firmly in the past. Now I did whatever it took

to see Bess as regularly and as often as I could.

The night before, I’d promised her the zoo, and like her

mother, Bess was stubborn, bless her. “You promised,” she’d

said, her baby lips setting in a line and her pudgy jaw hardening.

“You promised,” she repeated over and over, and there was

nothing I could say to convince her that the roads would be full

of idiots with no snow sense and the ground was too wet and

too cold. Nothing I could say - without blaming Ellie (who

couldn’t have known that the Arctic would send us their

weather) for not packing her warmest clothes.

In the end I’d borrowed a thick coat, hat and gloves from a

neighbour and we’d bought some boots from Mr Singh’s on the

corner. They were shiny red Wellingtons and they clashed

horribly with the coat, but Bess loved them. She danced. The

snow let up as I opened the car door and I smiled – perhaps the

sun would be out soon.

208 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES

I parked as close to the zoo as I could and carried Bess,

hoping that the zoo would have salted pavements at the very

least. I was surprised that I hadn’t been over-optimistic. A

bored boy with a galvanised bucket was chucking orange-pink

salt over the paths and I half wondered why they still opened on

a day like this, but when I mentioned it to the ticket girl she

looked blank for a moment and then said “We’re open every

day, ‘cept Christmas,” and gave me another leaflet, as if I were

stupid.

I dropped Bess on a half-cleared path, and laughed as she

strode across the uneven ground. She was picking her feet up

and placing them down dramatically as if the shiny red

Wellingtons were seven-league boots. My hands and cheeks

were numb, every breath I took burned in my chest, but - bad

weather or not - she made me feel alive with the greenness of

spring that I knew was coming. She ran ahead towards the

penguins and by the time I’d caught up with her she was sitting

on a bench, feigning impatience at “slow old daddy,” but when

I approached she fled, so I sat down, tucking my frozen fingers

into my coat.

I couldn’t help but notice him. For one thing he was dressed

for the snow; a thick sheepskin jacket, one of those padded

checked shirts, his throat muffled with a soft scarf almost the

exact colour of his hair that peeked from some Norwegian

effort of a hat. He was everything that I’d said I’d stay away

from. I promise - I’d said to Ellie, I promise. I’d promised it all away for unopposed access. I’d promised that I’d do nothing to

confuse our daughter, not until Bess was old enough to

understand. I stood up and because I was forcing myself not to look at him, about to call Bess, I smashed right into him and

felt myself blushing like an idiot as I trod on his toes.

He said it didn’t matter, and I don’t suppose it did, but I

wanted it to, and seizing an opportunity that I could mask

behind altruism, I invited him for a coffee.

The café was warm, and I busied myself with peeling Bess

from her wrappings. He pulled off his hat; his hair was dark

where the snow had wet it, but light brown and wavy under that

stupid hat.

“I’m Josh,” he said, holding out a hand.

I DO! 209

“Sean,” I said, and I could tell he knew, and I don’t know

how he knew. I hardly knew myself. The snow had started up

again, worse than before, blotting the zoo from sight. His hand

was warm and I put mine under the table when we let go, a

tingling warmth remaining on my palm like a brand.

Bess broke the awkward silence. I had been rehearsing a

hundred openers, and they all sounded trite and as stupid as I

felt.

“Where’s your family?” she asked. There was a plastic giraffe

on the windowsill and she launched herself at it, forgetting the

question as soon as it was asked. The waitress brought coffee

for us and hot chocolate for Bess. I was almost grateful to him

for answering her.

“I just like the zoo,” he said. His voice was a strange blend

of accents, not quite American and yet not English. “And the

snow.” He looked out the window, and there was a look in his

eyes that I couldn’t fathom. It was as if he’d never seen snow

before, or had seen a friend he wasn’t expecting.

  

“Then Daddy said we couldn’t see the animals.” Bess was

climbing the stairs one at a time, complaining with every step.

“It snowed and snowed and snowed and Daddy and Josh just

talked – it was boring.”

“I’m sure Daddy will take you again,” Ellie said. “I’ll be up

in a minute.” She turned and arched an eyebrow at me. “Josh?”

“Oh – so now I’m not even allowed to know men as

friends?” I was instantly defensive and too late I realised that I’d

given myself away.

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” she said. I loathed her

insincerity. “I just hadn’t heard the name before.”

“I – We. I met him at the zoo.” I felt the constricting

annoyance rising like it always did when she questioned me like

this. “That’s all. Bloody hell, Ellie, it’s not as if we’re planning to elope.”

She pushed the door shut. “And he’s gay too, is he?”

“I don’t know – it doesn’t matter, does it?”

210 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES

“I rather think it does if you are planning on seeing him

again.” She left the implicit words “or Bess,” unsaid. I wanted

to hit her, I wanted to tell her that she had no rights, that I

could get a solicitor and have this all sorted out legally, and they

might even give me custody – oh, the things I wanted to say to

her. But I said nothing – there was nothing to be said that we

both hadn’t said a hundred times.

“I made you a promise, and I have no intention of breaking

it.”

“That’s fine,” she said, kissing me lightly on the cheek.

Where her lipstick touched my skin, it irritated, and I left

without another word to her, pausing only to yell goodnight to

my daughter who I could hear singing in her room.

Outside I wiped my cheek savagely and drove home in a

black mood. The non-argument threatened to ruin the warm

glow I’d been basking in since the day before. Eventually, I’d

had to leave the café, when I couldn’t force-feed Bess any more

junk food and the snow simply wouldn’t stop, so even the

chance of sharing the walk around the zoo was ruined. Bess had

been bitterly disappointed that we couldn’t stay, but Josh had

managed her like a professional dad, saying that all the animals

would be tucked up in bed anyway and that she’d not see

anything much.

“The penguins were out,” she’d said, accusingly. She liked

him; she was only this forthright with people she liked.

“But they like the cold,” Josh had said – he went on to

distract her by talking about penguins and how Emperor

penguins raised their young.

“The daddies do it?” Bess said, unconvinced.

“Yep,” he said, using a saltcellar cupped in his fingers to

demonstrate how they balanced the egg on their feet. “And the

mummies go and find them food. The daddies have to wait in

the cold – for months – until the mummies come back.”

Bess rolled her eyes and ignored him after that. It was clear

she didn’t believe him. I was grateful just for the excuse to

watch him, I gauged his age as similar to mine. His fringe was

overlong, and it flopped over his eyes. I wanted to say, “Give

me your number,” but I couldn’t find one single excuse to say

I DO! 211

it, and no matter what my suspicions were - if he wasn’t gay,

then how stupid would I look?

I tucked Bess back into her coat and hat and lifted her up, it

was getting deep now, the zoo staff had given up sprinkling salt

and were resorting to shovels and brooms. I cursed myself for

my inexperience and resigned myself to never seeing him again

when he said, “Perhaps, Bess, your daddy will bring you back

when the weather’s not so bad?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, nodding her head so hard that the

pom-pom on the top of her head threatened to put my eye out.

“I’d like to tell you more about the penguins,” he said and

pushed a card into my hand.

I drove home with a stupid grin on my face, which lasted all

the way to dropping Bess off at her mother’s.

On Monday as I sat down to write my column, I was a

morass of justification. My promise to Ellie only really meant

cohabiting, I said to myself, what Bess didn’t see didn’t concern

her. I stared at the screen for ages, procrastinating. I didn’t write though, I sat and looked at his card. Then I Googled his

company, searching the site for any mention of him, but there

was none. Finally I gave in, punched the number and waited

while my heart thudded in my chest. I was about to ask a man

out on a date. I was about to...

“Josh Kemsley,” he said. His voice sounded deeper on the

phone, and slightly more international.

“Josh? It’s Sean. From...”

“The zoo,” he finished. “I recognised your voice. How’s

Bess?”

“Back at her mother’s.” It was the truth, and I congratulated

myself on letting him know what the state of my relationship

was, at least. He obviously wasn’t put off by the fact that I had a

kid, either, and that was encouraging. I told myself I’d deal with

Ellie when the time came, if the time came. There was, I told

myself no point thinking that this first date, first potential

boyfriend (I didn’t count Damien, the hand jobs and hurried

fumblings in public toilets) was going anywhere, and until it did,

no one needed to know anything more.

212 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES

Somehow I stumbled out an invitation, asked him for a

drink that evening. There was a long pause and it sounded like

he’d put his hand over the mouthpiece. Then he was back,

accepting and asking where. As I put the receiver down I

wondered why he’d hesitated. He’d been the one to give me his

card, after all.

  

THREE - JOSH

The pub was crowded, as I pushed open the doors. Truth be

told, it was Angie who had pushed them open, then pushed me

through them.

“Why did you give him your card, then, if you didn’t intend

to see him?” she’d asked as she escorted me down the road

from the office to the pub. The snow had gone from the city

streets, the pavements treacherous with black ice for the

unwary.

“I don’t know,” I’d said for the hundredth time. “He was

easy to talk to. And he seemed...” I didn’t like to say desperate,

because that wasn’t strictly true. Hopeful? Anxious? It had been

a long time since anyone had wanted to impress me, and I’d

been flattered. He was nice-looking too, in a dark brooding sort

of way, and that didn’t hurt. No one could say that I was going

after the same type; he was as unlike Sam as could possibly be.

“But you’re sure he’s gay? But he is – or was – married? Be

careful, Josh – will you?”

He grinned at me from the bar, bought me what I asked for.

I felt as awkward as he looked, didn’t know if I should have

kissed him on the cheek but I didn’t.

We sat down and I asked about Bess again, it seemed our

only connection.

“I spoke to her this morning,” he said, grinning. He picked

at the label of his beer in a distracted manner. It didn’t put me

at my ease, any. I wondered if he was regretting this. I

wondered a lot of things. The ground wasn’t solid beneath my

feet, there was no traction. “Just to remind me that I’d let her

down.”

I DO! 213

I didn’t really want to spend the evening talking about his

daughter, so we chatted about each other’s work for a while.

Then after a couple of more beers he sighed and said, “You

haven’t asked me.”

“No...I guess I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well. It isn’t easy. I’ve already had a lot of stick from

people who think that I’m just sodding about.” He gave a dark

chuckle, attractive and self-deprecating. “Not the right

expression, sorry.”

“Are you? Some people do – curious people.”

“No. Not in the way they think, not the way you think.”

“I’m not thinking anything.” It was strangely true, too,

something was different. I felt disconnected, I thought I could

ask him anything and it wouldn’t affect me. I felt sheer walls

between him and me, centuries high, eons wide.

“It’s difficult to explain,” he said. “You’ve always been gay?”

I smiled. “I don’t think it’s a life choice, if that’s what you

mean.”

He coloured and I felt a smile cracking the side of my

mouth. “Exactly,” he said. “You’ve always known, and I didn’t.

I married late and Bess came along and I just coasted – until...”

He paused and looked up at me, his eyes dark. I think he

wanted me to take over but I didn’t move a muscle. “Someone

I’d known for a long while, it happened over a long time,

drinks, talks, then accidental touches...then – it was just like

something broke. I wanted him so badly I forgot everything

else.”

I smiled at that, but it was an automatic response. “Go on.”

“She found out almost at once, Ellie, that is – Ellie’s my wife

— ex-wife — Someone told her – either that or she’d known

that I’d been on the cusp of it, stupid of me really to think she

wouldn’t know – he was a mutual friend.”

“And I suppose that caused the separation?”

He looked down, his nose crinkling, and he tore the label

from the bottle. “Yes. She was pretty good about it, all in all –

she thinks of Bess first, always has...which is how it should be

of course,” he added hastily.

214 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES

“What about the other guy?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not like there’s any hurry,” I said.

He nodded, but I got the strangest feeling he hardly agreed

with me.

We kept it like that the first night; it would have been, to

anyone watching, two guys on the opposite sides of a table,

drinking beer. There was nothing arranged, nothing discussed,

but when we walked out into the freezing night I could tell by

the way he was walking a little too close to the pavement that

this was all I was going to get from him tonight. In fact, as we

parted at the subway, I wondered if I’d even see him again. It

was usually a bad sign, I thought, when they didn’t ask you one

question about anything more personal than work.

He surprised me by calling the day after next, when I had

convinced myself he wouldn’t, had convinced myself that I

didn’t actually care.

“The other night,” he said. His speech was still full of

silences, like holes under ice. “I’m sorry.”

“Start again?”

“If you want?”

“I didn’t hang up on you.”

“That’s a good sign?”

“It is.”

  

FOUR - SEAN

I was actually shaking when I met Josh the next night. All I

had done was obsess about every word I’d said, every cool look

he’d given me. He was so damned self-assured with his lazy

drawl and the way he shielded his eyes with his lashes, that I felt

sure I looked as gauche and as inexperienced as I felt. He’d said

nothing about himself, either, I realised. Offered nothing up

other than where he worked and how much he hated it. I didn’t

know if he’d had no men in his life, or a thousand. I didn’t even

know if he was available. I wondered what he’d thought of my

constant nervous chattering.

I DO! 215

He’d suggested the restaurant, an eclectic place in Camden,

Scandinavian and German with a mix of northern European

beer and food. We were distracted from saying much of

anything to each other while we discussed the overlarge Poirot

look-alikes squashed into the tables and the pretty Aryan

lovelies (who were probably from Chelsea or Camden) in

starched white aprons who took our order. New restaurants are

a boon to new relationships, there’s so much else to talk about.

Once we got to the main course, our chat about the menu

and where I’d travelled in Europe fizzled to a halt. This is it, I

thought, Eeyore fashion, I’m boring and I can’t even sustain a

conversation with a bloke that’s not about my daughter or food.

So I took his hand. I couldn’t think what else to do. His hand

curled around mine and he smiled.

The rest of the meal was sinfully short. Beneath the table his

lower leg pressed hard against mine and our hands didn’t leave

each other once, not even when he paid. Out on the pavement

a cab rolled towards us, its yellow sign fierce and predatory in

the snowy dark and as I opened the door for him, he turned his

head and kissed me, the merest brush that might almost – but

not quite – could have been accidental.

  

Some eternity later, he rolled over and kissed me for what

could have been for the hundredth time. His lips were cool, his

eyes closed. I still felt awkward; it had been a long, long time

since I’d had a ‘morning after’ thing even with a woman, and it

seemed strange – almost sissy - to be affectionate in this way.

“Breakfast?” I said. He grunted and propped himself up by

the elbows.

“Nice place.”

“You said that, last night.”

“Must be getting old.” He grabbed me by the arm and

pinned me under him, and I wasn’t complaining. After a while I

even let myself join in.

When I finally crawled out of bed my legs were jelly, but I

still wasn’t complaining. Josh was so different to Damian. With

him it had been all secrecy and haste, nothing personal, nothing

216 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES

affectionate. Bathroom stalls and alleyways, lifts and rooftops.

He’d never invited me to his place and had never accepted an

invitation to mine. Comparing the meagre two men I’d been

involved with wasn’t strictly fair, but Josh’s relaxed attitude was

perfect compared with Damian, who had always seemed

ashamed of what we did.

The phone rang as I stepped into the shower and I left it to

ring, I didn’t need to pick Bess up until ten and until then I was

going to enjoy the time we had left. It stopped short after a few

rings, so I guessed it was nothing urgent.

The shower restored me somewhat, and I stuck my head

around the bedroom door. “Eggs and bacon all right? I’m not

doing anything with maple… What are you doing?” Josh was

almost dressed, and he’d gone away again, the clouds drawing

over his face as he buttoned his shirt.

“I’m going home. Seems I made a mistake.” Then he

stopped and looked up at me. “No. That’s not true is it? Seems

you made a mistake. The only mistake I made was answering the phone.” He walked towards me and past me into the hall. “Oh

– and thinking you were actually available.”

My heart gave a lurch. “You answered the phone?”

“Yeah,” he said, but his drawl was sarcastic. “I know I

shouldn’t, but hell, I didn’t know I shouldn’t. Make yourself at

home – didn’t you say?”

“Who was it?” It was as pointless a question as any, but I

was stalling, trying to jump into a pair of track suit bottoms.

“Oh, I think you know. It was your wife. Seems there’s

things you hadn’t told me. She seemed pretty pissed off, Sean –

why do you think that is?”

And still he wasn’t shouting, he was just – cold. “I was going

to tell you,” I said, knowing how pathetic that sounded. It was

the words a million men used when they knew they’d hurt

another. Give me another five seconds and I would be saying ‘I

never meant to hurt anyone.’ Had I really turned into that low-

life? “It’s not like we—”

“No.” he interrupted. “It’s not like we anything, is it?”

“It’s Bess.”

I DO! 217

“Right.” He was sitting down, lacing up his boots. His face

was so hard, I could hardly stand it.

“Please,” I said, kneeling down before him, “please

understand. She’s five. She’s...”

“Probably a better judge of character than you know.” He

stood up. “Look, I don’t know anything. I don’t know you; I

don’t know your daughter. It’s just – a thing. That’s all. Let’s

just leave it at that.” Walking to the door he shrugged on his

jacket. “Just don’t go around making a habit of it, Sean. Better

to stay on the surface if that’s all you’ve got to offer.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked me who I was, and when I didn’t choose to tell

her, seemed she already knew. She then went on to threaten me

– and told me to pass on a few choice things, which frankly, I’m

not about to do.”

I put my hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off, and

wouldn’t look at me.

“I’ll speak to her,” I said. “I don’t want this to end like this.”

“Is it always like that, with you?”

I didn’t understand what he meant, and as he walked away

down the stair, I called after him, telling him I’d sort it out, but

he didn’t even pause.

  

FIVE - JOSH

He’d rung about seventeen times when I finally picked up

the phone. I listened. His explanations were plausible and he

sounded so very sincere, and when he said he had to see me I

knew that it wouldn’t make any difference, not in the long run.

He’d already decided. When I opened the door I could tell by

his face. Guilt – and I wondered if his wife had seen that same

expression – and I wondered why he was tearing himself apart

like this.

“It’s all right,” I said, turning away from the door and letting

him drift into the flat. “You made it clear from the first.”

“You’re angry.”

I turned, perched on the back of the settee and examined his

face. He looked ill - his face was pale and his eyes had big dark

218 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES

circles. He’d been beating himself up enough, he didn’t need me

to add to it. We’d both been saved from the crevasse that we’d

known was waiting for us. Another step, and who knows where

we could have gone. I guessed we’d never know now.

“No, I’m really not.” I wanted to say I was sorry, but that

wouldn’t have been true.

He looked at me, disbelieving. His eyes met mine and I felt

nothing. No pity, no anger. I couldn’t even empathise with him

and I just wanted him gone – he was only a stranger I’d got to

know.

He frowned. “You deserve to be.”

“Do I?” I was suddenly tired. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

I was reminded for a second of some film where the man was

as cold as I – I wanted to say It’s beyond my control although the words should have come from Sean rather than I. It irritated me

that I couldn’t remember the name of the film, my brain

seemed numb; I knew I would have to dive onto the Net to

find out what it was as soon as he went and I suddenly wanted

him to go, so I could find out.

He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he

didn’t, and when the silence stretched to impossible

proportions he turned and left.

As the door closed behind him I breathed out, slowly. I tried

to feel, tried to care, but I was numb; for all that we could have

been, I simply couldn’t bring myself to care that he’d gone. It

wasn’t as if I understood – I didn’t want to understand, but

where the pain of losing Sam was – where there should have

been a renewed and bitter rawness of Sean’s cowardice and

instability, there was nothing but a cold and placid millpond of

nothing.

My hands felt cold, like some creeping frozen paralysis was

moving up my arms, through the bone and marrow. I tried to

remember Sean’s lips, how they’d brushed against mine that

first night and found I couldn’t – whereas this morning it had

been as clear as anything. With a dull resignation, I watched his

car pull out of the car park and as it made its way up the

avenue, the car itself was blotted out in the snow, only the red

I DO! 219

tail lights glowing as it reached the junction, turned left, and was

gone.

I sat on the window seat and watched the snow, resting my

arms on the sill, breathing gently on the window and making

vapour pictures. I seemed to feel cool arms around me, gentle,

never accusatory, like sweet bands of ice. It was better this way, I could almost hear her say to me. Better to stay frozen – the world out there has nothing but fire for you. This is where you belong. I felt complete for the first time in months as the snow slowly

covered the window, one perfect and unique flake at a time.

And I was Kay, at last.

Better Than Beautiful

ZOE NICHOLS

AND CASSIDY RYAN

“So, what do you think? The Stella McCartney or the

Donna Karan?” Charlotte turned away from the mirror holding

the dresses on their hangers. She raised an expertly tweezed

eyebrow in question.

Stretched out on the bed, hands behind her head, Becca

squinted thoughtfully, giving the dresses due consideration.

“Hmm, blue or green? Decisions, decisions.” A mischievous

smile tugged at one corner of her mouth and lit up her green

eyes. “Actually, I think I prefer you in what you’re wearing.”

Charlotte held the dresses to the side and looked down at

the scrap of silk that claimed to be panties. “Thanks, but I

think I’ll be required to wear just a little bit more.”

“Yes, probably best.” She gave Charlotte her best theatrical

leer. “Besides, I like knowing that only I get to see what’s under

the wrapping.” Becca couldn’t hold the leer as a snicker

escaped her. “Well, me and anyone who cares to flip through a

copy of Vogue.”

Charlotte grinned. “Better than a copy of Playboy. Now,

which dress?” She gently shook them so that the expensive

material rustled.

“Where’s that black one? You know, the wraparound thingy

with the sparkly bit at the hip?” Interest piqued, Becca sat up

and wrapped her arms around her knees.

“The wraparound thingy with the sparkly bit?” Charlotte

laughed and went to the walk-in closet that held more clothes

than Becca had owned in her entire life. “You mean the Gucci

silk velvet wraparound with the jeweled belt?”

Attention keenly focused on Charlotte’s silk-clad backside,

Becca nodded distractedly. “Mmhmm, that one. Although the

panties are looking better by the second.” She licked her

bottom lip.

“You could come with me, you know.” Charlotte’s voice

was muffled from inside the closet. “Free booze, free food,

wall to wall skinny-assed models.” She re-appeared holding

another dress on a hanger. “Tell me that isn’t your idea of a fun

night out.”

Becca got off the bed and moved to stand in front of

Charlotte. “All that sounds lovely, but the part I’m not quite so

224 Better Than Beautiful ~ NICHOLS AND RYAN

fond of is the part where I have to stand beside my lover all

night and pretend to be her friend or her assistant.” She took

the hanger from Charlotte and held the dress up in front of

Charlotte. “Yes, this is the one.”

“Becca…”

Looking up, Becca saw guilt cloud Charlotte’s blue eyes and

decided to head it off before it had time to take root.

“Now, none of that. Go to the party, have fun and bring

me back some cake.” She grinned, hoping that Charlotte would

return it.

It was touch and go for a second – Charlotte hesitated,

gnawed on the inside of her bottom lip, then gave Becca a

smile.

“You’re right, of course. That whole self-flagellation thing

got old a long time ago.” She leaned in and placed a kiss on

Becca’s lips. “So, what will you do with your free evening?”

She unhooked the clasp at the side of the dress and turned

around so that Becca could help her slip it on.

Becca smoothed her hands over the soft, pale skin of

Charlotte’s bare arms, and stood back to watch as her lover

efficiently fastened the dress and secured the shimmering belt

on the gentle curve of her hips. There was elegance in every

movement of her long fingers as they dealt with the belt buckle;

an effortless grace that Becca couldn’t hope to attain in ten

lifetimes of trying.

Turning away, Becca flopped back down on the bed. “I’m

going to order pizza, open a bottle of wine and watch the Three’s Company marathon.”

“Ooh, Mr. Furley; now there’s a man who knew his

fashion.” Charlotte smiled in the mirror as she pinned her deep

red hair up so that it was pulled back from her face, but

tumbling in fat, glossy curls down her back. “Save me a slice of

pizza?”

“Hey, you’re not retired yet, missy. Two months and then

you can have all the pizza you want.” Becca laughed when

Charlotte responded by sticking out her tongue.

“See if I bring you back cake then!”

I DO! 225

Becca snorted. “Yeah, like there was ever any real prospect

of cake. It’s a cosmetic company product launch – there will

likely be gun-toting hoods at the door to search guests for

anything with more calories than Tic-Tacs.”

“But they’ll be very well dressed hoods,” Charlotte reasoned,

and turned away from the mirror. “How do I look?”

Tilting her head slightly to the side, Becca appeared to give

the question sincere thought, before nodding and answering,

“Supremely fuckable.”

Charlotte laughed just as the buzzer at the door sounded.

“Hold that thought, baby, my car’s here.” Collecting her

beaded evening purse, she came to the bed and laid a light kiss

on Becca’s lips. “I won’t be late.”

Shivering at the husky tone of Charlotte’s voice, Becca had

to fight the urge to grab her lover and haul her down onto the

bed.

“Better not be.” Becca reached up and twirled one of

Charlotte’s curls around her finger, and inhaled her scent.

“Now, go while you can.”

Charlotte’s sigh was all reluctance as she straightened up.

Becca relaxed back on the bed and watched Charlotte leave. A

smile tugged at Becca’s mouth and excitement unfurled in her

stomach.

Just two more months, then there would be no more hiding;

no more lies. With a giggle that was so girly nobody else in the

world would ever be allowed to hear it, Becca jumped up off

the bed and reached for the phone.

  

“Becca! Oh, lovely, lovely Becca! Where art thou, my

lovely?” Charlotte’s low, purring voice sang out the words and

Becca tilted her head back on the couch, her mouth full of

pizza. She swallowed hastily and called for her lover until

Charlotte came slinking around the corner, still perfectly

coiffed.

“Mmm,” Charlotte murmured as she sidled over to the

couch and sank into the cushions, sighing. Her little purse hit

226 Better Than Beautiful ~ NICHOLS AND RYAN

the coffee table beside the bottle of wine and open pizza box.

“Someone smells delicious.”

Becca grinned. “Pepperoni by Chanel.”

Charlotte chuckled, sliding out of her shoes and undoing her

hair so the ruby curls tumbled down and around her face.

“They must make millions,” she crooned before sliding in close

and snuggling against Becca. “I missed you terribly, you know.”

Tilting Charlotte’s chin up, Becca smiled into bright blue

eyes. “I think that’s my cue to give you a thorough kiss to make

up for it.”

Charlotte’s face softened, and for a moment, something

flickered through her eyes before they warmed again. “You

don’t have to make anything up to me, baby. You’re perfect.”

Becca’s heart gave a twist and she brought her mouth to

Charlotte’s. “I love you,” she whispered before pressing in close

and licking across the seam of Charlotte’s lips. Charlotte’s lips

parted on a moan and Becca was quick to slip her tongue in.

They slid together, closer, connecting like perfect puzzle pieces,

and drank from each other in leisurely sips.

They ended up with Charlotte on top, and when she lifted

her head, she was panting. Becca licked her lips and opened her

mouth, to say what she didn’t know, but then Charlotte

growled, leaned down and captured Becca’s mouth, her tongue

shoving in and challenging Becca to a duel.

Becca groaned and filled her hands with Charlotte’s bottom,

sliding the silky dress up to play with the wisp of material that

laughingly called itself underwear. Heat bloomed as Charlotte

bucked in her hands, suddenly wild, her mouth biting.

Becca gasped, the urgency unexpected and devastating.

Charlotte’s mouth took her will and filled her with a matching

need.

“You have too many clothes on,” Charlotte complained

breathlessly, and Becca reluctantly released her lover to pull her

shirt off quickly. She didn’t do it much, but when Charlotte

decided to run the show, she wasn’t much for a slow ride.

Charlotte let her up long enough to strip and to get Becca’s

help with the dress, but as soon as the clothes hit the floor,

Charlotte was on her again, backing her onto the couch and

I DO! 227

sliding between Becca’s legs once her back touched the

cushions. Braless and clad in the barely there black panties,

Charlotte was a delicious dream that Becca was humbled to

have.

Soon she would have Charlotte entirely to herself so she

could live this dream over and over.

Becca spread her legs and smiled at her lover, who looked

over Becca quietly.

“Are you gonna just sit there and stare or play with me?” she

teased and wasn’t surprised to get a naughty smile in return.

Charlotte slid up her body and her fingers popped open the

front clasp of Becca’s bra. “Play,” she purred and her tongue

flicked a wet path between Becca’s breasts, making her gasp.

The bra slid away and Charlotte’s clever fingers went straight to

work, playing with Becca’s nipples, cupping and lifting her

breasts for Charlotte’s mouth to reach.

Becca bucked, need rolling through her in a hot wave as

Charlotte’s tongue worked over her nipples, leaving them wet

and hard. “Charlotte,” she moaned. “Please!”

“Mmm.” The approving sound vibrated through Becca,

setting her blood to boil. Then Charlotte sucked her nipple in,

tight and fast, and Becca shouted with the pleasure as it

pumped through her, surging straight for her pussy. Her hands

slid through Charlotte’s hair without control, as she locked her

legs around her lover and arched into Charlotte’s mouth.

Need rocked Becca as her lover’s fingers ghosted down to

her thigh, loosening her leg’s grip enough so Charlotte could

rub against her, pussy to soaked pussy. The heat between them,

intense even through panties, made Becca gasp louder and

Charlotte rocked against her, moaning.

Charlotte lifted her head and Becca’s fingers slid free of her

hair. She caught Becca’s mouth. “I want to see you come,”

Charlotte whispered. “Will you come for me, lovely Becca?”

Becca could only get out a moan. She was already there,

balancing on the brink. Charlotte’s control over her body was

absolute, and with her lover so attentive, it wouldn’t take much

to push Becca over.

228 Better Than Beautiful ~ NICHOLS AND RYAN

That push was Charlotte’s fingers, slipping in between them

and tugging Becca’s panties down. They didn’t go down far, just

enough for Charlotte’s long fingers, so elegant to look at, to slip

in, two at once, stretching and filling her. Becca arched, her

fingers twisting tighter into Charlotte’s hair. “Oh, Char…Char,

oh God,” she panted. “Oh God, now, now.”

Pressure built as Charlotte worked her fingers in and out,

spreading Becca’s moisture and coaxing more and more. Becca

twisted, her legs dropping to spread open, offering herself to

Charlotte’s expert touch. She stared up at Charlotte’s face,

focused and flushed with passion and the image imprinted itself

on her brain, along with so many others.

Then Charlotte moved to her clit and Becca caught her

breath as the pressure burst in her, bowing her spine, and

Charlotte’s name left her lips on a scream that would have

embarrassed her if she’d had enough of a mind to care.

Charlotte rode her orgasm with her, rubbing her clit and

sending her over again with just a flick. Becca came furiously

with the world bleeding around the edges, losing the ability to

scream, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Then she was

sinking down into the cushions, drowsy and replete, and

Charlotte’s smiling face was above her.

The thought of returning the favor occurred, but Charlotte

was whispering, “Sleep, love. Sleep.” Becca was gone before she

even realized she’d closed her eyes.

  

Becca only vaguely recalled moving into the bedroom

sometime in the night, but the next time she woke, she and

Charlotte were curled up together under the duvet, and weak

winter sun was peeking through the gaps in the blinds. With

her body still languid from pleasure and Charlotte looking so

soft and young in sleep, Becca was tempted to just snuggle

closer. But a grumble in her stomach told her that she wasn’t

going to remain comfortable for very long. With a sigh, she

dropped a light kiss on Charlotte’s forehead and slipped out of

bed. She dressed as quietly as she could and, leaving Charlotte

sleeping, headed for the coffee shop on the corner.

I DO! 229

Twenty minutes later, juggling two large cappuccinos and a

bag of pastries, with a newspaper tucked under her arm, Becca

let herself back into the apartment. Hearing the shower

running, she went through to the kitchen, dumped the pastries

onto a plate and sat at the breakfast bar with the newspaper,

waiting for Charlotte to join her.

Becca was quite accustomed to seeing pictures of Charlotte

in the papers – Charlotte had been at the top of her profession

most of her adult life, and was often invited to affairs that made

headlines. So when she saw her lover smiling at her from the

social page, Becca’s lips curled up in response. But when her

gaze drifted to the print underneath, the smile faded and Becca

felt the blood drain from her face.

Charlotte Scott unveiled as the new face of Cloud Cosmetics.

As she read on, a kind of numbness settled on Becca, and

her chest tightened like it was being squeezed. It couldn’t be –

it just couldn’t. She slid off the bar stool onto legs that were less than steady, and moved around the kitchen in something of a

daze.

When the door opened and Charlotte appeared, wrapped in

a fluffy pink towel, their gazes locked and Charlotte’s eyes

widened in alarm.

“Becca…” She took a step forward, but Becca held up her

hand to halt Charlotte’s steps.

“Don’t. Just… don’t.” A sudden wave of anger washed

over Becca, shattering the numbness. She pointed blindly at the

newspaper lying on the breakfast bar. “Two years, Charlotte?

Two fucking years?”

Charlotte flinched at the force of the words. “Becca, please

let me explain?” She held out her hands, but Becca ignored the

silent plea, instead striding across the room and snatching up

the newspaper.

“What’s to explain, Charlotte? It’s all right here in black and

white. You’ve signed a contract to be the face of Cloud

Cosmetics for the next two years.” Her words ended on a

hiccup and, angered at the show of emotion, Becca screwed the

newspaper up into a ball and hurled it across the room. It

bounced off the wall and fell to the floor with barely a sound.

230 Better Than Beautiful ~ NICHOLS AND RYAN

“I haven’t signed…” Charlotte tried again, her voice small.

“Yet!” The word sliced through Charlotte’s attempt to

speak. Becca’s chest rose and fell sharply and heat invaded her.

“When were you planning on telling me? I assume you were

planning on telling me?”

“Of course, I just…” Charlotte’s voice trailed off and she

moved to the breakfast bar where she leaned back on a stool as

if she couldn’t stand up any longer.

A part of Becca wanted to go to her lover; hated seeing her

look so defeated. But another part – the greater part – was in

turmoil as anger, pain and disbelief warred for dominance.

“What about us?” Becca hated the fear she heard in her

own voice. “What about me? Do I just slink back into the

shadows; your dirty little secret?”

Her words seemed to re-energize Charlotte, who shot to her

feet. “No! No, you were never that. I never treated you like that. I thought you understood?”

“What I understood was that you were retiring in two

months. I understood that we were going to be married. I

understood that we were going to have a life – a real life –

together.” Becca could feel tears build and sting the backs of

her eyes. “What am I supposed to understand now, Charlotte?”

Charlotte stepped toward her, her hands reaching,

imploring. But when Becca stayed rooted to the floor, those

begging hands fell and Charlotte blinked hard. “I don’t know,”

she whispered. “I don’t know. Becca, I…I’m sorry.”

Becca’s heart shattered. The numbness came back, catching

and wrapping around her. It cocooned her from the hurt. “I am

too, Char. I am too.” Becca tore her gaze from Charlotte’s

defeated slump. “I’ll start packing.”

She’d barely taken a step when Charlotte’s head snapped up.

“What do you mean, packing? You’re leaving me?” The last

came out as a bare wisp of sound.

“What did you expect? That I’d…that I’d stay here and wait

again? That I’d continue playing second fiddle to the catwalk?”

A sob started building in Becca’s throat, and she clung to her

numbness, praying she’d make it through this goodbye with

I DO! 231

some dignity. She’d break down later. Much later. “I can’t do

that, Charlotte. I love you but I can’t do that. Not again.”

Charlotte’s face crumpled, still beautiful even in her pain.

“No, Becca…please. Please, don’t leave me.” Tears welled up,

spilled over. “I love you.”

Becca shook her head, hugging herself. “Give me a reason

to stay, Char. No more promises, no more pleas to understand.

Give me a real reason.” She lifted her head and stared at her

lover. “Tell me why.”

Charlotte slumped back against the stool and as she rubbed

at her wet eyes, she sighed. The sound was heavy in the still air.

“I’ve lost you so what does it matter anymore?”

Becca thought to answer but the question didn’t seem aimed

at her. Charlotte dropped her hands and stared at them for so

long, Becca wasn’t sure Charlotte was going to talk. The words

that tumbled out next shocked Becca to the core.

“I’m scared.” The words barely made it into the air; fading

no less than a second after they were said. Becca thought she’d

imagined them. But Charlotte’s eyes, huge, stark and definitely

terrified told her she had.

Becca frowned. “What do you mean, scared? What are you

scared of, Char?”

“Everything.” Charlotte’s eyes squeezed shut. “Of not being

a model anymore. Of failing you. Becca, I’ve been a model for

nearly twenty years and it’s all I know how to do. How to be.

I’m just a mannequin that can talk. I don’t know if I’m anything

else. If I can be anything else.”

Becca’s heart broke all over again for the open despair in

Charlotte’s soft voice. “Oh, baby,” she whispered. Becca

covered the distance between them in a heartbeat and cupped

Charlotte’s face, waiting until Charlotte opened her eyes before

continuing to speak. “You’re so much more than just your face

and your body. How can you think otherwise?”

Charlotte blinked and more tears tumbled. “How are you so

sure?” she whispered. “I’ve been doing this since I was thirteen,

Becca. I don’t have any other skills. What do I have to bring to

a marriage? What kind of wife will I be if I can do nothing but

smile and look good?”

232 Better Than Beautiful ~ NICHOLS AND RYAN

Becca lowered her face until their noses brushed. “You have

yourself. We’ve been together for two years, living together; the

whole nine yards. I didn’t stay with you to date the model,

Charlotte. I stayed with you because I love the woman behind

the Prada gown. That woman is the one I sleep with at night,

kiss in the morning. You’re that woman, Char. The model is just a piece of your personality and when you’re ready to leave her

behind, you’ll still be you.”

A hard shudder wracked Charlotte. “I don’t want to fail you,

Becca.” Her eyes begged Becca for reassurance. “But I don’t

know who ‘me’ is going to be if I walk away from modeling.”

Becca slid her hands away from Charlotte’s face to her

hands, entwining her fingers with her lover’s. “You’ll be my

wife.” Becca smiled, putting all her love for Charlotte into it.

“And I’ll be yours. We’ll have our marriage to work on and we’ll

have each other to entertain. We’ll eat pizza and watch movies

and fight over who gets to be on top. We’ll grow old together

and gross out our single friends when we make out at the table.

You’ll be Mrs. Charlotte Scott and I’ll be Mrs. Rebecca Scott

and we’ll live happily ever after.”

Charlotte’s laugh was watery but hopeful. “That’s a tall

order.”

Becca nodded. “Very tall. If we want to make any headway

on it, we’ll have to start soon.” She started to hesitate after she

spoke the telling words but Charlotte was nodding and smiling,

albeit nervously.

“I need to make some calls then.” Charlotte straightened

and squeezed Becca’s fingers before she hesitated as well.

“Becca…I wanted to ask you. When did you…want to...?”

Becca smiled. “Today,” she said firmly and her smile

widened at Charlotte’s wide-eyed look. “Hey, don’t look at me

like that. I’m a clingy woman. It’s taken me this long to get you.

I’m anxious to get you wedded and bedded already. Preferably

in that order because I have a recurring fantasy.”

Charlotte gave her a mischievous look that made Becca’s

heart dance. Becca tugged her closer, reveling in her warmth.

“And what is this fantasy?”

I DO! 233

Becca dipped her head so they were nose to nose again.

“They all end up the same. You’re naked, sexy and satisfied. But

the best part to this particular fantasy is the gold ring sitting on

your left hand.” She didn’t have to fake the dreamy sigh.

“Naked with my ring on your finger. Baby, it doesn’t get much

better than that.”

Charlotte’s laugh was pure shocked pleasure, as was the hug

she trapped Becca in, still vibrating with the happy noise. Becca

fell in love with the sound all over again, especially knowing

that she was going to get to hear it over and over for the next

fifty years or so.

No, Becca thought, stealing a kiss from Charlotte’s smiling

mouth and letting that happiness spill inside her like sunshine, it

really didn’t get much better than that.

Semi-detached

EMMA COLLINGWOOD

James Denningham’s flat overlooked the Thames, but he

was too busy with the documents on his desk to pay attention

to the striking view of the sun setting over London’s

Docklands.

The flat’s interior - minimalist design, more expensive than

useful - clashed painfully with its Victorian origins. Sebastian

thought that James was the type of man made for Chesterfield

sofas, Georgian secretaries and cigars, and he was doing his best

to destroy the immaculate state of the Denningham residence

while sitting on the carpet in the living room. Why that only

splash of colour had to be puke-green was beyond him; he

hated the damned thing.

The TV was on, and Sebastian yelled at it every time the

contestants in the quiz show stated that Sweden was the capital

of Paris or the Mississippi Italy’s main river. Long legs stretched

out, a heap of red boxes to his right and a can of beer to his left,

Sebastian was busy removing price tags from the small boxes.

From time to time, James would cast him a worried glance

through the open door of his study; should the can get knocked

over, the carpet would be ruined.

That aside, Sebastian was a pleasant sight, and James would

have been the first to admit it. He was handsome, but had no

fashion sense whatsoever; he always looked as if he’d slept in

his jeans and T-shirt after digging them out of a dustbin.

Anything beyond enjoying the view was off-limits, though.

James was a one-man’s man - and that man wasn’t Sebastian.

An open pizza box was just within reach on the coffee table,

and Sebastian made a point of leaving grease stains on Thomas’

football magazines every time he reached for another slice.

Thomas was James’ boyfriend, a fact Sebastian had finally come

to accept, but still, it was important to mark one’s territory.

Being outrivaled by a freckly redhead with the charms of a rabid

badger and the complexion of a fish’s belly had been a bit of a

blow to his ego.

Sebastian was licking his fingers clean after devouring the

last slice of pizza when the front door opened and Thomas

entered, shopping bags in one hand, key in the other. His red

hair stood out in spikes and was covered in sawdust.

238 Semi-detached ~ COLLINGWOOD

“The working class has arrived,” Sebastian announced,

“looking cranky as usual, but he bought beer. Good man.”

Upon noticing Thomas’ black eye and split lip, Sebastian arched

an eyebrow. “The proletariat’s been struggling. What happened,

mate?”

Thomas dropped the bags and put the key back in his

pocket. “Nothing,” he replied curtly, and took off his leather

jacket. This revealed a washed-out black T-shirt as well as

bruises on his arms. His right hand was bandaged.

Sebastian looked over his shoulder and noticed the

disapproving expression on James’ face. “Have you two

discovered the fascinating world of BDSM? Or has Conker Boy

here been attacked by homophobic skinheads?” he inquired.

“Football,” James replied, frowning. “His team lost last

weekend. Mens sana in corpore sano and all that.”

Sebastian grinned. “More like men insane. I’ll never get the

attraction. Most football players are ugly as fuck, anyway.

Rugby, on the other hand...” Thomas showed him the finger,

but showed no sign of taking the bait. He picked up the

shopping bags and headed for the kitchen. Sebastian shrugged

and continued removing price tags. He was at box number

twelve when Thomas returned to the living room.

“You’re just the man to talk about insanity. What are you up

to this time?” He picked up one of the boxes, read the label and

pulled a face. “What the fuck - laxatives? You got a constipated elephant at home or what?” He dropped the box and went to

the study, where James sat in front of his laptop and a

notebook, chewing on a pencil. “Probably something kinky I

don’t want to know about, anyway.” He rested his hand on the

back of James’ neck, rubbing it gently, and kissed him. “I love

the taste of graphite in the evening. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Hard day?”

“The usual. I’ll tell you later. Still working on the speech?”

“Yes. No. Sort of. Listen, I’m working on something here

which we should discuss, and-” James broke off, drumming the

pencil nervously on the mouse pad. “No, it’s not that important.

No hurry.” Thomas knew James well enough to make a mental

note to get back to him about that “unimportant” business as

I DO! 239

soon as Sebastian had left. If something wasn’t “that important”

according to James, it actually was of greatest importance to

him.

“Sebastian is making a political statement, by the way.”

“With laxatives? Sounds more like the preparation for a sit-

in.” Thomas shook his head and returned to the kitchen to

fetch a beer.

“Be a good man and get me one as well,” Sebastian called

out to him. Thomas muttered something rude, but took two

cans of beer from the fridge and threw one to Sebastian, who

caught it deftly mid-air.

“Cheers, mate. And yes, I’m politically active here. In fact,

I’m making a statement in support of my rights as a bisexual

man,” he added with pathos.

Thomas took a swig. He closed his eyes and enjoyed that

first taste, which was always the best, no matter how many cans

would follow. “Politically active. Sure, right. Who’s it this time -

The StraightWay Foundation? Christian Voice? Gafcon? The

Prime Minister?”

“Iris.”

“Oh hell, no,” Thomas groaned. “Why the fuck can’t you

just ignore her? She only wants attention. Can’t you just let her

believe what she wants? Not that her beliefs make any sense.

Unless you’re drunk. And maybe not even then.”

“She’s on a mission from God. I just haven’t figured out

which God yet; certainly not mine, because I’ve talked to my

inner Catholic, and my inner Catholic told me I’m perfectly fine

the way I am.”

“Yeah, no doubt. I’d say your inner Catholic was pissed,

and by that I don’t mean angry. Are you hearing voices, by any

chance? Did he also order you to buy tons of laxatives?”

“The envy of the Godless heathen. Dear Iris generously

offered to put gay folks in touch with friendly Christian

psychiatrists who can turn them around and get them back on

the right way, which is the straight way. I feel this generous

gesture entitles her to a present in return.”

“Laxatives?”

240 Semi-detached ~ COLLINGWOOD

Sebastian removed another price tag. “I’m only trying to

treat all politicians equally here. Pretzels for George, laxatives

for Iris. It’s called ‘globalisation,’ Thomas - asininity is a

worldwide problem. Now if I could only come up with

something for the supporters of Prop Hate...”

“What?”

“Proposition 8,” James explained helpfully, looking up from

his notes. “California. Restriction of the definition of marriage

to a union between a man and a woman. It’s been all over the

news.”

Thomas flopped down on the sofa. “I know it might come

as a surprise, but I do read the news as well. I just don’t get how

that’s any of our business. I’d say we have enough trouble with

our home-grown fuckwits. I don’t get what’s the problem,

anyway. Marriage or civil union, so what? Different name, that’s

all.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “No, it’s not the same. They

don’t have the same rights, okay? Some benefits are only

available if you’re married, not if you live in a civil partnership, for example. That’s fucking disgusting, and just because you sit

here and could get hitched and get it all if you wanted, it doesn’t

mean you don’t have to bother about the rights of others across

the pond.”

James stood up and joined the two, ready to act as mediator

if it should become necessary. Sebastian never knew when to

stop once he started, and Thomas had the habit of playing

dumb to wind him up, only to come up with a perfectly

reasonable, intelligent and unexpected response in the end,

raining on Sebastian’s parade of righteous indignation. Most of

the time, such arguments would end in good-natured banter,

but Sebastian really seemed to have a bee in his bonnet about

this particular issue, and that bee was about to ruin James’ plans

for the evening.

“Could we just drop this now, please?” James said. “Or else

go outside and fight it out. I wouldn’t want to explain the blood

on the carpet to the cleaners.”

“Wasn’t me who started it,” was Thomas’ predictable

comment. “Why the fuck are we talking about marriage,

I DO! 241

anyway? It’s not like anybody here would get married, right?”

Thomas frowned and crushed the now empty can in his hand.

“I don’t see the point in marriage, anyway.”

“Look who’s talking! Tell you what, next time you go to the

pub wearing the wrong club colours, one of your fellow

cavemen might break your neck. You’d be wheeled off to the

hospital, a vegetable for the rest of your life, and James the man

wouldn’t be allowed to visit, because I’m pretty sure that

gobshite who’s your brother wouldn’t let him anywhere near

you. The law would be on his side, because James is not family.

So your old folks could hold a big funeral service for your

atheist arse, with a vicar and everything else you never wanted,

and just to piss you off, they could ask people to donate to

Christian Voice in your honour. Or, God forbid, Manchester

United.”

Thomas waved Sebastian off.

“Listen, Armchair Warrior, if you care so much about gay

rights, why don’t you return to lovely Londonderry and start

your crusade there rather than shooting your mouth off here

where it’s comfortable and relatively safe? You could even have

your own mural, you know - ‘Warning! You’re entering pink

territory!’”

He’d gone too far, and he regretted his outburst as soon as

the last word was spoken, like so often before. This could go

both ways now: Either Sebastian would explode and they’d

have an epic brawl here in the living room, or he would take the

high road. Luckily, the latter seemed to be the case.

“Right. I’ll come by tomorrow to clean this mess up. The

one on the floor, I mean.” Despite James’ protests, Sebastian

put on his hooded sweater and leather jacket, then kissed his

friend on the cheek. “Call you tomorrow. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Thomas hadn’t moved. However, when Sebastian opened

the front door, he followed him. “Mate - sorry ‘bout that,” he

said, scratching his head.

“Kiss my Derry arse.” Sebastian slammed the door and was

gone.

Thomas sighed. “I fucked that up again, didn’t I?”

242 Semi-detached ~ COLLINGWOOD

“One could say so, yes. Coffee?”

“Good idea.” Thomas sat down and leaned back, staring at

Sebastian’s political purchases. In the background he could hear

the comforting sound of James fiddling with the coffee

machine.

“I hate it when he does that, you know.”

“What?” James asked, opening the fridge and looking for

the milk. “Leaves rather than fights?”

“No. Being right. I mean, he’s got a point there.”

James brought the coffee and placed the two mugs on the

table, taking a seat next to Thomas. “I wish you two would stop

pretending you hate each other. Nobody buys that. You gave

him a can of your own beer without being forced at gunpoint.”

Thomas pulled a face; James knew him all too well.

“He always has to push my buttons, the bastard. Marriage!

Two years ago, it was me and Maggie and the house, and who

knows, by now we might have even had a baby. And then she

left me for that fucking idiot, and all that was left for me were

the mortgage and the bills and her old clothes in a box.”

“The latter made a nice bonfire. And I can’t say I’m sorry

she left you.”

Thomas gave James an awkward, lopsided smile. “Of course

not. I have no regrets; meeting you was the best thing that ever

happened to me. But my old man’s still not talking to me, my

brother wants my head on a plate, work is like running the

gauntlet - and I didn’t expect you to be like - this.”

James reached for the mug and rolled it between his hands.

He preferred tea, but it was good to have something to keep his

hands busy. “Like what?”

Thomas didn’t reply right away; the tip of his tongue firmly

pressed into a corner of his mouth, he tried to sort his thoughts

first. “It’s not like La Cage aux Folles. Sebastian’s tough,

drinking and kick-boxing and all, and you don’t wear pink

spandex or walk a poodle. You’re so - normal.”

“Well, thank you for that most charming compliment,”

James replied tartly. “Lucky me! I’m a normal gay, unlike - who,

if I may ask?”

I DO! 243

“No! No! That’s not what I meant! Oh fuck.” Thomas raked

his hair with his hands. “Now look, I’m sitting here on your

sofa, I love you, the sex is great and I even put up with

Sebastian fucking Quinn, and it’s fine. I’ve met your bi-homo-

cosmo-metro-whateverthefuck-sexual mates and I liked most of

them, even the ones with the pink spandex and that strange

stockbroker who insisted on wearing a collar and a leash at your

birthday party. I don’t think I’ll ever get that appeal, by the way.

But seriously, I’ve never been happier, despite everything. I

never thought this thing - I mean, between you and me - was

wrong. I just didn’t expect anything like it to happen, and I can’t

simply snap my fingers and forget what I was taught as a lad, or

forget what I was like ten years ago. You know, it’s a damned

big step from beating up gays to dating one.”

“Or being one.”

“I’m not gay,” Thomas insisted.

“No, of course not. You’re bisexual.”

“I’m not bisexual, either.”

James stretched out on the sofa, his head on Thomas’ thigh,

and looked up at his face. According to Sebastian, Thomas had

a mug only a mother could love. At times, he couldn’t help but

wonder if maybe, just maybe, Sebastian had the sweets for

Thomas.

“I hate to break the shocking news to you, but being

attracted to both women and men can be a sign that somebody

might be bisexual.”

“I’m not attracted to men,” Thomas protested. “Only to

you. That’s not the same.”

“Oops! Did I just use the evil b-word? Of course you’re only

bisexual for me. In other news, excessive wanking causes hair to grow on your palms, and while we’re at it, never forget the

consequences for your mum’s back if you step on a crack. It’s a

big world out there, Thomas. No point squeezing all the colour

out of mankind by pressing people into monochromatic

moulds.”

Thomas shrugged. “I just don’t know why he’s starting

campaigning for marriage all of a sudden. Never thought that

244 Semi-detached ~ COLLINGWOOD

was one of his priorities. I mean, he chases anything on two legs

that’s not a ladder.”

James caressed Thomas’ forearm.

“It’s important to him.”

“No doubt the benefits are of special importance.”

“Benefits are important, because they are part of equal

treatment. But that’s not all there is to marriage. It’s about

making a commitment, isn’t it? Standing there for the entire

world to see and tell them ‘that’s my man and I love him, deal

with it.’”

Thomas looked nonplussed. “That’s very serious business,

I’d say.”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” Thomas wasn’t sure what to say next. Had this been a

hint? Or just a general statement? Should he ask? Awkward.

Luckily, he found a door to escape. “Talking about serious

business - you wanted to discuss something with me.”

“What?”

“You tell me. You said there’s something we need to

discuss. Don’t look like a doe caught in the headlights. What’s

up?”

James, caught off-guard and not expecting this sudden

change of subject, bit his lip. “I’m going to sell this flat.”

Thomas’ beady blue eyes became wide like saucers, and he

stared at James as if he’d just grown a second head. “You’re

going to do - what?”

“Sell it. The flat.”

“Yes, I got that, thank you, I mean ‘what’ as in ‘what the

fuck, why?’”

James shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not a home. But it’s a

home I want. Not just some decorative place where I’m nothing

but just another expensive accessory.”

“Accessory? What are you, a side table? What kind of home

do you want then?”

“Mrs. Brownlee’s.”

Thomas needed to process that news first. Mrs. Brownlee

was his neighbour, the owner of the other half of the semi-

I DO! 245

detached Victorian house he’d lovingly restored over the last

three years. New floors, heating, wiring, wallpaper — Thomas

had spent a lot of time and money on it. James had helped him,

changing his trademark brown corduroys and black turtleneck

for old jeans and a ratty sweater, scraping off wallpaper, mixing

plaster and keeping the cats from jumping in the paint buckets.

They had enjoyed the work on the house enormously, smoked

like chimneys and often ended the day with sex on the sofa.

Always the sofa. They never made it to the bedroom, a fact

James jokingly blamed on the fumes from the paint. Thomas

had been worrying about who might buy Mrs. Brownlee’s

house, now that she’d moved in with her son and put it on the

market. She’d been an old darling, not caring much about James

staying overnight, but who knew how new neighbours would

react? They could make his life hell.

“You mean, you’d leave Canary Wharf to move to fucking

Croydon?” Thomas finally asked.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” James said nervously. “And don’t

worry, I won’t breathe down your neck all the time; I’d have my

own place. But we could see more of each other. And I could

work from there just as well as from here.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t sound enthusiastic.”

“Eh.”

Thomas didn’t comment further, just stared at the telly. A

soap was on, and while the characters argued about yet another

daily drama, James came to the conclusion that he’d just made a

big mistake. Of course Thomas wasn’t ready to take that step

yet, the previous argument with Sebastian had made that

obvious. Moving in next door - what an idiotic idea! There were

the neighbours and the family, and the situation was difficult

enough already. He’d ring the estate agent tomorrow and call

the deal off.

“It’s not a supporting wall,” Thomas said all of a sudden.

“Wall?”

“I could knock it down, easily.”

“Knock down what wall?”

Thomas looked very excited all of a sudden.

246 Semi-detached ~ COLLINGWOOD

“In my bedroom. I think Mrs. Brownlee has a guestroom on

the other side, so we’d get a really big bedroom. I didn’t like the

floor, anyway. Parquet would be better. And as you wouldn’t

need the kitchen, we could turn it into a study for you. What do

you think?”

“You’re talking about turning the two houses into one?”

James croaked. “As in - we’d live together?”

Thomas nodded, in his mind already setting down the basics

for his plan. “Don’t worry, it’s not half as bad as it sounds.

We’ll need an architect, of course, and I’m afraid Mrs.

Brownlee’s house needs new plumbing and everything. But the

central heating’s new, put in only two years ago, and her son

rewired the place last summer. He did a good job, I think.”

Living together. Sharing the house. One bedroom. One

kitchen. Their names on the doorbell; Barnett and

Denningham.

James’ head was spinning from this sudden turn of the

conversation. He took Thomas’ healthy hand and squeezed it.

“I can tell you’re already calculating how many nails and

metres of pipes you’ll need, but are you sure that you want this?

Living with me? That would change everything, Thomas. It

would be like - being married.”

Thomas licked his lips. “That’s not a bad thing, is it? I mean

- that whole commitment business. I could do that. And who

knows, maybe one day - hey, as long as I don’t have to wear a

white puffy dress...good thing we could if we wanted to, isn’t it?

Get married, I mean. Just without the baby.”

“Well, there’s Sebastian...” James suggested.

Thomas cringed, but then he pressed a kiss on James’ head.

He remembered Maggie’s mother, and compared to her,

Sebastian wasn’t all that bad. At least he wouldn’t use Thomas’

razor to shave his legs.

Rules of the Game

MALLORY PATH

“Never?” Scott asks, swiveling the pitcher so he can reach

the handle.

“Never,” Charlie confirms as Scott pours for him.

“Thanks,” he adds.

Scott sets down the pitcher without pouring for himself. He

watches Charlie tip the stein to his lips and hold it there for a

few swallows.

“What?” Charlie asks, finally lowering his drink.

“Charlie,” Scott says, “are you telling me that Noah has

never, ever, not even once bottomed for you?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Charlie says. “I don’t see what

the big deal is. We do everything else. Maybe not everything

under the sun.” He pops a few pretzels into his mouth. “But

everything I’ve ever dreamed of. And a few things I hadn’t,

until Noah.”

Scott tops off his own glass. As he takes a long, deep

swallow of beer, he considers his friend. “It’s not a big deal,” he

concedes at last, tipping his chair back comfortably as he puts

his drink down. “You’re both consenting adults; whatever you

agree upon between you is your own concern, right?”

Charlie doesn’t bother to cover his pause with a drink or a

pretzel or anything. The gap in conversation just lies there,

Scott looking across it, until Charlie catches the look and says,

“Right,” in a tone completely lacking conviction to Scott’s ear.

“You’ve talked about it, right?”

Charlie shrugs. “It’s just sort of an unspoken agreement. It’s

just the way it is, Scott.”

“And you’re good with that?”

“I’m good with him, yeah,” Charlie says.

Scott gives him one more look before turning his attention

back to the game on the TV above the bar. “Okay.”

A few scoreless plays later, Charlie says, “You think it’s

weird that he always tops?”

“I think it’s weird that you aren’t curious about it,” Scott

says without moving his eyes from the screen.

250 Rules of the Game ~ PATH

“It’s not like we don’t do other things.” Charlie twists the

ring on his finger. “It’s not like we don’t talk. It’s just when it

comes to that, that’s how it is.”

“Okay, Charlie,” Scott says, glancing over. “Forget I said

anything, okay?”

“Okay,” Charlie says, in a tone completely lacking

conviction to his own ear.

  

“Noah,” Charlie says when they are in bed a few nights later.

“Noah,” he says again between kisses, pulling back more than

he needs to for breath, enough for eye contact. He smiles when

Noah looks at him, and Noah smiles too. “Do you fancy a

game tonight?”

Noah’s brow quirks up without disrupting his smile. “What

sort of game?”

Charlie pushes Noah onto his back as he sits up, swinging

one leg over to straddle him. Taking Noah’s hands by the

wrists, he leans forward as he curves Noah’s arms to the

headboard. Without being told, Noah curls his fingers around

the slats. Charlie sits back, settling himself on Noah’s abdomen,

feeling the swell of breath between his thighs.

“As long as both hands stay on the headboard,” Charlie

explains, “I have to do whatever you ask.

“If I’m able to do something so wondrously that one of

your hands comes off the headboard, I don’t have to do what

you say anymore–but I can’t do anything you say no to.

“If I’m able to get both your hands off the headboard,”

Charlie flashes a grin, “then I can do whatever I want.” The grin

slides another shade towards wicked. “Anything I want.”

Noah matches his grin. “Okay.” He adjusts his grip on the

brass slats. “Let’s start with a blowjob.”

Charlie moves his smile to Noah’s cock, first kissing the

head, then licking the length before swallowing it as Noah

directs, sucking until Noah comes down his throat. He keeps

Noah in his mouth, listening to the words of praise drip from

Noah’s, as Noah goes completely soft.

I DO! 251

When Noah says, “Lower,” Charlie releases him and slides

back so he can move his mouth to Noah’s balls. He hovers,

painting breath on the tender flesh, inhaling the musk. He

hovers until Noah says, “Mouth them.” And Charlie does,

brushing his lips against them, parting to breathe them in,

drawing them into his mouth with gentle suction, lips still

moving, tongue moving too in tender little licks. When he hears

the moan from Noah’s mouth, inarticulate but communicating

more to him than words could, Charlie almost smiles around

Noah’s sac: the first hand will soon be his.

A moment later it’s in his hair, not asking for more, not

asking anything, just wanting, wanting and needing to be there,

burrowing into the softness.

Noah chokes a sigh at the loss when Charlie raises his head.

Smiling, he acknowledges the fingers in his hair with a touch,

briefly curling with them as he says, “May I go lower?”

“Yes,” Noah breathes his permission, his smile less obvious,

resting at the corners of his mouth.

As he moves farther back on the bed, Charlie has a moment

of regret for not thinking to ask to kiss Noah’s cock, already

hardening and darkening with blood again. But he doesn’t want

to break his rhythm, so he slides all the way back between

Noah’s legs until his own go over the edge of the bed and his

feet touch the floor. Mischief flashes across his lips as he dips

his head to press a kiss to the inner spur of Noah’s ankle. He

hears a low rumble of laughter and looks up to share Noah’s

grin before going down to kiss the other ankle.

With Noah’s permission, Charlie makes his way back up

Noah’s legs, kiss by kiss, until he reaches their joining. One

hand on each thigh, he applies enough pressure to suggest what

he wants and Noah spreads for him. “May I kiss you there?”

Noah’s breath plays heavy over his lips, the backdraft

coaxing out his smile. “Where?”

Charlie presses his middle and forefinger to his mouth.

“Here,” he smiles, touching the kissed fingertips to opposite

sides of Noah’s hole.

Noah has to lick his lower lip before the path is slick enough

for his “yes” to slide out.

252 Rules of the Game ~ PATH

Charlie lowers himself to his belly again, takes a moment to

smile at the fingers of Noah’s one hand re-threading into his

hair, and then his smile and kiss meet each other as he puts his

mouth to Noah. He circles with the tip of his tongue, drags the

flat across, presses the pucker of his lips to the pucker of

Noah’s asshole.

He comes up for breath and for another request: “Lick this

for me?” He offers his finger and Noah moves forward for it.

As he suckles, Charlie lets his gaze drift from Noah’s face to

Noah’s hand, white-knuckled around the headboard’s bar.

With a sigh at the pleasant scrape of teeth along the

underside and the gorgeous wet softness inside Noah’s lip,

Charlie drags his finger free of Noah’s mouth.

And then he pushes into a different gorgeousness, just the

tip of his finger inside Noah, not pushing more, just slip-

twisting. He bends to lick his finger; keeps licking as he

withdraws it, and now it is just his tongue slip-twisting, licking,

fucking.

And then both of Noah’s hands are in Charlie’s hair.

The hands fall from him as Charlie sits up. Noah is arching

and yielding and open, his body open, his mouth open, his eyes

closed.

Noah’s eyes open when Charlie touches the head of his cock

to Noah’s entrance. They pause the moment to look at each

other. Noah’s mouth quirks up in a grin on one side, but he

doesn’t say no. Can’t: the game, they both know, doesn’t allow

it.

Charlie doesn’t push in. He takes Noah’s right hand and

curls Noah’s fingers back around the bars of the headboard. His

fingertips trace the curved band of gold on the ring finger as he

does the same with Noah’s left hand.

They look at each other.

“Rules of the game,” Charlie says. “You’re back in control.”

“Rules of the game,” Noah agrees. Smiles with open eyes

and heavy-breathed open mouth: “Fuck me, Charlie.”

And Charlie, open-eyed, open-mouthed, open-hearted, does.

Templeton’s In Love

JERRY L. WHEELER

The line curled around the block like a pubic hair, I typed in my head.

Maybe not the most effective simile, but writing porn for a

living leads you to make some weird comparisons. And the line

did stretch all the way from the new faux red brick front of

CARMINE’S SUPPER CLUB AND RISTORANTE down to their

landmark sign a block and a half away. But even landmarks

change. The flowing script of the old “Carmine’s” logo had

been replaced with a blocky Bodoni whose straight, modern

design was almost as offensive as the pretentious “Ristorante”

squeezed in at the bottom.

This part of Colfax had always been the hip, trendy district,

but the patchouli-fragrant head shops and musty used

bookstores had been replaced by gourmet ice-cream stands and

chain coffee shops with parking spots for strollers and dogs

allowed on the patios. The only survivors were Sailor Jack’s

Tattoos – now known as BODYART – and Carmine’s.

I stepped out of line long enough to gauge the distance to

the front door: about fifty or sixty people away. I hoped they

wouldn’t sell out. Templeton hasn’t played in ten years – I have

to be there. Seeing him without Stan will be strange, but Stan

and I haven’t seen each other for ten years either. I wondered if

I should get two tickets and who I could ask to go with me

when a familiar face emerged from the front door and began

walking the line, stopping occasionally to talk to someone.

It was Carmine Jr., looking a little older than when I’d last

seen him. His face brightened with recognition when he

approached. “Tom!” he said, grabbing me in a bear hug. “How

are you, buddy? How come we never see you down here

anymore?”

“I’m good,” I said as we separated and looked at each other.

He’d filled out nicely, acquiring that stocky barrel chest Carmine

Sr. had, little tufts of hair sticking out of the collar of his white shirt. “I moved out to the burbs – don’t get to the old

neighborhood much. If I hadn’t gotten your flyer, I wouldn’t

have known about this.”

“Flyer? Wow, I didn’t think the homeless guys I hired got

out that far.”

256 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER

“Your folks still around, or are you running the place now?”

He chuckled. “They say it’s mine but Mama comes down to

the kitchen every day to tell me what’s wrong with my red sauce

and Pop’s usually behind the bar buying drinks for his buddies

– you know how it is.” He handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s

a ticket voucher. Just pay when you get up to the window. I

want to make sure the old crowd gets in to see Templeton.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe he’s playing after what –

ten years? He’s got to be in love again. Did you talk to him?”

“Pop did. All I know is that I had to get the piano out of

storage and have it tuned. He’s gonna be here for one show,

tomorrow night – hey, are you still with Stan?”

I knew he’d ask. “No, not since Templeton stopped

playing.”

“Sorry to hear that. You guys were a good couple.” He

looked down the line. “I gotta finish handing these out,” he

said. “Look, when you get here on Saturday, hunt me down. I

won’t have a lot of time to talk, but I’ll make sure you get a

good table. If it wasn’t for the old crowd coming to see

Templeton, we never would have made it through some pretty

lean years. We want to treat you guys right. See ya, buddy.” He

clapped me on the shoulder and continued his trek down the

line.

The old crowd, I thought. Our crowd. Stan and I had seen a lot of the same faces every Saturday night – mostly other gay men,

dykes and goth kids with bohemian aspirations, but once word

spread, young straight couples started driving in from the

suburbs looking for emotional diversions they couldn’t find at

the multiplex. Carmine always found tables for us, though –

tables for dreaming of ‘the someone’ Templeton sang about,

tables for falling in love and tables for breaking up.

And in front of the stage sat his partner, Taylor, his bulky

frame as out of place at their small table as a stuffed bear at a

dollhouse tea party. He was as big and tall as Templeton was

short and skinny – opposites who attracted attention. They

lived in the neighborhood and Templeton was an accountant.

That’s all anyone really knew about them. No one knew how

they met or when their birthdays were or even how Templeton

I DO! 257

had started playing at Carmine’s. We didn’t even know his first

name.

You could spend dinner talking to them, as Stan and I had

on a few occasions, and be as clueless by dessert as you were

when the salads came. Taylor parried direct questions

effortlessly as Templeton smiled, his skinny face full of piano-

key teeth, and told another isolated anecdote unrelated to the

subject at hand. They were a world unto themselves, and they

never handed anyone a map.

But Gershwin was in their world – Gershwin, Cole Porter,

Rodgers & Hart, Dorothy Fields and Jule Styne. “Nothing past

1960,” Templeton used to say, “when music became vulgar.”

And he sang those witty, urbane songs of love and loss directly

to the man at the front table, who looked up at the stage with

admiration. He played them all for Taylor. Everyone else just

happened to be in the same room.

Then Stan and I started falling apart. Arguments and

tantrums and nights of silent disgust for each other kept us

away from Carmine’s for a couple of months. When we went

back for an attempted reconciliation dinner, Taylor had lost a

shocking amount of weight. AIDS, cancer – who knows what

he had? The rumors ran rampant. Templeton still sang to him

but a shrill desperation crept into his voice, as if the melody

could keep Taylor alive. And we resumed our regular Saturday

night attendance, as if it could restore us as well.

But in the end, it didn’t work for anybody. Taylor died, Stan

and I broke up and Templeton stopped singing. Carmine tried

out a few other acts, but it wasn’t the same. And then the small

stage was gone, replaced by a few more tables and a coffee

station in the back of the room. I moved to the suburbs to hide

and write.

Now, Templeton was playing. He must be in love again.

The box office was getting closer – only a few more people

now. We stepped around the legs of a homeless guy sleeping

against the wall. His head tilted to the right, slumped on his

shoulder as he snored out a foul stink of unbrushed teeth and

stale wine.

258 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER

Homeless man sex, I thought. That’d be great for the

collection of fetish stories I had in the works.

It didn’t do anything for me personally, but someone would

be bound to get off on it. I noted his craggy, unshaven grey

jowls and the stains on the thighs of his tan work pants, forcing

myself to look higher at the slight bulge of his crotch and trying

to imagine his unwashed cock smell. I stepped closer, hoping

no one would notice me trying to sniff a homeless guy.

“Tommy? Is that you?”

Even if I hadn’t recognized Stan’s voice or the way he called

me Tommy, I would have known by his presence. I’d been

feeling it since I stepped in line. I figured he was around

somewhere – he had to be. I hadn’t let myself look for him

because I dreaded seeing him as much as I longed to. If we

were supposed to see each other again, he’d have to find me. It

was his responsibility. After all, he was the one who left.

“If you have to ask, I must be.” I couldn’t help but smile

when I looked at him. He always made me smile. What would

we do now? An awkward hug that reminded us of what we used

to mean to each other – or even worse, a tepid handshake?

What do you say to someone whose last words were “Fuck

you”?

Stan solved the problem by stepping in with a combination

hug and clap on the back, heavy on the reassuring clap part. I

mirrored his actions, trying to ignore his smell, which I loved –

a combination of aftershave and pheromones that always drove

me to sniff his pillow long after he’d left our bed. He broke

away first, holding me by the shoulders at arm’s length.

“You look great,” he said with a broad smile.

“So do you.” It wasn’t a lie, at least on my part. Stan used to

be geek-chic, tall and skinny with a nose the size of Idaho and

deep-set blue eyes. But somewhere between “Fuck you” and

“Tommy, is that you?” he’d grown into his nose and put on a

few pounds. None of it looked like fat, either. He’d had his

teeth fixed and was wearing an Armani sports jacket over a

gleaming white shirt, some expensive-looking jeans and loafers

that looked too buttery soft to be domestic. Corporate law must

have been good to him. And Connie.

I DO! 259

“Thanks, buddy.” The “buddy” sounded too foreign, too

straight to be coming out of his mouth. “I can’t believe

Templeton’s playing again after all this time. He must be in love

again.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“How many, please?” The girl’s face was irritated and

expectant. She held a wad of tickets and a finger poised for

counting. How long had I been standing in front of the

window?

“Are you going?” I asked Stan. It was a reflex action.

“I wanted to, but it looks like the line’s pretty long. I just got

here.”

I turned back to the window and reached for my wallet.

“Two, please,” I said.

She snapped the tickets off a roll and took my money.

“Next.”

“Does this mean you’re taking me?” he asked as we stepped

away from the window. I handed him his ticket

“I just gave you a ticket, didn’t I?”

“Maybe you’d rather take your boyfriend or partner or

whatever.”

“Nope.” I tried not to say it like I hadn’t been on a date in

five years.

“Great,” he said. “I’m looking forward to it. Hey, how about

you come over and see my place, Tommy? It’ll shock the hell

out of you when you see where I’m living. Or do you have to

get back home to the boyfriend?”

Two “boyfriends” in two minutes, I thought. This from a

guy who couldn’t even say the word ten years ago. “Sure,” I

replied. “Let’s go.”

He took the lead as we crossed the street against the light, a

weird air of expectant hesitation between us. We both wanted

to talk, but how to start? True to form, I let him begin, content

to admire the grey in his hair and the lines on his face. They

made him look even more handsome than ever. I had always

imagined they would.

“So, how have you been?” he finally asked.

260 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER

“Good – and you?”

“Can’t complain.”

“How’s Connie?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t talked to her in a long time.”

“What happened?”

A half-smile crept across his face. “What you said would

happen. How did you know?”

“I didn’t. I mean, I thought … okay, it’s what I wanted to

happen. But at least she had the baby. You got some of what

you wanted.”

“Nope. She lost it, and the doctor wasn’t optimistic about

trying again.” He fell silent for a few seconds, staring away as if

another life of his was off in the distance. “We thought about

adopting,” he said, looking at me again, “but our lives seemed

too tentative after that. After a couple of years, we got tired of

making each other miserable and packed it in. She lives

somewhere in Portland now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Why? Portland’s nice,” he said with a grin.

“No, no – I’m sorry to hear you split up.”

We paused at a curb, letting traffic go by as he squinted into

the sun. “Why should you be sorry?” he asked. “I walked out

on you – on us. You should be raging, but you’re sorry instead.”

The cars cleared and we crossed Colfax. Just like Stan to tell

me how I should be reacting. “I don’t do rage very well,” I said,

shrugging. “Anyway, that was a long time ago.”

“You’re too nice, Tommy. You always have been. You

know, I was the luckiest man alive, but I fucked up. I walked

out on the only person who ever really loved me.”

“Connie loved you.”

“Not like you did. And you know what? I’ve never loved

anyone like I did you. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to

throw it away. We could have had a beautiful life together, but

you’re probably settled down with some nice guy in the

suburbs. Dogs and a mortgage and everything.”

Who the hell was I walking with? Stan the Contrite? Stan the

Apologetic? I wished I could think fast enough to invent a

I DO! 261

fantasy husband, but he always knew when I was lying anyway.

“I do live out in the ‘burbs, but I’m single. I haven’t been on a

date in, like, five years. Sad, huh?”

“Sad? I think it’s a damn shame. You don’t know how many

times I picked up the phone to call you, Tommy.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d hang up or not. You know I’m not

good with rejection.”

“Who is?” I replied before thinking.

He was silent for a few moments. “I guess I deserved that.”

I hadn’t meant it like that, but nothing I could have said

would have convinced him otherwise. Letting him think

whatever he needed to, I walked alongside him. The route was

disquietingly familiar – two blocks south of Colfax and east one

block on 13th to Sherman. When we turned south again, it hit

me.

“You rented our old apartment,” I said.

“No,” he said quickly. “I rented the one across the hall.

When Connie and I got divorced, I needed a place to stay, and

I’ve always liked this neighborhood. When I was down here

looking, I ran into Madeline. She told me there was a vacancy,

so I took it. That’s all.”

Too many coincidences and too much denial, I thought. I

didn’t know what was going on, but it was cute rather than

menacing, so I decided to let things play out – and despite the

weird vibe, I was enjoying being with Stan after all this time.

There was a reason I’d never fallen for anyone else.

We walked down Sherman towards Poet’s Row, a series of

apartment buildings named after famous poets, and stopped in

front of the Robert Frost. The entry door had been refinished

and some of the brickwork redone, but it was as charming as I

remembered. Virginia creeper laced the eaves and framed the

second and third floor windows, shadowed by huge elms that

were just starting to drop leaves.

When we stepped into the entry hall, the sight of the

mailboxes and the scent of mildewed carpet and wood oil took

me back ten years. We were young and in love and just coming

262 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER

home from a walk around Capitol Hill, fresh and energized by

talking and walking. And horny. God, we were so horny then.

I had to touch him. The feeling was so instinctive and

automatic that my reaction surprised even me. As he dug in his

pocket for his front door key, I reached up and began

massaging his shoulders. He stopped, straightened up and

leaned back into me, the pressure of his body making me want

to press myself into him in response. But I couldn’t. I had

already gone way farther than I intended.

I tried distracting myself by remembering the distance

between us those last weeks, remembering his “Fuck you,

Tommy” and how I crammed our pictures into a cardboard box

without even taking them out of the frames, sobbing as they

crashed to the bottom of the dumpster in the alley. And how I

slammed the lid down on the whole broken mess, swearing I’d

never let anyone do that to me again.

“Mmmmm, that feels nice,” he said. And it all disappeared

into his breath and his smell and his voice and his flesh giving

way beneath the flex of my fingers. He turned his head towards

mine, his eyes closed and his lips parted. They looked soft and

warm, exhaling a ragged passion as familiar to me as my own.

All I had to do was lean forward a few inches and throw myself

off the cliff again.

That’s why I let go. His eyes popped open when we broke

contact, and he sighed. I may have too. I can’t remember. All I

remember is instant regret. “I can’t,” I think I said.

He nodded, his lips closing around a rueful smirk. “I know.

I’m sorry.”

But I knew he wasn’t.

“You still want to come in for a few minutes?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, not sure at all.

I followed him down the hall, going further back in time

with each step until I got to the door of our old apartment. I

felt the heft of the suitcase I left with and I swore if I’d looked

at my palm, the imprint would have been there like stigmata.

Stan must have noticed me staring at the door.

“It was pretty weird for a while,” he said. “Now, I don’t

even notice it. C’mon in.” The floor plan was just like our old

I DO! 263

place except turned around – same arched doorways, same

radiator, same vaulted ceilings with the same ceiling fan. “Want

something to drink?”

“Water would be great, thanks.” Glancing around the room,

I noticed a general shabbiness. The carpets were worn, the sofa

fabric shiny and frayed in spots, un-refurbished second-hand

furniture. Not the surroundings for a successful corporate

lawyer. “So, how far is this from your office?” I asked, sitting

on the sofa.

He came back from the kitchen with two bottles of water. “I

don’t have an office,” he said as he handed me one and sat

down beside me. “I’m not doing corporate law anymore.”

“Did you retire or what?”

“Eh – bought some properties, sold ‘em, made some money.

Don’t do much of anything anymore. I’m trying to live simply.

Do you remember the day I left?”

“Parts of it.”

“I’m sure you remember the ‘fuck you’ part – you don’t

know how sorry I am about that. But do you remember what

you said right before that?”

“No.” It wasn’t a routine denial, either. I really didn’t.

“You said I’d never be happy until I learned to live in my

own skin, and you were right. Well, that’s what I’ve spent the

last five years doing – learning to live in my own skin. I’m in

therapy, I came out to my sister and my folks and, believe it or

not, I’m happy for the first time in my life.”

“No more hiding, huh? Feels great, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he said, putting his bottle of water on the coffee table in front of us, “but I only have one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I miss what we had.” He moved so close our knees

touched. I was up against the arm of the sofa and had nowhere

else to go.

“You’ll find it with someone else,” I replied, holding my

bottle of water as if that would ward him off.

He moved in even closer. “I don’t want someone else,” he

said. “I want you.”

264 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER

Stan took my head in both of his hands and guided it to his

lips, but I already knew the way. His smell and the touch of his

fingers on my cheeks rendered me helpless. Our lips met in a

soft, speculative kiss that soon became eager and definite. I put

my arms around him and he let go of me. I was in his grip

regardless.

Dizzied by the frantic dance of our tongues, each kiss-

muffled sigh cast me further and further back, into a warm, safe

place I knew well but never hoped to see again – and it was just

as beautiful and narcotic as I remembered it. We waltzed

dangerously close to the edge of a precipice without a rope to

pull us back to reality. I had to stop the music in my head, no

matter how much I liked the tune. “I can’t do this,” I said,

pushing away from him and getting up from the sofa. My lips

already felt cold and deserted. “I can’t go back.”

“It’s not going back, Tommy,” he said, a pleading I’d never

heard before in his voice, “it’s going on. Right from where we left off.”

I didn’t want to argue the point. I couldn’t. “I have to get

out of here,” I said, heading for the door.

“Wait, Tommy – don’t …”

But it was too late. I was already out in the hall. I felt

something running over my hand and realized I was squeezing

the water out of the bottle I’d been holding. I wiped my fingers

off on my pants and dropped the bottle on Robert Frost’s

carpet, fighting my way to the front door through a flood of

memories.

  

I must have taken that ticket out of my pocket a thousand

times trying to decide whether or not to go. By the next

afternoon, it was smudged and torn a quarter of the way

through due to a hasty decision after a few vodka and tonics

that were supposed to put me to sleep but didn’t.

Staying home with yet another drink would have been the

easiest thing to do – let it all pass me by and forget the whole

damn thing. But I couldn’t. If I could have forgotten it, I

wouldn’t have gone down there to pick up the ticket in the first

place. It wasn’t Templeton, it was Stan. It wasn’t over between

I DO! 265

us – maybe not in the way he thought, but I had things to say and he needed to hear them. Or at least I needed to say them. I

wasn’t about to get back together with him, that was for sure.

He might be in therapy, he might be sorry, he might even love

me, but I’d moved on. Too bad he hadn’t.

That was in my stronger moments. Other times I wondered

just what I’d moved on to – an empty house? Meals alone by

the television like my widowed dad? Not going to the

symphony because I hated going places by myself? I needed to

make more friends, but I didn’t socialize well. I’d never

acquired that skill.

I don’t know if it was curiosity, fate or the unfinished

business with Stan, but Saturday night found me standing

outside Carmine’s with my smudged, half-torn ticket in my

hand watching a lot of people file in but none coming out.

Hoping Carmine Jr. would make good on his promise to find

me a table, I straightened my tie, brushed some lint off my

jacket and went inside.

The main dining room was packed, and so were the two new

overflow rooms off to either side. They had the same burgundy

carpet, dark wood paneling, maps of Italy and framed pictures

of Frank Sinatra on the wall. There must be an Italian

Restaurant Warehouse that every Carmine’s, Angelo’s and

Dino’s in the country buys this stuff from, I thought. But the

new rooms also had video screens and speakers.

“Hi Tom,” Carmine Jr. said, coming around from the

reservations desk. “Glad to see you. We weren’t sure if you

were gonna make it.”

“We?”

“Follow me – your table’s this way.” He zipped into the

main dining room, quickly weaving his way down front between

tables, waiters and customers. I almost lost him in a near

collision with a family-style platter of pasta primavera, but I was

able to catch up with him when he stopped for a crossing

dessert cart. He motioned me closer to the stage and pointed to

a small table with a huge bouquet of flowers. Stan occupied the

other chair.

266 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER

“Don’t ask if I have another table,” Carmine Jr. said. “It’s

here or the alley. You boys talk. I’ll have Stephanie take your

cocktail order. It’s on me, so drink up – I’ll be overcharging you

for dinner.” He smiled. “Enjoy.”

“I’m glad you showed up,” Stan said. “I would have looked

pretty stupid sitting here with these flowers and no date – wait,

maybe I shouldn’t have called it a date.” His grin was as

disarming as ever, bringing to mind some of the crazy stuff I

used to do to see that grin.

I had to smile. “I think this qualifies. Thanks – they’re

beautiful.”

“And,” he said, moving them between us and the rest of the

room, “I got them big enough to hide everyone else, so it just

seems like it’s us and the stage. I hope the waitress knows we’re

back here.”

I couldn’t banter without speaking my piece first. “Look,

I’m sorry about running out on you yesterday.”

“I’m sorry about springing it on you like that. I should have

warmed up to it first, but you know me – I’m pretty direct.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I remember. That’s why I’m going to try to

be the same. I know how you feel, believe me. And if this had

come right after we broke up, there would be no question about

giving it another shot. But it’s just too long, Stan. Too long.

And I’m not sure it’s what you really want.”

“What do you think I want?”

“I think you want to take back ten years, Stan. You can’t do

that. I mean, look what you’re calling me. No one ever calls me

‘Tommy’ anymore.”

I thought I saw a tear in his eye but it could have been a

trick of the light. “But that’s how I remember you.”

“See? That’s the problem. I’m not that guy anymore.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said. “Do you mean to tell me the

man who enjoyed romance more than anything else in the

whole world is gone? What happened to him?”

“He starved to death,” I replied. “We can be friends, Stan.

I’d really like that. I enjoyed spending time with you yesterday.

Let’s just be friends, okay?”

I DO! 267

“I’m not sure I can do that,” he said as the waitress appeared

over the flowers.

“What can I get you gentlemen to drink?”

As we gave her our drink orders and requested two house

specials for dinner, the dining room lights flickered on and off,

finally settling on dim as the crowd began to buzz.

A familiar figure walked briskly from the bar and took the

stage. Templeton hadn’t changed much. Always small and thin,

he’d gotten even thinner. His brown eyes looked hard and

flinty. His moustache was still black, but his dark hair was

flecked with grey and wrinkles grooved the corners of his

mouth.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment, then

brought his hands to the keyboard and began to play Come Rain

or Come Shine softly. He hummed in a barely audible voice until he’d played the verse through, then he sang out. His voice was

lower, hoarser than I remembered it, but it had a gravity that

wasn’t there before. Finishing the opening number, he ignored

the enthusiastic applause and swung into Misty without a break.

His voice was getting stronger, swooping and swirling sassy

through Ain’t Misbehavin’ then vamping on the melody to segue into a soft, seductive version of Mean to Me. He was in great form, as if he hadn’t been away from Carmine’s for ten years. I

always loved his piano skills because I seemed to hear more

notes than he looked like he was playing. But as terrific as his

performance was, it was different – lonelier. It needed joy.

The audience lapped it up like heavy cream. The warmth

they exuded in return filled the room, but Templeton remained

unaffected by it. He neither acknowledged or discouraged the

attention. He let it wash over him – a wave of devotion that

crashed against the stage and pooled uselessly beneath the

pedals of the piano.

He continued playing for an hour, moving from song to

song without a break for even a sip of the Calistoga water

sweating atop the piano. Stan and I were mesmerized. Neither

one of us said anything during that hour, despite the arrival of

our dinners. We ate, but I don’t remember a thing about the

food.

268 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER

The only pause in the set was before the last number. He

took his fingers off the keyboard and nearly drained the

Calistoga dry in a couple of swigs before leaning into the mic.

“This is something I wrote many years ago,” he said, “for

someone who never got a chance to hear it.”

He began a soft, sad intro of minor keys bespeaking major

heartbreak. There were no lyrics; only a slow, desolate melody

that rendered words insufficient. The middle was stronger,

more hopeful, but it was only a 32-bar oasis that lingered long

enough for relief before the chord progression turned somber

and elegiac once again. I realized then that Templeton was not in love. It would have been impossible to invest that tune with

that much pain, that much sorrow, if he had been in love. He

was a wonderful performer, but no one was that good. Why was

he performing again, then? Was it a tribute to Taylor? Some sort

of closure?

Towards the end, the melody simply drifted off. Templeton

played it softer and softer until it disappeared like bitter smoke

over the crowd. In the silence that followed, I heard sniffling

and saw many people daubing their eyes, including Stan.

Without waiting for applause, Templeton left the stage and

walked quickly to the bar area, disappearing behind a door in

the back. He must have heard the crowd’s deafening

appreciation. I clapped so hard my hands hurt.

“He’s not in love,” Stan said as we sat back down. “There’s

no way. I mean, he was great, but there was no joy.”

We still thought alike. “I was thinking the same thing. You

remember he used to say he couldn’t perform without it. That’s

why he quit when Taylor got sick. So, why is he up there?”

“Mr. Tom?” said a creaking, accented voice. It was

Carmine’s mother, Rosa, standing inside the tubular aluminum

cage of her walker. She had to be in her eighties. She was

wrinkled and stooped, her black and red dotted dress draped in

folds over her tiny frame. Her pulse beat through the paper-thin

skin of her wrist as she held out her hand. I stood up and

clasped it.

“Rosa,” I said, “how are you? You look terrific.”

I DO! 269

“I look old,” she cackled, “but it’s okay. At least I don’t look

dead.” She glanced down at our empty plates. “Mange bella – the special, it was good?”

“It was great.”

“Grandmama Cochelli’s red sauce, it don’t miss. Carmine

learns pretty good, but I make tonight. Good to see Mr.

Templeton back, eh?”

“It certainly is – he sounded great.”

She broke out in a white, dentured grin. “Beautiful,” she

said. “He got to have a little bit Italiano in him, eh? Ah, is just too sad what happened.”

“I know. I still think about Taylor to this day. He was a

wonderful guy.”

She knitted her grey eyebrows with confusion. “Mr. Taylor,

yes. He always make me laugh – but Mr. Templeton...”

“Templeton?”

“He has the cancer too.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh my God,” I said,

“we had no idea.”

“He don’t say nothing to nobody, but he hurts. I see

sometime when he comes in the morning to practice for

tonight. You should stop at St. Catherine’s and say a novena for

him before you go home. For him not to hurt so much.”

I really couldn’t speak.

“We will,” Stan said for me. “Thanks for telling us.”

“You are good people, so you should know. Nice to see you

boys again. Buona notte.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “He’s dying, but he’s playing again.”

“I think you have the order wrong there,” Stan replied.

“He’s playing because he’s dying. He’s anticipating seeing his joy again.”

The lights dimmed again and Templeton emerged, taking

the stage a little less adroitly than before. Or maybe it was my

imagination. He sat down at the bench and began to noodle

through Come Rain or Come Shine again. The audience fell quiet, but this silence wasn’t the expectant one that had preceded his

270 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER

first set. It was the solemn, respectful silence that ensues after

an unsettling disclosure.

Either from the wait staff or Carmine Jr., the news of

Templeton’s illness had spread and he definitely noticed the

difference in the crowd. He continued playing with the song,

running down the same sixteen bars over and over as he gazed

out on the audience with a thoughtful frown.

Suddenly, he seemed to understand. His playing became

more purposeful and the frown vanished, replaced by the

thinnest of grins as he bent down to the mic. “Oh, I see,” he

said. “But you shouldn’t feel sorry for me. I’m not sorry. It’s the

second best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He played

harder, staring straight up as he crooned the verse loud and

clear.

He could have been looking at the water-stained ceiling or

he could have been looking at God, but we knew who he was

looking at. My gaze went up there too for a respectful moment,

but there was nothing for me in that direction. I looked at Stan,

then I took his face in my hands and kissed him as hard as I

could, thinking that maybe sometimes you have to go back

before you can move on.

True Love

MOONDANCER DRAKE

Shona pressed her chest against Kai’s back to hold her

steady, as the cotton-covered plastic crinkled under their

weight. The midwife’s voice sounded far away as she coached

Kai to breathe slower, but Shona focused on her instructions as

best she could. Alan and Ely stood across the king bed, their

hands locked together and eyes wide as they watched Kai

struggle to breathe through the next contraction, her heart-

shaped face tensed with the strain of the labor. Despite the

exhilaration of being so close to welcoming their son into the

world, Shona was frustrated beyond words at her inability to

shield the woman she loved from pain. Kai had insisted on a

home birth so they’d have the luxury of all four parents being

there when Jae came into the world. Shona had resisted at first,

but after Kai had been in labor for twelve hours, she was

thankful to have both men around to help out. They’d spent the

whole day and night taking care of the mothers’ needs, allowing

Shona to devote her full attention to helping her wife.

At the 36-hour mark all four of them were emotionally and

physically spent. As low as Shona’s energy was, her temper was

just as high. She had to give the guys credit. They took her

grouchy manner and Kai’s demands with an air of patience and

understanding that she wasn’t sure she could have managed.

Even with the extra help, Shona was relieved to hear Mitexi,

their midwife, tell Kai it was time to push.

Soon. Just over eight months she and Kai had waited for

their son, eight months and nine years if she counted how long

they’d talked about wanting a child together. The idea filled

Shona with new energy and gave her the strength to hold Kai

up so she could squat. Alan and Ely hovered closer.

Mitexi moved to kneel at the foot of the bed. “We’re nearly

there. We’ll start slow. Keep breathing nice and easy, and when

I tell you to push only do it for as long as I tell you to. I know

you’re as ready to see your son as he is to see you, but we have

to be gentle.” They’d chosen Mitexi to look after Kai during

the pregnancy because she was their friend, but her

commanding tone and alert presence even after all these hours

reminded Shona what a skilled midwife she was.

Kai nodded, and at Mitexi’s signal, her body tensed. Shona

could feel Kai’s muscles tighten beneath her embrace, her

274 True Love ~ DRAKE

whole body shaking with the effort. Alan and Ely offered words

of encouragement, but Shona doubted Kai could hear them

over her grunts of effort.

Between pushes, Kai leaned back against Shona and Mitexi

massaged Kai’s perineum. Ely fussed over the wrinkled

bedsheets, smoothing their edges with the side of his hand.

Alan’s assistance proved to be far more practical when he

brought Shona a bowl of cool water and a soft cloth folded into

a thick sash.

Shona dipped the end of the sash in the water and rung it

out over the bowl. She placed the cool fabric against her wife’s

forehead and cheeks and Kai smiled in gratitude. “You’re doing

great.” Shona whispered. “Not long now.”

“I’m so tired.” Kai sighed and laid her head back against

Shona’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“I’ve seen you run a party for two hundred, short staffed,

and have everything go off without even a missing crab puff.”

Shona kissed Kai’s forehead. “If you can pull that off, you can

do it all.”

“Just because you burn microwavable popcorn doesn’t mean

I’m a catering superhero.” Kai scolded, but with a chuckle in

her voice. “This baby’s a far more demanding client.”

“He wants to be with us, just as much as we want him to

be.” Shona rewet the cloth and dabbed Kai’s neck and chest

with it. “Just keep thinking about how much you want to hold

our baby in your arms. That’ll get you through.”

“I want to marry you.” Kai whispered.

“We are married.” Shona did her best to hide the worry

from her expression with a smile. Kai always talked about

marriage when she was feeling tired and melancholy. “Almost

ten years now.”

Kai closed her eyes. “No. Not handfasted. I want to marry

you. I want a big wedding with all of our friends and our

parents. Just like the one my sister had.”

“Which one. She’s been married what, four times now?”

Shona teased.

I DO! 275

“Three.” Kai scowled. “That’s not the point. I don’t just

want to call you my wife. I want to be married. Really married.

It’s not fair.”

Shona hugged Kai and nodded. “Soon. I promise. Maybe

after the baby is older we can take a trip to do it. If we can’t do

it here in Wisconsin by then, maybe we’ll go up to Canada.”

Mitexi tapped Kai’s arm, signaling her it was time to push

again. Shona focused on moving Kai back into position, but she

couldn’t help her thoughts drifting to the worry she knew was

still very real in both Kai’s and her own mind.

This was not the first time they had talked about marriage.

Their handfasting had been beautiful. Even so, the fact the

union wasn’t recognized in Wisconsin left them feeling

unsteady and vulnerable. It’d been the worst when Shona went

through the ordeal of breast cancer three years before. Her

parents were far from supportive of what they called her

“choice of bedmates.” If Shona was hospitalized or died the law

would give Kai no recourse when Shona’s parents swooped in

and took over.

“Look at all that hair.” Mitexi called out. She pulled a hand

mirror from the nightstand and held it so Kai and Shona could

see.

Shona’s breath caught in her throat as she was awarded her

first glimpse of the mound of wet curls. The thick clump of

black hair jutting from between her wife’s legs caught Shona by

surprise. She’d always assumed all babies were born bald and

wrinkled like miniature old people.

Excitement and dread filled her as she watched expectantly.

She hated watching even the fake medical stuff on TV. After all

the videos of babies being born that Kai had made her watch,

Shona dreaded the blood and grossness she knew accompanied

birth.

“Push long and hard this time.” Mitexi said. “Your son’s

almost here.”

At the sight of their son’s head new life seemed to fill Kai.

She groaned as her muscles stiffened. Mitexi crouched low and

Shona watched in awe as a pair of shoulders pushed into the air

with a soft pop quickly followed by a wet, goop-covered baby.

276 True Love ~ DRAKE

The silence of their collectively held breath was shattered as

Jae’s cries filled the bedroom. Tears blurred Shona’s vision and

she swiped them away with the back of her free hand. There

was no revulsion. All she saw was the most beautiful baby boy

she could have imagined.

After a single wipe down with a damp cloth, Mitexi placed

the baby on Kai’s bare chest. His curls were plastered against

his face and his nose was crinkled in disapproval. Alan handed

Shona a blue and gold throw. She unfolded the soft blanket

over Kai and Jae so it covered them from his shoulder to past

her feet. In moments Jae had found one of the waiting breasts

and was nursing. Every sign of tenseness melted away from

Kai’s face leaving them both in blessed contentment.

Alan and Ely hugged and laughed. Mitexi quietly moved

about the room, cleaning up and gathering her tools. The birth

wasn’t entirely over. Sometime in the next hour or so Kai would

push the placenta out and the cord would need to be cut. At

first Shona thought she’d be too repulsed by the blood to want

to be the one to do the cutting, so Alan had volunteered. Now

Shona wanted to be the one. Cutting the cord was her right, to

cut Jae free of his tie to Kai alone so he could be theirs.

The dim light of the reading lamp accented Jae’s round face

and Shona traced her finger tenderly over the familiar nose, a

miniature copy of Kai’s. The sharp feature looked so strange on

the tiny face of the newborn, a face Shona swore she’d engrave

in her mind if she looked at him long enough.

She traced Jae’s caramel cheek just beneath his crescent-

shaped eyes, now growing heavy with sleep. He had Kai’s eyes,

there was little doubt of that, but his skin was far much more

like her own than Kai’s. That wasn’t surprising. Kai had insisted

that Alan be the donor because he looked the most like Shona,

with his mocha skin and traditionally African features.

It was a touching gesture at the time, but now Shona found

herself resentful at the necessity. She knew she couldn’t give

Kai the baby they both wanted, but the reality didn’t stop Shona

from longing to be closer to her son. Soon they would be

signing the birth certificate. Not she and Kai, but Kai and Alan.

I DO! 277

Her gaze shifted from the face of her sleeping son to the

two men now curled up together on the love seat in her and

Kai’s bedroom. It had been a long labor and they were all

exhausted. Both Ely and Alan had been great through the whole

thing, so then why did Shona feel so angry at Alan right now? It

wasn’t his fault that she had no legal rights, no matter how they

all felt about her place in their special family. A piece of paper.

Wasn’t that all it was? Just a stupid piece of paper.

Kai stirred and the movement drew Shona’s attention back

to her and Jae. It was more than that, more than the truth that

she couldn’t sign Jae’s birth certificate. What really bothered

Shona, worried her, was she wasn’t the one the law recognized

as his parent. The law she’d grown up in school being told was

there to protect all good Americans was the same law that

forbade her from marrying the woman she loved, forbade her

from even adopting the child they wanted to raise together.

Kai’s parents were no more supportive than Shona’s

regarding their relationship. Without the protection of the law,

they could easily come and take Jae should something happen

to Kai. That was the biggest reason they’d chosen Alan as a

donor. He and his husband were dedicated not only to Jae’s

wellbeing, but to using Alan’s legal status as “father” to protect

Shona should the unthinkable happen.

I should be grateful. Why do I feel so angry? Does the detail of a single piece of paper matter so much?

The answer was easy. Yes, it mattered. It mattered a lot.

“You should get some rest too.”

Shona turned toward Kai. The baby was still sleeping, and

Kai looked at her over his head, her crescent eyes half-mast and

her lips curved in a soft smile.

Shona returned the smile, pushing away her anger. She was

being silly. They were a family. All of them. That was what was

most important. “Soon as I burn off this third wind I’ll rest. I

promise.” She looked down at Jae. “He’s so beautiful. Just like

his mother. See, he has your nose and your eyes.”

“Remember what Mitexi said. He’s going to get darker as he

gets old. His eyes will change color too,” Kai said. “Don’t go

278 True Love ~ DRAKE

trying to do his portrait just yet. He won’t look anything like it

in a few months.”

Shona chuckled. She had been memorizing him the way she

did anything she wanted to paint and couldn’t drag into her

studio. “Sometimes I think you can read minds.”

“After thirteen years I don’t need to read your mind to

know something’s wrong.” Kai gently ran her nail under a

clump of Jae’s matted hair and fluffed it off of his face. “Aren’t

you happy?”

“Oh, love, of course I’m happy.” Guilt pressed down on

Shona. “It’s not that at all. I was just pouting about all the legal

crap. You know how moody us artist types can get.”

Kai rolled her eyes. “Don’t I know it. You don’t need to

worry. We’ve got everything covered. You trust the guys to

hold up their end of the agreement, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Shona admitted. “It’s not them. We’ve got a great

deal going here. We’re really lucky.” She glanced over to the

envelope she couldn’t see on the dresser, but knew was still

there. “I wish I could sign Jae’s papers. Mother, father, and

mom.”

“Maybe when Jae becomes president he can change that.”

Shona looked down at their son. The rise and fall of his tiny

chest calmed her spirit. The future. That’s what she was looking

at. Their future. With a new president and even more changes

still to come, their son wouldn’t grow up the limits she had. She

would never tell him he couldn’t do something because of the

color or his skin or his gender, as her parents had felt the need

to do with her. The world lay ahead for Jae in a way none of his

parents had ever known.

Shona placed her head on the pillow next to Kai and rested

her hand on the blanket, her fingers just over their baby’s side.

If so much could change in just her own lifetime, what might

change in his?

Salad Days

FIONA GLASS

“Yoo hoo, Tim, where are you?” The front door closed

with a slam that shook the little house to its insubstantial

foundations.

“In here, love,” Tim yelled from the kitchen, chopping a

carrot into the salad bowl with a flourish. “Supper will be ready

soon.”

“Good, I’m starved.” Jake’s pouty face appeared round the

door, then broke into a grin. “I thought it might be salad. I

brought you something.” He reached into a pocket and

produced a small paper bag with something roundish inside,

and tossed it across.

“Jesus, Jake, I’m not a bloody circus act,” said Tim, trying to

field knife, carrot and bag at the same time and dropping most

of them. The knife clattered to the floor by his foot and he

danced aside, only for the carrot to spin up, flip over and catch

him in the eye. Tears trickling down his face, he did at least

manage to hang onto the bag. He uncurled the top, opened it

up and peered rather blurrily inside.

And paused.

Something small and round and green peered back at him.

It was shaped like a giant crocus bulb with pale green stripes

and a few feathery leaves growing out of the top and he’d never

seen anything less like a cucumber in his life. “Er...thanks.

Er...what is it?”

“Fennel.”

“Oh.” He had another look. “Er...what do I do with it?”

“Chop it up and put it in the salad, silly,” said Jake, leaving

off the door-hanging and coming into the room. “It’s nice.

Tastes a bit like aniseed. Ed used to use it all the time.”

“Oh, well, if Ed used it...” Tim could feel himself scowling

at the merest mention of Jake’s famous ex’s name. Trouble

was, Jake tended to drop it into their conversations at every

opportunity. If they went on holiday, Ed had always been there

first. If they tried a new wine, Ed had drunk it when it first hit

the shelves. If they saw a film, Ed had written the screenplay or

bonked half the cast, or both. Tim was one hundred percent

sick and tired of Ed - and knew he was in danger of letting it

show.

282 Salad Days ~ GLASS

He picked the fennel bulb up, sluiced it under the tap, and

sat it on the counter. He scooped his knife up off the floor,

sluiced that too and prodded the point into the bulb. It didn’t

squeak, so he prodded it again before gingerly beginning to

slice. All the while he was conscious of Jake’s eyes on him,

burning a hole through the top of his head where he’d bent

over his task. Eyes that seemed to see straight through his skull

and read the thoughts beneath. Oh shit. The knife slipped, the

bulb bounced off the counter and he found he was sucking his

thumb. “Ow. Shit.”

“Oh, poor baby,” said Jake, and hurdled straight over the

counter to hold his hand. “Ugh, you’re bleeding. Here, run it

under the tap.” He fussed around, cleaning the cut and finding

antiseptic cream and a plaster, and Tim thought perhaps he’d

got away with it. But once the thumb was bandaged and the

fennel had been retrieved from the corner it had rolled away

into, Jake put both hands on his shoulders, span him round till

they were facing one another, and said, “Okay, tell me what’s

wrong.”

“Nothing,” said Tim hastily, trying to turn away. “The knife

just slipped, that’s all. That thing’s slippery, and my hands were

wet.”

Jake refused to let him go. “You’ve been dropping things a

lot lately. You spilled your drink on Monday, and tipped

popcorn all over yourself in the cinema the other week, and

then there was that bottle of shower-gel... Tim, you’re not...ill,

are you?” His grey eyes reflected his concern right through the

round little specs he always wore.

“No, no,” said Tim, uncomfortably aware that he was being

selfish. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just...well, it’s Ed.” He

peeled away from Jake’s arms and peeled another carrot instead.

“Ed? But...why? What d’you mean?”

Tim risked a quick glance. His lover looked mystified.

Really, genuinely mystified. He began to feel better, and

attacked the carrot with less savagery. “It’s just...well, you never stop talking about him.”

“Me?”

I DO! 283

“Yes, you. Every five minutes. It’s Ed said this and Ed did

that until I could thump something. I keep thinking you’re

measuring me up against him and finding me lacking. It’s

giving me the jitters.”

“Oh, Tim...” Jake’s arms were back, strong and safe around

his shoulder and waist, and Jake’s warm lips pecked him on one

cheek. “You’re an idiot. I left Ed, remember?”

“I know.” Tim tried very hard not to snuggle and spoil his

sensible man-about-the-house image. “But...”

“What’s more, I left him because he was an arrogant prick

who treated me like arm-candy most of the time and ignored

me the rest. Tim, don’t tell me you’re jealous?”

Tim had finished the carrots. He searched around for

something else to keep his hands busy and found he’d picked

up the fennel again. Holding it firmly this time he began to

slice into its bulbous flesh, imagining it was Ed’s smoothly

handsome face. Him, jealous? Now what could he possibly be

jealous about? Ed was only a fantastically successful writer with

film star good looks, all the money you could ever need and a

five-bedroom house in the posh end of town. Oh, no, he

wasn’t jealous at all. He glanced up and saw Jake’s eyes

dancing.

“Sorry,” he said ruefully. “I guess I do give myself away

sometimes.”

“Yes, you do, but I love you anyway,” said Jake. “I left Ed

six months ago and I’d left him behind long before that. I’m

sorry if my nattering has given you the wrong impression - I’ll

try to keep my tongue in check from now on. But why the hell

didn’t you say something sooner? That strong silent stuff never

solved anything.”

“I know. I just... Oh bloody hell! ”

“Oh, baby, don’t cry,” said Jake in a cracked voice, reaching

for him again. “Tell me I’m forgiven and I promise I’ll never

mention Ed’s name again.”

“It’s not that,” said Tim, reaching blindly for the tap. “The

fucking fennel’s slipped again. I think I’ve hacked off my

thumb.”

Wedding

Announcement

LEE ROWAN

“Calling the old man?”

Caught in the act with his hand on the phone, there was

nothing Kevin Kendrick could do but nod and say, “Yes.”

He was enveloped in warmth as his lover wrapped both

arms around him from behind. “I’m glad,” John said. “I

understand why you left it this long, but—”

“Can’t put it off any longer.” He left the phone in the cradle

and turned, catching his breath at the sight. Fully dressed, John

Hanson’s curly mop of dark hair, deep brown eyes, and

sensuous mouth were distracting enough. In nothing but snug,

rainbow-striped briefs, his slim, leggy body was trouble on two

bare feet.

Kevin pushed him away, holding him at arms’ length. Any

other time, he’d have pulled John over to the sofa and to hell

with their schedule, but not today. They hadn’t a moment to

spare. “I can do it myself, Johnny. For God’s sake, go put your

clothes on. The worst the Brig can do is disown me, but if

we’re late for this you’ll never get another meal from my

mother.”

“You know me too well.” John swooped in for a quick kiss,

then loped off upstairs.

“And change those pants!” Kevin called after him, knowing

that even if John heard that order, he’d ignore it. No harm in

that, really. John spent much of his time doing crisis

counseling; if his silly underwear gave him something to smile

about, more power to it. It wouldn’t show under the formal

attire anyway, and it would be fun to help him take it off, later...

Kevin shook his head. He was stalling, and he knew it.

He’d faced gunfire, terrorists, disgrace, and a very determined

murderer, but he would sooner tackle any or all of them at once

than make this call. He must do it now; he didn’t have time for

cold feet. They had to finish dressing, pick up the elderly lady

who’d been John’s surrogate grandmother since he’d moved to

Portsmouth, and present themselves at the registry office with a

little time to spare in case of last-minute complications.

He picked up the phone again, punching the number one

digit at a time even though it was loaded into speed-dial. What

can he do, after all—jump through the receiver and throttle me?

He might want to.

288 Wedding Announcement ~ ROWAN

The call was answered after two and a half rings. A strong

voice, brusque, accustomed to command. “Kendrick.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Kevin.” A pause, as though the Brigadier was trying to

guess why his younger son had called. “Your mother’s not

here. She’s off at the hall, supervising the caterer for your

friend’s reception. I’m going to meet her there in an hour.”

Mrs. Kendrick had suggested this explanation, and it was not

entirely false; Pat and Tess were tying the knot this morning,

too. Tess’ mother had never been able to accept that her

daughter’s partner was a woman, and she had flatly refused to

have anything to do with their civil union. Kevin’s mother,

who liked nothing better than a family wedding, had flung

herself into the breach. Since John was the biological father of

the very pregnant bride’s unborn baby, the two couples had

decided to combine festivities.

But no one had told Brigadier General Marcus D. Kendrick

(Ret’d) the whole story. He had always been inclined to the

Yank policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell” with regard to his younger

son’s love life, and did not even officially know Kevin was gay.

“Yes,” Kevin said. “I know. I meant to call you.” Damn

it, he had no reason to be nervous. His father was a forceful

man, not an ogre, and he was, after all, many miles away. “Dad,

I just wanted you to know that John and I are having our civil

union ceremony today, and –”

He held the phone away from his ear. He’d never heard

anyone make that sound before. “Dad?”

“You’re what?”

“Getting married, Dad. I know that’s not the legal term, but

that’s what it amounts to. For us.”

Silence. But he could hear breathing. Good, the old man

hadn’t keeled over.

Kevin plowed ahead. “I didn’t tell you earlier because it’s

not open for discussion, but I’m not going to sneak around

behind your back.”

“But—” Another long silence, then, “Why? Damn it, I

guessed as much, but why bother? Can’t you just—do

whatever it is you do—without—”

I DO! 289

“Of course we could.” Kevin felt a twinge of pain in his

hand, and realized how hard he was clutching the receiver. “Of

course we could, Dad. But do you remember what you told me

about this? I couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen.

I forgot all about it, until just now. Guess it made an

impression.”

“Told you what?”

“That when I found the right one, I should grab hold with

both hands and make it permanent. Make it real, you said. Be a

man. Give your word and honor it.”

“I was talking about a real marriage, boy. A home, children.

Not some–”

“Yes. Exactly. So am I.” God, interrupting his father twice.

He didn’t know if he’d ever done that before. “The real thing. I

know it’s not what you expected and I’ll understand if I don’t

see you there. But this is who I am—who I love—and I’m not

going to hide it.”

He sensed John behind him once more, felt stronger for his

presence. “That’s all, Dad. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I

didn’t think you really wanted to know. Take care.”

He fumbled as he put the receiver down with an unsteady

hand. Adrenaline hangover; he turned blindly into John’s

embrace and just held on. Eventually he was breathing

normally again.

“Think he’ll be there?” John asked.

“I don’t know, Johnny.” Kevin took a deep breath and

raised his head, meeting the eyes of the man he loved. Lover.

Partner. Husband. He felt lighter somehow, almost giddy.

“That’s up to him. If he doesn’t accept you as a son-in-law, it’s

his loss. Have you got the rings?”

“I do.” John grinned in delight. “Just rehearsing my line.

Come on, love—get us to the registry office on time.”

  

Kevin and John’s story can be found in the novel Walking

Wounded.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

ALEX BEECROFT: DESIRE AND DISGUISE

Alex Beecroft exists only intermittently in the real world.

She has led a Saxon shield wall into battle and served as a

Georgian kitchen maid, but she still can’t work a mobile

phone. www.alexbeecroft.com

CHARLIE COCHRANE: THE ROAMING HEART

Charlie Cochrane writes historical gay mysteries/romances.

Her Cambridge Fellows Mystery series began in November

2008 with ‘Lessons in Love’ and continues in February 2009

with ‘Lessons in Desire’. ‘I Do’ is the second anthology she’s

contributed to, the other being the trilogy of stories ‘Speak

Its Name’. www.charliecochrane.co.uk

FIONA GLASS: SALAD DAYS

Fiona lives in Birmingham (UK) with one husband, several

visiting cats and far too many spiders. She writes darkly

humorous fiction involving gay characters, almost always

with a twist in the tail. She’s had work published in

anthologies, e-books and magazines including Velvet Mafia

and Haworth Press. Find out more at www.fiona-glass.com

JEANNE BARRACK: FINALLY FOREVER

Jeanne Barrack had a dream that she should write about gay

Jews from the Old World to the New, so her first story took

place in both worlds. A multi-published writer, MLR Press

will release her single author dual novella anthology in 2009.

Learn more about her gay fiction at:

http://thesweetflagmenlove.blogspot.com/

P.A. BROWN: THE MISTAKE

Born in Western Canada, which explains her intense dislike

of snow, Pat escaped to Los Angeles, sealing her fate. She

wrote her first book at 17. She read her first positive gay

book, The Lord Won’t Mind, by Gordon Merrick, and had her

eyes opened. www.pabrown.ca

ERASTES: THE SNOW QUEEN

Erastes lives in Norfolk UK with too many cats. She writes

gay historical novels and short stories. Her second novel,

transgressions, a gay English Civil War romance, is to be

published by Running Press in 2009. She welcomes visitors

to her website and blog which can be found at

www.erastes.com

TRACEY PENNINGTON: THE LINDORM’S TWIN

Tracey Pennington lives in West Hartford, Connecticut,

baffling doctors who don’t usually see incurable progressive

genetic illnesses get better. She’s been published by Torquere

Press and the now-defunct webzine, Deep Magic. She loves

cooking, Terry Pratchett, Doctor Who, historical accuracy,

proofreading (yes, really!) and snark.

CLARE LONDON: OUTED

Clare’s pen name is from the city where she lives, loves, and

writes – despite constant interruptions from a frenetic family.

Her literary passion is for strong, sympathetic and sexy

characters. She has 3 print novels at Dreamspinner Press,

‘Freeman’ contracted with MLR in 2009, plus many short

stories e-published. www.darkpearldiva.com.

SHARON MARIA BIDWELL: SWANSONG

A writer from the UK, Sharon doesn’t get out much these

days. She’s too busy creating vibrant worlds to share with

others. Visit this diverse writer at “Aonia”

http://www.sharonbidwell.co.uk for in Greek myth that’s

where the muses lived, and she’s delighted and grateful for

every idea that comes to her.

LISABET SARAI: MAKING MEMORY

Lisabet Sarai writes erotic fiction in many genres and

featuring pretty much every possible combination of

genders. Lisabet adores travel almost as much as sex.

Currently she lives a superficially respectable life in Southeast

Asia with her husband and two spoiled felines. Visit Lisabet

at www.lisabetsarai.com

STORM GRANT: LUST IN TRANSLATION

Cubicle resident by day, professional fictioneer on weekends,

Storm Grant lives in Toronto, Canada, in a messy house with

many pets and one husband. Look for her first full-length

novel, “Gym Dandy,” at the usual print and electronic

I DO! 293

outlets. www.stormgrant.com Fiction that’s pretty, witty, straight and gay!

MARQUESATE: CODE OF HONOUR

Marquesate is associated with the British Forces and writes

military gay erotic fiction. Characters find themselves in a

maelstrom of duty, comradeship, courage, loyalty and lust, to

emerge battle-hardened and touched at the very core of their

selves - by another man, another soldier, an enemy or ally.

www.marquesate.org

LEE ROWAN: WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENT

Recently relocated to the Great White North, Lee Rowan is

still sorting things out. Cook, masseuse, chaffeuse, snow-

shoveler, pet-nanny… in between crises, she writes. Her

Articles of War series and other books are published by

Linden Bay; she’s currently working on a novel for Running

Press’s new m/m romance series. www.lee-rowan.net

Z.A. MAXFIELD: TANGO AND TEMPTATION

Z. A. Maxfield started writing in 2007 on a dare from her

children. Pathologically disorganized, and perennially

optimistic, she writes as much as she can, reads as much as

she dares, and enjoys her time with family and friends.

Stories get written. Giving up housework helped.

www.zamaxfield.com

MOONDANCER DRAKE: TRUE LOVE

Moondancer Drake is an author of multicultural fiction who

draws much of her inspiration from her spirituality as well as

her experiences as a Cherokee woman and a mother. If you

want to know more about Moondancer and her writing you

can visit her at her website. www.moondancerdrake.com

MALLORY PATH: RULES OF THE GAME

An overeducated underachiever and dedicated daydreamer

born in Manhattan, Mallory Path now lives across the bay

from San Francisco with two adorable special needs

hamsters. Mal’s fiction has seen light of day or is

forthcoming from Clean Sheets, gay-ebooks Australia,

Lucrezia Magazine, STARbooks Press and Torquere Press,

among others.

EMMA COLLINGWOOD: SEMI-DETACHED

Emma Collingwood is so vanilla, she only attracts

strawberries. Her books aren’t, though: historical male/male

love, adventure and suspense. “Semi-detached” features

characters from her book “The Purser, the Surgeon, the

Captain and his Lieutenant”, a twisty tale about four tangled

lives, from the Age of Sail to modern London.

www.emmacollingwood.com

ALLISON WONDERLAND: HOLY MACARONI (AND

CHEESE)

Allison Wonderland has a B.A. in Women’s Studies, a

weakness for lollipops, and a fondness for rubber ducks. Her

favorite sound is Fran Drescher’s voice, and her cocktail of

choice is a Shirley Temple. See what she’s up to at

aisforallison.blogspot.com.

JERRY L. WHEELER: TEMPLETON’S IN LOVE

Staff writer for Out Front Colorado, Jerry L. Wheeler has

appeared in Law of Desire: Tales of Gay Male Lust and Obsession, edited by Greg Wharton and Ian Philips, and Focus on the

Fabulous: Colorado GLBT Voices, edited by Matt Kailey as well as online in Sean Meriwether’s Velvet Mafia.

CASSIDY RYAN AND ZOE NICHOLS: BETTER THAN

BEAUTIFUL

Zoe Nichols discovered romance and Happily Ever After at

12. Then she grew up and discovered alternative lifestyles

and the hopeful Happy for Now. These days, she writes gay

and lesbian fiction and pretends that the Day Job doesn’t

exist (at least until pay day). Find out more at www.zoe-

nichols.com

Cassidy Ryan lives and works in Glasgow, Scotland. When

not writing, she enjoys reading, the cinema, music and

watching football (soccer to our friends across the pond).

She also loves British sit-coms from the 70s, and American

cop shows – also from the 70s. Find out more at:

cassidyryanwrites.tripod.com

THE TREVOR PROJECT

The Trevor Project operates the only nationwide, around-the-

clock crisis and suicide prevention helpline for lesbian, gay,

bisexual, transgender and questioning youth. Every day, The

Trevor Project saves lives though its free and confidential

helpline, its website and its educational services. If you or a

friend are feeling lost or alone call The Trevor Helpline. If you

or a friend are feeling lost, alone, confused or in crisis, please

call The Trevor Helpline. You’ll be able to speak confidentially

with a trained counselor 24/7.

The Trevor Helpline: 866-488-7386

On the Web: http://www.thetrevorproject.org/

THE GAY MEN’S DOMESTIC VIOLENCE PROJECT

Founded in 1994, The Gay Men’s Domestic Violence Project is

a grassroots, non-profit organization founded by a gay male

survivor of domestic violence and developed through the

strength, contributions and participation of the community. The

Gay Men’s Domestic Violence Project supports victims and

survivors through education, advocacy and direct services.

Understanding that the serious public health issue of domestic

violence is not gender specific, we serve men in relationships

with men, regardless of how they identify, and stand ready to

assist them in navigating through abusive relationships.

GMDVP Helpline: 800.832.1901

On the Web: http://gmdvp.org/

THE GAY & LESBIAN ALLIANCE AGAINST

DEFAMATION/GLAAD EN ESPAÑOL

The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) is

dedicated to promoting and ensuring fair, accurate and inclusive

representation of people and events in the media as a means of

eliminating homophobia and discrimination based on gender

identity and sexual orientation.

On the Web:

http://www.glaad.org/

GLAAD en español:

http://www.glaad.org/espanol/bienvenido.php

SERVICEMEMBERS LEGAL DEFENSE NETWORK

Servicemembers Legal Defense Network is a nonpartisan,

nonprofit, legal services, watchdog and policy organization

dedicated to ending discrimination against and harassment of

military personnel affected by “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”

(DADT).The SLDN provides free, confidential legal services to all

those impacted by DADT and related discrimination. Since 1993,

its inhouse legal team has responded to more than 9,000

requests for assistance. In Congress, it leads the fight to repeal

DADT and replace it with a law that ensures equal treatment for

every servicemember, regardless of sexual orientation. In the

courts, it works to challenge the constitutionality of DADT.

SLDN

Call:

(202)

328-3244

PO Box 65301

or (202) 328-FAIR

Washington DC 20035-5301

e-mail: sldn@sldn.org

On the Web: http://sldn.org/

THE GLBT NATIONAL HELP CENTER

The GLBT National Help Center is a nonprofit, tax-exempt

organization that is dedicated to meeting the needs of the gay,

lesbian, bisexual and transgender community and those

questioning their sexual orientation and gender identity. It is an

outgrowth of the Gay & Lesbian National Hotline, which began

in 1996 and now is a primary program of The GLBT National

Help Center. It offers several different programs including two

national hotlines that help members of the GLBT community

talk about the important issues that they are facing in their

lives. It helps end the isolation that many people feel, by

providing a safe environment on the phone or via the internet

to discuss issues that people can’t talk about anywhere else.

The GLBT National Help Center also helps other organizations

build the infrastructure they need to provide strong support to

our community at the local level.

National Hotline: 1-888-THE-GLNH (1-888-843-4564)

National Youth Talkline 1-800-246-PRIDE (1-800-246-7743)

On the Web: http://www.glnh.org/

e-mail: info@glbtnationalhelpcenter.org