Max Sequel of "To the Max"
Julie Lynn Hayes
Published by Silver Publishing Publisher of Erotic Romance
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Dedication: To Sarah and Katie and Michael and Christopher for their love and support, which makes all things possible To those who love Max as much as I do: Kitty, Jeia, Carrie, Aly, Sue, and Stephanie
Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Amazon: Amazon.com, Inc. Bambi: The Walt Disney Company ChapStick: Pfizer, Inc. Chevelle: General Motors Company (GM) Chippendales: Chippendales Coke: The Coca-Cola Company Dreamsicle: Unilever Donna Karan: The Donna Karan Company LLC Dr Who: BBC Worldwide Gone With the Wind: Margaret Mitchell Harry Potter: J K Rowling Indian Classic: Indian Motorcycle Company Leica: Leica Camera AG: M&Ms: Mars, Incorporated Max Factor: Proctor & Gamble, Inc Monte Carlo: General Motors Company (GM) Playstation: Sony Computer Entertainment Inc. Scotch Tape: 3M Silly Putty: Hallmark Cards, Inc (Crayola LLC) Speedo: Speedo International Limited
For Love of Max
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter One In Glorious Exultation
Now, where were we? Oh yes, Richard and I have our lips locked together like a couple of love-starved fools, and we're crying and laughing at the same time, and I've just agreed to marry him…. Yes, I did say marry, and I know there are those who will look upon us askance. Gay marriage is far from an accepted lifestyle in this country, even in this supposedly enlightened day and age. In fact it is not only frowned upon, but largely banned. And mostly by people who are afraid of us. Why? Good question. I won't even get into religious ethics, or a discussion of the Bible, nor Christian precepts. Let me just say that disliking or hating someone on the basis of their sexual orientation is just as wrong as hating them for the color of their skin, or for their religious beliefs. And forbidding people to legally wed for the same reason is simply wrong. Where do you draw the line? Mixed race couples, mixed religion couples? What happened to loving one another, regardless of who they are? We are not sinners, we are simply human…. Anyway, we are here and warm… and touching, and loving, and all of the bad air has been expelled, and all 7
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that is left is the love in our hearts, the love we bear for one another, which envelops us and cradles us gently. Now we truly begin…. Principessa, our darling King Charles spaniel and our only child, is running circles around us now, excited by our excitement. Her daddies are together again, and very obviously happy. We break the kiss to bestow caresses on our baby. She clambers in between us and we manage to cuddle around her. "Max, I'm so sorry…" "Shhh." I lay a finger against his lips. "No apologies, no regrets. Just us and the future. Our future. Together." He nods solemnly. "I'll never leave you again, Max," he swears, "I'll never disappear without a word, I promise. I'm yours for as long as you'll have me." "And I am yours," I echo, "'til death do us part." Our lips come together with soft sighs, and sensual shivers that run between us like electrical charges. We haven't touched at all since the ill-fated night of the last full moon, and the undischarged desire we bear for one another is enough to jump-start a dead car battery. "I've missed you so much," he murmurs into my lips, "I need you, Max, I always will…." "And I need you Richard," I reply softly. "Nights 8
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without you are far too long… and lonely…." He moves closer now, his tongue seeking and receiving permission to enter my mouth, his fingers winding through my hair. We are content to let our lips do all the talking. No need to rush, we have all the time in the world—now that we are together again, never to be parted. Our eyes locked in mutual admiration. Our hearts bound in mutual bliss. Our puppy becomes bored with us, and our apparent inactivity, and settles down for a nap, watching us with those big, brown spaniel eyes. We stretch out together in the grass, oblivious to what we might be doing to our three-piece suits. Stains are made to be removed, are they not? He rolls me over to take the dominant position above me—I love when he does that, for just between us he does dominate and I do tend to submit—it's simply the natural order of our lives. He catches my wrists in his strong grasp, pulling them over my head, holding them against the soft grass, showing me who's in control—not that I don't know that already. "Tell me what Max wants." He rubs against me suggestively; the material separating us only serves to enhance the friction between our hardening cocks in a delightfully maddening way. "Max
wants
Richard," 9
I
respond
promptly,
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Julie Lynn Hayes
predictably. "Max wants Richard to come back home, where he belongs… in Max's bed… their bed…." "Our bed," Richard echoes, licking my chin softly, squirming against me. God, I want him so badly. "And by the way, who's been sleeping in Richard's bed while he's been gone?" "Not the wolf," I chuckle softly, "that would be Rachel. She's been staying with me. I let her have the bed and I'm in the library, on the couch. All alone…." "Not tonight, sweet thing." He moves his tongue along my jaw line, sending chills all through me. "I hope Rachel doesn't mind, but she is officially dispossessed." "She won't mind, now she can go back to Mark. I'm sure he'll be happy, too." "I'm sure," he replies. "Max, you wanna take a shower?" My cock twitches at his suggestion. "I think we can do that." I attempt to maintain an air of casualness, but I fail—miserably. I'm far too excited to be suave and detached. He brushes his fingertips lightly over my cheeks. "Max could use a shave too," he observes. "I can do that for him, if he likes?" If he likes? I purr warmly at his touch. Max the 10
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recluse hasn't been as diligent as he should have been in keeping the five o'clock shadow at bay. Not that it's much of a shadow, my hair is too light for that, but being a wolf does have its disadvantages. One of them is a tendency toward hirsuteness. But this works out, 'cause I love the way Richard handles a straight razor—deftly, surely, and very, very sensually. I'm about to tell him so, but Swan Lake begins. Damn, someone has horrible timing. I try to ignore it, but some people don't take a hint. "Max, go ahead and get it, they'll just call back," my lover points out, releasing my hands. With a sigh, I squirm, raising my hips so that I can pull the phone from my pocket. "Hello?" "Max?" It's Juliet. Interruptus maternus. "You were supposed to call me…." "Been busy, Mother. Still am." "Did you find Richard?" "Umhmmm. Well, he found me." "Ahhhhh… he's there, is he? So you've decided to take him back, have you?" "Mmmhmmm. Yes, we're together again. Can I call you back? This isn't a good time…." This produces a throaty chuckle on my mother's part. "I was going to suggest that I come over and welcome 11
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the prodigal boy back." she teases. At least, I hope she's teasing. "Not right now, please…." I try to keep the exasperated tone out of my voice. "Okay, then, let me know when you two are… done… and I'll have a celebration dinner for you." "Mother! Please!" I glance up at my patient lover, who mouths 'I love you' to me. My heart melts as I mouth it back. "Give my love to Richard, will you?" "Of course I will. I'll call you later, okay?" "Yes, dear. Love you, Max." "Love you, too. Buh-bye now." At last. Close the phone, set it aside, turn my attention back to the sexy man of my dreams. "Sorry about that. Now where were we?" "We were just about to go into the house and get naked in the bathroom, I think…." "Just so," I agree, but instead of making a move to rise, I wrap my legs around his torso and our erections engage again. A deliberate ploy on my part. "Does my wolf want to play?" Richard's lips part slightly, just touching mine, his breath entering my mouth in a warm cascade of air. "I want you to make love to me," I whisper softly. He pulls my lower lip into his mouth, nipping at it 12
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gently, and his hands reach for the buttons on my jacket. The phone begins to play again. Damnation! "Max?" It's Cat's soft voice this time. "Are you okay? I was worried about you, sweetie. Would you like some company? I'll bring the chocolate?" "Thanks, Cat, and any other time, I'd say yes, but this isn't really a good time right now…." My Cat is nothing if not perceptive. I can hear the smile in her voice. "Richard is there, isn't he?" "Uh-huh." Richard takes my earlobe into his mouth, and I suppress a moan. "And you're back together?" "That too." I manage to gasp out. "Max, I'm so happy for you. You are happy, aren't you?" "Very much so, Cat. Can I call you back? I have something to tell you, but I'd like to do it in person." "Yes, Max, of course. Give Richard my love, will you? I'll talk to you soon?" "Yes, Cat, very soon." Mutual clicks. I look up to see a bemused Mr. Burke beaming down at me. "What?" "Wouldn't it be easier to just call them all now, give them the news, and then they won't keep calling individually?" 13
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"Who do you mean?" "The Max Montague fan club, of course. Checking on you to see if you've taken back the filthy beast." "I thought I was the filthy beast?" I quip. "No, darling, I'm the cad here, and you and I both know it." He kisses the tip of my nose, his tongue lingering over my nostrils—instead of being annoying or intrusive, I find it sexy. "I know for the most part your friends and family don't trust me. With good reason." "I wouldn't say that," I attempt to hem and haw, but he'll have none of it. "I would, and I do understand. But hopefully they'll accept me and let me start over again. 'Cause I'm here to stay, Max. No matter what." He licks around my eyes and underneath my eyebrow. God, that feels marvelous. "They will, if they love me, 'cause I love you," I point out practically. I close my eyes and his tongue runs over my eyelids. "I think we should skip the shower and just go to bed. We can shower afterwards." "Good thinking," he agrees, his fingers returning to their previous task. If we make it that far, that is. Maybe we'll just make love here and now. That's my second brain talking, the impulsive one. The one that takes control whenever Richard Burke is near. Principessa begins to bark. At first I ignore her, thinking maybe she's spotted a 14
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rabbit—not that she would ever harm one, she merely barks warnings that this is her territory, warnings which are generally ignored. But she persists. And then I hear a familiar voice. "Hello gentlemen…." Rachel. Is it that late already? How long have we been lying here? I turn my head and squint up at her figure which towers above us. So much for making love outside. Unless we want an audience, that is. Which I wouldn't put past Richard, so I think I won't suggest it. "Hey, Rach! You're home!" "Hey, Max, you're a master of the obvious," she laughs, dropping down onto the grass beside us. "Hello, Richard." "Rachel," he greets her, rising to a sitting position, still astride me, not abashed in the slightest at being caught in the act. My little exhibitionist. "What's new, guys?" An opening if ever I heard one. I glance at Richard, seeking his tacit permission. He gives it with a nod. "Richard asked me to marry him, Rach. And I said yes." I can't get over the way the words feel on my tongue even as I speak them. Getting married. Me and Richard. My head is still reeling at the idea, but in a decidedly pleasant way. 15
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If Rachel has reservations about my announcement, she keeps them to herself. Her smile seems quite genuine. "Congratulations!" She bends down and kisses my cheek, then turns to Richard and duplicates the kiss. "When's the happy day?" Richard and I exchange glances. "We haven't discussed it," I confess. "We've only just gotten past the 'I'll marry you' part." I don't feel a need to rush. I'm happy just having him make this much of a commitment to us—it's more than I've ever received from him before. Besides, the mechanics of the situation are going to be difficult. Missouri doesn't currently permit same sex marriages. But that's nothing to worry about at the moment. The growling of my stomach reminds me that I haven't even started dinner, as my intention had been to go out, or else order in. I look up at my lover, hoping he won't mind. We'll have time alone, later. "I thought we could do something easy for dinner, if it's okay with you…." Rachel interrupts me smoothly. "Max, don't even think about it, I think you two need some time. Alone. Josiah invited me to go out for a drink. I was just going to change my clothes and tell you, anyway. And don't worry, I won't be back tonight. In fact, I'll just grab the few things I have here. I need to check on my apartment anyway." I feel guilty for being so obvious. I really hadn't 16
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meant it that way. Rachel has been there for me, I wouldn't just dismiss her like that. And what's with Josiah, and not Mark? "Rach, you can stay. We'll order something in. Invite Josiah over here. Tell her, Richard." "Chinese food, pizza, whatever you like," Richard immediately concurs. "We'd love to have your company, of course. As well as Josiah's." Rachel merely smiles at us, a smile which begins with her lips and flows through her eyes. "No, boys, I don't think so. My work here is done, I think, and I have a few things I need to do, now that I'm sure Maxie is happy again. And going to stay that way." The look she gives to Richard clearly says, 'and don't fuck it up, mister', but she leaves it as an unspoken statement between them. "Have you told Juliet about the engagement? Or anyone else?" "No, you're the first." "Okay, then mum's the word," she promises, "but if I were you, I'd take this into the house, lock the door, and turn off the phone if you want any privacy." "You're very wise," Richard agrees. They exchange glances again, and I'm happy to see they seem to have reached a mutual understanding. Rachel leans down, and kisses me lightly on the lips. "I'm going now. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" "Okay. Love you, Rach." 17
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"Love you too, Max." She pulls herself up to her feet, grumbling about old age and spring chickens. Principessa scrambles between her legs, demanding to be petted. Rachel pays the puppy the proper amount of attention that is due to her and leaves with a last wave to us both. Alone at last. I hastily pull my cell phone out, turn it off. Richard smiles his approval. "Why don't we take our baby in and get you out of those clothes?" Now he's talking. "I'll drop them off at the cleaners tomorrow," I promise. I'm sure they're simply full of grass stains and mud. As Richard gets to his feet and reaches for my hands to help me up, he stops my words with his lips. "Let tomorrow take care of itself," he says softly. "Tonight belongs to you and me, Max." I sigh into his mouth as he wraps me in his arms, and here we are, together again—at last—and forever. My previous despair has become my current joy—which only goes to show that it's not over 'til it's over. And honey, we ain't over. Not by a long shot.
18
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Chapter Two Acquisitions
Spreading the news of our engagement among our friends and family is an easy thing, especially with the various methods of mass communication available in this modern
world—telephone,
email,
voice
mail,
text
messaging. No reason not to reach out and touch someone if you really want to. On the other hand, conveying the idea that Richard isn't guilty of the heinous crimes everyone considered him guilty of over the past twenty years is not so easily done. In fact, it's rather damn difficult. I can't come out and say 'Richard and I are engaged, and by the way, he never really fucked around on me. It was all a misunderstanding born of insecurity on his part and assumptions on mine.' You see what I mean? It creates a rather delicate situation. One which leaves some people thinking I'm simply being my typical soft Max self and allowing Richard to get away with murder, as usual, and that I am now leaping wholeheartedly into the fire, bidding a fond farewell to the frying pan along the way. Which of course isn't true, but how do I say so? Vicious circle, I tell you, truly a vicious circle. Perhaps I can eventually get the message across. In the meantime, 19
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Richard's own actions will have to speak louder than words. All I can do is hold onto him as tightly as I can, and continue to protect him with my love. Mother, in a complete reversal of her previous stance, is so elated at our news that she's throwing an impromptu engagement party tomorrow night for our benefit. How can we not attend? 'Twould be boorish, indeed. And as Richard pointed out to me while we snuggled together after having fantastic welcome back sex, she owes me anyway. Knowing my mother, she'd find a way to do it regardless, so why not just agree with her, and at least have a little control over the situation? That has to be better than staying silent and have a party foisted off on us when we least expect it and aren't prepared to deal with one. I have to agree with his impeccable logic, so tomorrow night it is. At least it's not at the King's Regency—I made damn sure of that. I've seen enough of that place for one lifetime. Lying in Richard's arms, the morning sun steals through the open curtains; it provides a golden glow to my sleeping prince's pale skin. I watch him sleep, absorbed in the sight of his beautiful face. He seems so peaceful, so at ease, more so than I have ever seen him before, even in previously unguarded moments when held tightly within 20
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Morpheus' relentless grip. He's even more beautiful, if possible, then before—and I wouldn't have thought that possible. My heart is simply awash with so many sensations that spill through my veins—all of them good— and I'm so very happy: supremely, irrevocably, undeniably happy. I don't think I could love this man any more if I tried. But I do know I will love him for all the days of my life. Richard mumbles in his sleep, something that sounds suspiciously like my name. For a moment I wonder if he's actually awake, but no, he's simply dreaming. Unconsciously he rolls closer to me, throwing a protective leg over mine, and I nestle against his chest. I'm content to merely be, as long as we can be together. Bliss—thy name is Max and Richard. I listen to the rhythmic thrumming of his heartbeat, my fingers seeking and stroking his lemon tresses, and my thoughts stray to my mother. I wonder how she feels, how she's coping with the loss of one Terranova Fisher from her life. Although I may not have liked the man, nor really did anyone else I know, she obviously did. She had talked about marrying him, didn't she? This is the only time I've ever known my mother to be even remotely interested in the institution of marriage. I mean, after all, she had two children without worrying about it. And it's not as if she 21
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hasn't dated since then, 'cause she certainly has. I hope she hasn't been too badly scarred by her experience, and that she'll be willing to give love a try again. Only with someone better for her. And for me, too, I have to admit. Reverend Fuckface was a real killer. Lazily my mind wanders, and I find myself wondering about the shadowy figure who, thus far, has rated no more than a slight mention in these pages. Basically, what can you say about someone you've never known, whom your own mother would not be likely to recognize on the streets if he came up to her and initiated a conversation—which, of course, is not bloody likely. My father. My progenitor. The one who is responsible for what I am, although not what I have become. The man who cursed me even before I had a chance to enter this world— one major strike against me before ever I saw the light of day. A nameless, faceless lycanthrope with an itch to scratch, and the gall to scratch it on the first innocent girl he saw. I can make somewhat of an educated guess as to what he might look like, based on the differences between Juliet and myself. I have neither her dark hair, nor her dark eyes; she is as pale complected as I am. But he may be too, I don't know. I'm taller, my build is wirier. And the number one difference—she isn't a werewolf. But it doesn't really 22
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matter to me, it's a moot point. He probably has no suspicion of my existence, I mean, why would he? That's assuming he even remembers the encounter between himself and my mother after all these years—what she refers to as her Little Red Riding Hood experience. Richard has no idea who his father is, either. We've basically grown up without strong male figures in our lives—I did have my grandfather, but he passed years ago, when I was still a child. Has that affected either of us? It's hard to say, when that's all you know. I'm roused from my reverie by a soft kiss on the tip of my nose. My mind is so far away that I haven't even noticed that Richard's awake, regarding me with those gorgeous sapphire eyes. "What's on my baby's mind so early in the morning?" "Nothing," I automatically reply, but the look he gives me, the 'you have to do better than that' one, stops me cold. I really can't get anything past that man, not that I want to. At least, not most of the time. "Nothing much," I hastily amend, "just general thoughts. You know, life in general…." God, that sounds lame. "And what sort of things are you thinking, generally?" he persists. "About my mother, and… my father…." I can't even pull off making it sound casual. I might as well be 23
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made of Scotch tape 'cause I'm magically transparent and easy to see through. I raise my eyes to his and frown slightly. "I just wonder if things would've been different if… well, if he'd stayed around long enough to find out… you know… about… me…." I find it hard to say the words, much less express the sentiment. I'm surprised at myself, for I hadn't thought it was an issue with me. Apparently it is. "Of course they would have been different," he replies, nodding his agreement. "Just by the nature of things. You change one small thing and everything else is affected, it's a ripple effect. Much less something major like that. It doesn't necessarily mean for the better, though, Max." "But how do you know?" I can't help but persist, playing devil's advocate for some reason. "Maybe it would've been better—for my mother, for me, for Diana?" He pulls me into the security of his arms, as he ponders the question very carefully, before actually addressing it. "Okay, let's consider the possibilities," he begins. "First off, there probably would be no Diana if your parents had actually stayed together, and having said that, no Jackson. So there goes your sister and your nephew. Then, let's just suppose Mr. He-man Werewolf stayed with your mom and made the three of you into a nice, happy 24
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family. There goes living with your grandfather. Who knows where you might have ended up? So, most likely, no Rachel. Or at least not with the same relationship you enjoy now. And there goes your column, Maggie, and probably Cat. Following that train of thought, you might not have gone to school where you did, so you wouldn't have met that one geek that invited you out to the disco on one very important night in 1976—and then I leave the picture. You see what I mean, Max? For things to have ended up the way they did, he couldn't be around. Like my dad…." He shrugs indifferently when he speaks of his sire. I don't think he's ever wondered about him, or cared to figure out who he might be from amongst the many men Moonsong has been with. If she even remembers them all herself. He is entirely right, of course, and utterly logical. I kiss the tip of his chin. "I wouldn't change us for anything," I say lightly. "I know you're right, I'm just being silly." "No, not silly, Max. It's natural you might wonder about him from time to time. And if you and I had never met, you wouldn't know the difference," he points out, rolling over so that he is on top of me now, looking down from his lofty position. He has the capacity to wake up very quickly, and be completely ready for action. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, 'cause I'm not. "I'd know the difference," I protest. "No one else 25
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could be what you are to me. I'd have led a very lonely life without you. So don't even suggest it…." "What should I suggest?" he whispers wantonly as he bends down, rubs his lips over mine, and his pelvis against mine. Unhhhhhhhh… little Max is awake and wants attention, which undoubtedly he is about to receive. "I welcome any and all suggestions for the proper use of your cock," I brazenly whisper back. "Is that all I am to you, one big cock toy?" How warm his breath is, and how my pulse races at his touch. "Uh huh. Got a problem with that?" "Nope, just wanted to clarify." He runs his teeth lightly over my lower lip, while his frottage becomes even more frantic. Or is it frenetic? I don't care. Whatever he's doing, he's doing it right, and I have an erection that would split steel. I whimper needily into his mouth. More, I need more. Nay, I demand more. I increase the pace of our friction, gliding against him feverishly. Oohhhhhhh, it feels so good, it's the most fantastic way to start the day. I just wish we were naked. Before I can even think to act on my wishes, he moves his hand between us, encompassing both our erections within his grasp, through the fabric which girds our loins, and God, the sensations that bombard me! He 26
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squeezes our cocks together, until we are simply one giant cock, and my self-control is gone and there is nothing I can do to keep from coming—not that I really want to. My cock pulses as I climax, and his lips become more demanding, his teeth nipping harder… and then he goes as well, and we lose ourselves in the moment. When we are spent, our pajama bottoms a sticky mess between us, he exhales a pretty sigh, and collapses atop me with evident selfsatisfaction. Damn, the best part of waking up is Richard in my bed.
****
I sit before my computer, typing up replies to questions, doing my best to solve the problems of the world—or at least those of my readers. There's been a recent addition to my column—a new photo which is actually of me, and which Richard took. I don't think anyone can flatter me with a camera like he can, but then he's had lots of practice. He has tons of photos of me. He says I'm his favorite subject, and yes, before you ask, a lot of the images are nude, and unavailable for viewing. He keeps those safely locked up, at my insistence. I wish I were as handy with a camera as he is—my best efforts look crude beside his worst—but I have my own private 27
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collection of Richard pictures that I thumb through whenever he isn't around—or sometimes when he is. I keep threatening to make a montage of them and display it in our living room, but of course I'm kidding, and he knows it. The sight of naked Richard is for me, and me alone. All others, eat your heart out. Richard is out running errands of some sort. He wouldn't say what or where, just told me I'd find out when he returned. So I have to content myself with that, as it's all I'm getting at the moment. He wouldn't allow me to accompany him, entreating me to remain patient, and fixing me with that all-knowing Richard eye—the one that leaves me weak in the knees, and assures I'll promise him anything. Tomorrow
night
is
at
mother's
house—the
engagement party, that is. She's promised to keep it small and manageable, and only calls to remind me about it ten times a day. At least things between us are back to normal, and she's come to accept me for who I really am—her gay, werewolf son, who is madly in love with Richard Burke, and going to marry him someday. All's well that ends well. The phone rings, and a glance at the caller ID, although not necessary, yields the information that, surprise, surprise, it's my mother. "Yes, Mother?" Salutations have become a waste of 28
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breath. "Max, now don't be angry…." Uh oh, that's not a good way to begin any conversation, especially one with Juliet. "I've had a long, long talk with Amy…." Count to ten, Max. Don't say a word, just count…. "Max, she is truly sorry for what she's done to you in the past…." Breathe, Max, simply breathe…. "She wants to remain your friend, even though she understands that you'll never be more than friends…." It's coming, I can feel it. I tense, feeling every muscle in my body poise, prepared to slam the phone down. Metaphorically, since phones don't have cradles any more "And so… I'veinvitedhertoyourengagementparty…" ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I so want to scream and toss the phone over my head like a fucking hot potato. But that will accomplish nothing. Calm down, Max, calm down. Maybe you're having an auditory hallucination, 'cause surely your mother didn't just say that she invited Amy Banneker, of all people, to a party celebrating the engagement of Max and Richard. The Amy Banneker, who has done her level best to destroy and besmirch said relationship. No, I must surely be hearing things. "Mother, the connection's bad, will you repeat that? 29
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I think I missed something." "No, Max, you heard me—I invited Amy to your party tomorrow night." Insensitivity, thy name is Juliet Montague! "Maybe I just won't show up then!" Damn, this is simply childish on my part, and I know it. "Max, don't be like that…." Oh god, she's using the wheedling voice on me, the one she works so well. If I had a videophone, I would undoubtedly see her outthrust lower lip, too. The same damn pout I use in order to get my way sometimes. I know that tone—how many years has she been using it on me?—and I'm helpless to defend myself against it. "You forgave Richard for far worse…." Gah! She makes things so difficult. Forgiving Richard isn't the same thing, because with Richard there was actually nothing to forgive. Amy, on the hand, has done nothing but cause harm to the man I love and myself, in a misguided attempt to get me to love her. Which is wrong and automatically doomed to failure for many reasons and on many different levels. But I feel myself weakening, as usual. "Mother…," I whine. "Max, please? I don't ask for much from you…." And as the sun slowly sinks in the west, down goes the SS Max, with the loss of all aboard. But what can I do, I ask you? She is my mother. 30
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I have one more card left to play, though. "If Richard objects then you un-invite her," I adamantly maintain. And I mean it. "Not a problem, honey, I'll just call him." She's all cheery now that she thinks she'll get her own way, And before I can suggest she let me tell him, she rings off. Talk about avoidance. I try to call her back to forestall her move, but I get her voice mail. Too fucking late. I try Richard's cell, same response. I click off in frustration, wondering if he'll give her an earful for even suggesting such a thing. Swan Lake. There he is now. Maybe I'll get the earful. Except it's not Richard, it's Rachel. And the second I hear her voice, I know she's excited—she squeals into my ear. "MAX!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I hold the phone away for a second, letting the echo of my name finish reverberating before I listen again. "Rachel, can you say that a little louder? I think there are people in China that didn't quite catch that." My tone is one of bemusement, however, and I'm only feigning irritation, of course. "Max! I got an agent! I got an agent!" Rachel has been wanting an agent for her novel for a while now, and has been sending out queries to agencies in various cities, 31
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all with a distinct lack of a gratifying response. 'Til now, apparently. Her enthusiasm spills out of every syllable. "Congratulations, sweetie!" I'm so happy for her. She deserves this; she's really a good writer, and the world needs a chance to see it. "Tell me all the details—who, where, what…," I encourage her. "Well, believe it or not, this agency is local. In fact, their offices aren't all that far from the Tribune, which is rather handy, don't you think? The name of the agency is Kinsky, Karloff and Hall. And my agent's name is David Kinsky!" She says the name like he's her savior or something, and I can't hold back a chuckle. "Have you met this angel yet?" I tease. "No, we're having lunch tomorrow. Max, I'm so nervous. What if he doesn't like me? What if I'm not what he's looking for in a writer?" This doesn't sound like my Rachel—my Rachel is über confident and self-assured. Of course, she's been looking for such a long time, and I don't blame her for being a little nervous at the prospect of having her dreams actually come true. "He'll love you," I reply confidently. "How could he not? Obviously he likes what he sees, he called you didn't he? You just go out there and knock him dead!" She giggles, a little more confidently. "I'll give you 32
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a full report tomorrow night," she promises, which brings to mind the reason that I'm peeved. "Rach, do you know what my mother's done now?" I begin, in my whining Max tone. "No, do tell…." "She's invited Amy to the engagement party." A loud silence ensues. "Rachel, did you hear me?" "I heard you, Max." More silence. Suddenly I catch on. No surprise here, this is information that has already been taken and put into place. As usual, it's just me that's uninformed and caught offguard. Not to mention put out. "Max, I think Amy's changed, hard as that is to believe." Yeah, sure, and let me tell you about some lovely beachfront property I own, too. Yank the other one, love… "Uh huh…." I try to sound noncommittal, but I'm sure I fail—miserably. "Max, she's bringing a date." And I care why? "Is that so?" "Yes, it's so. Max, I think she's over you, especially after what happened with Morgan…." I roll my eyes and sigh, saying nothing. "Don't people deserve second chances?" She's 33
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trying to appeal to humanitarian Max now. Soft hearted Max. Soft headed Max, more like it. "How many second chances does one person get?" But of course, I'm too weak to hold out forever. "I told Mother fine, invite her, but if Richard objects she's uninvited. No argument." "What did Juliet say to that?" "She said fine and then she hung up to call him before I had a chance to say anything else. And before you ask, I don't know yet what Richard said. Line's still busy." "Well, I'll cross my fingers that Richard's in a forgiving mood. After all, you're back together, and you're going to be married. No harm done, right?" Right. If you don't count all the mental anguish Miss Banneker has put us through over the years, I think indignantly. Just Max's broken heart, thank you kindly. Of course, I say nothing, make no verbalizations. I know Rachel understands what I've been through, she's been right there beside me all the way. My ears perk up suddenly, as I become aware of the sound of an engine and the ping of gravel. Must be Richard. Wonder what he's been up to? I carry the phone with me, walking to the front window as I continue to talk. I peek through the curtains, expecting to see the Monte, but no, that's not what meets my eyes. Who the hell is this? 34
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"Rach, I gotta let you go, there's some idiot out there with a motorcycle." "Okay. You be careful, Max, you never know what lunatics are out running around. Call me back, will ya?" I reassure her that I will, then pocket the phone as I head outside to see who is so rudely invading my privacy. The rider pulls up as close to the house as he can get, setting his kickstand as he parks the bike. Throwing one leg over it, he dismounts. He wears a black leather jacket and tight jeans which show off to advantage his muscular legs and nice ass. I can't help it if I notice these things. I'm not blind, after all. But that doesn't matter at the moment. I stand on the porch, hands on my hips. Don't even tell me how girly that sounds, just shush. I'm defending my homestead against intrusion. I'm not expecting anyone, and I don't like surprises. I feel like I should have a shotgun in my hands, for some reason, even though I don't have the first idea how to really shoot one, other than the obvious, as in pull the trigger. "Can I help you?" I know my tone is belligerent, but that's life. The
figure
doesn't
respond
immediately,
approaching the porch with a cocky swagger, and it isn't until he removes the royal blue helmet, and shakes out 35
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tresses the color of ripe lemons that I finally realize that it's Richard I've been facing down! What the fuck? Although, I should have recognized his lovely ass. "Surprise, Max!" he grins, as he mounts the porch, helmet in hand. He takes me in his arms and kisses me. "Isn't she beautiful?" I actually take a look at the bike, my attention having previously been focused on its rider. I don't know much about motorcycles, but this one's big, black, and shiny. Looks nice, actually. "Whose is it?" "Ours," he says, pride evident in his voice. "She's a vintage Indian classic. I've always wanted one." He gives me a look, trying to gauge my reaction. I can almost hear him thinking: 'Is Max mad I made such a major purchase without consulting him? Undoubtedly using funds from our joint savings account? Or is Max worrying about Richard getting himself killed in a major head-on collision, being the worrier that he naturally is?' All good questions, I have to admit. "Oh, have you now?" I can't quite decide how to react, but I know I'll approve in the end—especially when I see the way his beautiful eyes shine, and the happiness that radiates from him. After all, what is money for, if not to spend? And Richard really asks for very little, he's not a spendthrift in any sense of the word. Mostly, he buys things 36
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for us, or for me. Other than his photographic needs. And those don't count. He spoils me terribly. So how can I be selfish now? I can't be, of course. "I got you a helmet of your very own, sweet thing," he says, his voice like honey, oozing into my auricular orifices in a way that no one else's can. Penetrating my defenses with sweetness, and divinity, and promises of so many things. And God, how can I possibly do anything but what I do best and melt all over him? He takes my hand, and leads me down the steps to his new toy, and there is the helmet. Where his is a royal blue, mine is the color of midnight, and emblazoned on it in silver lettering is my name. I realize that his is similarly marked with his name. Obviously a well-planned maneuver on his part. "I've picked out a jacket for you, we just need you to try it on for size. I thought we could do that now, if you're not too busy? I'd love to take you for a ride, Max." I can't possibly say no to Richard. Even though I'm a little nervous at the idea of riding on the backseat of this very exposed vehicle with only two wheels for balance. But for Richard, I'll make the effort. "Where's the car?" I ask. "At the dealer. We can pick that up too, and you can drive it back. Unless you want to take the bike?" "No, no, I'll stick with driving the car, thank you." 37
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He chuckles as he wraps his arms around me. "I knew you'd say that, Max." Am I so predictable? Probably. "My mother talked to you, didn't she?" "Yes, she did." He picks up the helmet and hands it to me. I have to admit it's pretty. "And? What do you think?" He shrugs, arching his eyebrow at the same time, a look of resignation crossing his handsome face. "What could I say, once she told me you said it was all right with you?" "I didn't exactly say that," I point out, a bit huffily, "I told her that if you had any objection, Amy gets uninvited. Do you? Have any objection, that is?" "I don't know. I'm not thrilled about the idea, but what can she do, seriously? Nothing she can do will hurt us. We'll just make sure we don't let her come between us again. Juliet says she has someone now, someone she's seeing. A local anchorman or something." "Is that so? I didn't hear that much. Any idea which one?" "No, and I really don't care. C'mon, let's take a ride, Max. I don't want to talk about Amy anymore, I just want to get you on the backseat of our new bike." His grin is so very cute and boyish, how can I resist him? 38
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Helmet back in place, lovely blond hair lost to view, he climbs onto the cycle, patting the seat behind him expectantly. What else can I do but don my own and join him, sliding my arms around his waist and clinging to him tightly. I half expect to hear him tell me to lighten up, but he doesn't. Good. I press my face into his back for the takeoff, trying not to be more of a worrywart than I have to be. He spurs the beast into life, kicking up the stand in one very dominant motion. The bike vibrates pleasurably beneath me, and my mind speculates on what one can do on a motorcycle. Especially with the sort of sensations emanating from this one. I smile at all the thoughts which bombard me. Definite avenues to explore there. Spewing gravel from the tires, we pull onto Highway 94, which has little traffic at this time of day. I'm clinging to Richard and trying to feel as if I'm not in imminent danger of falling off, or being knocked off by a passing motorist. It's both exhilarating and scary. The feel of the wind against my body is something you can't get from riding in any automobile, not even in a convertible with the top down. As I slowly gain confidence, I begin to relax and enjoy the ride—particularly the closeness with my boy. I can tell he's pretty happy—every once in a while he lets loose an exultant howl. Who's the wolf here, then? I 39
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find it to be very cute, and I only cling more tightly to him. Can we say "Born To Be Wild"? Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration; no Fonda and Nicholson here, simply Richard and Max and heaven on an Indian. Although now that I've thought it, I have Steppenwolf permeating my brain. We fly down Interstate 40, obviously heading to West County. I know there's a major motorcycle dealership near Juliet's neck of the woods. I assume that's where we are headed. And sure enough, now we're in downtown Kirkwood, which is filled with the neatest shops, where one can find the most interesting items. Many an hour has been spent here happily perusing and buying, as well as simply window shopping, and eating at some of the charming restaurants. Which reminds me that I'm hungry. Is it the motorcycle ride or Richard's presence that whets my appetite? Either way, I think I could go for something hot and beefy—get your minds out of the gutter, I wasn't thinking of that. I had something more edible in mind. Glancing ahead, I realize our current course will take us directly into the path of an oncoming freight train that's crossing North Kirkwood Road. The barriers are already down and a line of vehicles is forming on this side of the tracks. It looks like it might be a long one. I motion to 40
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Richard to turn onto a side street. He pulls up to the curb, bringing the bike to a stop, where we just happen to find ourselves outside a deli. If that isn't serendipitous, I don't know what is. I can taste the knishes already. We should dismount, but I'm enjoying the position we're in too much to move. My arms around Richard, my crotch pressed up against his ass. The rich smell of his leather jacket is a delight to my olfactory senses. Not to mention the familiar scent of my man. He leans back into me. If I could, I'd make the rest of the world go away so we could have some privacy to do at least some of the things which are floating through my brain. Ah well, there'll be other times—not so public ones at that. He turns his head, removes the helmet, and I follow suit. I don't mind wearing it—after all, safety comes first— but it feels good to take it off again and let my head have a bit of fresh air. "Does my little wolf want something to eat?" he asks. I simply nod. "Okay, let's get something, and then we can pick up your jacket, and then the car?" That sounds like a plan. "Why don't you see if there's a table while I feed the meter?" he suggests. Another good idea; he has those often. He takes both our helmets, kisses me sweetly, and I enter the deli feeling like I'm floating several feet above the floor. 41
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This is a fairly popular place, one where people tend to take their time with their food, lingering over coffee and wine, caught up in discussions usually reserved for coffeehouses—philosophy, the arts, and weltschmerz. Very esoteric at times, and rather eclectic; I can understand where he would want me to procure us a table. Scanning the room, I triumphantly spot a booth in the far corner, and quickly stake a claim. Smoking/non smoking not applying here at all, as it's all simply non-smoking, which suits me just fine. When a server approaches, I indicate there'll be two of us, and two identical plastic-coated menus are promptly left on the table. I pick one up, perusing its contents, oblivious to the world around me as I wait for Richard to join me. The aromas that pour from the kitchen only make me hungrier. Knishes, I decide, with maybe a Reuben, or perhaps a cheddar melt, with extra onions. Suddenly, I am caught offguard by a different scent; one that's strange to me and at the same time very familiar. But how can this be? Surely…. I lower the menu slowly, the hackles on the back of my neck rising. No, I'm not mistaken. There's another wolf here. Close too, very close. I glance warily around me. Of course, this person doesn't wear a scarlet 'W' anymore than I do. Why am I so jumpy? Surely I expected this day to arrive at some point? I'm not the only werewolf in the 42
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world, for crying out loud. Before I can take my reverie any further, a stranger descends upon me from behind, clapping his hand upon my shoulder. "Jason, I didn't expect to see you here!" What the fuck? I turn my head and take in the intruder. He's younger than me by a good ten years or more, blond hair close-cropped and blue eyes, and he's definitely the source of the wolf scent. Curiouser and curiouser. I regard him with confusion, having no idea what he's talking about. "Sorry, I think you've got the wrong person." He looks at me again, and begins to laugh. "Sorry," he apologizes, "my mistake. But I swear, you look just like him." Before I can say another word, he moves toward the door, brushing by my Richard in the aisle. My lover slides into the booth beside me, gives me a quizzical look."What was that all about?" "Hell if I know," I confess. But somewhere in the back of my mind, an idea germinates, one that refuses to go away, no matter how much I tell myself it's ridiculous. Do I really look like this Jason person? And, if so, can he be my father?
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Chapter Three Tangent Riddled
"You really don't have to do this if you don't want to, you know?" "Not marry you? Don't be silly, you know I want to marry you, Max. I wouldn't have proposed if I didn't." "No, not that. Tonight. The party. We can simply bow out of it. Maybe not gracefully, but we can find some excuse that'll get us off the hook." "How about one of our classics?" Richard clears his throat and assumes a pseudo Viennese accent, rolling his r's. "Max has come down with beriberi and his doctor has forbidden him to leave quarantine." I roll my eyes at his horrible imitation and he drops back into normal. "Or how about this one—we have to fly to the Congo tonight and help a starving nation?" Richard chuckles as he comes up behind me, wraps his arms around me, and nuzzles my neck. We're in our bedroom, dressing for the big event, aka our engagement party. I just wanted to give him an out, an escape clause. But he doesn't seem inclined to take it. So be it. We'll go. Maybe it'll be fun? After all, we are celebrating our 44
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togetherness, our future marriage, right? Mother said nothing fancy, so we take her at her word and dress simply, yet very nicely. Richard offered to go as Verlaine, to my Rimbaud of course, but I declined his generous offer. I told him we could save the role-play for another time, perhaps while we watch Total Eclipse. Again. I gaze with approval as he dons a pair of tailored black slacks, Donna Karan actually, and a pale jade button-down shirt, with a black embroidered, watered silk vest. I salivate every time I look at him. I'll tell you right now I plan to be sneaking peeks often during the course of the evening. For myself, I'm wearing camel cords and a pale blue dress shirt. Richard says the shade sets off my eyes. And now we're ready to go, come what may. Mother has asked us to arrive first, so we do, albeit with slight misgivings. I hope she doesn't have an ambush planned. A new boyfriend? Further theories as to why Richard and I shouldn't be together? I know I'm being paranoid, but considering what we've been through, I think it's, to some degree, understandable. Richard merely shushes away my fears as we pull up to her house in the Monte. At least she didn't pick the full moon. I give her credit for that much common sense. She's waiting for us in the family room. The house is riotous with color, blue and purple crepe draped from the 45
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ceilings, with matching balloons filling every nook and cranny. A large banner proclaiming 'CONGRATS MAX AND RICHARD!' hangs in the hallway, impossible to miss. We pass by the dining room and I see the table has been set up for a buffet. I'm impressed. Mother has gone to some trouble for us, and I appreciate her efforts. She does mean well, most of the time. "Rachel's worked her fingers off helping me put this together," Mother says. "You just missed her—she ran home to get dressed." Since she lives next door, in the same house she grew up in, that won't take very long; at least, you wouldn't think so. "Is Mark with her?" "No, but I think Josiah might be coming. And I think her agent is, too." "Really?" I'm surprised. And more than a little confused. "I didn't expect that. She never said anything about it." My mother wears a strange smirk on her face. "Things change when you least expect it, Max." What the hell does that mean? Then again, I'm pretty sure I don't want to know right now. Just enjoy the moment, I remind myself, squeezing Richard's hand. He returns my squeeze and adds a kiss for good measure. "At any rate, I asked you two here early, so we 46
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could take a few minutes and drink a toast together. And I have something to give you, too." She bustles about now, a bottle of what appears to be champagne in her hands. She pops the cork, pouring the contents into three fluted glasses, which she distributes among us. "I love you both, and I know you'll make each other very happy forever!" We clink our glasses together with muffled tings, echoing the sentiment. When we've duly drunk to ourselves, whether it's proper etiquette or not, she takes the glasses and sets them down, leaving the room for a moment before returning with something in her hands, something bound with a pink ribbon. It appears to be a photo album. My selfpreservation meter has just kicked in. "I put together some old photos of you, Max, ones that I've had forever, and some others of the two of you. Now that you're getting married, I think it's high time I pass these along." She smiles as she hands the book to Richard first. Richard grins, too. Damn, I can only imagine the embarrassing pictures contained in those pages. "Old, as in childhood old?" I ask, trying to gauge how potentially damaging this might be. "Yes, from when you were a baby." Damn. Pretty damaging. But there's nothing to be done for it, as Richard has already removed the bow from 47
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the cover and is diving into its depths, ogling the contents. And gauging by the smile on his face, he finds them to be pretty damn cute. I'm done for, I can see that now. "Max, oh, this is priceless. C'mere, let's sit down and look through this together." He hooks his arm through mine, and walks me against my will to the loveseat where we both plop down and he pushes the book onto our joint laps. He points at a picture of me, taken when I was maybe about the age of three or four. I'm sitting on Santa's lap, with a wide stare and an expression of complete confusion. I roll my eyes at him. "Thank you, Juliet, this is marvelous!" he gushes, while my mother merely beams at him, as mothers are wont to do. Oh my god, it's the obligatory bare-assed baby on the bearskin rug picture. Mother, how predictable! I groan at the sight. A chronicle of my childhood ensues, laid out before us in amateur photographic splendor, beginning with my birth—I half expected to see a picture of a tiny wolf cub, but I see she had the sense not to make any records of me in my lupine state. There are photos of her with the infant Max in her lap, the doting momma. There are pictures of my grandfather, holding little Max, appearing rather pleased. And eventually Sebastian, and then Diana are added to the mix. The pictures begin to grow sparser as I get older—and as I learned to duck her camera. But then 48
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Richard appears, and I am enthralled at the early photos of us, with the unmistakable proof of our great love for one another—in most shots, we're touching in some way. She managed to catch us under the mistletoe one Christmas, maybe around 1977, when we were being particularly oblivious to the world around us. Ah, young love. How handsome Richard was. He still is. Like a fine wine, he's aged very well, and he's just as beautiful to me now as on the day that we met. My lover wears a beatific smile as he looks from me to the album and back again. If he's pleased, then I'm pleased. He twines his fingers in mine, lifts our joined digits to his lips and kisses them. "Juliet did a great job, don't you think?" I have to agree, it's a very thoughtful gift. I truly didn't expect anything, to be honest. The party alone is more than sufficient. But this is very nice. Something special to commemorate our day. Damn, there goes my cell. I manage to raise my hips so I can pull it out, flip it open. The caller id flashes Rachel's name, which I find rather odd since she's supposedly next door, but I answer it anyway. "Hey, Max! I see you're already there." "Yeah, we're here, aren't you coming? House looks great, by the way." 49
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"Thanks, I'm glad you like it. Yes, I'll be there, I just wanted to talk to you first, so there won't be any awkward questions when I do get there." A moment of silence. "Awkward? In what way? I'm not following." "So you won't ask me about Mark and why he's not with me." "He's not coming?" "We broke up, Max." News to me. "You should've called me." Surprising, as I'm first on her list of people to tell anything and everything. "I didn't want to interrupt you and Richard, now you have him back and everything…." "Rachel, you know better than that." I put my frown into my voice as much as possible, glancing at my lover, as he mouths, 'Everything okay?' and I nod that it is. "I know, I think it just wasn't meant to be, though. It's okay. I'm fine with it. It was very mutual." "Rachel?" "Yes, Max?" "Did this have anything to do with all the time you spent at my house? And don't deny it if that's the case." Rachel sighs into my ear. "Yes and no. Yes, in the sense that he wasn't happy about it. But, no, to be honest, I 50
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felt then that we weren't going anywhere, and I wanted to be with you more. So no feeling guilty, Max. I just wanted to tell you the whole truth, everyone else is going to get the truncated version for right now. Of course, you're free to tell Richard everything, later. I'm coming over soon and we'll celebrate your engagement, and you and Richard can have the happiness you both deserve." Rachel already knows the truth about Richard—of course I told her, she's my closest friend after all. After Richard, I mean. "Oh, and I invited my agent, I hope you don't mind?" "Mind? Of course not. So I take it you and he hit it off well?" "Very, he's very nice. Hang up now, Max, so I can get dressed." I laugh and do as I'm told. Richard shoots me a glance. I give him a look that says 'later'. It's amazing how well we can read each other's expressions. He nods to show he understands. Mother's been in and out of the room while we've been looking over our gift. "Where's Di?" I glance up, "I didn't see her car when we pulled up?" "She took Jackson to Nathaniel's house, but he sends his congratulations." I have to laugh at that. Undoubtedly it's more interesting to be at your best friend's house, playing games on the Playstation, than watching a bunch of adults 51
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celebrate the engagement of your two uncles. "Did I hear my name?" Ah, my lovely sister herself—what timing—and she's looking rather pleased, I notice. And she's also not alone. We stand automatically as she enters the room. In close tow she has a rather meek-looking gentleman with soft brown eyes that are magnified by the glasses he wears. She introduces him as Walter and we shake hands all around. I refrain from asking about Oliver. It doesn't seem the proper question to be asking at the moment, so I'm assuming he's yesterday's headline. She and Walter take seats nearby. He offers the obligatory congratulations. Diana explains that Walter's an accountant at the company she works for. Obviously Mother already knows him, as they exchange pleasantries and sundries and whatnots. I wonder if my sister will ever settle down with one person? Feeling Richard squeeze my hand, I glance up. He's watching me with bemusement in his beautiful sapphire eyes. "Matchmaker," he whispers for my ears alone, and I know I'm too obvious to him and always will be. Suddenly aware of the incriminating pictures I'm still holding open on our laps, I think maybe a quick trip to the car is indicated. As in immediately. To get them out of harm's way. To keep them from becoming fair game is 52
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more like it. Too late. My sister's eyes are too sharp. "Ooh, Max!" she squeals. Rather than ask for what she wants like a civilized person, in which case I could politely tell her no, she bounces over to me and simply relieves me of the book, bouncing back before I can get a word out of my tongue-tied mouth. Seems like a good time to stretch my legs, I think. Rising, I take Richard's hand in mine. "I left something in the car," I announce simply and proceed to take him with me. No other explanations are necessary. Let them snicker behind my back. I'll undoubtedly hear something about it on my return anyway. "Be right back." To make it look good, when we reach the Monte I open and close the door. Rather unnecessary, I know. My lover favors me with one of his skeptical looks. "What did you need here, then?" he asks. "Lessons in how to open a car door?" "No, only you." I pin his lovely body against the car and kiss him without warning, smirking at how I've just gotten my own way. I smirk too soon. Victory slips through my grasp like lube on a hot cock. He easily reverses our positions, whirling me about like the proverbial leaf in the tide. Now my ass is up against the metal, and he's holding my lips hostage with his own. I yield to his strength—not that I have to, mind you, but because I choose to. There's a 53
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difference. I grab his ass, pulling him up against me roughly, our pelvises grinding together. Ah, much more like it… For the moment, I've completely forgotten why we came out here, caught up in the wonder that is Richard Burke, again. A discreet cough behind us directs my attention to the fact that Cat and Sebastian have arrived. They're making their way up the driveway, and they appear to have someone else in tow. We cease what we're doing, at least for the moment. Intermission for now, round two to commence later. "Good lord, do you just like doing it in public?" Sebastian shakes his head, eyeing us sourly. "Do you have some sort of voyeuristic thing going on?" "No, then they'd be watching," Cat corrects him with a grin, "They're exhibitionists, that's what they are." She winks at us. "Well, then, they wish us to be voyeurs," Sebastian returns, undaunted. "Same thing. Get a room, why don't you? Or save it for home, like civilized people do." "Personally, I think that's the attitude of a jealous person who wishes he had the nerve to behave that way but worries too much about what the rest of the world thinks," the stranger interjects. I like this person already, whoever he may be. 54
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Cat giggles, and my cousin looks bleakly at the newcomer. I pay him more attention now. He seems to be younger than me, hard to tell for sure. He has spiky reddish hair and bright blue eyes and a contagious smile. "Max, Richard, I'd like you to meet my cousin Isaac Dredd. Isaac, these are the friends I told you about, Max Montague and Richard Burke." "Isaac Dredd. I know that name," Richard interjects, as we exchange greetings and handshakes. "Isaac is a world class surfer," Cat says proudly, and suddenly my attention is caught by something else, something that had escaped me before, as my nostrils have been filled with nothing but Richard's scent. I glance at Isaac in some surprise. He acknowledges my look with a boyish grin, but says nothing. I can't believe it, all these years of not meeting another lycanthrope, and now I've run into two, within a very short period of time. There's no mistake about it, Isaac Dredd's a werewolf, and he recognizes the wolf in me. Guess I need to be talking to Cat privately. I'm sure she knows about me; after all Sebastian has made no bones about not keeping any secrets from her. But we've never taken the time to discuss my situation, such as it is. Richard glances between Isaac and me, as we 55
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follow them back into the house. Sebastian and Cat are already in the door, when Isaac falls back a little bit, his amusement apparent when he softly begins to sing "Werewolves of London." He throws back his spiky head and his infectious laughter rings out. Not shy is this one, not at all. Strange sense of humor, too, but I like that about him. We head back to the family room. Cat introduces her cousin to everyone else. No one suspects a thing, naturally. Luckily the album has been finished with, so I take the opportunity to snatch it back and slide it somewhere out of sight. Richard takes a spot on the loveseat and I impulsively drop myself right into his lap. The hell with it. The reason we're all here is to celebrate our togetherness, and if it disturbs my cousin, then that's tough. If we were a heterosexual couple, no one would bat an eye. This should be no different. My Richard slides his arm around my waist to anchor me. At least he's pleased by my boldness, my little flirtation with exhibitionism. "Congratulations to you both," Isaac says, lounging easily in a nearby armchair, a can of Coke in one hand. "Cat's told me all about you getting married, and I for one think it's great!" "Yes,"
Walter
interjects
timidly,
"the
gay
community is making great strides, I think, in the 56
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legislature." "Strides?" My lover fairly snorts, "I don't consider those to be strides, those are pussy steps! I think most of the states are skating around the question while the federal government is hoping if they stall long enough, we'll forget about it and go away! Not to mention this shouldn't be an issue in the first place. We shouldn't have to beg permission to be married—we should have the same rights as everybody else!" "Absolutely!" Isaac enthusiastically nods. "When will they understand that people are people and love is love? What are they so afraid of, anyway? To admit they're wrong, that their attitudes suck totally and need to be seriously overhauled?" "Of course they're wrong, that goes without saying," Sebastian adds in somewhat of an adversarial manner, as if Isaac is stating the obvious. I can just imagine how much fun these two are at home. Cat must have her hands full with them. "Is this a private sitting, or can anyone join?" While I've been listening to the others, Rach has slipped into the room, sneaking in below my radar. And without waiting for an answer, she adds herself to my lap, producing an exaggerated oomph from my lover. "Dear God, Rachel, what have you been eating?" he pretends to groan. 57
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She only giggles. I take this opportunity to whisper in her ear, "Are you really okay?" She nods and pinches my cheek, even though she knows how much I hate it. "Yes, bubelah, I'm fine," she reassures me, mimicking my Jewish grandmother—if I had a Jewish grandmother. Mother stands over us, looking at us like we're loons. "Is this what you call a Max sandwich?" Juliet jokes, producing laughter from the room at large. Cat introduces her cousin, and Mother tells us to help ourselves to what's in the dining room. Maggie arrives, standing shyly in the doorway. She clutches something which is wrapped, looking tentatively around her. When she spots us, she makes a beeline for us, smiling at the strange sight we must make. "Want to have a seat?" Rachel invites her, which earns her a sound pinch on her derriere from me. Maggie giggles and takes the vacant seat beside us instead, as the room starts to slowly empty in favor of the refreshments. I notice out of the corner of my eye that Isaac has offered my mother his arm. I'll have to give her trouble later about robbing the cradle. "I brought you guys something," Maggie says, holding out the gift. "I'm very happy for you. I think you make the perfect couple!" 58
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Rachel rises from my lap suddenly, and I can breathe again. Not sure what she's doing, but she seems to be wandering in the direction of the hallway. Maybe she's hungry. "Thank you, Maggie, you know you didn't have to." I smile at the young girl. "I wanted to," she assures me. "Go ahead, open it, Richard," I encourage him, as Maggie holds the package out. "I would, but I have a heavy object restricting the use of my hands," Mr. Wiseass replies. I stick my tongue out at him, cheekily. "Promises, promises," he grins lasciviously, winking at me. "Go ahead, Max," Maggie says, laughing, so I do the honor. Inside the well-wrapped and carefully taped package are two hardcover volumes on ancient Greece. Ones we've been wanting. "Oh, Maggie, wherever did you find these? We've been looking for them everywhere!" I exclaim excitedly as I turn the tomes over in my hands. There is a beautiful photograph of a Minoan temple on the front cover of one of them, the sight of which makes me very homesick for what has become like a second home to us. Richard rests his chin on my shoulder as I turn the pages, looking at the photographs first, of course. "Cat told me," Maggie confesses. "I found them in a 59
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secondhand bookstore I know. They were supposed to be a Christmas present, but I think this is even better." "Thanks, Mags, you're the best!" Richard says, kissing her cheek, which instantly reddens. I give her a second one to add to his. "Have you met Cat's cousin yet, the surfer?" "Surfer? No. Where does he surf, not around here, surely?" I have no answer. "He didn't really say, did he?" I look at Richard, who shakes his head. "No, but I think I like him already," he grins naughtily. "He speaks his own mind, doesn't he?" "Yes, that he does. Not exactly Sebastian's cup of tea, is he?" I can't refrain from smiling at the thought. Someone who is willing, ready and able to stand up to my autocratic cousin is all right in my book. Not that I don't love Sebastian, I do, and I would do anything for him, but he can be highhanded at times. Maybe there is some sort of gene that runs in the members of Cat's family? 'Cause she certainly knows how to handle him too. A flash of movement hits the corner of my eye and I turn to look. Rachel's head pops into the room, she sees we haven't moved and disappears for a second, reappearing with another stranger. This seems to be the day for those, doesn't it? She leads him in our direction. Richard nudges 60
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me to rise, and we both stand as they approach. "Max, Richard, Maggie, I'd like you to meet David Kinsky, my agent." Hands are duly shaken all around, greetings exchanged. He seems a pleasant enough fellow, not bad looking, intelligent, nice smile. Looks a little familiar, not sure why. "So you're the guy who's going to get my little Rachel published?" I grin, watching Rachel blush. "I'm going to do my best," he nods. "She's very talented, you know. I think she'll make it." Good, he believes in her. I like that, so I like him. "Yes, she is," Richard agrees. I hear something in his voice, a tone of bemusement almost, and I glance at him sharply. I can't quite fathom his expression, but he finds something amusing. I'll have to question him about it later. In private I'm about to open my mouth to make an inane comment of some sort, but the air is rent with the throbbing bass line of some heavy metal band, filling the room with a dense cloud of musical mayhem, one which goes completely through my head, giving me an instant headache. Son of a bitch! Almost immediately, it's lowered to a less earsplitting decibel level, but the damage is done, and I put a hand to my aching temple. 61
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I glower in the direction of the stereo. Mother and Isaac are fiddling with the controls for some reason. Isaac meets my sour look with a wide smile. "Max, your mom's stereo is righteous, dude," he says before he turns back to what they are doing—he seems to be explaining her system to her, the woofers and tweeters and whatnots, while she listens raptly. Lovely. But at the moment unbearable. I turn to our guests, the ones that are still in the room. "Rachel, David, help yourselves to whatever's in the dining room, I'm going to remove myself from the source of this cacophony for a minute." I don't know whether it's AC/DC, Metallica, or Korn, but right now, it's just so much noise to me, and it's too much for my sensitive ears. "You okay, Max?" Rachel asks, concern in her voice. "Yeah, just a little headache, don't worry about it," I reassure her, patting her arm, before I head out the French doors into my mother's backyard. Of course, my solicitous lover is just a step behind me. I drop into a cushioned recliner on the patio. There's a nice, cooling breeze blowing across my cheek; a scent of burning leaves hangs in the evening air. Even though the practice is strictly illegal, it doesn't stop people from doing it, and the police don't tend to enforce it, unless there's a complaint. Just being away from the source of the loud 62
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noise makes me feel better. Not that I have anything against that type of music, but it's not really my cup of tea. I'm overly sensitive to sound sometimes, and this seems to be one of those times. Richard straddles my lap, which is the main reason I chose the heavy lounge chair and not the lighter weight arm chair. He lays his gentle fingers against my temples, soothing them with his touch, using circular motions to relieve the pressure points. Ah, how good it feels, he's a magic man, he is. My own magic man… with magic fingers. He bends down, his lips brushing over the same points. I could sit here like this forever, and never move. Except it's our party… but for now…. "What's up with the surfer boy?" Richard asks, a knowing look in his eye. I can never put anything past that man. "He's a wolf too." Richard cocks an eyebrow at me and moves his lips to my nose. Mmmm, very nice. "Interesting," he comments. "What if he comes back?" I meet Richard's eyes with my own worried gaze. "Comes back? He's still here, isn't he?" He sounds a little confused. My fault. "No, not Isaac. My dad." I've gotten derailed on my 63
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own little train of thoughts. "Ah… him…." "I can't help thinking about him, ever since I met that strange wolf in the deli." He brushes back a stray lock of my hair from my forehead, perhaps a sign I need to have him trim it for me. Yes, he does that, rather than have me submit myself to the butchery of some stranger. I prefer it and he doesn't mind. My hair has a tendency to grow in thick and fast, one of the negative effects of my lycanthropy. It requires constant thinning to keep it at bay. "Don't waste your time, he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve you." His lips ghost over mine. "Do you feel better? Want anything? Or do you think you're ready to face the horde once more? I bet your mother has chocolate for dessert, knowing Juliet…." He grins, knowing that he had me at the word chocolate. "Yes, I do feel better. You know if it was up to me, I'd rather sit here with you all day, maybe go skinnydipping in the pool…," I reply suggestively, leaving the subject of my pater familias aside for now. He leans in to me, his tongue sliding along my chin, the length of my jaw-line. He's such a tease, knowing we can't do anything, not here, and not at home for a while. "Don't start what you can't finish," I moan. 64
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"I can always finish, love," he grins lasciviously. "But in the meantime, I can leave you wanting more…." He runs his tongue across my lips. I attempt to capture it, but he pulls back, just out of reach. "Shall we go in?" he asks innocently, backing off my lap and holding out his hand to me. I sigh melodramatically as I let him help me up. "If we must, Mr. Burke…." "We must, Mr. Montague…." For good measure he pulls me close and kisses me, something to tide me over until later. Then we re-enter the house, prepared to face the music once more, so to speak. First stop, the dining room to find the food. Maggie is there, helping herself to meatballs and mushrooms. And chocolate, of course. I start with the chocolate myself, earning me a disapproving look from my lover. "You will eat something else." He gives me his no-nonsense look. "You should listen to your daddy." Maggie giggles. I have to keep from guffawing at that. Sometimes Richard is sensitive about being the older one of us, even if it's only by a year. Besides, I'm certainly not in any imminent danger of starving, far from it. You'd think he'd know that by now, but sometimes he hovers over me like a solicitous yet overbearing mother hen. I love it. 65
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Richard refrains from scowling at her. Anyone else he would have given the rough side of his tongue, but with Maggie he is nothing but gentle. In the interim between her remark and his response, I hear a laugh ring out from the direction of the living room—a sound that resembles a cross between a donkey bray and a giggle. Only one person I know laughs like that. I glance questioningly at Maggie and she nods her head. "When?" "While you were outside. She has that anchorman from Channel 7 with her. You know the one—Preston Sparks?" I know the name, not the man. As newsmen go, he's not bad. Actually, he's probably the best of the locals, good looking and personable, intelligent, with a good delivery and a nice voice. So, what's he doing with Amy? A mystery to me. "We've seen him." "Now's your chance to meet him. Amy took him into the living room. I guess he's too good for the family room," Maggie laughs. "Juliet and Isaac are in there too. Sebastian couldn't seem to be bothered—he looked less than impressed—and Cat stayed with him, of course. I think Rachel took David next door for a minute." She gazes adoringly at my better half as she speaks. He returns her look with his usual fond regard. 66
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Not exactly my idea of fun, but I suppose we can't get out of it. That would be rude, wouldn't it? Albeit tempting. But it's inevitable, given the current state of affairs between Mother, Rachel and Amy, with their general attitudes of forgiveness and sisterhood or whatever the hell it is they're pushing this week. So why not do it where I have some control over the situation, such as it is, here in my mother's house? Better than doing it in our home.
In
case
you
haven't
noticed, Max
avoids
confrontation at all cost. "Come along, Max, let's go and face the music. Don't forget your plate." My worrywart. "Yes, dear," I obediently follow him into the fray, which is exactly how I see it. In the living room that's virtually never used— except for now, obviously—my mother and Amy sit together on the green flowered sofa while Isaac and the newsman stand behind them. Oh dear God, what do they have? Can I simply die now and get it over with, please? Why do women think it's so incredibly cute to show one's childhood photos to other people? I ask you? When I see the offending object in their hot little hands, I do an about face and prepare to leave, but Richard's arm goes smoothly around my waist, conveniently preventing my departure. Too late, I've been spotted—Gah! 67
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"Max, there you are!" my mother gushes. "Come in so I can introduce you and Richard. We've just been looking through your album." What else can I do? I grit my teeth and face the music. "Max, Richard, this is Preston Sparks, I'm sure you've seen him, he's the anchor for the Channel 7 news. Preston, my boys—Max and Richard." Preston Sparks looks remarkably the same offcamera as he does on. He has wavy black hair—if it were any tighter it would almost be considered to be marcelled— but it manages to be leading-man material instead. He's possessed of a strong no-nonsense jaw, with the obligatory dimple; and icy gray eyes that border on being blue—like a winter storm just before it passes into a sunny day. The eyes put me off a bit, though; rather glacial, almost chilly even. But I try not to prejudge him simply because he has the bad taste to be with Amy. Okay, that's not very nice, but I don't really care. He holds out his hand to each of us in turn. I'm trying to read him, gauge what sort of a man he is, but I find that impossible to do. His eyes give nothing away. At least he isn't a wolf, too; that's a plus. What exactly am I looking for? Some sign that he's on the prowl for my man? As if she would have the gall to attempt such a thing twice in one lifetime; not that I'm suspicious of her or anything, 68
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but I simply do not trust her. I've no reason to think she wouldn't try it again. I don't have a tremendous ego, especially when it comes to my considering myself attractive to the opposite sex, but Amy's past track record gives me pause. It's hard for me to believe she's finally given up her apparent obsession with me, and moved on, but I sincerely hope it's true, for our sake. Richard and I sit side by side on the loveseat, and I perfunctorily eat what is on my plate as the conversation continues around me. But I'm not really hearing it. I feel rumblings in my gut, instead; I hear warning bells go off in my head. I'm surprised to feel a pressure against my leg. I glance down and realize it's Richard's foot as he slides it up my calf, at the same time maintaining an expression of pure innocence. I have to smile. How does he read me so well, and know just what to do? I lean in to him, he moves toward me and we come together in a soft kiss, nothing earth-shattering or even slightly disturbing to the other occupants of the room. Heaven forbid we should do anything to disturb the straights. It's a kiss just strong enough to re-affirm our love for one another. And after all, that's what our marriage is about, isn't it?
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Chapter Four Wolf of a Different Color
I'm sitting alone at a bar, umbrella-ed drink resting in my hand—it smells suspiciously like coconut, which I despise, so I decline to take even a small taste. The cocktail napkin on the teak surface reads Trader Vic's, though, so I must be in London. How I got here, I have no idea. I glance around me—no sign of Richard. This can't be good. I shift my weight on the barstool—the padded leather is hard beneath my ass, dotted as it is with brass studs. For what purpose, I can't begin to imagine, but they're damned uncomfortable. Although the place is filled with people, there's no noise, as if someone has pressed a giant mute button, silencing it all. Mouths move, heads thrown back in unheard laughter, couples writhe together in the rhythm of the music they feel, the one which flows through their limbs. Like submerging your head in water, it creates a vacuum that fills your senses, giving you the illusion of being inside your own private bubble. I keep expecting the soundtrack to catch up at some point, like a badly dubbed Japanese film. I sense movement, a reflection in the enormous gilt mirror on the wall behind the bar. I spin my head about. 70
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Everyone on the dance floor and at the tables has stopped, as if frozen in place, a path mysteriously opening amongst them—as if someone is parting this Red Sea of people against their will. And coming from the other end of the room, through this manmade runway, is…. … a young man. He's clad only in a pair of tight silken trousers, which hide nothing and reveal everything. A bow tie hangs around his neck; his long brunet hair flows down his back; his feet are bare; and he has a very muscular chest, with well-defined abs. Not bad, I have to admit. I may be engaged, but I'm not dead. And it's not like I'm interested or anything. My heart belongs to Richard, completely and totally. But I also don't object to a bit of eye candy now and then. The man approaches, his hips rotating as he gyrates down this makeshift aisle, looking rather feral, his eyes glowing with a sort of inner light. Softly, in the background, I hear the soft refrains—"Werewolves of London". Suddenly the young Chippendales wannabe morphs, his hair becoming spiky and red, while his features change into that of Isaac Dredd. But he's not just himself; he begins the change into the wolf as well, his eyes gleaming goldenly. And then behind him, walking in syncopation with the first, appears another Isaac, hip71
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hopping gaily along, and he too is changing, but his change is further along than the first. Not just the eyes, but the beginnings of an elongated snout. And behind him is yet another, with taloned fingernails… and so on, and so on, and so on, each new Isaac Dredd closer to the end of the transition than the one before. And as they reach me, they veer aside at the last moment, some turning left, some turning right, in the manner of a Busby Berkley musical, much to my bewilderment, as well as relief. And each one sings, "Werewolves of London"—a glorious tribute to the late Warren Zevon. Until the last one, the full blown wolf, arrives and stops before me—perched on two legs; he throws back his head and begins to howl…. I spring up in bed. No Trader Vic's this, but our own room, in our own little cottage on Lupercalia Lane, with my own sweet Richard asleep beside me. What a strange dream. I lie back down, intent on returning to dreamland, but I can't, 'cause I'm wide awake. A glance at the clock shows me it's only five am. Damn. No reason on earth to be awake at this ungodly hour. I glance at my fiancé. He's totally at peace, lips slightly apart, breathing measured and even. I really wish he didn't have to leave in the morning, but alas, business calls. The price of being successful. At least it's just for one night. He stirs slightly, rolling onto his back, as I feast my 72
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eyes on his sleeping form. His naked chest rises and falls with every breath he takes. We didn't bother to get dressed after making love the night before. My eyes wander down toward other areas, but my view is limited due to the sheet which conceals him. Well, that's easily remedied. Very carefully, I slide the sheet down, down, farther, farther. Hoping the sudden exposure doesn't cause him to awaken from the cooler air against his bare skin, I reveal more and more of his lovely naked body. Good thing I have such excellent night vision. Inch by glorious inch, I reach the end of his toes, and he's totally uncovered, much to my delight. So pretty, so very pretty, I want to touch the pretty… I glance carefully at his face. Sound asleep, he is. Dead to the world. I ease over toward him cautiously, careful not to make any sudden movements that might reveal my fell purpose, my hand stealing across him until it reaches its goal. Tentatively, I touch him, stroke his yet sleeping member. He shivers. I freeze in place, holding my breath, then nothing. Ah, good. I wrap my fingers around him gently and he hardens at my touch. Even when Richard is asleep, his cock is ready, willing and able. This is seriously turning me on. My own desire grows, but I ignore it to focus on him. Sliding closer, I bend my head over his crotch, lightly running my tongue over 73
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the head of his prick. Oh yes, how good he tastes. I tongue over the slit and around the edge. His cock fairly twitches. A hasty glance toward his other head tells me he's still sleeping. I can't resist taking more of him into my eager mouth. Cautiously sucking, peeking now and then to make sure he's unaware of my activities. He remains asleep, slumbering like the proverbial babe. Emboldened, I increase the pressure I apply to his erection. Even in his sleep, he oozes pre-cum, nectar to my taste-buds, which I lap at eagerly His cock is so very hard now. I have to keep from moaning around it, lest the vibrations awaken my sleeping prince. Dare I take this to its logical end, to where he will release himself into my mouth, whether aware of it or not? I dare! I lightly caress his balls, growing bolder now. He sleeps the sleep of the innocent—or is that wicked, considering what I am doing to him? Or does it simply make me wicked? Regardless, he neither stirs, nor hinders me in any way, and I am more than content to be doing what I'm doing. His beautiful meat filling my mouth while I suck with a greater intensity and lose myself in my occupation, willing him to come in my eager mouth. I feel his balls contracting in my grasp. He's close now and I increase my efforts, milking him with my lips, mentally encouraging him. Perhaps I think he's telepathic 74
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and will pick up on my signals, 'Come for Max, come for me, my love '. His cock spasms as he climaxes for me and in me. I swallow eagerly, every last delicious drop, draining him completely of every bit of his precious fluid. When I'm done, I release his softening member, licking at it to clean him of stray particles of ejaculate, before crawling back up into my own place beside him, a very content smile upon my lips. I've pleasured Richard, pleased myself, and all without waking my lover from his needed sleep. I settle down happily, to resume my own slumbers…. …when I'm surprised to feel warm breath ghosting in my ear, and a warm hand wraps itself around my own hard, hitherto unsatisfied cock. A familiar voice murmurs, "Very, very nice. You should try that more often, sweet thing." He's been awake the whole time, allowing me to have my way with him without interference. "You could have said something." "And spoil your fun? Not on your life!" His fingers around my hardness are exquisite, he knows just how I like to be touched, and no matter how often we make love, each time he touches me sends chills radiating along the length of my spine. It's a feeling I hope to never lose. "It's nice to be naughty, isn't it? Admit it, you were turned on by the 75
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idea that I didn't know, weren't you?" I have to admit the truth in his words. He squeezes my cock harder, before his hand drops to my balls, and he rolls them about in his talented fingers, while I arch myself into his grasp. I steal his lips with my own, moaning into his mouth as I damn near try to fuck his belly in the intensity of my desire. Understanding my need, he grasps my weeping cock with his other hand. Now I've truly died and gone to heaven as he strokes it in firm hard movements, the pre-cum merely serving to grease the pole. He increases the friction until I don't think I can take it much longer and he makes the move that invariably brings about release—pressing smack dab in the center of my balls. It's a trick we learned in our beloved Vickery and which we often employ. I scream his name into his lips, coming in great waves all over his fist. I guess I have to be grateful for that odd little dream, now don't I?
****
Morning arrives, much as I wish it wouldn't. The real morning, that is, the morning you can't evade because you have things to do. Not the middle of the night morning, when all things are possible, and dreams can come true. I 76
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drive my baby to the airport and, being me, we arrive in plenty of time to not only to catch his plane but to account for all the security checks and hassles that the modern traveler has to deal with these days. So, as a result, of course we are entirely too early. Yes, call me anal if you wish. I've heard it before and I'll probably hear it again. So here we are—what to do, what to do, what to do? There's always sitting and waiting, but Richard isn't exactly enamored of that idea, and he gives me his 'it's your fault we're here so damn early' look. We sit together outside the security area, as I can't get any closer than that. "Want to get some breakfast?" I ask, trying to ignore that look. "No." "Want a cup of coffee, then?" "No." Okay. I'm racking my brains here, trying to think of a way to keep him occupied and happy. "Want a magazine for the flight?" He shakes his blond head. "Brought a book for that." "Oh, okay, then you can read it?" "Not now, no, then I won't have anything for the plane." Too logical, now he sounds like me. Could I actually be rubbing off on him? 77
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"Want to go to the arcade and play some games?" "No, not really." He's being difficult, isn't he, but is it on purpose? "Can't you work with me here a little bit?" I hear the whine in my own voice. Pathetic, isn't it? A sudden gleam flashes in his eyes, even as he reaches for my hand and pulls me up from my seat. Uh oh, I think I'm in trouble now. "C'mon, Max," he says, as he begins to walk with me in tow. "Where to?" I query. He doesn't respond as we make our way through the fairly busy terminal. He's carrying nothing in the way of luggage. Everything he needs is safely checked already, so we don't actually look like travelers, which I'm not, although he is. It isn't 'til he turns down a certain corridor, that I sense where we are headed. And why. "Um, Richard… do you think this is a good time for that?" I pull back slightly on his hand. "I mean, there are a few people here, you know. And I don't want to be picked up for soliciting or anything, you know what I mean? Doesn't look good on the old resume." "We'll be discreet, we always are," he reassures me. "Have we ever been caught?" I start to open my mouth, but he turns and puts his 78
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finger firmly against my lips. "No, we got out of that, remember?" "It was damn close, remember that? We had to convince them we were role playing, and that I wasn't a prostitute," I remind him. "But they didn't book you, did they? Or me?" "Noooooo, but…." I attempt to protest, to no avail. He leads me through the door of the men's room. He has this little fantasy, or I should say we have this little fantasy, that we like to play out, ever since Rachel got us to watch Prick Up Your Ears with her. While we watched it due to her Gary Oldman fixation, we soon became enamored of the film on its own merits, besides Mr. Oldman's excellent performance as playwright Joe Orton. Then we became interested in Orton's plays, and his biography as well. These led to playing a little game we developed, namely picking one another up in various men's rooms for a quick wank, blow job, or whatever we feel like doing and/or can get away with. We ended up almost getting arrested in some small Southern town, I don't even remember what state we were in. We were taking a leisurely road trip at the time, and were damn lucky to talk our way out of it with only a warning about watching where we did that sort of thing. It could have been a lot worse. They still have sodomy laws 79
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on the books in some places, you know? Now here we are in the middle of Lambert Airport, in the midst of a typical morning rush, and he wants us to try our luck again? What is there about my lover that makes him want to be such an exhibitionist? I certainly don't encourage it. Of course, I do invariably go along with his ideas, which I suppose makes me an enabler? What can I say? I'd do anything the man asked me to do. Maybe I'll get lucky, and there'll be a full house, which'll make it impossible. Richard strolls in casually, like he owns the damn place, me right behind, but at a slower pace. There are three men standing at the urinals. They ignore our entrance. I stand by the doorway as he scopes out the stalls, acting like he's looking for one. He holds up one finger surreptitiously, but I understand he means one is occupied. Well, that's that I think. I continue to hang back, watching him, waiting for him to return to me, which of course he does, and I yank him out of there. Maybe a bit too sharply. "Slow down, slow down," he insists. We stand together just outside the door, facing one another. "Give it a minute, they'll clear out." Oh goody. But I stand there with him nonetheless, trying to look casual, as if we're up to nothing, while actually we're planning to enter a public rest area for the purpose of kinky role play. Namely the kind where Richard 80
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pretends to pick me up in order to have sex with me. Is it any wonder I sometimes get nervous? I cast about in my mind for something to distract him. Something else, that is. "Oh, while I'm thinking about it, I meant to ask you something." "What's that?" he asks, giving me a cheeky glance. "That look you gave me at our engagement party, when we met Rachel's agent. What was that all about?" I'd forgotten about it until this very moment, to be honest. But it had stayed at the back of my mind, and now it was in the forefront once more. "I don't know what you mean." He plays Mr. Coy. "Yes, you damn well do," I insist, "and if you think I'm going back in there with you, you're going to have to spill the beans first." Ah ha, leverage. Using it. To the max. "Is that so?" he asks in his maddeningly sexy Richard voice, drawing me into his arms, his warm lips enveloping mine, while his hand caresses the back of my head gently. And damnation, if I'm not just putty in his hands, again. He breaks the kiss as the door opens and one of the urinal occupants begs our pardon and walks between us. We draw apart to allow that to happen. "One down…," he mutters. "Tell me!" I insist, but not quite as forcefully. Two more men exit the men's room; that just leaves 81
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one. "Tell you when we're done," Richard says, and once again he's pulled me in. I can't exactly say against my will, but against my better judgment. "What about him?" I hiss, indicating the closed stall. "He won't see a thing, we're out here," Richard replies under his breath. Mmhmm, famous last words. He nods to me to begin as he takes up a position at one of the urinals. I know what to do, of course. We've done this before. Many times, and yes, I'm turned on by it, despite my trepidations, or protestations of sensibility. Can we say lack of common sense? Or simply love blindness? I walk to the door, open and close it as if I've just arrived, then walk over to the row of urinals against the walls, seemingly unmindful of the presence of the man there. I take up a position beside him, unzip and release myself to do my business. He moves beside me, and alerted to his presence, I sneak a peek, admiringly. When I raise my eyes to his, he returns my glance with equal admiration. I blush and look down. I'm attempting to concentrate on the business at hand, but my cock has other ideas. It stiffens, refusing to cooperate, or to obey my commands. Damn, how embarrassing. I notice my neighbor has a similar situation going on. He reaches out one hand, encompasses my hardness and I gasp in pleasure at his 82
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welcome touch. "Going far?" he asks conversationally, his long fingers becoming familiar with my stiff shaft. "California," I reply. "Business. You?" "New Mexico. Same. Married?" "Yeah. Two kids. You?" "Yeah. One boy. Your wife do this for you?" He begins to stroke my needy cock in long elegant strokes, rubbing his thumb over my cockhead, which even now is oozing pre-cum. "No, she doesn't like to do that," I confess, closing my eyes, against my better judgment at this moment, but it's part of the script, and I'm simply giving in to the pleasure he evokes. "So, she doesn't touch you like this?" His hand plays my cock like a well tuned instrument, and I open my eyes, look down at his beautiful hardness and moan. "Nooooo." "I bet she doesn't suck you like I can, either, the way you deserve to be sucked…." I'm all too conscious of the one other presence in the restroom, and the fact that someone could walk in at any moment, which serves to disturb my concentration, but Richard brings me back to par easily with his touch. He drops to his knees just as I'm about to suggest we take this into a stall. Too late. His lips kiss my second brain, 83
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spreading the glistening seminal fluid over them as he takes my hardness into his mouth and begins to suck. Oh God. My knees want to buckle, but I stand fast, with Richard's assistance. Pray that the gentleman in the stall is constipated, and that the rest of St. Louis can find an alternate place to urinate. At least until we're through here. His hands steal around me, pressing against my jeaned buttocks, pulling me further into his willing and able mouth. How can I do anything but accede to his wishes? I twist my fingers into that lovely head of blond hair, my hips taking on a life of their own as they thrust, more than willing to meet him halfway. His tongue—oh his tongue, how it licks, how it sucks, how it steals my very soul through my angsty member. He murmurs my name into my flesh, and I have to jam my fist into my mouth lest I cry out my lover's name. I succumb to his charms much too quickly, flooding his mouth with hot semen. Glorious, glorious release, and for a moment I drop my guard, simply living in his touch. Grasping at his head, I involuntarily slip up and moan out, "Oh God, Richard." He laps up every drop I have to give, before he begins to clean me up once more. The raw smell of urinal soap draws me back to the present, and I open my eyes, glancing nervously toward the stalls…. …only to be met by a pair of dark brown eyes 84
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which openly watch us over the top of one of the stalls. I would say voyeuristically, but the eyes seem almost detached, clinical even, as they observe us. I tap a Morse code on the top of Richard's head, trying to frantically remove myself from his mouth and zip up while setting a new land speed record for doing so. He looks up at me in confusion, following my line of sight. Leisurely he stands and tucks himself back into place. Why am I so panicked and why does he make it seem like it's no big deal? The man disappears from view. I hear a flush. It sounds overly loud to my distressed ears, and it's followed by the sound of a heavy belt buckle being fastened into place. A moment later, he appears at the lavatory, scouring his hands and regarding us with disapproving eyes. Slightly greater than average height, somewhere around our age, he has hair of a rich sienna shade, thinning on top but flowing in waves damn near to his shoulders. The hue matches his eyes and he sports a rather silly looking moustache, which reminds me of a wooly caterpillar. Why are we still standing here? Actually, Richard's trying to yank me out of my frozen position, but I'm playing deer in the headlights, and my legs refuse to cooperate. The stranger finishes washing and pulls out a few paper towels to complete his task. It isn't until he balls them up, sending them neatly into the trash receptacle, that he 85
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speaks. "Ordinarily, I'd take you in for what I just saw," he begins, "but I'm beginning to think you two are just playing some kind of kinky sex game here, and that you didn't just pick up this little one, so I'm going to let you go with this warning. What you do in the privacy of your own homes is one thing, but it's still illegal here in Missouri, especially in public. So watch out what you're doing, or next time someone isn't going to be quite so nice. Understood?" I can only nod my head, although my mind wants to protest at being referred to as 'little one'. My unabashed lover slides his arm around my shoulders and grins. What the hell is he smiling about? "We have to hurry, or you'll miss your flight," I mumble admonishingly, and we make a hasty exit, back into the terminal proper, just missing a line of men heading toward the restroom and relief. Once we're safely out of harm's way, I take a moment to stand and collect my thoughts, such as they are. Leaning against one wall, I'm fairly shaken by this too close encounter of the legal kind. "Do you really think he was a cop?" my lover muses. Does nothing ever faze him? "Do you want to go back and ask for his credentials?" I ask sarcastically. Before he can reply, just in case he decides to answer in the 86
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affirmative, I grab his hand, hastening our steps toward the departure area. "And now you'll have to wait 'til tomorrow to finish, we've run out of time," I chastise him, "serves you right for wanting to be so damn public." My heart-rate finally begins to slow down, and my pulse has gone from doing Khachaturian's "Sabre Dance" to a slower waltz tempo, something by Strauss, no doubt. I am still apprehensive that we might yet be hauled in by this offduty (assuming that is what he is) policeman with a warped sense of humor. Or did he just enjoy what he saw too much? I don't know and at the moment, I'm trying hard not to think about it. I go as far with Richard as I can, no pun intended, and he pulls me into his arms before he has to join the line for boarding. "Don't worry, sweet thing, everything'll be fine. If he wanted to bust us, he would have. I'll take a rain check on the sweet, sweet loving 'til I get back, don't worry about that." Before I can comment along the lines of maybe not even then, he kisses me, and I lose my train of thought. I only come back to awareness when he pulls back and takes his leave, his kiss lingering on my lips for a long, long time. Putting my harrowing experience behind me— didn't I tell you, life with Richard is anything but dull, sometimes it flat out borders on the illegal—I head my 87
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Monte Carlo westward on I-70 to meet Cat and Isaac in Warrenton for lunch. I'm excited at the prospect of a more intimate conversation with my darling Cat's cousin. Never having actually talked to another wolf before, my curiosity is titillated, to say the least. This meeting was Cat's idea. Ever thoughtful is my Cat. When she discovered Richard was going out of town, she arranged for this picnic in the country to keep me from being lonely. Rach is coming over later to spend the night and watch movies. I believe she's bringing Tiptoes, which I haven't seen yet. For some reason, they think I can't manage on my own when Richard isn't about. To tell the truth, I don't really mind. Principessa and I enjoy the company. In fact, before I left the airport, after not being arrested by that undercover policeman or whatever he was, I phoned Cat and she came by the house and picked up my puppy. She'll enjoy the fresh air herself, no doubt, as well as being spoiled by people other than her daddies I know we refer to ourselves as her daddies, and the thought gives me pause sometimes. In all likelihood, Richard and I will never have children of our own. It's not impossible, but it's highly unlikely. Before you presume to give me the biology 101 lecture, yes I'm well aware that conception requires both a male and a female, one of which is lacking in our equation. But there are other options, 88
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including surrogate motherhood, as well as adoption. So many children in the world need to be loved; we've just never discussed the subject in any way. I think if I were capable of it, I'd love to carry Richard's child. Please, don't even tell me how strange that is, because I don't think so, and besides, I know very well it is and shall always remain a physical impossibility. We're probably too old to really consider other methods, so unless something happens to change the status quo in the very near future, we'll remain childless. It's not the end of the world, or earth-shattering. And it may be for the best; neither of us is equipped to be a father, emotionally or otherwise. The drive out I-70 is uneventful. Warrenton is located roughly an hour west of St Louis, maybe half an hour from Lupercalia Lane. It's a thriving community, but on the farthest western edge of what might be considered hailing distance of the metropolitan St Louis area, which seems to be expanding growth-wise along the interstate. At this rate, we'll meet Kansas City coming from the other direction before too many years have passed. I've always liked the area, and have considered buying land there and building a house at some point. But right now I like our proximity to our friends and family, so I leave things as they are. I'm not big on change, as you may have noticed. 89
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The park is fairly unoccupied, so it isn't hard to get a table which possesses a modicum of privacy, beneath a pavilion. I watch in bemusement the antics of Cat's cousin—he balances himself on top of the table, to Principessa's great delight, as if he's shooting an imaginary curl. Perhaps he is. He hops down from his perch, scoops up my pup, and takes a seat across from us, easily straddling the wooden bench, regarding us with his customary friendly grin. I really like Isaac, there's something very infectious in his smile and his good nature. I know I can speak openly before both, and no one else is here in this small wooded park in the country. "Isaac, what do you do for the full moon?" I ask curiously. We've gotten past the initial 'I know what you are' talk between Cat and myself. Our close relationship has been forged on a foundation of full disclosure and total honesty; I knew this revelation was unlikely to damage it. Besides, she has a werewolf for a cousin—she was already primed to receive the truth about me "I like to run free," he answers, "and be at one with the universe. Howl at the moon." "Aren't
you
afraid
of
killing
someone
or
something?" I'm amazed at his great self-confidence. I'm inevitably filled with myriad doubts and fears that I keep locked up, along with myself, at each apogee of the Selenic 90
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orb. He cocks his head, as if considering the question very seriously. Cat remains silent, listening to us. I can see the thoughts sliding around in Isaac's brain like the metal balls in a pachinko machine, cascading one into another. He's such an incredibly open person. Forthright and brave. Unlike me. "I don't look at it like that," he says at last. "For we're all connected, aren't we, in some way, with every living thing on the planet? We hunt, we're hunted. Everyone has their part to play in the food chain. But most of the time I end up by myself, so I don't have to worry about whether or not I see other people. I think my inner wolf is happy just to run free and look out for lady wolves." He grins, and Cat suppresses a giggle. "Do you remember what you do after the… transformation?" I hesitantly ask. "Definitely, dude, I can feel and see everything he does," he nods, "I can tell you one thing, my wolf likes to get it on with the ladies." I decide not to press the issue, especially not in front of Cat. I'm sure I can fill in the blanks myself. I have no desire for my inner wolf to hunt ladies, human or otherwise. I feel safer keeping him contained, for I do not trust him, not at all. But I have to wonder why Isaac possesses the awareness of his wolf, while I do not. Food 91
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for thought. "Max, what do you do?" Isaac asks, taking a sandwich from the cooler sitting between us on the picnic table, thoughtfully provided by Cat and filled with the most delicious selection of foodstuffs. Chocolate for me, of course. "You know, when it's your time of the month?" Cat stifles a giggle. He has a very colorful way with words. Even if I don't particularly care for the way that is phrased. Okay, maybe it's a little bit funny, more so when I say it. "Me? I have a little place I make sure I'm locked into, so I'm far away from everyone and everything," I reply, envying him his free and easy attitude toward his wolfishness. He nods sagely. "Everyone has to do their own thing. I just like to run free." He reaches for his ever present Coke. "Were you born a wolf, or were you turned?" "Born," I reply, "Thanks to my father. You?" Cat lays a sympathetic hand on my arm, knowing how hard it is for me to discuss my sire. "Turned," he replies, "when I was just a little kid. I didn't know any better than to play in the woods by myself. They were right by our house, so I felt safe. What did I know?" He shrugs. "I got tired while I was playing one day and fell asleep, and when I woke up, the moon was full, 92
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and the dude that bit me was looking for something—he found me." He makes it sound as if it's no big deal, as he continues to eat. "Do you think it makes a difference?" I wonder aloud. "Being born that way, or having been turned?" "I think so. Most of the wolves I know were turned. In fact, I think you're the first one I met that was actually born to it," he muses. Lucky me. If there's a normal way and an abnormal way to do something, Max invariably finds the abnormal way. "Actually, I think it makes you stronger, dude, 'cause it's in your blood, it's more a part of who you are." I don't feel stronger, far from it. "Do you know a lot of other wolves?" "Some. I've met most of them travelling, surfing, ya know? What about you?" "You're the first. Well, second, actually." I proceed to tell them the story of the wolf in the deli. Isaac looks interested, Cat concerned. "Do you really think this Jason might be your father?" Cat asks. I shrug. "I have to at least consider the possibility. Although a first name isn't much to go on, is it?" "No, sweetie, it's not. Does that mean you might 93
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want to find him, to meet him even?" "I don't know." She hands me a sandwich, encourages me to eat. A change of subject is in order, I think. "Do you have a pack, Isaac?" I nibble at the roast beef and cheddar. He laughs at that. "No, dude, you must have gotten that idea from a book, like most people. Werewolves tend to be solitary animals. Packs are the exception not the rule." Good to know I'm not a complete oddball, then. Isaac pulls a small ball from a pocket of his cut-off shorts, tosses it a few feet from the table, and watches with amusement as Principessa scrambles for it, yipping. When she retrieves it and brings it back to him, he rewards her with a treat. "She's a most righteous dog, dude, you're lucky." "Yes I am," I have to smile, "Richard got her for me. She was a gift." "He seems like a cool dude. When are you two going to tie the knot?" "We're not sure, actually," I admit. "I'm hoping Missouri allows us to before too long…." He nods his head sympathetically. "I'd like to be included in the occasion when the time comes, if you don't mind. Maybe I can play my guitar at your wedding!" 94
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This is news to me. "You play guitar?" "Yes, acoustic," he proudly replies. "You planning on being around that long?" Cat asks her cousin curiously. "Not a lot of surfing going on in St. Louis, Isaac." "No, but I'm thinking of hanging up the board professionally, and going back to school. I'd like to get my teaching
certificate,
teach
little
ones,
maybe
kindergarteners." Cat beams on him. "That sounds marvelous! I think you'd make a great teacher!" He grins at us. "If everything works out, I might end up teaching somewhere like India, they need teachers pretty badly I hear." I'm very impressed with this young man. I can't help but admire his philanthropic spirit, his warmth, and his willingness to jump into unknown situations. Those are things which would leave me shaking my head, worrying about how I'd handle myself among strangers. He seems to handle being on his own rather well. "Max, next full moon we should hang out together, you and me!" "What?" "Yes, dude, we can run together!" He waxes eager in this enthusiasm, while Max's cautious nature retreats at the very idea of not being locked up. Of not being safe and 95
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secure, both from the standpoint of harming and from being harmed. Cat senses my misgivings and attempts to reassure me. "Isaac is very sensible, Max, he doesn't take unnecessary risks." Uh-huh, why am I rather doubtful of that statement? Perhaps because he surfs for a living. "I'll consider your offer." Somehow, I suspect I'll allow myself to be sucked into it. Max is simply easy. Am I asking for trouble? Or does it seek me out? And if I do follow him, what might I find—or who?
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Chapter Five Masquerade Revealed
"Max, quit wiggling and stand still!" Richard admonishes me, "or I'm going to get mascara in your eye, and that won't feel good at all. Not to mention it might get infected." Obediently, I still my movements. I don't relish having that wand shoved into my wide open orb. Or anywhere else, for that matter. And as squeamish as I am about germs, I've no desire to find myself fighting some sort of ocular infection either. I'm not very sure about this, not sure at all. Yet I've allowed myself to be talked into it. Naturally. My silvertongued boy of mine can talk me into just about anything. This can't be news to any one of you, whether you've been following this tale from the beginning, or arrived at any point in between. Max in Richard's hands is simply Silly Putty. "There!" he exclaims with satisfaction, standing back to admire his handiwork. I can see by the gleam in his eyes he's very pleased with the result. Lust exudes from every pore as he scans my form. I pirouette prettily for his inspection and delectation as we stand together in our bedroom. I'm garbed in an ensemble consisting of a red silk 97
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corset, black garters, strategically torn black fishnets, and black platforms which if I'm lucky I won't fall from. I also have a face full of cosmetics—white foundation, blue shadow, kohl mascara, and eyeliner enough for several people. I draw the line at lipstick, though; I find the texture of it abhorrent on my lips. I don't even care for ChapStick. Richard accedes to my wishes. Says he prefers my natural shade anyway. It makes it that much easier to kiss me, which he proceeds to demonstrate. And if you haven't guessed from that description what we are about, it's Rocky Horror Picture Show night, and I'm dressed as Doctor Frank-N-Furter. Richard's been trying to get me to do this for some time now, and I've finally given in. Or given up. Surrendered. Cried uncle. However you want to say it, I've done it. Richard will play Rocky, of course, in a tight gold lamé Speedo which makes my blood pressure rise just looking at it, causing other things to rise as well. "You're sure it's not too cold for that?" I ask, nodding at his skimpy costume. "I have you to keep me warm, sweet thing." How can I argue with that? I can't, of course. Not that I intend to let him walk out of the house like that; he's going to wear a long coat over the requisite white bandages, both of which only come off inside the theatre itself, and only to the gaze of the Rocky Horror 98
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aficionados. I myself have a black cloak, ala the mad doctor, and I won't take it off 'til then either. Unless I regain my sanity in the meantime, and refuse to take it off at all. Is that very likely? You tell me. "You know something," he says, his eyes continuing to caress my costumed figure blatantly, "I think if you offered yourself up for the Virgin Auction, you'd probably fetch a good price. I'd certainly bid on you." "Fat chance of that," I snort derisively, "I know better now. And besides, I no longer qualify as a virgin, as you very well know." He smirks at me in return. "I've quite taken care of that, haven't I?" "Very funny, that's not what I meant, and you know it. Besides, I wasn't a virgin when we met, if you'll recall. You didn't seem to object then, now did you? No, I was talking about the first time we went to see Rocky Horror, which would be the only time that we were actually virgins. In that respect, that is." He moves closer, his arms sliding around me, his hands caressing my buttocks through the medium of the silken material between us. "You wouldn't even dress up," he remembers, a soft smile gracing his face. "No, I wouldn't." No argument there. "No, you wouldn't," he echoes, his lips running 99
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softly over mine, "and if you want to be technical, we didn't even get to see it, did we?" No, we didn't. All my fault. That time.
****
Friday, June 11, 1976 How very young we were and how very much in love, having barely begun our journey together. Not that we aren't still—maybe not quite as young, but yes, still very much in love. We're one of those couples that seem to endure the test of time, weather adversity and, like fine wine, improve with the years. Now if we can only live long enough to see our union given the legal sanctity of marriage—but I'll save that rant for another time. Even back then, I would've done anything for Richard, including but not limited to walking on water. I was completely, totally, and entirely smitten with him, from the moment he walked into my life. As I've mentioned before (a few hundred times) we were practically inseparable from that day forward, except for those times which I've noted elsewhere and which do not bear speaking of. Believe it or not, Sebastian's the one that told us about the Rocky Horror Picture Show experience. It had 100
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been somewhat of a cult classic ever since its release. Although box office returns weren't exactly boffo, students had seized on it, making it their own, and an underground community had virtually sprung up overnight. There was a theater in University City which held midnight showings. People dressed up to emulate the cast in return for free admission. Sebastian apparently went on a regular basis. 'Course my cousin was a bit wilder then. He's gotten stuffier over the years, though. I think Cat's influence is taking him back to where he once was, but a gentler nicer version thereof. At any rate, when Richard suggested the idea of attending a performance ourselves, I agreed to go, in order to be with him. When he mentioned the dressing up part, for once I said no… and it stuck. That's probably the only time I ever didn't accede to his wishes. I'm guessing he didn't really care all that much, 'cause he didn't push the point. I suspect part of the reason for the one-time showing of my backbone was that it was so close to the full moon. The very night before, in fact. I imagine he didn't argue the point because he was still a bit wary of the wolf inside. He isn't any longer, having had some twenty-five years, at twelve to thirteen visitations a year, to become accustomed to his presence. So, what exactly was I was afraid of? I couldn't really say, I didn't really know. But standing in the line 101
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outside the theatre, about eleven o'clock that night, I was actually grateful I had listened to my instincts to not don any sort of costume. There was an odd assortment of Rockys and Franks standing in line with us—including one female doctor! As well as a Magenta and a Columbia, a few Brads and Janets. They chattered together familiarly as if they had been coming to see this forever. One girl, the one dressed as Magenta, was going through the line, talking to people she knew, and a few she didn't, a tube of lipstick in one hand. Now and then she stopped and drew something on someone's forehead. Of course we wondered what that was all about, but it wasn't until she approached us that we had any inkling. She asked us was this our first time watching Rocky Horror, and we said yes, and the next thing we knew we were both sporting crimson V's on our own foreheads. Still clueless as to why we did so. Inside the theater we all took our seats like obedient sheep. Richard and I snagged a couple on the floor, closer to the screen, rather than up in the balcony, which I subtly steered him away from. I've always preferred floor seating, eschewing the loge and the mezzanine for their height. I'm not ashamed to admit that I've used my connections at the Tribune to get some damn fine floor seats, including third row center for Topol in Fiddler on the Roof at the Fox. And tenth row aisle for David Bowie at the same venue. But 102
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that's neither here nor there. Richard laid his arm across the back of my seat, closing it around my shoulder, and I leaned companionably against him, my hand relaxed upon his thigh, as we waited for the festivities to begin. Wondering what exactly we were in store for. A certain amount of anxiety was mixed in with the antici-antici—Are you ready for it? Anticipation… Sorry, I couldn't resist. There was a bustle of activity, both in the audience and in the live cast—the latter busily engaged in bringing in props and whatnots, while the audience mingled and chatted comfortably with one another. Most of the cast, as well as the audience, seemed to be high school age, but there were a few of us apparently in our early to mid twenties. If I had to take a guess, I'd say there were at least fifty people in attendance for this particular showing, maybe as many as seventy-five. We didn't have very long to wait. A young man dressed as the good doctor himself waltzed to the front of the theatre, holding up his hands for quiet, which he more or less received. "I'd like to welcome you to this evening's performance of the Rocky Horror Picture Show," he grinned, "now, if y'all'd be so kind as to stand up?" I was reluctant to move, being quite comfortable, but Richard merely chuckled and pulled me to my feet. "C'mon sexy," he grinned. How could I resist? Besides, 103
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everyone else had risen, and I wasn't in the mood to be a non-conformist. "Okay," the emcee of the night's events continued, "I want to see a show of hands—how many people here have seen Rocky Horror fifty times?" Fifty times? I would have thought that feat not only highly unlikely but impossible to have achieved, which proved to be the case when everyone laughed but no one admitted to having done so. "Ten times?" the emcee doggedly continued. "Anyone?" Now there were a few hands raised. These were instructed to take a seat. Each time he lowered the number, more people sat, until finally he came to those who had never seen it before, of which there were about twenty people, including Richard and me, still standing. We looked about us, wondering what was going to happen, as the regulars snickered at us. "There we have our virgins!" the 'transvestite' exclaimed delightedly. "If you'd be so kind as to come down to the stage please." Technically, it wasn't a stage, and I started to point that fact out to Richard, but he pressed a finger to my lips and pulled me down to the front of the theater. To say I was uncomfortable would be an 104
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understatement. Me, who never liked to draw attention to himself, now being lined up with a host of strangers before a room full of even more strangers. I was suddenly grateful that I'd had the foresight not to wear a costume. I seriously wanted to wriggle out of Richard's grasp and slide back to our seats, taking him with me, of course. Instead, I clutched at his hand, and shuffled my feet, my eyes trained on the floor, and waited for the sword of Damocles to drop. Which it did, naturally. "Everybody partner up, boy girl boy girl. Girls in front, boys in the back." What the fuck? I glanced uncertainly at Richard, but before I could make a move we'd both been pounced upon by overeager females. Friends, I think they were, from the way they'd clung to one another and giggled as they'd stood in the line outside the theater. I'd swear they must have been eyeing us up before a single word had been pronounced, so swiftly did they move to claim us, as if they possessed some sort of inside knowledge. The one that stood before me was about five foot, red hair, green eyes, clad only in a slip and bra. Richard's was more of an Amazon, at least five foot ten. She had long blonde hair which I swore must have contained falls, as there was something rather unnatural about it, besides being a shade off in color. She also had breasts the size of a small nation, 105
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which were amplified by a seriously low-cut blouse. Not that I notice women's chests, mind you, 'cause I don't, but some things just refuse to be overlooked. I looked between the two of them—her and Richard, that is—and the hackles rose on the back of my neck in a jealous fit. I managed to keep myself from growling, but the pull of the moon was strong within me. I wished I had the courage to simply take Richard's hand and partner with him, to tell those bimbos to excuse us please we were together. But of course I didn't; being gay back in the 70s often entailed keeping quiet and staying in the background, distasteful as that was, so I simply bided my time and went with the flow. And kept an eye on exactly how close they stood to one another, determined to take measures should the status quo change by even an iota. What I thought I would do, should it happen, I had no fucking idea. "Now," the good doctor continued, "girls, down on your knees." Here he turned to the audience. "What's our favorite number?" "Sixty-nine,
sixty-nine,
sixty-nine!"
everyone
chanted. I should have seen it coming. I could now, but then I was clueless, or I'd have flown the stage at that point in time, rather than wait for it. Probably would have 106
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forestalled some problems in the process. Ah, hindsight. "Girls, I want you to simulate oral sex on the guys. Keeping in mind that I did say simulate, not stimulate, ladies. The real thing will have to wait." He winked lewdly. The girl kneeling before me gave me a weird look, maybe because I gazed down at her in much the same way, but she obediently began to bob her head up and down as if she were indeed performing oral sex upon my unwilling body. She kept a distance between us, though, never coming in contact with my shell-shocked member. On the other hand, Richard's partner had her hand where it definitely shouldn't be—namely, on his ass—and he could probably feel her breath upon his crotch without even trying. I hadn't bargained for this, not at all. It being so close to the full moon definitely didn't help, as my hormones surged most violently, my normally placid nature giving way to the feral nature of the wolf. I wanted nothing more than to grab her by the jugular and rip it open. But fate—or was it misfortune—intervened. Just as I tensed my muscles, a member of the audience jumped/run/leapt—something—down to where we were, screaming bloody murder. A big boy he was, at least six foot tall, husky and imposing, mainly due to his size, and he was yelling at Richard, of all people. "You," he shouted, "faggoty boy, whatchoo doing 107
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wit' my woman?" Of course, Richard wasn't doing anything. It was all her, which, if you consider the slur the guy slung at him, was a direct contradiction in terms. Unfortunately, I couldn't appreciate the irony of it at that time, for simply put, the wolf saw red. Seriously. The guy didn't say another word, but his hand reached out to do… something. I'll never know what. Perhaps he meant to reclaim what he seemed to think he'd lost, to pull his woman out of the rank and file. Maybe he intended to strike her. I don't know. For all I know, he was suffering from sort of muscle cramp which inadvertently released his arm in their general direction. What I do know? With lightning fast wolf reflexes, I grabbed his arm and twisted it, not really thinking, just reacting. I'm not one to inflict pain on others, but there have been times when circumstances beyond my control let loose the beast within. This was one of them. It's not an excuse, I don't I intend it for one. Maybe an explanation, but a poor one, because what followed was totally inexcusable. According to Richard, I growled. I can't be sure, as I was past the point of rational thinking. I do know the big burly youth was down on his knees, whimpering like a whipped puppy, begging to be released. I twisted the guy's 108
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arm with such force, Richard had to grab hold and soothe me into letting go. Only Richard—only his voice—could have gotten through to me at that moment. Luckily, the wolf recognized the sound of its mate and allowed itself to be distracted. All hell broke loose around us. The errant girlfriend screamed at me, screamed at Richard. She went down on her knees beside her pain-wracked boyfriend to ascertain his physical well-being—the hypocritical little bitch. Where was this great concern when she had her harpy claw around my boyfriend's cock? Her fellow was almost in tears, or maybe he'd gone beyond that point, I couldn't say, but everyone around us started shouting or screaming. A few offered cries of encouragement, "Hit 'em again!" Some added more juvenile suggestions, such as, "Fight, fight, fight!" That age old chant which invariably accompanies a display of youthful fisticuffs. To make a long story short—I know, too late— Richard and I were booted from the theater, and told not to come back. We did, of course. Return, that is. Maybe six months later, but by then everything had died down, and we weren't foolish enough to offer ourselves as virgins for the auction again. … back to the future, then… or should I say, the 109
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present….
We arrive at the theater in plenty of time. Can you imagine Max being willingly late for anything? Anyone who knows me realizes this fact. Friends and family all understand that to do anything with me is to be willing to be there on time, if not a little early, or risk being berated with Max's anal punctuality tirades. In the lobby of the theater we meet Rachel and David. Ever since the engagement party, they have been a thing—a togetherness—a couple. Rachel simply glows, so how can I do other than approve? Speaking of the happy couple, Richard has finally told me what he merely hinted at before, with smirks and knowing looks, regarding them. Or regarding David, actually. And having had it pointed out to me, damned if I can't see it too. David actually resembles me. In a vague sort of general way, but still, there it is. Similar hair color, shape of the face, but his eyes are blue where mine are not—Richard calls mine topaz, while his own beautiful orbs are sapphire. David and I would never be mistaken for twins or anything, but it would not be amiss to inquire if our family trees had roots in common. Not that I think they do. Am I disturbed that she has found someone who bears a strange resemblance to me? No, I think not. I've seen them together quite a bit and they seem 110
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very smitten with one another, so who am I to argue with that? They've come dressed as Riff Raff and Magenta. Good—at least Richard and I won't be the only ones in costume.
With
this
generation
of
Rocky
Horror
aficionados, dressing up has become less the norm than it once was. Not that there aren't a lot of Goth-garbed teens wearing their favorite shades of angst, but dressing as one of the characters (outside of the actual cast members, of course) seems to be a thing of the past. So trust Max to take a chance on doing it now—a proverbial day late and a few dollars short. I regret giving in, feeling very much naked and exposed, which makes me more determined not to remove my cloak when the time comes. A shuffle behind us brings something new and unexpected—Maggie has come, but not alone. I do believe this is the first time I've ever seen her with a date. For as long as I can remember, she's been mooning over my lover, and now she's finally moved past him. At least I assume she's found someone else to give her heart to. I'm probably reading far more into it than is actually there. Imagine that, Max is making assumptions. Slow down, Max, before you go asking them where they're registered. At any rate, his name is Donald, and he's tall and pale, with straw blonde hair, and a shy demeanor. He's also somewhere in the 111
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vicinity of sixty years old. Not going there, just not going to do it. Maybe later. And they've come dressed as Brad and Janet. Modest undergarments, nothing flamboyant, especially compared to what Richard and I are wearing. "Max, show us your costume!" Rachel demands, while Maggie echoes her request, as my lover snickers. Max adamantly shakes his head in a firm (for how long is anyone's guess) refusal. "Not here," I maintain, "maybe inside the theatre." And that's a big if and growing bigger all the time. "Ma-ax," Rachel wheedles in a plaintive voice. I decide I need backup, looking first to David to control his girlfriend. He only gives me a goofy 'I can't help you there' look which men wear when they know any action on their part will only earn them repercussions at a later date. So I turn to my betrothed, expecting no aid from that quarter either, as he's always looking for an excuse to show me off like a prize puppy at the show. "It'll be dark inside the theatre, you know that," Rachel continues. "C'mon, let me see how you look. Show off what Richard's done to you." Damn, she always knows just which buttons to push. We're standing clumped together in the middle of the lobby. Other patrons, those not come to watch the Rocky Horror goings on, ebb and flow about us, moving either toward the large refreshment area separating the two 112
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wings of the theatre, or toward their chosen shows. Not that there are many at this time of night. Others who've come for the midnight revelries are in assorted groups of their own—waiting permission to enter the designated theatre as soon as seating is allowed. I glance over at them quickly, as if this has any bearing on my decision to disrobe or not to disrobe. I see a few of the cast members that I still recognize—thank God, some things don't change—and a few assorted odd characters besides. And when I say odd, I do mean odd. Or is that simply because Max is getting older and therefore more set in his ways? One guy in particular draws my attention. He's a hulk of a person, standing well over six foot, shaven head, and a rather gargantuan shape. But the odd thing is the trench coat that he wears. Considering what I'm concealing beneath my own cloak, I wonder if he too has something similar to hide. If true, then we won't be the only ones in costume. Dismissing the thought, I finally nod as I realize no one is paying any attention to us, and I untie my cloak, holding it open, just enough for Rachel to see, rolling my eyes. "Oh Max!" she squeals. "You look divine! Doesn't he look divine, David?" I don't know if David even looks at me or if he finds it expedient to merely agree with her, but he dutifully mouths, "Yes, he does," in a bemused voice, while Maggie sneaks her own peek. 113
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"Max, that's perfect! Your makeup is awesome!" The compliment is for my creator, of course, as I am merely the palette the artist has chosen to express himself upon, using the medium of Max Factor. Haha, I just caught the pun there—Max, factor—never mind. Anyway…. I think Richard is perfect just the way he is. And as the part of Rocky requires no makeup, none was used. He's simply chock full of Richard goodness anyway. But I did make a small request, which he honored, and his beautiful blond hair has been gathered into a tail at the nape of his neck. Oh God, how I love to see that, and even thinking about it makes me hard. There's just something incredibly sexy about a ponytail—only on my Richard, of course— and I don't care what anyone else thinks. It's my taste, after all. "He does look scrumptious, doesn't he?" That's my Richard. I blush under the attention I receive, but there must be a little bit of ham inside me as I take a little bow as well. Which brings on a sprinkling of applause from my "groupies". Two women and a man fall into my field of vision—they appear to be about our age, or thereabouts— and they approach us, smiling. The women exchange glances, giggling, while their companion appears to have been appointed as spokesperson. 114
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"This is our first time," he says, "sorry to intrude, just wanted to say, that costume is great, and you make a very hot Frank–N-Furter." I hastily retie the robe, ignoring the snickers emanating from Rachel and Maggie. I'm almost sure that my intended is rethinking his decision to parade me in public in this get-up. Too late, because we're already here. "Thanks," I murmur graciously as he and his friends move on to join the growing queue for the film. Which we need to do as well. I sneak a peek at Richard. Maggie talks him into opening his jacket so she can view his ensemble, and there's far too much flesh showing for my taste. Not that I'm worried about Maggie seeing him, of course. Not that I don't trust her. Or him. 'Cause I do. I have to laugh at myself. What a pair Richard and I make—two old queens with jealous streaks a mile wide, for no apparent reason. Neither of us would ever cheat on the other, and we know it. Well, I know it now, and he's always known it. So why not relax and just go with it? Other people may want what Richard Burke has, but it's mine, all mine. And I'm damn well aware of it. He knows the same of Max Montague. I slide closer to him, and without a word being spoken, reach up for his lips, becoming lost for the moment in his touch…. … until I hear Maggie's soft, "Oh my gosh." 115
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My first thought is she's not happy at seeing our embrace. Then I realize that's just plain foolish—something or someone must have drawn her attention. Richard breaks the kiss and turns me about so I face in the same direction as him. And then I see it. Or I should say them. As in two people. A couple. Together, apparently. Juliet and Isaac. Dressed as Eddie and Columbia. Oh… my… God…. I don't know which is more shocking. To see Juliet in the company of a man younger than myself, hanging on his arm and giggling like a French novice. Or to see her dressed up in glittery shorts that show off her legs. (I hadn't realized it before, but for her age, she's got the figure of a much younger woman). Trauma number one—Juliet and Isaac—or trauma number two—the way my mother is dressed? For the moment, let's go with trauma number two. Deal with the other one later, once I figure out how together they actually are. They join us and their costumes are admired and commented on. Once again, I'm forced to parade myself so my mother can see. I'm a tad disturbed when she says to me, "Max, you must let me borrow that later." And then she gives Isaac a knowing glance. Calm down, Max, calm down. She's kidding. Trying 116
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to get your goat. She's of age. And then some. He is too. Forget the fact he's younger than you are and concentrate on the fact that he's a nice guy, you like him, he likes you, and he's not the homophobic Reverend Fuckface. Luckily seating begins for our film, so we busy ourselves with the business of filing into the theater. The process is slowed down by the checking of IDs (as this is an R rated film, you know). When it's my turn to show proof of my age, I give the guy a 'you so have to be kidding' look. He shrugs and makes me pull out my driver's license anyway. Richard snickers something about robbing the cradle, which earns him a pseudo dirty look from me. We all get seated, being very lucky in obtaining the last row on the floor, which is close enough to the screen to see without straining and allows us all to sit together. Richard's on my right, Rachel on my left, David beside her. Maggie's on the other side of Richard, and beyond her, Donald. Isaac and Juliet fill out the rest of the row. Before the film starts, the shadow cast members sell loot bags, those little brown paper bags filled with the goodies which are needed to fully enjoy the Rocky Horror experience— confetti, toilet paper, squirt gun, noise maker, rice—all with their special use at a particular point in the film. For example, the rice is thrown during the wedding at the beginning of the film, and the toilet paper is tossed as 117
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Rocky is unwound after his removal from the tank—and when I say thrown, I mean literally—into the audience itself. And if you should ever go to see a performance, be sure to avail yourself of the newspaper which is included, and place it over your head so you don't get doused during the rainstorm scene. I almost forget about my costume, but Richard nudges me. He rises and removes his jacket, laying it on the seat beneath him, before sitting back down. Reluctantly I remove my cloak and hang it behind me, earning me a wolf whistle from my boyfriend. I roll my eyes, which triggers responses from everyone else in my row. Bloody great. I scrunch down in my seat as much as possible, but Richard laughs and insists on my sitting up so he can put his arm around me. How can I refuse? Rachel elbows me in the side, and I look at her like she's crazy. Her attention is centered a few rows behind us. "Turn around, but don't look like you're looking," she tells me. Why do people even bother to say that when of course you're going to look like you're looking, what else can you look like? But I try to incorporate my actions into something more innocuous, and manage to catch a quick glimpse of the fellow I'd seen earlier with the trench coat. I do a 118
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double take and glance again, heedless of Rachel's instructions. The trench coat has been removed and what's revealed is far worse than anything I could ever have imagined. He's wearing a costume made of leather straps— what there is of it, that is; I think the total amount would barely make enough to bridle a horse—and it's distributed about his body very sparsely. Oh my God, he's turned about and his pale blubbery naked ass hangs out for the world to see. I turn back around in my seat and refuse to look again, and advise Rach to do the same. Richard merely finds it amusing, but the traumatic sight is soon forgotten in the excitement of the pre-movie activities. The traditional virgin auction is accomplished with a minimum of confusion, a great deal of laughter, without our participation, and no complications. Turns out none of us are virgins (at least not for purposes of the film) so all's well that ends well. Richard tries to persuade me to become a born-again virgin for the night, in order to show off my costume. But I adamantly refuse. I promise him he can photograph me when we get home. That satisfies him, at least for now. We all stand to take the infamous oath—to Rocky Horror, and to the lips, and to the creator, Richard O'Brien, followed by the obligatory wave at the little man in the booth, with the injunction to start the fucking film. I think I've forgotten just how much fun 119
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experiencing The Rocky Horror Picture Show in this way can be. Viewing it on DVD in the privacy of your home is all well and good, but seeing it on the big screen with a shadow cast is priceless. I've forgotten a lot of the words and most of the comebacks, but luckily there are members of the cast running around among us who are more than happy to supply their own brand of retorts to enhance the lines delivered by the actors up on the screen. The easiest one to remember is this—whenever Brad Majors introduces himself, you scream, 'Asshole!' and you yell, 'Slut!' at his fiancée, Janet Weiss. Isaac is a real riot. When the narrator fills the screen with his non-existent neck, Isaac runs up to the screen and leads everyone in a chorus of, 'Chin fuck, chin fuck, chin fuck!" I've almost forgotten what to take out of the loot bag when, but the rain scene is easy—we cover our heads protectively with the newspaper, and the squirt guns are fired at will. Early on comes the most popular audience participation ever, as the coffin clock chimes and everyone stands to do the Time Warp. Then it's everyone up on their feet, and dancing, as there's no excuse not to. The damn instructions are plastered all over the screen. Haha! I don't mind this part at all, and for a moment I forget that I'm in costume, and so's Richard, as we rise to the occasion. Out of nowhere, one of the cast grabs Richard by 120
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the hand. This is an unexpected turn of events. "Come on down and show us how it's done!" he urges my lover. I'm so surprised that I don't even fight when he pulls me with him, down to the front of the theater. We're followed in short order by the rest of our group, and then there we all are, jumping to the left, stepping to the right, putting our knees together and doing that damn pelvic thrust, giggling like school girls and having the time of our lives! Back to the seats for the rest of the show. Richard kisses me warmly. "What's that for?" I ask. "For being such a good sport!" He grins at me, and I grin back. I was, wasn't I? Well, go me, then, for once. As the film continues, we toss rice at one another during the wedding, and throw toilet paper about as Rocky comes undone on the screen. I get hit with an entire roll of the stuff, grab it, and sling it back into the audience. We don the cheap paper pointed hats for Rocky's party. "Brad gets it, Janet gets it, Doctor Scott gets it. Rocky doesn't get it!" Oops, meat loaf for dinner, anyone? All too soon the film ends, inevitably, as the castle/rocket ship returns to Transsexual Transylvania, and we're all invited to return the following month for another showing. Ah, what a lovely evening it's been indeed! We exit the theater en masse, to return to our respective vehicles, 121
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bundled up once more against the chill of the early morning air. Chatting comfortably about the RHPS experience in general and tonight in particular. I cuddle up against Richard, grateful that tonight has gone so well in spite of all my paranoid misgivings. I can't help but notice that Isaac and Juliet are holding hands and they're pressed together like two peas in a pod. Okay, horrible analogy, but at the moment words fail to describe what I'm actually thinking. We're all dawdling in the parking lot, lingering. No one seems eager to part company and call it a night. "Why don't we all go out for food? I could kill for a burger!" Isaac exclaims. The cry is taken up and echoed among us. I'm hesitant, but I'm not sure why. Richard's eyebrows turn up inquiringly. "We're not exactly dressed for the occasion," I point out. I would have thought that was patently obvious, looking at us. He only laughs and says it won't be a problem, and he'd like a little something himself. After that I can hardly refuse to go. After all, we are having fun. It'd be a shame to break it up. We all agree to meet at an all-night diner near Juliet's house. I refrain from asking where Isaac will end up afterwards, as it's really none of my business, my mother being a grown woman and all. We re-assemble at the restaurant, all eight of us, sitting at two tables that have been pushed together just for 122
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us. Juliet sits to my right, next to Isaac; Richard's on my left, and Rachel is across from me, David on one side and Maggie and Donald on the other. It's only natural that talk turns to the Tribune. "I'm surprised you all like to hang out as much as you do," Donald comments, "considering how much time you spend together at work." Rachel laughs, correcting him. "Max doesn't work with us, he's one of those stay-at-home writers," she teases. "Only comes in when we feed him." "You're just jealous 'cause I can get away with it and you can't," I counter snippily, which produces laughter from everyone. "I've read your column, Max, it's pretty good." Donald is playing peacemaker now. He seems like a very laid back kind of guy. I wonder if he knows about Maggie's crush on Richard? I'm not going to bring it up. "Thank you, it's nice to be appreciated." This is greeted with jeers and hoots. "Someday Rachel won't be in the office either," David offers, waving a fork to punctuate his words. "She'll be a bestselling author and she'll be doing book signings and release parties!" "Hear, hear!" I concur, a cry which is taken up by Richard and Isaac, as Rachel manages a pretty blush. "I 123
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expect an autographed copy of every book, of course, young lady!" I shake my finger at her, semi-menacingly. "You're so demanding, Mr. Montague!" Rachel grins. "Like I won't need the sales? You can buy them on Amazon like everyone else!" "I'll be proud to buy a copy of your book and have you sign it for me," Isaac pipes up. "Make that two," Juliet agrees. "I'm kidding," Rachel amends. "I think you know me better than that. Besides, I have to sell a book before I worry about signing copies, don't you think? Speaking of writing, Max, you should talk to David about him being your agent. I think he'd do a great job for you." I don't want to put the man on the spot. This is supposed to be a fun evening. I don't want him to feel pressured. "Maybe I will," I waffle, just so he won't feel obliged to respond or pretend an interest that isn't there. "When are you going to go back to your book, Max?" I shake my head at her silly question. "What book would that be?" "The one you used to talk about when we were kids. You said you were going to write a book some day, you told me so." "Jeez, Rachel, we were kids when I said that. 124
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Besides, my column keeps me busy. As well as other things." The "other things" grins widely, as he lays his hand on my arm. "Very busy," he adds for their benefit, in case they haven't figured out just what I mean. Cheeky Richard is, very cheeky. Now I'm the one that's blushing. There are a few other people in the diner besides us at this late hour, but we pay them no heed, and they seem unconcerned with us, our chatter, or our unconventional appearance. Well, I mostly pay them no heed. I'm always observant of strangers—a lifelong habit of mine—not that I'm watching them or anything, but I remain aware of others at all times. I guess it's the wolf's survival instincts, watching out for me. At some point I become aware of the stare of one of the diners across the room from us. He's a man of approximately Juliet's age, distinguished and rather dapper. His eyes are fixed upon her rather intently. I mischievously elbow her, whispering into her ear, "I do believe you have an admirer, Mother." "Max, behave," she admonishes me. But she looks up anyway, following my glance. "I'm too old for such nons—" I hear the sudden intake of her breath as she suddenly falls silent. "Max, we should go, go now." 125
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I feel her agitation as she reaches for her purse. She motions to me, and to Isaac, even as she begins to rise from the table. What the fuck? Apparently it's too late. If she thinks to avoid the stranger's stare by leaving her plan is foiled, for he's taken it upon himself to bring it to her. He's crossed the gap that separates us and he now stands just behind Rachel. His smile seems genuine enough, and I'm totally baffled as to why Juliet is so obviously upset. "Juliet," he greets her. At the sound of his voice she simply gives up and sits back down, her back rigid, her fists clenched. "It's been a long time. You're looking as lovely as ever." "Jason." She gives him a frosty nod. "Not long enough, I see." This is when I do a double take. Jason? What Jason? Could it be THE Jason? The one I was speculating on as a possible candidate for fatherhood? But no, wait, how can that be, since she didn't know him? OH MY GOD—IS THIS MY FATHER? I grab Richard's hand and hold on for dear life.
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Chapter Six Conceptions and Misconceptions Laid Bare
All eyes fasten upon these two now as a collective breath is drawn—or so it appears to me. What follows then feels like the longest hour of my life. All right, maybe I'm exaggerating just a bit. It's only a few minutes at best, but it feels like so much more. All eyes seem to direct themselves toward the center ring, so to speak, as the two antagonists square off for the main event. "Are you going to introduce me?" asks the man called Jason, nodding in particular toward me and Isaac. But his attention seems to center more on me. Does he see a resemblance to himself, sense a connection between us? Or am I merely projecting my own feelings onto him? My mind's in a terrible turmoil. Thoughts sweep into tornadic currents that refuse to settle long enough for me to make sense of them. My heart races so fast I can't even feel the individual heartbeats, they're one long cadence. Something simply does not add up here, and I know it, but I'm half afraid to hear what the truth might be. "Mother?" I ask. Juliet makes no immediate response, but the man's eyes light up in some sort of dawning recognition. He glances at me sharply, then at 127
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Juliet, and then back at me. "Well, well, well," he says softly, "why didn't you ever tell Julian?" "If I'd wanted him to know, I would have!" Juliet rejoins sharply, with all the finesse of a wounded animal caught in a trap. The man turns to me apologetically. It must be apparent to him just how completely lost I truly am. "Forgive me, my name is Jason Woods. Your uncle. Brother of Julian Woods. Your father. It must be obvious to you by now that neither one of us had any inkling of your existence before this moment. Julian still doesn't know. And your name would be?" "Max.
Maximilian.
Maximilian
Jean-Baptiste
Montague," Why the hell did I just give my full name when I never use it? I turn to my mother. I don't know which feeling is stronger at the moment, confusion or anger. For if I understand what's going on, and I think that I do, she's always known who my father was, as well as what, despite her protestations to the opposite. And come to think of it, she knew enough to tell, no, make that warn, my grandfather what I was even before my birth. How could she possibly have known, and why have I never questioned that fact before now? "Mother? I would appreciate it if you'd explain what's going on here, please." I think I'm 128
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being rather reasonable, calm even. It could be far worse, as I feel like yelling out what the fuck, but a) that wouldn't help anything, and b) Max never likes to make a scene, especially not in a public place such as this. Even over an issue such as this one. I rise. Richard stands close beside me—silent, but supportive. Isaac's on his feet as well; he stands next to my mother, taking a defensive posture. What next? Could anything else happen to complete this intimate but uncomfortable little scene? The entrance of the pater familias himself? Not quite, but a stranger does approach—not a man but a young girl. My eyes lock onto hers as she comes closer. She appears to be somewhere in her late teens, perhaps, and the first thing I notice are her eyes. They're large, dark and expressive, and for some reason they seem able to penetrate my inner defenses. I give an inward jump, as though I've just been mentally goosed. My supposed uncle holds out an arm and encircles the girl's shoulders as she joins him, her gaze regarding us curiously. I'm sure we don't exactly come across as the welcoming committee for the Chamber of Commerce. "Amelia, darling," the man says—I find it hard to think uncle—and nods toward me, "say hello to your brother Max…." 129
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Holy shit. Not only do I have a father, and an uncle, but a sister as well? All right, half sister—another half sister—but that's nitpicking, which won't do at the moment, won't do at all. WHAT THE BLOODY HELL? "Hello, Max," Amelia says obediently, holding out one hand, which I instinctively take, and I'm surprised to see she seems to be filled with a more mature understanding of the situation than I am. I'm still caught up in my prima donna moment. But I want an explanation, and I want it from my mother—NOW! "Max," Richard prompts me. I take his hand and add it to ours. "This is Richard, my fiancé…." "Hello Amelia," he greets her, and she returns his smile easily. Richard Burke has no problem meeting people, even long-lost relatives who pop out of the woodwork. As long as they're someone else's, that is. This doesn't include his mother, Moonsong, nor would it his father, if he knew who that was. At the rate secrets are surfacing around here, I wouldn't be surprised to see him turn up in this oedipal stew at some point too. But at any rate, that isn't what I'm most concerned with at the moment. I give my mother a look which implores her to spill the beans, and start spilling them now. "Max." Richard lays his hand upon my arm. He's 130
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attempting to reason with me, so perhaps my eyes reveal more than I think they do. Perhaps a sense of betrayal, at finding out what I've believed my whole life was merely an empty facade, a sham performance staged for my benefit, and for the protection of my mother and this Julian Woods person, whomever he might turn out to be? That the whole little Red Riding Hood story I grew up believing in was nothing but hot air? So much manure in this tangled garden we call life? What else will I discover to be unreal next? My very foundations have been shaken, the tenets of my life have been uprooted—via a most viciously performed root canal. Shades of Maxwell's Hammer, indeed—or is that Little Shop of Horrors? I need to take a cue from my new sister; she seems altogether calm, cool and collected. I'm older than she is, I should be able to be take a mature attitude too. "Perhaps we should take this somewhere else?" My lover's question is for me, but he's apparently including my mother, my uncle and my new sister as well. Are we all simply to reassemble en masse and duke it out? The look my mother gives me is both troubled and apologetic, perhaps with a side order of confusion for good measure. It does nothing to alleviate the growing anger and resentment building inside of me. "Max, let me explain—" "Yes, please do." I'm fully aware my voice carries a 131
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modicum of sarcasm, but I cannot seem to control it. "You've only had, what, forty-four years to do so?" My words hit their target, and she flinches, drawing back against Isaac, who holds up one hand in an effort to play peacemaker. But I'm not so quickly appeased. And certainly not by someone I suspect of being more than slightly biased in her favor. "Max, let's hear Juliet out, please, I'm sure she had her reasons…." Isaac inserts himself, which does nothing to put me in the mood for this sort of reasoning. It only serves to remind me there's some question here regarding their relationship as well. The sound of Richard's warm voice in my ear has the only chance of snapping me out of this selfpity mode I'm rapidly falling into. "Shhh, shhh, baby, don't get yourself upset. Everything'll be alright, I promise," His arm tightens about me, offering the security which only his presence can give. "Yes, let's adjourn to my condo," Jason adds as if there is no question that we desire to speak to him. Which in its way is true, I suppose, although first I wish to hear the story from my mother's lips. "It isn't far from here, and we can all be comfortable while we talk." Comfortable? I find it hard to believe this situation can ever be anything but uncomfortable, but at the moment, I've no wish to argue. I meet Amelia's eyes with my own 132
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troubled gaze, and once again I get the feeling she understands more about me than she should, but I can't explain my reaction, nor why I'm not bothered by this. A cold chill goes through me as I wonder if my father will be there—how odd to even think the possibility exists. "He's not there," Amelia says softly. Somehow she has intuited my thoughts, and I know there's a story behind those simple words. But I don't press, for he's her father as well, and I've no wish to stir up a potential hornet's nest; one at a time is enough. Maggie and Donald, Rachel and David take their leave, as if they've no wish to intrude on what threatens to become a bit of a sticky wicket in the guise of this potentially heartwarming family reunion. I can't blame them. And of course I jest. About the heartwarming family reunion, that is. Rachel whispers she'll call me later as she hugs me good-bye. I watch them walk out the door; she takes David's hand—a simple act in and of itself—and my heart warms toward them. I'm glad they seem so happy together. Somehow we get ourselves sorted out, congregating on the parking lot until we disperse to our separate vehicles, agreeing to follow Jason's lead. I feel rather uncomfortable. More so than I need to be, in this theatrical garb, but there's nothing to be done for it now, except grin 133
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and bear it. Richard takes the wheel of the Monte while we sit and wait for Mother and Isaac. We'll follow them, and they'll follow behind my newfound uncle's black SUV. Richard takes my left hand in his, kisses the fingertips softly, reassuringly, even as I fume in frustration. "She knew, Richard, she's known all along. Lied to me she did. Little Red Riding Hood, my ass!" "I know, I know," he soothes, even as he starts the engine and we join in the caravan. "Mothers lie, babe, it's a fact of life." "Not all mothers," I reply illogically. I have the capacity to be right childish at times, I do. "At least, I hadn't thought so." I lapse into silence for a moment. "Would it have been so hard to tell me who my father is?" I continue my inner monologue. "Maybe explain that they fell out or she hates him or whatever. But to make up a rape story? I don't get it. Not to mention she apparently never even bothered to let him know I existed." I shake my head at the erratic foibles of women. "All these years I've thought of myself as the product of something distasteful, I felt guilty for what my mother went through. Allegedly went through," I amend. "I felt as if I was forced upon her, not by any choice of her own. So what was I really, an accident? Too much passion and too little common sense? Was I the result of a broken condom… when latex goes 134
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bad…." I ramble on and Richard lays a soothing hand on my knee as we pull up in front of the condo where the others are already parked and waiting for us. He forestalls any movement I might make to leave the vehicle, his strong arms going about my waist as he leans in to me until our foreheads are communing, one with the other. "Max, love, listen to me. Whatever happens, it doesn't change the essentials. Juliet is still your mother and she's always been there for you. Whatever she might have done was undoubtedly done with your best interests at heart. At least give her the benefit of the doubt and hear what she has to say. Just remember no matter what, I'm here for you and always will be. We have each other, Max. And we always will. I love you, sweet thing…." He takes my lips in his—how does he always know exactly what to do or say in any given situation? For a moment we're suspended in time, lost in this comforting kiss. I half expect Sebastian to beat on the car window and tell us to get a room. I know that he would if he were here. Reluctantly,
I
break
away,
my
lips
mere
micrometers from his, my breath exhaling into his mouth. "Let's get this done then, shall we?" "That's my boy," he replies. One more kiss and we exit the car, navigating the front walk. Amelia greets us with a warm, welcoming smile, but when she offers to take 135
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our wraps, I shake my head and demur. "Max, I've seen Rocky Horror. I'm not a child," she insists, but still I refuse. Am I embarrassed? Possibly. It's one thing to be dressed like Frank-N-Furter within a theater full of people with a common interest, but in front of virtual strangers when attempting to maintain some form of dignity? I think not. And neither do I wish to expose Richard's body to view either. Call me old-fashioned. Call me a prude. Although I hardly think that appellation is actually applicable, considering what I'm wearing. "What, are you afraid I'm going to jump your boyfriend's bones?" Her words produce a sharp glance from me, even as Richard snickers behind my back. My sister wears a broad smile and her eyes contain a decided twinkle, and I manage to smile back. Okay, she has a sense of humor. Score one for Amelia. She leads us into the living room, where all the usual suspects are gathered. Okay, distinct note of sarcasm. Juliet and Isaac are seated together on an overstuffed sofa, while Jason stands behind a black paneled wet bar. "What can I get you?" he offers. As I am being too petulant to speak, Richard replies for both of us, "White wine, if you have it." 136
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"Zinfandel work for you?" "Yes, thank you. Right, Max?" Max mumbles something unintelligible to the room at large, but which Richard is free to translate as sod off. Or words to that effect. "Max agrees," he says, offering his most diplomatic smile. I don't bother to contradict him, it doesn't seem worth the effort. Amelia leans in between us, unmindful of my bad mood. "Take the loveseat, it's very comfortable." With a quick pat for each of us, she heads toward the bar to play hostess. We follow her suggestion. The loveseat is indeed comfortable, and I sit as close to Richard as I can possibly get and still remain clothed. Well, mostly clothed. I note with a certain detachment (translate as being in a state of virtual shock at the evening's revelations) that Isaac and my mother are holding hands. At the moment, the information is of no interest to me—maybe later when I can think again, feel again. My sister dutifully hands the drinks around, before ensconcing herself on the floor nearest to Richard and me, leaning upon a conveniently placed hassock. My mother seems surprised at her continued presence. "Jason, do you think that's a good idea? This may get ugly…." She indicates Amelia with a nod of her head. 137
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"Don't worry about me," Amelia immediately interjects. She seems to have entrenched herself in her current position, as if anticipating some such objection. "Nothing you can say will bother me. I have no illusions about my father, what he is or what he's likely to have done. Feel free to say anything, as long as it's the truth…." "I think she should stay." Jason adds. "She's a strong girl. She's had to be." Whatever that means, but I assume we'll find out everything in due time. "Max? Is that agreeable to you?" Mother turns to me. Richard winds his fingers protectively through mine, infusing me with his own special brand of reassurance and utter protection. I look at my sister, and again I'm struck by her maturity and breadth of understanding. She knows more than we're giving her credit for, and probably has her own tales to tell. "It is," I utter, and I'm rewarded with a warm smile from Amelia. Mother takes a long draught of whatever concoction is in her hand. Her eyes meet mine and I know in my heart that what she's about to do, she's doing for me, even if I don't wish to acknowledge the fact at the moment. "Okay, here goes then." She takes a deep breath, and I find myself mimicking her. "We all went to high school together," she begins, 138
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"Webster High, to be exact. Me and your Aunt Ophelia, at least she did 'til she got pregnant. Back then, pregnant girls didn't go to school, it wasn't acceptable, so she stayed home after that. Not that she minded all that much. She was never into school, not really. And Jason went there too. And… Julian…." She almost stumbles over the name, but quickly recovers. "I was a shy girl, rather innocent, one could even say naive, and I knew very little of boys, or dating. I wasn't really interested in finding out about them either. I simply lived for my music, for the piano, and that's all I cared about. I auditioned for the position of pianist for the school orchestra, and that's where I met Jason." She directs a glance toward my uncle. "He was the director's student assistant, he did whatever needed to be done. He'd turn pages for me, if I needed him to. Sometimes I did. In return, I helped him with different things. I thought he was pretty nice. I could talk to him. We had a lot in common." Juliet stands and begins to pace as she speaks, nervous energy pouring off her, revealing her tension. "Then one day, he told me he had a brother in the same grade as me who was interested in going out with me. Well, I was flattered, not to mention surprised. Everyone knew who Julian Woods was. He was one of the best known students at the school, a star athlete and very handsome. He had 139
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girls dripping off each arm, and the stories that were told about him were legendary. And the thought that he wanted to go out with me, a virtual no one, was rather heady, my previous attitude concerning boys notwithstanding." It feels strange to hear her talking about herself in this way. I have a firm grip on Richard's hand as I listen. I watch as Juliet pauses to stare out the window; she shakes her head and continues."At first I refused. Some instinct for self-preservation, I guess it was, an inner intuition warning me to beware the beast, literally, although I didn't realize it. Eventually my foolish ego allowed myself to be talked into going out with him." Isaac senses her distress. He stands and joins her at the window, wrapping his arms around her supportively. "Julian Woods then proceeded to sweep me off my feet. He flattered me in every way possible, gave me little gifts, sought my company at every turn, and made no bones about wanting to be with me. How could I resist? I didn't, except in one regard. I wouldn't give myself to him. I insisted that I wanted to go to our marriage bed a virgin. By then we'd decided to get married, and he didn't press the issue. I thought that it was for love of me. How very wrong I was." Her eyes flicker to me. "At that time, even more so than now, some things were just not spoken of. Unwed 140
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mothers. Premarital sex. Drugs… And people who were different, such as werewolves and vampires… And yes, homosexuals." Is it my imagination or is everyone staring at me? I refuse to look away from her gaze to find out. "Everyone
was
aware
of
the
existence
of
werewolves, had been for a long time, but that's something that wasn't exactly advertised, you know? Fear, I guess. Ignorance, maybe. There was a rumor going around at that time that there was a werewolf at Webster, but no one knew who, although many people's names were bandied about as possibilities. When Julian confided to me one night that it was him, I didn't know what to think. But I loved him, at least I thought I did, and I told him so. I told him I could never think of him as a monster. I didn't care if he was a werewolf, it didn't change things between us. But it did explain a lot. Things that I wondered about but never questioned him on. Like his frequent disappearances. He had this group of boys he ran around with—or rather they ran around with him, for he was undoubtedly the leader of that group—the Alpha, as it were." Juliet seems to be settling into her story now. Her eyes have gone flat, hiding the pain I know lurks just beneath the surface. Isaac guides her back to their sofa and pulls her firmly into his lap. "More often than not he could be found with them, doing God knows what. Typical male 141
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stuff, I suppose, whatever that might be. Causing mischief and mayhem? Strutting their stuff? Smart as I thought I was, I never questioned his comings and goings, and he never offered to explain. I trusted him completely. I know, I was foolish, wasn't I?" Her voice holds a bitter edge to it, but I never even think to interrupt her tale. I never say a word, holding on to Richard's hand so tightly that my own knuckles are white with the effort. I steal a glance at my sister. She listens intently as well, thoughtfully chewing at her lower lip. Isaac kisses my mother's cheek softly, offering encouragement, as she gathers herself sufficiently to go on with her tale. "Max, I wish I'd listened to your grandfather. He never liked Julian from the time he first met him, and he didn't trust him either. After what happened to Ophelia, he was very protective of me. I couldn't really blame him for that. I guess he figured it was easier to watch out for me if he didn't force the two of us to see one another secretly, so he gave us his permission to date. I'd confided in him about Julian's secret, because I thought he should know. That didn't seem to matter to him either." Jason moved from behind the bar to take up a position in a chintz floral armchair from which he can survey the entire room. Like a command post, perhaps. "Your father was a character," Jason interjects with a wry 142
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smile. "I always did like him, Juliet. He used to ask me why I couldn't have asked you out first. I didn't have a ready answer for that." He chuckles softly at the memory, perhaps to break the tension, and for a moment no one speaks. "He asked me the same thing," Juliet admits quietly. She draws another cleansing breath. I feel Richard's lips gently brush across my cheek. "Anyway, our senior year came and of course we were going to attend the prom. It was a very big thing then, just as much as it is now. I bought the most beautiful dress I thought I'd ever seen. Rose chiffon, it was, empire cut. Ophelia was excited that she was going to get to go. By then she'd had Sebastian and dropped out of school." Juliet closes her eyes, as if readying herself before going on. Isaac has begun to rub soothing circles on her back. "She was dating some boy named Chad, one of Julian's group. The four of us frequently hung out together. Ophelia and Chad would be in the backseat of Julian's old Studebaker, steaming up the windows, and Julian and I'd be in the front, caught up in some discussion on Russian novelists or the practicality of socialism in the modern world…. Juliet pulls away from Isaac as if she can't stand to be touched. She returns to the pane of windows, staring at nothing as she speaks. "The night of the prom was 143
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beautiful. The boys picked us up together. Dad watched the baby so Ophelia could go out. The gym was utterly transformed. The theme was the universe, and the ceiling was decorated to resemble the evening sky, showing the galaxies and nebulae. It was breathtaking. The boys were wholly attentive—they'd bought us matching corsages. Orchids, they were. They worked hard at pleasing us with punch and pastries and whatever we wanted—we were the queens of the ball. Then after about an hour or so, they disappeared, saying they were going out for a smoke, and they'd be right back. Which was fine with us, of course, we didn't mind. After all what was five or ten minutes out of the evening? But five minutes became fifteen, became twenty-five and finally we thought we should look for them. We went out to the car, but they weren't there. Then someone said they'd seen them heading toward the football field, so we thanked them and trotted out there in our heels to see if we could catch them." Juliet pauses. For a while I wonder if she's going to be able to continue. "Well, catch them we did and in a way we'd never imagined. We caught the two of them in the bleachers with their pants down. Literally. Well, you can imagine what they were doing, I don't think I need to go into detail. Needless to say, I broke off the engagement immediately. I refused to even speak to Julian. Ophelia 144
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dumped Chad as well. I was heartbroken. I swore I'd never fall in love again. I hated all men, especially homosexual ones. I'm sorry, Max…." She puts her face into her hands, and she's shaking. I'm torn between going over to her and comforting her and shock at her words. I realize that there must be more to the story, though, because at this point I haven't even been conceived. I know I have to say something, so I manage to mumble, "I understand," which seems to suffice for the moment. "Juliet, you don't have to go on with this, we can finish this later…." Isaac goes again to my mother, he has his arms around her, comforting her as best he can. My mother stubbornly shakes her head. "No, I want to get this done, I've waited too long to tell it as it is". She raises her head and shoots me a guilty glance. "There really isn't much more to tell. It was about two years later, in June. There was a big fair being held at Webster University. You know the kind—rides and booths, and a lot of general noise and confusion. I tried to get Ophelia to go with me, but she was living with someone by then, so I decided to go alone. I was a student there at the time, so of course I was familiar with the campus, and I didn't think twice about being on my own. The night itself was uneventful. I won a stuffed kewpie at the ring toss game, I 145
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bought cotton candy and stuffed myself with it, listened to some band which was playing, and then I decided to go home. It was a lovely night, and as I had left my car and walked through the woods which bordered one side of the university, of course I had to go back that same way. Juliet begins to tremble so hard it's practically shaking both her and Isaac. "Which was where he was. And where he found me. Julian, that is. I hadn't seen him since the night I broke off with him, but I'd heard stories during the remainder of my school days—of the girls he was dating, and the conquests he'd made. Which hurt, of course, but I got over it. I wondered about that other side of him that I'd seen so briefly. But it wasn't my business, and neither my sister nor I ever mentioned it to anyone. So when I saw him in the woods that night, I was rather surprised. He came upon me out of nowhere. I could tell right away that he'd been drinking. His eyes were wild, and liquor seemed to exude from every pore in waves. He told me we had unfinished business, and asked if I was seeing anyone. I told him that was none of his business. That just made him mad. He swore that he'd have me, that I was his… He was stronger than I was and there was nothing I could do to stop him.…" My brain is trying to process her words, the knowledge that I am indeed the product of rape, as she'd 146
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always said. The only thing she'd lied about was not knowing who my father was. Under the circumstances, I can understand why. My vision is blurring, and it takes me a moment to realize that I'm crying. I watch helplessly as Isaac rocks her in his embrace. No one says a word, until my mother takes up her tale once more. "It wasn't until… it was over… that I happened to notice the full moon, and I remembered what I knew about him. After he passed out on me, I managed to get away from him. I ran the rest of the way to my car, and I drove home as quickly as I could. It took me weeks to realize that I was pregnant. I had to tell my father about the baby, and about the baby's father. He wanted to kill Julian, of course, but I made him see that would serve no useful purpose. We decided between us to never tell him about you, Max, because we didn't think he deserved to ever be a part of your life. Nine months later, of course, you were born, and although your conception was not of my choosing, I've never regretted a moment of having you, not ever…." Complete silence reigns. Mere words cannot convey my thoughts, the emotions which surge through me as I realize that she has indeed protected me all this time, at least in her eyes. How can I be angry? I find that I can't. Richard's gentle squeeze of my hand brings me back to reality, and I meet my mother's guilty gaze with my own. 147
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"Max, do you see why I did what I did?" she asks, "even though it was obviously meant to be otherwise?" I rise to my feet, and she to hers, and I embrace her, hug her, and tell her that everything is okay. At least I know the truth, and I understand what she went through, and I now have a history, something I didn't have before. And new family members. All right, cue the end of the awkward moment. Now what? Well, there's still another country not heard from. I sense that he too wishes to speak. But first, a bit of fortitude. Before I can say a word, Amelia takes both mine and Richard's glasses, carries them to the bar and refills them, before returning them to us. She's more than intuitive, she's downright psychic. "That's one hell of a story," Jason says his voice thick with obvious emotion. "Juliet, what can I say, other than, I'm sorry. Sorry that it happened to you, and sorry that my brother is a complete and utter shit." Amelia flinches slightly, but otherwise she shows no reaction. "But you seem to be doing well for yourself," he continues. "You have a son, whom you obviously love and who loves you. You have someone in your life." This with a nod toward Isaac. "And to be perfectly frank, you're much better off without my brother. I mean, as bad as he was in 148
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high school, well, since then he's only gotten worse, I'm afraid…." If this were a movie, I'd swear that this would be the scene when the screen would start to shimmy and shake, the music would rise, signaling the all-important everconsuming Flashback Sequence alert. Step into the Wayback Machine, we're going for a ride. Maybe this is inappropriate humor, but I'm trying to cope here, so give me a break. And if I am not mistaken, I think Jason is about to take his own trip down Memory Lane. "As a boy, Julian was a little bit on the wild side, but not overly so, no more than most boys his age, I'd say," Jason begins, as all eyes fasten upon him attentively. "Being the oldest, he was allowed to do more than me, of course, but I never minded, because… well, because he was my hero and I thought he could do no wrong…." At that point, he throws back his glass and drains it, and then beckons toward Amelia, who is already up and moving. That girl's a virtual mind reader. I like her already. She grabs the glass, heads toward the bar, as he continues. "He reached puberty early, Julian did. He liked the girls, and they liked him." With an apologetic glance toward my mother. "As far as I knew then, that is. Anything else, he kept to himself. But the girls he bragged about. A lot. We shared a room, which was situated in the 149
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back of the house, and when he was only fourteen, he was already sneaking out the window to meet this that or the other girl for sex. He'd sneak back in at all hours of the night. Love 'em and leave 'em he was. And quite full of himself, 'cause he never got caught. Until one night that is… I remember it well. Halloween. How cliché, but how true. He had a date with some sixteen year old whose name eludes me, but never mind. The important thing is that he woke me up when he came in the window, which was unusual, 'cause normally he was very quiet and I never heard a thing. But this night, I heard a big thump, and I sat up in bed, startled, to see my brother on the floor, slumped over, moaning softly. I jumped out of bed, and flew to him. You can imagine my horror when I realized he was bleeding." Jason takes a breath as Amelia hands him his fresh drink, leaning down to hug him reassuringly, before she turns to reward me with a warm smile. She slides back into place on the floor, imperceptibly moving closer to me, and I feel a certain comfort in her presence which surprises me. I've never bonded this quickly with anyone before, only with Richard, for other reasons obviously. Maybe there's hope for me yet. "He didn't want to do it, but I forced him to tell me what had happened. It seems he was coming out of the 150
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girl's house he had gone to see; snuck out her basement window, to be exact. He'd had to hightail it when he heard her old man knocking on the basement door. He barely managed to pull his clothes back on, since they were interrupted in mid-act, which meant he was… well, let's say not happy. His plan was to hide out in the woods by her house 'til she gave him the all clear to come back, after she ditched her father, so they could finish what they'd started. But things didn't work out that way. He was crouched in the trees, smoking a cigarette, and waiting, when he heard a growl behind him, and he turned to find himself confronted by a large fierce-looking wolf. Werewolf, to be exact, and that was when he was bitten. He was smart enough to realize that it was a werewolf, and not a simple garden variety wolf, or wild dog, and he knew exactly what was going to happen to him on the next full moon. He enjoined me to secrecy, enlisting my aid, and from then on every month I'd help him hide what he was from our parents. I'd cover for him if they noticed that he was missing, while he was off doing God knows what. He either wouldn't or couldn't tell me. And to tell the truth, I didn't really want to know, so I didn't ask. "I wish now I'd never introduced them," Jason sighs. He shifts in his chair, and assumes a new position, his glance stealing over to my mother every now and then, 151
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"But back then I was hoping that things would change, that perhaps she'd be a good influence on him, because she was such a good person. That was a foolish hope, I know that now. I mean, I knew nothing would change his being a werewolf, I just hoped that he would stop being so… wild…." He pauses for a moment, as if lost in thought, and I feel Richard's hand stroking my leg soothingly—I can almost hear the message his touch conveys: it's almost over love, it's almost over. "Well, Juliet covered that part of the story rather well. All I can add to that is that he was meeting with other werewolves the whole time, trying to form a pack. He wanted to be the Alpha, the one in control. I suppose it's just his nature." Jason shrugs. "But there weren't enough wolves here, at least none that were very interested in his plans, or would follow his lead. Werewolves are by natural solitary beasts. No offense, Max…." I nod to acknowledge that none is taken, but I don't care for the word beast, not at all. And I'm too cowardly to say so. But apparently my sister is not. "Max isn't a beast," she says flatly. "Not like Dad." I glance at her in some surprise. She raises her chin defiantly, as if daring someone to contradict her words. "I like your sister already," Richard whispers in my 152
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ear as he squeezes my hand, before leaning in and patting Amelia to show her that he's pleased. He's not being condescending or patronizing and she understands. She turns her head and simply glows at us. "You're right," Jason acknowledges his mistake, inclining his head toward me in a genteel fashion. "I apologize, Max. He never told me what he did to you, Juliet, I swear it. Believe me, I would have been in touch with you, done something… I don't know what, but something. I had no idea that he'd ever stoop so low… no, that's not quite right. I did know, but I didn't want to face it…. "Julian tried working once or twice. He managed to get a couple of part time jobs, but he didn't care for the restrictions they placed on him. He found it difficult to work around the full moon. I'm sure you can relate, Max." He nods to me. "He preferred instead to live off of our parents. Which essentially meant living off of our grandparents. They were the ones with the money, and they absolutely doted on Julian. They were blind to all his faults, and they indulged him terribly. Our parents weren't quite so blind, though. At least in that regard. I was in college by then but Julian refused to go. And he refused to work anymore. So my father gave him an ultimatum—either enroll in school or find a job and keep it, or be kicked out 153
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of the house." "I can't imagine Julian took to that too kindly?" Juliet comments softly, as she scoots closer to Isaac. "No, he didn't." Jason sighs heavily, setting down his empty glass, but Amelia makes no move to refill it. "The next full moon came, the night before the ultimatum was to take effect. I was working myself, and I was gone that night. My brother didn't need me any more during the full moon. He was running with a couple of other wolves. So I just didn't think about anything, or worry about anything, 'til I came home from my shift. Making pizza, it was, for a local pizza joint. I found our parents murdered, lying side by side on the living room floor. Slaughtered, to be precise, their throats slashed open from ear to ear." He shudders at the memory, and my sister is quickly by his side, to lend her support, knowing exactly what is coming, of course. Jason pats the hand which rests upon his shoulder, takes a deep breath and continues. "Of course, I realized that it was Julian. Or if not him directly, at least he was responsible for it. I never asked him, because I really didn't want to know. Which I realize was cowardly of me, but I admit to being a little afraid of my brother, and what he might do. The police put it down to homicide by person or werewolf unknown. My grandparents changed their will 154
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after that, and when they died a few months later—of natural causes, let me hasten to add—Julian and I inherited everything. Which was a fairly considerable amount of money. We've managed to live off of it all these years, and it's what allows Julian to be able to live the way he chooses. He began to travel after they died, roaming the country in search of kindred spirits. Fights. A pack, maybe, I don't know. He'd be gone for months on end, without a word, and then he'd show up out of the blue and stay for a while. I never knew what he did when he was away, and he never told me. But then again, I never asked. I stayed busy, and I just stopped wondering after a while. Simply accepted his comings and goings. "Then one day, about twenty years ago, he returned from one of his many excursions, but this time he wasn't alone. He had a young girl with him. Her name was Tina. She was maybe all of sixteen years old, I think. Very pretty and very shy. And very, very pregnant. He moved her into the house, told me he was going to have a son, someone to carry on with him in the tradition that he was building. As if he were the scion of some noble house." I feel uncomfortable at his words, and have to keep from squirming in my seat, as I wonder just how badly did this man want a son. And why. "He was bound and determined to deliver the child 155
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himself, at home, even though I tried to talk him into taking Tina to a hospital. When I found out that she hadn't received any prenatal care whatsoever, I was appalled. I told him he didn't know anything about delivering children, what if something went wrong. But he wouldn't listen. He was quite stubborn that way, you know. Still is. I think Tina was scared of him, although she seemed to love him very much too. I'm afraid that was her undoing." He glances between me and Amelia, who sits unmoving, on the floor by Richard and me. "Her complete undoing," he repeats. "When she went into labor, she realized that it was worse than what he'd told her it would be. She was scared. She wanted to go to the hospital, but he wouldn't hear of it. I stayed with her all during her labor. I couldn't even call for help because he tore the phone line out right in front of my eyes, and he warned me what would happen if I tried to leave the house. There was nothing I could do but watch, as he brought Amelia into the world. When he saw that she was a girl, I'm afraid he reacted badly." Again I feel uncomfortable, feeling this man's obvious obsession with having a son, and knowing that he has one—me. "He growled at her… and more. I wouldn't even begin to repeat the things that he said to that poor, poor 156
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dying girl. And yes, she was dying even then. I could see it in her eyes, hard as she tried to hang on to life, for Julian, for her child. But it was no use. Julian stormed out of the house shortly after the birth, and Tina begged me not to leave her, or the baby. So I didn't. I stayed… until the end. I held her hand and promised her that I'd always look after her child. She asked me to name her Amelia, after a character in some book she liked. And of course I did…." His voice trails away, and for a moment there is another complete silence which no one breaks. Solemn little group that we are. "Julian came back—he always does, eventually. I've kept Amelia with me, because frankly I don't trust him. He's her father, and sometimes he acknowledges the fact— when it's convenient—and other times he chooses not to think about it. He flies in and out of our lives, but we never know when or for how long. She's more my child than she is his, except by birth. And well… I think you're up to date now, and welcome to the family, Max…." There's no sarcasm in his voice; he sounds relieved, as if he's glad to have this long-buried story out in the open. Amelia doesn't seem surprised by any of it. I surmise she's heard it all from him before. She goes to him and hugs him tenderly. What a good man he must be to have taken care of her like that. It's Richard who sees the possible problem which 157
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may arise at some. "What happens when Julian finds out he does have a son, and his son is just like him?" Richard asks. All eyes turn toward me, and I squirm at being the center of such unwanted attention. "He can't find out," my mother cries out in agitation. "He will find out, unfortunately," Jason says reluctantly, "I'm afraid it's inevitable." "Let him find out, I don't care." I'm trying to remain calm, but the idea that this absentee parent might step into my life and try to exert some parental authority over me, at my age, is a ridiculous one. But it's also unnerving when I stop to consider that he's a werewolf, too. An amoral vicious one at that, who apparently will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Unless, the thought occurs to me, he's managed to have a son somewhere else along the way. "Surely he's gotten another son by now? After all these years?" Jason shakes his head. "No, I'm afraid that became impossible sometime after Amelia was born—he came down with the mumps. He wasn't even sure where he caught it, but it was his first time. And as you know, the effects on adult males can be catastrophic. He found out when it was over that he was sterile. I was afraid he was going to attack the poor woman who gave him his test 158
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results. No, no sons for Julian. Except for Max, of course." Lucky me. What a night this has been. I have a new sister, and an uncle, a murderous rapist for a father, and I'm the heir apparent—to what? Some lunatic fringe werewolf pack? Suddenly I realize I want nothing more than to go home and burrow beneath the blankets with Richard, and let everything that's happened work its way through my weary brain. "Good idea," Amelia says, her dark eyes meeting mine. And even as I think to myself that we should get together, somewhere other than this place, she smiles. "Call me next week, I'm usually free." She skips to the bar, ducking behind it, and quickly reappears with a small scrap of paper which she presses into my hand. I know I'll call my newfound sister and the three of us will get together at #1 Lupercalia Lane. And everything will be all right. As we drive home at last from this strange, strange evening, I'm curled up against Richard in the front seat of the Monte and I turn off the radio for a moment, even though it isn't loud, simply because I don't want the competition. "Yes, baby?" he asks solicitously, knowing something's on my mind. "I'll meet him," I announce in a voice pretending to 159
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be more confident than it is. "But on my terms. Not his. And not with Mother, unless she wants to, which I don't think she will. But with you, of course," I forestall any argument he may be about to make. "Of course with you. We're in this together, just remember that. You and me. Forever." "I remember," he says softly, his right hand nestled between my legs, my security in the midst of all this craziness. "But Max, realize one thing. If he ever, and I mean ever, tries to harm you in any way, I will not hesitate to kill him. Is that understood?" "Understood." I nod, clinging to Richard tightly. Nothing more is said. It simply isn't necessary. My mind can't help but go back to things that I've heard over the years, news stories which hover on the edge of my consciousness. It's that whole villagers attacking the monster mentality, I know, but anything concerning the possibility of a wild animal attack gets my attention, for obvious reasons. Or any possibility that werewolves are suspected of being the attackers. And now, with the knowledge of my father actually being in the vicinity, I have to wonder—how in control of his lycanthropy is he? And his pack? And how safe is the secret of my hidden nature? Will I be able to keep it hidden for much longer?
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Chapter Seven Something Old, Something New, Something Unexpected
Sunday morning I sleep in—we sleep in—and it isn't 'til almost noon that I finally arise, take a last lingering look at my beautiful lover, still caught in sleep's snare, as naked as he was when we made love the night before. I pull the blanket higher upon his slumbering form, and stumble in to the computer to see what needs taking care of this day. Hopefully damn little. Since I work at home, any day is considered to be a work day, weekends not excepted. While my beast warms up, I make my sleepy way to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. I'll just check my email briefly, deal with anything that demands attention, then take my baby some of this lovely nectar of the gods. I smile in anticipation. I can see it now—I'm bending over him, nibbling at his neck; he rolls toward me, that lovely, lazy smile gracing his beautiful face. Mmmm, maybe I'll take some liquid breakfast while I'm at it…. Principessa trails in my wake. She silently pads after me, seeking her own breakfast. She's a good girl. She doesn't bark or whine, as if she understands that to do so might disturb Daddy. Her other Daddy even. I reward her with gentle scratches behind her long silky ears, setting her 161
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breakfast before her in her special bowl. Yes, I know she's quite a spoiled, pampered little princess. As am I. Am I complaining? Not on your life. Having seen to my furry baby's needs, I plod into the living room, clad only in a pair of boxers which I quietly snag from the bedroom, sneaking another peek at my slumbering baby. Damn, I am so besotted I log into my Yahoo email account—no one would ever guess Digital Zorg is me. That was Rachel's idea. She said 'To The Max' was simply too obvious. I had to admit she was probably right. I do have a 'To The Max' address, one which I use for work related correspondence. This other one's my private email. I always attend to it first, it's just my way. I never expect to get much, and most of it's from Rachel. My mother hasn't come into the twenty-first century enough to become computer literate. Although who knows, that could change, now that she's apparently taken a young, studly lover, who can tutor her. Is that a tad venomous? Perhaps. Am I going to amend that statement? No way What's this? I recognize my nephew's email address. For some obscure reason he's decided on the email address of Honored Stoat, also at Yahoo, but don't ask me to explain it, I can't. This is odd—he seldom emails me, and generally it's in gratitude for a Christmas/birthday 162
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present, something of that ilk, although occasionally he surprises me with discourse on some topic of mutual interest to us both. This email is both short and to the point. Uncle Max, Do you mind if I ask you a question. How did you tell Grandma that you were gay? Jackson Well, well, well. My, my, my. Surprise of surprises. The plot thickens. Or something thickens, anyway. This is an interesting turn of events. Either Jackson's writing my biography, which I find very unlikely, or he's looking for a way to come out of the closet to his mother. That being the case, he's apparently seeking my advice, probably because I'm the only gay man he knows, other than Richard, and he probably feels a little bit closer to me. I have to handle this carefully. My own coming out was rather horrific, as I've already chronicled, but then again, Diana's not Mother, and I don't think this will be anywhere close to being the potential problem he may perceive it to be. If he even perceives it to be one, which is impossible to ascertain from a single email. Dutifully I click reply, and type: Jackson, Very carefully, and it still didn't help. 163
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You know your grandmother. Why do you ask? Just curious. Uncle Max I read over some emails from Rachel—she's the queen of forwarding. Anything she finds amusing, interesting, esoteric, or downright dirty, finds its way from her email address to mine. Where does she find the time to locate all of this stuff? It never fails to amaze me, even as it invariably brings a smile to my lips. I'm engrossed in one of her ribald stories when I'm surprised to hear the familiar musical notes, which I've set to indicate incoming email— the first four notes of Beethoven's Fifth—and I find that I've a reply from my nephew already. That was quick. I assumed he was glued to the Playstation, at this time of the morning. Or should I say afternoon? Uncle Max, Because I'm gay and I need to know how to tell my mom. Jackson I can hear my mother now. 'Max, see what your influence has done to my grandson!' Good lord, I'll have to dig out everything I can find on homosexuality being genetic. It's not a learned behavior, nor a contagious form of some virulent disease. Then she'll probably still blame me, for being related to him. So, what to say to my 164
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nephew? Congratulations doesn't seem quite right, neither does are you sure? Who's your boyfriend sounds too nosy, besides which, now that I think about it, I'm sure it's Nathaniel. Perhaps I should've realized this sooner, but I don't possess gaydar, that overworked shopworn phrase, most often used after the fact when someone steps out of the closet. I feel Principessa at my feet, laying one dainty paw upon my leg as if to say, 'Daddy, I need to go out now'. She's fairly regular about such things, so it's not unexpected. Plus it gives me a moment to collect my thoughts before I reply. I push back my chair, rise, and lead my baby through the kitchen and out the back door to do her business. As long as I'm up…. I meander past the bedroom, staring once more at Richard's sleeping form, before I return to my computer, as my mind goes back over the years, to our first time together….
Wednesday, April 8, 1976 We left the relative security of the Chevelle, our fingers twining instinctively, as Richard led me around to the back of the dark house in Kirkwood where he was staying with some friends, to the separate entrance which led directly into the basement which he temporarily called 165
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home. At least for now, as he had already mentioned, which only served to raise the level on my insecurity meter. My heart beat erratically, both at the situation we were rapidly becoming involved in, and at his very proximity. I'd never felt this way about anyone ever before, I'd never fallen for anyone the way I fell for Richard. And although my common sense told me to take it slow, my heart told me full speed ahead—he's the one. He switched on a lamp as soon as we entered. It was a finished basement, mother-in-law quarters actually. Richard explained it to me as he gave me the truncated Cook's tour of his territory, such as it was. He smiled at me when he showed me the bathroom, with its cozy shower, which smile sent shivers of anticipation up and down my spine as he'd promised we'd take a shower together before we continued our lovemaking. What had happened on the side of the road had been too fast and furious and frenzied to be considered anything other than fierce frottage, but we had the rest of the night ahead of us now. And suddenly I was as nervous as a bride on her wedding night, although why that particular image came to me, I can't say. I'm lying—of course I can. I just knew this union would mark us forever, weld us together in a communion of souls that could never be sundered. I was afraid to ask Richard how he felt, afraid to discover these emotions were all my own, 166
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that I was just a pretty face and a quick fuck to him. Lies come so easily, after all, when one is horny. A stiff prick has no conscience, or so I've been told. So I didn't breathe a word, simply followed his lead in everything. "Would you like a drink?" he asked, glancing through the fridge which, from my angle, appeared to be rather barren of contents. He peered back over his shoulder unexpectedly, caught me staring at his tight ass, and a slow smile spread across his features. "I'll take that as a no," he said, closing the door. He crossed the short distance between us in a few strides and pulled me to him, our lips coming together as he kissed me intently, his fingers threading through my hair and for that brief moment time stood still. The rest of the room receded into a meaningless blur. I was aware only of being in Richard's arms, the feel of his lips, the beat of his heart against mine. He suddenly broke the kiss. Without another word, he released me and began to make his way toward the bathroom, stripping as he went, carelessly tossing each piece of clothing. Even in the dim light of the basement, I could see the beauty of his pale body, the tautness of his muscles. His movements were graceful, possessed of a feral litheness which belied description. Writers, too, are sometimes without words when our emotions are too deeply engaged. 167
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I must have stood there gawking after that veritable god for all of ten seconds before I realized I should do something more than stare. In other words, Max get moving and now! I hastily undressed, although I had the presence of mind to quickly fold each and every article of clothing and set it into a neat pile on one of the armchairs, before following him into the bathroom, where he already had the water running. The shower curtain hung invitingly open, allowing me a glimpse of his wet naked body. Oh my God, I thought I was going to faint. He was so incredibly beautiful, I couldn't believe such a marvelous being actually wished to be with me—but he did. "Come on in, sweet thing," he beckoned, and his eyes more than told me he appreciated what he saw, as they roamed up and down my bare body. Fearlessly, well, for me, that is, I stepped inside the enclosed space, drawing the curtain shut behind me. Not a large shower, but it had room enough for two. Especially when our bodies were pressed as tightly together as ours were. His blond hair was plastered wetly against his skull, no longer lemon but a deceptively darker shade, his back to the shower spray. I eagerly ran my fingers up and down his wet spine, feeling each and every vertebra, his very musculature, mapping each square inch of skin for future reference. Our cocks ground eagerly against one another, as if possessed of 168
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minds of their own. What had begun while we were still fully clothed, now amorously continued in our unclothed states, and if I thought it had felt good before, that was nothing compared to what I was feeling now as the friction between us continued to escalate. His lips devoured mine, and mine his; his hands performed the same explorations as mine—they moved down to my ass, gripping my cheeks as he pushed up against me. Just when I thought I would lose it right then and there, he ceased what he was doing, changing positions with me, so my back was being fiercely assaulted by the warm—nay, the hot water. I didn't care. It's what I wanted, what I needed. I have an enormous tolerance for warmth, unlike the inhospitable cold. Without warning he dropped to his knees. I glanced down, wondering what this move portended. His midnight blue eyes met mine, framed by his very blond lashes. I could smell his great desire for me palpably hanging in the air. His beautiful pink lips parted and he took me into his mouth in one swift move which left me gasping. One of the few advantages—one of the very few, I might add—of my lycanthropy is that I am… well, how can I put this with a modicum of modesty, without appearing to be bragging? I fear I cannot, so I'll put it bluntly. I am very well hung. Very well hung. Nine inches would not be amiss. And closer to the full moon I think it approaches ten, maybe 169
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even ten and a half. It's not an exaggeration. At times my great
length,
and
accompanying
girth,
could
be
embarrassing when prior lovers have tried to deep throat me, which is no easy task. But Richard accomplished it without even gagging, taking my length with ease. And for the first time I felt the pleasure of being entirely encased within someone's mouth. If this wasn't meant to be…. He didn't move, simply held me there inside of him, acclimating himself as it were to the feel of me, I think, as I easily became accustomed to his touch. I stroked his damp cheek softly, feeling a whimper growing in the back of my throat as slowly he began to slide his lips up and down my rigid cock, gently at first, then with increasing firmness, his fingers ringing the base as he tightened his grip on it. His eyes were closed almost reverently, which emboldened me to whisper, "Richard, I love you…." I was confident he couldn't hear me above the noise of the cascading water. The very act of expressing the emotion, one I had never dared utter before outside of my immediate family, caused me to swell even more, my love muscle twitching inside his mouth. His eyes snapped open, and he released me long enough
to
breathe.
"Max,
you're
incredible."
He
commenced to suckled me in earnest once more and I found myself weakly hanging onto the wall, my very 170
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balance threatened—both physically and emotionally— while he proceeded to steal my soul through the medium of my cock. Can there be any doubt how deeply imbedded Richard Burke already was within me, within my life, even at this early juncture? Small wonder that throughout the years, through all the bad times as well as the good—the times I believed he flouted the very integrity of our relationship with divers other men and women—I could not, would not, I simply refused to let him go. We have formed a symbiosis which I am helpless to break—we feed off of each other, nurture one another, with a love that will not die. We are, to put it simply, destined to be together. For the second time that night, I felt my orgasm rising to the occasion. Richard played me like a well-loved, familiar instrument, his fingers massaging my staff as he fed on my engorged meat. He murmured indistinguishable words into my flesh, and the vibrations went through me with an intensity I'd never experienced before. Clutching his hair, my balls tightening against my body, I vented my pleasure with a most lupine howl. I burst into his mouth in fierce spasms of heated desire which he eagerly drank. Never, ever, in all my years of sexual existence, had I experienced an orgasm such as that one. It surpassed the first one tenfold. Richard never loosened his grasp as he coaxed every last drop of from me, and when there was no 171
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more to be had, he released me gently, kissing my softening member, his eyes meeting mine, as if seeking my reaction. "Amazing," I managed to gasp. My heart was doing somersaults within my breast as slowly he rose to his feet, taking my mouth in his as he passed me the last of my essence. I'd heard about 'snowballing', but never tried it before, and I was surprised to find that it wasn't unpleasant, far from it. "Max," he whispered heatedly in my ear, "I want you in my bed. I want to make love to you, be inside of you. Will you let me do that?" I was surprised at the question, surprised that he even needed to ask, and that was my first sign there was more to Richard than the facade he presented to the rest of the world—the confident, cocky, beautiful young man who took what he wanted and never asked questions—and I only loved him the more for it. "Oh yes," I answered most eagerly, "yes, I want that too… please…." He took my hand and placed it around his swollen cock. Easily eight inches, it wasn't shabby by any means. I wanted to feel him inside my ass so badly, it was a positive craving. He handed me a wash cloth which he had thoroughly soaped, and I eagerly laved him in preparation of what was to come. No pun intended, of course. We washed quickly and rinsed ourselves in water that was 172
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starting to become cold, as if it had spent what heat it possessed in our first round. Which meant it was time to move on to round two. He turned off the water, pulling back the curtain and reaching for a towel—the one bath towel which graced the small room. He wrapped it about me as he began to first pat me dry, and then himself. We stepped from the tub without ceremony. I shivered slightly at the change in temperature, my tolerance to cold not great. I would never survive if I lived any farther north than St. Louis, I'm convinced. "I'll warm you, baby," he promised and without warning, swept me up into his strong arms and carried me back into the living room, laying me tenderly upon the sofa. A la Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara, minus the staircase. "I should have opened this first," he said a moment later, giving a small moue of chagrin, "and I hate to move you, sweet thing, but I'll make it worthwhile, I promise." He made no move immediately, our bodies far too occupied in taking stock of one another, our lips pressed together firmly. "Don't open it," I dared to suggest, "take me right here… and now…." Richard shifted his position, reaching over my head to a table set alongside the couch. I could hear him fumbling in the drawer. "Damn, not here," he swore, as he began to rise. I knew what he was after and I tried to tell 173
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him we didn't need it, but he wouldn't listen, padding quickly to the bathroom and back, a tube of lubricant in his hand. "Oh yes, we do," he disagreed, "the shower only dried us both out, and I refuse to hurt you, Max…." I should have believed him when he said that, for his words were most sincere and turned out to be the truth, in all matters. "C'mere, my lovely, just for a moment…." I did as he commanded; I would have done anything for that man. I stood there, shivering slightly, as he unfolded the bed contained within the sofa. It was already made. He pulled back the blanket, and I slid beneath it gratefully. He followed immediately after me, handing me the tube. I knew what to do. It wasn't like I was a virgin, or anything. I'd had a few experiences over the years, been with a few lovers. But for some reason my hand trembled as I undid the top, squeezed the contents out into my palm and proceeded to rub it over him quickly and efficiently. As I busied myself with that, he took the tube back, squirted some of the gel onto the fingers of one hand, and when I had completed my task, he moved between my legs, his lust-filled eyes openly devouring my body. He spread my legs slightly, for better access, his greased fingers sliding across my entrance, which brought about a shiver of another sort. Anticipation, not cold. 174
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"Ready, Max?" I merely nodded, and he entered me with a single digit, his eyes affixed upon my face as if fearing to hurt me. But far from feeling pain, I was flooded with a most exquisite feeling, which my expression must have mirrored, for he proceeded to push his finger in all the way, and how wonderful it felt indeed. "More," I encouraged him, breathlessly. He added a second finger without hesitation now, scissoring them for full effect, as he worked at stretching the tight muscles of my sphincter. I had to admit it had been a while since my last lover. I writhed against those fingers in my excitation. But as good as they felt, his fingers were not what I wanted. Max was a greedy little bastard. He wanted to be filled by Richard's cock, and nothing else would do. "Richard, please fuck me," I begged, "I'm ready, I can feel it…." His eyes met mine. I melted inside at one simple look from those dark blue orbs. "Whatever my Max wishes," he said softly, and my heart held onto the way he called me his, hoping he meant it in the same way I took it. He pulled his digits out, and for a moment I experienced a profound sense of loss which was immediately rectified as he began to replace them with the bigger prize—namely, his cock. In one swift move he was sheathed inside of me. I gasped in sheer pleasure, unable to speak for the moment, 175
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he filled me so completely. I regained my breath as I gazed worshipfully up at him. His own eyes laid bare his naked soul to me as he released a low moan. "Oh sweet Jesus… oh, Max… OH MAX…" He reached for my lips, which I gave to him, gladly, joyfully, and most willingly. For a long moment neither of us moved, but then, as of one accord, we joined together in the rhythm of the ageold horizontal dance, falling into a mutual syncopation, one with the other. His strokes were slow and languid at first, but gained rapidly in speed and intensity. I shifted my position beneath him, wrapping my legs about his waist to allow him better penetration, tightening my muscles about him as I arched my back. Had anything ever felt so good? I didn't think so. At least not until a well-aimed thrust hit my prostate and I yelped in uninhibited surprise. "Oh, Richard," I gasped. He chuckled, low and sensual, obviously pleased with my reaction as he continued to service my complete need for him, his fingers stroking my chest, my nipples, which perked immediately at his touch. He lightly pressed the tip of his tongue to one pink nub, teasingly, then grazed it with his teeth. "Yessss," I shivered, "bite it, Richard, go ahead." Encouraged, he took it between his teeth and nipped at it, and I was in ecstasy. He proceeded to bestow the same 176
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welcome attention upon my other nipple. My entire body tingled from his actions, both inside and out. For my part, I couldn't touch him enough. I ran my fingers down the length of his spine, feeling how hard his muscles were working to please me—how very taut they were, his entire body was compact and hard—and he had the most superb ass I'd ever seen, or felt. I slid my fingers between his cheeks and over his entrance, eliciting a soft moan from my lover. "Finger me, Max," he requested, "please…." And of course I obeyed, delighted to find him hot, tight, moist, and eager. One single finger, which I buried to the third knuckle inside of his velvety interior. "How's that?" I sought his approval. "Oh
honey,
that's
beautiful,"
he
gasped.
Encouraged, I felt about inside of him, seeking that which he had found in me, even as he continued to pound my ass into the mattress of the sofa-sleeper beneath us. His movements became frenetic, evidence I had a most desired effect upon him. Just as I despaired of being incapable of hitting his prostate, from sheer nervousness, he suddenly began
to
spasm
and
cried
out,"
Oh
yes,
yes,
yessssssssssss…MAXXXXXXXX!" The warmth of his release surged through my channel. I rocked with him through his orgasm, our lips 177
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meeting once again, as I poured the intensity of my feelings into that kiss. When he was spent, I removed my finger, stroking his back lightly as he caught his breath. I watched him closely. I discovered my Richard has the most beautiful post-coital smile, a very self-satisfied grin which lights his entire face. In fact, he positively glows. We rolled over onto our sides, facing one another, cuddling and snuggling, and sharing our bodily warmth. I had never felt so good before in my life as I did with my mate, my Richard. I made a mental note to explain all of that in the morning. But not then—not right then. I burrowed my head into his chest, kissing it softly for good measure. "Oh Max," he cooed, "I was right about you. You are very special…." We fell asleep, wrapped in one another's arms. I remember the intense feeling of peace which pervaded me that night, knowing I had found that special someone at last. We were together and warmth filled my very soul. Richard moved into my mother's house within a few days—and other than those bad times throughout the years, he and I've been together ever since. Almost twenty-five years now. Hard to believe, but it's true.
Present day 178
For Love of Max
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I sit before my computer, spacing out, the aftermath of my trip down Memory Lane, oblivious to the screen before me. A pair of warm familiar arms steals about me, and it is my own true love, arisen at last and come upon me unawares, his lips planted softly upon my neck. "Morning, sweet thing," he murmurs, his eyes taking in the words before us, Jackson's last message. "Interesting," he comments, before turning his full attention upon me. "And where was your mind, just now? I'd swear it wasn't here." "No, it wasn't," I admit, holding his arms against me, with a smirk as I bask in the glow of his love. "I was thinking about the night we met. Our first time together. Remember that?" "Of course I remember that," he chuckles into my flesh, "I may be older than you, Max, and only slightly at that, but I'm not senile. Not yet, anyway. I remember every last moment, including how hot I thought you were, and how badly I wanted to be with you." "How many guys did you proposition before me?" I tease him, even though I already know the answer. "You were my first and only choice," he maintains, as he always has, whenever the subject has come up. "I was afraid you were with one of the guys in the group you came in with, but I was determined not to let that stop me. I was 179
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going to have you at any price, I'd already decided." "So I noticed, Mr. Burke." He smiles at me most sweetly. "So I see your nephew is gay," he comments, nodding at Jackson's email. "You know who Juliet is bound to blame, don't you?" I roll my eyes, as he echoes my thoughts. "Undoubtedly. Maybe this time I'll let her pin the blame on you." He nips my neck. "Your mother might just believe that. No doubt she sees me as the reason you're gay, you know…." "Yes, I know, but that's absurd, since I came out to her long before I met you. In fact…." My words are cut off by the sound of "Swan Lake". I glance at my cell, which is sitting on the charger on my desk. "Uh oh, is she psychic?" I wonder, as I glance at the ID. No, not Mother, Rachel. I pick it up and press talk, but before I can get a word out, Rachel's voice greets me, "Max, turn on Channel 7, right now!" The urgency in her tone is unmistakable. I rise, taking the phone with me, reaching for Richard with my spare hand, and without a word of explanation, sweep him back into the bedroom. "Turn on the TV, please, Channel 7…." He obeys without question, as we seat ourselves at the end of our bed. Okay, we're glued to the set. We seldom watch 180
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television, it's used mostly for movies, pornographic and otherwise. There upon our screen is the familiar face of Preston Sparks, seated at the news desk, and I wonder what is so very urgent. But I wait and I listen, and as his words sink in, the blood drains from my face. "After last night's vicious attack on the helpless West County woman, it is impossible to ignore a situation so many St. Louisans have refused to acknowledge— namely that werewolves do exist and are a growing problem in the metro area, one which needs to be addressed," he says, "how many more people must die before the legislature acknowledges the presence of these creatures and works to enact stricter laws to control them? Not only here, but nationwide? The argument has been given that there are few of them, so why bother. But I repeat, how many people must die before something is done? There must be an accounting for each and every werewolf among us. The problem must be addressed by first saying to ourselves, yes, there are werewolves. It is foolish to think otherwise, when the evidence is right before us. They need to be controlled. They must be registered, regulated and restricted. And for safety's sake, don't allow them to marry, or to breed. It's simply asking for trouble." Sparks' grey eyes look directly into the camera as he continues," I shall be doing an in-depth series which 181
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I'm calling the Wolves of St. Louis beginning on Sunday, October 16th. If anyone has any information regarding these creatures, call me at the number which is now flashing on your screen. Call your local law enforcement officials. Call your legislators. Demand that they take action! This is Preston Sparks for now, trying to keep St. Louis safe for St. Louisans." I've heard enough. More than enough. Stunned doesn't begin to describe how I feel as I sit immobilized, unable to respond to this vicious commentary. Richard takes the phone from my hand and speaks into it, telling Rachel he'll have me call back later. He tosses it aside and wraps me in the warmth of his love. "No, no, no…." I moan, tears prickling my eyes. Why is my world falling around me once more, just when I thought it was smooth sailing? Foolish me. I'm never allowed to be happy, apparently. Never. "Shhh, shhh," he soothes me, stroking my hair softly, "don't worry about it, everything'll be all right, baby, I'm here… I'm here…." What'll we do? Will I have to live in daily terror of being outed for my lycanthropy? Will Richard and I be prevented from being married, even when the gay marriage laws are enacted? It isn't fair, it simply isn't fair.
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Chapter Eight The Ties That Bind
I refuse to leave the house for the next several days, and cannot be coaxed out the front door for love or money. Neither entreaties nor pleas work on me. I'm adamant in my refusal not to step foot into the outside world. At least for now. At least until I can think through my situation, and decide upon a course of action. My paranoia has reached feverish peaks, and poor Richard bears the brunt of my madness. I barely let him out of my sight—why, I can't exactly explain. What do I fear? Do I think that paparazzi are waiting for us, or sleazy investigative reporters who will try to bribe him into revealing the true nature of Max Montague? Or do I fear the sudden appearance of my pater familias to claim the prince for his wild kingdom? It's ridiculous, of course, but it's me, to the max. As word of the impending media investigation reaches the inner circle of those who know the truth about me, my phone becomes the lifeline through which they all try to reach me—to inform, to assuage, to sympathize, to persuade. Sebastian, Cat, Isaac, Maggie. Mother, too, of course. I am so upset that I even turn down a phone call from Derek DeVille who, after my lover, is one of my very 183
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best friends, which is saying a lot. Richard plays the part of secretary as Max is temporarily indisposed and unavailable for comment. He dissuades any and all visitors, which suits me just fine; shell-shocked Max is not a pretty sight. I can't even summon the necessary wits to write my column. Damn good thing I have a backlog for just such emergencies. Working ahead does pay off. Sometimes I'm so pathetic I can barely stand myself, and this is one of those times, as I cower in the supposed safety of our bedroom, keeping Richard within arm's reach at all times. It's a good thing he's such a patient man. It's also a good thing that he loves me to distraction. Rachel gives me one day to get my act together, and then she storms the Bastille, refusing to allow me to play the diva. Bearing chocolate, as well as amaretto, orange juice and vanilla ice cream. God, I love Dreamsicles, and I don't mean the ice cream treats, and she knows it, the little wench. Richard helps her blend them by the pitcher, and we retreat to the library. The curtains are completely drawn, the room is bathed in velvety darkness, the kind that clings as it conceals, preserving the illusion I have withdrawn from the outside world. It's only at Richard's insistence that I'm not wearing pajamas. He's laid out jeans and a Queen T-shirt and directed me to don them, so I have. The phone 184
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is turned off, as well as the television, out of deference to Max's mood and sensibilities, but Rachel draws the line at listening to "Lonely Day" repeated five hundred times— yes, totally emo, and I know it—so I allow her to place my Kingdom of Heaven soundtrack in the CD player instead. Emotional, but of a different variety, one she can handle. "Max, please don't worry," Rachel tells me, "it's not like it's illegal or anything to be a werewolf. I don't believe any of that other nonsense he was spouting either. I'm more concerned with why he's doing this. What's in it for him? And why now, just after you've become engaged? The timing seems awfully suspicious to me, that's all." "Smacks highly of Amy to me," Richard interjects thoughtfully. He and I curl up beside one another on the sofa. Rachel is ensconced in a comfortable arm chair across from us. "Call me paranoid, but this sort of thing is just her style. Part of her program to get Max all for herself." I'm appalled at the very idea, and sickened. Then again, I have to wonder—why me? What in the name of God, does she find so fascinating, so compelling about me that she can't seem to live without me? Whatever it is, it certainly eludes me. "Much as I hate to say it, that makes sense." Rachel nods. "You know she knows Sparks, you saw them together at your engagement party. I agree. This is no coincidence." 185
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"So what do we do now? Wait to see if the rest of the state takes them up on this, maybe even the entire nation? Wait for her to ruin any chance for happiness I might have with Richard, permanently?" I whine. "Max, pull yourself together," Rachel admonishes me and Richard merely tightens his arms about me. "No one can do ruin our happiness," he reassures me, "don't you worry about that. It's you and me—now, and forever." He kisses me softly as Rachel refills my glass, yet I can't help but worry about the future.
****
On Wednesday #1 Lupercalia Lane is graced with the presence of my new sister, who has received directions to our home from Richard via email. The two of them have bonded rather quickly, for which I'm grateful. Of course, Amelia doesn't have the history with him that my other friends and family do, and Richard charms everyone he meets. Still, I'm aware that such hasn't always been the case with my fiancé and those others I love, so this is truly an undisguised blessing. She's enchanted with our little cottage in the woods and, after hugs and hellos, we give her the grand tour, such as it is—living room, library, kitchen, bedroom, and our 186
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spacious wooded backyard. "Will you play for me sometime?" she asks, upon spotting the upright in the living room, and I agree to do just that, ham that I am. I even volunteer a duet with Richard in order to showcase his voice. I'm very proud of his beautiful baritone. I simply burst with pride every time I hear him sing. She's brought tea with her, for by dint of her nature she chooses not to drink alcohol. It has unpleasant effects upon her system, she tells us. She possesses neither any sort of Carrie Nation sympathies, nor does she bedevil her uncle to give it up. She graciously brews the tea for us, steeping the leaves until they attain just the proper color. I have been up since the early morn in preparation of this meeting, baking a variety of things, both sweet and not, the aroma envelops the house in an all-pervasive bakery smell. We retire to the library to get better acquainted with one another. "Herbal," she explains, as we sip the hot beverage. I savor the warmth of it upon my tongue. It has a very invigorating quality about it, and I feel my spirits lift as I ingest it. Of course it could also be my sister's presence, as well, that's having this effect upon me. "I pick them myself. In the woods." "Regular little witch, aren't you?" Richard quips and she giggles at his words. 187
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"I'm a Harry Potter nerd," she admits without hesitation. Richard is already aware of that. It's a part of his vast and immeasurable charisma that he knows how to charm the ladies so very well, my smooth-tongued little devil. Now we come to the question and answer portion of our program, folks. Inevitable, as there is so much about one another we don't know. Everything, actually. We seem to have the same ravening curiosity toward each other, perhaps she more than I. I have one sibling as a point of reference while Amelia has none. Prior to my sister's arrival, Richard had offered to withdraw discreetly at some point, to allow us some private time together. I told him I'd bring it up with Amelia, although I actually felt it was an unnecessary gesture on his part. She forestalls any such move on both our parts, before I even have a chance to bring it up. She gives him the benefit of her large dark eyes over the rim of her teacup, and quietly says, "You don't need to go, Richard, I'm very happy to have you here." Although not a word has been spoken. Eerie, isn't it? But not in a disquieting way, actually, even if chills do go up and down my spine. I must admit I'm getting used to it, this prescience of hers, the ability to know things without being told. I suspect it comes in handy 188
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at times, making awkward explanations unnecessary. I do have one large question which looms at the edge of my consciousness, but I have the strange feeling if I voice it, then I'm being disloyal, or perhaps critical even, of the mother that raised me. I mean to be neither. And although I haven't exactly suffered from not having a paternal figure in my life, I can't help but have unanswered questions. As a boy I daydreamed about what it might be like to have a father of my own. Don't most children of single mothers? I was raised at a time when one parent families were not the norm, too, so I did feel a little isolated from my peers in that regard. But not overly so, as I had very few of them. Added to my other oddities, I didn't exactly find the lack of a father all that oppressive, since I did have my grandfather, at least for a while, and it didn't weigh heavily on my mind most of the time. Still I have to ask. "What was it like, growing up with him?" She
immediately understands
what
I mean,
regarding me with those knowing eyes. I have to remind myself she's really just barely grown herself, a mere child compared to me. But so wise beyond her years in others. "It's hard to say," she says slowly, thoughtfully. "I mean, he really isn't around all that much. Never has been. And when he is, he isn't exactly a father figure." She 189
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pauses, chewing at her bottom lip, looking back and forth from me to Richard and back again. "Sometimes I think he's in denial about it, to tell you the truth. Other times I think he uses it, maybe even uses me, if he thinks it'll get him something." "Uses you?" Richard interjects. "In what way?" Maybe he's thinking of his mother, who is a bit of a manipulator and not above selling her own son—when she remembers she has one. "Any way he can," she replies simply, "but not like that." As if she's reading Richard's mind. "Uncle Jason's been more of a father to me than Julian has, to be honest. Jason's always there for me. But then there're times…." She lets the words hang in the air. For a moment, I'm confused, not knowing if she's referring to her uncle or our father. I mean our uncle, of course. Have to get used to that idea, as well. "Do you want to meet him? He'll want to meet you, you know." And there's the sixty-four thousand dollar question. The one for the jackpot. The pot of gold. The brass ring. The question of questions. It all comes down to this, doesn't it? Do I want to meet him? Well, do I? I don't honestly know. There's a part of me that's curious, I have to admit, while another part's simply furious with him, for what he 190
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did to my mother, to his own parents, to his grandparents, and most likely to Amelia and her mother. A part of me feels a wish to meet the man that sired me would show disloyalty to the mother that raised me. Still, I wonder about him, for half my genes are from him. Maybe that's what worries me. Wondering what traits I've gotten from him that perhaps I haven't exhibited yet. What depths of depravity lie lurking within me, waiting to be set free, perhaps by the sire himself? Can Max be any more melodramatic? Calm down, little drama queen. Quite a conundrum. Damned if I do, damned if I don't So Max does what Max does best—nothing. The logic being that if something's meant to happen, it will. Que sera, sera. Cowardice, I call it. Pure and simple yellow belly syndrome. Can such a weakling really be his son? Apparently so.
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Chapter Nine Welcome to God's House of Love
Is there anything quite so malleable as Max Montague in the hands of Richard Burke? I think not. I am simply clay in his talented palms, and he molds me however he desires—and my desire for him knows no bounds. But the last thing I want to do is go to some damn church for any reason on earth. However, Mr. Burke and Miss Sheldon have put their collective heads together— quite a feat in and of itself, considering their past history— and come up with s a scheme of sorts. I have to think Rachel's finally convinced of my boy's sincerity since she's obviously willing to be in cahoots with him, as well as one David Kinsky. And Josiah King. Ah, yes, Josiah. Last seen in these pages in flagrante delicto with a certain sinister minister, may he forever burn in hell. A moment of silence while I cinderize Terranova Fisher in mental effigy. Apparently the Church of the Divine Providence is no more. I'm not really surprised. Once the story of the bastard's transgressions slipped out, all of Fisher's parishioners turned against him. The funding for the new building was withdrawn so quickly it probably made his 192
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head spin faster than the pea soup-spitting Regan from the Exorcist, and apparently the closet minister made haste to simply slink out of Dodge—or St. Louis, if you will—his tail firmly tucked between his legs, presumably headed toward greener pastures. I guess it's good Juliet has Isaac to help get her past this rough spot. I was really worried about her for a while, but she seems quite over the departed reverend. And she has my uncle Jason too. It still feels odd to say that, I must say. But whatever is going on tonight, apparently none of them are involved. So be it. No, tonight it's going to be Richard and me—we're secretly Siamese twins. Shall I tell you where we're joined? Never mind. I think you know. Just my strange sense of humor making itself manifest as usual—Rachel and David, and Maggie and Donald. I guess I've gotten used to seeing those last two together, and I've certainly no wish to make any sort of a judgment about them regarding their vast age difference. I do try to be more open-minded than most about such things, for obvious reasons. The important thing is Maggie and Donald don't mind it, they enjoy being together, and they care about one another greatly. End of story. Has our little Maggie has grown up? So, here we are, on a Saturday night, sitting in Donald's Grand Caravan, the one he's nicknamed the TARDIS, much to
Maggie's delight, after having 193
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rendezvoused at Lupercalia Lane for convenience's sake. We're rockin' to the oldies, courtesy of one of the local radio stations, heading toward New Melle and Josiah's new church. Beyond that I can't even begin to guess what's in store for us. The last experience we had within the confines of a religious building wasn't a very pleasant one Richard and I appropriate the backseat all to ourselves, Donald and Maggie take the front, of course, with Rachel and David in the middle. Despite my protestations to the contrary and the fact I'm sure it's highly illegal, Richard pulls me onto his lap and holds me hostage. Okay, I'm not exactly putting up a struggle. No one's going to pay attention to us on a typical Saturday night in the sticks, tooling down Highway 94 to New Melle, and besides, the van has tinted windows. Not to mention Rachel and David are playing kissy face in front of us. Maybe we should rechristen this the Love Shack Van? If you see this van a rockin', etcetera, etcetera…. New Melle is a small, rural Missouri town, maybe half an hour's drive or so from our home, depending on how much of a hurry you're in, as well as the road conditions at any given time. By the time we arrive at our destination, I'm feeling rather mellow. Perhaps my hair is a little mussed, my lips a little kiss-swollen, my clothes a little disarrayed. I don't care, and obviously Richard doesn't 194
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either. We leisurely set ourselves to rights before exiting the van, and are amused to find Rachel and David doing the same. Ah, great minds…. So, what exactly is our destination, you ask, now that we have arrived? From the outside, it's a small but neatly kept ranch home amidst a nest of similar homes, on a quiet cul-de-sac. No sign of a church—no steeple, no cross, no Mother Mary statuary, or any of the other saints. I have to confess to being more than a little confused. "Are we in the right place?" I ask, my voice echoing my doubt, and I'm all for hopping back into the TARDIS and returning home, finding another occupation. All right, I just want to cuddle up to Richard some more. So shoot me. "Hush you," Rachel chides me, "this is the place. I got the directions from Josiah himself." She and David link hands as they head up the neatly trimmed, conglomerate walk, Maggie and Donald following their lead. What other choice do we have but to become a part of this religious conga line? Richard circles my waist with his arm, and I lean against him as we trail behind. No, of course I'm not deliberately lagging. Would I do that? It isn't until we draw near the front door that I spy the hand written placard within the window—God's House of Love—behind which there appears to be a rainbow, a gay pride rainbow. So there is a church here, apparently. 195
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The door opens as we approach, and for a second I think I hear "Light My Fire" playing in the background. A familiar face appears, one with an uncharacteristic grin. I didn't know Josiah King actually knew how to smile; he always seemed to be rather dark and depressed every time I saw him. Considering who he was doing, or who was doing him, I should say, that's not surprising. But anyway… it is indeed Josiah. And he's actually not dressed in black. Will wonders never cease? "Rachel!" he exclaims. He steps outside and throws his arms about her. Whoa! What's this boy been eating? And then I think I see the answer. So maybe the question is, rather, what's been eating him? Or is that who? Standing directly behind Josiah is a sun-bleached blond of average height, with an enormous smile and miles of glistening white teeth, almost blindingly white, supernova style. He's dressed all in white as well. Is that a Nehru jacket? Holy cow… I feel like I'm back in the 70s. We, all of us, stare at him. Except for Rachel; she seems to have expected this strange apparition. When she's released from Josiah's embrace and he's moved on to David, she puts out her hand to the stranger in welcome. "You must be Prophet Chuck," she greets him. Did I hear her correctly? Prophet Chuck? No, surely not… right? Is she fucking kidding…. 196
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Apparently not, because the blond nods his head enthusiastically. "Yes, I am, and you must be Rachel! Welcome to God's House of Love! All of you!" he adds. Josiah regains his side, and it's apparent from his proprietary attitude that these two are a couple. Reverend Fuckface didn't scar him for life, I'm glad to see. Rachel introduces the rest of us, and hands are shaken all around. Well, this is something completely different. I begin to understand. This is Prophet Chuck's church, and Josiah has joined with him—in more ways than one—they apparently not only live together, but they run the church together as well. How cool. And a welcome change from the hypocrisy of the sinister minister. They usher us inside their home cum church, and I definitely hear music in the background. Styx, believe it or not. Pre-break up. "Come Sail Away". Shades of Dennis DeYoung. Not your typical church music. The house is furnished simply, but neatly. The furniture has a local Goodwill store vibe, by which I simply mean it's obviously secondhand, but also comfortable looking. Warm prints and wood tones in a cushiony splendor. I spy a beanbag chair piled into one corner. The ambience overall is definitely a well-worn homey one. We don't stop, but are led through a nearby hallway. Josiah apologizes that he'll give us the official tour later, 197
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everyone's waiting. He opens a door, and the music is stronger and louder, although the sound of voices can be heard over and above the tunes. We descend narrow stairs, grasping at the wooden rails on either side, until we emerge into a fully finished basement otherwise known as God's House of Love. At this point, I'm convinced that somewhere along the line I've stepped into Peabody's Wayback Machine and left the present day behind. I'm completely tripping in the past. The light of the sun we have just left has given way to black lights; cool, dark and mysterious. I blink, unprepared for the sight. Posters reminiscent of Peter Max line the walls—crosses and doves, hearts and peace symbols, dragons and unicorns—and we step through a beaded doorway into the church itself. Incense fills the air in dreamy profusion. Not peppermint, as in shades of Strawberry Alarm Clock, though. At first I'm not sure what aroma it is, but I suddenly realize it's opium, one of my very favorites, sandalwood being another. Opium. My mind does its own mental back flip and for a moment, I'm lost to my memories…. **** Thanksgiving Day, November 23, 1978 Thanksgiving with my family has always been a rather hit or miss holiday at best. Held whenever, wherever, 198
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no fixed abode for its celebration, sort of shuffled around depending on who's in the mood to cook what and when, unlike Christmas and the Fourth of July. It doesn't have to be on the day affixed for it by presidential proclamation, either. We're all rather easygoing in that regard. Yes, turkey is traditional, and it's the standard fare. As opposed to what? Duck? Mongoose? Roast yak? But, all kidding aside, I would not ever be surprised to see tofu on the menu at my mother's house. I'm still kidding, of course. Although, that sounds much more like something that would be up Moonsong's alley. My point is that when Richard announced at breakfast he'd be kidnapping me for the entire evening— well, day actually, but especially evening—it set off no general alarms or protestations. Namely because the family had already set aside the following Saturday for our celebration of the occasion. There was no one to object to his plans, other than me, and I rarely objected to anything Mr. Burke chose to do. Did I ask him where we were going or what we were doing? Of course not. It made no difference to me, as long as we were together. Ain't love grand? I did sense a keen note of disappointment in the demeanor of one Miss Rachel Sheldon. My mother and sister had just left the house; they'd been invited to spend 199
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the day with Sebastian, an offer which had been extended to Richard and myself. We declined, sending our regrets along with the ladies. We realized it was only lip service anyway; Sebastian would have gladly accepted my company, but my lover's he could do without, and we both knew it. Rather than get into some big melodramatic brouhaha, Max did what Max does best, he took the coward's way out and stayed at home. But as my lover so eloquently put it, it was no sweat off our balls and no great loss either. **** I lugged the large sacrificial fowl out to Mother's Caddy, along with the assorted accoutrements, which they needed as well. Stood in the driveway and shivered as I waved good-bye to them, already imagining myself crawling back beneath the blankets, into Richard's warm embrace, so that I could entice him into Round Two of our Thanksgiving festivities. Round One had taken place at some point after midnight. "Nickel for your thoughts." I jumped at the unexpected voice. Some lycanthropic hearing I had. I'd allowed her to take me by surprise. "A nickel? Thought it was a penny," I countered, turning to regard a smirking Miss Sheldon. "Inflation," she explained cheekily, "drove the price 200
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up five hundred per cent. Hey, Max, since Juliet and Di are gone, that leaves the two of you free to come to my house for Thanksgiving dinner tonight, yes?" "That leaves the two of us free, no." I shook my head, "Richard's made plans for us already." Rachel's face fell dramatically. "What sort of plans?" she pried. I shrugged eloquently. "I have no idea. He's the mastermind, come on in and ask him." She made a face at my suggestion, wrinkling up her nose at me. Definitely not a good look for her. "No, I don't want to. He'll just give me that superior look of his and tell me that's for him to know and me not to know, or something like that." I tried not to laugh. She had Richard pegged pretty well. That sounded just like something my lover would say. "Oh well," she said dramatically, assuming a Garbo-esque pose, her upturned hand against her brow. "I suppose I shall have to carry on as best as I can without you." "I'm sure you'll do just fine," I reassured her, rolling my eyes, as I turned toward the house. It was too cold to stand out here and banter with her, watching my breath turn to icicles and fall to the ground. Besides, I could hear my bed calling to me. With Richard's name attached. And that 201
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strange little bell that signals the beginning of the next round. "Don't think I don't know where you're going and what you intend to do," she called after me. Just before I disappeared into the house, she added, "I'll save you some leftovers." I smiled to myself. She still loved me. I admit it, we spent that day together in bed, and as evening drew on I was reluctantly dragged forth from the mussed and bedraggled sheets and instructed to please get dressed. Nothing fancy. In fact, he laid my clothes out on the bed for me—bellbottom jeans, and an Eagles T-shirt. Hotel California, I think it was. But he refused to divulge any details of where we were going, or what we would do once we got there. My instructions were to simply get in the Monte and he would drive. Which I did, rolling over and playing dead in the process. It was impossible to disguise what was going on once we arrived at our destination and pulled into the humongous parking lot—the St. Louis Checkerdome, down on Oakland, in south St. Louis. I could never get used to the change in name. It derived from the new owners: Purina Checkerboard Farms. They'd bought out the Arena, which was the old name for the building. By the time I got used to calling it the Checkerdome, it had changed hands again, 202
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becoming the Arena once more, but I continued to call it the Checkerdome until it was eventually torn down. I forget what's there now. What made me squeal, however, and figuratively jump for joy was what I read on the marquee. My Richard had gotten tickets to a major event, a concert of vast musical significance. The opening act was April Wine. That didn't matter to me. The headliners grabbed my attention. None other than… QUEEN! Yes, Queen. Live and in the flesh. I thought I'd surely died and gone to heaven as I rained a million kisses upon my very thoughtful lover (once he had safely parked the car, of course). I'd known they were coming, but the concert had sold out so very quickly, and besides, I didn't have the money for it. So this was doubly special to me. I'd been a fan of Queen ever since their Night at the Opera album had first come out, back in '75. I fell completely in love with the song "Bohemian Rhapsody", with its soaring harmonies and classical style, as well as the flamboyant lead singer who'd made no effort to hide his sexual orientation. Freddie Mercury. How I admired him, envied him the ease with which he seemed to take it all in stride. Wished I could do the same, but who was I kidding? I was too busy trying to stay in the background, blend in with the woodwork, my typical chameleon behavior. 203
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Then along came Richard, and I was floating on a perpetual Cloud Nine of love, although still attempting to maintain a modicum of discretion. Remember the times, after all. Not only was it not socially acceptable for homosexuals to be open about their sexuality, but people still looked askance at heterosexual couples who were of mixed races. Don't let anyone kid you—segregation may have been illegal, but a lot of people still looked upon separation of the races as a way of life—if not openly, then in their hearts. And the children of those relationships suffered for it, for they didn't belong to either world. "How'd you manage to get tickets?" I wanted to know as we pressed our way through the crowd surging toward the front doors, waiting our turn to be patted down for illegal contraband—a perfunctory ritual, at best, especially compared to what you're put through at similar events today, as well as at airports. The wolf disliked being around this many people, and it was all I could do to quell him. "Where are we sitting?" Not that I really cared, just being there with Richard was enough for me. He merely smiled at me enigmatically. "Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies…." How I wished that were true, but I held my tongue and said nothing. "I'm afraid we don't have the best seats," he admitted, "but I was lucky to get these." 204
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"Doesn't matter," I assured him, squeezing the hand that gripped mine so tightly. The
Arena—Checkerdome—whatever—was
already filled with the sound of canned music, the warm-up to the main event, the prelude to the opening act even, as well as the sounds of the gathering throng. I expected the audience to be predominantly male, but I discovered there were a number of women there as well. Queen was already quite popular, and St. Louis had embraced them heartily. I clung to Richard as we made the climb to our seats. It seemed as if we would never be there, but we arrived in due course, and yes we were very much in the nosebleed section. Lucky me. Top row, to be exact, although we had a dead on view of the stage, if we had binoculars, which we didn't. I didn't really need them; my vision is excellent, and the sound system was such that we could hear quite well. "Just don't look down," Richard quipped, in an attempt to keep me on some sort of an even keel, although it was almost impossible to do otherwise as any other point in the building was below us. If you've been attending this tale from the beginning, you'll know that Max Montague and heights do not go together well. I'm sure Richard had only gotten these as a last resort, as he was acutely aware of my fear—again, let me refer you to the first book, and the story of the old Chain of Rocks bridge. He kept his arm 205
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protectively around me and of course I didn't argue, nor did I care what anyone thought as he did so. Not that anyone around us seemed to particularly care. I glanced at those nearby as much out of curiosity as to keep from looking downward. All young people, mostly young guys, in our approximate age group. Torn jeans, assorted T-shirts sporting pictures of popular rock groups or pithy slogans. One wore a large pot leaf. A definite omen, as I discovered once the house lights went down and April Wine began to play. There was some talking going on, people still finding their seats. I knew this would continue until the main event began, and even after it started. Some people have no sense of what it means to be on time for something. I concentrated on Richard, gripping his hand rather tightly. I didn't realize how tightly, until I felt something wet beneath my fingers and saw that I'd drawn blood. Of course I began apologizing profusely. "Shhh, shhh," he attempted to assuage my guilt. "Relax, it's okay." I hastened to lick it from his palm. My
lycanthropic
nose
noticed
the
smoke
immediately and it only took a moment to determine it was not mere cigarette byproduct. It had a sweetness that was a defining characteristic of marijuana. The dead giveaway was the object being passed about from guy to guy, with a modicum of discretion. But they knew damn well the 206
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security guards were mostly clustered on the floor, close to the stage, and paying little attention to what was going on in the cheap seats, so they were fairly safe in what they were doing. Obviously this was not their first time doing so. I wasn't surprised when one of them offered Richard a toke, to see him refuse it. He eschewed that sort of thing as being too much like his mother for comfort, and he tried never to emulate her. Although I'd been inaugurated the previous spring into the society of those who smoke dope, I'd chosen never to do it again; swearing off it in fact, but I'd told Richard all about what had happened. Naturally. "I brought something," he whispered and reached into his inner pocket, bringing out a single joint from its recesses. "Something special for you, baby…." "For me?" I repeated, rather stupidly, as I stared at him in surprise. "What do you mean?" "Something to help you relax and enjoy the music…." he explained and proceeded to light up the object in question, before I could protest. Which I most assuredly would have done, given the chance. This was public… and this was… illegal. And I am anal to the max. But he was a persistent one, was my boy, and before I knew it, I held the joint between my lips, inhaling, 207
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drawing it into my lungs. Suddenly the scent reached my nostrils and somehow I knew what it was laced with without being told. Opium. The much vaunted product of the poppy so dear to many throughout history, especially in the Orient. Curiosity got the better of me, as I'd never experienced opium before, and I'd always been interested in its effects. My limited knowledge of the substance came from reading lurid tales of opium dens. I had this awful image ingrained upon my mind of stoned Chinamen whose brains slowly rotted from the stuff. Caught up in a habit which they couldn't control, they spent their remaining days in poverty and indolence, unable to break away from the addiction. Fragrant opium clouds swirled about their heads amid golden dragon statuettes and red lacquered ceramics. The reality of it was just a bit different, however. Keep in mind, opium is not a hallucinogen, it doesn't produce images, but it is a dream-inducer, so to speak, it relaxes one's mind, allowing one to fantasize and have the most amazing dreams. It also does wonders for removing inhibitions as well. Which will explain very much what I'm about to relate, which has been compiled both from my own memories, and from what Mr. Burke has so kindly told me to help me fill in the blanks. I found April Wine to be boring. I should say they simply failed to capture my attention, which left me free to 208
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focus on those around us, who apparently had no problem with the great height at which we sat. Everyone partied quite heartily, but the band wasn't what I was into at that moment. I had other things on my mind at the time. Like not looking down. And I wanted to see Freddie Mercury and Queen—anyone else paled into utter insignificance beside such a veritable musical giant. They were a tough act to precede, or to follow. The Checkerdome/Arena wore a rather mellow glow by the time Queen took to the stage. For some reason I'd assumed a lotus position within my seat. Our neighbors thought that I was a major trip, as I rocked back and forth to the music which emanated so colorfully from the stage, encouraging me in my vertical terpsichorean efforts. Richard watched over me like some sort of a benign Buddha, making sure I didn't rock myself onto the floor. Richard was on his best behavior that night, so what happened was completely my own fault. What I did was not within the scope of normally anal Max's regularly scheduled program, but uninhibited high-on-opium Max? I can definitely believe it. It happened as Queen began to play "You're My Best Friend", which was my second favorite musical selection from that album, but won out overall on emotional content. As soon as I heard and recognized it, I 209
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fastened my lips upon my sweet boy as if I intended to suck the life out of him, actually slithering from my seat into his, onto his lap, like an overly hormonal eel. Luckily the two seats to his immediate left were no-shows, so when I practically bent him over backwards, there was no one in the next seat to object. Anyone else would've told me to behave myself, to pay attention to the concert, to save that sort of thing for another time… and place. But anyone else wouldn't have given me opium-flavored marijuana either. And this is Richard we're talking about. Richard, who spoils me absolutely rotten, and who likes to play sex games in strange restrooms. Do you think he criticized me in any way, tried to deter my inappropriately timed attentions? Not on your life. He encouraged them. The next thing I knew I had my face buried in his crotch, his zipper down and his delectable cock tickling my tonsils as I proceeded to give him the most wonderful head. Right there at the top of the Arena, before God and everyone—well, everyone that cared to look, which might've been a grand total of ten people tops, maybe. Probably less. But Richard tells me we did have a rather interested audience among the stoners, who cheered me on with enthusiasm, although I've no recollection of such a thing. All I do remember is Richard—the texture of him, 210
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the taste of him, as my tongue swirled around his shaft, as if I had nothing better to do and all the time in the world to do it. And all around me, I was very well aware of the vocalizations of Mr. Freddie Mercury and Queen, a very fitting backdrop to my occupation. I floated—in my head, at least—in the most pleasurable dream imaginable. Richard and I were on the deck of a magnificent sailing machine—sloop, yacht, whatever, it was some type of water-bound vessel. It positively gleamed in shades of blue and purple—never mind that I know nothing about sailing whatsoever, in dreams all things are possible—and we had ranged about us an all male crew of toned and handsome sailors. They went about their sailorly duties, not only good-looking, but the souls of discretion as well. A good thing, considering that my lover and I were naked together upon that very same deck, and I was crawling toward Richard on all fours, a shit-eating grin upon my face. "Oh baby," I whispered softly, "come to poppa…." I positioned myself between his legs, my hands upon his strong thighs, as I lowered my mouth onto his waiting cock and took it in one fell swoop, the dream mirroring my real life movements. Dream Richard and reality Richard, both being gobbled as if they were the main course in my Thanksgiving feast, a rather apt analogy, considering the 211
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date. I could feel Richard's fingers in my hair, hear his words of encouragement, not at all audible to anyone else. "C'mon, Max, suck me, hard," he urged, "yeah, baby, just like that… God, I love you Max…." Any reply I might've made was muffled in his sweet flesh, my fingers toying with his damp blond pubes, twisting them as I gave him mouth to cock resuscitation until he 'breathed' into my mouth. But instead of air, it was fluids that I 'inhaled'— rather happily—as he came with great abandon and received a row of thumbs up from the cheering stoners. That's my boy, my little exhibitionist. 'Course, who am I to talk, right? I wasn't exactly being shy myself at that moment…. How was the concert, you ask me? Who cares? From what I remember, it was incredible. But most of my memories are centered about Richard and what we were doing….
**** …and now it's time to hoist myself from the Wayback Machine, once again…. I rouse myself from these decades-old memories to find Richard giving me a fondly bemused look. He tugs on my hands, pushes me 212
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down until I plop into one of the beanbag chairs which seem to be the furniture du jour for this place. The congregation, made up of maybe thirty or so people who range in age from teens to infinity, are all seated in these chairs, and seem comfortable with it. My first thought is that I'll play hell getting up again from this position, my second being that my back is going to pay the price for this come tomorrow morning. Richard seems to read my thoughts, as he pulls a chair as close to mine as he can get it, the beans inside rustling in protest, the vinyl sighing as he places his luscious ass inside of it. He leans in toward me to whisper, "I'll help you up, sweet thing, don't worry." Remind me again—which of us is the older? Prophet Chuck takes the pulpit and begins to speak. His sermon is one of love and compassion, intermingled with personal observations and amusing anecdotes. Apparently Prophet Chuck travels a great deal, spreading his message of love and personal acceptance by the Lord. I watch Josiah's face; he sits close at hand to his lover, and it's obvious these two share a great bond, which gladdens my heart. I hope he too is being healed from his contact with the erstwhile Reverend Fuckface. During the service, songs are sung by all, but not your typical hymns, although there are a few oldies but goodies that members of a more traditional church might recognize, such as "Amazing 213
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Grace". But these are mingled with Bob Seger, Styx, Bob Dylan and Kenny Loggins. Richard persuades me to add my voice to that of the congregation, and I notice Maggie and Donald, Rachel and David, follow suit as well. All in all, I have to admit it's a rather pleasant experience. Perhaps I'll do it again, even though organized religion, on the whole, isn't my thing. But this is a church of a different sort, a horse of a different color. I feel comfortable, under no pressure to either conform or explain myself in any way. After the service I find myself talking to some of the other people, and by the time we leave for home, the evening is well advanced and we're all happy campers. We pile ourselves into the TARDIS once more, although Rachel and David beat us to the backseat this time. But we don't really care. Richard pulls me onto his lap in the middle, and for once anal Max doesn't protest. I simply rest my head against his chest as we head for our home on Lupercalia Lane, the growing moon still but a sliver in the night sky. Not a threat. Not yet. We invite our friends to join us for coffee and conversation, but they all have other things to do, and I can understand that. Each couple wants time to be alone together, private time for intimate talk, for the things lovers share when no one else is about, before they return to their 214
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own homes. I don't push the issue, for obvious reasons, and once the last sound of pinging gravel reaches my ears, the night falls silent once more. Richard and I recline together upon our porch swing, enjoying the night, and one another. Suddenly I lift my head from its comfortable position upon Richard's chest. I feel something… sense something… smell something…. "What is it, baby?" Richard asks, tensing as I push up into a more upright position, my eyes searching the darkness about the house. There's a voice inside my head, and it's calling my name. "Max… Max… I have come…." A low growl emerges from the back of my throat, unbidden. I surprise myself at the sound. "Max, what is it?" Richard grows anxious, I can hear it in his voice, but still I find myself unable to respond to his concern. I don't even know what the problem is. Then I see him, a figure which emerges from the woods; a human figure, yes, but so much more. I can smell it on him as surely as I can smell it on myself. This is not just a man, this is a wolf. And not just any wolf. This is the moment I've dreaded and anticipated since I knew he really existed. Richard tenses and we both rise from our swing, even as the figure reaches the porch, and I can see him. 215
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He's about Juliet's age. Juliet's and Jason's both. My first thought is that he looks nothing like me, for which I'm grateful. He stands about Richard's height, his hair is short cropped and spiky, an inky black which seems to absorb all light and throws none off, and his eyes are pure onyx, rather piercing. Richard hasn't figured out yet who he is, and I'm afraid he's about to do something foolish, so I simply squeeze his hand reassuringly, even as I wait for the newcomer to speak, and I know he will. It's in his nature to do so. "We meet at last," he says with a wolfish grin, "my son…."
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Chapter Ten The Wolf Descends on the Fold
Richard interposes his body protectively between Julian and me, foolhardy boy that he is. Yet I can't help but think it won't make any difference. If the other wolf chooses to attack, his reflexes are probably of a sort that will simply overpower anything my lover could possibly do to defend me. I love him all the more for it just the same. "What do you want?" Richard challenges him, standing strong. So very strong, so very defensive. I know he'd give his own life for me, as I would for him. But such a sacrifice isn't necessary. At least not at the moment, I can't swear about later. I know—I'm ever the pessimist, although I prefer the term realist myself. "I want to speak with my son," Julian replies, glancing up and down at Richard, taking his measure. And finding him lacking in some way. "So you're the boyfriend," he comments succinctly. "I think Max can do better." Richard's muscles tighten and I fear he's about to launch himself at my… my father… I find it difficult to use that word. Sire is closer to the mark, for he's done nothing to deserve any other title than sperm donor. Any fool with a 217
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cock can beget a child. It takes a special man to be a real father. My grandfather was more of one to me than Julian's ever been. I've never felt any great loss from not having this man in my life up to this point. I pull Richard back against me, my hands wrapped about his forearms, and murmur. "Please, don't. For my sake…." He ceases, but it requires an obvious effort on his part. His limbs tremble as I hold him close to me. What's that sound that I hear issuing from his lips? Can it be a defensive growl? That's my boy. Must be my influence, I'm proud to admit. "You know nothing about me or us," I say with a definite note of defiance, surprised at how easily the words come. Max isn't a complete coward, now is he? "What can you possibly have to say to me now, after more than forty years? And what gives you the idea I want to hear anything you might have to say?" "You're my son," he repeats stubbornly, as if it's some sort of a personal mantra that's meant to open doors between us, a magical paternal key. "I've wanted a son for so very long. You've no idea. Had I but known you existed, Max, I'd have been a part of your life much sooner. A big part. But I didn't know. Juliet never told me. Surely you can't fault me for that?" "She had her reasons," I reply cautiously. At the same time I can't help but appreciate the validity of his 218
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words, the justice behind his argument. Am I softening? Maybe I'm simply waffling, once again. He doesn't reply, but instead counters, "I'd like the chance to get to know you, Max. You might find I'm not the villain I've been made out to be, you know. You, of all people, surely can't condemn me for my nature, for it's your nature too, is it not? The only difference is that you were born that way; I was forced into it against my will. Either way, neither one of us had a choice in the matter. I've simply chosen to make the best of a bad situation." Something in my head tells me there's a flaw in his logic, but my mind is not rational enough at the moment to pick it out. I'm torn between the desire to hear what this stranger familias has to say and a yearning to rend him limb from limb for what he did to my mother. Although practically speaking, I wouldn't be here if he hadn't. A conundrum, indeed. But there had to be a less violent method in which to bring about my conception? My thoughts are so very confused, and it surely must be reflected in my countenance for my boy intercedes once again. "Fathers are vastly overrated," he comments, "Max's done very well without one. However, if he wishes to speak with you, I won't interfere. Max, it's your choice, 219
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what do you want to do?" He turns the floor over to me once again. Great, now it's my decision. I mean, it always has been. But perhaps a small part of me was hoping Richard would simply tell Julian to shove off and that would be the end of it? Max, stop being such a big baby, and just speak up. Quit vacillating. If you don't want to talk to him, or listen to him, just say so…. "He can come in," I say, as my vertebrae crumble into nothingness once more. **** Richard takes my hand in his, bowing to my—what, stupidity? Curiosity? Bad juju? Bad judgment? Bad hair day? Alright, now I'm just being ridiculous. We turn and enter the house together, bidding our unexpected guest to take a seat in the living room. No, a house tour isn't being offered. At least, not at this time. Julian's curious glance takes in his surroundings, as if perhaps he's seeking a key to me, to who and what I am. Other than the obvious. Or maybe I'm reading too much into him, giving him credit for an interest he doesn't really possess. I haven't decided, yet, whether he deserves any sort of a chance to get to know me or not. Or if I even want to get to know him, the flipside of that equation, after all. Suddenly, I feel the need for some form of artificial energy, especially of the caffeinated 220
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persuasion, so I reluctantly play host and ask Julian—I can't bear to say father—if he'd care for coffee. "Coffee would be good," he nods, "the stronger the better. Black." "Fine. Black," I repeat the order, making the mental leap, rather gratefully, that this is something we don't have in common, childish as that may sound. I'd much rather find a vast array of differences between us than similarities, at least at this point in time. Richard and I simultaneously make a move toward the kitchen, then stop, looking from one to the other uncertainly. Well, I'm uncertain, he's just waiting for some sort of cue from me, some sign as to what I want to do. "Go ahead," Julian encourages us, acting as if he can read our fucking minds or something, "go talk amongst yourselves. I'll be fine." He leans comfortably back in the chair he's seated in, crossing his legs carelessly, as if to show us he has no intention of moving any time soon, and the sanctity of our home won't be violated in our absence. Before I can respond, Richard takes my arm, nods at our guest, and leads me off, so we can confer together as we play host. "How the hell do you think he found us?" The first question from my lips, as Richard dumps out the old coffee grounds, replacing them with fresh medium-roast Folgers 221
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from the red plastic can in the refrigerator. I lean against the sink, arms crossed over my chest, watching him work. "Probably through Amelia, I would think," he replies thoughtfully, moving around me to fill the carafe, measuring the water and pouring it into the coffeemaker. "He's her father too, after all, and I don't remember anyone exactly telling her not to tell, do you?" I have to admit that's true. Was that a subconscious failing on my part? Did I help bring this touching scene about simply by not forbidding it? Interesting thought. I hope that's not the case, but I honestly don't know. Or is there something far deeper going on here? Why do I feel incredibly guilty at the moment, as if I've been caught doing something I shouldn't? Am I really more curious about this man than I'm letting on? Do I really want to get to know him, see what he's really like? See if reality tallies with the description I've only recently garnered of him from my mother? And does the guilt I may be feeling stem from my apparent betrayal of the woman that raised me? Almost as if he can read my tumultuous thoughts, my lover pulls me to him, kisses first my forehead, then my lips. "I'll support you no matter what you decide, you know that," he reassures me, and I lose myself in his touch, in the warmth of his love, as if by hiding here I can pretend the 222
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rest of the world ceases to exist. If only it were that easy, alas. Eventually I become aware the coffee has finished brewing as no more sounds are issuing from the depths of the mechanism—it only takes a few minutes to make a full pot. Actually, I'm exaggerating, as usual. I'm at peace with the situation, for the moment, and I decide that for now, I'll allow a ceasefire to exist, a cessation of hostilities. That's not quite what I mean; for a writer I have a surprising inability to say what I do mean at times, especially when I'm doing my best to communicate, to convey a sense of what's happening. There've never been any actual hostilities between us, seeing as we've never had occasion to meet before, or have an actual relationship. I think the hostility is simply understood. Richard pours the hot liquid into three mugs, adding sweetener and a lot of liquid amaretto cream to our own, enough to qualify it as a latte in some nations, handing me the black one for my… for Julian. "Be a shame if you slipped and poured it into his lap," he murmurs, eyes twinkling naughtily. I know he doesn't really mean it, but the fact he's said it lightens my mood, as I realize we are indeed in control of the situation and everything will be fine. At least, I think it will. We return to the living room with the coffees. Richard sets ours carefully upon our most recent 223
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acquisition, an antique mahogany coffee table which we found in a small shop in Kirkwood. We've lovingly polished the lacquered surface upon which can be seen a pantheon of the Greek gods, done in beautiful mosaic. It was a wonderful find, and we've taken especial care with it to restore it to its former beauty, for it was a little the worse for wear and tear when we found it. The owner had seen no real value in it, but of course that helped us to get it for a mere song. Richard has replaced the broken and chipped pieces of tile and restored the vibrant colors as well and now it's simply beautiful. Just like Richard. However we are mindful that it's meant to be functional as well, although I damn near had a heart attack the first time Richard wanted to actually set something on it, but he… persuaded… me that it was silly to have something so beautiful and not to use it for the purpose for which it was intended. Yes, I know, that boy can talk me into damn near anything, can't he? Shush, I know—he really can talk me into anything. Literally. He takes up a seat on our rather generous sofa as I hand the hot beverage to the only other wolf in the room, and when I go to sit beside my love, he surprises me by pulling me directly into his lap. He gives Julian a fairly defiant look, as if undeniably staking his claim. Marking his territory even. Making his position known. Julian 224
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doesn't bother to respond to the non-verbal challenge. Probably saving it up for another time. But my Richard isn't one to let things alone. "Surely you don't disapprove of us?" he presses, almost recklessly I fear, not knowing what sort of response he's likely to get from Julian. But that's my boy, very protective, and not afraid to throw himself into the fray for my sake. Without glancing his way, I know the sort of look he is giving the older man—defiant, proud and aggressive. Throwing down some sort of a verbal gauntlet, almost daring Julian to deny what we already know to be true about him. "Disapprove of homosexuality or of you in particular?" Julian asks smoothly, his voice giving away nothing of what he might be thinking or feeling, and I don't know him well enough to get any sort of a read on him yet. Did I say yet? That word implies that this strange relationship will continue into the future, beyond the here and now. Do I want it to? Far too early to say. "Of course not, why would I? I suspect, though, that Juliet disapproves far more than I do…." He's certainly hit that nail on the head, hasn't he? But I'm not willing to discuss her, much less criticize her in any way, under any circumstances. "Mother adores Richard," I reply, which is certainly 225
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the truth; no need to air our dirty laundry in front of this virtual stranger, no matter what his genetic ties with me might be. "Then I'm glad, for your sake, that she's changed…." Richard's arms encircle my waist protectively, his chin resting upon my shoulder, his head leaning lightly against mine. I have to wonder if he's testing Julian, by pushing our relationship at him so blatantly. Not that I mind, I just question what's going through that pretty head of his. Of course I don't want to see him get hurt. Ever. That's simply a given, a top commandment in the bible according to Richard and Max. I've made sure over the many years we've been together that Richard has never had to contend with the beast within me, that said beast has been very much contained during each and every full moon—with one regrettable exception, which he didn't see, luckily. I've no wish to see my lover tangle with this one either, for this beast is undoubtedly far more dangerous than my own. Long ago I postulated a theory regarding werewolves which went something along the lines that one's own personality is reflected in what sort of a 'personality'—if one can actually use that term for lycans— the wolf within possesses. I suppose it can best be explained in terms of degrees of aggressiveness, maybe? Or 226
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perhaps it's simply my own need to think that my milksoppish, weak personality produces a similar type of werewolf, as I've no direct evidence either way. But what does that bode for Julian, judging by the things we've heard about him from those who know him best? I'd rather not have my theory proven at my lover's expense. I ignore the veracity of Julian's words, not wishing to admit there may be truth in them. I can't help but think of Juliet's story, of finding this man and his male lover in flagrante, and I'm sure I'm not the only one in this room to do so. After all, Julian lived through it, didn't he? For him to criticize me for my sexuality would indeed be more than hypocritical on his part. But then again, he wouldn't be the first to choose to live with such hypocrisy. Reverend Fuckface comes to mind. "And what do you think of your sister Amelia?" I'm quickly brought back to the present by his question. "I like her, of course. She's very sweet," I answer without hesitation. "She's an empath, you know," he replies—do I detect a note of fatherly pride in his voice? "Although regrettably she is not one of us…." Regrettably? Not a word I would choose to describe her wolfless situation, fortunate is more like it. This lycanthropy is nothing I would've ever chosen for myself. 227
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This condition, these chains, these eternal restrictions on leading a more normal life—normal being a comparative term—but then, no one ever asked me for my approval. I was given no choice in the matter whatsoever. I am what I am. "You mean she wasn't born a man?" Richard asks cheekily. He does like to live dangerously, doesn't he? Julian ignores the question, leaves it hanging in the air, and turns to me, his dark eyes boring into my own, almost hungrily. "Tell me about yourself, Max," he says, "help me to know more about you. What you like, how you think, what your experiences have been… what you do during the full moon…." I suppose it's only natural that he wants to know these things about me. That is, if he's truly interested in getting to know the child he unwittingly sired. And yet I don't have a real compulsion to say very much at the moment. How does one sum up over forty years of living in a sort of succinct yet interesting and comprehensive fashion? And do I really want to? There is a distinct tension in the area, a sort of taut rope if you will, that seems to stretch between these two, with which they play tug of war—over me. A tension that makes my hackles rise and, not surprisingly, fills me with 228
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dread. You know how much of a coward Max is when it comes to confrontation. Not that there's any question of whose side I'm on, and always will be. I suppose the big question is what do I actually want in the way of a relationship with Julian Woods? Do I want any sort of relationship at all? I've had more than forty years to prepare for this day, yet I've no ready answer, for I'd assumed this day would never actually arrive. In my own defense, though, I haven't been aware of his existence for most of that time, so the question was always theoretical at best. Now the reality of the situation is sitting across the room from me, and asking for a chance to get to know the son he's always wanted, but wasn't aware 'til now that he had. Frankly I don't know what to do, how to feel. This is too sudden, too overwhelming, to get a handle on my thoughts and emotions. I'm sure my waffling shows in my eyes, in my hesitation to reply, in the way I cling to Richard's hand, and he to mine. Yes, I am very dependent upon him. And it shows. Julian obviously feels my vulnerability as well. It emanates from me like some sort of unpleasant aura. He rises gracefully to his feet, setting the cup of untouched coffee aside. "You need some time, Max. I can understand that, I really can. I have an idea, though. Come next Saturday, come to Jason's house. We're having a barbecue. 229
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Might be the last one of the season. Invite all of your friends, they're all welcome. And your mother…." Is he serious? Does he really expect me to call up Juliet and tell her the shrimp's on the barbie at Jason's place, and by the way, the werewolf that raped you will be there too, and is inviting you to come? There's something distinctly surreal in that particular situation, I believe. "I'll be on my best behavior, wolf's honor." A distinct smile plays about his lips, amusement in his dark eyes. I honestly don't know what to say, but luckily Richard replies for both of us. "We'll check our calendar, see if we're available and get back to you." "Excellent." Julian nods, his gaze flickering over the two of us, lingering upon me. At least that's the way it seems. "I'm glad I got to meet you at last, Max. I hope that this can be the start of very many things for us." His hand reaches out toward me, the fingers long and slightly gnarled, and for a second he rests his hand lightly upon my arm. Richard tightens his grip about me, as if he's considering prying those digits away from me. But before he can react, the offending hand is removed, and Julian is gone from the house. He really does move rather swiftly when he chooses. I'll have to remember that. Richard's arms are what I need at this moment, 230
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more than anything else. As if reading my mind, he spins me about, wraps me in his warm embrace and presses his lips against mine. Nothing is being said, everything being conveyed through the medium of our touch. When he finally releases me, he whispers gently in my ear, "We're free that day, love, but it's up to you to decide if you want to go or not. Whatever you want to do, I'll stand by you. Always." Great. My decision. Wonderful. Let Max decide— Max the Gutless, Max the Wishywashy, Max the Great Waffler. But in all fairness, that's the way it should be. My father—my problem. Rather, our problem, yes I know, we're in this together. But I'm the primary decision maker here, as Richard would be were the situation reversed. Will the situation ever be reversed? And yes, I'm avoiding the main issue, aren't I? But I do have a week to think about it, no need for a decision right this second. Without actually replying, I take Richard's lips in mine, kissing him as if I'll never let him go. And the question is thus neatly tabled— for the moment. Yes, I know it needs to be dealt with eventually. Leave it alone right now. Thank you.
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Chapter Eleven Of Divinity, Danger, and Disclosure, Part I
I stare intently at my breakfast. Large slices of French toast, made from Texas bread because the pieces are so much thicker than regular sandwich bread and don't tend to get as soggy when dipped into the egg mixture, oozing with melted butter and boysenberry syrup, which I have gently warmed beforehand. I'm making no move to eat, the hand containing my fork frozen in the act of moving toward the food, my eyes not seeing it, focused inwardly as they are, until my lover clears his throat across the table from me, and I glance up, startled, the fork dropping from my fingers onto the food. Frowning, I retrieve it, feeling guilty, for no apparent reason, as my cheeks flush under his concerned gaze. "Max, we don't have to go," Richard says simply, "if it's going to upset you this badly, maybe it's a sign we shouldn't go." He reaches for my free hand, caressing it gently within both of his. "I'm not upset," I protest, waffling as usual, for of course he's hit the nail on the head as to the reason for my abstraction. I can't stop thinking about the impending barbecue at my uncle's house, which Julian is going to 232
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attend. The barbecue we've been invited to and which I've actually agreed to consider going to. Yes, I know it's my decision, and yes I know I don't have to go, but it's not quite as simple as that, not just a yes or no question. Alright, it is a yes or no question, but it isn't a simple one. Is anything really simple with me? Pardon me while I indulge in a bit of diva-ish attitude, at the moment I feel it's merited. As if sensing my mood, Principessa nudges my leg with her muzzle until I reach down with my free hand and gently stroke behind her long ears, scritching in just the right spot. She rewards me by licking my hand. I pinch off a piece of my breakfast and feed it to her, and she's more than happy to receive it. I glance back at Richard, who's looking expectantly between me and my plate. "You made a lovely breakfast, you should eat, Max." "I'm not really hungry," I protest, although I know that excuse won't fly, and it doesn't. Two raised blond eyebrows indicate rather succinctly what he thinks of my feeble attempts to skive off, and I dutifully fork a piece of French toast, chew, swallow, wash it down with freshly squeezed orange juice. "Better?" "Barely," he tsks, shaking his head. He rises, comes around the table and wraps his arms around me from behind, holding me tightly in his protective grip, as I give 233
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up any pretense of eating. I lean back into his touch, curling my hands about his forearms, as I turn my head to meet his lips. "I have something that'll lighten your mood, give you something better to think about," he says mysteriously, kissing me gently, before he disappears in the direction of the living room, returning momentarily with a strange envelope in his hands, which he hands to me with a grin. "This arrived yesterday, but it slipped my mind in all the confusion." He can't resist adding mischievously, "All that flying wolf testosterone, you know…." "Hardy har, Mr. Witty." I roll my eyes, taking the envelope curiously, and although there is no return address, I'd recognize that elegant scrawl anywhere, my name and Richard's gracing the address in a familiar penmanship. "Derek!" I cry aloud with great glee. I quickly slit open the envelope, removing its contents, and my mind goes back a few years, alright, more than a few years, to when Richard and I were first introduced to one of the most flamboyant men we know—Derek DeVille. I should probably also mention that he's a vampire.
April 6, 1986 There may be some who might wonder how someone such as myself, with such an inordinate fear of heights as I have, can bear to fly about on a regular basis at 234
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altitudes that far exceed anything I might encounter on an otherwise earthbound basis. I won't even speculate as to the height of most commercial airline flights because, frankly, I've no desire to know. I know it's cowardly, but it's a matter of self-preservation. It helps me keep a grip on what sanity I have left. Suffice it to say when I'm in the air, I never look out the window nor think about what I'm doing, and Richard more than keeps me occupied. No, that's not what I mean, I'm no longer a member of the Mile High Club. Once was more than enough, thank you. You try having sex in a tiny cubicle the rough size and shape of a phone booth with all of the ambience of a bathroom stall, not to mention one that's intended for that very purpose, and you'll see just what I mean. Been there, done that, over it—completely. The little bottles of liquor which they serve on most long flights surely don't hurt either, as getting sloshed is a well-known distraction from one's fears. Besides, there are the practical issues involved. If one wishes to go to the European continent, such as we enjoy doing, then it becomes necessary to fly, because sailing is much slower and just not an option, not to mention I do get seasick As often as Richard and I love to travel to Greece, and considering we do it every chance we get, flying had to become part of my accepted routine. 1986 marked a milestone for Richard and I—our 235
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tenth anniversary. A decade of being together. It's supposed to be tin by tradition, aluminum for those whose tastes lean toward the current and modern. But since we aren't exactly traditional in very many ways, we eschew such things. Just because we aren't exactly married, doesn't mean we don't qualify for anniversaries. We're the closest to being married that the law allows, and hopefully that situation will change soon—like within our lifetimes. My gift to Richard was an intricately carved samurai sword which we spotted together in an interesting shop in St. Charles. I managed to get the owner to secretly set it aside for me, without Richard knowing, once I discovered how enthralled he was with it. His gift to me was a trip to London. Pretty cool, eh? He did have some assistance with the set-up, as he had to go there on business. He'd been hired, sight unseen, solely on the basis of his work, by an English businessman named Derek DeVille. Who turned out not to be English, but I'll get to that, as well as other things about him. When Richard first told me about going to London for a photo shoot, I have to admit I wasn't very enamored of the idea. The timing of it left a lot to be desired, this being our special anniversary and not just any ordinary day. I didn't relish the prospect of spending said anniversary alone in St. Charles while he had a high time in jolly old England. 236
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Yes, my inherent jealousy kicked in, and I was worried about all the handsome men he might meet. Sexy Englishmen with accents to die for, as Rachel would say, especially about Gary Oldman. Men that would fall all over Richard's slick American charm, and maybe some he might want to play tongue snooker with, or… well, you get the idea. When Richard informed me Derek had arranged for both of us to go, at his expense, for an entire week, my mood lightened considerably. But it also led to curious speculation on my part. I found the invitation to be food for thought. Why would a virtual stranger go to such expense to obtain Richard's services, when he could easily have not included me in the arrangements and saved himself a great deal of money? Or he could have found himself a photographer a hell of a lot closer than Missouri. One on his side of the pond even. Of course I thought my boy was extremely talented, and I don't say that just because I happened to be in love with him. I'm being quite objective, not subjective here. But I didn't think his work was that well known, yet, and I continued to speculate on just how he had discovered Richard and his amazing abilities. All to no avail, though, to my frustration. So we decided to take him up on his generous offer, figuring he must have his reasons, which we would indeed discover, 237
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and we would be able to combine business with pleasure in the process. Although, as we got closer and closer to the date of departure, I began to have serious second thoughts. Not about the job, mind you, but about the dangerous business of flying. An undertaking which seemed to be getting more perilous all the time, and only served to exacerbate my nervousness quotient greatly. On March 31, 1986, a Mexicana Boeing 727 jetliner headed to Puerto Vallarta crashed at Maravatio, Mexico; one hundred seventy-three people were killed. Upon reading the headline in the Tribune, I told Richard that maybe we should reconsider flying, but he only smiled and patted my cheek, told me not to worry so much. One plane crash, while tragic, was not a sign from God that we shouldn't go. His words, not mine. I was pacified—a bit— for a few days, anyway. Then came April 2nd. A bomb exploded on a TWA flight going from Rome to Athens, four more dead. This happened four days before our flight was scheduled for departure. Decidedly nervous, I began to check into transatlantic shipping schedules. Rachel suggested that perhaps Richard should make the flight alone, which didn't make me feel any better. She said she was kidding, but I think maybe she was only half-kidding. Knowing Rachel, she wouldn't have taken it completely amiss, if Richard 238
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were to be blown into a few hundred pieces, while traveling high above the Atlantic, and thus be violently withdrawn from Max's life. Her way of being protective toward me. Every morning I woke up with the expectation of discovering lurid headlines blaring further news of aerial tragedy. I was firmly convinced we were being sent a direct message from the powers that be. Namely, don't fly. Richard tried hiding the newspaper from me, claiming it hadn't come. Perhaps it was a misguided effort to check the headlines before I could, but what then? Would he print new ones in case the front page revealed more air related disasters? It didn't work anyway. I invariably ferreted out its location, being possessed of a particularly keen sense of smell—newspaper reeks of both wood and ink—especially as I needed to check my column on a daily basis anyway. I scanned the Tribune from cover to cover, in great detail, searching for any shred of evidence that might serve to convince my lover flying was bad for our health. Nothing on the third, or the fourth, or even on the fifth. I wanted to wait and see what the headlines on the morning of the sixth brought, but it was a logistical impossibility. We were catching our flight at the ungodly hour of four am. The paper wouldn't even be available yet. If I'd been thinking more clearly, I might've realized I could've simply called the Tribune and asked about the headlines, but I 239
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wasn't and I didn't. It should be quite illegal to allow flights to be scheduled at such an unholy time. The pilots couldn't possibly be at their full awareness. I know I certainly wasn't. Rachel had come by the night before with wishes for an uneventful flight, knowing what major anxieties this trip had aroused in me. She also brought a list of duty-free items she'd like if we had the chance to do any shopping. In her hands she held a mysterious package tightly wrapped in bright blue foil, which she instructed me not to open until I was safely on the plane. As I am nothing if not dutiful, aka anal in the extreme, I did as she requested. I waited until Richard and I were comfortably ensconced in first class, first mixed drink in hand, ready to begin my liquid blitzkrieg. The first of many, and yes, at that hour, it was a necessity. Our pale brows had already been mopped with the obligatory hot towel before I opened the package. It turned out to be a book, which fact I had already surmised, based on the size and shape of the package alone. The only mystery would be which title Rachel chose. It was very thoughtful of her since one can never go amiss with good reading material, especially for a twelve-hour flight. She knew I'd want to avoid thinking of the worst possible scenarios, regarding said flight. Richard glanced at the cover curiously, and snickered. I told him to shelve his 240
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thoughts, it was a good book. Although, she hadn't gotten anything for Richard, I noticed. Typical Rachel. It was Bram Stoker's Dracula. Of course I'd read it before, but it was still thoughtful of her. Between the book, Richard's conversation and the small airline bottles of alcohol he plied me with, the time passed slowly by. At some point we changed planes in Philadelphia. My memory blurred on just when. Luckily, Richard played designated 'driver', or I'm not sure we would've found our way across the airport quite so easily, even managing it with no detours into the men's room. We were herded onto an even larger silver Tylenol, one that would ferry us across the Atlantic Ocean and to our ultimate destination of Heathrow Airport,
London,
England. All right, that wasn't our ultimate destination, but it was as far as the plane would take us. At some point, they showed an in-flight movie, Ferris Bueller's Day Off. A very funny movie and I'd seen it many times, but I had trouble focusing on that particular day and I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of the film. That probably accounts for my strange dreams. Stranger than usual, that is. Dreams in which Richard was shouting something about being the bratwurst king of Chicago, and he wielded a bejeweled sword and dueled 241
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with a blond vampire with elongated fangs. For some reason I can't fathom, I wore a long flowing dress of the damsel in distress variety, (don't snicker), and spent most of my time wringing my hands and crying woe is me. And come and get me big Dick, which only goes to show how odd that dream was, for if I ever dared to call Richard by that much abhorred nickname—well, it wouldn't be a pretty sight. And an even odder dream, if that's possible, in which I entertained Richard and the other passengers in first class with rousing renditions from my favorite Broadway shows. At least I hope that was a dream, I'm afraid to ask. I woke up, just as the plane taxied into the airport, thereby missing the last little bit of turbulence, which was probably a good thing. I attempted to focus my eyes on what was going on and not think too much about my throbbing head, which seemed to be pulsating in time to "Twist and Shout", and "Don't Cry For Me Argentina". Go figure. Deplaning was speedy, then on through customs and into the airport proper, security being not nearly as tight back then as it is today, with me clinging to Richard's arm for dear life, afraid of being separated from him in this roiling sea of strangers, which swirled about us. "You have the address of the hotel, right?" I asked, wondering how easy it'd be to get a cab and not get screwed in the process. Not like I'd know if we were being 242
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given the scenic tour of the city, even if it bit me in the ass, this being my first visit to London and all. If this were today, I'd simply MapQuest it, but that wasn't an option back then, and I always hated being at the mercy of strangers. No, no, I won't go there, I promise. No Blanche Dubois today. 'Nuff said. I was tired, it was late, and the prospect of sliding between clean sheets, with Richard's arms wrapped about me, sounded like heaven. That and not being killed. "I believe we're being met," Richard replied, as he scanned the crowds about us, searching for something or someone. Perhaps a placard, bearing our names? Welcome to the UK, that sort of thing? "You believe? You're not sure?" Max was just a tad cranky, having just awoken on the wrong side of the airplane. With a slight hangover, which didn't exactly do much for his temperament, I admit. I have my moments, times when I'm a little childish. But at the same time, if you're going to make arrangements that include flying thousands of miles, not to mention crossing the entire Atlantic Ocean, just to work for someone, you think you'd verify all aspects of the travel arrangements. Including who's meeting you at the airport and where you're going to be staying, that sort of thing—pardon me for liking to have my i's all dotted, my t's all crossed. I consider it being 243
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efficient; Richard just says I'm anal. "Max, shhh, it's alright," he reassured me, in what touchy Max took as a patronizing manner. Which set the sleepy wolf to bristling. Before the moment had the opportunity to either escalate, or degrade, we heard a selfassured, low-pitched feminine voice behind us speaking our names, and we turned to behold a lovely time-traveler from a distant era. I was rather oblivious to my surroundings, or I would've been more attuned to her approach. Alright, maybe I exaggerate. At the very least, she looked as if she'd stepped straight from the pages of a fairy tale, one of the variety that specialize in princesses with unpleasant relatives or unusual sleeping habits. She wore a flowing green gown, which actually was floor length, and appeared to be composed of velvet, with ermine trim about the wrists and hem, a simple scoop neckline, while upon her auburn hair was a cone-shaped monstrosity I imagined was supposed to pass as headgear of some sort. A dalrymple maybe? Not sure, I'd have to pull out my medieval costumes book to look that one up. She drew the attention of those around us, at least for a moment or two, as they adjusted their eyeballs, convinced themselves they weren't hallucinating, and then proceeded along their selfappointed rounds of normalcy. Max seemed to have temporarily lost the use of his 244
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tongue at the sight, perhaps under the delusion that he'd fallen asleep while standing. Luckily, Richard remained aware and lucid, or we might've ended up fodder for some serial killer's knife. No, I'm not serious, just being odd. Nothing that outrageous ever happens to us. I'm not complaining, mind you. Well, alright, maybe outrageous compared to some people's lives. I mean, the whole werewolf thing and all isn't exactly what you call garden variety normal for most people. It just happens to be for me. All a matter of which side of the fence you're sitting on as to whose foliage is greener. "You've found us, milady," Richard responded with a courtly little bow that would've seemed very out of place under other circumstances, but which I suppose he found to be apropos, considering the style of the lady's dress. He is, after all, a knight in shining armor, no matter how some may perceive him. My knight anyway, and that's all that matters to me. "I have indeed, good sir," the saucy wench replied, dropping him a curtsey in return, as well as a perky smile, her grassy dress sweeping the terminal floor. "Can we go please?" the court jester, meaning myself, piped up irritably from the sidelines, more than a little annoyed at this dog and pony show. Not my finest hour, I must admit. Not that it mattered, as they ignored me 245
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anyway. "Let me guess, you're the photographer?" she questioned, glancing between the two of us. I guess I don't look artsy enough, or something. Of course, she might've seen Richard's photo too, hard to tell. "Correct, madam," he conceded, and for some reason his eyes twinkled, which didn't help my disposition. Shameless flirt that he is. "And this yonder, surly gentleman is young Maxwell, my other better half…." I growled at that. He knew damn well I hated being called that, because it's NOT MY FUCKING NAME! "Maximillian," I corrected him, although, my words were aimed at the strange lady, "it's Maximillian Montague, but I prefer Max." "Then Max it shall be, good sir, forsooth." And I received a curtsey as well. She now knew who we were, but who the hell was she? "I think a good stiff drink should bring him around," Richard quipped, and she rewarded him with another smile. Lovely. Just what I flew across the Atlantic for, don't you know? And although it was, technically speaking, only about three in the afternoon, where we came from, and ten at night in the UK, my body wasn't sure what time it was, and it was tired. I wasn't sure alcohol was the solution to that, but maybe a nap? That idea exuded a certain attraction 246
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for me, to be honest. Little chance of it coming to pass, though. At least, so I thought. Must have slipped my mind where we were going to end up eventually. As far as the drink went, anyway. "And what might your name be, fair lady?" Richard continued. My boy was certainly in his element. "I go by many names." Her coy reply bubbled forth; I was ready to beat them both for unwarranted cuteness and unnecessary aggravation. She threaded one arm through Richard's, the other through mine, as if we'd just become the three musketeers. She directed our steps toward the exit. "Juliet sometimes, but at others fair Romeo, and often I'm Sleeping Beauty or Lady Macbeth…." "Glamis
thou
art,
and
Cawdor,"
Richard
automatically began. Oh God, he was wound up, I could hear it in his voice. I knew now that this Shakespearean banter would never end. "We have luggage," I protested, but she never slowed, simply pulled me forward, sweeping us both along as if we were children. I attempted to dig in my heels, searching in vain for the elusive luggage carousel. But, to no avail. She was simply stronger than we, and we were just so much flotsam in her stream, so to speak, so much dust in the wind. "It's being taken care of," she assured me, sotto 247
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voce, and continued Richard's quote without skipping a beat, "and shalt be what thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature…." "Yes, yes, too full of the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way," I crabbily inserted, both to end the recitation and to show that Max was no slouch at quoting the bard himself. "Are we there yet?" Had I but waited mere moments to ask my question, I wouldn't have had to bother. We swept through automatic glass doors as we made our exit to the outside of the terminal. The brisk night air hit us, along with a plethora of olfactory sensations which were the cumulative smells of London, not to mention the fabled fog which luckily was light tonight, in a non-obscuring sort of way. Usually I was more observant than that; let's chalk it up to jet lag, and a rising irritability factor. I was still skeptical about being reunited with our luggage. I'd heard manifold horror stories of bags that vacationed in sunnier climes than their owners, due to mishandling on the airlines' part. Even as we found ourselves nearing a big black vehicle, which loomed up at the curb ahead of us, I saw our own familiar suitcases being hoisted into the trunk—excuse me, the boot; we weren't in the States anymore; when in Rome—and I was able to relax. Somewhat, for me, that is. 248
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Our hostess chatted amiably with Richard, but their voices seemed to be coming from a distance. The reason became clear as my lover trundled me into the car, the three of us grouped familiarly on the front seat at Richard's insistence. The girl didn't argue and they chattered away, as I leaned heavily against Richard and closed my eyes. Just for a moment, I thought, a few minutes at most. I didn't open them again until the vehicle had ceased all movement. "We're
here,
Max,"
Richard's
warm
voice
whispered in my ear. My eyes snapped open, and I felt refreshed from the small nap I'd just taken, and in a much better frame of mind. Good. We could get unpacked, settle in, and find some place nice to eat. I peered through the windshield at the building we'd pulled up before. It didn't bear any resemblance to any hotels I'd ever seen. Especially with a name like Divine Intermezzo, glowing discreetly in cool blue tones above the entrance. "Where's here?" I asked, but I think I really already knew, as the name had come up in conversation before. Divine Intermezzo was the bar this DeVille owned. Not a hotel. Of course not, that would've been too easy. "Go on in, I'll catch up with you after I park," our hostess instructed, "just tell the bouncer who you are." I wanted to protest, but Richard leaned over me, unlatched the door, and we ended up standing on the 249
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sidewalk as the vehicle disappeared from view. "It's all right," Richard assured me, taking my hand in his, squeezing it. "Derek told Nikki to bring us here first, then we can go to the hotel and get settled." Nikki. So that was the mystery girl's name. But it didn't explain her medieval dress. Or her flirting with my boyfriend. As if he sensed my mood, Richard shushed me with a quick kiss, pulling me along toward the entrance to the bar, forestalling any complaints he might've felt coming his way. At least for the moment. I might've been more awake than I'd been, but I was still unsure of my current mood. Yet. The front door looked like something extracted from a gothic castle, perhaps from the set of some Hammer film. It was heavy wood and wrought iron, with matching sconces on either side of the doorway. I'm not sure what period it was intended to be. Early Dracula, perhaps, with maybe a touch of Frankenstein, for good measure. I half expected a pop-eyed hunchback to appear at any moment. Instead, though, there was a large man wielding an axe, which I assumed to be a prop, at least I hoped so, with arms straight out of a Charles Atlas bodybuilding course, muscular and forbidding. This huge tree trunk of a man wore the attire of an executioner, complete with mask. The bouncer, I assumed, which assumption was verified as Richard gave him our names and he admitted us without delay. 250
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What I'd expected, I don't remember. I'd some experience with clubs, after all, for Richard and I were wont to frequent them. Not to mention, we met in one. We went mostly for the dancing aspect, as I preferred to party in private, in our own home, in the safety and seclusion of #1 Lupercalia Lane. But the allure of practicing our terpsichorean skills was great, and there was nothing like an actual dance floor, and throbbing music, to get one's pulse racing and one's feet tapping. And, I admit it, there was a measure of ego involved in showing off together, 'cause frankly, we were good at what we did, our bodies were so attuned to one another, and years of practice had only enhanced what natural talents we possessed. This still didn't prepare me for the sight that met my eyes when we walked through the front door, traversing a narrow, rather dimly lit hallway, and entered Divine Intermezzo for the very first time. I found myself staring at the biggest disco ball I'd ever seen in my life; and yes, disco was quite dead at that point, at least in most of the world. Apparently, it was still alive and kicking in this place. But in a very unusual way. The disco ball hung over a large illuminated dance floor. And upon this flashing surface, which was actually raised above the level of the rest of the room itself, were what appeared to be lords and ladies attired in the same medieval 251
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garb as our hostess, separated by gender into two lines, performing a disco-ish version of the lobster quadrille. At least, that was how it seemed to me. They dipped and swayed to the compelling rhythms of Yvonne Elliman's "If I Can't Have You". Richard and I'd danced to it many times before, when disco was still in its heyday. I had to admit there was something rather sensual, almost electric, as we observed each pair come together, almost but not quite touching, moving sinuously in sync, before pulling apart, giving way to a new couple. Rinse and repeat. While below them, writhing couples in more modern dress contorted themselves to the same tune. Well, we'd arrived. What now? There seemed to be no reception committee, at least none that I could see, which struck me as odd. Not like we weren't expected, we'd had a car sent for us, no mystery in our arrival time. Still, it was a free trip and all, shouldn't be looking that proverbial gift horse too hard in his oral cavity, you know? Seeing as we were on our own, at the moment, and as we were in a club, getting a drink seemed to be the next logical step. The bar lay directly before us, an enormous rectangle ringed by tall stools, also raised slightly in elevation above the level of the floor to the right of it. To the left stood an assortment of tables of varying sizes, while the wall was lined with booths. The lighting was dimmer on that side, candles 252
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flickering intimately in the manner of an illicit assignation. "Bar or table?" We surveyed our choices, weighing the pros and cons of sitting at the bar versus sitting alone at a table. The idea of cozying up in a booth was an appealing one, but we finally decided sitting at the bar would probably get us found faster, whenever the mysterious owner decided to show himself. Assuming he'd bother to do so. If nothing else, I supposed that Nikki would be searching for us. Or else why were we here? Seriously? We seated ourselves at the bar, which was nothing if not fabulous, I have to admit, now that I was getting a better look at it. The backstop behind the bar was not imbedded with the traditional mirror generally found in most establishments, specializing in the imbibing of spirits. Rather, it consisted of an ornate medieval tapestry containing two women, a unicorn, and some sort of musical instrument. I remember thinking it was a well-executed fake, a copy of the sort of expensive designs found in old castles. Little did I know. The bar itself was a dark mahogany color. Imbedded into the top were mosaics of the most incredibly ornate patterns, which appeared to be of Greek and Roman derivation. A minotaur menacing a virgin. An erupting volcano. Roman legions. Gods and goddesses. Breathtakingly done. I couldn't begin to imagine how much work would be required to keep them so 253
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pristine, especially in a place where liquids were constantly passed over, or set upon the surface. I found myself impressed, in spite of myself. Richard took it all in stride; he's never easily fazed. Not my boy. I'd been dimly aware, ever since we had entered the Divine Intermezzo, of an electrical feel, which permeated the air. At first I put it down to the highly charged atmosphere, the energy given off by the crowd of thrill seekers, for the wolf is sensitive to such things, and I paid it no heed. As we sat at the bar, sipping our drinks, our eyes taking in the rather eclectic atmosphere, I felt a strong, almost palpable wave of energy. It touched my comfort zone, setting off alarms in my head, which I certainly didn't care for. Startled, I glanced around us. People were in a constant state of flux, in perpetual motion about the bar, employees and customers alike. But the power didn't come from any of them, I could tell. I just knew it, but how I knew, I couldn't say. I had to suppress the growl rising within my throat. And then I saw him. Moving toward us from the end of the bar. He didn't appear especially tall as men go, not that I'm any expert on height, mind you—I'd never win any awards in a tall man contest—but he gave the illusion of being so. I guess by virtue of the persona he exuded. His blonde hair was cropped, spiked and gelled into an obedient 254
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mass, and he had the brightest blue eyes I've ever seen in a human being before or since. He held an oddly shaped glass in his hand, which almost seemed sculpted, its liquid contents an unusual green; it wasn't crème de menthe, although I couldn't be sure what it really was. He moved with almost leonine grace and self-assuredness, something I couldn't pull off if I tried. I watched him with horrified fascination as he approached, mesmerized by an almost overwhelming feeling of power, which seemed to surround him. I tapped Richard's arm, and he looked from me to the newcomer, tensing, as if sensing my unease, but not sharing it. He stood behind us now, his glass sitting atop the bar, but for the life of me, I didn't see him place it there. He struck a dramatic pose, arms outstretched in a traditional greeting as he said in a voice, which I'd no trouble hearing even above the normal cacophony of the bar, "Welcome to Divine Intermezzo, gentlemen, I'm very glad to meet you. Derek DeVille, at your service…." He proceeded to bow in a rather ostentatious way, a cross between a simple bow and a salaam, as he made intricate gestures, involving his forehead, lips and wrist at the same time. Overall, the effect was rather dazzling, if a bit hammy. When he returned to his original posture, he pointed between us. "Richard Burke…. Max Montague…." Showing he knew exactly 255
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who we were. He reached for Richard's hand, and shook it, then took mine, even before I'd offered it. A tremendous electrical surge went through me, so strong I found myself reaching out to the bar for support. In one of those overdone Hollywood moments, the kind that one would think were never reflected in real life but damned if they didn't actually happen, the music which had been playing ended. I hadn't been listening, until Van Morrison began to sing. Not just any Van Morrison song, but my very favorite Van Morrison song. 'THE' Van Morrison song to beat them all. "Moondance", of course. Ironic that I loved it so much, considering that dancing beneath a full moon was not and could never be my idea of fun. I realized, belatedly, that DeVille still had my hand in his, and we were suddenly headed toward the upper dance floor, which was conveniently empty, and I hadn't even acquiesced to any such thing. I was now dancing with a stranger, before Richard and everyone else in the bar. A major what the fuck moment if I'd ever seen one. But what made the moment truly surreal, was when he leaned in close to me, and murmured loud enough for me to hear, although no one else was even close to us, as if we were the spotlight dancers in some spontaneous dance contest, "My, my, what big eyes you have, little wolf," which startled the bejesus out of me. I tried not to show it, 256
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tried to play calm, cool and aloof, but his next words stopped me right in the middle of being twirled—no, I don't know why I was still dancing with him, not at all—as he added, "No, I'm not Little Red Riding Hood. Call me Count Dracula, if you like…." He threw back his head and laughed, and I suddenly realized he wasn't joking. He… was… a… vampire.
Is a vampire, I should say. A condition no more treatable than my lycanthropy. 'Til death do us part. Why does a marriage vow resemble a death sentence? I know, I'm digressing. Point taken. I read the note once again, and hand it to Richard. "So he's coming to see you, is he?" he grins. "Coming to see us," I correct him, rolling my eyes, even as he playfully ruffles my hair. I know he's joking, he stopped being jealous of Derek a long time ago. I guess I'm not in the best humor. I've just decided on something. "Do you have any plans for the day?" I ask, knowing very well he doesn't, or I'd already know. "No," he confirms, eyeing me almost suspiciously, as if wondering why I ask. But he doesn't push. "Let's go to my mom's," I suggest, trying to sound casual, failing miserably, as his blond brows arch. He contemplates me for a moment, trying to decode my 257
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intentions. Of course, he always manages to read me like a cheap dime novel—I'm very transparent to him. "C'mere you," he murmurs, pulling me up from my chair. I make a show of protesting, but crumble, cave and give in. A typical Max surrender. I allow Richard to envelop me with the warmth of his love. "You know I love you, Max, never forget that…." As if I could. "You know something," he adds with a mischievous grin, as I gaze up into those fathomless midnight blue eyes. "When Derek comes, we should introduce them. Juliet and Derek. Could be interesting…." It's on the tip of my tongue to retort that my mother is too old for him, when the realization hits me. That isn't the case at all, seeing as Derek is somewhere around two thousand years old, even if he manages to look more like thirty-five or forty. Somehow I don't see myself playing matchmaker to either one of them, though. Besides, she's into surfers these days, not vampires. At least she's lost her taste for sinister ministers. I insist on clearing up the breakfast dishes before we make our departure. Not only does it feed my anal tendencies, but it gives me a chance to think.
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As we make the drive toward my mother's house, I mentally rehearse what I'm going to say. The entire reason for this surprise visit is to assuage my guilty conscience, to let her know I've been in contact with my progenitor. My sire. The being who provided half of my DNA. Why do I find it so hard to use the term father? I also need to inform her I might be going to a barbecue that he's invited me to. Invited her to, as well, although I've no illusions she'll even consider the invitation. In other words, I'm thinking about socializing with the enemy. Yes, I suppose I do feel damn guilty for even speaking to the man, for not ripping his head off and shitting down his neck. Alright, maybe that isn't exactly my style. But still…. "She'll be upset. I know she'll be upset. Even if she doesn't say it. Not directly, anyway…." I fiddle with the buttons on the Monte's radio, flipping between stations, listening to whatever's playing for a few seconds before moving on in search of something else. I don't know what I'm looking for, nothing sounds right. Finally, Richard moves my hand away. He's probably irritated with me, the way he gets if I play with the remote control on the rare occasions we sit in front of the TV for any period of time, and I can't make up my mind as to what looks good. He 259
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settles the radio onto our classical station. Can't go wrong there. Sibelius' "Fifth" is playing, and I lay my hand against his thigh. He places his atop mine, comfortingly. "She's a big girl, Max, she'll understand," he assures me, and I want to believe him, how I really want to believe. But as close as my mother and I are, even though her behavior's been a bit erratic over the past few months and I'm not always sure how she'll react to anything, I have to believe this will upset her more than anything else I could do. After all, she hid from me any knowledge of his existence for all these years, and concealed the story of my conception and its gory details to protect me. I do realize this. But damn… I don't know. Just damn. Logic rapidly flies out the window, along with my nerve, which is why if 'twere done, 'twere best done quickly. Which, knowing me, won't work out that way at all. As we pull into my mother's driveway, I can't help but glance next door, toward Rachel's house. Her car is there, and so is David's. Good. That means calling for reinforcements is a possibility. It's nice to have my staunchest allies so close at hand. Especially one my mother likes and will listen to, sometimes more easily than she listens to me. My sister's car is there, so is my mother's, but no others. Good. No strangers to deal with. That should make my job easier. 260
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Let's see, how to begin. Mom, a funny thing happened on the way to the forum. Lame attempt at humor, at best. How about, guess who wants us to come to dinner, and by dinner I mean barbecue? Or maybe this—speaking of wolves, I met one the other day, and by coincidence, he happens to be your ex. Except we seldom speak about wolves, so that is a topic of discussion unlikely to come up in ordinary conversation. Maybe bring up Jason and Amelia and just happen to mention I saw his brother/her father? Yeah, right. My reverie is broken, when I realize we've managed to park and enter the house. My mother comes to greet us, with hugs and smiles, but a definite look of surprise, as we generally announce when we're coming, and seldom make impromptu visits. "Come into the kitchen," she invites us, and it's only then I notice she's wearing her apron, "I'm just finishing a batch of cookies." Richard gives me a reassuring hug, and the gesture doesn't go unnoticed by my mother, but she leads us back into the kitchen. She resumes taking spoonfuls of dough from a mixing bowl, rounding them and setting them onto a cookie sheet along with their unbaked brethren. Not sure what kind, but they appear to be some form of chocolate chip. 261
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"Good timing," she tells us, "Diana's brought her new boyfriend by, you can meet him." She slides the full sheet into the oven, setting the timer on the microwave, and then washes her hands, before she turns to us. "Coffee?" Damn. Not alone, after all. I hem and haw, thinking perhaps a strategic retreat might be in good order, but my sister enters the room, squeals like a stuck pig and latches onto me like a nervous squid with a tic—all arms and legs and suckers. I return her hug and ease out of her containment system with as good a grace as I can muster, siccing her on my better half, who graciously allows her to repeat her performance for his benefit. Meanwhile, I notice my mother eyeballing me with that all-knowing, all-seeing mother eye—and yes, she does possess it at times, when it's not being clouded by homophobic members of disreputable churches. "You okay?" she asks. A question with so many possible answers and nuances there is no easy response. At the moment I don't trust my voice not to give me away, so I mumble something about needing to use the facilities. I yank at Richard's hand—dislodging
him
from
my
sister,
probably
fortuitously—and pull him down the hall in the direction of the bathroom, pausing outside the door—which is closed— and attempt to pull myself together. 262
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"Max, you can do it," Richard whispers, caressing my arms, my shoulders, attempting to instill some sort of backbone into this spineless jellyfish. Yes, I'm quite gutless. It's one thing to be brave and full of myself when it was just an idea, a theory attempting to birth itself. But here in the flesh, face to face with my mother, I find myself trying to weasel out, and I can't help but think I don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies. Except that isn't true either, we were there when my nephew was born, and dear God I'm babbling like a major idiot, aren't I? Babbling, I mean, not a major idiot. Okay, both, at the moment. And then his lips are on mine, so soft, so warm, so comforting, and my mind erases itself as I relax into his touch, which was undoubtedly his master plan, and for the moment I simply focus on this beautiful man in my arms, gathering the courage to do what I came here to do, which can wait a bloody minute or two while we kiss. Suddenly the door to the bathroom clicks open; I'd been unaware it was occupied, and Richard and I both turn our heads in surprise, automatically taking a step back to make way for the occupant to get past us. A low chuckle of amusement catches my attention, and I actually look up, only to be confronted by a stranger's face, yet one that seems slightly familiar, like a tickle in the back of my mind that rapidly 263
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becomes an alarm. The stranger speaks and his identity comes crashing down upon me, horrifyingly, "Taking your show on the road, boys?" Oh dear God, it's that pseudo, might-be-a-cop person. The one that caught us in the loo at the airport, playing out our Orton fantasy, looking as if we make a habit of having sex in strange bathrooms, perverts that we must be. But my question is, who the hell is he and what the hell is he doing here, and do I really want to know?
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Chapter Twelve Of Divinity, Danger, and Disclosure, Part II
I find myself at a distinct loss for words, not a pretty picture for a writer. Richard never seems to lack them. Nor does anything seem to embarrass him, either. I don't believe I've ever seen him squirm. Or blush. "Sorry," he quips, "no show today, but if you like we can
send
you
a schedule of our
upcoming
performances." I elbow him in the ribs, even as Diana comes up behind us. To my dismay she reaches for the stranger's hand, looking like the cat with the proverbial canary stuffed into its face. Her face. Somebody's face. "You've met him, I see!" she exclaims with apparent delight, making the situation worse by allowing the voyeur to put his arm around her waist. So now it's Richard and I facing off against Diana and someone I still don't know the identity of. Other than as a possible officer of the law and witness to our men's room shenanigans, that is. Diana is so excited I expect her to burst into song. Luckily she doesn't. Leave it to my boy to save the day. 265
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Not. "Before or now?" Richard cheekily interjects. Has the man no shame? I reach for his instep, intending to crush it, but he craftily removes it beyond my reach, feigning innocence. Does he want everyone and their brother, or sister, to know our business? "What?" A baffled Diana wrinkles her nose at him, as I try to maneuver around the pink elephant in the room. I know, we are probably considered the pink ones here, but let's not split hairs. "This is no place for a conversation," I insist, tugging at Richard's arm, hoping he'll take the hint. He doesn't. Or if he does, he isn't cooperating, and it looks as if the stranger doesn't have the common decency to hold his tongue either. But, on reflection, why should he? From his perspective, we're the wrongdoers, not him. Diana looks suspiciously at all three of us, although I can't help but observe it doesn't increase to any degree the distance between herself and the stranger, or lack thereof. It's not that I'm the sort of brother who thinks his sister shouldn't have anything to do with the opposite sex, far from it. For crying out loud, she's in her thirties, hardly a child. I've never interfered in her personal life in any way. Maybe if I'd been more attentive when she was a teenager, she wouldn't have gotten involved with Jackson's dad, but 266
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that's easy to say, years after the fact. There's just something about this one, which sets my teeth on edge. No fang jokes, please, wrong genre. Maybe it's the circumstances under which we've met. At least, I hope that's it. Or, maybe I'm only being paranoid. So what else can I do but try to laugh it off? I know, not my forte. I feel like the little Dutch boy, sticking his finger in the hole in the dyke—no, no, no comments, please; if you're laughing, you're reading that the wrong way. While the sea is simply taking an alternate route, and the result will be the same in the end. Namely, full disclosure, at our expense. Tactical diversion, perhaps? As in change the subject, quickly? I cast about for something witty to say, but the only one thing comes to mind. "Where's Jackson?" Utter lack of wittiness, classic Max. "Upstairs, with Nathaniel." I should've realized. That's where he is usually is. With Nathaniel, either here or at his boyfriend's house. Nothing's really changed there; they've just stepped out of the closet, regarding the nature of their relationship, that's all. I'm proud to say my nephew told me first, in an email. And how, you wonder, did my quasi-homophobic, or should I say situationally, homophobic mother react? According to my sister, she took the news surprisingly 267
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well. I guess she ran out of ammunition with all her shots at Richard and me over the years. Lucky us. I mumble something about running upstairs to say hello, but my sister steamrolls over my words, as if I've not spoken and proceeds to introduce the stranger she clutches a bit too tightly for comfort. My comfort, that is. "Franklin, this cute but obnoxious lout is my dearest brother Max, and that cute, less obnoxious lout is his fiancé Richard. Boys, meet Franklin Delano Falstaff." Named after a president and a brewery. Interesting. Or a Shakespearean character, take your pick. I find it disturbing I thought of the beer first. What does that say about me? Maybe that I need a drink? I would've been happy to say 'hello' and 'how do you do' and leave it at that, but some people have big mouths. Too big for their own good, and I don't mean in a good way. Do I mean Richard or Falstaff? Both, actually. They tandemly chime in with, "We've met." In a synchronous moment worthy of a cheesey sitcom, Diana's mouth drops open, and I sigh. I half expect to hear the canned laugh track before we cut to a commercial. "You've
met?"
she
repeats,
incredulously.
"Whaddya mean, you've met? Don't tell me he arrested you?" I shoot Richard a significant look, as if to say 'I told 268
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you he's a cop'. My significant other shrugs, unimpressed. "I've never been arrested," I hasten to correct her, not wishing to speak for Richard. I intend to keep it that way, having no desire to spend time behind bars for any reason other than for charity. I notice Richard says nothing. "Can we get out of the hallway?" I suggest, thinking this is much too tight a confined space for this sort of conversation, or any other. Without waiting for an answer, I drag Richard along, intending to grab a seat in the family room, thinking a drink sounds damn good, when I collide with my mother, who by now probably thinks I've fallen in. Our collision produces a random but throaty chuckle from Diana's police officer. Luckily, no damage done, I quickly ascertain. "Here you are," Mother says in her inimitable obvious style, "oh, you've met Franklin. Good. You sure you're all right, honey?" I suppose I look even more anxious than I did before. Max doesn't take to surprises very well, as you might've noticed. "I'm fine, Mom," I mumble my lie, wondering how I can talk to her in front of my sister and this stranger. Perhaps it might be easier, maybe she won't yell with them around? I don't think it's the yelling I'm worried about, though, it's the tears. The guilt trip I'm afraid she'll lay on me. Of course, I deserve it, for having even spoken to the 269
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bastard. I know, I know, I didn't look for him, he found me. Doesn't stop me from taking on guilt like a sin-eater chowing down on sin, on behalf of the deceased. At least they get a good meal out of it. At this rate, all I'm likely to get is indigestion, and maybe a headache, for good measure. "I just made coffee, and I've got cookies, fresh out of the oven, in the family room." In other words, we're being commanded to eat and drink. I would've preferred something a little stronger than coffee, but when I start to suggest I'll get some wine, she gives me her mother knows best look. The one that says it's too early and I don't need it. She force-marches me, with Richard attached, so I can't make a break for the kitchen, into the family room. Richard and I end up together on the couch, Di and her new man make themselves comfortable on the loveseat, and Mother sits opposite us, staring at me rather intently. I'm suddenly grateful for the chance to talk about something other than what I've actually come for—a less painful, albeit embarrassing subject. Maybe, we can steer clear of the other topic altogether. But then again it's what I did come for, or will my impromptu journey have been made in vain? Which would I rather be right now—a pervert or a traitor? I don't find either choice appealing. Is there another door I can choose? Perhaps one to hide 270
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behind? Diana makes the choice for me, as she narrows her eyes, squinting at both Richard and myself. "All right, Max, what's up? When did you meet, and how?" I notice she isn't grilling her new beau, he must rate. Or she knows I'll cave and talk. So instead I stubbornly press my lips together and say nothing, hoping Richard will follow suit. But he doesn't have to, as Franklin decides to spill the beans. Why not? He comes out looking good, we end up looking twisted. "Met them at the airport," he admits, more than a hint of amusement in his voice, "playing games in the men's room." Oh good Lord, could he have made it sound any worse? I doubt it. "Playing what where?" My sister eyes us both askance, while I notice my mother's wtf factor kicking in, even if the words haven't spilled forth yet. The expression in her eyes is obvious, though. So of course, Max can't stay silent, not when there's some semblance of honor to defend and maintain. "It's all Rachel's fault." I parry the thrust, directing it toward the absent Miss Sheldon. Rather lame of me, I know, but I'm not at my best, my mind on other things, too distracted to be very logical. Diana turns to her boyfriend, as she's getting nowhere fast with me. Or Richard, who has remained 271
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loyally silent. Bless his heart. "What's he mean?" Franklin shrugs. "Not sure about that, I just know they were playing some kind of game at the urinals, like they were strangers, looking for a hook-up…." A profound silence ensues. Broken by hysterical fits of giggling on my sister's part, and even my mother seems to find the situation amusing, while Richard plasters on a shit-eating grin, like he's actually proud of himself. On second thought, maybe he is. When he opens his mouth, I have to hope that he's opting for a change of subject, but those hopes are quickly dashed. "So, which department do you work for?" he asks. "St. Charles County. Sheriff's Department." "Last time I checked," my cheeky boy continues, "the airport doesn't fall into your jurisdiction, Deputy Falstaff…." "Nope," he heartily concurs, "would've had to have been a citizen's arrest." Why are we talking about arrests? We didn't do anything illegal, for crying out loud. The worst that can be said is that we showed a distinct lack of judgment in where we… oh wait, I guess that is illegal. In public. Damn, not a legitimate leg to stand on. I should check on that, though, just to know for sure. I do have the Internet, after all. "Want some coffee?" I ask my significant other, to 272
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give myself something to do, attempting to ignore my sister's crude comments, innuendos and questions, one of those being 'were we cross-dressing at the time?' Wrong role-play, that would be Bosom Buddies, not Prick Up Your Ears. Or maybe Some Like It Hot. I reach for a cup of coffee from the table before us, and clumsily manage to knock it over onto some brochures. I hastily grab them, to keep them from being soaked, holding them out of harm's way. It takes a minute or two before the words printed there reach my brain, and I gaze in horrified fascination, even as my mother reaches across the table and attempts to snatch them away. "That's nothing," she insists, "just some junk mail…." But I'm not buying it, not at all, as I retain control of the offending literature, pointing out the cartoonish caricature emblazoning the front, a caricature of a wolf, and a rather vicious one at that, with glowing red eyes and slavering lips. Straight out of a grade Z horror film. Wolf Patrol is written at the top of the page, and below the picture, the words werewolf control, and keep St. Louis safe. I turn the offensive material over in my hand, eye my mother suspiciously. "There's no postmark, Mother, this isn't mail, where did it come from?" I continue to peruse this ghastly document, opening it to find an application to 273
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join the Wolf Patrol and/or make a donation. Along with more propaganda along the lines of protecting St. Louis from the menacing horde. Or pack, in this case, as it concerns wolves. Damn. This is not good. Not good at all. Richard takes the brochure from my hand, and Diana chimes in, "Is that the crap I saw Amy with earlier?" The hair all over my body stands on end. And that's saying something. "Yes," my mother reluctantly admits, and I notice her eyes don't meet mine, "but it's just so much nonsense. I was going to throw it all away. Here, Max, give me those. I'll do it now." Her hand reaches out for the few I still hold. "What? Did she expect you to distribute these?" I ask, aghast, stubbornly refusing to give them over. I have to wonder what Amy's game is now—if she can't have me, she'll destroy me? Or at least ruin my reputation? No, it's not illegal to be a werewolf, but it's not exactly something I've ever wanted to put out there for everyone and their brother's edification. It's my personal business, and I only tell others on a need to know basis, and not very often. Max is a private person, despite some evidence to the contrary and doesn't wish to share that bit of information. It seems I'm in growing danger of being tossed headfirst out of my lycanthropic closet, and I can't be sure what the fallout 274
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from that particular revelation might be. "I think she knows better than that, Max," Juliet asserts. Which is neither yes nor no in my book, unless she's being deliberately vague since we aren't alone, which makes sense. I'm not about to go any further with this topic, not with John Q. Law sitting among us. Even if he's dating my sister, he doesn't need to know that much about me. Besides, at the rate she goes through men, he'll be yesterday's news soon enough, which might not be a bad thing, from my perspective. I have a sudden thought. "Amy was here? Was she alone?" "No, she had Preston Sparks with her," my mother replies, confirming my worst suspicions. There's a conspiracy afoot, one calculated to at least embarrass Max Montague, and at its worst, what? Ruin me completely? Or, can it get worse than that? As if to confirm my thoughts, Richard points to the end of the brochure where both Amy's and Preston's photographs can be seen, along with a few other well-meaning lycanphobes, sans pitchforks. Should we talk to her, see what it is she wants in order to stop this madness? Or has it gone too far for that already? Have we really been reduced to negotiating with the enemy? 275
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I wonder if Rachel knows? She mustn't, or she'd have told me. I know her better than that. She would never hide something like this from me. Maybe schtupping my cousin—done deal, in the past now—but nothing as serious as this. I need to call Rachel. I momentarily lose track of the conversation, until I hear my sister talking about something coming up on Sunday. I don't know what, but it reminds me of why I'm really here, even as Diana coughs again, in order to gain my attention. "Max, I was just asking if you want to go to the flea market on Sunday, it might be our last chance, and I found some estate sales that might be worth looking into, too…." Maybe it's the guilty look on my face. Or my lack of a proper response, as I attempt to frame what I wish to say to my mother in just the right way, with the right touch of casualness. Too much might sound flippant or uncaring. And I'd really rather not trigger an avalanche of tears. Normally my mother isn't a big crier, but considering whom we're speaking of here—the man who forced himself on her, and yes, the word is rape, but I find it difficult to use, considering I'm the product of that word—I wouldn't blame her if she bawled. I just don't want to see her hurt, especially not by me. "What's wrong, Max?" Mother says, when I don't 276
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answer what should've been an easy question. Only two possible answers—yes or no. "Maybe we should go in the other room?" I begin, in my diplomatic way, half rising. Hoping she'll take the hint, make things easy on her only son. Of course she doesn't make a move. "Max, whatever it is, just tell me." she locks her eyes onto mine, and I have no choice but to tell her, if that's how she really wants it. I sigh and sink back into place, Richard's hand taking mine, squeezing it. I know he'd say the damning words if I asked him to, but it's my place, she's my mother and he is my… other parent. I take a deep breath, and say it. "Mom, he found me, after all." She knows immediately whom I mean. Her mouth falls open, and for a moment, a panicky look crosses over her face, which she quickly covers. If I'd been thinking, I'd have made sure Isaac was here, he seems to have a calming effect on her. And usually he's wherever she is. I'm pretty sure they're together in the Biblical sense; I just haven't wanted to know for sure. I just realized he isn't here, and I'm not sure what to make of that, if anything. "Where?" she asks, surprisingly calm, as if, having had her worst fears realized, she can take whatever else it is that I have to say. 277
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"At the house." "How?" she wonders, and I give her a look, one that is meant to say 'you know what he is', without saying it aloud. Which isn't to say we all have this internal GPS inside of us or anything, but I have to assume Jason and/or Amelia mentioned me, and Julian tracked me down. Somehow, I never thought to ask him how he located me, I was too overwhelmed with the fact that he did. Of course, my sister and her beau are clueless. I know Diana won't let this pass without asking about it. "Who found you, Max? Something wrong? Are you in trouble?" She casts concerned sibling looks in my direction, while the police officer remains silent, which I appreciate. I don't really want to get into it, but I can't wriggle out of it now. Why not tell her, she has a right to know, doesn't she? She missed the preamble to this event, as she hadn't gone to Rocky Horror with us, and I haven't brought her up to speed since, seeing as I've been in something of denial of the whole thing. "Julian," I say at last, "Julian Woods. My… father…" There, I've said the damned word. I'm tired of finding euphemisms for the bastard. Diana looks as if she just got an eyeful of Medusa, for all of ten seconds, before she begins with her own form of interrogation. "YOUR WHAT?" My sister has the ability 278
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to be rather loud, at times. "Diana, please don't shout," my mother admonishes her. "Of course Max has a father. You do, too. Everyone does. That's not a surprise, is it?" "Well, no," she blurbles, "of course not, but, I mean, we've never met our fathers. It's a bit of a shock. Especially considering…." I give her a sharp glance, and she bites off whatever incriminating words might have followed her inauspicious lead. Instead, I step in, with my ultra-slick diversionary tactics, known as sidestepping the topic. "Uncle and sister, too," I offer. "Half sister, I mean. Amelia is her name. You'd like her." "Wait a minute, wait a minute." Diana struggles with what we're telling her, matching that up with the story she's heard all her life. Same pap I've been fed. The Red Riding Hood saga. She wants to ask for details, but she's trying to be delicate about it at the same time. I want to shield my mother, but I'm not sure how, because the truth has a nasty way of coming out, and it'll be obvious she's lied to us for a long time. I don't even care about that any more, I just want to deal with it and move on. Which is why I'm here. "I thought you didn't know who…." She looks at Mom, then at me, baffled. 279
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"Maybe I should go." Falstaff shows some discernment, realizing a family drama is about to unfold, one he shouldn't be a witness to. "Give y'all some privacy." Diana throws me a beseeching glance, tightening her grip on her beau; I feel an answering grip on my own hand from my own sweetheart, and I know I'll cave. I always do. Besides, I suspect if he doesn't stay and hear it, she'll repeat it afterward. So why not save her the trouble? At least, I'll know there won't be any misinformation. But I leave the final decision to my mother, knowing she'll give in to my sister too. And she does. "No, no, Franklin, please, it's fine," Juliet demurs, and the suggestion is tabled. At this point I wonder if he means more to my sister than the ones that came before, but it's a fleeting thought, quickly set aside for other moments. "I went to high school with Max's father," Mother continues. It's probably less painful to tell the second time, at least I hope so. "Julian Woods. And his brother, Jason. The rest of the story you know. That part was true. I never let him know he had a son, but he found out. We ran into Jason the night we all went to Rocky Horror. I guess he told Julian, and then he found Max." That's the bare bones. Diana's free to fill any in any blanks later. Mother turns to me, and I am grateful she's 280
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tiptoed around the thorny parts of the story, namely, my lycanthropy, and my father's. "What does he want?" she asks bluntly. "I know he wants something, it's just how he is." "Wants to be a father," I shrug. "He says if he'd known I existed, he would've been around." "Easy to say, after the fact," Richard says, the first time he's offered any input during this discussion, maintaining his position as silent support. "Max, be careful," Mother warns me, "he can be a very charming man, when he wants to be. Did he say he's coming back to see you? What, does he think he can just pick up the pieces and become your new best friend? Take you to a ballgame and buy you hot dogs?" "No, nothing like that." I pause, not sure how she'll take the rest of it, but in for a penny, in for a pound. "He's invited us to a barbecue Sunday, though. All of us," I add, including my mother and sister in the blanket invitation. Falstaff too, I suppose. The front door slams and a familiar figure arrives among us, which answers my previous questions. "Hey Max, Richard!" Isaac greets us with a huge grin, adding, "Hey Di, Frank." He approaches my mother, offering her a kiss before assuming a familiar posture on the arm of her chair. "Did I hear barbecue?" 281
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An awkward silence follows. No one knows who should field his question, but all eyes turn toward me. Figures. "Yeah, a barbecue," I repeat, "You're all invited. It's at Jason's place." Isaac met my uncle and my half-sister the night of the movie. Undoubtedly he's had any remaining questions answered by my mother. It's what lovers do, right? Another awkward silence. Who'll be the first to break it? Not me, I can't think of anything I need to add. Not right now, anyway. "Are you going, Max?" That from my mother. The question I most didn't want to hear, because I don't have an answer. Not one I'm willing to admit to, that is. "Maybe," I reply cautiously. Once I sort out how I truly feel about the situation. Discuss it thoroughly with Richard. "I wanna meet him!" Di exclaims, apparently fascinated by the subject. I suppose I can't blame her for being curious about my sire. It's not as if we haven't done some speculating over the years regarding our respective dads. Who knew the opportunity would ever arise to meet one of them? And of the two, I think mine was the unlikelier prospect due to the nature of their encounter. At 282
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least as we knew the story then. Isaac places a protective arm about my mother, and she leans against him, her eyes fastened upon me. "Please be careful, Max," she repeats, as if she's assumed I intend to go, and isn't making any attempt to stop me. Her next words almost cause me to fall off the couch in surprise, as she addresses Richard. "Please protect him." Of course, he assures her he will, but that's nothing I'd ever expected to hear my mother ask of my lover. I guess it proves she's truly accepted him. About bloody time. This family tree is becoming far too thick for my taste, it could do with a little pruning, methinks. The question is… which branch will be the one to be thinned?
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Chapter Thirteen A Bike Ride to Remember
As it turns out, Rachel had no idea of the existence of this insane Wolf Patrol, and to say that she is upset when she learns about it would be an understatement. She's appalled to learn of Amy's involvement with the group, not to mention her insensitive peddling of it to my own mother. Then there's Amy's obvious knowledge of my hidden nature, which honestly can't be denied any longer, can it? Her knowledge, that is, not my hidden nature. That's still to remain hidden, and a secret. Hopefully, for a very long time to come. Like until after my death. Perhaps this is the end of their friendship—Rachel's and Amy's. I'd be a hypocritical liar if I said I'm sorry to see that. I'm not, so I won't pretend that I am. "Max," she sighs into the phone. It's Tuesday morning, just after breakfast. Dishes all washed and put up. House already vacuumed. Column partially written. I've just gotten around to calling Rachel on this sensitive matter, my fault entirely for procrastinating, not hers, and informed her of the paternal situation, tendering her own personal invite. David included, that's a given. Julian's the one who said invite all your friends. Not that I have that many, but 284
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perhaps I'm trying to stack the deck a bit in my own favor? Which leads to the interesting question. Do I intend to go? I'm at least considering it. Obviously. I still have a few days. At least I think I do. I don't think he requested an RSVP, more of a just show up kind of thing. Richard enters the library, where I'm neglecting my work to talk to my friend to vent my frustrations, and to bring her up to date on what's new in the crazy world of Max Montague. I can tell from the look in his eye that he has something he wants to say. "Hold that thought, Rach." I don't even try to cover the phone in any way, why bother? Between them, they know everything there is to know about me. "Max, I want to go out." I arch my eyebrows at him inquisitively, feeling there must be something more to that statement. There is. "With you," he adds. Well, that clarifies that. Not. I'm torn between finishing this conversation with Rachel and discovering where it is Richard feels the need to take me so early in the morning. Well, not quite that early, it's already nine o'clock. Early by some people's standards, but we've been up for a few hours. I notice what he's holding in his hand and I know 285
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what he wants to do, even if I don't know where he wants to go. It's the key to the Indian. Admittedly not my favorite form of transportation. But it's one he loves. And if he wants to take me for a ride, who am I to refuse his request? No one, that's who. I cover the phone. Just in case. "Mind if I invite them over for later?" "Fine with me." He nods, dangling the key so I can't miss the significance of it in his grasp. Like I would. "Rach, you wanna come over later? You and David? We'll order out, watch a movie or something? Talk?" Probably more of the latter. I'm not sure I can concentrate on a movie right now. "Sure, sounds good. I want to look into that lunatic group online, maybe I can find out something in the meantime." Sounds like a good idea. "What time?" she asks, and I repeat the question to Richard. "Tell her seven, if it's good for her." It is, and we hang up. It's time to find out what's up with my lover. I have a feeling direct questions won't do it, so let's try indirect, shall we? "How shall I dress?" "What you're wearing is perfect," is my boy's 286
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response. What I'm wearing are comfortable jeans, and an off-white Aran sweater. I'm guessing it's nowhere too fancy. Richard is in a pair of acid washed jeans and a dark blue v-neck pullover. He looks amazing, no matter what he wears. I attempt another shot in the dark. "Will we need to make reservations?" "Nope. Not where we're going." He reaches for my hand. "If we get going instead of playing twenty questions, you'll see where we're headed. Does that sound like a good plan to you?" "Yeah, sounds just like a plan to me." Before we leave the house, we make sure Principessa has all she needs for the duration of our excursion, food, water, toys, last trip outside. I turn off my computer and check everything electric to make sure nothing's on that shouldn't be. Then we're free to go. I ignore the bemused look of my lover. It's my usual routine, and no, I'm not OCD. Just cautious. I still qualify as a novice at riding on our motorcycle, but I think I'm getting the hang of it. I do know I'll never be anything other than a passenger. Which is perfectly fine with me. Like it's a hardship for me to be pressed up against Richard on that quivering, vibrating mass of metal, my arms around his waist, my body tight 287
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against his. Besides our helmets, which are no less than mandatory, even if state law didn't require them, we've acquired motorcycle glasses. I let Richard pick them out, as he's the expert. He made sure to get the best he could find, in terms of durability, comfort, and materials. This helps keep the wind, not to mention assorted bug life, out of our eyes. A definite plus in my book. Our glasses came with removable eye seals, which means when we get where we are going, we can convert them to sunglasses. At night that isn't necessary, but during the day, it's a nice option to have. He mounts the bike first. What? You want to know if we've given the motorcycle a name? Seriously? It's an inanimate object, you know, no sentience whatsoever. Metal and chrome and more metal and…. And yes, we named it, if you must know. Richard named it, to be accurate. So don't look at me when I tell you what it is. Wolfcycle. There, happy? As I was saying, he bestrides the cycle, inserts the key, and does whatever he needs to do—checking this that and the other thing, kick-starting it a couple of times with one foot to prime the engine. Checks the choke, and the throttle, and when he's satisfied all's in readiness, he gives it a final powerful kick start as he turns the key. It sparks into life with a roar. He twists around just enough to pat the 288
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seat behind him, which is my cue to mount. Not him, the bike, get your mind out of the gutter. I throw my right leg cautiously over the seat, and when it finds a place, I follow it up with the rest of my body, positioning myself behind Richard, my feet gripping the pedals. The air is a little crisp, not unpleasantly so, but I'm grateful to be wearing a sweater. Also, it gives me an excuse to lean in closer to my boy. As if I really needed one. He lets the bike warm up for a minute, as I cling to him tightly. While I do hold onto him the entire time we ride, his preference, as well as my own, I try to balance my need to squeeze with his need to breathe. But, as we're stationary at the moment, this works. And then we're off, making our way down Highway 94, destination unknown. It isn't until we reach Highway 67 that I start paying attention to where we're going. Crossing over the Alton bridge is a dead giveaway. We must be headed to Pere Marquette Park, one of our favorite places. It occurs to me that we haven't been for awhile. I assume that's why he chooses to go today. It's a great little getaway, without getting too far from home. I say something above the wind about wishing we had our camera with us, to record the colors of the fall leaves we'll undoubtedly see. My smug boy assures me he 289
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thought of it. I pretend to pat him down, searching for it, but it's only a pretext to grope his crotch. No, I'm not ashamed of admitting it. Call me a beast, but I enjoy touching him, always have, always will. Judging from his reaction, he enjoys it too, not that I've any serious doubt about that. We stop for a few minutes, just past Alton, to visit the Piasa Bird, in its new position on the wall there. There is some speculation regarding its origin, as well as the meaning of the word Piasa. This one's not the original artwork, but a recreation, based on old sketches and lithographs. Because of the quality of the limestone it's situated on, or lack thereof, it has to be refreshed regularly. Still, it's a pretty impressive picture, even if the original description, as given by famed explorer Father Jacques Marquette, didn't include any mention of wings. That's where the name of the park comes from, Pere being French for father, which just about everyone knows. Although, I've heard far too many people for my taste refer to it as Pierre Marquette. I guess they either don't know any better or simply don't care. More likely the former, if I had to guess. Those are probably the same ones that say Missou-ra, instead of Missou-ri with the i pronounced like a long e, as it's meant to be pronounced. Some people just can't be taught, I'm afraid. 290
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Sometimes when we go to the park, we stop at the Lodge for dinner. Sometimes we choose to stay overnight, usually in one of the cabins if they aren't all booked, on those occasions when we don't feel like driving home, or we're too horny to drive home, to be more precise. The cabins have their own privacy, which is something that is much appreciated. The décor is a combination of knotty pine and stone and has a very charming rustic ambience. And comfortable beds. Even though our home is technically pretty rural itself, this is even more so, situated in the middle of the park. I guess there's something inside of me that enjoys communing with nature. And getting Richard naked while I do it. We enter the park, slowing the bike down to appropriate speed. I'm getting better at matching Richard as far as movement on the motorcycle is concerned. He gave me some advice in order to alleviate my anxiety—don't worry about leaning one way or another, simply keep my body aligned with his. I've found that very sound advice, which I've taken quite to heart. When we ride together, we're as one, in many ways. Since I don't really know what he has in mind, it's impossible to guess where we're headed first. He passes the Lodge without slowing, but we've already eaten and I didn't think we'd be staying overnight, so that's not surprising. 291
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There are only a few cars scattered between the various parking lots. Well, it is October, after all, not a big time for visitors. Still, there are always a hardy few who brave the fall or even winter weather in order to commune with nature. Look at us, we're here, aren't we? And since we aren't turning toward the river itself, but away from it, I know we're taking the scenic tour, which basically means tooling along the winding road leading through the park itself, to see what we can see. There are a few lookout points situated along this path, which offer a spectacular view. We've utilized them before. Richard has a lot of pictures he's taken there over the years. Even in the winter, once the trees have shed their leaves, there's an austere beauty about it. He does a lot of black and white photography then. But he doesn't have his big Leica today, so that isn't his objective. Fall's in high gear, he's chosen a good day for this, whatever this is. The foliage has good color this year, one of the better years I can remember. Beautiful scarlet and gold leaves tumble about. The park is filled with trees. Not that I could name them all, but that's why there's an internet. I do recognize some of them, mostly the oaks and the maples. The maples have their little flying seedlings. When we were kids, Rachel and I always called them 292
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helicopters. The oaks are distinguishable by the acorns they litter the ground with, which can be very annoying if you're on foot. Ever step on one of those? Doesn't feel good. The lookout points are unoccupied, but we pass them by, progressing further into the interior of the park. The leaves blow across our path, crunching beneath the tires. I cling closely to Richard on the pretext that I'm chilly, but it's a flimsy excuse at best. Alright, maybe it's slightly true. It also turns out to be serendipitous, as he steps on the gas, and we fly up and down the hills which comprise this section of Pere Marquette Park. At least I don't have to worry about hitting someone else. Or being hit. I feel an exhilaration as we traverse the narrow roads, almost a sensation of flying. Until I realize with some alarm that we almost are, as the wheels of the bike sometimes lose contact with the road and we find ourselves suspended in midair for frightening seconds at a time. I guess I should be grateful he isn't trying to pop a wheelie. And no, I'm not about to suggest it. We circle the park a few times, the drone of the engine a rhythmic constant to our wandering. To be honest, I don't really care why we're here. Sometimes it's nice to get out of the house, without an agenda. And yes, I'm talking about spontaneity. I know, you didn't think I had it 293
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in me, did you? I may just surprise you yet. There does seem to be some method to this apparent madness, after all, I begin to discern. Other than simply trying to scare Max out of a few years' growth. We have yet to see anyone else, other than the one car which passed us on our way in, heading out of the park at the time. Richard pulls over, at last, into a somewhat secluded area, just over a small hill from the road, and cuts the engine. For a few moments neither of us move, content to remain as we are. He's parked near a cement circle set in the ground, half buried in leaves, beside which a wooden bench invites us to come and sit. I think there may be a plaque there, too. We remove our helmets and glasses, pocketing the latter 'til we need them again, and dismount. I always feel funny when I first get off the bike, like I've suddenly turned into a cartoonish sailor with bow legs. You get used to stretching your legs in order to straddle the bike, if you do it enough. Luckily I regain my land legs quickly, as we take a seat upon the bench together. Or, to be more precise, Richard takes a seat on the bench, I take a seat across Richard's lap. Much preferable, to my way of thinking. Am I being selfish for not wanting to feel the hardness of the wood beneath my ass? Or for wanting to feel another type of hardness there instead? Maybe, but I don't care. That's the nature of selfishness, I 294
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guess. I nestle my head in the crook of his neck, and contentedly breathe in his scent. Finally, he speaks, as I suspected he would. That's why we're out here alone, right? "Max, what're you thinking?" "Thinking? What makes you think I'm thinking anything?" He takes one of my hands into his, and rubs the back of it with his thumb. "You know what I mean." The trouble is, I do know exactly what he means. What am I thinking? Just about the same topic I've been pondering on ever since a certain big bad wolf came into our lives. I know it's not what most people would consider a life and death decision. Yet in some respects, it is to me. It's a potentially life changing one, anyway. And it's more than deciding to attend or not attend a barbecue. It's admitting, to some extent, who this man is in relation to myself. Acknowledging the tie that binds us. "I know." I finally drag the words out. Grrrrrr, Max hates making decisions. Especially important ones. But I think I've waffled long enough. There are people who are waiting on me in order to make their own decisions. I'm not the only one that'll be affected by what I choose to do. "Do you want to go through the pros and cons? Would that be helpful?" 295
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"I guess so." I softly nip at his neck with my lips. "Max, you can't distract me quite so easily." I know that too. Okay, time to get serious in the real world here. "He raped my mother." "That's a con." Richard ticks off one finger on the hand which rests against my shoulder. "Big con. Should that weigh in as two?" "No, we have to weigh everything out as evenly as possible." Figures. Okay, what else. "He helped kill Amelia's mother. And he's not been much of a father to her." Tick. Tick. "He killed his parents. God knows who else we don't know about." "We can't count what we don't know," Richard points out, playing devil's advocate for my sake, "but we can at least take the possibility into consideration. Anymore?" "None that I can think of at the moment." "Alright, then, pros." A moment of silence. "Are there any?" I wonder. I'm doing my best to not be sarcastic, and to give the question fair consideration. 296
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"Well, he's your father, and I have to say that no matter how you were conceived, I'm grateful you were, Max, so I think that's one for the pro side." Kind of hard to argue with heartfelt logic. I kiss him sweetly for his words. "If we want to use that line of reasoning, then there's Amelia's conception, too," I offer. Second pro tick. Then we stall again for a few minutes. I feel Richard's hand pushing through my hair in a comforting motion. "I guess you could make a case for the fact he didn't know you existed, or he would have been in your life." "That's easy to say," I point out. "True, too, but why say it? You know he didn't know about you, so that part is legit. What reason is there for him to lie about the rest of it? Unless you think he wants something?" "From me? I can't imagine what." While Richard and I do pretty well for ourselves, I make no pretense at having any sort of wealth. And while we love our cottage, it's not exactly a place people would kill to live in. We love it because it's ours, and it's something we've done together. We've built our home and our lives here. No one else would have that kind of history or even care. So what materialistic profit can Julian gain from a relationship with 297
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me? I possess no power. I don't belong to a pack, being the proverbial lone wolf, yet he does, or so I've been led to believe. Am I worth anything other than as a son? Am I worth anything as a son? I don't speak these last thoughts aloud. Richard would be upset if I voiced them, and I know it. He hates when I put myself down in any way, even if I consider myself as being truthful. He says I have definite self-esteem issues. I tell him he needs to look in the mirror sometime. "Then maybe he really does want a chance to be your father? The question is, do you want a chance to be his son?" And that, I do believe, is the million dollar question. I honestly don't know what to say or think. I can't even explain the feeling that's assailing me, almost to the point of nausea. I feel guilty and excited, and more than a little curious. Over what? An opportunity to have something I didn't know I really cared about, something I never suffered from the lack of? Is it possible I've wanted it all along and not known it? Dammit, it's too twisted and convoluted. I know it doesn't help that I'm approaching the full moon soon, in just three more days, and my emotions are running higher than usual. That's another consideration. The full moon. Will he seek me out then? If he does, will there be anything I can 298
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do about it? Even though I told Isaac I'd run with him during the full moon some time, I'm not sure how serious I am about really doing it. It doesn't seem like such a good idea, on sober reflection. I'm glad he hasn't called to ask about it, at least not for this month. And with… Julian? Would the idea be even worse? Or possibly better? The strength in numbers theory? "Max?" I raise my head from its safe shelter and look directly into Richard's beautiful blue eyes. I want to say, 'Don't let him get me, please don't let him get to me when I'm vulnerable. Please be careful of him when it's the full moon, he's a wolf, but he's a different wolf than my wolf. Please don't get hurt, especially not on my account. I don't feel safe. I don't know what to do. I'm scared something bad is coming. I don't want to lose you'. Disjointed, confused ramblings. But I can't say them, my vocal chords paralyzed. Or am I afraid to say those things aloud, for fear they might come true? I kiss Richard, expressing my need through my lips, my fingers tangling in his locks, as we press together, wordlessly. He doesn't complain. Not that he could, with my tongue so handily in his mouth. But he wouldn't anyway. I know my boy too well. And all the pros and cons we have come up with go 299
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by the wayside. "I think we should go." There. I've said it. I've actually made a decision. Right, wrong or indifferent. Even if I'm managed to mumble them against Richard's mouth. It's a miracle he manages to understand what I've said. "Then we'll go." It sounds so simple, when he says it like that. I know better, though. But right now, I'm tired of talking or thinking about it. At least the decision is made and I don't have to deal with it for a while. I release his lips, reluctantly, pulling a leaf from his long hair, letting it drift away on the wind. "Guess we should go home and make plans while we wait for Rachel and David?" "Want to go sit by the river first?" That makes me smile. He knows how much I love to do that. To sit with him on the railroad ties, dangling our legs together well above the water line, and gaze out across the water. There's something so very comforting being around water, despite my fears of drowning. Usually those fears are tied to bridges. Usually. We head back to the bike. Richard starts her up, but when I would slide behind him, he shakes his head and motions to me to get in front of him. What the hell? Oh no, 300
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no, no, if he thinks I'm going to drive this thing, he needs to think again. Max as passenger is one thing. Max as motorcycle driving maniac isn't happening. He pats the seat, a gleam in his eyes. We haven't donned our helmets yet, or glasses. Just what is he up to? I reluctantly do as he requests. He leans in to me, whispers reassuringly in my ear, "Don't worry, we're not going to move." The engine is purring beneath us, its power vibrating between my legs. I'm not used to having this view, since I never ride alone and I'm always behind Richard. Sitting here in front doesn't make me want to pretend I'm Brando, though, and I refrain from putting my hands onto the handlebars in a cliché moment worthy of a movie still. I'm waiting to find out what game we're playing. I don't have long to wait. Richard's lips move on the back of my neck, tickling the hairs. At the same time he puts his arms around me, and I can feel him press against me, up close and personal. His hands snake beneath my sweater, caressing my skin. I lean back into his touch, not sure what to do with my hands. For balance, I mean. I know what to do with my hands when it comes to Richard. "You like having all that power between your legs?" 301
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he murmurs in my ear. It's a damn good thing I have such good hearing, 'cause motorcycles aren't known for being quiet. Although, in deference to my auditory sensitivity, Richard's had the bike equipped with the best noise dampeners he can find. He knows the technical details, I don't, but he tells me it's only about 70 decibels now, which is pretty damn good for a motorcycle. It makes the ride a lot more bearable. I turn my head slightly so he has a chance of hearing me. "I like having you between my legs," I counter with a grin. His hand slides between my thighs, tightens about my half-hard cock. I gasp with pleasure. He rubs against me with the palm of his hand while he nibbles on my ear, running his tongue around the outside of it. I'm conflicted. We're supposed to be going to the river, to sit, relax, look at the water, then head home to do some prep type stuff before our company arrives. Okay, it's Rachel and David, but still. On the other hand, this feels good, even if we are sitting on top of our bike, in the middle of a public park where anyone and their brother could come by at any moment.
Richard
could
easily
teach
a
class
on
Exhibitionism 101. He wrote the textbook, I think. As my logical mind argues with my second brain, Richard kicks it up another notch. He manages to release 302
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the zipper on my pants far enough to admit his fingers. He pushes past the waistband of my briefs, and now he has me encased with his hand. Mmmm, so nice and warm and… yeah, definitely feels good. Combined with the vibrations emanating from the motorcycle engine, the ones shooting through my lower extremities, it makes for quite a delicious sensation. I squirm into his touch, although I shouldn't be encouraging him, but it's hard to say no to someone who's so intent on making you feel good and doing a damn fine job of it. I wish I could reciprocate, but I'm not really in a position to do so at the moment. Later, for sure. I know Richard. He's doing this for me, and because he likes doing this to me. I twist my head a little more so I can take his lips in mine, emitting a low growl at the same time. The wolf is close and he's feeling his oats. I know Richard can't keep doing what he's doing for much longer before he'll either have to bring it out into the open or cease and desist. The wolf opts for being outed. I arch backward against Richard, brazenly writhing now. My impatient hand tugs at my briefs, and he understands, pushing them completely out of the way of my aching erection. Much better now, even if the breeze is a little cool against my flesh. Who the fuck cares? Not me. I nip at his lower lip, drawing a small amount of 303
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blood which I suck at. Not only does he not mind, he encourages me. He pulls my tongue into his mouth, wet with his own blood, and sucks on it. Between his mouth and his hand, he drives me crazy with desire. He strokes me like the virtuoso that he is, using a technique which he long ago mastered. Richard is my maestro, and I am his most willing instrument. I love the way he plays me. "Harder," I urge him. I am approaching my finale, I feel it in the way my cock is twitching, my balls tightening, and I know I'm about to lose it all in his talented grasp. "Love you, baby," he murmurs into my mouth, sucking out my very soul with his lips. "Love you, love you, love you…." My cock pulsates in synch with the bike's mechanical oscillations. His words both anchor me and set me free. I cry out sharply and he captures the sound with his mouth. I climax, the tremors coursing through my entire being. He doesn't stop milking me until I'm completely spent, relaxing back against him, panting. He pulls his fingers from my pants, brings them to his lips and licks them, licks the taste of me from them, before he kisses me and I can taste myself. Damn, I feel so good. I'll set aside the fear factor of being seen, since we weren't. Too late, I remember it was behavior such as this which got us our 304
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introduction to a certain off-duty policeman who is now my sister's consort. Or something. "Still want to sit by the river?" he asks, as I zip up and make myself presentable to the casual passerby. I'd like to, but there's something I'd like to do more. "Rain check?" I ask, raising my eyebrows hopefully. "I could really use a shower." He laughs. Richard knows me too well to be offended. And he knows we'll be back many times in the course of our lives. The river isn't going anywhere. Neither are we. "Only if I can take it with you," he teases my lips lightly. Of course he can. Wouldn't have it any other way. We switch places. An interesting perspective while it lasted, I'm glad to resume my regular position in the back. I kiss him thoroughly, stealing his breath, before I whisper, "I love you." Then I lean contentedly against him as we make our way home. What would I do without him? I never want to find out. Ever.
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Chapter Fourteen Battle Begun
The promos for Preston Spark's anti-werewolf smear campaign are all over the air. At least, on Channel 7 they are. It's gotten to the point where we avoid the channel entirely; good thing that only leaves about a million others to choose from, even if they're not local. Not like we watch much television, anyway. The day after our bike ride to Pere Marquette, the temperatures plummet. Just for a moment, I wonder if this means the proposed activities on Sunday will have to be postponed on account of frigidity. Unfortunately, the forecaster tells us, with a sappy grin, it's going to be a beautiful weekend. Warmer things are in store for the greater St. Louis area. Goody. Of course, they've been known to be wrong before. Often. Despite the cold, which I abhor, or maybe because of the approaching full moon, we decide to go out and get some shopping done. Also because I'm restless, and maybe Richard is tired of watching me pace around the house. I can't blame him there. I get tired of me too, sometimes. We stock up on canned goods and other nonperishable items on sale at the local superstore. Saving 306
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money is one of those good things that never go out of fashion. I'm one of those who stops to calculate the price per unit of everything, so that takes up a little time, while I compare various brands to determine the best bargain. As we pass through the book section, I spot a discount travel guide. Greece on a Budget. I sigh wistfully. I honestly can't wait for us to go back. We keep talking about it, but the timing is never right. There's always something. We're just finishing up, closing the trunk on the Monte Carlo, having carefully stowed our purchases inside. The wind whips briskly through the relatively thin material of our jackets and into every exposed surface on our bodies it can find. I regret not bringing out my winter coat yet. "What now?" Personally, home and hot chocolate sound good. If he doesn't suggest it, I will. Before Richard can answer, his phone goes off. I refrain from frowning. Most of his calls are business related, and I can't very well complain. Very seldom does he get personal calls, unlike me. I get them at all hours of the day and night, which isn't surprising considering the wacky bunch I refer to as family and friends. He has no friends and family to speak of outside of me and mine. His choice. But then, I recognize the ring tone, so I know who it is. Maggie. Her tone sounds like the TARDIS coming and/or going, a distinctive whirring/whining/wheezing 307
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sound, which has identified the police box cum time machine/spacecraft for so many years. He holds his phone against one ear as he beckons to me, wrapping his free arm around my shoulders. I burrow gratefully against his sweater, appreciating his performance as a human wind block. He doesn't seem to mind the cold, and his jacket isn't even zipped. Masochist. "Hello, beautiful," he greets her in his usual suave and sophisticated yet very sweet way, pausing for her response. "Nothing, really. What's up?" At first I'm apprehensive; I hope nothing's wrong, but the conversational tone of his voice is reassuring. His hand slides down my back. It's firmly planted against my ass. Mmmm, feels good. I lose track of his end of things for a moment. "I dunno, let me ask." He taps my butt. I glance up. "Maggie wants to know, do we want to meet her and a friend for ice cream?" "Where are they?" "At Eye Screamery." Definitely something to consider. It's our favorite ice cream parlor in all of St. Louis, despite the bizarre name. Although, it seems like odd weather to crave something cold, it really isn't. Especially, considering they have the most amazing hot fudge sundaes. 308
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"I don't know about you, but I could go for a hot fudge sundae," he adds. The man's a veritable mind reader. Or he just knows me very, very well. Chocolate's good for just about everything, and the idea of hot fudge on a chilly day is very appealing. I can't think of anything I'd like better, unless it involved that hot fudge being applied to a certain someone's chest for the purpose of being licked off. I'll hold that particular thought for later. Besides, it's a good chance to talk to Maggie about Sunday. Rachel and David have already agreed to come. So far, Rachel hasn't unearthed much of anything on this heinous Wolf Patrol, but she's going into the Tribune tomorrow and utilizing some of their resources. Diana and her new beau are planning on coming. I'd be very surprised if Mother showed up. Shocked is more like it. "I think that's an excellent idea," I agree. He relays my words and makes the arrangements. Once he slides the phone into his pocket once more, he wraps the second arm around me too, which serves to improve my warmth quotient greatly. We stand there for a moment, huddled together, before deciding it's a whole lot warmer inside the car than out. About thirty minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of the Eye Screamery. It's a standalone building situated on Watson Road, in the southern part of St. Louis County, 309
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in a fairly well traveled business area. From the outside, it's nothing special, pale bricks and big windows, standard landscaping. It's what's inside that counts. Maggie and her friend are waiting in the parking lot, sitting inside Maggie's compact car. Richard pulls past them into the first available space, which turns out to be a number of cars away, and parks. They leap out at our arrival. Maggie rushes at us with hugs of greeting, Richard first, of course. She's not quite the shy girl she used to be. She's definitely coming into her own, and I think Donald has a lot to do with that, although there are still evident traces of the young girl who's always crushed on my lover, if you look for them. Her friend hangs back just a little. Maggie is even now pinking at Richard's attention—ever the showman he is. I try not to roll my eyes, turning to her with an encouraging smile. I can't seem to help myself. "Are you going to introduce us to the newest member of the fan club?" I tease. "What fan club?" She pretends ignorance, but she's smiling. "The Richard Burke fan club, of course," I reply cheekily. "Max, you are so silly," she chides me with a giggle, but I don't hear a denial issuing from her lips. "Richard, Max, this is Erin, Erin, this is Richard and 310
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Max. Can we go in now?" Seconding that excellent idea, we enter, finding an unoccupied booth in one corner. A middle-aged woman with a friendly smile brings menus, and says she'll be right back. The décor of Eye Screamery is typical ice cream parlor fare. Spotless white tables with chrome trim, red vinyl booths, and block glass dividers; the floor is black and white tiled, and the oversized menus are plastic coated. It's the ice cream that sets it apart from all the others; handmade and delicious. They sell it by the quart for home consumption, too. I'm already thinking we should take some home with us. "Want the usual?" my love asks, and I gladly assent, our usual being the aptly named Lover's Delight—huge, gooey, fudgy, whip cream laden, and more than big enough to share with a close friend or lover. Or two or three. It's literally to die for. The waitress returns, takes our orders, and while we wait the few minutes it'll take to construct the concoctions, we get to know Maggie's friend. Her friend's full name is Erin Sebestyén. She smiles and tells us it's a Hungarian name. Erin seems to be about Maggie's age, somewhere in her early twenties. Dark hair, big brown eyes framed by dark spectacles, quiet mouth, all set within a heart-shaped face. And judging by some of the glances I see being thrown my lover's way, he's definitely 311
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gained another admirer. He's such a charming beast. No, wait, I'm the beast. I've no doubt that Maggie has talked him up prior to this meeting, probably shown Erin pictures of him. I think it's cute. "How's Donald?" Richard solicitously asks after Maggie's slightly older boyfriend. I'm being sarcastic. Donald is quite a bit older than she is, having a good thirty years on her. Sadly, the gap between my mother and Isaac is greater. Not going there, though, not right now. And no, I'm not making a commentary on Maggie and Donald's relationship; I think I'm adjusting to it pretty well. The jury's still out on Juliet and Isaac. "He's good. He's at home, making dinner for us." Maggie makes a gesture, which includes Erin. "Erin's spending the night." "That sounds like fun." Richard smiles. "What's he making, haggis?" He winks at her. "No!" The two girls both giggle. "He may be Scottish, but he's not crazy. He's making colcannon," Maggie adds. "He's a very good cook." "For a race car driver." I can't help adding. "Ex-race car driver." Maggie corrects me, as I knew she would. "That was a long time ago. He's been retired for a while now." Somehow, I find it hard to imagine that rather 312
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placid, even-tempered man sitting behind the wheel of a vehicle built strictly for speed, but I know she's not kidding. I've seen the pictures. You just never know about people. "You and Donald busy this weekend?" I ask, taking control of the subject as I try to make a delicate segue into the topic of the barbecue. "We are. We have tickets to a convention up in Chicago, Max, sorry. Why, is something going on?" She looks between Richard and me, curiously. Our
ice
cream
arrives,
so
conversation
is
temporarily suspended, while everyone is served. The waitress asks if we'd like anything else, eyeing the sundae sitting before Richard and me almost skeptically, before she laughs and goes to serve another table. It is one, huge mother of a sundae. Every time we order it, we always request they hold the nuts, exchanging them for chocolate sprinkles instead. I don't think we've ever not finished one yet. Someday, I'm afraid our waistlines might reflect that, but for now, we manage to stay slim and trim—me because of my lycanthropic metabolism, Richard because he's naturally lucky that way. During this enforced lull, I'm considering how to word what I want to say. I want to convey enough information, but not too much. For a moment I ponder the 313
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possibility that Rachel has apprised Maggie of the current situation. But that's something she would leave to me to do myself, or at least ask permission to discuss the matter first. Besides, it's only been a few days, since I actually met the man. Not like I've been trying not to tell Maggie, or anyone else, just a severe lack of time. I decide to go for the humorous approach. That's usually better than the woe is me tack. "A funny thing happened on the way to last Saturday," I begin. No one else says a word, Max has center stage. "I met my long lost father, Maggie. He dropped by the house and said he wanted to get to know me. Then he invited me and all my friends to a barbecue Sunday." I try not to smile too cheesily, but I'm not sure if I succeed. That's a pretty succinct as well as accurate summation, I think, of the chain of recent events, without being too revealing. Maggie is one of the few who knows what I actually am, so I think she'll be able to make certain deductions concerning my sire, putting two and two together and arriving at the proper sum. I stuff a spoon full of sundae into my mouth before daring to look at Maggie, giving her time to react. Sure enough, her mouth hangs open and she seems momentarily speechless. She's also discreet, which explains her lack of words at the moment. Erin looks appropriately confused, 314
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like she's walked into a film in the middle of a crucial scene and doesn't have any idea what's going on. "Your father?" Maggie repeats in a tone of some disbelief. "Wow. That's… unexpected." She looks between the Richard and me, as if she is trying to figure things out on her own without asking too much. "I didn't know you were looking for him, Max. I mean, I thought you didn't know…." She leaves her sentence dangling, uncertainly. "I didn't. It was a chance thing. Actually, we met my uncle first, and then my sister. I have two sisters now." I take a quick bite of whipped cream and hot fudge, before it melts. At least, that's the excuse I give myself. Swallowing, I give her the Cliff notes version of recent events, ending with the invitation to this Sunday's barbecue, leaving out every single wolf reference, of course. "Who all's going?" she wants to know, attending to her own somewhat neglected ice cream. "Besides us? Rachel and David, Diana and whatsisname, and probably Sebastian and Cat." I tick them off on my fingers as I try to remember who I've talked to about this. Most of the usual suspects, actually. "Not… Juliet?" Maggie asks discreetly, testing the waters to see how far out it's safe to swim. "And who's whatsisname?" 315
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Another story involving a potentially embarrassing admission. "No, I really don't think Mother is coming." I leave it at that, not wishing to launch into awkward explanations. Those are going to have to wait for another time. I glance at my lover. He's remained silent, but his hand is beneath the table, holding on to mine, squeezing it for reassurance. "You care to field that question, Mr. Burke?" I arch an inquisitive eyebrow. I know, it'd be easier and a lot less precarious if I just told the tale myself, but I can't seem to do it. It's his damn fault there's anything to tell, what with his need to be an exhibitionist, and a damn foolhardy one at that. I can be forgiven for wanting to watch him squirm a little bit, for once. I should've realized a confession on his part wouldn't have the ability to upset his equilibrium in any way. He's far too even-tempered for that. And he loves an opportunity to show off. "Diana has a new boyfriend," he begins, "his name is Falstaff. Franklin Delano Falstaff." "Wow, that's quite a name," Erin offers. No doubt this portion of the conversation has left her seriously confused. I make a mental promise to turn it in a different direction as soon as possible. Like now. "Yep, that's his name." I nod in agreement. Too late, I realize that my deference to Richard was totally 316
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unnecessary. All I need have done is give her Falstaff's name, and the question would've been answered. Instead, my mind is too full of the truth, and longwinded explanations, and I've inadvertently made an opening for the cat to climb out of the bag, one I intend to tighten, if I can. "So, Erin, how did you and Maggie meet?" "Oh, online," Erin replies, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "We're both on this One Piece site, and we just started talking in the forum." My ignorance shows. I don't know what she means. "It's an anime," Maggie explains. Well, that explains everything, and nothing. I know very little about anime. Most of what I do know is because Maggie talks about them all the time, but I haven't really seen one. I think Richard has more knowledge about them than I do; he speaks her language, at least most of the time. "You know I'd go, don't you, Max, for you and Richard?" Maggie says, changing the conversation back to the previous topic. She's obviously distressed at her inability to be there for us. "But we already made plans and registered a long time ago. And Erin and I are cosplaying. We're supposed to pick up our costumes tomorrow." "You're what?" "Dressing up like characters from an anime," Erin 317
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explains. Maggie giggles before turning serious again. "Otherwise, I'd be there for you, right?" She feels bad and she shouldn't. She has a life outside of us, naturally, and it is a last minute invitation. "Maggie, of course we know," I assure her. "We can exchange notes when you get back." I notice her eyes moving toward Richard, and he tells her the same thing, to her obvious relief. "What's he like, Max?" She turns to me, curiously. "I mean, do you like him okay?" Like him? Not a word I would've used about this man. I'm not even sure I have any intention of liking him. Neither would I hazard a guess as to his true nature. I honestly can't be sure of my own motives in going, other than extreme curiosity. I guess I'll learn something about him Sunday, and we'll just see how things turn out. I have no expectations, or hopes in that regard. Leaves me less opportunity for disappointment. We assiduously apply ourselves to our treat. The subject dies away, of its own accord, as we discuss other topics, cheerier subjects all the way around. Mostly about the upcoming anime convention, and the characters Maggie and Erin are cosplaying. At last, we all admit to having things to do. Maggie 318
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and Erin are picking up some last minute items for the trip, Richard has pictures to develop, and I have a column to write. We exit the Eye Screamery for the parking lot, still talking, making tentative plans to meet up some time next week. We walk them to their car, say a last farewell, and watch them pull away before making the short trek to the Monte Carlo. Even from here, I know she doesn't look right. She's sitting way too low to the ground and her immaculate black finish is marred by something white. At first, I think an enormous bird has vented its diarrhetic spleen on my car, until I realize it's actually lettering. With a sickening feeling of apprehension, I break into a lope, Richard right behind me. I reach our car and stare at it, too horrified for words. All her tires are flat. And emblazoned upon the side panel in white paint are the words: All wolves must die. The 'I' in die resembles a dagger. What the fuck is this nonsense? I look around, as if the answer will magically appear. Written where, on the asphalt? In a window? On the sides of a passing big rig? Of course it doesn't. My ears prick up at the sound of an engine revving. A vehicle pulls out of a spot in an adjoining parking lot. The windows are tinted, so I can't see anything of driver or 319
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passengers. But stenciled in red upon the sides is something I do recognize. Wolf Patrol. The vehicle makes no effort to hide, secure in its own anonymity, and in the righteousness of its cause. Furious, I look around for something to throw. Anything. Even if all I do is bust a tail light, that works for me. Of course, there's nothing. The passenger side window rolls down a little way. I still can't see inside. But I can hear. Very well. "Werewolves must die." The car peels away, merging onto Watson Road, and it's soon lost to sight. I move in the direction in which it was last seen, as if I intend to chase it down. "C'mere, love," Richard pulls me back, into his arms instead. He holds me close, whispering soothingly into my ear. "We'll get that taken of, don't worry. She'll be as good as new." "What about them? What are we going to do about them?" I want to know. "This wasn't a random act, Richard, they targeted me. Me, in particular. They know. I know they know." "We'll get them," he says grimly, "don't worry, baby. We'll get them, no matter how long it takes." As he places the call for roadside assistance, I look at my beloved car and tears spring to my eyes. There was no reason for this, none whatsoever. Why do people have to 320
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be so damn ignorant? I wish I knew.
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Chapter Fifteen An Uneasy Caesura
Perhaps because of the incident with the Monte Carlo, or maybe because of the uncertainty over what this weekend and my meeting with my fath—with Julian will bring. Or, simply perhaps because I'm changing in some way I can't explain. That last consideration seems a tad melodramatic, but, for whatever reason, the full moon didn't go as well as I'd have liked. I know. It's a relative term when discussing one's transformation into a snarling, hairy, potentially lifethreatening beast. But for the past forty some odd years, all things considered, most full moons pass by with relative calmness. To the best of my knowledge, I mean, as you'll recall, once I become the wolf, my awareness ceases and I don't know what happens. Sometimes I wonder, especially the morning after particularly bad nights, when the evidence cannot be denied, usually in the form of bruises, cuts and scrapes and other forms of inadvertent selfmutilation. I say inadvertent because it's the wolf, not me, doing it, even though at the back of my mind, I know we're one and the same. I know. Lycanthropic denial. Not a pretty sight. 322
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I'd gotten a call from Isaac, fairly early in the day, repeating his invitation to run with him. Inside, I cringed at the very idea of allowing my wolf to run free, to inflict it upon an unsuspecting society. Even though I'd be with Isaac, who's about as mellow as they come, my own wolf remains an unknown quantity, at least to me. I'd like to keep him a stranger from the rest of the world, if I can. Evidence suggests he does have a temper. He did kill a rabbit, an act I still find repulsive, one which makes my stomach churn just thinking about it. I begged off, saying I was too upset, maybe next month. Something tells me I'll find another appropriate excuse then too. What made this full moon so disturbing has nothing to do with injuries or self-inflicted bodily damage of any sort. In fact, I emerged relatively unscathed in that regard. No, it was because of the dream which I had. I dreamed I was a wolf. Don't laugh. I can hear you all chortling over that now. Telling me how stupid I am because of course, I am a wolf, even if a wolf in Max's clothing. But, that's not the point. Knowing it and being it are two different things. First off, I never dream when I'm the wolf. I've said this before. I know nothing during the time I'm inhuman. Not a thing. That's what scares me about this the most. The memories themselves are very sketchy. 323
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Nothing overtly violent. I'm in my safe little lock-up, where Richard always secures me on the night of each full moon. I mean the wolf's there and safe, not me, but he's restless. The wolf paces. A lot. He makes occasional efforts to nose the door open. Howls now and then. Curls up and sleeps. That's pretty much all I remember, and those images are fading even now. But, the point is it seemed so real. And it wasn't me seeing them from the standpoint of a casual observer. No, I was the wolf. That's never happened before. Ever. I've never, ever—I can't say it strongly enough— identified with the wolf's consciousness in any way. I mean, while I'm the wolf. There are times when I can feel him, just below the surface of my conscious mind. But, he's always assumed the ascendancy at the time of the change, always kept me blocked out. At least I assume it's by his choice. So what exactly does it mean? I can't help but wonder—and worry. I spend the morning in bed, at Richard's insistence. It's always this way after the full moon. He clears his calendar and babies me. He refers to it as my time of the month, and insists on catering to my every whim. I really know nothing about the change, how or why it happens, and why only during the full moon? Or—and here's a scary thought—is there any way to trigger it outside of that? Voluntarily even? My first thought is, who the hell would 324
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want to, but then I realize there're probably some werewolves that would. I tell him about my dream, expecting him to laugh and tell me I'm being my usual paranoid and silly Max self. But he doesn't. At least not right away. He looks thoughtful, climbing back into our bed, and wrapping his arms around me, resting his forehead against mine, looking deep into my eyes. "Maybe I'm going through the change?" I halfheartedly suggest. I really do need to research this thing. I can't believe I haven't done so before now. Maybe I'm afraid of what I'll find. Or, maybe I'm afraid I'll find out there isn't any factual material out there? That's most likely the case. A dearth of sources. I've no intention of rectifying that, in any way, just for the record. Especially since I tend to be ignorant on the subject. I imagine one of us—and by us I mean werewolves—will come out of the closet and write a tell-all book. I don't intend to be that one. Richard takes his usual pampering up another notch. I think if we owned a bedpan, he'd bring it to me, rather than let me get up to use the bathroom. Or, maybe even a chamber pot that can be stowed away beneath the bed for emergency use. At least he doesn't offer to carry me, which he's more than capable of doing. Enough's enough. I just have to get out of this bed. 325
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He reluctantly accedes to my request, although I'm only going as far as the library. "Think you'll be up to tomorrow?" he frets. He's brought me some hot tea with lemon, setting me up with extra cushions on the sofa. Just to be sure I'm warm enough, he brings in a small electric heater and sets it up where I can benefit from its warmth. It feels nice, even though it's only set on low. To be honest, I'm tired of lying down; my ass wants a change of scenery too. I feel fine, really I do. I'm just a little tired. I'm not sick. I guess you could say I'm suffering from my monthly lycan hangover. "I'll be fine," I reassure him, reaching for his sweet lips. The tea can wait for a minute or two. I pull him down beside me and nestle against him, pulling my blanket around us. I'm more than content to sit like this, not thinking or worrying about anything. At least until the knock on the door comes. Then I'm glad that I'm somewhat dressed, even if it's just a T-shirt and shorts, Richard wearing the same. He rises, grumbling under his breath, glaring when I suggest I can get it. I know it's for me, it has to be. Although some people have the sense not to come by the day after the full moon, there're a few who'll show up because of it. Which narrows it down a bit, as to who it might be. For one awful second, I think maybe….but it's not. 326
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It's Rachel. She's brought me some stuff from the office, and of course she's concerned about my well-being. The stuff could've waited; she'll see me tomorrow after all. What it really boils down to is she likes to take care of me too. Now, here we are. Richard and I cozy on the couch, Rachel in her favorite armchair. "You all right, Max?" She frowns, doing a visual examination of my face. "Do I look that bad?" My hands fly to my face, as if they might somehow feel the truth in some tactile way. I look at Richard for reassurance and he strokes my cheek gently. "Still beautiful, baby." A good answer, but is it honest? "Not bad, Max, just… worn out. I know last night was hard on you, it usually is. If you aren't up to tomorrow, maybe you shouldn't go. You know, just in case." "Just in case what? Are you expecting something to happen? Something worse than what happened to my car?" The damning words are no longer in evidence. Richard took care of it the very next day. He knows someone with an auto body shop, and he called him, asking for a favor. The car was in and out the same day. I wouldn't have thought it possible if I hadn't seen it happen with my own two eyes. All trace of the hateful words is gone. You can't 327
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even see where they were, and her coat is as beautiful as ever. "You never know," Rachel replies honestly. "I know, but I don't think it's likely Julian invited the Wolf Patrol to the picnic," I point out, not bothering to crack a smile, because I'm not really trying to be funny, "and right now I think they're the ones I have to watch out for." "Are we supposed to bring anything?" That stumps me for a moment. I try to replay the moment when we received the invitation back in my mind, but I don't remember anything being said. To be honest, I really don't feel like making anything so I'm going to go with that. For once, Max is going to play selfish. Under the circumstances, can you blame me? "No, I don't think so, unless you really want to. I don't intend to." I pick up the tea and cradle it between my hands, sipping from it. "Rachel, how about some tea?" Richard offers, "I was just about to make some for myself." She protests that it isn't necessary, but he insists. See how thoughtful he is? He gives me a kiss, says he'll be back in just a few, and exits to the kitchen. "Things going good with David?" I ask, eyeing her over the brim of my cup. 328
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"Hmmm? Oh, yes, very good. He's doing some stuff at the office today, and then I'm going to help him wade through his slush pile tonight." She smiles when she talks about her new boyfriend. I like that. David being her literary agent is just icing on the cake. "When you moving in with him?" I can't resist asking. "Or vice versa?" She has her own house, after all. Right next door to my mother. I think he has an apartment somewhere. "Or you could always buy a new place?" I don't really see that happening. Rachel's lived in that one house all her life. She likes it. "Max, Max, Max." She laughs, shaking her head. It seems I've succeeded in distracting her from worrying about me. I'm forty-four, hardly a child, but some people insist on acting like I'm some sort of tender flower. The distraction is short-lived, as the sounds of "Swan Lake" make themselves heard. Damn. The phone's still on its charger in the bedroom. I debate letting it go to voice mail. Rachel rises. "Stay there, I'll get it, sweetie," she insists, moving toward the door. "Rach, that's not necessary," I demur, "It's why I pay for Call Notes. Let 'em leave a message." But, it doesn't matter. Before either one of us can move or not move, Richard already has it, juggling the phone along with two cups of hot tea. Rachel relieves him 329
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of one of them, as he glances at the caller ID. "Your uncle," he says, looking to me. His eyes clearly ask if I want to take the call. I nod, and he hands me the phone. Resuming his seat beside me, he tucks the blanket around us both, mostly around me. I thought it only practical to give Jason my number. You never know when he or Amelia might need something. Besides, he isn't that bad, and he is my uncle. I think my Mom likes him a lot better than Julian. Well, that's not surprising. The conversation is a short one—he only wants to let me know the venue for the event's been changed. It's now being held at a small farm, out near Hermann. He asks for my email address so he can send me directions. I give him the one I reserve for close friends and family, surprised at myself. Amelia has it already, so I tell myself that giving it to Jason is only logical. Why this change of location, I wonder, especially at such a late date. I don't get a chance to question him as to why the reason for the change, though, because I can hear another caller trying to beep in. I click off and take the second call. It turns out to be my mother. "Max, have you seen Isaac?" "Isaac? No, why, should I?" What an odd question. It's not like I hang out with the man. That's her department. 330
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But my mother sounds worried. "I thought maybe he hooked up with you last night. He talked about it." "Well, yeah, he did call, and he asked, but no, we didn't hook up. Why, what's the matter?" "I'm just concerned, that's all. He never came home after the full moon." I ignore the fact she refers to her house as Isaac Dredd's home and focus on the issue at hand instead. "Did you expect him to?" I can't think what else to ask that won't sound immature. "I did." "I'm sure you'll hear from him, Mother. I assume you called his cell?" "Of course. I'm not an idiot," she snaps and I inadvertently flinch at her tone. "There's no answer." "I'm sure he's fine, Mom. He's a big boy. If I see him, I'll tell him to phone home." "Funny, Max." She isn't laughing. Personally, I think she's overreacting. I bet his wolf just partied too hard and maybe Isaac let his free spirit run a bit too free, you know? Not exactly cause to file a missing persons report. I don't think it is, anyway. "Sorry, just trying to help. I'm sorry I haven't seen 331
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him, Mom." "Max, are you going tomorrow?" That was a quick change of subject. Uh oh, now I get it. She isn't mad about Isaac. It's the other matter. How can I be so blind? I'm not going to lie, though. "We are, yes. In fact, I was on the phone with Jason when you called." A moment of silence ensues. "Jason. Why?" "He wanted to tell me the barbecue got moved, that's all. Look, no one expects you to come. I wouldn't even worry about it.' "I'm not worried about it, Max, I'm worried about you." "Mother, I'll be fine. I'll have Richard with me. Together, we can face anything." My lover lifts my spare hand to his lips, kisses the fingertips gently. "Max?" "Yes, Mom?" "Both of you be careful, please?" "We will, we will. Rach is coming too, and David. And Di. And Sebastian and Cat." It occurs to me too late that perhaps my sister and my cousin haven't told her. I hope I didn't just accidentally spill the beans. "Call me, please, when you get home? Promise?" Rather than argue the point, I give in. It's little 332
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enough I can do, considering my whole guilt trip about even going. "I will," I promise. "I have a room full of witnesses that will attest I'm going to call you tomorrow afternoon, when I get home from the affair in question." Well, two anyway. "Satisfied?" "For now," she says reluctantly. "I have to go. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you, Max." "Love you, Mom. Don't worry. Everything will be fine." At least I hope so.
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Chapter Sixteen Trials and Tribulations
Sunday morning arrives, bright-eyed and bushytailed, with perfect temperatures, especially for this time of year, and sunny skies. The trees display their gaudiest fall finery, as their foliage kamikazes to the ground in death spirals of reds and oranges. Even the wind has decided to cooperate, the bone-chilling breezes of only two days past having been replaced with balmier puffs of air. Altogether, not a complaint can be rightfully registered. Regarding the weather, that is. I wake with the idea firmly entrenched in my brain that I've been making way too much of this thing. It's a barbecue, nothing more. Certainly nothing as sinister as I've been building up in my mind. You know, the whole making mountains out of molehills thing. Time to put everything back into proper perspective. We're going to a barbecue, not a wake. There'll be food, hopefully good, and we'll have friends there, as well as some family. Jason and Amelia, I mean. All right, Julian too, genetically speaking. This could be my chance to ask questions about things I've always wondered about. About me, my condition, and what 334
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the future might hold for someone with my lycanthropic tendencies. Even then, the data won't be complete, as there are bound to be things he doesn't know. I was born to this, he wasn't. Even in the werewolf world, I'm a freak of nature. Alright, I'm putting an end to that line of thinking right now. I've sent every one of my supporters an email regarding the change in plans, with directions to the new location. I follow the emails up with phone calls, just to be safe. It occurs to me, too late to act upon, that I could've gotten a ride with Jason and Amelia, but perhaps I didn't think of it because riding with them would've involved Julian too. Scratch that idea. I have no notion who else has been invited to this shindig. I never thought to ask. In all fairness, I'd other things on my mind at the time. Like the fact I came face to face with my progenitor for the first time in my adult life. In my entire life, actually. I call my mother also, to ascertain her well-being, which at the moment isn't very well. Still no word from Isaac. I try to reassure her, but I don't know how successful I am. I certainly don't want to be the one to suggest he's found someone else. I don't even know if it's true, but consider two things: he's a whole lot younger than she is, and he's a free-spirited werewolf. I don't know where I'm 335
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going with this, never mind. I guess it's easier for me to imagine he's run off with a new girlfriend than to think maybe his wolf got caught in a trap on the night of the full moon, or maybe ran into those barnstorming villagers I'm always meandering about, the ones with the pitchforks and such. I have way too much imagination sometimes, I think. Mom reminds me it's bow season, since we're going out into the boondocks, and to please be careful. I always am, but I appreciate her concern. Luckily, any Robin Hood wannabes will be wearing bright orange, which will make them stand out from the trees, not that I expect to be in a situation where that will become a problem. Naturally I agonize over what to wear, but I finally settle on a pair of casual tan slacks and a long-sleeved, buttoned shirt of a hue somewhere in the salmon family. Richard is in basic black and looking very scrumptious, especially with his top buttons undone. I can't resist kissing that creamy flesh, which leads to kissing other things, which leads to undressing and redressing. Good thing I always allow extra time for getting anywhere. We have a history of doing this. It's a fairly straight shot for us to head west out Highway 70 to Highway 19, and then a little ways off the beaten track to our final destination. When Jason sent the directions, he mentioned the farm belongs to a friend of his 336
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and Julian's. I'm a little surprised that they have mutual friends, but maybe that's just a catty observation on my part. It doesn't matter. It's going to be a good day, I've decided. We pull down a winding drive to a large farmhouse. The house sits beside a great deal of cleared land on three sides, while the fourth side butts up against a wooded area, which stretches as far as the eye can see; some of the open area is divided into sections by wooden fencing. It doesn't appear to be a working farm, at least not anymore; you can usually tell, by looking at the fields, whether they're lying fallow between planting seasons or if they're in disuse. The weathered-looking house is a lot larger than our own. It's a two story, with a huge wraparound porch, nothing that a good paint job can't take care of. In the field, I spy a striped canopy. That must be where the main event is being held. A young man in torn jeans and a flannel shirt directs everyone where to park. Holding a beer bottle in one hand, he waves us to our spot with the other. I end up alongside a big oak tree. Falling acorns I can deal with; most of them are probably on the ground now anyway. I'm more than a little paranoid, even for me. Ever since the incident, I've been debating getting a car alarm. A feral cat with short grey fur is hunkered on the ground nearby, licking its bits. At our approach, it rises, arching its back majestically. It 337
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gives us a disdainful look before slinking out of sight. We get out of our car and I glance around, curious to know who else is here. From our little group, that is. I spot Diana's car, sitting closer to the house; looks like she got here early for a change. Maybe that's Falstaff's influence. There's Sebastian's SUV too, not too far from hers. I smile at the sight. I can always count on Sebastian to be there for me, as well as to tell me what he thinks. What perfect timing. Just as we're about to head in the direction of the other guests, I see Rachel and David coming up the drive. They're directed to a spot close to the Monte, so we wait for them to park. Richard wraps his arms around my waist, and I lean against him for a moment. I feel his lips brush over the top of my head. Rachel chuckles at me as they approach. She has an arm looped around David. He's holding a foil wrapped something in his hands. It's good to see them so happy. They're both wearing jeans and T-shirts, along with light jackets. Rachel has added extra blonde highlights to her hair today, along with touches of magenta. I wonder if she'll ever stop playing with her hair color. Rachel chuckles. "What?" I question her. "You know what," she smirks. "You've got that afterglow thing going on. You really do give yourself 338
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away, you know that?" I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she's right. "Oh, shut up," I tease her, kissing her cheek, as I wink at David. He shakes his head. He's gotten used to us, and doesn't mind our banter, or any of our calls to one another in the middle of the night. I think he might just be a keeper. "What'd you bring?" I ask, nodding to David's cargo. "I made those dark chocolate caramel brownies you love so much," she explains. "And I frosted them." Oh damn. She knows my weaknesses only too well. She smugly kisses my cheek, then Richard's. "Ready for this?" Her tone is light, but I can hear the concern which it masks, and I do love her for it. "Ready." We nod our assent. The young man in the torn jeans approaches, during a lull in his valet duties. "Julian says for everyone to go on out there, when they get here." He waves the hand with the bottle toward the nearby field, giving us a curious look, probably trying to place who we are and why we're here; I'm surprised he doesn't ask for ID. I decide not to enlighten him; I have trouble just thinking the word father, much less saying it. My glance flickers toward the large pavilion, green striped and open on all sides. It seems the place to be, so 339
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we might as well do it. It sits maybe a hundred yards or so away, in the midst of open fields, situated at the bottom of a gentle downhill slope. The pavilion fairly thrums with activity as we walk toward it. There are a number of wooden picnic tables, both inside and outside the tent, some of which are laden with food-filled containers, crock pots, Tupperware, casserole dishes, and covered plates. Beverage-and-ice filled coolers with hinged lids, squat handily near the tables. Situated close at hand are the mandatory grills and smokers, without which no barbecue is truly complete, as well as a Mexican fireplace for warmth. Despite the temperature having risen to bearable figures, I can see it's in use. A little farther past these, is a large stone barbecue, which looks as if it could handily fit an entire side of beef. The air is redolent with the scent of roasting meat. My nostrils flare in appreciation as I take in the various aromas of beef and pork. I'm finding the appetite I didn't have for breakfast this morning, when my stomach was too tied up in knots to think of doing more than downing some coffee and force feeding myself some whole wheat toast. There are a good number of people here, at least thirty or forty, maybe more. If I'd realized how many guests were expected, maybe I'd have reconsidered coming. I push the cowardly thought aside. I may not prefer crowds, but I 340
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can handle myself in them. Besides, I'm far from alone. Most of the strangers are men, but some of the men have brought their women, and there are even a few children running about, chasing after balls and one another, as well as a couple of barking dogs. I sniff at more than the food as I become uncomfortably aware of the scent of wolf which permeates the air, more than I've ever encountered in one place before. I'd expected the aroma to be present, of course, what with both me and Julian being here. But now I'm beginning to think we're not the only ones, far from it. A whole lot of wolf testosterone going on here. Is this Julian's pack, perhaps? Dumb question. Of course it is. I should've considered the possibility sooner. Didn't Juliet and Jason both say he's all about being Alpha, the top wolf? I hadn't realized there were so many of them. I thought large wolf packs were the stuff of myths. I guess I was wrong. "I see Di," Richard nudges me. I follow his pointing finger until I see her too. See them, her and Falstaff. I haven't decided yet if it's easier to call him by his last name, or force myself not to say FDR. I haven't asked him yet if he prefers Franklin or Frank. I guess we'll get to that if she keeps him around long enough. The women in my family aren't known for longevity in their relationships. I can see she's in conversation with someone. It isn't until the 341
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intervening bodies between me and this other person shift that I see whom she has buttonholed. Lovely. It's Julian. Why am I not surprised? And why do I want to shout out a warning to my sister to please, for the love of God, be careful what she says to him? I know. Foolish. Very foolish. Me, that is, not Diana. I
notice
there's
a
fourth
member
of
this
conversational quartet, a young blond man with very short almost bleached hair, wearing khaki pants and an army drab T-shirt. His stance is so severe, almost as if he has something shoved up his ass. He holds his hands clasped behind him in a very formal, quasi military posture. Suddenly he turns his head. His eyes lock on mine. He's staring at me as if I'm the person he hates most in the world. I've heard of disliking someone at first sight, but this is ridiculous. At the same time, I get the eerie feeling I've seen him somewhere before, but I can't imagine where. I jerk my chin up, my entire body tenses. The wolf inside isn't too tired for this; apparently he recovers from the full moon faster than I do. He must sense something I don't. I hear a low growl. It isn't until I feel my lips drawing back into a snarl, I realize the growl is mine. Richard's loving hand turns my head toward him, concern evident in his expression. "Max? Max, what's 342
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wrong?" They're all staring at me. Well, Richard, Rachel and David. Richard's hand strokes mine with a growing urgency, as if he's afraid of what I might be about to do. Like what? Transform into the wolf, right here and now? Not
possible.
Other
scenarios
aren't
worth
the
consideration. I try to make light of it. Right. Because I have such a light comedic touch. I have no idea what I babble, but I'm thinking this would be a good time for a drink. "There's Max now!" Diana's voice cuts through my inner monologue, bless her irritating screech, pulling me out of my strange trance and back into the moment. Except all eyes are now drawn toward me and I'm not sure that's any better. I try to push past my impending panic attack, tell my wolf to stand down. They'll stop gawking, the moment will pass, once they see nothing of interest is going on here. Except that doesn't happen. Julian turns, sees me, and like a scene from some dramatic film, played in slow motion, he heads straight toward me. I watch his approach in an almost detached manner, taking in the details of his appearance. His hair is every bit as dark and spiky as I recall from our first meeting, a complete opposite of my own. He wears a black 343
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turtleneck sweater, which clings to his muscular torso, over which is a grey jacket, open. Dark grey trousers complete the ensemble, over black military style boots. Everyone between he and I automatically fall back, leaving him a clear path. His stride is regal, powerful, and determined. Too late, I suspect every single one of these people knows who I am, and have been anticipating my arrival. All hail Max, the Crown Prince. He reaches me and stands before me, smiling, as if he's very happy to see me. But I speak first, the wolf telling me to claim the moment. "Hello, Julian." I even manage a smile. See? I can do this. "Max, I'm glad you came." He offers his hand, rather than a paternal embrace. I breathe a little easier, and take it. Without skipping a beat, he then moves on to Richard. My lover is slower to accept his handshake, but he does. For me. Then Rachel and David. If I'm the prince, where's the princess? I barely have time for the thought to enter my head before she's there, with Jason behind her. A stranger would think Jason is her father, before he'd figure out that Julian wins the paternal sweepstakes. She's wearing a black tee that reads I ♥ Severus Snape, as evidence of her obsession with all things Harry Potter. 344
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She hugs me tightly, whispering in my ear, "It's all right, Max, everything's alright," in a soothing tone. Julian beams at us. I guess that's natural, right? To be happy your children get along, or something. I know my mother used to hate it when Diana and I would fight. She'd scream at both of us to knock it off, then send us to our respective rooms. Luckily, we got past that as we got older. Everyone stares at us. Correct that, at me. Richard has never let go of me, his arm securely about my waist. Rachel and David stand behind us. Amelia steps back, Jason moves forward. More handshaking and name offering. Then the procession begins as every member of the pack, perhaps in pecking order, I don't know much about these things, comes forward to be introduced to the heir apparent. No way I'll ever remember all these names or be able to put them with the proper faces. I'm not even sure I want to or whether it'll be necessary. They all smile and they're all polite, but I have to wonder what they're thinking, having me thrust into their midst like this. A welcome addition or an interloper? What I find disturbing are some of the looks I get from the daughters of the pack, as if they're sizing me up for a leash and a wedding band. I imagine there's some sort of prestige involved in being wed to the Alpha's son. Luckily, Julian introduces Richard as my fiancé; some of them don't hide 345
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disappointment very gracefully. Well, he's one up on Juliet there. I don't mean that the way it sounds. At least I hope I don't. During these proceedings, the blond military type hangs back from it all, but I feel his hot glare upon me. Once the others have dispersed and returned to their own groups and activities, only then does he step forward, taking his place at Julian's side. "Max, I'd like you to meet Kurt Weiss. Kurt, this is my son, Max Montague." Kurt puts out his hand, stiffly, and I take it. It's as hard and cold as its owner. "Kurt is my Beta," Julian adds. I have a feeling I've been given a significant piece of information and it may explain much. I won't ask him what it means now, but I make a mental note to query Amelia later, in private. I have a feeling she knows all about it, and then some. "It is a pleasure to meet you," Kurt says stiffly. His eyes make liars of his words. The wolf is still growling, inside. I manage to contain it, but I don't discount the message he's sending to me. Watch out for this man, he's trouble. I mumble my own false affirmations of pleasure. We're even for the moment. 346
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"Kurt, get our guests something to drink," Julian instructs, playing host to the hilt. "We have beer, soda, water, anything you'd like. Feel free to help yourselves to whatever you see. Any friends of Max are friends of the pack." I marvel at how easily the words flow from his lips. He's no hesitation in marking himself as a werewolf, and not just any lycanthrope but the Alpha werewolf, a major player in the world of werewolves. I've never had that sort of courage. I've always kept my wolfish nature hidden. I know it's not illegal, at least not yet, and I don't know if you can consider it immoral either. I mean, it's not the werewolf that's bad, but some of the things he does, just like with any other person. You know, that whole 'guns don't kill people, people kill people' rationalization. Something tells me I need to really bone up on this stuff if I'm going to keep up with what's going on. That same something makes me wonder if in the back of my head I've already decided to accept this relationship, to take what's being offered to me, and to nurture it. That question I can't answer, not enough data and not near enough time to assimilate everything. While the poster boy for the Aryan nation schleps drinks, Julian takes us to the buffet line where it's every man for himself, leaving us, momentarily, to make our own selections. There is an incredible amount of food here, and 347
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it all looks so good. This pack certainly knows how to eat. Even the pickiest of eaters couldn't fail to find a great deal to his or her personal epicurean satisfaction. We pile our plates high. I have a hard time deciding what to try, so I take a little bit of everything that looks good, noting items I can always come back for. I'm sure we'll still find room for dessert. The way that I eat, if I ever lose this high metabolism of mine, I'm going to turn into a flabby middle-aged man rather quickly. "Love you, babe," Richard whispers in my ear, "and I'm very proud of you, you're doing great." Before everyone and their wolf brother, he kisses me gently. I don't detect any outwards signs of disapproval at our flagrant display of affection, as I'd half expected I would. Another point for the pack. What, am I keeping score or something? We stand in the middle of the pavilion for a moment, waiting for the others, as we contemplate where to sit. The decision is taken out of our hands by Julian, who requests our presence at his table. He has made room for all of us, he says, leading the way. I find myself moving after him, everyone else following me, to a table sitting outside the pavilion, near both the stone barbecue and the Mexican fireplace. I breathe a little easier at not being so close to all the others. I suspect he knew I would when he made the 348
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offer. The warmth from these two fires is just an added attraction. He motions to me to sit beside him, taking the head of the table for himself. I hesitate for just a moment, before sliding into place, Richard beside me. The others array themselves about the table, couples together, Amelia and Jason as well. Despite the fact this table is larger than the others, and more comfortable than your average picnic table, there is no room for Kurt. He opens his mouth as if to protest, perhaps assuming I've usurped his position—thinks better of it, and slinks away. My inner wolf releases a howl of triumph. I'm not so sure it's so much a victory won as a battle begun, and I can't rid myself of the idea I've seen him somewhere before. At first, little is said as we tuck into this delicious food. I feel half-bad now for not having brought anything to contribute. Not that it's needed, there's more than enough food to feed a small army, but as much a gesture of politeness as an opportunity to show off my culinary skills. Once the first plate is consumed, and the second one procured, I slow down a bit, the better to breathe, as well as make conversation. "I've been reading your column for some time now, Max," Julian begins, pushing back his second plate. He must have a high metabolism too. Naturally. He finishes his 349
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bottle of beer, and without his saying a word, Amelia is beside him, placing another cold one before him. He favors her with a paternal smile before she glides back to her place. "I read the Tribune every morning, over breakfast. I'd no idea who you were then, of course. Imagine my surprise at discovering that not only do I have a son, but he's an acclaimed journalist." "I wouldn't exactly say that," I modestly demur. I don't consider myself an actual journalist. I don't write news articles of any sort, I merely dispense advice to those who seek it. Which isn't to say I'm denigrating what I do, I'm being honest about it. Rachel and Cat are both much better writers than I ever hope to be, and Maggie is the actual journalist among us. I simply got lucky by being in the right place at the right time. At one time, I considered it as being the wrong place, when Rachel first buttonholed me about taking over the column, which once belonged to the misanthropic Auntie Claire. It's grown on me since, and has proven to be perfect for conforming to my erratic personal schedule, and it pays pretty well. I think I'm approaching the five hundred to one thousand range in the number of places where I'm currently syndicated. Not too shabby. I should ask Rach, she keeps track of all that stuff for me. "You're too modest," he insists. "He's very modest," Richard chimes in, followed by 350
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a Greek chorus of agreement from friends and family alike, which only serves to send flames shooting through my cheeks. Not quite the way I envisioned or hoped the conversation would go, although I'm not sure what I had in mind either. "Did I mention that David is Rachel's agent?" I divert the topic from myself, "he's helping her sell her book, so someday I'll be able to say I knew her when." "Is that so?" Julian turns his attention to them, while I breathe a silent sigh of relief that the spotlight's been shifted away from me. "I find the process of publishing fascinating, do tell." David's more than happy to discuss publishing, and the mechanics of matching author with publisher, and Rachel's book in particular. I've read it, of course, it's a brilliant novel, if I do say so. While they are thusly occupied, I turn to Richard for what passes as a private moment, or as private as it gets when surrounded by so many people with super-attenuated hearing, that is. "You okay?" I murmur into his ear, leaning into him. "Perfect," he replies. "How are you holding up, baby?" He's looking deep into my eyes, trying to read me in case I should shortchange the truth, or make light of my feelings. 351
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Determined to be honest and hide nothing from Richard, I take a moment to touch upon my sensibilities, see if any alarms are going off. All's quiet; even the wolf seems placated for the moment. "Strange, but good," I candidly report. "Nothing I can't handle. Nothing we can't handle," I amend. As proof of my assertion that I'm indeed alright, I proceed to offer him my lips and he accepts them gladly. "Better than I thought I'd be, actually." "Glad to hear it," he murmurs into my mouth. He touches his tongue lightly to mine. I know exactly what he's asking for. I arch my eyebrows accordingly. I hope he realizes there's no place for what he has in mind. Any of that will have to wait 'til later. And no, not in the car on the drive home. Never in a moving vehicle, too much potential for tragedy. Kurt Weiss is staring again, from the distance which separates us, and it's getting on my nerves. So much so that when Julian pulls out a cigar from his pocket with the obvious intention of smoking it, I see an opportunity, as well as the necessity, to remove myself from the vicinity of Kurt's glare. As you know, I don't tolerate smoke of the tobacco variety. Richard has almost completely quit now. I'm hoping he'll finally end the nasty habit, once and for all someday. I guess not all werewolves mind the smell as much as I do. 352
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"You're not leaving, I hope?" Julian asks, as I rise from the bench, Richard following suit. I suppose it would be more diplomatic to say something along the lines of I need to stretch my legs, but I see no reason not to be honest. "I can't handle those." I nod toward what appears to be a Havana he holds to his lit match. I'm not exactly a connoisseur of fine cigars. "I understand." He glances between Richard and I, suspecting we have ulterior motives of the sexual variety. I decide not to enlighten him otherwise. Let him think what he wants, I feel no obligation to offer him an explanation. I simply nod and move along, with my lover in hand. I see Weiss wastes no time in taking my place, like a dog guarding a favorite bone. He doesn't deign to look in my direction. We mill about the pavilion, Richard allowing me to wander where I will, which seems to be in the direction of the desserts. As if I could even eat another bite. I force myself to walk away from those temping taste treats: chocolate cake, yellow cake, cookies brimming with M&Ms, and chocolate chips, assorted brownies, including Rachel's, various pies of the fruit-laden variety—wait, is that a cheesecake that I see before me? Maybe later, I promise myself. Diana and Falstaff have remained at the table with Julian. My sister seems to have developed a deep 353
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fascination with my newly discovered pater. I hadn't realized how deep her father fixation actually went. Let's hope she doesn't try to adopt mine. No, not sibling rivalry, but caution concerning someone we know little about, and the little we do know isn't exactly complimentary. Sebastian and Cat remain sitting there as well. From here, I can hear my cousin arguing with Julian about something. Discussing, he'd call it. For all I know, he's offering Julian financial advice. Business is business, he'd say. Also, you can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she invests their money. Rachel and David have gotten up also and are engaged in conversation with a couple whose name escapes me at the moment. "I can show you the woods if you like." My sister has appeared at my elbow out of nowhere. Amelia, that is. She's pulled some of her long brown hair into a tail and tied it with a dark green bow at the back of her head; it only serves to emphasize her high cheekbones and large eyes. "Is there something to see in the woods?" "Nature in all her beauty," she replies. "I'd like to show you and Richard my favorite spot, if you'd like to see it." I have a feeling she has more than a nature hike on her agenda, we might as well see what it is. I can use the time away from other things. "That sounds good, sure." 354
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I manage to catch Rachel's eye, holding up one finger, where she can see it, indicating the direction we're heading in with my thumb. I don't want her to freak if she notices we're gone. She knows what I'm saying, and nods in return. I trust her to tell the others, should it become necessary. Nothing is said as we casually stroll away from the fields, past the seemingly empty house, towards the woods on the other side. The parking area is filled now and I suppose valet service is no longer required, latecomers can fend for themselves. Taking advantage of our proximity, I check on the Monte Carlo. She's unharmed. I spot the untamed cat once more, but make no move to get close to him; I know better. He disappears in the trees. Just before we enter the woods, I pause. "What about hunters?" I query. "Is there any possibility of running into any archers in search of the elusive Bambi?" I personally have no use for hunting, although proponents of the sport claim it's necessary for keeping certain animal populations under control. How the wolf feels, I'm not sure, as I keep his bloodlust as tightly reined as I can. I'm lucky there aren't any hunters in our neck of the woods back home, but this is another territory entirely. "This is private land," Amelia replies, "no one would dare." 355
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"What about them?" Richard indicates the pack with a sweep of his head in their general direction. As he does, it occurs to me every single wolf I've ever encountered has been male. I wonder why that is. "They hunted the other night," Amelia says simply. That makes sense. The night of the full moon. The thought, they only come out at night, enters my head. I don't know why, but I shiver. Richard slides his arm around me. "Are you cold, baby? I can get your jacket out of the car." We brought coats, at my insistence, in case the weather turns nasty, even though it isn't supposed to. They're lying, even now, across the back seat. But I'm not actually cold, so it won't help. I shake my head, contenting myself with squeezing his fingers in our entwined grip. "Don't people get suspicious, hearing that many wolves howling, even way out here?" I can't help but wonder. "How can they keep their kills from being noticed? Do they have their own clean up squad or something?" "There aren't usually this many of the pack here," Amelia explains. "Julian called in all the members, even the ones from outside the area. Normally there aren't more than five or six wolves at the full moon, counting Julian and Kurt. And that's only when they're around. He only calls the full pack in for special occasions." 356
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"What's the special occasion?" I ask curiously, "if not the full moon?" Which I suspect it isn't, since that is a monthly occurrence, certainly not a rarity. She turns her head, fixing those deep mysterious eyes of hers upon me. "You are, Max. They were summoned to meet you." The notion floors me, and I can't think of anything worth saying, other than I find it hard to believe. Or do I? Considering the reception I got, maybe the idea isn't as farfetched as it seems. After ten minutes of walking, we reach a clearing in the woods. In the side of a small hill, Mother Nature's fashioned a natural shelter made of rock. I couldn't begin to tell you what kind they are. The base of the rocks juts out from the rest. The top of this outcropping is somewhat flat, and big enough for a couple of people to sit on, and is neither uncomfortably high nor so low that you're almost on a level with the ground. Amelia brushes off the leaves which have accumulated on the surface, which otherwise seems relatively clean, for rocks. With a wave of her hand, she indicates we should sit there. When I insist that she should, instead, she shakes her head, leaning instead against a nearby tree, hugging her thin arms about her body. "You're upset about Kurt, aren't you, Max?" 357
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"Well, I don't know if upset's the word," I waffle. "I feel it, Max." I can't argue with her, without actually lying, so I don't. "What's the deal with him?" Richard wants to know, rising indignation evident in his voice. Just what I want to know, too, what the guy's problem is. "He's jealous. Crazy jealous." "Of me? Why? I'm no threat to him." Amelia makes no immediate reply. I hear the crunch of leaves now, drawing close. I tense, ready to spring, if necessary. When the grey cat makes its appearance, rather than something sinister, I relax slightly, feeling Richard's tension drain as well. I think we're both just a bit more on edge then we'd realized. The cat rubs against Amelia's leg. She leans down and runs her hand along the length of his spine. He purrs loudly. I know better than to try to pet him. Cats sense the wolf, and most of them don't want anything to do with me. The cat proceeds to jump into my sister's arms. I'm amazed at how docile this creature is with her, when before he was all spit and venom. She continues to pet him, lovingly, as she addresses us. "Let me tell you what I know," she says. "I thought you'd have trouble with him. I didn't think he'd take well to 358
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the idea of being replaced." "Replaced?" I interrupt indignantly. "I'm not replacing him in any way." Amelia doesn't say anything, and I'm immediately contrite at my petulant outburst. "I'm sorry, please continue." I lean against Richard, my rock of Gibraltar as well as my happy place. He puts his arms around me, anchoring me. "Kurt was about fifteen when Julian found him, living somewhere in Indiana. That was about fifteen years ago, when I was four. Julian was attracted to him, and what Julian wants, he takes." "I don't follow. Are you saying, Julian likes young boys? What? Did he hang around the local high school or something?" Not an endearing trait in my book, or Richard's either. I can tell by the way his hand twitches in mine. "I never said he's a pedophile," she replies, her voice remaining even, almost detached, despite my own accusatory tone. "What I heard is that Julian met Kurt at some little convenience store his parents owned. Julian liked him, so he seduced him, and then he stayed on there for a bit, while Jason took care of me. One day, Kurt's folks apparently caught them in the back room. His parents ended up dead. That was the same day Julian bit Kurt and 359
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turned him. He brought him home and told the pack Kurt was his Beta." I think that's a whole lot of responsibility for one teen-aged boy. But it still doesn't explain his attitude toward me. Or what a Beta is or does. "A Beta is like a second in command," Amelia explains before I can even ask the question. "He carries out the Alpha's orders, makes sure the others listen and obey. He's in charge of corporal punishment, if it's necessary. And Betas have an obligation to have sex with their Alphas, if it's desired." Doesn't that sound like a lovely job description? "Does Julian live with Kurt then?" I still haven't quite figured that one out. I'm not even sure why I'm asking, other than I'm trying to make sense of things. There's so much about the pack mentality that's confusing to me. "Julian lives wherever he wants, he doesn't like to be tied down." "That still doesn't explain why Kurt doesn't like Max," Richard interjects. Amelia looks from one of us to the other, as if the answer is obvious. "Because with Max here, Kurt knows he won't take over the pack, Max will. Not to mention Max is Julian's real son, and Kurt isn't. He's afraid Julian'll make 360
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Max his Beta." Wow. Pushing aside the sex with the Beta thing, which obviously wouldn't apply to me, she's given me an awful lot to take in at one time, especially coming on top of everything else. I still don't think I've completely processed the idea I even have a father in the first place. I mean a real flesh and blood, non-mythical one, much less the idea I'm some sort of a favored son now. But, there is one thing I do know. "I'm not even considering joining his pack. Are you serious? I've always been a lone wolf. I don't see myself changing that now, do you?" I look to Richard for confirmation. "No, it's not you," he agrees. "Maybe you're jumping ahead of yourself a little bit, Amelia," he suggests gently. "Has Julian said he wants Max to join the pack or be his Beta? What has he actually said about him?" Amelia stiffens, not at Richard's words, but rather as if something or someone has caught her attention. She straightens her former relaxed posture against the tree, allowing the cat to jump down; he skitters away. "Julian has always wanted a son more than anything in the world," she says, very softly. "You're everything to him now, Max. Everything. I have to go. He needs me. Join us when you're done here." Before I can think of anything to say in 361
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response, she's disappeared into the trees, and is quickly lost to view. Done here? What does she think we're going to do? Seriously? I don't think sex is on either one of our minds at the moment. For some reason, my mother comes to mind. I wonder how she is? Removing my phone from my pocket, I think I'll call her. But, to my annoyance, I discover there's no signal, which renders that idea useless. I'll have to try again later. I find Richard's watchful eyes upon me. "Thought I'd check on the Isaac situation," I explain. "Max, he's your father, and I'll do anything you want, you know that. But I won't let you get hurt; do you understand what I mean?" He looks so serious. My heart leaps into my throat for a moment, before I reply by pulling him to me, hugging him. "I understand. It's not like I'm ready to nominate him for father of the year or anything. Or new best buddy. I think it's pretty amazing I'm even able to be around him at all, you know? Especially knowing what I know about him, and my mother, and me…." I trail off, unsure of what else I want to say. "But you're curious about him, too," he finishes for 362
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me. I nod. I can't deny I'm curious. I can't blame Diana either, for her obvious fascination with him. To be fair, Julian's been very nice today, very accepting of me, my Richard, and my friends. On the other hand, he's had no reason not to be. And there's that whole he's a killer thing going on too. I marvel how everyone seems to overlook that. Plus, I wonder if he's aware of the behavior of his Beta? How can he not be, right? Will he take Kurt to task for his nasty attitude, perhaps in private? I'm doing it again, getting ahead of myself. Take things one step at a time. Caution, Max, let caution be your watchword. Suddenly I remember. An image flashes through my brain. A brief one, but it's enough. I remember where I've seen Weiss. It was at the deli, the day Richard got the motorcycle. He's the wolf I saw, the one that mistook me for Jason. I wonder if he remembers, and if he does, knowing what he does now, is he sorry he didn't end it all right then and there? I push the thought aside. I'm tempted to linger her for a while, just holding on to Richard. If not more. Yes, I know, I do have a strong sex drive. Much as I'd like to have carnal knowledge of Richard right here and now, I put my libido on hold. We rise and stretch our middle-aged bones, retracing our steps, as we leave the woods behind. Along the way, I tell him where 363
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I've seen Weiss before. My lover seems thoughtful, but says nothing. Julian beams at our return. He seems to be smiling a great deal today. I can't help but feel that has something to do with me. A lot to do with me, actually. When Amelia is near him, she smiles too. Jason hovers near her. I wonder what he thinks? I'll have to make time to ask him, but I don't think this is either the time or place. On the whole, I find him more approachable than his brother. "Have you talked to your mother?" Jason asks me, concerned. "This morning, before we left. No word on Isaac. I'm sure he'll turn up. I just hope it's sooner than later." I have definite sympathy for my mother, knowing firsthand what it's like when your lover disappears. I know that's behind us now, and I'm not bringing it up as a reference to Richard at all, that's not my intent. But I know he has to be wondering if I'm thinking along those lines. At least I think that explains his sudden flush. I squeeze his hand reassuringly. I trust him, that's all that matters. Never again. He promised me. Weiss hovers near Julian, whispering into his ear. I notice there're no public signs of affection between these two, nothing to indicate they're more than Alpha and Beta, or they're a couple of some sort. Or, is it just because I'm 364
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here? I can't tell if Julian isn't demonstrative in that regard, or if he's being sensitive to the fact I supposedly don't know about them, even though I do. Julian nods to something Kurt says. Weiss claps his hands sharply, instantly drawing the attention of the pack. But it's Julian who speaks. "Now that we've eaten, at least for now…," He grins, drawing an appreciative laugh from his audience, "I think it's time for the game to begin." Game, what game? His eyes meet mine as I attempt to puzzle this out. Somehow, I don't think he means a card game, and I'd swear that board games aren't on the agenda either. Hopefully, not any sort of hunting game, if there is such a thing, or we'll just take off and leave them all to it. No, I'm not even close, apparently. "I've already chosen our two captains," he announces, "of course they'll play quarterback, that's a given." That's a big hint. Okay, we're talking football here. Have I ever mentioned I'm not exactly athletically inclined? And being homeschooled as I was, I was never part of a football team. Yes, I've seen the sport played, and I do know the basic rules, enough to be able to follow the action, without asking too many stupid questions. But I've never played. I'm not sure about Richard. He can play, if he wants to. I'll be more than happy to play cheerleader for him. At Julian's next words, I realize I've drifted away on 365
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my own lewd fantasy, involving a cheerleader outfit, pompoms and Richard. "…Max and Kurt." The pack cheers, while I just manage to look confused. Max and Kurt what? I'm almost afraid to ask. My whole group is staring openly at me. Sebastian's snickering. Cat gives him one of her looks, but he doesn't seem to mind. I've mentioned before he can be the most protective person I know, but at other times, his asshole qualities shine through. "Max play football? I don't see that happening." Now everyone's attention is focused on me. Great. Alongside all these testosterone driven wolves, I'm feeling rather puny and weak. I don't like the feeling. Not at all. "I'm sorry, I don't do sports," I apologize. Why am I sorry? Non sports participation is not a sign of weakness, nor does it indicate a lack of masculinity. That's a shopworn stereotype, one I feel no need to feed. I don't want to play, and that's that. My privilege and my prerogative. "Don't do sports?" Kurt Weiss's voice, sharp and disdainful. He smiles, for the first time, since I've been here. It's not a pleasant sight. "Julian's son doesn't do sports? Unthinkable." He snorts for good measure. I bristle at his tone, wondering what his game is. 366
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"It doesn't matter. Max doesn't have to, if he doesn't want to. I won't force him to do anything he doesn't wish to do." Julian tries to smooth over the situation. Is it a situation? I'm exaggerating. I think. I can't help but feel, though, that he's making apologies for me. The wolf doesn't like the idea, and neither do I. I know. It's ridiculous to feel my masculinity has been impugned. I never thought it was in question, at least by anyone who knows me. Could I be wrong? An almost disgruntled murmur arises from the pack, as if I've just singlehandedly killed Christmas, not to mention their fun. They mill about. Perhaps the men are jockeying for position, trying to take the one I've just declined. Weiss stands nearer to me than before. For some reason, I know he isn't done with baiting me yet. "C'mon, Max, you're among friends, just a friendly game." He takes a step toward me, hands out, palms up, in a display of false friendship. The wolf snarls. Richard tries to put himself in between us, protectively. I can't see the others. They've been swallowed up by the restless pack weaving its way around us. "That has nothing to do with it." I'm getting more than irritated at his insistence. The wolf's even angrier than I am. I've never felt him so strongly, except just before the full moon, but that's behind us. "I'll be happy to watch, but 367
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I don't want to participate. Like I said, I don't do sports." Kurt's next move takes me by surprise. His finger. In my chest. I step backwards before I realize what I'm doing, almost involuntarily. Which is when I realize my hand is empty. Where's Richard? I glance around. We've become separated somehow. There is a space growing around the two of us now. Me and the beta. I refrain from calling Richard's name. I mean, how far can he be? I can handle myself, even with this punk. I recover the step backwards I took. "Don't do that." That came out sharper than I think I intended. Almost as if I meant it. Of course I mean it. Don't I? Max doesn't do threats, though. Where's this coming from? "Do what?" He jabs me again. His eyes are cold blue pieces of ice. Without thinking, I knock his hand away. "What's the matter, Max-well?" He draws out the syllables in the most sarcastic of tones, increasing my anger. That's not my name, and I suspect he knows it. The wolf's all for decking him, but reason wins out. Barely. "It's Maximillian, not Maxwell." He laughs again, a discordant note. "Are you sure about that? Max-well?" He's openly baiting me, but why? I'm not about to play along, no matter how badly the wolf wants to sink his fangs into Kurt. "Just walk away, Weiss, we can forget all about it." 368
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To show him I mean what I say, that I'm a proponent of peace, not war, I turn my back, prepared to do exactly that. Richard cries out. "MAX!" The attack takes me very much by surprise, the wolf not so much. I feel Kurt's landing, although I've missed seeing the leap. I'm sure no one else has, though, judging by the collective gasp, which makes itself heard on the edges of my consciousness. As well as the cheers. Acting on the deepest of instincts, I reach behind me while he tries to force me down with the weight of his body. My hands find purchase on his shirt, gripping him tightly as the wolf finally reaches ascendancy through me. I drop into a crouch, at the same time, tossing him over my head. Good thing there's cleared space there, otherwise he'd have mowed a few people down along the way. His body hits the ground with a dull thud. He's on his feet again, quicker than it takes to tell it, and comes straight at me, still crouched as I am. I wait until he's almost upon me before I react, grabbing him around the waist, kicking myself up to my feet as I do so. My momentum carries me forward and him backward. Down on the ground he goes again. I take advantage of his being momentarily stunned, to take a seat on his chest, gripping his hands over his head, pinioning them against the earth. He struggles against me, but I refuse to be budged. And for 369
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some reason, he can't seem to move me. I'm filled with a strength I didn't even know I possessed. What's going on here? I'm filled with a rage that I can't describe. And yet, at the same time, I'm strangely calm. The two sensations battle with one another, reaching a strange sort of truce. Maybe even an alliance. But it's one that prevents me from ripping his head off, for which he should be grateful. I'm amazed I even want to do that, and even more astounded at the knowledge I know I can. "Don't… ever… do… that… again." Now my finger jabs his chest, emphasizing each and every word. My tone of voice is surprisingly calm, considering the fury filling me. A cold anger replaces the red hot ferocity, which is probably a good thing for him. My eyes lock onto his, challenging him. Daring him to put up a fight. I'm ready. Today I think I can take him, so bring it on, big boy, if you dare. He doesn't. I'd say he looks incredibly stunned. Didn't expect that, did he? I know I didn't. The whole pack cheers. Why, I don't know. Richard forces his way through them, finally, gaining my side. He wraps his arm about me, helping me rise from my seat on the Beta's chest. Weiss doesn't move. I gain my feet with Richard's help. Everyone crowds around me, until Julian's 370
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bark forces them to step back. "Let him breathe!" he commands and they instantly obey. "Max, I don't know what to say. I'm sorry for what Kurt did. Are you all right?" Of course I am. I just kicked that nasty wolf's ass, didn't I? Holy shit. I did, didn't I? Astonishment sets in, as well as incredulity. For a moment, I can't seem to find my tongue, so I simply nod. Richard pulls me to him protectively, glaring at Julian and Weiss. He says nothing, no doubt out of deference to me, but I'm sure his thoughts are racing, just like mine. "I'm fine," I assure Julian, taking a step back from Kurt, wanting only to place distance between us. The sound of "Swan Lake" stops me where I stand. I'm amazed my phone is still in my pocket after all that, but it is. And I have service again, go figure. I'll have to call my mother. I take the call, feeling both exhilarated and dazed. Whoever it is, I'll beg off quickly, saying I'm busy, which I am. Suddenly the caller has my full attention. I listen intently, my eyes growing wide. "We're on our way, stay where you are." I click off, slide my phone back into my pocket. "Richard, we have to 371
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go. Now." "What's wrong, Max?" His eyes fill with a fear I'm not used to seeing there, probably at the urgency in my voice. Rachel, David, Sebastian, Cat, Di and Falstaff—they all press near, sensing something is wrong, instinctively offering their support. It is. Wrong, I mean. Very, very wrong. "That was Mom." I fight to keep my voice from thickening, either with anger or tears. "She just got a call. They… they found Isaac. He's… he's dead… " I bury my face against Richard, and the wolf attempts to howl at the loss of one who was almost like a pack mate, and someone more than that to my mother. He holds me against him tightly, his hands rubbing over my back. "Right away," he agrees. "I'm driving." I don't argue. I don't think I could drive, even if I wanted to. All I can think of is getting home to my mother and taking care of her. Just when you think you have your life on track, something happens to remind you that you really have no control over it whatsoever. What's going on here? I wish I knew. Welcome to the real world, Max Montague. We've got your number. 372
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Chapter Seventeen The Times, They Are A-Changing
The sun is bright. Intensely bright, especially for the day of a funeral. Not hot, though. There's just enough chill in the air to remind everyone that it's late October, summer is long gone and winter fast approaches. No more shorts, no more long, lazy days—they're getting shorter all the time. Light jackets give way to coats. Iced tea becomes hot cocoa. And we're burying Isaac Dredd today. It's Tuesday morning. Only two days since they found him. I didn't know funerals could happen so fast. I would've thought such rituals took longer to arrange. Thanks to Julian everything has been done in an accelerated time frame. I'm guessing he has connections. He was kind enough to use those to arrange for the plot, the burial, and all the other customs that go along with dying. The things you never think about 'til they're staring you in the face. He even thought of flowers, which, frankly, wouldn't have occurred to me. The casket is covered in roses, lilies, and I don't know what else. He asked me not to tell Mom, which is probably a very good idea. She has enough to deal with at the moment, without adding that bit of information to the mix.
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Richard and I are practically living at Mom's. We're sleeping in our old room, dividing our time between there and Rachel's house, because that's where Cat and Sebastian are staying. We went straight to her house from the barbecue, followed by the whole gang, including Jason and Amelia. Jason has been quite indispensable in dealing with my mother and her grief. Cat lost a cousin, my mother lost a lover. It's a train wreck of a situation. Between the two houses a steady stream of traffic flows back and forth, at all hours of the day and night. No one is enjoying anything remotely resembling normal sleep patterns. Richard has even brought Principessa, who's being pampered to her heart's content. I
alternate
between
comforting
Mom
and
comforting Cat, depending upon who needs more comfort at any given moment. Granted, Sebastian's there and more than does his job in providing the mandatory shoulder-tocry-on, as her live-in lover. He's certainly keeping Cat anchored—he's her rock of Gibraltar—but I'm doing what I can for both of them, even though it doesn't feel like it's near enough. Most of the arrangements were made on Monday, while Mother was more or less comatose from something her doctor prescribed. Rachel let us use her house for that purpose, because it involved Julian, and Mom would've 374
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died if she saw him. Thanks to Daniel and Marti, we were able to get Isaac's obit into Monday's Tribune. They've been more than wonderful, sending over meals, and offering to help in any way they can. They're not just employers, they're true friends. Besides the expected local coverage, the news of Isaac's death spreads quickly over the Internet. So on top of everything else, we've had to deal with reporters at the front door, both print and TV. I'm surprised Preston Sparks isn't one of them. Diana told me he and Amy did come by when I wasn't there, but only for about five minutes. Julian said he'd deal with the whole reporter situation. He must've done it. I haven't seen any around since. He's been very decent through this whole ordeal. Mother wears sunglasses. It's not just protection against the brightness, but I suspect it's more than that, intended to hide her red eyes. I've done my best to comfort her, to be here for her, but she's been oddly aloof. It must be the shock of everything, a residual effect of whatever she's been given. There's a sizeable turnout, considering. I guess I didn't really know just how popular Isaac was in the surfing world. Not that I know anything about the surfing circuit. There are many fans and admirers who read the news on the Internet, and have come even on such short notice to 375
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pay their last respects. Cat says Isaac would've been pleased, because he loved people, and he loved his surfing. When I think about his dreams—of his plans to give up the waves, to settle down and teach little children—I find myself tearing up, and holding on to Richard a little tighter. Some of the mourners are wolves, like Isaac. As well as Julian and me. They seem to be as mellow as he was. I sense nothing to fear from them. Josiah delivers the eulogy. Try as I might, I can't focus on what he's saying. I know he's talking about love, and life, and dreams and such, about Isaac and the legacy he leaves behind. I find myself returning to the same question, over and over—what happened? He was young and strong, and more than that, he was a werewolf. He possessed greater strength than most men. How could he be killed? Was it sheer bad luck? Did someone catch him in wolf form and panic? Or did they know what he was, and kill him because of it? I wish I knew. Richard and I stand off a bit from the crowd. My wolf is twitchy. I feel his nervousness and work at keeping him calm, but it isn't easy. I couldn't get close to Juliet right now if I tried. She is surrounded by supporters, like an emotional phalanx. At least I can keep an eye on her from here, and if she needs me, I'm only a few steps away. I grip Richard's hand 376
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tightly. I can't remember the last time I've actually let go of him. I'm trying very hard not to shake, but it isn't easy. "Max…." An unexpected voice comes from behind me. I start, turning quickly to face the intruder. But it's no interloper. It's a very good friend, come to pay his respects. I shouldn't be surprised he's here. He did say he was coming. I'd forgotten about it, understandably, with all the things we've had to deal with. "Derek!" I exclaim. Without releasing Richard, I grab for Derek, and he pulls me toward him, and the three of us are encased in a group hug. The scent of Derek is familiar to me, and I take comfort in it. For a long moment, nothing more is said. Behind us, Josiah's voice murmurs words of comfort. I hear the rustle of the mourners as they shift from foot to foot. The falling tears of the grief-stricken. It takes me a few minutes to realize Derek isn't alone. A young man stands beside him. A very cute young man. He's both exotic and innocent, with dark eyes and hair, and a lovely smile. "This is Stefan," Derek explains, unwinding one arm and using it to pull the young man closer. "Isn't he sweet? I brought him over from the Netherlands to meet some filmmakers I know. He's embarking on a career as a 377
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director." Stefan speaks English with just a slight hesitation in the pronunciation of his words, and a very lovely Dutch accent. "It is very nice to meet you." He has the smile of an angel. What horrible circumstances to meet someone under. "I'm so sorry for your loss." Derek strokes my cheek gently, compassion in his eyes. "How's your mother doing? And your friend Catherine?" "Not well," I admit, "especially Mom." I raise hopeful eyes to Derek's. "Do you think you might be able to… you know?" Derek is a vampire unlike most others, as he proudly explained to me when we first met. Before then, I wasn't aware there were different kinds, not that I'd ever seriously considered the matter. While the majority of vampires subsist on a diet of blood, there are those that do not follow the so-called norm. Derek is one of those. He survives on something a bit different—energy. Sexual energy, to be precise. He never could quite explain it to my satisfaction. But obviously it works, 'cause here he is. Plus he can manipulate certain emotions within humans, inside their brains, which involves energy as well. He can create desire, and he can fulfill it. But he can also give peace. This is the trait I'm thinking of at the moment, for my mom's sake. 378
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"I'll try," he promises, which is good enough for me. Maybe once we're back at the house, once the ordeal is over, when things calm down a little bit, I can introduce him to her. Once we get the chance to pick up the pieces of our lives and move on. Maybe he can give her a little peace. Derek stiffens suddenly, his gaze going past me, past the tableau at the grave site, to the line of trees just beyond. "What's wrong?" I turn to gaze in the same direction, wondering what has him so spooked. At first I see nothing out of place. But then I realize Julian's there, standing half-hidden behind one of the trees, looking in our direction. He maintains a discreet distance, probably out of deference to my mother's sensibilities. "You know him?" Derek asks, narrowing his eyes. "Yes, I guess I do." I nod. "He's my father." Derek shifts his gaze back to me. He seems alarmed. "I'll explain later, I promise." My eyes meet Julian's, acknowledge his existence. He makes no move to join us. Richard draws me back into the present, whispering discreetly into my ear that the service is ending. I feel remiss that I've lost track of what is going on. I need to get back to my mother. The mourners disperse. Passing by the open grave 379
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to offer final farewells, and then back to their lives. Once we're gone, the cemetery workers will lower the casket into the waiting grave and do what needs to be done. I think it's time to take Mother home. She doesn't need to see that. She's in a fragile enough state as it is. She's flanked on one side by Cat and Sebastian. Jason's on the other, her arm tucked through his, and Diana and Amelia stand behind him. Rachel and David are nearby. Maggie, Donald and Erin walk past us, on their way out. I introduce them to Derek and Stefan. The girls ogle Stefan briefly, giggle when he flirts with them, and make their good-byes, heading toward Donald's van. Josiah stands before my mother, her hands in his. She sees me approach and steps away from him, toward me. I bite my lip to keep from crying. I have to be stronger than her, for her sake. I know I can do it. Vaguely, I half remember Rachel telling me there will be a wake at her house. It's generally what's done, after all. "Mom, do you want to ride with us?" I offer. I'm sure she'll decline, what with Jason there. And Sebastian. But just in case, I want her to know she has the option. I'm totally unprepared for what happens next. She removes her sunglasses, revealing tear-swollen red eyes. Her voice is low and hoarse, from disuse, as well as crying. 380
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"You could have prevented this." What? I must have misheard her, so I simply repeat my statement. "You can ride with Richard and me." I make the offer again. Her eyes bore into mine. Her hand twitches. My wolf is uneasy, but I don't know why. "You could've saved him, Max. You could've been there." I'm beginning to understand now. She blames me for Isaac's death. Not in causing it, but not preventing it. Rather convoluted logic, I think. And totally unfair. I shake my head. I have no intention of arguing with her. That wouldn't be right, and it wouldn't help anything. She's just distraught, that's all. She hasn't said anything remotely resembling this since he died. I know she doesn't mean it now. "He asked you to go with him for the full moon," she continues. I'm grateful most of the people who are close already know what this means. Still, I'm not comfortable having this discussion here and now—or ever, actually. I didn't do anything wrong. At least I don't feel that I did. "Mother, let's get you home," I suggest, reaching for her arm. My intention is to comfort her, and to take her home. She has other ideas. She moves toward me and if Richard hadn't 381
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intervened, catching her arm in his hand, I think she'd have slapped me. I stand there, completely shocked. "Why didn't you go with him?" she wails. "You could have saved him, Max, you could have." Tears, more tears, coursing down her cheeks. Her voice is so accusatory, so full of blame that it hurts. "Juliet." Richard's voice is gentle, but firm. "Why don't we go home, you're not yourself." It's as if she hasn't heard him. "He's dead because of what he was. What you are." She points at me in a dramatic fashion. I take a step back, fearful the wolf might react. I quell him, quickly. "Juliet, think what you're saying," Richard says. Other voices chime in—Jason, Sebastian, Cat, Rachel. I can't even separate the words enough to place them with the speakers. But she isn't listening, too griefstricken to be logical. "You're just like your father!" she wails. "Just like him! I should've died first, I knew what he was. I should've died." Sebastian and Jason take control of my mother. She leans against Jason's chest, crying. When I would step toward her, he shakes his head, as if to say that's not a good idea. He's probably right. 382
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Julie Lynn Hayes
"We're going to take her home," he says. "Maybe you should…." He's too embarrassed to say the words, but I can easily read between the lines. "You're right. I think we should go home. Our home." I look to Richard. He glides to my side, puts a protective arm about me. I lean against him. "Let's go, love," he says, "we'll pick up our baby on the way. Give us time for that?" He directs the question to Juliet's guardians. "Of course," Jason replies. Juliet is sobbing now, and whatever she's trying to say is coming out garbled, both because of her tears, and because she's speaking into Jason's body. But I can understand enough to get the gist of it. She wishes she'd never had me, says I'm cursed and that I'm her curse. Or something closely approximating that. Which roughly means she's turned from former homophobe to current lycanphobe. Lovely. I don't need to hear any more. I don't want to hear any more. The wolf is angry, and I'm too confused and heart-sore over the loss of a friend to want to argue with her, especially when she's obviously being irrational. She'll get over it, I know she will. I just have to wait this storm out, as usual. I glance in the direction I last saw Julian, but I don't see him there. I can't blame him for not wanting to 383
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Julie Lynn Hayes
stick around for this. It's ugly. But I'm wrong, as I quickly learn. Jason's face tells me all I need to know, his eyes looking past me. I turn around, to behold my father, standing at my shoulder. He certainly knows how to make an entrance, doesn't he? He puts a protective arm around me, for a moment, before giving me over to Richard without argument. I feel Jason's dismay and I sense Derek's dislike. I hate being in the eye of this emotional hurricane. "I'm here for you," Julian says simply, before he melts into thin air once more, almost literally. I can't help but think it's nice to have a parent on your side. For once. "It's okay," I reassure my cousin, my sister, my friends—everyone who gives me that shocked look, like what do we do or say now? I understand completely. "Stay with Juliet, please." I tug at Richard's arm, pressing my lips firmly together, determined not to cry, not to scream, not to do anything other than grin and bear it. In a manner of speaking. All I want to do now is get our puppy and go home. What happens next is anybody's guess. I'll worry about that when we get there. I know in my heart that this too will pass. Every crisis does. When Mother's ready, we'll talk. Until then, I've more than enough to keep myself occupied. Not to mention 384
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Julie Lynn Hayes
that there are questions that need to be answered. Foremost among them being what happened to Isaac. And why. A disconcerting idea is taking shape inside my head—the idea that this wasn't a random act of violence, it was planned. Is it possible that the fanatic Wolf Patrol has gone beyond vandalism to murder? Or am I just reading into this? We reach the Monte, which Richard had the foresight to park away from the others. Good thing, otherwise we'd probably be wedged in and unable to make a clean getaway. "Let's go pick up Principessa and take her home, I'm sure she needs to go out. I need to run the laundry, and put fresh sheets on the bed. Get something out for dinner. If we even have any food in the house…." I know, I'm babbling, but by focusing on everyday tasks, I can keep from focusing on it what hurts to think about. "Max, baby." Richard silences me with a kiss and he encompasses me in the warmth of his love. "That stuff can wait, let's just get our puppy and go home." He's right, of course. I really need to go home, to our cottage in the woods. Stop thinking so much, at least for the moment. He opens the door so that I can slide in on his side. I notice a small piece of paper sits on the passenger seat. I pick it up and scan it. I'm sure that wasn't there before. It's a phone number and the words, 'Call me'. 385
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Julie Lynn Hayes
And it's signed Julian. I push the paper into my pocket, wait for Richard to get in and snuggle as close to him as I can get, against the warmth of his body. Maybe I'll call him tomorrow. Julian. My father. Funny, that word doesn't feel quite so alien any more. It isn't until Principessa is back in our custody again, and we're heading out the highway towards home that I find the words to ask Richard what I want to know."What do you think of him?" I've already showed him the note, while we were at Mom's. "What matters is what you think of him," he replies, cautiously. What do I think of him? I've been asking myself that same thing ever since I met him. I still don't know the answer, but I think I'd like to find out. I hope that doesn't make me a bad son. Richard wraps his free arm about my shoulder. I lean against him and close my eyes, our baby asleep in my lap. It isn't long before I'm following her example. I dream of wolves.
THE END 386
About the Author
Julie Lynn Hayes is a dreamer of dreams, a lover of life; a believer in justice for all. A lifelong resident of the St. Louis area, she lives with her youngest daughter Sarah and two cats, writing and reviewing and working to see that gay marriage becomes a reality in her lifetime. She would love to hear from her readers, and welcomes all comments.
Webpage: www.julielynnhayes.com Blog: http://julielynnhayes.blogspot.com Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=527332074 Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/ShelleyRunyon Email:
[email protected] Also by Julie Lynn Hayes
Available at Silver Publishing: A Special Christmas Leonardo di Caprio is a Vampire For Love of Max with S.L. Danielson My Fair Vampire (coming soon)
Available at All Romance eBooks: To the Max Lawn Boy Sex on the Beach
Available at Dreamspinner Press: The Prince Wore Pink Stilettos Sweet Dreams, My Love (coming soon)
Available at Wicked Nights: Captivations (monthly serial)