Halfway

Halway by KIL Kenny

Torquere Press www.torquerepress.com

Copyright ©2010 by KIL Kenny First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2010 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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CONTENTS Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven ****

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Halfway by K.I.L. Kenny

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Chapter One Andy stood in the doorway, waiting. Jason was reading through some papers in a manila folder. He flicked one hand toward the empty chair without looking up. That's how this fraternity thing seemed to go. Pledges were just part of the background noise. Andy sat. The knot in the leather thong around his neck had slipped to the front again. Andy pulled it back to his nape, where it belonged, and caught Jason's gaze following the movement. It turned into a whole body survey. "That's some get-up," Jason drawled. "You like?" said Andy cheerfully. "It's a kameez. I got it off a stall in Karachi. It looks better with the shalwar, but I don't think I could get away with those here." "Let me guess. You haggled for an hour and got it for a buck." "Paid him the first price he asked. Fifteen bucks," Andy replied, more cheerfully still. "I'd've paid double that. Don't you think this embroidery is some amazing shit?" "Amazing," Jason echoed. He put the file down. "Anyway, welcome aboard. I know you did all the rush week stuff, but I like to meet the new pledges individually and make sure we've got you involved. I was thinking social committee for you—you're over twenty-one, right?" "Twenty-one last week. I can shop." Andy winked.

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Jason smiled back, almost friendly. "We can always use an old man. Half of our seniors aren't twenty-one yet. And... you're trying out for the basketball team?" "Definitely." "Pledges don't usually make it. The tournament is a big deal. But you're welcome to try. Cal's the captain; he's fair." "Thanks." Andy stayed with the cheerful. This Jason was pretty full of himself, impressed with his own authority as president of the frat house, but Andy was very much aware of owing the guy. It would have made more sense in some ways to go to a university in Europe. It would've been a three-year degree, for one thing. And closer to Dad. Mom was in the States, but still a thousand miles from here. "Here," though, was Dad's alma mater, his frat, and maybe most important of all, his tournament. This was the source of those four cheap cups that sat on the mantel at home, the gold paint half rubbed off from Mom making sure they were dusted. Andy had never cared much about college. He knew he had to go, and that was fine, but there were more interesting things to keep his attention than something that would happen whether he cared or not. But he did care about Dad, and Mom, a lot. This place was special to them. Twenty-five years ago, Mom had crushed on a hot stud basketball player who was amazing everyone at the intrafraternity basketball tournament. She got one of the sorority girls to set her up. Somehow, the happy-ever-after had come true, at least the way Mom told it. Andy personally didn't think living in Connecticut and supervising the seventeen6

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year-old twins while her husband wandered around the messier parts of the globe constituted a dream come true. But it was Mom's fairy tale; she could call it what she wanted. It was easy to see, anyway, that coming here would make his parents all nostalgic and excited, and that was good enough. He'd join Dad's frat, play some hoops, and make them both proud. It was as good a reason for picking a school as any other he'd heard. There were two minor obstacles to the plan, though. One was that Nature had never intended him for a basketball player. He was only five ten, and kind of on the bony side. His hands weren't big, and his feet weren't especially fast. Didn't matter; that's what practice was for. The other thing was that Andy was gay. He'd been out since he was fifteen. His parents were all right with it, if still a little anxious when the subject of grandkids came up. Dad had been very cool while they were traveling together, those years after high school. "You don't go around advertising an alternative lifestyle in a place like Morocco," Dad had lectured—and then proceeded to delegate a couple of junior attaches to show him the ropes. Which made him wonder a little about the diplomatic service, but oh, yowza, once you knew a few things, who cared about diplomats? All that aside, though, he'd worried about how he'd be received by the Tau Eps, since he had no intention of playing "don't ask, don't tell" games for what ought to be the four most entertaining years of his life. No closet for Andy, not even a well-lit walk-in. 7

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That's where Jason had earned his undying gratitude, because Jason ran the Tau Eps, and Jason was gay. Unabashedly, out-there gay. Log Cabin, yes. But gay. So far as Andy was concerned, Jason could be as full of himself and as condescending as he wanted to be. If he'd be Andy's yellow brick road into the Tau Eps, Andy would skip to whatever tune Jason wanted to sing. "Huh?" Andy said. He'd caught the question sound in the last thing Jason had said, but he'd totally missed the context. "Do you want to go with us?" Jason repeated, sounding irritated. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I would." "All right. Tomorrow's a pledge dinner night, and you've got two hours of study after. We'll split around nine." "Okay. Thanks." He shook hands and was dismissed. Damn. He'd have to keep his ears open tomorrow and try to figure out what he'd just committed himself to. If it was karaoke night at one of the local joints or something, he was going to become suddenly, deathly ill. **** Thursdays meant chemistry lab all afternoon, and he barely got to the Tau Ep house in time for his share of kitchen duty. Baked chicken with au gratin potatoes from a box and green beans from the freezer, nothing fancy. He was glad to be on the cooking end of the deal, but the problem was that the real chatter happened over cleanup, and he still hadn't found out what the evening's entertainment was going to be. 8

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With silence enforced at the study table, there was no chance to ask leading questions. At nine, most of the pledges went on their way, but several of the guys living in the house were milling in the front hall by the time Andy had loaded up his backpack. Lots of underclassmen; not a bar, then. And one of the guys was making a curvaceous outline in the air. Women were involved? A house party, maybe? No, they headed out toward the commercial district. Andy hung back just a little. Dad had taught him about maintaining an escape route in unfamiliar situations. "Christ, I hope that one with the curly black wig isn't there. He always sings Abba. I can't stand that shit," Hiro said. "Like the disco stuff is any better," scoffed Cal. "It's not about the music." Oh, my God. A drag show. With a bunch of straight frat boys. Andy stopped cold in horror. Some unbelievably amateur put-on for a bunch of corn-fed teenagers in the middle of Midwestern nowhere... "Forget something?" Cal had noticed. Damn it. "I—no. It's cool." Cal and Jason both. He couldn't risk alienating them just out of snobbery. Andy started walking again, Cal waiting politely until he caught up. Buster's was a local institution. Andy had checked it out his first week in town. The downstairs was the main bar, with pool tables and a ten by ten dance floor. They had a DJ most nights, and thirty, forty regulars during the week. Upstairs was glitzier, with the disco ball and a low stage at one end. The drag shows were on the second Thursday of every 9

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month. The underage crowd was allowed in as long as they were eighteen, but they had to sit in a special section near the door and could only get their drinks from a waiter. Jason insisted on the frat group sitting together, which meant they had two large tables in the roped-off section. A duo in complementary black and red was purring torch songs, the stage far enough away that Andy could at least hear himself think. Moodily, he ordered a Dr. Pepper and edged his chair back, as close to the rope barrier as he could get. No harm in scoping out the grown-ups a little, even if he did have to sit at the kiddie table. The crowd was still pretty small. A couple of guys weren't bad, but he'd already seen all of them before, one place or another. There were only two gay bars in town, and the other one was where professors in blazers with leather elbow patches drank single malts and murmured. Andy thought about Tangiers, and the Mediterranean coast—and sighed. The duo curtseyed to lackadaisical applause. There was a lull while props were hauled off and the lighting adjusted. The stage wasn't nearly big enough for a catwalk or real wings, much less a stage crew, but Andy thought... Yasalom. Look at that. A diminutive figure in stark black was shimmying up a light stand one-handed. Son of a bitch. Wearing an asymmetrical skirt that was slashed nearly to the hip. The figure was in shadow, and no one else seemed to be paying it any attention. In seconds, a dead bulb had been swapped out, a thin arm had waved, and before the guy at the light board could flip his switch, the vision had vanished. 10

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The stage now had Andy's full attention. He caught glimpses—a swirl of hem, a dangle of tattered fishnet—but never the full figure. Never a face. It was maddening. Finally, Andy nudged Hiro. Hiro worked the sound board for the drama club; he might know the people on the tech side here, even if he was straight. "Who's the stagehand they got up there? The little one in the skirt?" Hiro chortled. "Oh, that's the Twink. Don't get your hopes up." Andy took a breath. These guys didn't mean anything by it. "He really calls himself the Twink?" "No, man, that's what we call him, Twinkerbell." Dawn broke. "Oh, hey man, no offense. Jason was the one who came up with it, I didn't mean..." "None taken." Andy cut off the stammering before it got any more awkward. "But why shouldn't I get my hopes up?" "He, uh, well, she? Is a townie. Ab-so-lutely will not give a college guy the time of day. I think that's why Jason was a little mean about the nickname, you know? He tried." Hiro turned with obvious relief at a call from the other table. Andy slugged back some of his lukewarm soda and sat through the next act in silence, waiting for the scene change. Now he was wishing the show was more elaborate, a fullblown Vegas cabaret where he could work his way to the front, no ropes, and watch up close while the slight, elusive vision plied its magic. There. Moving something into position just beyond the reach of the lights. Damn it, he wanted to see. 11

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He leaned over the rope and beckoned to their waiter. The man was unnervingly cute in a French maid's getup, and good at his job. "Another Dr. Pepper?" "No, thanks. I was wondering if I could send a drink to someone up front." "A performer? We can—" "No, one of the crew. Small, working the lights, wearing black." "Ah. Well." The waiter worried his lower lip. "I think... you'll be disappointed." "So I hear. Say I'm stupid and don't listen. Can you take something up anyway?" "You're underage," the waiter pointed out. "No, my friends are." "But we're not allowed to take orders for alcohol from this table." "C'mon, dude. I can show you ID." The waiter frowned. "Wait a minute. I'll be back." It seemed like forever. The crowd was finally getting thicker, and there were better tips to be made on the other side of the rope, no doubt. Andy had almost given up before the frilly apron came back and a bar tab was shoved in his hand. One soda, three-fifty. "Settle up," the waiter said. "Aw, now, all you had to say was—" "Settle up," the waiter repeated snappishly, "and tip me really well." "Oh!" Andy flipped open his wallet and handed back a twenty. 12

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The waiter winked. "He's got a thing for Black Russians," he said, and click-clacked away toward the bar. Gah. Black Russians? The crowd was applauding. Andy hadn't even noticed the act. He prayed for another bulb to blow, but had to settle for a backlit scrim developing a sag in the middle. That gave him a momentary silhouette of a body stretching to clip the fabric back into place. No falsies. Just some kind of skin-tight top, and that skirt belling out as the pixie leaned. Hiro touched his arm. "Miss Felicity's up. She's the headliner. Lotta fun. Jason loves her." Andy smiled and nodded. Fuck Miss Felicity. The longer she stayed offstage, the better for him. Unfortunately, the pixie was too damned quick. The music came up, and an improbable redhead shimmied out to "Le Freak." Six foot plus, before the platforms. Andy rolled his eyes. She was funny, though, he had to grant that. The crowd heckled her with joyful shouts, roaring approval as her retorts became more explicit. Even from this far back, the twinkle in her eye and the lipsticked grin were clear. She had the entire group of frat boys hooting and clapping, eyes glued to the stage. So nobody except Andy noticed when the rope barrier dropped. He felt the brush of it against his arm and looked over. The pixie stood absolutely still, staring at him. It was a leotard, that top, tight enough to show nipples. The sleek black hair had to be a wig, styled in a flawless bob like an Asian girl might wear. Face so thin it had hollows: great, dark 13

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smudges under the unblinking eyes and shadows along the sharp cheekbones. There was an empty glass in one narrow hand. Andy could feel the blush creeping over his own cheeks. He couldn't blame the pixie for staring; he was wearing another lavishly embroidered kameez today, sapphire blue, and an ear clip set with red crystals. Around here, he looked like a sideshow freak who'd wandered into the wrong tent. Soundless on ballet-slippered feet, the pixie approached. Andy stopped breathing. Right between his outstretched legs the figure walked, setting the glass down on the table. So whisper-thin was that body that choice, not constraint, made it halt at Andy's knees. A bubble of silence seemed to encase them. "Thank you for the drink," said the pixie. Andy was desperately aware of how close the denim of his jeans was to those fishnet calves. Even one breath would spark them. He was on the brink of spontaneous combustion. "That's no way to thank a man, Steven," came Jason's drawling voice from the next table. The bubble had not been some trick of the senses; every one of Andy's frat brothers had gone silent, avidly drinking in this scene. So much for the lure of Miss Felicity's charms. Andy's lips parted, but there was still too little air for his lungs to work. Steven had arched one eyebrow, the dark gaze remaining on Andy. There was the slightest hint of an upward tilt to Steven's mouth. "I love your shirt," he said. Then he leaned, perfectly controlled, and touched his lips to Andy's. 14

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Andy stretched forward, trying to capture more. The thrust of Steven's tongue against his own, the press of two roughened fingers against his sensitive throat, startled a tiny sound from him. Not a whimper, no, it was just... His head went back, lips softening, but Steven was already stepping away, leaving only the taste of Kahlua in Andy's mouth to prove the kiss had been real. "Thank you for the drink," Steven said again, more clearly now in a momentary lull of noise from the stage. Miss Felicity had apparently taken five. Steven's voice was husky and light, like a wooden flute lacking use. His eyes looked straight into Andy's, and he still seemed amused. But his nipples under the black leotard were hard. He twitched the skirt to one side in a gesture that might have been meant as a curtsy, and then he was gone, the crowd erasing him completely. A patter of clapping brought Andy out of his daze. "Jolly good show," Jason said as he got to his feet. "Freshmen these days have no shame, do they, boys? Let's get out before we cause another scene for the townies." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Two A week later, Andy made the basketball team. It was more of a pain in the ass than he'd planned on—not the tryouts, but the practices. His dorm, the frat house, and the gym made an almost perfect isosceles triangle, as far from one another as they could get without actually leaving the campus zone. Getting where he needed to be at every hour of every day could be a bitch. Mom had already said she'd be here for the Homecoming Weekend game. Andy was putting a little cash aside to take her to brunch on Sunday. He'd dropped by the student union for his mail and was beginning to head in the direction of the chem lab when he caught sight of three guys sitting on the lawn. That patch of green was a popular spot for sunbathers in the warmer weather, set off from the path by a low stone wall and not big enough for the ultimate Frisbee players to commandeer. In late September, though, few students were thinking of sunworship. There were just three maintenance guys in blue coveralls, apparently eating lunch. Andy didn't know what made him look twice. Maybe it was the oddity of anyone picnicking on damp autumn ground. Maybe it was the disparity in size between one small figure and two bulky ones. Or it could have been the motion of the cap falling off the smaller man's head as he tilted his chin to the sky. 16

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Whatever it was, Andy saw it and knew. He'd been hoping against hope for something like this. Almost all the townies worked on campus somewhere, but a campus of thirty thousand students was a big place. Especially when all you had to go on was a first name. There had been over thirty Steves, Stevens, and Stephens in the staff directory, and that only covered the staff who had direct phone lines. He stopped, earning muttered epithets from the students whose traffic flow he'd interrupted. Without quite knowing how it happened, he was over the wall. Then he stopped again, realizing suddenly that the hair on that tilted head was barely a quarter of an inch long. The profile was all nose, chin, and Adam's apple. Was it...? The other men had spotted him. "Hey," called the taller of the two. He looked lanky even sitting down. "Hey," Andy said uncertainly. Steven turned around, taking Andy in with that expressionless stare. Oh, yes. Andy walked over to the seated men. The one who had greeted him seemed familiar and might have been the guy who had come to fix the frat's stove the previous week. A lot of the university maintenance crew moonlighted that way. Though Andy was quite sure he would have noticed before now if Steven was one of them. The tall guy nodded. "Frank," he said. "Andy." "That's Mike. Steven you already know." Andy did a double take. "How did you—?" 17

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Frank chuckled. "Big university, small town," he said. "Can't keep a secret in the middle of a crowded bar." He waved. "Sit." Andy sat. Frank tossed him a sandwich bag with half a ham and cheese in it. He took a bite, and the sandwich bit him back. Ham, cheese, and horseradish mayonnaise. "Got a little kick to it," Frank advised belatedly. Steven turned his face away quickly. Andy blinked the water out of his eyes and said, "'S good." And it was. He was grateful when Mike silently handed him a Thermos cup of cooling coffee, but that was just to wet his whistle a little. There wasn't much conversation. Andy was pretty sure there hadn't been before he'd arrived. The other men had already finished eating and seemed intent on soaking up the last weak sunshine of the season. He polished off the sandwich in five bites. Then, mostly to keep from staring at Steven too blatantly, he leaned back on both hands. The ground wasn't really that damp. "Time to be getting back," Frank said too soon. "You coming on the fourteenth, Andy?" "Hm? Where?" "Buster's, dumbass. Show night. You coming?" He stood and brushed the dirt from his coveralls. "Oh!" Was there color on Steven's cheeks? "Yeah. I guess." "All righty!" said Frank. "See you there." He nodded and sauntered away toward the central maintenance building. 18

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Silent Mike, more formal, rose and shook hands. Steven, it seemed, was going to leave without any farewell at all. "I—" Andy reached out, but didn't dare to touch. Steven stopped anyway. "Miller Hall. Fifth floor. 539," Andy blurted. His heart was pounding madly right between his eardrums. He felt, more than saw, Steven's fingers brush against his outstretched hand. Then Steven, too, was walking away across the lawn. **** There was something about the way new sneakers squeaked on the hardwood that made Andy feel like a pro. It was perfect at game time. That said, he liked having their practices on the outdoor courts, sweat cooled by the breeze, friends stopping by to harass or encourage. The five on five had gone well, and now everyone was mingling on the court, shooting baskets, peeling off in ones and twos as other obligations called. Fooling around. Andy, though, was Being Serious. Cal started feeding him basketballs for his daily fifty. He stood just beyond the threepoint line on his weak side and started firing. Tunk. Tunk. Swish. Tunk. He wanted to make at least half of them. His best night so far had been forty-two percent. Tunk. "...came down off the stage..." Swish. Swish. Swish. Awesome. "...nothing to the imagination, man, the lights..." Swish. Tunk. Swish. Tunk. Tunk. Swish. "...if she hadn't been mashing on his mouth, you probably could've heard..." 19

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Tunk. Swish. Swish. "...said it, for real, the jizz was just dripping down her legs when she got back on the stage." Tunk. "The hell are you assholes talking about? Some porno show?" "No, dude, didn't you hear?" The remaining brothers were loosely grouped around Rob, a junior and the starting guard, at center court. "Brandon's chick, what's her name, Kayla? She did him right at his table at the Upper Deck." "Whaaat?" Relief made Andy's voice more strident than he'd intended. He'd thought... He should have known better. "Yeah, two nights ago, Battle of the Girl Bands. She's got a fuckin' hot band." Rob sniggered. "Guess she needed to let off some of that steam." A general chuckle went around. Andy bounced the basketball he was holding back at Cal, who started putting the equipment away. "Well, but how do you know she...?" Rob rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Andy, she humped him right in his chair for about ten minutes, and she was dripping when she got up. Logic 101, y'know? When parts that are made to go together come together—so to speak? Well, okay, maybe you don't know. I'll give you a pass on that one." A fresh round of guffaws. "Very kind, but I've heard the rumors of how you hets go about things," Andy said drily. He didn't let shit like Rob's needling get under his skin anymore. Over Rob's shoulder, though, Andy caught sight of Jason's avid eyes and reddened cheeks. It was no different from the 20

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expression on half the other guys' faces as they begged Rob for more details, but Andy recoiled a little anyway. He realized that he'd been expecting to see some kind of... whatever from Jason. Gay solidarity? Or maybe just some good old-fashioned high-mindedness. Andy's lips twisted. Hanging out with diplomats tended to teach a guy harsh lessons about loose talk, but they were lessons his frat brothers had clearly had no reason to learn. He wondered, not for the first time, whether he could pull off the freshman pledge thing. Sometimes he felt like a grandpa babysitting the kindergarten. "Too bad you paid more attention to the gossip than to practice," Cal commented as he came up behind Andy. "You went nine for eighteen before you quit." "Fifty percent!" Andy crowed. "Doesn't count. You didn't shoot the minimum." "It counts!" "Does not." "Does so!" The memory of Jason's expression was lost amid a little friendly assault and battery as the whole group moved off to the locker room. Later, though, walking back to the dorm through the darkening streets, Andy wondered about that girl. He couldn't recall what she looked like. Brandon had probably brought her to parties, but no one was memorable in the crush of a frat party. Andy hoped he wouldn't hear Brandon telling the story with a leer and a wink. Though maybe the girl wouldn't care, if she was the one who'd climbed on Brandon in the first 21

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place. Maybe she'd think it was hot and funny gossip, too. Maybe she did it specifically to make her man look like a stud in front of his friends and didn't care about her own rep. Maybe. He didn't know. He'd been to clubs in Rome where couples had acted like that, but he'd spent more time in discreet tea rooms where every face was kept partially covered. Gossiping about what happened there could have been the equivalent of an international incident. He'd spent too much damn time around consulates. At the dorm, the elevators were out of order. Again. A maintenance crew was swarming, but it didn't look like anything would be moving soon. Andy trudged up the four flights to his floor and down the wearisome stretch of hallway to his room. 539 was second to last in this wing. Five rooms, a fire door. Another five rooms, another fire door. Over and over again, until finally there loomed, not a door, but an emergency exit. Home sweet dead-end home. The hall was mostly quiet at this hour on a weeknight, with just the occasional blare of music from behind the cinderblock. Of course, he'd dumped his keys loose in his backpack again rather than taking the time to clip them, so now he had to dig. He sighed and swung the heavy pack off his shoulder. Wearing the long kameez so much had gotten him out of the habit of keeping things in his pockets. He went down on one knee and began to rummage. A small squeal from the fire door opening didn't catch his attention, but two hands sliding over his shoulders did. Thumbs pressed hard on either side of his nape, massaging. 22

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The hands were strong enough to hold him when he would have turned. He yielded, mind racing, and fingers stroked his throat lightly. "You told me where to find you," murmured a husky, quiet voice. Just the sound of it made Andy shudder, an "oh..." moaning softly between his lips. The backpack toppled over. "That you, Andy?" his roommate called. Holy Jesus and Allah, too. Why did that idiot have to be home now? The caressing hands had fallen away. "Hold on just a second," Andy said with exaggerated distinctness, then, "Sorry, Nate! I'm on the phone—be in in a sec." "'Kay!" Muttering nonsense, Andy grabbed Steven's arm and led him to the very end of the hallway. There were a few brokendown bits of furniture on either side of the emergency exit, wreckage from last year tossed out by the new semester's occupants. By definition, furniture that every freshman on the floor had rejected was the essence of skank. But he needed to sit so his knees wouldn't give way. Steven was silent. Andy could feel the dark eyes on him, but Steven only watched. Andy rummaged. There was an easy chair with no seat cushion and huge chunks torn out of the upholstery, but it didn't have any suspicious stains. Andy turned it so the back was toward the corridor and spread his flannel shirt over the springs. Steven could sit there. He gestured to it, then began 23

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poking around for something else. A scary-looking ottoman, half a couch... "Sit." The grip on his arm was strong. He stopped shoving furniture and looked at Steven. There was a hint of a smile on that thin face. "Sit." Andy opened his mouth and closed it. Looked at the easy chair. Sat. It wasn't cool, but he had to, and Steven had said. Calmly, Steven waited for Andy to settle. The blue coverall Steven wore was marked here and there with old grease that hadn't come clean, but even at the end of the workday, there was a crispness to the heavy cotton that spoke of care. The zippered front was open a few inches, showing collarbone. Steven appeared pale under the weak fluorescent light, but Andy could see a tan line that had not yet faded. Steven kissed him. God, God, God. Andy collapsed against the chair back. Steven followed easily, knees sliding in on either side of Andy's thighs. Steven's ass touched lightly against Andy's legs, then pressed down. Andy slid his hands around it, the urge to touch thwarted by the thick coverall. He remembered the hot little cutaway skirt Steven had worn at the club, and mourned the lost opportunity. The grudging dimensions of the chair made it difficult to bring their bodies as close as Andy wanted. Steven didn't seem to notice. His fingers tightened in Andy's hair, and they kissed. Just kissed? There had to be a better word for the havoc Steven's lips were causing. For the soft, wet sounds they made as their mouths came together, the urgent noises that 24

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rose from some unimaginable place deep inside of Andy. He struggled to keep up for a few moments, but oh, God, it was so good to surrender, to expose his soft center and let the ravenous pixie feast. His hips lifted, his cock seeking Steven's, but it was still too far away. He thrust harder. Then came the sickening flash of comprehension as every support gave way around him and he knew he was going to fall—that moment of perfect suspension when upthrust negated gravity before it all came crashing down. The springs hit the floor, the chair back shot down the hallway, and Andy's head smacked against the tile. It wasn't until the giggling started that he registered the sound of another soft thump that must have been Steven landing and rolling away from the disaster zone. Three doors banged rapid-fire down the corridor. Nate got to them first. "Jesus, dude, what happened to you? 'Ja hit your head?" With Nate's help, Andy eased to a sitting position. Now he could see Steven off to one side, no longer giggling, but still grinning broadly. "He was giving me a hand with a chair," Steven said, "and the damn thing came apart in our hands, you know? Flat on our butts." The other denizens of the corridor were crowding around, repeating the same questions. It was Nate who retold the story. As Andy tried for the third time to convince people he didn't need nine-one-one, he saw a glimpse of blue coverall moving behind the other bodies. Steven was gone. [Back to Table of Contents] 25

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Chapter Three Social committee was not a typical assignment for a new pledge at the Tau Eps, because it worked hand-in-glove with the pledge committee to plan events, many of them directly connected with hazing. Not that anyone actually called it hazing. But what other word could you use when three pledges were assigned to work as pole dancers for Friday's party? "Not you, Andy," Jason said. "You enjoy that kind of thing too much. I just need you to chaperone the shopping trip, since you have such an educated eye." With that, he'd sent Andy out with the victims to a consignment shop to find appropriate garb. Andy made the other pledges drive their own vehicle. After the dresses were found, there would be underwear and makeup to shop for, too, but he'd be damned before he took part in that circus. His only responsibility was to bring the dresses safely back so that the doomed could be forced into them later on. If the idiots didn't have underwear, it was their own funeral. When the door chime at Millie's Exchange jingled, a tiny woman looked up from the racks. She seemed to be made of weathered bone and corn silk, her skin scoured tight around the angles of her face. Andy winced when she smiled, certain the motion must hurt her. But her expression was perfectly friendly as she looked them up and down. "Boys," she said, "you're up to no good, ain'tcha?" 26

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"We are, ma'am," Andy assured her solemnly. "Costume party? Pledgin'? Theatrics of some sort?" "It's a pledge thing, ma'am. Pole dancing." That surprised a chuckle from her. "So you want silly stuff that fits tight." Her eyes on Andy were assessing. "We could get you into a twelve if it weren't for them shoulders..." "Not me, ma'am!" Andy was more quick than polite this time. "I don't have to wear the clothes. I just get in trouble if I don't bring back dresses for them." He tipped his head toward the grinning pledges. "I see. Well, then, young man, park your butt there—" she indicated an elderly-looking chair near the dressing rooms, "—and we—" she swung her pointing finger to the other three, "—will get these boys ready for inspection." It was hilarious, really. Especially when Isaac stomped out in a butter-yellow two-piece with the skirt cut high across the front, giving maximum exposure to his impressively furred calves. It took some Velcro and ingenuity on the part of the clerk to rejigger the top around Isaac's chest, but she managed it. There were three dressing rooms, but Andy noted that his guys were being rotated in and out of only two of them. Every now and then, the clerk would step near the third door, and one time he heard, "Doin' all right, hon?" A real customer had been caught by the Neanderthal invasion, Andy guessed, and was waiting for the hullaballoo to die down before coming out. The clerk didn't seem too perturbed; still, he figured he'd apologize afterward. 27

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When all of the fussing and fitting was done, the three gowned pledges lined up in front of Andy. Contrary to Jason's words, they all seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely more than Andy was. "We pretty enough?" Isaac said. "Think you could get us in the show, Andy?" "Show?" the clerk said. "I thought you was already in it." "Naw, we're just party entertainment," Tom drawled. "We want into the show at Buster's. That's what Andy likes." Andy blushed under the clerk's scrutiny. "You're fine," he said shortly. "Get dressed. I've got better things to do than watch you apes make fools of yourselves." Sixty dollars and change later, he was stuffing the plastichung outfits in the back of his Ford Focus. The other guys crammed into a pickup truck and peeled out of the parking lot, whooping. He made sure they were well down the road before he went back into the store. The clerk was standing in the open doorway of the third dressing room. Whoever she was talking to was just enough taller than she was for a head of short, dark hair to be visible. Andy blinked. The clerk turned at the sound of the door chimes. "I'm sorry, hon, did you forget somethin'?" "No, ma'am. I—" Oh, yes. At ease in a cap-sleeved shell that skimmed low at the neck, Steven leaned against the doorframe and met Andy's eyes with his own unfathomable gaze. The clerk glanced back. "You want to get changed?" she said softly. 28

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"S'all right, Mama," Steven said. "I know him. From the club." "Oh!" The clerk looked at Andy full on this time, and smiled like it was something she really wanted to do. "Then..." "Sit," Steven said, indicating the elderly chair. "You know that one won't fall apart on you." Mortified, Andy sat, touching his head ruefully. There was still a lump there three days after. Steven and his mother went back to their conversation. "I like how it feels, Mama, but it's not fittin' right. And it's not worth puttin' the tits on." She stared at the silky top for a few moments, pursing her lips. "You're right, hon," she said at last. "You're right. But I got a red sweater put aside that you'll think different about. And a skirt. Let me go get 'em." She disappeared into a corridor behind the checkout counter. "What's wrong with that one?" Andy asked. "Darts," Steven replied, hooking a thumb along one offending seam. "Sometimes Mama can alter things and take 'em out, but this one's too flimsy. Gotta have tits for darts." "Oh. Do you...?" "What? Tits?" Steven's lips tilted. "Sometimes." "Here you are, hon," said Steven's mother, bustling back into view. The tiny bundle of fabric in her hands didn't seem like enough to cover half of Steven, much less both halves. The knit material was a dramatic, deep red, and Andy caught sight of plaid underneath it.

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Steven's eyes lit up. He gave Andy a quick, sidelong glance. "Thank you, Mama," he said, and whisked himself and the clothes into the dressing room. Then, "Come in, Mama." "Aw, hon, come on out. We both wanna see." "No." Well, that was clear enough, Andy tried not to sulk as Steven's mother, scolding, went through the dressing room door, which closed quickly after her. Steven eventually came out, but he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, clearly his just-got-out-of-work attire. His mother followed, carrying several items of clothing heaped over one arm. "I'll have them ready next week," she said, just as the door chimes jingled and a group of elderly women flocked in. "You got drinks in the laundry room, Mama?" "Surely. You go on back and leave my ladies in peace." "C'mon." Steven tipped his head briefly, and Andy rose to follow him around the counter. The corridor behind had three doors. The first one, marked "Employees Only," Andy guessed was a bathroom. The second was unmarked. The third, a steel door with a square of wire-meshed glass, looked out from the end of the hall at a trash bin in the alley. Steven led him through the unmarked door. The light from the corridor illuminated a confined, cluttered space before the door swung shut and a warm body pressed into Andy's arms. Steven's hands found Andy's hair and pulled until their lips met in the darkness. The only sounds in the stuffy little room were the noises their hungry mouths made and the slide of fabric between 30

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their bodies. Nothing from the outside: no crowds, no roommates, no leering fraternity brothers. The privacy was a luxury to savor. Nevertheless, for a moment Andy wished for the night sky of the desert, the bustle of narrow streets when the heat of the day was past, and the chance to hold Steven in the free air of a mud brick rooftop in Rabat or Algiers or Muscat. A closet was not the right place to embrace this sinuous, beautiful man. But this was what they had. He broke the kiss to concentrate on the sensation of Steven's body against his own. He could feel Steven's nose, Steven's chin, the whole narrow face nuzzling in. It seemed impossible to believe that such an aloof, amused personality could snuggle so close. He wanted to see. "Light?" Andy whispered, when he finally felt he could bear to let go. "Okay." Steven disengaged, shuffling cautiously farther into the room. With a warning buzz, a fluorescent light above a length of countertop came to life. There was an iron on the counter, and nearby, a steamer. An untidy heap of clothes took up most of the flat space, and a half-filled garment rack was just visible at the edge of the light. Steven was on tiptoes, pulling fabric down from the top of a metal storage cabinet. A blanket. Two blankets. Andy looked at the concrete floor and couldn't hide a wince. "Over there." Steven pointed. A bin took up nearly all of the short wall to Andy's left. The wall itself was the back side of the bin; chain link nailed to two by fours made up the left and right sides. The front was low, just eighteen inches or so of wood scraps cobbled 31

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together. Inside the makeshift container was a jumble of plastic bags full of... Andy wasn't sure what. "Hold this." Steven shoved the blankets into Andy's arms, then hopped into the bin and began leveling the plastic mounds with his feet. The vision was so much like an Italian child stomping on the wine grapes that Andy started to laugh. Steven looked at him disdainfully. "Hey, frat boy, it's better'n the floor." "Don't call me that! What's in the bags?" "Clothes. Stuff she can't sell, Mama sends to the Salvation Army." Steven hopped down, holding out his arms, and Andy laid one of the blankets over them. "This," Steven said, smoothing and tucking, "is my old bed." "What?" "After Dad threw me out," Steven said. "Mama gave me the key, and I slept here for awhile." Andy didn't know what to say to that. "Is your mama Millie?" he asked, remembering the name of the store. Steven took the second blanket and placed it, pillow-style, at one end of the bin. "Nah. But Millie's old, she can't work every day. Mama runs this place." Steven hoisted himself into the bin again and unlaced his boots. "C'mon." Andy didn't need to be told twice. He ripped the Velcro across his sneaker tops and stepped out of them. It was awkward, unstable, sitting upright at the open edge of the bin, but when Steven pulled him down, the bags became reassuringly solid. It was lumpy, but at least it wasn't a concrete floor. Though, once Steven took hold of his flannel 32

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shirt and hauled it over his head, Andy was pretty sure he wouldn't have noticed even concrete. He hadn't yet seen enough. Maybe this wasn't the right place for getting completely naked, but he had to see more than hard little nipples through fabric. When Steven had tossed his shirt aside, he rolled up on his knees, straddling that still-clothed body. "Let me," he said hoarsely, taking a grip on the hem of Steven's T-shirt. It almost seemed that Steven would refuse. His dark eyes narrowed, and he brought his arms in close against his body. Andy waited, hoping not to have misread their embrace in the dark. Then Steven raised his arms, and the T-shirt slid up without resistance. Underneath, a hard chest, pale except where the work coverall had allowed the sun to kiss. The nipples were brown and peaked, anticipating. Andy wasn't done. He unbuckled the worn belt that clasped Steven's jeans, and made a small, delighted sound. Steven's half-hard cock was curving out beneath the narrowest of G-strings. Slowly, Andy pulled the denim away. The golden silk quivered, gap widening between fabric and body, exposing what little the garment had covered to begin with. All that peek-a-boo skin was bare, as smooth as the silk under Andy's questing fingers. He pressed where the tip was just emerging, to feel how the fabric moved more slickly there. "God!" Steven choked out. Andy jerked his eyes away from the treasure trove he'd unearthed. Steven's face was scarlet, his forearm blocking his eyes. Sweat beads had sprung out on 33

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both of his temples; he looked like he was in the throes of fever. "Ya Helw," Andy said, low and anxious. "Are you all right?" "Yeah." Andy didn't believe it without seeing Steven's eyes. "Kiss me, then." "What did you call me?" Andy chuckled at the hint of suspicion. "Sweetness, ya Helw. And I want to taste it, so kiss me." There was that tiny bit of an almost-smile. Steven's arm fell to the side, and his eyes were revealed, unnaturally bright. Tears. Andy's gut plummeted. "I'll stop," he whispered. "I didn't mean—" "Jesus, you moron." Steven grabbed him and brought him down for the kiss. It hurt. Andy let it. Steven broke it soon enough, panting. They stared at each other. "Tell me what I'm doing wrong," Andy insisted. "Nothing!" Steven squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm not... I'm not used to anyone looking, all right?" Impossible. "Then what do they—?" Andy cut himself off; those details weren't his business. "I look. I like what I see. I wish we had our own room and a real bed, because I'd look at you for a long time. But I think your mom isn't going to be busy with those old ladies forever." "No," Steven said, and smiled a little more. "Ya Helw," Andy responded, and took the kiss he'd wanted in the beginning, soft and slow. He could feel Steven's hands at his waist, opening up his jeans, and heard the moan slide 34

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from Steven's throat when those hands closed around his erection. Andy lifted his head and gasped. If he couldn't look his fill, couldn't linger, he wanted something else. He lowered himself to his side on the lumpy blanket, plastic rustling in his ear, and drew Steven backward against him, spoon fashion. Steven made a confused sound but allowed the move, turning to look over one shoulder. Andy adjusted the arm he'd tucked under Steven until he could touch Steven's mouth with his fingers. Steven drew them in immediately, pressing one cheek into Andy's palm. With his other hand, Andy pulled the G-string aside and cupped all the hot flesh. He was going to touch. Everything: the willing, relaxed throat sucking his fingers down, the ribs jutting against his forearm, the hard buttocks arching against his groin, the humid skin of Steven's thighs parting for Andy's hand. Andy had known pleasure many times before, and done some pleasuring, too. There had been wiry bodies to rub against and hot, slick handfuls to squeeze. Nothing was new in any of that. But this soothing, dim quiet was something different. Private. Theirs, because Steven was sharing it with him. Steven panted a little, hiccupping breath and twisted in Andy's arms, bringing their bodies together chest to chest, cock to cock, one of Steven's legs thrown over Andy's to hold them snugged. Though part of Andy wanted to thrust and suck and bite and come, more than anything else he was conscious of how it felt to have a chest rising and falling in time with his own, 35

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to sense the small twitches of Steven's cock, eager, smearing moisture alongside his own. Andy's arms were full of the living reality of his elusive pixie, nearly naked yet still cloaked in mystery. He was going to discover a few more clues soon. Now. A tremor started right below his breastbone, frightened and ecstatic at the same time, and he moaned. The anticipation was so good in its own right. Returning the moan, Steven tightened his leg and thrust against Andy with enough force to rock Andy back. He went with it, rolling so that Steven could straddle him fully. No more thinking; he'd think later, after that lithe form was no longer riding him, using both hands to keep their cocks aligned and tight. The bags crackled rhythmically under his spine, spurring him on. Andy came in a curiously easy rush, his hands gripping Steven's buttocks while the sensation burst from his core and flowed up through his body. As the tremors faded, his gaze fixed on the trickle of his semen over Steven's fingers. He wanted more. "Let me," he whispered. "Steven, let me..." Steven understood, releasing his grip so that Andy's toosensitive cock could slide free. Shifting his weight back onto both hands, Steven took up a faster pace. Andy wrapped his fist around Steven's erection, pumping in time with those narrow hips. He dragged his thumb over the slit once, twice, and then whispered, "Oh, yeah..." as hot fluid rained down. It wasn't until they had collapsed onto the blanket, plastic squeaking under their rolling weight, that Andy reconsidered the wisdom of getting half-naked and messy when the bathroom was a very public walk away. Groping blindly with 36

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one hand, he came up with his shirt and brought it toward his belly. Steven grabbed his wrist. "Use mine," he said. "I got more here." Andy obediently took the T-shirt Steven handed to him and began to wipe. "I thought you didn't live here anymore?" "I don't. But I can't have too much stuff at the hostel. It gets stolen." Steven slid off the bin and went to the cabinet where he'd gotten the blankets. "And it's easier on Mama if she can just hang clothes for me here 'stead of drivin' across town." "I guess. But this seems kind of out of your way for getting dressed." "Nah. Frank drops me off after work. I hang with Mama for a little and get dressed, and she drops me at Buster's." Steven emerged from the wardrobe in a fresh T-shirt. Andy longed to ask for a peek behind the doors, but Steven shut them quite firmly before he had a chance. "It's easy to walk to Buster's if I don't wear heels." A pair of folding doors opened to reveal a stacked washer-dryer unit, and Steven bundled his dirty clothes into the washer. "And I don't always dress up, anyhow." "No?" Andy handed over the soiled blanket and started refolding the one they'd used as a pillow. "If it's not a show night, I'm just a handyman, like. Help the DJ and stuff. No need to dress for that if I don't feel like it." Steven shut the washer and started it. Pulling on his rumpled shirt, Andy considered the wisdom of the question that was on the tip of his tongue. He figured 37

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Steven was being very straightforward about the whole thing, so it probably wouldn't hurt. "Don't you want to dress like a woman as often as you can, though?" There was a pause. "I don't dress like a woman," Steven said finally. His face was hard to see in the inadequate light. "Huh?" "You've seen me. Do you know any woman who looks like me?" That was a point. "No." "Right. Because I dress like me. All the time." Steven's patient tone indicated he'd said all this before and didn't expect to be understood. "Girls can wear anythin'. Even suits. No reason I can't do the same." He walked calmly up to Andy, and Andy could see then that his expression was a little rigid, but not angry. "Any complaints?" Steven inquired softly. "No," Andy said, and kissed him, cupping Steven's cock pointedly through his jeans. Steven rubbed back a quick time or two, then pulled away. "It's all sorts at the club, Andy," he said, and Andy shivered, hearing his name on Steven's lips for the first time. "We each got our own reasons." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Four After that, Andy made a point of studying how things were done at Buster's. The bartenders, correctly assuming him to be butt over teakettle for their handyman, answered his would-be casual questions with amused tolerance. Steven worked most Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights at the club. He was off from his university job on Sundays and Mondays, so he had a "weekend" if he wanted, though it sounded to Andy like he wound up at Buster's on those days, too, more often than not. He came on shift at seven and worked until twelve-thirty or one, depending. His job encompassed everything from fixing the plumbing to running drinks for the performers. He had a fifteen-minute break every two hours, and was supposed to have a half-hour lunch at the end of the fourth hour, but he never took it. The break area, unless a staffer wanted to sit with the patrons, was outside the service door of the bar. Between the building and the parking lot was a rectangle paved in brick. It boasted a few pieces of metal furniture and some overflowing ashtrays. Only the manager called it a patio. As sweet little getaway spots went, it didn't even make the bottom end of a one to ten scale. Nevertheless, it was the spot Steven seemed to prefer. Not that he'd said anything about Andy hanging around the bar. He didn't have to. The bartenders just smiled sidelong, and Andy knew what they were thinking. The other staffers were less reticent—and, once in on the joke, the regulars 39

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maintained a running commentary, invented or otherwise, on the progress of Andy's courtship. Andy wasn't surprised to be handed a ribbing. Living abroad as much as he had, he'd often been the butt of goodnatured mockery for his cluelessness. And, living abroad as much as he had, he didn't pretend even to himself that American social norms were less alien to him than the norms of Dubai. He knew he didn't always get it and was willing to laugh along. What was surprising was the malice, when he finally figured it out—and felt dumb for not seeing it sooner. The staff weren't bad. The regulars, though. The regulars called Andy "frat boy" with such an edge that he'd slide off his bar stool wounded every time. They heckled Steven about having to make do with foreigners because no one who knew him would have him. Loud stories were told within Andy's hearing about the "oral techniques" Steven used to calm the drag queens' nerves on show nights. Andy took it for a week. But as the October show approached, he could feel the antagonism escalating. He guessed it was because show night meant an influx of students who normally didn't consider it worthwhile to come to Buster's just for a soda. Andy wondered whether the roped-off section had been the bouncers' idea, to keep the peace. He'd been shoved, the legs of his stool had "accidentally slipped," and a duffel bag that felt like it was full of hand weights had been dropped on his foot while he sat quietly at the bar. He didn't want to think about what might happen if the regulars were offered any kind of provocation. 40

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So it was Andy who finally said something. He and Steven were outside on Steven's second break; it was a few minutes after eleven on a Friday night. They'd dragged one of the metal chairs deep into the shadow of the building and were sitting double-Dutch style, Steven's legs wrapped as close around Andy's body as the unyielding chair back would allow. The dark brown velour of Steven's dress rode up deliciously, clinging tightly to Steven's body but folding softly across Andy's groin. God, if it had been just a little warmer, a little darker... Andy dragged his mind back to what he'd been trying to figure out how to say. With Steven draped so quietly over him, breathing matched to his, fingers moving with gentle purposelessness over his back, it was impossible to organize his thoughts. He shifted, just to feel how the stockinged thighs rubbed against his jeans. "This is the best part of the night," Andy whispered. "Mmm." The service door opened. Andy dropped his arms, but Steven only looked up. It was the dishwasher, who smirked at them and touched his baseball cap as he carried a bag of garbage to the covered bin at the other side of the building. Steven's boneless relaxation didn't change. "I hate not having any privacy," Andy muttered, easing his arms around Steven again. Steven chuckled. "This is more private than I usually get." "A parking lot?" "Yeah." 41

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It didn't seem like he was going to say more. "Don't you usually get a bedroom?" "Ha. I usually get a dressin' room. Or the laundry room at the hostel." He straightened up and looked into Andy's face. "I'm not doin' that stuff now," he added seriously. "This is the only thing I get." Andy felt a little funny. It was... nice, in a way, to have acknowledgment from Steven that their relationship was special. But the thought that Steven had been doing it practically in public up to now was not happy. The crude insinuations of the regulars seeped through his mind like tar. Steven was watching him. "You're used to nice dates and all, huh?" Andy thought about anonymous rendezvous in claustrophobically small rooms, half-finished glasses of hot, sweet tea next to dusty pallets. Sometimes, it was true, he'd had a wild weekend at the bars in Rome, but... "I got what I paid for, I guess." "Paid for? You? Why would you pay for it?" Before Andy could find an answer for that, the alarm in the small watch face that Steven wore around his neck beeped the end of his break. Andy still hadn't said what he'd intended. Steven stood. "Listen, do you think it might, um, work out better if I just meet you out here for your break tomorrow night?" Steven glanced at him sharply, smoothing down the velour with both hands. Andy swallowed. "I mean, you're really busy when you're not on break, and I've got midterms next week, and the 42

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tournament starts the week after. I just... I like to sit at the bar and stuff, it's not that. I—" "What time?" "Uh. I dunno. Same as now? Eleven?" "Okay. I'll take lunch so we can have a half hour. Gimme your number." Automatically, Andy recited the number as Steven punched it into his own phone. Andy's phone rang. He pulled it out; the caller ID name was blocked. Steven held up one hand when Andy would have answered the call. "Save this number," Steven said to the voice mail instead, then shut the phone. "Now you can call me if you can't come." "I will." It was real, suddenly. Andy hadn't realized until then how external he'd still felt to Steven's world, like some kind of hopeless drag groupie taking what he could get. Now he had Steven's number. He had a standing date. It wasn't until later that Andy thought of something else. Steven had given him a phone number when Andy volunteered to stop being seen in the bar. He didn't know if there really was a connection or not, but the funny feeling came back. **** The October show was the following week. Jason had been at basketball practice on Wednesday, in an unpleasant mood. "Got time for your girlfriend tomorrow, Andy?" "'Scuse me?" Andy had been thinking about free throws; for a moment, he was honestly confused. "We're going to Buster's for the show. Aren't you coming?" 43

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"Oh. No, I've got a lab practical all afternoon and then a calc exam Friday morning." And if he planned to take a study break in between, that wasn't any business of Jason's. "Town-gown romance not working out for you? Maybe you just need some time together. I hear the Twink knows all kinds of dark corners backstage, if you don't mind a few voyeurs." Jason's smile was nasty. With deliberate care that the task didn't really require, Andy re-tied his high tops and tested the support. Maybe it was time for a new pair. "I kinda do," he replied at length. "Don't worry about it, Chief. I'm not." He smiled tightly and walked away. The conversation was still on Andy's mind as he waited in the autumn chill on show night. The townies bugged him, but that situation was resolved; if he stood out here, he didn't have to see them. End of story. Jason was something else. Andy reviewed their exchange one more time. Maybe the guy just couldn't let go of the one scene he'd witnessed, and the sniping had been old sour grapes. Maybe not; there was no telling what connections Jason might have who could have filled him in on the subsequent meetings between Andy and Steven. Andy had made no pretense at secrecy, after all. Andy winced. He'd learned better during his time with Dad. Eyes open. Think ahead. Leave an escape route. He was dependent on Jason for the rest of this year if he wanted to make it into the Tau Eps; he couldn't afford to aggravate the guy by flaunting a relationship with Steven. If Jason was 44

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getting information from someone at Buster's, though, then Andy'd been doing just that. Who'd've thought it would be the gay guys who would hassle him, not the straight ones? By the time Steven slipped out the door, Andy was pacing. He yanked Steven in and crushed the narrow shoulders to his chest, swaying from foot to foot. Steven's hands closed around Andy's arms, but Steven didn't struggle, didn't murmur. They rocked for a minute, until Andy realized that Steven's arms were bare. His pixie was wearing a camisole and a slip skirt. "You idiot, you're going to freeze to death!" Steven tipped his head back and stared at Andy. "Nice to see you, too, butthead. Keep me warm if you're so worried about it." Andy stepped back long enough to unzip his jacket. Steven fit snugly between the open panels, sighing as Andy's arms closed around him again. Andy could feel as many tense muscles in Steven's body as he felt in his own. "Busy night?" "Not bad," Steven said. Andy's hand moved slowly, caressing the textures of muscle and vertebrae down to the hard curve of Steven's buttocks. The skirt fabric was whisper smooth against his knuckles as he pulled the elastic waistband back. Underneath, the panties felt like raw silk. He widened his stance and coaxed Steven's body closer. Steven had undone a button on Andy's shirt and was caressing a nipple with his fingertips. His cheek nuzzled the other, and his eyes were shut. "Okay?" Andy said. 45

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"Mmm." Steven turned his face up for a kiss. With their bodies pressed this tight, even the rise and fall of Steven's breathing could tickle an erection from Andy within seconds. Steven wasn't relying on that, though. The undulations massaging Andy's groin were purposeful. Andy bent Steven back and pushed his fingers further between Steven's thighs. The silk was a tease, he discovered. Steven was wearing a gaff. Andy had already learned how frustrating those were—unless Steven let him take it off. He poked at the dense Lycra. "It's our one-month anniversary," he said hopefully. Steven snorted. "I've got twenty minutes. How romantic are you gonna get?" But he stepped out of the embrace and took Andy's hand. "Come on." Instead of going deeper into the shadows, he led them out to the parking lot. It was full of the usual assortment of battered clunkers, spiked with flashy gifts from Daddy and a couple featureless sedans with out of state plates. In the reserved spots nearest the service entrance, however, were two plain white vans. Steven unclipped a key from the strap of his camisole, flicked a button, and swung open the back doors of the nearest one. He winked. "One love nest, coming up." There were several black equipment cases still in the van. The interior lights went off when Steven shut the doors, but not before Andy had spotted the perfect target—about five feet long and two feet high, with metal reinforcements along the seams and a stack of furniture moving pads folded nearby. The sodium lights in the parking lot were enough to 46

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allow him to keep his bearings as he made his way in that direction. "Love nest." He grinned and shook his head, jubilant and rueful all at once. "I'm moving off campus next semester, I swear." "Well, yeah." Steven sounded surprised. "Goin' to the frat house, right?" "No, I think that's full up. I'm gonna find my own room someplace." He sat and pulled Steven into his lap. "And then I'm gonna have you over. Every night." He kissed behind the fine, small ear. "All night." He tasted his way down to the exposed collar bones. "All the way." A tremendous shudder went through Steven, and Andy smiled privately, unsnapping the gaff and gently freeing the tightly packaged contents so his fingers could encourage Steven's reaction. His pixie had a jones about penetration. Neither of them had said as much, but he guessed Steven's experience in that respect was as limited as his own. It was a fantasy scenario—a bed, a whole day, taking care—and he didn't mind anticipation, but Andy liked it even better when he came through on a promise. This was a promise he was so going to keep. Hopefully over Thanksgiving break, when the dorm would be as good as empty for the long weekend. There was a reality to take advantage of right now, though, and he was more than ready for that, too. Giving up his lips to Steven's eager plundering, he reached out a blind hand and patted until he found a furniture pad. It unfolded as he dragged it, wide, ungainly. He dragged out another. "Bring your legs around," he murmured against Steven's mouth. 47

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With Steven clinging to his body, he could get the pads flattened on the equipment case and make a place to lay the thin body down, Steven's thighs spread wide and propped over his own. The slip skirt made a silky ribbon across Steven's waist, and the unsnapped gaff dangled low around one knee. Fully exposed, Steven's cock was just perking up, begging a touch, and Andy eased the foreskin back to help matters along. Steven's "Ah!" was more enticement that Andy was happy to succumb to. "Hang on, babe," he whispered, sliding a hand under each muscled cheek and lifting. He could hear Steven scrabbling for a brace point as he lowered his mouth to Steven's cock, the flaring ridge firming between his lips. It was so easy to slide his mouth down, listening to the husky cries that filled the van when he swallowed. Steven was the perfect size for this; Andy could stay all the way down on him forever, his tongue slipping wet and gentle or slapping hard. Holding Steven up with both hands gave Andy the excuse to press his fingertips deep into the crevice as he kneaded Steven's ass. He swayed with Steven's movements, eyes closed. Steven's legs lost their purchase on Andy's sides as his writhing became more urgent. Andy helped him sling his calves over Andy's shoulders, and his thighs squeezed close around Andy's head until there was nothing but the taste and smell and sweet pressure of Steven's flesh to bathe Andy's senses. "Ya Helw," he murmured, and slowly took Steven deep again. 48

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It didn't take long; it couldn't. They didn't have the time. That was all right. It was so fucking hot the way Steven twisted between his hands, keening. And then the narrow hips jerked, bumping against Andy's nose as hot, thick fluid spurted deep in Andy's throat. So easy to swallow down. Andy rubbed his cheek against the smooth skin of Steven's groin, feeling his five o'clock shadow prickle. He gently lowered Steven to the furniture pads and straightened, working a crick out of his back and anticipating what might come next. Like— "Shit!" "What?" Steven began to struggle upright. "That little fucker!" Andy said furiously. "Who?" "The kid who washes dishes. He was looking through the back window!" Steven moved to the van doors in a couple quick steps. "Damn, I think you're right." He started to laugh. "I'm gonna bust his nuts, the shit. Peepin' Tom!" "It's not funny!" Andy protested. Steven turned. "Sure, it is. I got nothin' to hide, Andy. He's the pathetic little loser. Let him look." He made his way back. "I want to take care of unfinished business." He smiled into Andy's eyes. "Never mind, I've lost it," Andy said roughly. **** The tournament opened on a Friday in the main gym—a Division I floor. Only the center bleachers were out, not the 49

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extra seating that got set up for the big games, but it was still awesome, high-ceilinged and echoing like a cathedral as they shot around before the game. Andy felt tiny and ten feet tall at the same time. The Tau Eps were the visiting team against the Omega Rhos, which had been the first team eliminated from last year's tourney. The Tau Eps' colors dominated as the crowd came pouring in. It was going to be a Tau Ep night; the energy was there. Andy grinned as he peered out from the tunnel. The tunnel. Awesome. Girlfriends were easy to pick out in the crowd because every girl wore her guy's extra jersey. That was maybe not so awesome. Andy's extra jersey was in his locker. Cut long and loose as it was, he could picture how it would look draped on narrow shoulders, belted over a pair of leggings... That, as his father would say, was not a productive avenue for discussion. Jason and the rest of the fraternity officers were sitting right behind the Tau Eps' bench. No flaunting. Not that a townie would have been caught dead at a Greek event anyway. He'd put the negative thoughts away by the time the team ran out of the tunnel, posing a little for the fans before taking up their spots on the court or the bench, as the case might be. Andy usually subbed for Rob, their starting guard, and didn't get into the game until late in the half. Which in this case was a damned good thing, because his attention was everywhere but on the court. The butterflies whirling around behind his bellybutton took a lot of killing, for one thing. Then there was the 50

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overwhelming reality of the crowd. A huge crowd. A loud crowd. He smelled the popcorn, listened to the shouts, looked for friends, joined the applause. It was at least ten minutes before he realized the guy that Rob was guarding was Eddie from his chemistry class; apparently the Omega Rho team had allowed a freshman or two on the squad, too. He settled down to see what kind of moves Eddie had. Eddie was still out there and the Omega Rhos were down by eight points when Cal signaled to Andy. Yes. He ran out to his position and winked at his classmate. "Yo, dog," Eddie said, and bared his teeth. Andy laughed. It was real work, though. Eddie had him by at least three inches in height and reach, and there was no way Andy was getting a clear shot from inside the paint. He could defend the guy pretty well, all things considered, but there were only three minutes left in the half, and Andy wanted some points. A minute left, and he had an assist and a rebound. That wasn't bad, but it wasn't enough, either. The clock was at twenty-seven seconds when he got the break he was looking for. A little fake worked better than planned, and the way wasn't entirely clear, but if Cal's shooting drills were worth a damn... He pivoted right on the three-point line and shot. Swish. It was sweet to watch the trajectory of the ball as it dropped, his teammates shouting approval all around him. Backing up while the other team got ready to inbound, Andy suddenly caught sight of a blue coverall. Ten feet or so behind the basket, partially lost in the shadow of the right51

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hand bleachers, and he wasn't even sure at first that there was a person inside the uniform. But of course there was. He knew who it was, too. It was Friday night. Steven should have been a couple miles away at Buster's. Obviously not. Andy's heart was in his throat, and before he could force it back down again, halftime had arrived. The team was going to be running down the tunnel right behind that same basket where Steven was standing. He couldn't stop to talk; that would be too obvious. A high five on the run was always a pratfall risk. Maybe a thumbs up. Yeah. A little smile, a quick upward flick of the wrist, that would work. Except that, jogging toward the tunnel, Andy saw that Steven wasn't alone. There was another coverall just emerging from under the bleachers. In the moment that Andy caught Steven's eye, clearly made the contact, Steven turned. With a quick jerk of his head, he indicated the approaching squad and said something that made the other guy laugh. Before Andy could draw even with him, Steven was walking away. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Five October turned to November. Andy had stayed away from Buster's the Saturday after the first game, excusing himself with frat activities, but by Sunday he'd talked himself out of his sulk. He knew what the bar regulars were like. No doubt the maintenance crew was the same, at least as far as their opinion of fraternity brothers went. Steven had to make nice with those guys to keep a job. Andy could understand that. Halloween fell on a Sunday, which meant a weekend of insanity shuttling from the Greek parties to the celebrations at Buster's and back again. It had taken Andy most of the following week just to recover. Now, here it was Monday again, and Andy was dozing in the frat house common room, per usual after his eight o'clock calculus class. A Red Bull was on the end table, but Andy had given up on the stay-awake thing almost immediately and was stretched full length on the couch. Some frat brothers thundered through the hall on their way to class. He was glad it was Monday, actually. After the hell of getting up, he didn't have another class until two. True, the house stove had broken down again over the weekend, so there wouldn't be anything hot for lunch. But the new one would be installed this afternoon. Mm, lunch... BANG. Andy flung out his arm and whacked someone, but still got enough leverage to vault over the back of the couch. Full 53

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consciousness arrived a few moments later as he registered the howls coming from the doorway. Andy peered over the upholstery. Rob was laughing his ass off. Hiro was getting up gingerly from the floor, a cap pistol in one hand. "You're wanted," he informed Andy, rubbing an elbow. "By who, fuckhead?" "Now, now," Rob said. "Be a respectful little pledge boy." Oh, shit. But Andy gave no resistance as they blindfolded him and led him down the basement steps with boisterous disregard for life and limb. He'd known Jason would come up with a pledge task for him sooner or later. Better to get it over with. He hadn't seen the basement yet, and wouldn't until he was fully initiated, but he'd been brought down before to make his pledge. The air was cool and humid against his cheeks. It smelled like paint that never quite got to dry. There was a door a couple paces past the bottom of the steps. He was pushed through, stumbling, and there was a solid 'clunk' behind him. "Annnndrew," drawled Jason. "The time has come, my friend. A little bet." A smirk was audible in that annoying voice. Andy jammed his hands into his pockets. The adrenaline hangover from the cap gun prank, combined with the anxiety of blindness, were making him feel sick. "You... inspired me with that scene you made with the Twinkerbell a couple months ago." There was a creak, and Andy imagined Jason tipping back arrogantly in a chair. "Made me think of a scene that might be even hotter." 54

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Andy said nothing. "I bet the pledge committee you could get her to prove her love, Andy. Don't you think? Like Brandon's girl did. Get her into your lap, get off. Show me it wasn't just beginner's luck when you got the prissiest little queen in town to come hither." "No," said Andy. "You think she wouldn't do it? Some X-rated skin right there in the bar?" Jason made a 'tsk tsk' sound. "I was sure you'd take my side of the bet, Andy. You did so well on your first try." "No," said Andy again. "Why not?" Jason asked softly. "Because he's a townie. He's an innocent bystander. He doesn't deserve to be dragged into... frat stuff. He wouldn't understand." "She's a little cocktease who obviously has no problem with PDA. What are you getting so worked up about? Haven't you heard the Twink's rep?" "No," said Andy doggedly. Jason was silent. The only sound was the thrum of the furnace in the next room. Then there was a 'tmp' like chair legs had come down, and son of a bitch, Jason had been lounging back, savoring the moment. Jerk. "All right," said Jason. "You realize that if you refuse your task, your status as a pledge is revoked. I'll expect you here on Thursday night at nine to walk to Buster's with us. Until then, your privileges are suspended." Pause. "Including your place on the basketball team. Rob!" 55

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The door opened behind Andy. "See this gentleman out. And advise the pledge committee that he is not allowed back in the house until Thursday at nine." **** Cal was a good guy. He texted Andy every now and then, keeping him in the loop. Midterm grades had come back, to house-wide chagrin, and they hadn't been able to muster five-on-five for practice since last Friday's game. The maintenance guy had come and installed a new stove, finally. The traditional panty raid on the neighboring sorority was scheduled for next Monday after Homecoming; find a hockey mask between now and then. Nothing was said about the suspension. But Andy knew it was on Cal's mind, just like it was on his. Andy would miss Wednesday's game against a pretty fair Zeta Mu team. The Tau Eps already had one loss. One more would put them at real risk of being out of the semifinals. As for Homecoming Weekend in four days—now both his parents would be there. Dad was using part of a rare month of leave to come to campus and watch his son do him proud. When Andy had gotten back to the dorm on Monday night, there'd been an e-mail from his dad to confirm their travel plans and to say how much he and Andy's mom were looking forward to seeing Andy play. Dad's whole definition of a vacation was "sitting still." He spent his life on planes and in guest quarters. To give up a precious weekend of leave to travel for a basketball game 56

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that Andy wouldn't even be playing in... Andy didn't want to think about that. Under the pain of ostracism, the chatter, the worry, there was also an ache. He wanted Steven badly. They'd settled into a balance that Andy thought of as "for now"; Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays weren't days they saw each other. Or even spoke, really, because Steven was lousy on the phone, all one-word mutters. That was all right. They both knew they had Thursdays. Thursday. No lie, the thought of an aroused and needy pixie being seduced into a lap dance in some dark corner was hot. Unbearably hot. And probably unforgiveable. Even setting aside the fact that it would be premeditated on Andy's part, Andy knew that Steven would take a merciless amount of shit behind the scenes if he was seen. On a show night, Andy doubted there was any way not to be seen. Anyway, he couldn't set aside the fact that he'd be doing it for someone else's prurient benefit. Jason would have half the frat there as witnesses. There would be a scene. Quite possibly, there would be a confrontation between town and gown. There would definitely be no escape route. At least I can see it coming now. He remembered a night in Rabat when he was still green, still being led around by a junior attache, and they'd gotten separated en route to the back-alley trysting place. Andy had figured he was okay; he was with the local who had come to guide them, and the man assured Andy in an Arabic-English patois that everything was fine, they'd get there fine, fine fine fine. And they did—about ten minutes before the authorities showed up. 57

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It made a great story, how he'd followed the boys he'd been in the process of chatting up and escaped over the parapeted roofs, like an aerial version of one of those crashthe-garden-party movie scenes. Rooftops were the backyard decks of the Arabic world, and Andy had hopped through a bunch of them before he'd found an empty one where he wouldn't be given away by the shrieking occupants. It had taken forever to figure out how to get down without breaking into the house. Very funny—in retrospect. He'd never in a million years have the balls to do it again in cold blood. He knew better. He knew better. His parents were coming for his basketball game. **** Steven called him on Wednesday night. For a moment, Andy just stared at the nameless number on the caller ID. Then he scrambled to get the phone open as fast as he could. "Hey, babe," he answered. For a change, Nate the roommate wasn't around. Andy could focus exclusively on Steven. "Hey." There was noise in the background. "Are you at work or the club?" "Work." "When do you clock out?" "Eleven. I took a second shift off a guy." "Yeah? Why?" "Somethin' at his kid's school tonight." Andy could almost hear the shrug. "I dunno." 58

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"That was nice of you." Pause. "How about I come pick you up at the end of your shift?" "Nah," Steven said flatly. Andy winced. Diplomats had their drawbacks, especially when it came to getting an honest answer, but on occasion he could see the benefits. "Okay." Another pause. "You comin' tomorrow?" "I wouldn't skip our date for anything." Andy grinned. "But you gotta promise not to wear those torture panties." "Hey!" Andy laughed. "Promise me! You've gotta have a show outfit that'll let you fly the flag freely." Steven's voice was suddenly animated. "Maybe I do. But there's a tradeoff up top." "Aha," Andy purred. "That's a tradeoff I've gotta see." The connection crackled just then, but Andy thought Steven chuckled. "Deal. See ya." "See ya, babe." So that made Wednesday night a little easier, but by chem lab on Thursday, Andy's skull was bouncing his brain around like a dribbling drill. Eddie, unaware of Andy's suspension, trash-talked basketball throughout the experiment. The stink of chemicals and roar of the fume hood added to the headache, but Andy knew better than to blame them for causing it. He scribbled notes, hoping they'd be legible later— and took care not to offend Eddie, just in case he needed a loan before the test. He walked out of the lab at four thirty into the waiting clutches of Cal and Rob. "Aw, fuck, no," he snarled. "Get out 59

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of here, you assholes. You know you can't be seen talking to me." "Sure, we can, if you listen," said Rob, grabbing Andy's arm and hustling him along the sidewalk. He let go hastily at Andy's yelp. "What?" "Headache," Andy groaned, dropping his backpack to press all ten fingers into his face. A few seconds later, Cal was pulling one hand down to force a couple pills into the palm. Andy looked, but red was creeping in to blur his vision by then. "What are they?" "Just Excedrin, man. Take 'em dry, we'll get you something to drink in a minute." Then they were hustling Andy down the sidewalk again. Their destination turned out to be the Tap, a skank dive just off the edge of campus. It existed solely as an alcohol transfer point, so far as anyone could tell—there wasn't even a jukebox, and the health inspectors obviously hadn't been through in centuries. No one Andy knew ever went there; he'd gone himself, right after classes started, to see what was what. He'd never intended to go back. Now, here he was at an encrusted Formica table bolted to the floor, Cal on one side and Rob on the other, feebly protesting at the draft-whatever that was being pushed into his hand. One of those fucking pills seemed to have gotten stuck behind his Adam's apple, though, so he drank. And sputtered. "That is foul." "Shut up and listen," Cal said. "We've only got a couple hours." 60

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"You don't need a couple hours," Andy replied. "I'm not doing it. There. You're done." "Why won't you do it?" Andy opened his mouth and shut it. What could he say to these Midwestern boys who thought what he was being asked to do was funny? He hadn't even been able to completely articulate it for himself. "I think sex should be private," he said slowly. "Don't most people?" "Yeah," Cal said. "And I don't think you should expose someone you care about to, you know, mean jokes. Gossip." Oh, very diplomatic. Doin' Dad proud, here. "What if they don't mind, though?" Rob challenged quickly. Cal touched Rob's arm warningly. "How would you know?" Andy riposted, not so diplomatically. "You know that guy Kevin?" Andy shook his head. Bad idea. He took another gulp of beer and hoped the Excedrin kicked in soon. "He's the dishwasher at Buster's. You know him," Rob insisted. "Right, yeah." Andy knew where this was going. "He says he saw—" "Rob." Cal clearly had intended to take this conversation in a different direction. But Rob had his teeth in the red meat of gossip and would not be denied. "Well, he did. And you can say it was just a one-time thing for you, Andy, but Kevin told me that it's just 61

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what that guy does. Everywhere. Behind the bar. Backstage. Kevin says he's got a bumper sticker on his locker that says, 'I do it onstage.' He's a fucking exhibitionist!" Andy could feel himself growing red in the face. His head was throbbing like a bitch. "Listen to me, you little fucker, I don't care if—" "Andy, dude, simmer down." Cal was out of his seat, pressing Andy back. "It's just the scuttlebutt, man, you know how Rob is." "Hey!" "Well, you are, asshole. You're the fucking town pump when it comes to all that crap. Listen, Andy. The point is, I think you're making too much out of what your, uh, gal is going to think about this. I mean, you'll have to make nice afterward, maybe, but I think it won't be as bad as you're afraid of." "He," Andy said. He rubbed his brow and stared into the half-drunk beer. "Steven is a he." "Okay," Cal said obligingly. "I think if you explain it to Steven afterward, he'd see the necessity, you know?" "The necessity?" Andy couldn't believe this self-serving bullshit. "Yeah. Because think about it. You tried out for the team and kept an upperclassman off the squad, didn't you? 'Cause I totally would have chosen Paul Atkins if you hadn't tried out, and he's a junior. You denied him a chance, and I can't add him now. If you don't play, we go out there with nine guys." "I know." Andy finished the beer. Rob signaled the bartender. 62

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"You made a commitment to the whole frat, man. I don't mean pledging. That's real, too, and you've gotta think about it. But I care even more about the team, Andy, you know I do. We're in with a chance if you play, and we're in the hole if you don't." "Aren't your parents coming to watch this weekend?" Rob asked. It was an honest question; Andy could tell Rob didn't know the answer. But it still twisted the knife. "Uh-huh." The other two looked at him expectantly. "I sure wouldn't want to tell my old man I was a quitter," Rob prodded. "Well, I don't want to tell him that I made a public spectacle of my boyfriend just because that voyeuristic little creep Jason is jealous!" Andy shouted. Heads turned. He subsided into his second beer, glaring at Rob. "Is Jason the problem?" Cal asked. "It's all a problem. But, yes, Jason is one of the problems. I don't want him taking pictures and putting this all over his Facebook page. I don't care if he embarrasses me—well, no, I care. But I can deal with that. Steven—" Andy felt tears sting and quickly took another swallow of beer. Shit. Two pints on an empty stomach; no wonder he was getting maudlin about things. Steven would be laughing his ass off at this noble defense of his virtue. "We can take care of Jason," Cal said confidently. "What?" "We'll take care of him," Cal repeated. "No pictures." "How do you know?" 63

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"Jason thinks you're done. He hasn't gotten a big group together for tonight. I mean, you haven't seen it, but the house is kinda pissed at Jason right now. The guys like you, you know? No one on the basketball team will have anything to do with this. I think Hiro said he'd go, and a couple other guys. I'll go if you're coming, and I can keep tabs on Jason." "I'll—" "No, you will not, Rob. No one on the basketball team gets involved, remember? We agreed." Rob crossed his arms and scowled at the Formica. "Right." "So you'll do it, Andy?" "Wait." The ache in his brain was less, but his thoughts didn't seem to be getting any clearer. "I didn't say—" "I'll keep Jason under control. You do your thing, and we'll clear out after and let you explain the sitch to your sweetie if you have to. C'mon, man. All you gotta do is get him in your lap. It's not like we're going to ask for an inspection after. The pledge committee will totally believe me if I say the deed was done. Okay?" I got nothin' to hide, Andy. He could hear it as clearly as the night it had shocked him. Was it really true? Was Cal's promise all the escape route he needed to pull this scenario off? His parents were coming for Homecoming. Andy nodded. **** The beer was definitely helping. He'd had two more with Cal and Rob at the Tap, and then Cal had sent Rob to the frat 64

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and taken Andy to a better-quality establishment for a burger. And more beer. When Andy had suggested they start back to the frat, Cal waved it off. "Rob's telling them to meet us at Buster's. No point going all the way back to the frat—it's a hell of a walk, and neither of us should be driving, hmm?" Which was only sensible. They went to Andy's dorm room instead, so Andy could get out of the T-shirt with the chem lab stench. He automatically reached for one of his rainbow of kameez, but Cal stopped his arm. "That's a lot of fabric," Cal said. Andy blinked. "Huh?" "How about another T-shirt?" "But Steven likes me in a kameez..." "I bet he'd like you in just about anything." Cal pulled something bright off the closet shelf. "Like this." It was a tie-dye Andy had made one summer in high school. He'd filled out a little since then, but not too much, and the shirt stretched nicely over his chest. The design he'd been trying for had gone awry, and that actually worked out, too; the double whorls made the most of his pecs. Tie-dye was kind of dorky, maybe, but the look was surprisingly good. He went with it. By the time they got into line at Buster's, Andy had finally wrapped his brain around the fact that this was going to work. It was really going to work. Steven would come to him. Hell, Steven had come to him when they didn't even know each other. It might be more awkward now, with the stuff that was getting said at the bar, but Steven would do it for 65

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him. Just a straddle and a kiss. That's all. It was the same thing they did out back every weekend, wasn't it? He chose his seat with care, right by the ropes, just like the first night. He thought the roped-off section had been a lot farther back that time. Hadn't it? He remembered having a conversation with the waiter while the music played, which was impossible where he was sitting now. Didn't matter, though. He didn't need to have a conversation with anyone but Steven, and Steven would only come out between acts. Maybe. Andy's brow furrowed. What if Steven was busy? He was still worrying at this possibility when Jason showed up with three other guys. They all fit at one table this time. One of the guys had a flask and spiked their sodas with rum, and things got convivial between acts. Andy wasn't really paying attention to the show. The Abba guy, no, gal was there, much to Hiro's disgust, but she wasn't that bad. He wondered what Hiro would say if Andy told him the singer was straight. Steven had told Andy that. Where was Steven, anyway? It had to be getting close to eleven, didn't it? What if Steven went out to the patio and didn't realize Andy was right here? A new wave of worry swamped his brain. But he didn't have to worry. Five minutes, or maybe ten, after the next interval started, there was his pixie. Andy recognized the red outfit immediately, the fine knit of the sweater clinging tight to a pair of perfect, A-cup breasts. Andy's fingers twitched. The pleated plaid miniskirt barely covered Steven's ass, swishing with come-hither 66

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flirtatiousness every time Steven moved. The sleek black wig tickled Steven's bent neck. If anyone had asked him, Andy would have said it was a good thing no one was checking for evidence tonight, because there was no way he'd be able to get it up with so much beer in him. He would have been wrong. As soon as that delectable vision swayed into view, his cock started to struggle to life. It seemed to take forever for Steven to reach the table. He stopped every few steps, chatting up patrons, glancing at the stage, like he was deliberately drawing out the wait. Andy's cock got harder. He was aware of Cal moving around. Cal was sitting between Andy and Jason. Smart move by Cal. Cal would keep Jason in line. Everything would be fine. Finally, Steven was within reach. The dark eyes seemed to bore through Andy; he was uneasy all of a sudden. "Hi, babe," he said, too loudly. "Surprised to see me?" "Yeah." Steven's voice was almost inaudible through the crowd noise. There was a bustle on the stage behind him. Andy held out his arms. "Come here and say hello, huh?" Steven looked over his shoulder. With a sudden burst of strobing light from the disco ball, Miss Felicity shimmied out to the microphone. The audience roared. The flashes of white were nearly blinding. Andy couldn't distinguish Steven's movements from the crowd behind; he only knew for certain that Steven had approached when he felt his lap fill with warm weight. And then all the light stopped except for one tight spot on Miss Felicity. "Ladies and gentlemen!" she cried. The cheers 67

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went up. In the pitch black, Andy felt Steven's mouth come down on his own, and opened his lips. Miss Felicity crooned the chorus of "Celebrate Me Home" a capella as Steven's hands delved for fly of Andy's jeans. Andy tried to fumble for those breasts under the sweater, but it was too tight. He groped down to the pleats instead to feel if Steven had left off the damned gaff. Some sort of furious exchange was going on between Cal and Jason, but he couldn't see either of them. He hoped to God Jason couldn't see him. Under the plaid skirt, there was only a thong. Steven pushed it aside himself. His cock wasn't hard yet, but the warm weight of his package rubbing along Andy's hot length felt really good anyway. Andy moaned into Steven's mouth, humping up. He was dimly aware that Miss Felicity was speaking again, something about spectacle and "mixing it up," but he was just grateful she was distracting the people around them. More and more was becoming visible as his eyes adjusted to the spotlight's glare, and he knew that Cal and Jason at least were getting an eyeful. Then the disco ball strobed to life again, and Andy startled. His body's sudden jerk brought him to the edge. Steven's hips backed off, but a small, strong hand came in to fondle his balls. He thrust into the air as the hand worked him. "Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready?" Cheers. "I said, are you ready?" 68

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A roar. On the swell of sound, Andy threw his head back and shot. Steven's hand squeezed him gently, positioning his shaft so that the hot wetness splurted over Andy's belly. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you—Andrew Kelton!" In that moment, there was a blinding flash. The warm weight of Steven rolled off his thighs. Then came the shrieks, and the laughter, and the mechanical whirrs of what sounded like a thousand cell phone cameras all going off at once. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Six He didn't remember ever having played basketball like this before. Usually, he was nervous, even nauseated before the game, and came off the bench tentative. It took maybe three or four minutes on the court before he found his groove. Not this time. The team they were playing—Omega something house, Andy hadn't really been keeping up during his exile—were mostly bigger. When Andy was sent in early in the second period, he found himself one on one with a dude well over six feet tall. It didn't matter. As soon as he got the ball, he ducked, spun, and shot. Swish. And again. And again. In six minutes, he had twelve points—all threes. Plus two fouls. His opponent might as well have been wearing a target rather than a jersey. Elbows and hips battered back and forth down the length of the court on every possession. Andy could feel the throb of the incipient bruises, could hear the high, anxious edge in his mother's cries of encouragement every time he was knocked to the floor. After the third foul, Cal took him out. Fourteen points in eleven minutes. Andy sat down heavily next to Rob. "What the fuck has gotten into you?" Rob hissed. "I wanted to kill that fucker," Andy muttered, touching his lip where it was starting to swell. "I thought he was gonna kill you." "Fuckin' no way." But he was already stiffening up on the bench, and he knew he'd feel like someone really had killed him, come morning. 70

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**** His dad was eyeing Andy over a cup of coffee as they waited for his mom to leave. Andy thought being killed on the court might have been a better option all the way around. Anyone could tell Dad knew something, and bitter experience had taught Andy that life wouldn't be worth living until Dad had said his piece. Whatever that was going to be. Mom finally finished gathering herself up and pushed back her chair. "Call if you need me. We'll just be shopping on Hill Avenue, as far as I know." She bent and kissed Andy's cheek. "Keep your father out of trouble until lunchtime." "Ziggy's at one?" Dad said, smiling up. Andy could see it, his mother's happy-ever-after that lay camouflaged by the banal exchange. The tiny blush on her cheek as she quickly pecked her husband's lips. That's how they got when Dad finally relaxed into one of these long leaves from the job. Comfortable with each other. Not embarrassed by the little quirks. Kissing in public. Andy hated his parents right then. They had... He... For them... The thought wouldn't articulate, and Andy suspected it was because of sheer self-preservation. He knew that if he got a good, clear look at the emotions churning through his gut, he would probably dissolve into a puddle of pure shame. Dad kept that little smile, watching Mom disappear through the front door of the student union cafe. Then, like a flashback to much younger days, a powerful grip dug into Andy's arm and dragged him out of his chair. "Dorm," Dad growled. The little smile was still in place. 71

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"Dad, I—" His father was already within two steps of the side door. Andy caught up just in time to grab the handle as it swung by. "What—" "We'll discuss it in your room." Dad might be nearly fifty, but it was everything Andy could do to keep up without breaking into an embarrassing jog. They reached Miller Hall in less than five minutes. For a wonder, the elevators were actually working, and they rode in silence to the fifth floor. "Clothes," Dad said, as soon as the door to 539 closed behind them. "Closet's—" "Dirty clothes." "On the floor of the closet," Andy said obediently. "Dad, what..." He stared at the green garbage bag his father had pulled out of the dorky parental fanny pack. Rooting through the fabric mayhem, Andy's father emerged with a pair of stonewashed jeans ripped through both knees and the tie-dyed T-shirt with the pattern that flattered Andy's pecs. The outfit he'd worn to the bar. "Dad," he whispered. Ignoring him, his father stuffed the clothes into the garbage bag. He pressed out the air, twisting the lump as small as it would go, then doubled the excess plastic around the bundle again. The crinkle of the plastic was harsh in Andy's ears. Dad tossed the knotted bag toward the bedroom door. "Sit." 72

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Andy sat on his bed. His father pulled out a cell phone, checking quickly for messages. Then he hit a couple more buttons. Without a word, he extended the phone to Andy. Andy already knew. But he took it anyway. He hadn't seen it yet—one of many, no doubt. He'd heard the clicking, the oh-my-God shrieks, and this was the result. He just hadn't expected it would wind up in Dad's hands so quickly. The shot showed his tie-dye in all its Technicolor glory, tight across his shoulders and pushed high up his belly. The jeans were pushed low on his hips—he remembered how far it had seemed when he was struggling to pull them up—and the open fly framed his balls admirably. Lolling center stage, his penis glistened even in low resolution. If he used a little imagination, he could see in that patch of blurred red at the edge a pleated miniskirt swinging in the wake of slim thighs. For real, the jizz was just dripping down her legs when she got back on the stage... God, not that, he hoped. The one mercy shown him was that Andy's head was still back, far enough that his features were completely in shadow. Only the point of his chin was caught in the pitiless spotlight. Andy put the phone back into his father's hand without a word. He couldn't look up. "The one thing I tried to teach you these last few years was to think ahead before you get caught in the moment. Keep an escape route open. You're going to be stupid, you're going to make poor judgments, you're going to get played. Keep an escape route open. Don't become a bullseye." Dad snapped the phone shut. 73

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Andy shook his head, speechless. "Did it seem trivial to you? Getting caught—my God, exposed—in a public place like that? Or did you believe that all the cell phones would be confiscated by the bouncer to spare you the embarrassment?" "I... the spotlight, I didn't know... "I'm actually grateful for that spotlight. The shadow it cast means no one can see your face. Did anyone get in close?" "I don't think so," Andy said, hating how his voice shook. "They set the strobe off right after that. It was really hard to see. Cal got me out." "Then if we have any luck at all in this fiasco, no one will have gotten a clearer shot." Dad sat down heavily on the roommate's bed. "What difference does a goddamn picture make?" Andy shouted. "Everyone was there. They saw it with their own goddamn eyes!" "I don't care what a bunch of kids saw. Maybe if you're feeling humiliated, it will teach you something I obviously couldn't," Dad said brutally. There was a silence. "Do you realize that there are fourteen children or near relations of active diplomats at this university?" he added more quietly. "Or that at least three of those diplomats stand to profit if I am compromised in my performance in any way?" Andy looked up quickly. Dad's palm was out, forestalling him. "I don't mean cloak and dagger crap. Just plain old careerism. How do you think a photo like this would be received in a conference room in Ankara? It hasn't been that long, Andy. A lot of people remember you. If this picture 74

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showed your face..." His father's voice was getting softer, but the words were getting harder to take. "It would be one thing if I was assigned to Europe. I bet if someone showed me this in the Hague, they'd also show me photos of their own kid in an even more half-assed position. But you know damn well I'm never going to work in that world." "I know," Andy said. He curled his body over his knees, trying to keep the sobs from rising out of his hollow chest. But a loud gasp escaped, and he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyelids in agony. "Andy." A weight came down beside him. Dad's warm hand touched his back, and Andy sobbed again. "We're going to be lucky. It'll be all right, Drew-Drew." The ancient nickname undid him completely, and he burrowed into the embrace of those safe arms. **** Somewhere among the plastic shopping bags mounded in the back seat, Andy knew a garbage bag rolled small was hiding. He'd never see those clothes again; no one would. At least three more photos had been delivered to his dad's cell, but none of them had been any clearer than the first. Only the clothes could be identified. "Plausible deniability," Dad said. "That's all we need." And, so far, they had it. Mom knew. Andy guessed she hadn't seen the photos, but any words Dad could have chosen would have been almost as ugly. Her touch was even gentler than usual as she held him more than hugged him goodbye. "We're proud of you," she 75

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said. "Be proud of yourself, too, honey." Oh, yeah. Mom knew. Dad shook his hand and put a hundred dollar bill in the breast pocket of Andy's flannel shirt. "New clothes," he explained, and gave Andy a one-armed hug. The evidence rode away in his parents' rental sedan, and Andy had only to brave the scandalized glee of everyone who knew him. And shop for clothes. De-pledging from a frat was a surprisingly bureaucratic process. He had to go to the university's housing office, the Greek office, the "student life" office... it was a mess. He took care of all of it before going to the Tau Ep house. Jason smirked as he took the resignation letter from Andy's hand. Neither one of them said anything. Cal was less reticent. "Jesus, man, the tournament's nearly over! Couldn't you wait?" Andy shook his head. "I appreciate the way you stood behind me." "Yeah, well, not enough, huh? Shit." It was Thursday, an entire week after, before Andy was free during store hours. He pushed open the door to Millie's Exchange, and the woman made of weathered bone and cornsilk was there. She looked up at the sound of the door chime. Her expression did not change. She bent to her task again. There weren't a lot of jeans in Andy's size—well, consignment shops usually didn't have a lot of guy clothes. But he found one promising pair, the right knee already worn 76

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paper-thin, and took them back to the dressing room. They fit well enough for fifteen bucks. "Anythin' I can help you with today?" the clerk said mechanically as he approached the counter. The hallway behind her was dark. "No, thank you, Mrs., um..." A blush shot fiercely into his cheeks as he realized he'd never even learned Steven's last name. "I'm sorry, I don't know—" "No need," she said, and he understood the warning in her tone. He plunged ahead anyway. "Ma'am, I've been— I tried to call him to apologize, but he won't pick up. I need to get in touch with him so I can tell him I'm sorry." "'Need to,' do you?" He'd braced himself for withering scorn, but her voice just sounded tired. Maybe a little frustrated, like she'd had too many conversations with misguided men. "Well, I'm sure you believe that, young man. But he don't need to hear it from you." He bowed his head and paid for the jeans. It had been an entire week—but maybe that wasn't long enough. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Seven Going to Buster's was a last resort. He sure as hell wasn't going to go inside—and the bouncer probably wouldn't let him in anyway. Out back, though, Andy could wait. Someone would come out, even if it was just the dishwasher with the garbage. Ultimately, that's who it was. Kevin the slimeball. He leered openly when Andy approached him and asked to pass a message to Steven. The only answer Andy got back was a shrugged shoulder. Andy waited. It took nearly an hour, but the door did open again. "You." The lanky redhead was the last person Andy had expected to see on a regular night. Confident in four-inch pumps, Miss Felicity strode forward and slapped Andy. Not as hard as she could have, Andy was sure, but it hurt anyway. He regained his balance and took a more defensive stance, studying her warily for any next move. Then, like tumblers in a lock, it clicked. "Frank." Frank's grin had a feral edge. "Took you long enough. Although," he added with elaborate nonchalance, "maybe I should be impressed you got it at all. Your frat-boy friends sure didn't." "We always had to sit in the back," Andy said dully. 78

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"Not in the frat kitchen, you didn't. I musta been in and out of there every week for a month working on that damned stove, and they all talked around me like I didn't exist. Hired help, you know." The tone was pure bitch provocation, but Andy couldn't answer. He thought about all the embassies and consulates he'd passed through in the last three years, and how he couldn't remember the name of a single staffer. Frat boy. Then his head jerked up, and he stared. "You knew?" Frank gave one, slow, insufferable nod, as if savoring the ugly moment. "Surely, darling, you didn't think that all happened by accident." "Of course not," Andy snapped. "I figured Jason deliberately gave the manager the tip." "No. He quite undeliberately gave me the tip." Frank looked reflective for a moment. "And what did you do to piss that little cunt off so badly? He hates you." Andy sighed. "One of the guys said Jason tried to hit on Steven and got turned down." "Really? And you took orders from this Jason? About Steven?" "I was taking orders about me. Me. I didn't want Steven involved, I just couldn't figure out a way to get around it!" "You couldn't figure out how to get what you wanted and get around it," Frank corrected. "Did it ever occur to you to talk it over with Steven? Treat him as an equal? Make a plan together? It's the polite thing to do, you know, when you want someone to be your patsy." 79

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"Could you just get Steven to talk to me?" Andy swallowed. "Please? I want to tell him I'm sorry." "You think 'I'm sorry' is gonna change all that? Too bad, kiddo, you're going to have to wank out here on your lonesome. Steven's not coming out, and you're not going in." "All right," Andy said, grappling to control the anger he knew Frank was intentionally provoking. This was his last chance; there were no other venues. "Would you just tell him I was here to apologize?" Frank's expression was speculative now. "Could I get you to beg on your knees, I wonder? No, don't bother. I'm not running errands for you, frat boy. I know you think a townie should just be grateful that you condescended to rub off on him, but that's not the way we think around here. And it's not open for discussion." He examined Andy critically for a moment while Andy struggled for something to say. "You're going to bruise up nice," Frank observed, then sashayed back to the door, which was opened to him from within. Great. An audience. Andy hoped it hadn't been Steven. **** His father's leave ended before the Thanksgiving holiday, and Mom and the twins were going to his grandparents' house in New Hampshire for the long weekend. Mom agreed that it didn't make sense to for Andy to try and come home and maybe get stuck in a hellhole airport somewhere in between. He wasn't registered for the short January term; if he waited two more weeks, he'd have more than a month at home. 80

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It was weird to be on campus. There weren't many students around, most of them foreign grad students. Only one dining hall was open. It hadn't snowed yet, but every day it felt like it would, and the chill pervaded the empty dormitories. He studied like a geek because that's all there was to do. Well, that, and get desperate enough to try Steven's mom one more time. Who was telling him the same thing, one more time. "You showed him up in front of all his friends, and that's what matters to me." And, yes, Andy was sorry, truly sorry, for what he'd done. But he couldn't just take that. "If you're going to talk about showing someone up—" "I don't give a good goddamn if you were embarrassed!" she snapped. "You got that whole henhouse cacklin' about my Steven being played by a townie, 'til he can't hardly show his face at Buster's! Buster's that's been home to him since his daddy threw him outta the house!" Her voice was cracking, which she seemed to hear, because she stopped and drew a deep breath. "Ain't nothing you could've lost that was equal to that." He held her eyes with his own. "I lost Steven." "No lost about it," she replied instantly, shaking her head. "You tossed him right out with the trash. Get out of my store." It wasn't as if he hadn't expected it. Still, he was at a loss when he found himself in the parking lot. He'd seen refugees in Pakistan one time, unknown miles from home, squatting 81

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blankly at the side of the road and watching the official convoy go by. Leaning against his Ford, Andy felt like they'd looked. Blank. Nothing but time and the side of the road. It was nearly seven o'clock, and he could see the streams of headlights—on the street beyond the parking lot, on the highway in the distance—shoppers heading home after a stint in the trenches of Black Friday. He didn't want to brave that scrum, either. He started to walk. Somehow, there was a way to reach the alley where a trash bin sat just outside a metal door. He would sit and think about that sweet interlude a month ago until he could face the drive. Face leaving. It was a long walk across the parking lot to where there was a break between buildings. He turned the corner into a stinking, claustrophobic strip of broken concrete. In the deep twilight, weeds the frost hadn't managed to kill stretched luridly up the brick walls. Andy was glad not to know what litter the foliage hid; the splatter marks he could see were bad enough. He turned again, and it was a different country entirely. The asphalt here was clean and featureless. Dim squares of light shone down on it from identical gray metal doors. There—even the trash bin seemed relatively new. He touched the rough brick. Right there was the room where they had been thoughtless and happy. He wished he could peek into that shadowy cabinet with the blankets on top, look at all the castoffs that Steven's mother had rendered into magic for her son. 82

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Andy sat on the narrow bit of sidewalk that ran the length of the building. The cold penetrated his jeans instantly. He didn't much care. He sat and felt the imminence of December. Some trick of the alley's acoustics muffled the street noise. Blank, cold, alone. He stared between his upraised knees at the asphalt and wondered just how much of a bitch it was to back a truck from the main road to this trash bin. The click and shush of the opening door didn't surprise him as much as it should have. It seemed right that there shouldn't be any peace for him here, either. He thought it would be Steven's mom come to shoo him away again, or even a cop. It was Steven. He was wearing the clinging velour dress with lace-up boots—a warm pour of sable from his sleek wig to his leather-encased feet. There was something about that monochromatic perfection that made Andy a little bit crazy. That, and the seductive angles of Steven's body as he leaned against the open door, arms crossed. Andy looked away. "You've upset Mama." Steven's voice neutral. "I know." "Not just today." "I know." Silence. Andy didn't really want to break it; he knew that any conversation they could have would eventually drive Steven away, and he wanted Steven there. Wanted to be pinned by that enigmatic regard for as long as he could. It felt like that first encounter at Buster's: an exotic, unreachable 83

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beauty, staring him down, terrifying him, making him ache. He ached. "Do you want something?" Steven asked. Andy gave a bleak chuckle. "Like?" "Dunno. A fight, maybe? S'all I can think of." "Why aren't you at Buster's?" There was a pause. "I was," Steven said. "But the boss knows Mama comes first, and she called me." "I would never hurt a hair on your mama's head, and you know it." "Never said you would." "Oh, God." Andy bent, clasping his hands behind his neck and pressing his forehead against his knees until it hurt. "I am so pissed at you! And I miss you so bad, Steven. I feel like I'm going to throw up all the time." "Flattery like that'll get you everywhere with the ladies," Steven drawled. He stepped away from the door and let it swing to. Lightning fast, he grabbed a fistful of Andy's hair and yanked. Andy's head snapped back with a shock of pain. "I'd like to spit on you." Steven made each word distinct. Unmistakable. "You haven't gotten enough revenge?" "Not hardly." Letting go, Steven wheeled around and walked away a couple paces, the sound of his boots loud in the alleyway. "You made a fool of me." "I don't think so. You weren't the one in all those pictures." "You weren't the one takin' the guff backstage," Steven said bitterly. "Owed a lot of payback for that light show, did you?" 84

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Steven whipped around and stared. Then he seemed to force his body to relax into its former languid lines. "You believe that? That I'm like your fancy foreign boys, bought and sold?" "I never paid you a damned thing. I also never heard you actually deny those stories about what goes on with the girls. 'I do it onstage,' right?" Steven's eyebrows rose. "Who told you that?" "Kevin. By way of Rob. I wouldn't talk to that little shit myself." "But you'd believe what he said? Nice." Andy was uncomfortably reminded of what Frank had said about Jason. "Is it true?" "What part? I got a sticker on my locker, that's true." "And the girls?" Steven walked a couple steps away again, staring up the alley toward the street. "I told you my daddy threw me out," he said. "'Cause he caught me outside of Buster's, wearin' a dress. And he wouldn't have me in his house after. So Mama gave me a place to sleep, and I got the rest of what I needed from Buster's." He swung back, an angry silhouette at ten paces. "I got everythin' from Buster's. From the other ladies. And I gave them what I got. Understand? Gave. There's no talk about payback with them. Miss Felicity never asked me for a damned thing. She showed you up for nothin', 'cause you're a fuckin' asshole." Andy could hear Steven's rapid, almost panting breaths even from that distance. "You sold me out so a bunch of frat boys could laugh." 85

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"But you weren't humiliated, were you? You were a fucking hero, I bet. You made a fool of this frat boy and spent the rest of the night being toasted by every queen in the bar." "That's right." Steven inclined his head. The movement let the light from a doorway catch the glitter of tears on his cheek. Andy pushed to his feet before he had time to think about it. "Why are you crying, if that was so great?" "You are such a fuckin' asshole," Steven whispered. "Yeah. I know." They stood in silence for another minute. "Go home. Leave my mama alone," Steven said finally, and started toward the door to Millie's. He stopped when Andy took hold of the thin velour dress sleeve. "I de-pledged from the frat." "Goody for you." "I didn't do it for them." "What difference does it make? You did it." "Yeah, and so did you! You knew when you called me on Wednesday night, didn't you? Frank had told you what Jason was saying. You could have told me then. You could have just broken up with me and walked away. So why didn't you? Why go through all that elaborate setup and humiliate the fuck out of me, huh?" Steven turned his head away, letting the wig hide his face. "I didn't want to break up with you." "Oh, so you left me there with my cock hanging out as an expression of undying love?" "That's right." 86

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Andy was incredulous. "What?" Steven's look was distant, sliding away again when Andy tried to meet his eyes. "I let Miss Felicity make a plan because I thought for sure she wouldn't have to go through with it." His eyes came back and pinned Andy. "Push come to shove, I thought you wouldn't do it." He looked unbearably sad then, sad with no tears anymore. "I did what you wanted, Andy. All of it was like you planned. Only I made it so my friends got their pictures first." "I..." Andy shook his head. "I wasn't going to do that." Steven's voice got harder. "Jason said you were. Last I knew, he's the boss in that frat." "You're right about Jason, completely right. But I told him I wouldn't. Cal set it up so there wouldn't be any pictures. He said, just you in my lap... He said the guys were on my side." "Were they?" Steven asked softly. Andy shook his head. "None of them who were there took a picture, I know that for sure. But Dad was getting photos from his old frat buddies. I'm pretty sure the pictures were being passed on by guys who're in the frat now, whatever way they got hold of them." "Not very brotherly." For the first time that night, Steven approached him directly, standing before Andy with the easy, upright grace Andy remembered from that very first night. The stoic expression was back, not even really marred by the smudges in the makeup around Steven's eyes. "So you wouldn't've done it?" "Some of it I would," Andy admitted. "I wouldn't let them take pictures to send around, or let them see your... skin, or 87

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anything like that. But what I said I'd do, it was still... I dunno, showing you off? Giving them a look at you they shouldn't get. I just... I let myself get talked into thinking you wouldn't mind." Steven nodded. "I wish you'd said somethin'. On Wednesday." "Me, too. Especially since on Wednesday I was saying I wouldn't do any of it." Andy stared at the asphalt. "I hope they're not giving you too much shit at Buster's." "The ladies never would. They had their say on the first night, and now it's done. You always heard it from the guys at the bar, but I don't care about them." Startled, Andy said, "Weren't they the reason you liked to meet out back?" "I liked to meet out back because you liked to meet out back. You didn't really think we were keepin' a secret when we met back there, did you?" "Actually..." Steven shook his head. "I'm surprised you had any time for me. You were awful busy makin' nice and doin' what you were told and hidin' out back all the time, sounds like. Do you ever just go for it?" "I don't know." Andy thought about it. "Not for anything important." They stood in silence again for a minute. Two. Andy replayed the conversation in his head. It felt like he'd missed something. A lot of things, he'd be willing to bet, but... Oh. "I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. That's really what I came here for. I'm sorry." 88

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"Why?" It sounded like an honest question, but Andy couldn't believe he'd heard it right. "Why?" "Yeah." "I told you, I shouldn't have—" "That's 'what,'" Steven said impatiently. "I heard all that. Why does it make you feel so bad that you're sorry?" "Because you broke up with me! Isn't it obvious?" Steven ignored that. "So you'd say goin' out with me is somethin' important?" And then Andy felt a wild flutter in his throat, because he thought—he prayed—he was getting it. "Yeah. Really, really important." "Okay." Steven fished in his bra and once again brought out a key. He walked away, leaving Andy to die a thousand times staring at his back. He locked the door, checked the handle, and turned back to Andy again. "We'll have to walk around the buildin'." "Where are we going?" "To your car, dumbass." Andy grinned. "And I'll drive the car where?" "To Buster's." Steven smiled back at him, a smoky, real smile. "Then what?" "Then you spend the night at the bar with everyone while I finish my shift." Andy gritted his teeth behind the grin. "Done." He pulled out his car keys and opened his other hand for Steven's. Steven gave it to him. "Anything else?" 89

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"You got that dorm room to yourself?" They started walking. "Yep." "Then you can invite a lady up for a drink, and maybe we'll have a little conversation about goin' for it. All the way." **** End

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