I Do

DOUBLE YOUR PLEASURE This is like the steak specials at my local market: buy one, get one free. When you buy this book, 100% of the proceeds go to the Lambda Legal fund, to help in their fight against California’s Proposition 8. That’s a good thing in itself, as I’m sure you will agree. But, not only are you making a donation to a cause we all care deeply about, you also get—this is the FREE part—a collection of 20 stories from an elite list of M/M and LGBT writers. How can you beat a deal like that? And what a collection! There’s surely something here for every taste: man on man and woman on woman; fantasy and funny and sizzling and sweet. Swans and Snow Queens and salty sailors and slithering serpents, oh my! And Holy Macaroni, but you’re going to have to buy the book to figure that out. French Legionnaires do it in the mud; little girls grow up married from childhood, and first timers discover the magic. All of the myriad elements of love lost and found and refined and redefined. I could go on and on, too, but every story here is a treasure on its own; together, they make up one of those rare “read-over-and-over-and-keep-forever” books. I recommend stocking up. Get some steaks while you’re at it, you’re going to be doing a lot of curling up. Victor J. Banis Author of The Man from C.A.M.P., Lola Dances and Deadly Nightshade ™™™ Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue: twenty tales — funny, sweet, erotic, poignant — from some of the best and brightest writers in GLBT romance. Never has support for a good cause been more delicious, more delectable than in this generous helping of life — and love — affirming stories. Josh Lanyon Author of the Adrien English Mystery Series and Man, Oh Man! Writing M/M for Kinks and Ca$h

I Do! ALEX BEECROFT, CHARLIE COCHRANE, FIONA GLASS, JEANNE BARRACK, P.A. BROWN, ERASTES, TRACEY PENNINGTON, CLARE LONDON, SHARON MARIA BIDWELL, LISABET SARAI, STORM GRANT, MARQUESATE, LEE ROWAN, ZA MAXFIELD, MOONDANCER DRAKE, MALLORY PATH, EMMA COLLINGWOOD, ALLISON WONDERLAND, JERRY L. WHEELER, ZOE NICHOLS AND CASSIDY RYAN

mlrpress

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright 2009 by Alex Beecroft Copyright 2009 Charlie Cochrane Copyright 2009 by Fiona Glass Copyright 2009 by Jeanne Barrack Copyright 2009 by P.A. Brown Copyright 2009 by Erastes Copyright 2009 by Tracey Pennington Copyright 2009 by Clare London Copyright 2009 by Sharon Maria Bidwell Copyright 2009 by Lisabet Sarai Copyright 2009 by Storm Grant

Copyright 2009 by Marquesate Copyright 2009 by Lee Rowan Copyright 2009 by ZA Maxfield Copyright 2009 by Moondancer Drake Copyright 2009 by Mallory Path Copyright 2009 by Emma Collingwood Copyright 2009 by Allison Wonderland Copyright 2009 by Jerry L. Wheeler Copyright 2009 by Zoe Nichols & Cassidy Ryan

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Published by MLR Press, LLC 3052 Gaines Waterport Rd. Albion, NY 14411 Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet: www.mlrpress.com Edited by Kris Jacen Cover Art by Alex Beecroft Additional cover work by Deana C. Jamroz Printed in the United States of America. ISBN# 978-1-934531-70-9 2009

TABLE OF CONTENTS HEAT RATING: Sweet

m/m m/m m/m m/m m/m f/f m/m m/m m/m

Spicy

Scorching

The Lindorm’s Twin by Tracey Pennington Desire and Disguise by Alex Beecroft

................................................. 1 ................................................... 27

The Roaming Heart by Charlie Cochrane Outed by Clare London

.............................................. 45 ...................................................... 55

Lust in Translation by Storm Grant

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

Making Memory by Lisabet Sarai

....................................................... 93

Swansong by Sharon Maria Bidwell Finally Forever by Jeanne Barrack Code of Honour by Marquesate

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

.................................................. 121 ..................................................... 127

m/m

Tango and Temptation by ZA Maxfield .................................................. 159

m/m

The Mistake by P.A. Brown

f/f

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

Holy Macaroni (and Cheese) by Allison Wonderland .......................................... 193

m/m

The Snow Queen by Erastes ............................................................. 199

f/f

Better Than Beautiful by Zoe Nichols & Cassidy Ryan

m/m m/m m/m f/f m/m m/m

Semi-detached by Emma Collingwood

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

........................................... 235

Rules of the Game by Mallory Path

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

Templeton’s In Love by Jerry L. Wheeler

................................................ 253

True Love by Moondancer Drake Salad Days by Fiona Glass

........................................... 271

...................................................... 279

Wedding Announcement by Lee Rowan ....................................................... 285

FOREWORD The passing of Proposition 8 in California outraged a huge amount of people. I think it takes a special kind of blindness to human suffering to feel the need to legally dissolve someone else’s marriage. In my view it’s ridiculous to say that allowing people to get married is somehow a threat to the institution of marriage. This book came about as a result of the passing of Proposition 8. Many of my on-line friends took part in protest marches, but many others were not able to do that, because — like me — they lived in the UK or in Australia or Canada. Our joint frustration at being unable to do something to help combined in my head with a throwaway remark of Josh Lanyon’s, and I thought well maybe we can at least make money for someone who is fighting for marriage equality? Maybe if we can’t march, we can write for the cause. So the idea of this book was born. I would ask other authors of LGBT fiction, if they would contribute stories towards an anthology, and all the profits from the sale of the book would go to the Lambda Legal fund, the USA’s oldest and largest legal organization working for the civil rights of lesbians, gay men, and people with HIV/AIDS. http://www.lambdalegal.org/ I admit, when I made my first post about this anthology on my blog, I had no idea there would be such a massive response. Everyone seemed desperate to help. The message spread throughout the LGBT fiction writing community like wildfire, and within days MLR Press had offered to publish the book for nothing, and we had a volunteer editor, proof-reader and acquisitions team. Within weeks we had more stories than we could fit in to our initial word count. We asked to make the book bigger and were allowed to. More stories arrived until the larger word count was still too small, and we began to have to turn stories away.

The book you see now, therefore, contains an attempt to fit a quart of support and love for the LGBT community and outrage at Prop 8 into the pint-pot of this volume. More people have come together to express their support for marriage equality through this book than I can possibly mention. But I would like to at least thank: The submissions team: Erastes, Lee Rowan, Charlie Cochrane. Our editor: Kris Jacen Our proof reader: Emilie Pitt Laura Baumbach of MLR Press for volunteering to publish us. And all the authors who offered a story for inclusion in this book, whether your story was accepted or not. You all lit a candle rather than cursing the dark. Thank you!

Alex Beecroft

The Lindorm’s Twin TRACEY PENNINGTON

There were two princes. People forget that now, for the older one got into the stories and was remembered, however imperfectly. The younger vanished from sight and from men’s minds, his family and people forgetting him even as he rode through the castle portcullis for the last time. Only his twin brother remembered him, even after the whole country had forgotten. Snakes have long memories. There were strange tales about how they were conceived, for the king and queen had long needed an heir. If there were no heir, the kingdom would collapse into ruination when the king and queen died. Once this happened, one or another of their nation’s neighbors would invade, claiming the land by right of conquest. Some said that the queen drank foul herbal concoctions, submitted to the prying fingers of healers, and made countless pilgrimages to holy places, beseeching Heaven for a child. Others said that in desperation she went to a wise woman who dwelt in the wood, a woman said to have delivered a thousand healthy babes to mothers who had never expected to give birth. No one knows what the wise woman — if indeed there was a wise woman — told the queen. Rumors flew about that the queen had been bidden to eat one smooth flower bud, but to leave one covered in tendrils, or a white rose but not a red one. Others said that the wise woman commanded her to eat two onions so that she would have two sons, but that the queen forgot to peel the first before she ate it. All the tales agree on one thing, however: eating the wrong thing, be it crimson flower or unpeeled onion, would cause the birth of great evil. All nonsense, of course, for what woman was ever brought to childbed by eating an onion? And yet it cannot be denied that nine months later, the queen did give birth to a fine boy, to the astonishment of the entire nation. Only the queen and her midwife knew the truth. Before the healthy baby boy was born, the queen birthed a hideous lindorm. Even newborn, it was huge, as long and thick as a man’s arm. It was covered with greenish-black scales and bore two twisted black horns on its head. Its eyes were the dark of

2 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON moonless midnight. It opened its jaws so wide that it looked as if half of its face had dropped off, and its fangs dripped with thick, yellowish venom. The midwife did what any woman would do; she screamed at the top of her lungs, and flung the serpent out of the queen’s bedroom window, hoping that it would perish. It didn’t die, of course. Evil is hard to kill. The little prince grew, as children will. He was never an exciting child — neither unusually strong nor exceptionally wise nor very innocent. He was liked by his family and his people, and if he wasn’t loved, he didn’t know the difference. Not then. Then one day, when he was twenty or so, he went for a hunt in the forest near the castle. He soon became separated from his companions, and no matter how diligently he searched for his friends and servants, he could not find them. Wherever he turned, there was a thick, yellowish fog separating him from them, and however often he called out, he heard only a faint rustling noise that neither he nor his horse liked at all. At last the prince grew angry and called out, “Whoever you are, cease this! I have no time for such enchantments as this. I must go home!” “You are home, so far as I am concerned,” said a cold and terrible voice. And there, lying directly in front of the prince’s path, was a gigantic lindorm—nine times as large as a man, and gazing at the prince with cruelly amused eyes. The sight of such an enormous snake was too much for the prince’s horse, and it reared, flung the prince to the ground, then bolted. The prince stood up, rubbing his sore back and aching legs. “Greetings, Sir Lindorm,” he said politely. “I thank you for your gracious hospitality, but I cannot remain. My parents will be expecting me at home, and I have a wife that I am to meet in three days’ time.” “A wife!” This roused the lindorm to anger. “You are married?”

I DO! 3 “No,” said the prince, “but I’m to be married soon. My betrothed and I are to meet for the first time three days hence. All I’ve seen of her ere now is her painting.” “Then let me tell you this, young prince,” hissed the lindorm. “You have no right to be wed before me, for I am your elder. Tell my parents that before you marry, I must marry and spend a night in bed with my bride. And unless this is done, I shall lay waste to the entire kingdom.” The prince stared at the lindorm in amazement, wondering how he would find the creature’s parents among all the snakes and serpents in the world. He said as much. The lindorm’s mouth gaped open. It looked as if it were both grinning broadly and horribly hungry. “Your parents are my parents, young prince, and were it not for a spell, I would be handsome as you. Tell them of my commands. Now go.” And with that, it faded into the shadows of the trees and vanished. The young prince made his way home—though, as he was on foot instead of on horseback, it took some time—and when he arrived, he hastened to his parents to tell them what he had seen. And what did they do? Why, they summoned healers, for clearly the prince was out of his mind with brain fever. Or so they thought—until the tales began seeping in from the countryside about an enormous lindorm whose breath poisoned the very air, whose venom tainted wells for aye and for all, who devoured men and beasts with equal indifference. Then they began to realize that the prince had told the truth, at least about there being a monster. But that the monster was truly their son—no, that they could not believe. The king and queen set knights against it at first. When the knights failed, they offered a reward to the first person who could bring them the lindorm’s head. They were horrified to find the lindorm lying before their castle one morning, saying, “Greetings, mother and father. You wanted my head, so I deliver it to you, along with the rest of me. And in return I claim my reward—a mate. For my forest home is damp, and my blood is cold. And I want someone with hot blood who will keep me warm.”

4 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON After that, the queen could no longer keep secret the tale of the horror she had birthed. But there was little time for recriminations, as the country was being devastated by the lindorm, and a bride had to be found for the creature. They tried peasant girls at first, thinking that any girl would do for a snake. But the lindorm tore each one to shreds on its wedding night, and returned to the palace the next day to tell the king and queen that his bride had yet to live through the night. Daughters of wealthy merchants and poor nobles were given to the lindorm next, but the same cruel fate befell them. By now, the prince was no longer being kept abed by healers, but was up and about once more. And he noticed a very strange thing—that despite the lindorm’s evil deeds, no one whispered against it, or spoke of it in words that were not honey-sweet. In spite of the devastation it continued to wreak, no one recollected the lindorm’s crimes from one moment to the next. Now people swore that madmen must be poisoning the land and its waters, that vicious bandits were killing beasts and common folk, and that only the foulest of demons could be slaying the lindorm’s brides. Strangest of all, it was often called “the prince” now, as if the human prince had faded away into air. The prince sought learned men and wise women—anyone who could tell him how to overcome the lindorm. But no one seemed to understand his questions and the instant he left anyone, man or woman, that person would forget that the prince had been there at all. At last...well, the spell on the lindorm was broken by an impoverished young countess from no one knew where, the latest in a long line of princesses and noblewomen condemned to wed the evil snake. What she did to break it remains unknown. She claimed later that she had donned seven shifts, and that when it came time to undress for bed, she bade the lindorm to shed one skin for every shift she took off. When it had shed its last skin, the lindorm’s bride said, their bed and even the floor became covered with a sticky whitish substance, which she had to scrub away with bucket after bucket of hot soapy water.

I DO! 5 And the next morning, she said, she woke to find a darkly handsome prince lying beside her, completely naked and sound asleep. When he heard this tale, the young prince felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Prince Lindorm might have changed his heart with his skin — but the young prince didn’t think so. A snake, he thought, will remain a snake, even though it walks like a man. For days, perhaps weeks, the young prince avoided his parents, the couriers, and even the servants. In particular, he avoided Prince Lindorm and his bride. He caught glimpses of the two as he scurried about the castle. Prince Lindorm now looked regally handsome, with long black hair and a lean face that seemed to speak of years of suffering, while his bride, Mergelein, gazed at her new husband and at the court with joyous cornflower-blue eyes. Only the young prince saw and heard what no one else did: venomous words, poisonous to peace, fell from Prince Lindorm’s mouth with frightening alacrity, and that Mergelein’s blue eyes were as flat as those of a serpent about to strike. Did he not try to leave the castle? Of course he did. But each time that he set one toe outside any of its doors, he would find himself back in his rooms, held as tightly in the coils of the lindorm as ever. And he knew he was not dead solely because Prince Lindorm found it more amusing not to kill him. At last Prince Lindorm came to his brother’s rooms to speak to him. “You are worthless,” he said with a faintly sibilant lisp. “And yet...I owe my bride and my future kingdom to you. So I will give you your freedom. Leave now, with only what you wear on your back and one horse from the stables. “Only know this—once you leave the castle, no one will ever remember you. And once you leave the kingdom, you may never return, for the land, the water, even the very air of this kingdom will be poisonous to you. Try to sneak back for one more glimpse of the country, or come back with fifty thousand

6 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON head of horse to overthrow me, and you will die. Slowly, dear brother. And in a great deal of agony.” “And if I do not leave?” asked the prince. In truth, he had no desire to remain, but the idea of leaving his people to the tender mercies of Prince Lindorm and his witch-wife was sickening. Prince Lindorm smiled cruelly. “Why, three months from now you will fall ill and die, even as my wife gives birth to twins. You live in this castle, after all. All those who dwell here with me must either die and become food, if they insist on remaining human, or...change. Would you like that, brother—to become a serpent in human form? No? I thought not.” And, gazing into those dark, cruel eyes, the young prince knew that he had no choice. Riding out on the king’s highway with neither cloak nor water, nor aught but a knife and a second-best sword, was certain death—but at least he would die as a man, and not as a serpent or a serpent’s prey. “I accept,” he said. “Good,” said Prince Lindorm, looking surprised and pleased. “Then I shall take a small token from you as a pledge: your name.” And he opened his jaws wide, wider, widest, until the young prince feared Prince Lindorm was going to eat him alive. Then Prince Lindorm bit down—and in that instant, the young prince’s name was lost. It faded from documents as from memory, vanishing so completely that it seemed never to have been. Even the young prince forgot it completely. “And now, dearest brother, you had best begone,” said Prince Lindorm. “Letting you leave—letting you live—still amuses me. Go before I change my mind.” And the prince obeyed. He went to the royal stables, picked the strongest, fleetest horse he could find, and rode off, not daring to dismount until he’d left the borders of the lindorm’s land far behind him. The first land he arrived in was the home of the princess to whom he’d once been betrothed. He thought of going to her for help, for she was queen now, but then he recalled that she had broken their engagement the instant that she had heard of the lindorm. Besides, he had undoubtedly faded from her

I DO! 7 memory as he had faded from everyone else’s. What he needed to do was to find a land where no one had ever known him, or heard of him. Then, perhaps, Prince Lindorm’s curse on the memories of those around him would no longer apply. But getting to such a land proved difficult. The prince had not been allowed to pack food for himself, oats for his horse, or water for both of them. Soon enough, both were starving. At last, the prince was forced to kill the horse and eat its flesh in order to survive. He did so, for he had no choice, but he felt as guilty as if he had killed and eaten a man. Then winter came. It struck suddenly, howling in on the heels of a warm autumn day. Overnight, the earth turned to iron and the sky to lead, and a vicious wind blew out of the northeast, making the prince’s bones ache as if they were filled with shattered glass. Days wore on, and the wind didn’t let up. The sky opened, letting loose rain, sleet, and finally snow. The prince kept walking, mostly because he didn’t know how long he’d survive if he stopped. Every step required more and more effort; every movement cost more strength. In the end, he wasn’t even aware of falling half-asleep into a pile of soft, cold snow. ™™™ He woke in a warm feather bed covered with thick, downy quilts. He looked around. He seemed to be in some sort of cabin in the woods. Whoever lived here had cared for the place well, for the wooden floor was spotless, the pots hanging near the hearth gleamed in the combined light of tapers and the fire, and the air was filled with the delicious smell of roasting meat and baking apples. And sitting before the hearth with his back toward the prince was a young man with reddish-brown curls, who was slowly turning a roast over the flames. As the prince watched him, he realized that there was something wrong with him. His cloak was drawn tightly about him, and from what the prince

8 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON could see of the left arm outlined beneath the cloak, it was sadly misshapen. As if the young man had felt the prince gazing at him, he turned around. A brilliant smile lit up his freckled face. “Hello! So you finally decided to wake up, did you? Good. I was beginning to worry. You slept for such a long time.” The prince tried to ask a thousand questions — Who are you? Where am I? How did you find me? — but all that escaped his lips was a useless hiss. “No, don’t try to speak yet,” said the young man, moving the spitted meat away from the fire. “You’re far too weak. Rest now.” And with that, the young man walked over to the prince’s bed, placed a cup to his lips, and carefully poured the most delicious drink he had ever tasted — ice-cold water — down his aching throat. The prince spent the next few months recovering from the lung-flux, with the young man acting as healer. And as it grew easier for the prince to breathe and to speak, the two began to talk. “What’s your name?” the young man asked one day as, with his good hand, he chopped up vegetables for rabbit stew, leaning against the chopping board with all his weight to keep it steady. “Mine’s Andor.” The prince could not have said why this question wounded him so sorely, and yet it did. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember my name. I—I forgot it before I got sick.” “Ah,” said Andor, his agate-colored eyes meeting the prince’s blue ones. “What caused it? Injury? Sickness? Evil stepmother?” “Evil brother,” said the prince bitterly. And as if the words had been a sluice gate holding in the tale of Prince Lindorm, everything spilled out. “So your brother condemned you to live as no one of nowhere,” Andor said when the tale was done—and something in his tone made the prince study Andor’s features most

I DO! 9 intently. “That may be fine for a snake-kingdom, but it’s not all right here. Would you like me to give you a name?” The prince nodded mutely, hoping fervently that Andor’s concept of a decent name coincided with his. “Then,” said Andor, “I hereby dub you Stefan, as I found you asleep in the snow on St. Stefan’s feast day.” Stefan, thought the prince. My name now is Stefan. He rolled the name over in his mind and on his tongue before smiling at Andor in gratitude and pleasure. ™™™ It was the turn of seasons — no longer winter, yet not quite spring — when Andor told Stefan about his misshapen arm. Stefan, who was no longer ill, was sitting near the fire with Andor eating rabbit stew when suddenly he heard something overhead that sounded like the dry rustle of taffeta. Triumphant horns blew, only to melt into the sound of ravens cawing. He shivered, thinking of the rustle of scales over flagstones, trumpets announcing the arrival of a king, and ravens waiting and watching for their legitimate prey — the dead. He turned to Andor. “Hurry,” he said through nearly paralyzed lips. “Grab what you can and run. We have to get out...” His voice trailed away as he saw the half-joyful, halfwistful look on Andor’s face. Andor blinked, set down his bowl down on the hearthstones, and spoke soothingly, as if trying to calm a wild animal that might bolt at any moment. “It’s geese, Stefan. Geese returning north. Spring’s almost here.” Stefan could feel his cheeks growing hot. “Oh. I thought—” “—that it was your brother,” Andor finished for him in a gentle voice. “Stefan, I know about those kinds of nightmares. I had them for years. Only the monster I kept looking over my shoulder to find was my stepmother. She was a sorceress, you know.” As if he had said too much, he lifted his bowl in his right hand and began drinking the stew once more. “Why are you afraid of your stepmother?” said Stefan, casting a cursory glance toward the ceiling as he heard another flock of geese approaching. “And why don’t you ever use your

10 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON left hand to eat with? Wouldn’t it be easier for you? I don’t care what it looks like, I swear!” “You’re asking the same question twice,” said Andor, in an odd tone. “I don’t understand.” “I know you don’t.” Andor drained his bowl of the last of the stew, then put it aside. “You’ve never seen me without this cloak on, have you?” Stefan shook his head. “This is why.” And, turning his gaze away from Stefan’s, Andor shrugged off the cloak. And Stefan gasped. For Andor’s left arm wasn’t misshapen. In fact, it wasn’t an arm at all, but an immense white wing pressed tightly to Andor’s side. Where the sleeve to Andor’s tunic should have been, there was instead a great hole that had obviously been cut to accommodate the limb. Stefan could see where the man’s shoulder began to change, gaining the muscle and the bone structure needed to support a bird’s wing. Not knowing what to say — for anything he could have said seemed hopelessly inadequate — Stefan simply stared. “How?” he said at last, speaking in a voice barely above a whisper. “My stepmother,” Andor replied in a flat voice, still keeping his eyes averted from Stefan. “She hated my brothers and me. There were six of us, you see.” “Ah,” said Stefan. “No chance of any son of hers inheriting.” “Not while we remained human. And so—” Andor shrugged, causing his white feathers to ripple as though they were being tousled by the wind—”she turned us into swans. I don’t know what she told our father. That the older ones had gone off to war and the younger ones off to school, I suppose.” “We flew around the world ten times over before we saw our sister again.” Andor’s sister Elsie, Stefan learned, was no better loved by the witch-queen than their brothers had been, though she couldn’t be quite as obvious about her hatred as she’d been toward the boys. The princess was the king’s one remaining

I DO! 11 child, and he doted on her, even as he mourned for the sons that he presumed were dead. But, as Elsie grew older and more beautiful, the witch-queen grew more determined to destroy her. First, she tried to curse her into becoming dull and sluggish and ugly. Then, when that failed, she tried to have Elsie killed. Fortunately the assassin believed, as so many did, that shedding royal blood was unlucky. So he abandoned her in the wilderness, without food, water, or even the flint and iron needed to build a fire. Starvation, thirst and freezing did not involve bloodshed.” “She found us eventually,” said Andor. “She wandered into a house we’d been using. This one, in fact.” “But why? I wouldn’t think that swans would need a house...” “No. Swans don’t.” As though it took enormous effort, Andor lifted his head and met Stefan’s eyes. “But humans do. And in those days, there was nothing we feared worse than the possibility that we would grow so used to being swans that we would forget that we were human. We didn’t dare think of ourselves as ‘formerly human.’” “Then, after several turns of seasons, Elsie had a dream about how to save us.” “We didn’t know at the time,” Andor said pensively. “We thought she’d gone mad at first, and she couldn’t tell us otherwise, because one word from her lips—even one sob or peal of laughter, once she’d started her task—would have killed us as surely as an arrow piercing each of our hearts. She plucked churchyard nettles and beat them into flax and wove them into shirts for us for seven years. She got married to a prince who thought her a beautiful mute foundling, and never said a word. She gave birth to three children, and never cried out in childbed. Elsie was determined to succeed.” “So what happened?” A bitter mocking light filled Andor’s hazel eyes. “Why, my stepmother came on a visit to my brother-in-law’s kingdom. And she began whispering terrible stories about the mute queen...tales of unspeakable foulness, of couplings with demons, of obscene sacrifices of her own children, all of whom

12 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON had mysteriously vanished. And — even worse — tales of necromancy.” “And people believed this nonsense? When she’d never hurt anyone?” Andor’s sad smile broke Stefan’s heart. “Ah, Stefan, how young you are. They were eager to believe it. They lapped it up and begged for more. And as she said nothing in her own defense — said nothing at all, in fact — well, the tales spread and grew even wilder. It wasn’t long before she was tried as a witch and condemned to death. Only her husband believed she was innocent, and he couldn’t command the law to free her after she’d been condemned.” Andor snorted. “Our stepmother even insisted that the flax and the completed shirts be burned with her.” “She wanted to make sure that none of you was ever freed,” Stefan said, thinking that the witch-stepmother reminded him uncomfortably of his brother. “She did,” Andor said grimly, “but she failed. For we couldn’t let our sister burn. As soon as we knew what was happening, we flew across seven seas — stopping in a desert here, a jungle there, a snowy wasteland in a third place — to get there on time. We had to fetch her children back from where our stepmother’s curses had sent them, you see.” “Why didn’t she kill them?” “Because they were more valuable as hostages. She could tell the king after Elsie’s death that one had been found but was being tortured by some vile monster. Do you think the king wouldn’t have turned the world upside down and neglected his kingdom to free that one child? And then...I think it might have amused her to transform one into a hideous, slavering beast, and to teach the last to worship evil, even as she did. No, her vengeance wouldn’t have ended with Elsie’s execution.” The instant that she’d seen the swans and her children, Elsie had flung the linen shirts over her brothers’ heads. “Mine wasn’t quite finished yet,” Andor concluded. “It was missing a sleeve. So most of me changed back. But not all.” “But what happened afterwards?” Stefan demanded.

I DO! 13 “Oh, Elsie told the whole story, and proved herself innocent. I suppose some people didn’t believe it...but the mood in the air altered after we changed back. Most of the mob would have willingly torn our stepmother to shreds, if they could have found her. But she melted away, like a snowflake in spring.” “What did she look like?” Stefan asked, for a dark and terrible suspicion was growing in his mind. “Fair,” said Andor, frowning. “At least, adults always found her so. I thought her face as pale as a corpse’s and her blue eyes as flat and cold as—” “As a lindorm’s?” There was a long silence. “No,” said Andor, clenching his fist as his wing beat in rhythmic agitation. “No, she couldn’t be your brother’s wife.” “If she wanted a kingdom to rule and a mate like herself?” Stefan scowled at the fire. “I’ll wager that she could...and did.” “Two of a kind.” Andor shook his head sadly. “I pity your homeland.” So do I, thought Stefan, wondering what he could do. Being unable to set foot in his own country had decided disadvantages. “We have to do something, though,” as the wing beat ever faster, and ever closer to Stefan. “We must.” Stefan lifted his right hand. He only meant to signal Andor that he was growing too agitated, and to stop before the wing struck something...but his hand landed on the outer curve of the wing. He’d half-imagined that the wing would be as soft and unresisting as the down-filled quilts on his bed. Instead, he felt powerful muscles tensing beneath his hand, and he was absurdly pleased. It seemed so right that Andor should be stronger than he looked. Idly, he began slowly stroking the feathers, taking care to brush down from curve to wingtip as he watched the feathers ripple beneath his touch like white-capped waves.

14 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON He thought he heard Andor make an inarticulate sound — something between a grunt, a gasp and a sigh — but he couldn’t be sure. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here in this cabin, and not in your homeland,” he said, and to his ears, it sounded as if his voice was coming from very far away. He leaned in closer, marveling at the way that firelight and candlelight shimmered over the wing. How could he have thought that the feathers were merely white? They were a million different shades of white. And for some reason, he was panting, as if he’d run for a mile or two and was now hopelessly out of breath. “It seemed better,” Andor said, sounding as if he, too, were having difficulty breathing. “My brothers and sisters — they’re kind, but...they’d rather live like normal people. Forget everything they endured. But...” He lifted the wing a little. “They can’t. Not with me around. I make them remember.” “They mind?” Stefan said, feeling puzzled. He couldn’t picture Elsie or her brothers hating Andor for something he couldn’t help. Andor leaned forward until their noses were almost touching. “No. But I do.” For one brief panicky moment, Stefan wondered why Andor was leaning so close to him, why he wanted to hold Andor even closer, and who he should blame this magical madness on. Then their lips touched, and Stefan realized that he’d never felt saner in his life. The kiss, which was tentative at first, grew harder and more desperate. In the back of his mind, Stefan was dimly aware of his heart pounding so hard that it was surely about to burst from his chest, and that both Andor and he were shivering as if they were out in an ice storm, rather than sitting before a blazing fire. Most of his mind was focusing solely on Andor’s mouth, teeth and tongue, and the frantic beating of Andor’s wing, and all these things were as intoxicating and irresistible as spring after a seemingly endless winter.

I DO! 15 Andor gasped as he broke off the kiss. “What...I...this is impossible...” he said, fumbling one-handed at both Stefan’s tunic and his own. Stefan, not entirely sure why he was doing this, struggled out of his own tunic, and then helped Andor off with his. “You want this?” Andor said in a harsh whisper, his gaze all but scorching Stefan’s skin. Stefan had to clear his throat several times before he could speak. “I don’t even know what ‘this’ is. But yes.” “If you don’t know, how do you know you want it?” Andor said, sounding as if he were arguing with himself more than Stefan. Stefan, his mind awhirl with scents, sounds, sights and sensations that he’d never experienced before, fumbled for a way to tell Andor that he’d never wanted anything more in his life before admitting to himself that words, in this situation, were useless. “Andor,” he said in a husky voice, “be quiet.” And with that, he gripped Andor tightly, leaned back with infinite care, and pulled Andor on top of him. For a few moments, Stefan and Andor were locked together, half-embracing and half-wrestling. Then as he began tasting ears, neck, nipples and stomach, Andor brought his wing forward, the feathers tantalizingly tickling Stefan’s legs and chest...and Stefan ceased to think anything at all. But just as he thought he might expire from sheer pleasure, Andor stopped. Stefan tried to object, but the words emerged from his mouth in a grunt and a groan. Andor didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he propped himself up on what Stefan had to think of as his human elbow, frowning as though he were battling an extraordinarily vicious dragon. “Would you mind if I tried something?” The frown line between Andor’s hazel eyes deepened. “I’ve got an idea...but I’ve never done this. I’ve never even heard of anyone doing this. So I don’t know if it’ll work.” Stefan began laughing. He couldn’t help it. Andor’s grave, solemn expression was just too much.

16 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON “Do you really think,” he wheezed between gasps of laughter, “that this is really a time for...r-r-regal c-c-courtesy?” Andor said nothing. He merely looked puzzled, as if he wasn’t certain what Stefan was laughing at, and Andor rather hoped that it wasn’t him. That expression sobered Stefan as nothing else could have. Andor misunderstanding him and being hurt was the last thing he wanted. “Of course I don’t mind,” he said, smiling. “Every other idea you’ve had has been magnificent. Why would I want you to stop now?” The relief and joy in Andor’s face was almost tangible. He fumbled awkwardly with the laces of Stefan’s leggings. Stefan moved to help, or at least to help speed up whatever Andor had in mind, but immediately received a glare, a fierce “I’ll do it,” and a very strong wing pushing him onto his back once more. Stefan felt warm flagstones beneath his buttocks and the heat from the fire along his left side as Andor’s fingers guided the leggings down, down, down. Andor looked up once, wicked mischief dancing in his hazel eyes, and then bowed his head with great concentration. Stefan held his breath, wondering what Andor was going to do next. His homeland’s court had not been a licentious one; his parents’ marriage had been correct and formal. He could not remember seeing his parents — or anyone else at court, for that matter — hug, kiss, or even clasp hands. He could not even recall his parents hugging or kissing him. That hurt. He wasn’t sure why it did, but it did. And then Andor’s tongue licked the tip of his cock, and the hurt was washed away by a tide of bliss. Andor used his tongue to full advantage, flickering here, twining there, brushing it over his ballock-pouch. Carefully, he pressed his teeth against the sides of Stefan’s cock; he sucked on it as if it were a hollow reed. And just as Stefan, his pale fingers entangled in Andor’s reddish-brown curls, thought that this couldn’t possibly get any better, Andor, as he so often did when he was focusing on doing a good job, started to hum.

I DO! 17 It was too much. Much too much. Stefan, gasping, felt as if he were exploding into all the stars in the sky. And then there was only darkness. He awoke to find Andor gazing at him, looking exceedingly pleased. “Well. I don’t have to ask if you enjoyed that.” “Did you?” he blurted out. Then he mentally reproached himself for being stupid. He should be able to tell...shouldn’t he? Andor laughed, and stretched both arm and wing. “Oh, yes. I think you could say that I like it.” His face became serious again. “Even love it.” “Oh,” said Stefan, wondering what he was supposed to say in a situation like this. There were no rules of etiquette governing the proper compliment to pay a male friend who had just become one’s...what? Seducer? Definitely not mistress. Husband? Beloved. Yes, that sounded right. “I’m glad,” he added, briefly looking just as solemn as Andor. “Because I love...it...too.” ™™™ Winter passed, then spring. The two settled into a routine, mending the cabin, hunting, gardening...doing, in fact, a thousand chores that Stefan had never done before and that, save for the hunting, he did less than expertly now. He did not complain. Memories of last winter’s hunger and cold were excellent incentives, as was the growing pride in Andor’s eyes. Then in high summer, a messenger arrived. Anyone beholding the three of them would have sworn that none of them were more than peasants. The messenger — an older man with a thin, shrewd face — was clad in simple clothes for hard travel, was covered in the dust of the road, and was riding, not a fine stallion or a full-blooded mare, but a mule. Andor was skinning rabbits, while Stefan was weeding the garden. There was little glamour to the scene. But there was no mistaking the messenger’s words. Andor had been summoned back to his homeland — not, the messenger hastened to say, because he was in trouble, but

18 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON because his family was worried. Harsh as the winter had been in the forest, it had been even worse in the kingdoms where Andor’s eldest brother and only sister reigned. For both were mountain kingdoms, with both castle and capital high in those mountains, and the winter that had recently passed had been cruel beyond the telling of it, so much so that neither Elsie nor her swan-siblings had known if Andor had survived. Andor’s face turned a dull red as the messenger related this. Stefan knew that his lover had to go; if he had not been there, Andor would have undoubtedly returned to either Elsie’s or his oldest brother’s kingdom in the spring, and saved his family much anguish. But the thought of being alone, of never seeing Andor again, cut him to the bone. “When will you be leaving?” he asked, proud that his voice hadn’t trembled as he spoke. “As soon as may be,” said Andor, squinting at the sky. “There are a few preparations I’d like to make, as well as some packing...but yes, the sooner we leave, the better.” All Stefan heard was “As soon as may be.” It was the messenger who noticed the important word in Andor’s speech. “‘We’?” “Stefan will be coming with us,” Andor said, and such was the calm command in his voice that the messenger instantly agreed. The journey — once the two youths had packed and the messenger had purchased two more mules — was singularly uneventful. No trolls blocked their passage; no ogres threatened to devour them; no dragons charred the countryside. It made Stefan nervous. This was not how journeys with enchanted princes were supposed to go. When they arrived at last in the kingdom of Andor’s eldest brother...well, the reaction was what one might expect. The king took Andor aside and shouted, stormed, fumed and lectured...and then embraced him, and welcomed him — and his new friend — home. And that, some might have thought, was the end of the story. But it was not. For three years later, on the bleakest day of winter, the king summoned Andor and Stefan to his private

I DO! 19 study. One look at his taut, grey face and sick expression told both princes that something was sorely wrong indeed. “I have received a missive from your brother, Stefan,” he said. “King Lindorm, he styles himself now.” King? Not a prince, but a king? Stefan’s mouth went dry. “My parents...” “My spies tell me they died recently and that death, when it finally came, was merciful,” said the king. “Ask me no questions. I would prefer to say no more.” “What did the letter say, Hans-Otto?” Andor demanded, before Stefan could brood too much on what the king’s words meant. “That he intends his eldest son to wed my eldest daughter. Immediately.” “Intends?” Andor frowned at that. “A strange way of proposing to a maid, surely.” King Hans-Otto smiled mirthlessly. “Oh, this is no proposal. It is conquest. In the same letter, he chances to mention that he is the master of all the beasts of field and forest, and all the serpents of earth and sea. I would think that a boast, were he not wed to our stepmother, but as it is...” “Her magic is his,” said Stefan, glaring at the flagstones. “Wonderful.” “Only because she wants what he wants — power and a crown,” said the king, and sighed. “It comes to this. Either I willingly give my little daughter to the snake’s son in marriage — and I truly doubt that any of our family would live long after that — or I refuse the lindorm, thereby giving him an excuse to wreak a war of evil magic on my land. You know him best, Stefan. What would you do?” Stefan shook his head helplessly. He was more than willing to fight and perhaps kill his wicked brother, but how to do so and succeed remained the question. But the king was looking at him expectantly. More to the point, so was Andor. So Stefan answered. “You have to fight him. If you cooperate with him the way the people of my land did, he’ll devour you, flesh and blood and bone. Or change you into a thing like him.”

20 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON King Hans-Otto’s face darkened. “I’ve already been...something not human. I will not endure that again.” “We can’t fight him on the battlefield, though,” said Andor, his wing beating rhythmically, as it so often did when he was agitated. “Even if he didn’t have all the beasts and serpents of earth and sea at his disposal, he’s conquered more than one nation with his sorcery in the past few years. His human armies are beyond counting.” “And this is, alas, a little land,” the king added quietly. “Our people are brave, but there are simply not enough of them.” “Even if we could defeat King Lindorm,” Andor continued, “we would still have to deal with his wife. Our dear, dear stepmother.” “And his children,” Stefan said. “If they are children, and not two beasts in the semblance of children, or clay figures brought to life. Given the magic of the lindorm and his concubine, anything is possible.” “Are you sure that sword of yours isn’t enchanted to slay dragons?” Andor asked—though not as if he had much hope that it was so. “He’s a snake, not a dragon,” Stefan replied, running a hand through his thick fair hair. “And the sword is just a sword. Not that it matters. I’m here and he’s there, and thanks to his curse, I can’t return without the land itself poisoning me.” “The very soil of a deadly serpent’s land, poisonous,” said the king with a snort. “How appropriate.” “Well,” said Andor with a shrug that sent several white feathers fluttering to the carpet, “the king and the land are one, after all. What I don’t understand is why he warned Stefan about it.” Wondering if he looked as puzzled as he felt, Stefan turned to Andor. “What do you mean?” “He cursed you. You’re sure of that.” Stefan laughed bitterly. “I can feel it. Right down to my bones. I would die if I set foot in my homeland again.” “Yes,” said Andor, rubbing his chin. “That’s what I don’t understand. If he could poison you, if he hates you enough to

I DO! 21 kill you, why let you go free? Why warn you not to set foot on the ground?” Stefan held his breath, sensing the tiniest glimmer of an idea in his mind. He approached it cautiously, afraid it would fade if he got too close. “Perhaps he dared not,” the king said wearily. “Evil has a way of returning to the one who cast it, after all. Perhaps the best he could do was dig a pit at your feet, and then tell you so much about it that you couldn’t help but fall in. In any case, I don’t see how that helps save this land.” Evil returns to the caster. Who, in this case, is the king. And the king and the land are one. So the land — his land — is poisonous to me. But evil returns to the caster... The realization flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightning. “I think I know how to defeat him,” Stefan said in a dreamlike voice, startling both the king and Andor. “And all it will take will be some cakes and red wine...and access to your kitchens, Your Majesty.” ™™™ Neither Andor nor King Hans-Otto was inclined to accept this until Stefan explained his plan. Then they were all too eager to help. Hans-Otto did indeed give commands that Stefan have access to the kitchens, much to the astonishment and indignation of the cooks. He also began sending letters to King Lindorm, not quite agreeing to his daughter’s betrothal nor ever inviting the snake-king or his family to visit, but dropping hints nevertheless. King Lindorm eventually became impatient, and told Hans-Otto summarily that he and his wife and children would be happy to attend the betrothal. King Lindorm would have been surprised to see Hans-Otto smile when he read that letter. Andor rode north, south and east, seeking out his scattered siblings, and from each he obtained a lock of hair. When he had locks from each of his brothers and himself, he went to his sister, told her of Hans-Otto’s dilemma, and begged her to

22 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON weave the locks into a fine net as quickly as possible. And this Elsie promised to do. Stefan did nothing that could have been construed as heroic or valiant. He spent his days taking orders from the irascible Head Cook, chopping herbs, kneading flour and spicing mulled wine. When the servants speculated as to why the prince’s friend had been relegated to the kitchens, he gritted his teeth and said nothing. On May Eve, King Lindorm and Queen Mergelein arrived at the great hall of Hans-Otto’s palace, and never had anyone seen a more resplendent couple. King Lindorm was clad in cloth-ofgold and black velvet, while his queen was garbed in a laceedged silk gown that was the color of new leaves in spring. Both wore ermine-lined cloaks sewn with gemstones. The lindorm’s was bedecked with onyx and discs of gold; his queen’s was bedizened with diamonds and emeralds. The gemstrewn cloaks caught the light from the tapers and torches illuminating the hall, so that the lindorm and his bride glittered as they walked. An entourage of couriers and servants followed in their wake, but none of Hans-Otto’s court had eyes for them — not even for the three-year-old heir to the throne who was more interested in racing his twin brother than he was in being betrothed. What Hans-Otto’s couriers did notice was that, like the servants scattered throughout the hall, their own king was simply clothed, resembling a huntsman rather than a reigning monarch. And as they saw this, they were ashamed. King Lindorm strode forward, his queen by his side, about to insist that the betrothal ceremony begin when a servant, bearing a platter of sweet cakes redolent of piping hot apples and pears, soft cheese and nutmeg, walked up to him. Both the king and his queen took the largest and plumpest cakes from the tray, and plucked goblets of spiced wine from the platter of another servitor, this one twisted and hunchbacked. “I thank you for the honor you do us, Your Majesty,” said King Lindorm with a cruel smile. “There are not many kings who would invite a crippled hunchback to serve their daughter’s future father-in-law at her betrothal. One might almost think you were ill-wishing the match. But no matter. I can afford

I DO! 23 your petty bad manners. I know you will not dislike me for long.” So saying, both he and the queen lifted their goblets in a mock toast, bit into their cakes, and washed the mouthfuls down with their wine. But almost at once Queen Mergelein turned paler and colder than ice, and King Lindorm doubled over in agony, as patches of black stained his face and hands. “Poison!” he hissed, and his couriers looked sick at the thought, for they had been sampling the cakes and wine themselves. Most stricken of all was the nursemaid, who had been feeding cakes to King Lindorm’s sons. “Poison! A curse be upon you, for betraying a guest—” “Not betraying, and not a guest,” said Hans-Otto calmly. “For you demanded this betrothal on threat of war; you threatened my family; you came here without my invitation; and you served yourselves. You are no guest, but an invader, and to you I say, ‘Die.’” “And it was not poison, either,” said the servant with the cakes, and King Lindorm and his wife looked as if they would gladly tear his throat out, for it was Stefan. “There was naught in those cakes that would hurt any but you two.” “Impossible,” snarled Mergelein, shooting Stefan a look that could not only kill, but draw and quarter. “Poison does not work like that.” “Ah, but this was no ordinary poison,” said the hunchbacked servant, as he stood up straight and let all the court see the wing he had in place of a left arm. He smiled at Stefan. “Go on.” “You set a curse upon my land,” Stefan said softly. “You rendered it poisonous to me, and forced me to leave. It took me a while to realize that the king and the land — like the king and the queen — are one. As you and the land are poisonous to me, so, my brother, am I poisonous to you. And you just ate cakes mixed with my blood, and drank wine watered with my tears.” Even as Stefan finished speaking, a cry — half-whimper, half-wail — echoed throughout the room. It was the nursemaid. She was kneeling on the floor, staring wild-eyed at two young

24 The Lindorm’s Twin ~ PENNINGTON dogs gamboling where, only moments before, there had been two small princes. “You always were good at transforming humans into beasts and beasts into humans, stepmother,” said Andor thoughtfully. “A pity that as your husband’s life and magic ebb, so do yours.” And indeed, the blood and tears were having a dire effect on King Lindorm, for by now the witch’s enchantment was almost entirely gone. His face was still human, but the rest of him was the black and scaly serpent he had been since birth. No one doubted that the lindorm would have called down a hideous curse upon his brother, Andor, the king and the entire kingdom if only he’d been able to speak. The evil queen tottered to her feet — narrowly dodging the lindorm’s fangs as he lashed out at her — and took three steps toward the door. “Now!” exclaimed Hans-Otto. As he spoke, his other brothers and his sister Elsie, who had been scattered about the hall in servants’ garb, each pulled a carefully concealed rope...and a finely woven net of golden, auburn and dark brown hair enshrouded Mergelein. She shrieked and howled and tore at the net, but she might just as well have tried to rip apart a catapult with her bare hands. And the more she tore at it, the more bits of hair seemed to be sticking to her hands and face and clothes. She seemed to shrink, as if she were lesser and smaller without her magic. Her voice grew harsh and screeching, as if she had screamed herself hoarse. Within minutes, the fair green-clad queen was gone, and a screech owl was enmeshed in her place. Stefan studied the writhing lindorm and the frantic owl. “No,” he said softly. “That’s not good enough. They could still return. I can’t allow that.” So saying, he drew, from beneath his cloak, the sword he’d brought with him from home. But Andor caught his arm. “No, Stefan. Not your brother.” “You want me to spare that monster?” Stefan demanded. Andor shook his head. “No. I want you to deal with my stepmother, as I cannot. The kinslayer is accursed, you know. It would be an ill thing if you and I were to be cursed for giving

I DO! 25 these two the justice they deserve.” He smiled. “Go slay my stepmother. I’ll battle your brother.” Stefan hesitated a moment, then nodded. Sheathing his sword, he walked over to the net, and picked up both it and the owl. The owl fought furiously, battering at Stefan with its wings and tearing at him with its talons and beak. But the net of hair wrapped itself around both beak and claws and blunted the bird’s assaults, and Stefan had long since become accustomed to the rhythm of wings beating against his body. Swiftly, and with little fuss, he broke the owl’s neck. Andor drew his own sword, and plunged it into the lindorm’s heart. ™™™ Hans-Otto took no chances. He ordered the carcasses burned, and the ashes scattered to the four winds at a crossroads. Once this was done, he sent mages to what had been the lindorm’s land to find out if the evil magic of the serpent and the witch had truly been banished. The mages found that all was well. The poison had vanished from land, water and air, and the land was blossoming once more. Those who had been changed by evil magic were now free again, and they recalled that horror only as one might a half-remembered nightmare. The kingdom mourned for those who had been murdered or eaten, especially the old king and queen...and wondered when the true king would return. So it was that Stefan — who chose to keep the name Andor had given him rather than the one his brother had stolen — was free to return to his kingdom. On Midsummer’s Eve, he rode back into his homeland, with Andor by his side, and all in the land celebrated, rejoicing. King Stefan and Prince Andor ruled wisely and well for many, many years... ...and as they have not died, they are living still.

Desire and Disguise ALEX BEECROFT

Lydia sat at her dressing table, Bermuda’s vivid, bright sunshine sleeking the tumbled curls of her black hair with highlights of blue steel. Her nightgown was pulled up tight against her neck at one side, and had fallen off the other round shoulder, baring blushing, rosy skin. The window’s light turned the thin lawn material translucent, revealing shadows of curves; her full hips, the pink rounded swell of buttocks and swing of full, hard breasts. Kicking off the sprigged cotton coverlet (an end of roll luxury he still considered extravagant) Robert squirmed to the edge of the bed. Mattress ropes creaked beneath him, overstrained, and his body groaned in answer, equally tight. It hurt to walk, his prick so stiff, his balls and the pit of his belly clenched and shuddering with need. His hand left cold trails of sweat on her skin as he slid it across her bare shoulder and into the fur-soft heaviness of her hair. Oh God, please! She flinched – like a slap across his face. “Lydia…” he begged, months of need and pleading and physical pain trembling in his voice. Her back seemed to freeze solid beneath his fingers. That was fine, he could work with solid; he could be another Pygmalion and love even this statue, if she would only hold still and let him. Shakily, he rubbed the back of her neck with his thumb, positioned himself so that the infernal, burning torment of his prick lay rigid in the long faint shallow of her spine. A little involuntary thrust turned his world dark at the edges with need, almost too painful to be good. Lydia breathed in with a gasp through her teeth and hurled herself to her feet, off balancing him. She backed away, her eyes feverish and her steps jerky with emotion. The movement dislodged the baby suckling at her breast. As she pulled her nightgown protectively up to her throat the child’s whimper of surprise became a wail of protest. “Lydia,” Robert tried again, unable to understand her cruelty. “I need…” Her face crumpled around her gritted teeth. “Oh yes! You need, and our son needs, and between the two of you I am become nothing but the flesh with which you slake your desire.

30 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT Passed from one to the other, and what is left for me?” Toby sobbed in earnest now, his little fist beating against his mother’s collarbone, and for a moment Robert envied him – he too would shove, would beat, even force if it wasn’t… if it wasn’t… Lydia snatched up her unlaced stays from the table, held them in front of her – a whalebone shield. Her frantic breathing pulsed through her swollen breasts, making them swing, but her gaze was icy water; frightened, frantic. “You make me feel like a beast. As if there’s nothing human left of me. I cannot bear it, Robert! I cannot! I will run mad!” Didn’t she realize that she made him feel like an animal too? That the only thing separating her from his bestial need to rut was… “Aaah!” he cried, “aah, goddamn it!” and, overturning the table with a crash that made her huddle further into the corner, he hurled himself out of the room, slammed the door behind him, and, leaning back against the wall, he stroked himself furiously. When he had come all over his hand and belly, he slid down the wall into a crouched, shameful bundle, dripping and trembling. If it wasn’t that I love her, God, how I would hurt her. So close he had come this time. So close, and he was ashamed. This could not go on. ™™™ “And at least four bales of the finest grade canvas you can provide.” The quartermaster of the naval dockyard – one Bill Wilkins by name – was a young man, despite his steel grey wig. The crinkles about his eyes had been etched staring into deep distances and laughing, rather than by time. He had one of those fine, open faces Robert had come to associate with sailors – cheerful; not much troubled by responsibility or forethought. “For skyscrapers,” he added, looking out onto the bustle of the docks, where HMS Kingfisher was taking on barrels of salt horse under the direction of her lieutenant. “And royals.” Robert made a note on his pad, pressing so hard that the lead in his pencil broke, again. The bottom brass cover of the notepad fell off the end of its screw onto his foot, and all the little leaves went flying across the cobbles to scatter, bobbing, on the murky, stinking water. He snatched a couple from the

I DO! 31 air, narrowly avoiding running into the traces of his own cart. The horse’s head plunged, her nostrils wide and her flicking ears unsettled. The jangle of the harness matched his nerves. “Forgive me. Everything I do goes awry today.” “I have known days like that,” Bill nodded with a smile at the stump of his leg, the wooden pin that protruded from a flapping gape of uniform breeches. “But for this I’d still be at sea, with the prospects of honour and command. I literally put a foot wrong, and bang, I’m an invalid, lucky to find work ashore. If I lose this job, I’ll not find another one. At least you have only yourself to please, and all your faculties to do it with, eh?” It was, for such a relative stranger, a long and intimate account. And yet his gaze never once touched Robert’s face, but lingered out on the edge of the wharf, among the Kingfisher’s men. A soft gaze from those candid, blue, farsighted eyes. Bill’s lips quirked up a little, and his hand rose to straighten the set of his wig, lingered to play with the hairs of the pigtail. One of the dockside whores must have sauntered up to interrupt the loading, Robert thought, turning to look, but no. He caught only the startled, accusing flash of dark eyes as Kingfisher’s lieutenant looked down, throwing the shadow of his tricorne over his face. Bill’s crutch slipped from a rounded cobblestone. He lurched to one side, caught himself with a muttered oath. His tanned cheeks burned dusky with a furious blush. “Well, I’ve...I’ve to work. Good day to you, Mr. Digby, and may I expect you within a sen’night with that canvas?” Robert too lurched away, struck in the chest with the certainty that yet again he had done or said something wrong, still unable to understand what. Recoiling, his shoulder hit the horse’s cheek just below the eye. Spooked already, she reared backwards and set the cart rolling down the incline of the docks towards the waterfront. At the bellow of a sharp, commanding voice, a dozen of Bermuda’s black sailors ran to intercept the now terrified, plunging horse, and at this new threat she got her feet back under her, strained against the wagon’s traces and threw it in a rattling curve – sparks bursting bright beneath the metal shod

32 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT wheels. The corner of the tailgate struck the Kingfisher’s neat pyramid of barrels, knocking out a supporting corner. As Robert finally managed to seize the reins and still his errant horse, the barrels came bounding down, thudding and crashing, rolling like thunder. They scattered the sailors and went barrelling into Kingfisher’s dark-eyed lieutenant, knocking him off the jetty altogether. He fell with a soggy splash into a harbour where all Bermuda poured its waste, the barrels falling after with heavy, contemptuous splats. Bill Wilkins lunged forward. “Oh my God! Mitchell!” He brushed Robert aside and stumped, pain in the set of his mouth, fast as he could towards the water. Robert lingered just long enough to watch Lt. Mitchell struggle ashore, dripping with mud, salt meat and turds, and reassured that no permanent harm was done, he took the chance of Bill’s distraction and fled. ™™™ He slept at the shop that night, soaking six feet of good quilting in sweat and semen, and angry, frustrated tears. In the morning he wondered if the two gentlemen who swung through the door before breakfast could smell it still. Robert brought out wax and covered over any lingering scent with the turpentine and beeswax-honey scent of furniture polish, attentively and silently watching them finger his best brocades, and gossip. “My dear, positively the most succulent girls on the island. So obliging! So very talented, you understand me?” “But not cheap, I’ll wager.” The first gentleman – a rather affected, overdressed person, Robert privately thought, while trying not to lean forward to listen in better – tapped his white kid gloves to his painted red mouth. “Oh but that’s the best part. Nothing so crudely mercenary. La! They do it for the love of the sport, God bless ‘em. ‘Tis not far – on Blacksmith’s Hill. What do you say, coz, will you walk up there with me tonight? Catch yourself a lovely, or a brace of ‘em. They’ll thank you for it, I swear.”

I DO! 33 ™™™ It seemed at first so innocuous that Robert wondered if he had misunderstood. He looked around himself again, at the heavy avenue of yew and box, shadows spreading like live things from the roots of the trees. At one end an enclosed garden reeled with the smell of honeysuckle. At the other stood a tall, imposing building, too well-to-do for the down-at-heel square in which it stood. The building’s doors stood open and music spilled out into the gathering dusk. Lovers, framed in candlelight, kissed in shameless, public exhibition. The garden, its fountain trickling sullenly over a greenstained marble urn, thronged with knots of ladies, taking the air and showing off their most gorgeous dresses. Bird of Paradise feathers and ropes of pearl gleamed with strange lustre among the swags of their powdered hair. Behind their fans, the group of three who stood closest to him whispered to each other, watching him. He could feel their eyes, and he was disappointed. He had not come to woo, to exchange compliments, to flirt and dance. That would feel too much of a betrayal. He didn’t want to get to know them - he loved Lydia he was here only to slake a thirst, to feed a gnawing hunger; to become sane again, for her, so that he could go home. As the first stars began to come out, so too the gentlemen appeared, singly or arm in arm, to stroll among the ladies and chat. There was much laughter and calling out of greetings and names. Did they all know each other, and he a complete stranger? Robert considered giving this up, returning to the shop, spending another lonely evening of self-abuse, but the scene about him was rapidly losing the look of innocence. A couple careened past him, tangled in each other, crashing into the hedge by his elbow without breaking their kiss. Their breathy, liquid noises made him flush, hot from toe to crown with embarrassment and need. Yes, damn it, he was going to do this. He had to. There was a girl among the three who had been eyeing him earlier; a girl in a green dress slightly less ostentatious than the others - her wig more like hair than the bizarre beehives the

34 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT more fashionable ladies wore. A tall woman, with the tanned, lively look of a country girl and too large a nose for beauty. Her companions had swept him with an outright lascivious gaze at first, but her first reaction had been astonishment, and even now she looked at him as though she could not believe her eyes. He walked over and bent low in a bow; put out his hand. Her strikingly bold, dark eyes were wary at first, but as she resolved whatever inward doubts plagued her, they lit with a glow of secret amusement and she set her hand gently in his. Even that slight, polite touch made his pulse bound. This close, he thought perhaps he ought to know her - that her doubt came from recognizing him, and realizing he was no gentleman. Indeed she looked like someone whose name he should know. A Lady to whose house he would not have been admitted in the old days, perhaps; someone who might once have looked on him with contempt. She was all smiles now however; wicked smiles, laced with heat and devilry. He lifted the gloved hand to his lips, smelled jasmine and tuberose, before the fingertips escaped his grasp. They traced the lines of his lips in a glide of ivory silk, slid over his cheek, his throat, insinuated themselves beneath his collar. The cool silk warmed against his skin, in a caress as knowing as her eyes. A whole year of wheedling – for this had begun almost as soon as Lydia knew she was with child. A year of denial, rejection and starvation. He had learned to think of women as cold creatures, above the torments of the flesh, and this silent invitation took his breath away. He licked his lips, feeling the firm line of her touch beneath his tongue, gasped, “Your name?” She laughed quietly. “I don’t believe you really want to know. I’m quite certain I don’t want to tell you.” An alto voice to suit her height, soft as the white ringlets that brushed her cheek; a voice that made him feel as though he were stripped, laid out helpless before her, fit to be consumed. “And I’m sure you no more came here to talk than I did.” Her kiss was as bold as she was; neither maidenly nor professional - just confident, matching his hunger with her own.

I DO! 35 Desire came boiling out of its place at the touch, the slick, inviting warmth, the taste of brandy and another willing human body. The thought that all these fine lords and ladies were watching him added a beating, illicit thrill to the embrace, but when she reached down to slip her long fingers into his breeches, to rub his eager cock in a slide of silken softness that made him whimper, thrust against her, gritting his teeth because the all encompassing skirts were tangled about his legs and he needed, needed flesh - then a small remnant of middle-class shame made him beg for the privacy of a room. How they made it down the walk and into the large house beyond, he had no recollection - dizzy steps among violent kisses. She struggled to keep him away from the latchings of her dress, but spread her legs and ground against him if he pressed her into a wall. By the time they had made it into a small back room, bare of anything but a bed, he was almost blind with need, and as soon as the door was shut she renewed her attack, pushing him onto his back on the bed, straddling him - still fully clothed even to the gloves. She lay down over him, insinuating a clever hand back into his breeches. The powdered curls of her wig stuck to his sweating forehead as he buried his face in her neck, kissing, licking. When he bit, she made an impatient, hungry noise, pumped him hard, almost angrily. He bit again, deeper, and she bucked against him, whining. There was a fierce triumph in even so small a mastery over such a woman, but now she drew his head up, devoured his mouth, pressing herself into his thigh, rocking as she handled him with that certain, vicious, overpowering grip that made him want to scream with pleasure. God, it was all he wanted, everything he wanted - hard, fast, meaningless sex, oh, God, please. His hands scrabbled against the bloody corset, tangled in bustles, skirts, petticoats, frustrated, unable to get at skin, needing skin, needing to spread her legs and fuck her without mercy, the way she obviously wanted it. She came before him, from merely rubbing, came silently, her eyes pinched shut and her spirit far, far from his. In the grip of full, black, selfish desperation, he didn’t give a damn about what she was concealing, who it was he substituted for. He had finally got the skirts untucked, got his hands underneath and

36 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT found sturdy legs in silk stockings. Sitting up, she gave him a considering look, with an edge of ruthlessness that should have made him nervous, but only inflamed, then bent to his straining prick. He thought he might be undone just from the promise the heat of her breath on the tip - but when she leaned down and swallowed him whole... His hands found her hips, where the silk of stockings became the damp heat and smoothness of skin. Oh, God, the tongue, the teeth! God, the *teeth!* Hips, ridged with muscle, a belly wet with release. Sucking heat, intense, metallic need. He writhed and swore under the weight, thrusting up into warm, welcoming flesh. Oh, *fuck*! His questing hands closed on balls, a spent prick, and he came with a rush of humiliation and horror in a bone-shattering intensity that was every kind of pain. “You bastard!” His body wanted to lie in pleasant heaviness, to bask in satisfaction, and he hated it for that. He surged up, grabbed the pervert by the expensive, embroidered bodice and threw him off the bed. He landed sprawling - half on the floor, his shoulders and back colliding with the wall, and as Robert fastened himself up with hands that shook from fury, he began to laugh. A bright, delighted laugh. “You didn’t know?! God’s truth! I thought you’d regret it, but I had no idea you didn’t even know!” “Know? How the hell was I supposed to know?” Moved by the kind of trance that took him when he fenced, Robert was hardly aware of vaulting to his feet, picking the little bastard up - not so little, in truth, taller than Robert was, which surely should have given him a clue, had he not been misguided by the damn wigs - and slamming him into the wall, hands around his throat. “You were strolling down Sodomite’s Walk, checking out the talent, Mr. Digby. Forgive me for not realizing you were even more abysmally stupid than you look.” His name. So this was someone he knew, or who knew him. His fingers ached with the need to tighten. To strangle him would be no more than he deserved. Robert’s hands or the noose, what was the difference? Yet despite the pressure of

I DO! 37 thumbs on his windpipe, his...assailant? In all honesty, no, not that. Lover? Certainly not! His partner in crime stood nonchalantly against the wall, watching him with a look of fearless curiosity in his onyx black eyes. A little movement against his fingers made Robert’s stomach clench with realization. The man had begun to smirk, and was trying to tilt his head to conceal the expression beneath the shadow of his hat. Dear Lord! The lieutenant. It was the lieutenant from the Kingfisher, none the worse for his dunking and obviously damn well pleased with himself. Abruptly, though he would have said it was impossible, everything became even more intolerable. To have done this with someone who knew who he was! Someone he might be forced to meet again - spend the time of day with, trying to pretend that nothing had happened. Someone whose mere existence would rub the memory of it in his face forever. Sodomite’s Walk? He seemed to be grasping the essentials of this sentence in starts - in separate shots of singular pain, unable to encompass the whole of it at once. There was a place where such people went to indulge their monstrous appetites? Disgusting and inhuman! Like rutting beasts, like... Like him. Hands broke his grasp. He was dimly aware of the other man - Mitchell, that was his name - rubbing his bruised throat and watching him with a look of malicious pleasure. It began to sink in that he had only himself to blame. If he hadn’t eavesdropped: if he hadn’t gone where he wasn’t invited; if he had only found out more before he rushed into action; if he had been faithful. “You thought I’d regret it, and yet you still did it?” He balled a fist, drew it back. Mitchell circled him warily, with the confidence of a man who was well used to hand-to-hand fighting. The combination of alert, masculine competence, and the rumpled, girlish looks was bizarre, appalling. “You humiliated me in front of the one man whose good regard means everything to me, Mr. Digby, you cannot possibly expect me to bear you a kindness.” “This was revenge then?”

38 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT Mitchell laughed again, the smug, careless laughter that made Robert want to hurt him very badly. “I hadn’t intended to seek revenge,” he said, grinning, “but when it fell into my lap, so to speak, I found it very satisfying indeed.” “You fucking bastard! You vile, whoreson pervert!” He threw the punch, but the other man twisted aside and his fist shook the flimsy partition wall, leaving a dent in the thin wood. “No wonder they say you people deserve to die. I’d hang you myself!” The door opened and a man with the broken nose and cauliflower ears of a professional prize fighter burst in. His huge shoulders strained the rough canvas of his jacket, his hair was in a sailor’s pigtail it must have taken ten years to grow, and his eyes were insolent and dangerous. Surely, Robert thought, such a man could not be, could not be a sodomite too? But it was to Mitchell that the newcomer looked, with respect and a certain amount of concern. “You ‘avin trouble, sir?” “Mr. Digby is a little upset, Haslem. We can’t let him go home in this state. Take him into the parlour and make him drink something.” A big hand with a palm like stone closed about his elbow, and it dawned on Robert that he was friendless, surrounded by men who had earned execution already, so had little disincentive to murder. This was, in its own way, as lawless and dangerous a place as any nest of pirates. “Kindly, now,” said Mitchell. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Digby. But I advise you not to throw such names about. You are in a molly house, after all. In here, I’m the normal one. Isn’t that right?” “Oh, aye,” said Haslem with a gnarled version of the same smile. He shook Robert, not to damage him, but to give him the impression of enormous strength. “You’m the ‘pervert’ in here, my lad. Not none of us. So best keep your pretty mouth shut, eh? Now come along of me and sit quiet a while, while the lieutenant decides what to do with you.” He was gently but inexorably towed away to the large front room, and given a chair and a glass of brandy with a blunt

I DO! 39 directness that said he had better take them, or worse things might follow. When he showed no signs of fight, Haslem nodded and leaned against the wall with a sailor’s watching patience. Robert was left in nominal freedom to gulp the brandy and wonder what the hell happened now. The liquor filled his throat and stomach with a prickly warmth that burnt away some of the feeling of uncleanness. Looking up, he found his first impression of a ball was not far wrong. A quartet played with sprightly enjoyment in the far corner; the lead violinist an elderly man with a mellow virtuosity of feeling and tone that turned the well-worn dances into art. Two score men were dancing, with movements that ranged from comically inept to startlingly graceful. Even now, it was hard to believe some of the ladies were not exactly that. And though it made his skin crawl to think it, there were still several who caught his eye, who he could not prevent himself watching with guilty pleasure. Across the room from him, a good-looking, middle-aged tradesman was sitting hand in hand with a blond youth dressed in the extreme of high fashion. Their faces, gazing at one another, were so aglow with love he had to look away, unsettled. “Feeling calmer?” Mitchell took the seat next to him. He had washed his face and changed into coat and breeches a shade darker than his uncovered oak-brown hair. He looked tall, confident and unmistakably male, and Robert, even though he knew, still found it hard to credit this was the same person as the girl in the green dress. He tossed back the rest of his brandy to force down the disorientation, the nausea, and decided that he had had enough of being pushed. “Does your captain know about you?” “About all of this?” a gesture took in the dancers, the many coloured dresses and the powdered faces in flickering candlelight, “What do you think?” “I could tell him. I could have you dragged in front of a court of law. You’d be drummed out of the Navy and pilloried at the least. I imagine there are a lot of people who’d love the chance to throw offal and half-bricks at you, Lt. Mitchell.”

40 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT Mitchell curled his lip in disgust, and Robert longed to hit him hard, split that lip and break his jaw. His knuckles ached from where he had driven them into the wall. And yet...and yet whose fault was it, truly? If he had made use of an opportunity Robert had given him, wasn’t it Robert’s fault for providing it? “When you’re telling him, be sure to explain how you found out,” said Mitchell coldly. “Don’t come the moralist with me, Mr. Digby. If I’m a sodomite, you’re an adulterer. If I stand to lose my career and perhaps my life, you stand to lose your wife and child. And there is every likelihood you would hang with me. You are one of us now, after all.” “I didn’t know!” “Do you think anyone would really believe that?” Of course they wouldn’t. Of course not. He would have said himself, a half hour ago, that there was no possibility of being so mistaken. How could a gown make such a difference? Mere fabric and powder - how could they change a man so completely? And if they could, what then was the truth? Was there so little difference between male and female that a mere change of clothes was all that told them apart? What did that mean? He had been fortunate enough to enjoy a good church school education, and emerged into manhood quite sure of where he stood. It hurt to find the world was altogether stranger than the certainties with which he had grown up. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Anger, ebbing away, left him with weariness and a great feeling of loss. “Why?” “Why what?” Mitchell had got up to dip a glass into one of the large punchbowls that sat on the sideboard behind them. He flicked back his cuffs to keep them out of the liquid, and Robert noticed the long seam of a cutlass scar on his forearm that had lain concealed beneath the gloves. “If you’re going to... If you’re going to fuck other men, why not… just do it? Why the pretence? Why the dresses?” “What is this?” Mitchell held out his hand for Robert’s empty glass and filled it, hesitating over passing it back. “An interrogation?”

I DO! 41 “No,” Robert said heavily, “Not that. You’re right, I know. I can’t condemn you without condemning myself. It was an idle threat, and I have no intention of going through with it. In fact I hope to go away and get so thoroughly drunk I forget this ever happened. It’s just curiosity - I want to understand.” “For me…” in response to this capitulation, Mitchell passed him the drink and settled back in his chair with a smile that looked surprisingly like an offer of peace. Perhaps, now that they had exchanged humiliation for humiliation, honour had been satisfied; the retaliation found sufficient, and the grudge withdrawn. “It’s mere practicality. Don’t you know that some women wear men’s clothes so that they can run away to sea? In one set of clothes they are permitted to do what they could never in another. It’s no different for me. I find it convenient to be able to walk down the street with a lover, or kiss him in public without risking being executed for it.” He shrugged. “But there are those here for whom the pretty things are a thrill in themselves, and others for whom they are...for whom they are an expression of inward reality. A body more real than the one they were born in.” “I don’t think I know what you mean.” “I’m not sure that I do either. But however it is with them, this is a place where they can be at home. A place where we are all normal.” This time the bright smile had no malice in it, startlingly pleasant. “I don’t think you can have any conception, Mr. Digby, of what a relief that can be.” “Why not just be normal then?” Mitchell laughed, “Oh yes, because it’s that easy! For Christ’s sake, man, do you think there’s a one of us here who chose to be in this coil? No, we like living our lives in the shadow of the gallows. We like being universally reviled and hated by God and Man alike. Of course we do.” He looked away, and Robert was reminded of iron that has been quenched too many times - a black, sharp brittleness, dangerous to work and hard to salvage. Looking out at the dancers, the musicians, the two besotted lovers, he felt his

42 Desire and Disguise ~ BEECROFT thoughtless distaste for them soften a little in concern. Did they really not have the choice? What a terrible fate! “I tell you what,” said Mitchell, looking down at the slices of apple left at the bottom of his glass. “You’re a married man, aren’t you, Mr. Digby? If I could have what you have, if I could be married to the one I love, you couldn’t force me to leave his side to do this. But the world doesn’t give me that chance, and this is all I have.” It was Robert’s turn to laugh, feeling older and more experienced than the other man, more worldly wise. “You’re a romantic, Lieutenant. Marriage is...not everything I had imagined it would be. I know many married men who would give it up eagerly for what you have here - the offer of uncomplicated sex.” “Yes, I’m a romantic.” Mitchell’s lips and eyes thinned as if he was about to chop the arm off a marauding Frenchman, and Robert thought simultaneously It would take a brave man to fall in love with him! and Romantic? With that face? “Unfortunately, Bill is as pragmatic as you like. Maimed and pensioned off, he says he can no longer afford the risk. I say we never could, but we took it regardless. And I would rather be united with him in a noose than separated in any amount of pleasures!” “You and Bill Wilkins?” Robert watched a young man swing past in a flurry of golden skirts, his shorn hair the same colour as the silk, every line of his body speaking of youth and hope and love. “You really didn’t notice it? I thought you had. I thought you’d seen it then, when we couldn’t look away from each other. I thought, ‘There’s trouble. We’ll have to do something about that.’ And then you dumped me in the soup.” “That was an accident!” “Oh, indeed?” Mitchell’s sneer was a supple thing of many degrees. This one seemed friendlier than the last. “And does that take the sting from it? At such a time! With him looking at me so sweet…” They had been standing there, him and Bill, pulling together, as Robert was pulled towards Lydia, all the iron need and the

I DO! 43 soul deep ache, and prevented from acting on it. How could he possibly not understand? “I suppose I was careless, at that, and lucky no one was worse hurt.” Robert put down his glass and extended his hand. “I’m sorry. If I offer myself to someone I shouldn’t be angry with them for taking that offer up. I apologize for the insults, Lt. Mitchell, and I’ll keep your secret. May we shake hands on it?” Mitchell sat straighter, lifting his chin so that he could look down his nose at Robert, while Robert wondered if he could really bear to touch the man without throwing up. Then Mitchell smiled again that surprisingly genuine smile and took his hand in a firm grip - his palm warm and calloused, quite different from the touch of silk. “I thought for a moment there I’d have to knock you on the head and press you to sea, Mr. Digby. I’m glad it didn’t come to that.” He watched the golden youth circle, bright in candlelight, refilled his glass. “But you, who already have what I would die for? Is this really what you want?” Robert thought of Lydia, alone with their baby. Did she know she was not abandoned – that he always meant to come back? Did she know that he loved her and did not merely wish to use her as he had wished to use these ‘women’? He thought he had some inkling now of what she had meant. “I think this experience has put me off adultery forever,” he said, smiling to take the sting out of the words. “Let’s hope that’ll be counted to me as righteousness, then,” Mitchell joked. “And may God prosper both our efforts to win back those we love.” Though it was but a little while since he would have happily strangled the man himself, Robert found with immense surprise that he hoped for it too.

The Roaming Heart CHARLIE COCHRANE

“Linda, my dear, you look terribly tired.” Charles Prior laid his hand on the girl’s arm. She did look weary, dreadfully pale and drawn. “It’s this wretched job; I can’t afford to give it up, Mama depends upon me.” Linda fought back the tears, a fierce, brave look on her lovely face. “There is another solution — we’ve spoken of it often.” Charles took her hand, gently caressed it. “If you would only do me the honour…” His eyes shone with hope and a desire that, this time, those expectations shouldn’t prove forlorn. “No — no, my dear. It would never work. I could never make you happy as you deserve to be.” Linda patted Prior’s hand, smiled at him as a sister might. “You know that my heart will always lie elsewhere.” Charles glanced out of the café window, better to observe the man who was coming, with an eager stride, down the street. “Shall I go? I wouldn’t want him to be angry with you.” “No. I won’t let him be rude to you as he was before. He must understand that you are as dear to me as a brother.” She stood up as Ralph Allen came through the door, a huge smile lighting up her face, a smile she had never produced for Charles. “I’m so pleased you could come. You’ve met before, of course?” She indicated her companion. Ralph scowled, fists clenching. “Oh yes, I remember you, Mr. Prior.” “Cut!” The director’s voice rang out and everyone relaxed. “That was wonderful, my dears. All in one take as well, excellent job. We’ll do the close ups this afternoon, everyone.” He came across to where his stars were beginning to laugh and joke with one another. “Alasdair, you were marvelous; your Ralph really did look as if he was going to punch Charles there and then. Toby, no-one does unrequited love like you can, dear. And Fiona, that was simply wonderful. Now, my children, go and take a rest so that you’ll sparkle again for me.” “Are you lunching with the cast and crew, Alasdair?” Fiona Marsden had eschewed the martyred persona she was displaying as Linda Sheringham and was now much more flirtatious in voice and manner.

48 The Roaming Heart ~ COCHRANE Alasdair Hamilton shrugged. “I’ll see; I have a bit of a headache coming on.” Toby Bowe grinned; he too had reassumed his naturally cheerful face. “Come on, you could do with at least a bowl of decent soup — you can’t live on sandwiches forever. Or does your housekeeper produce such lavish meals that the studio canteen is beneath you?” “I’ll have you know that my housekeeper…” Hamilton didn’t finish his sentence, as the assistant director appeared with a message about the last minute re-working of one of the afternoon’s scenes. All three of Landseer Studio’s most noteworthy stars came to the unspoken decision that they would indeed eat with the rest of the cast and crew, then made their way to the dining hall. The Roaming Heart looked like being another success for the directorship of Alexander Rattigan and the romantic triangle of Hamilton, Bowe and Marsden. It would be brought in under budget, well in time, and the handsome faces of the leads would soon be plastered all over cinemas and billboards in every corner of the kingdom. Toby and Alasdair would no doubt be pictured on either side of Fiona, as usual, the former with the expression of a spaniel seeking a crumb from its mistress’ table and the latter with the quietly confident air of the natural victor. It was a tried and trusted formula, delivering a nice dollop of nostalgic enjoyment for an audience sick of meat still being on the ration and wars still being fought in the butcher’s queue. Hamilton and Bowe had both served, both acquired distinguished enough records, although not as glowing as the studio hinted. Fiona had been a volunteer nurse at Netley — all the fulsome accounts of her service were, surprisingly enough, true. They’d made two films together over the last year and a half — Wings of Love and Valour Undeterred — both of which had been roaring successes. In the first Toby had even got the girl, but only because Alasdair’s character had been killed in a dogfight over Kent and she’d been on the rebound, swearing to her best friend that she’d make a dutiful, attentive wife even though her heart had gone down with her lover’s Hurricane. In the second Alasdair was the winner, as formula dictated he normally was, and Toby was allowed to suffer beautifully.

I DO! 49 Female filmgoers inevitably came out of the pictures in floods of tears, while male filmgoers were grateful for the opportunity to provide comfort, and for the chance of ogling Fiona Marsden. The effect of these triumphs had been overwhelming. Already popular with film and theatre fans, these three had now become the hottest properties in British cinema; some folk even muttered vague rumours of Hollywood beckoning. The postbag from fans had swollen and proposals of marriage, alongside other less respectable things, flooded in, not just to the lady. The gossip columns adored them, too. Hamilton and Bowe’s names were linked to a succession of leading ladies, members of the nobility and, in one case, a foreign princess. There were persistent rumours that one or other of them was involved with Miss Marsden. It varied depending on the magazine or newspaper you read, each newspaper having its favourite. The devoted readers of these rags would, depending on whether their preference was for tall, slim and handsome or short, muscular and handsome, imagine themselves into the published stories with their own names linked to Hamilton or Bowe. Not all those who held these fantasies were female. Fiona was delighted to have the world speculating about her. It was most pleasant to find oneself caught between two such fine-looking and charming young men, to be often on their arm at some occasion or the other, particularly now that the wartime austerity was at last showing a sign or two of dissipating. And the possibility of Hollywood was a thrilling prospect. The only fly in the ointment was that these social occasions seemed to be prompted by the studio, rather than by the actors themselves and that, for all the linking of arms and dancing cheek to cheek, there was never more than a peck on the hand to end the evening with. She was beginning to suspect that the gossip columnists who espoused the secret engagement to a foreign princess theory had got it right. But at this juncture she sailed into lunch with both of them, like some proud ship of the line and her escort of frigates, earning admiring, jealous glances from the make up girls, dressers and female extras. Fiona Marsden was a star and she

50 The Roaming Heart ~ COCHRANE probably gets to snog one or both of those two matinee idols were the constant watchwords behind the scenes. “And does your housekeeper prepare anything to match this?” Bowe piled into a particularly tasty fricassee, although he wasn’t sure he hadn’t once had ten bob at Ascot on the animal he was eating. “She does indeed; perhaps you should come and try it someday. When you aren’t out eating with the daughters of nobility.” Bowe laughed. “It’s my dear Mama makes me do it; she still doesn’t think that the son of a baronet being in moving pictures is quite the done thing. Even though I’m the sixth and have no real expectations. Could you pass the salt please, Fiona?” Miss Marsden obliged, rather peeved that she wasn’t being invited to partake of the lady in question’s culinary skills. “Do you have a good cook, Toby?” “One without parallel, recommended to me by a friend of my mother’s. Mrs Forrest may be stout, have wrinkles and be able to grow a more impressive moustache than my father can, but her pastry is without parallel in the kingdom. I am truly spoiled,” Bowe patted his muscular waistline as if to emphasise the fact. Three young women in the vicinity nearly choked. “And what about the daughters of the nobility?” Hamilton had a small, secretive smile on his face although only Bowe seemed to notice it. “Do they approve of the culinary delights on offer?” “They might if they ever were allowed to set foot through the door. I also possess the most ferocious butler, who will not allow any of the painted minxes as far as the top step. When I meet them it is strictly at an away venue.” Bowe cleared the last of the fricassee from his plate. “And you, Alasdair? That daughter of the Aga Khan or whoever it is that you trip the light fantastic with — does she like Mrs Whatever-she’s-called’s steak and kidney pudding? Assuming Mrs Thingy has bribed the butcher again.” Hamilton grinned. “Like you, Toby, I keep my pleasures to be partaken of away from the family hearth. Doesn’t do to let these ladies become too ensconced at the fireside.”

I DO! 51 “Indeed. Well, cup of something alleged to resemble coffee and back to the Grindstone, I suppose. Shame I gave up cigarettes when I was twelve. I quite fancy one at pleasant times like this.” For some reason Hamilton began to choke on his coffee. ™™™ The close ups were eventually completed, Bowe being praised over and again for the way that he expressed such stiff upper lip and repressed emotion. Hamilton’s eyebrows seemed to have acquired star status in their own right and were put to the test from every angle and in every way. At last the action was wound up for the day, people repairing to dressing rooms to be changed, pampered and praised, emerging eventually as something less than they had appeared on set, something like ordinary folk. “Are you two lads out with your girls tonight?” Fiona spoke lightly, but the question was loaded with hidden agendas. “I’m washing my hair.” Bowe laughed, using a voice which exactly mimicked one of the starlets who had that particular line to employ in the film and who had milked it for all it was worth. “Alasdair?” Fiona was nothing if not determined; years trying to break into films had eliminated all elements of natural English reticence from her. “Prior engagement for me — not like this old stick-at-home here.” Hamilton poked Bowe’s ribs. “I appreciate a bit of romance and joie de vie.” He lifted Miss Marsden’s hand and kissed it. “Till Monday, then.” ™™™ The butler answered the door to the gentle knock, visibly relaxed when he saw who the visitor was and bade him come in. This was one of the few people allowed over Toby Bowe’s threshold. Outside it was raining pell-mell, a fortuitous thing as it kept the streets free from gawping eyes; not many fans knew where their idol lived, but those who did made things jolly awkward. “Thought you’d get here, deluge notwithstanding.” Toby came into the hall, helped divest his guest of his Mackintosh.

52 The Roaming Heart ~ COCHRANE “Can you rustle us up some coffee, MacGuire? Decent stuff, not like that chicory-infested rubbish they deliver at the studio. I won’t enquire too hard as to where you got hold of it.” The butler nodded, took the coat and shimmered away. “We had a bit of an inquisition today.” Alasdair slumped into his favourite seat by the fireside and started to thaw out a bit. It wasn’t a particularly cold night yet the rain had gone through him. “Do you think Fiona suspects?” Toby grinned, settled down in the chair that was alongside his friend’s. “No. I think she’s been reading too many magazines, assumes that we spend every night chatting up some lady or other and would like a piece of that particular action. Wants to make those tender moments on screen spill over into real life.” They sat in quiet companionship until the butler had brought some excellent coffee then been dismissed for the rest of the evening. “Staying the night?” Toby laid down his cup, sauntered over to his friend’s chair, plonked himself down in Alasdair’s lap. Strong arms closed around him and he snuggled his head into his lover’s neck. “If you want me to. No filming tomorrow means no car in the morning. No doubt I’ll read in the paper that I was at some club up west seeing in the dawn with an heiress. Or Fiona.” Alasdair lifted Toby’s face to his, the better to kiss him. It wasn’t the sort of tender, butterfly kiss which was all he was allowed to share with Miss Marsden on screen (for which eventuality he was very grateful). This was passionate and raw, all the better for being shared behind closed doors and with the world locked out. And with the only person he had ever loved. His eager fingers started to make their way down the row of Toby’s waistcoat buttons. “Now Mr. Hamilton, what would your adoring fans say if they knew what you were about?” “They’d say that I was jolly lucky not to get pins and needles with you sitting in my lap. I dread to think how much you weigh, but it’s all solid flesh.” He prodded Toby’s chest, enjoying the feeling of the firm muscle beneath his touch.

I DO! 53 “Then do you wish to repair to my boudoir? Or as Fiona said in her first film ‘fancy a fourpenny one?’” “She never did.” “No. Actually she was playing an odalisque and said ‘would you like to partake of a sherbert?’ although the basic meaning was the same.” “I think I’d like to sit down on that rug by the fire. It was only a short walk from where I parked the car but I got pretty soaked.” “Then take off your shoes and socks and we’ll both toast our tootsies.” Toby quickly bared his toes and sat in front of the hearth, feet turned towards the homely blaze. Alasdair joined him, sliding an arm around his shoulders, resting head against head. “At least that rain meant that we were spared any watchers at the gates. Not even the most ardent of Toby Bowe fans would brave that downpour for a glimpse of their pin-up.” “And at least that meant you didn’t have to scoot around to the tradesman’s entrance. MacGuire hates it when you have to pretend to be a delivery boy.” Toby grinned, twisting his lover around for another kiss, while Alasdair began to get to work on more buttons, Toby’s shirt this time. “And what are you up to now, Charles? Does Linda Sheringham know that you’re such a maniac for bare flesh?” “No, she doesn’t and she’ll never get a chance to find out. I just have a fancy to see the very vest that made, according to the Daily Mail, three women faint when it was paraded in Valour Undeterred.” Alasdair soon discovered that it wasn’t that particular grey silk vest which Toby was wearing but a fine white linen one, in comparison to which the other was positively monastic. “This is new.” “Bought it for the latest film; always hate the ones that wardrobe try to foist upon me.” Toby pushed his lover down onto the Chinese rug, wreaking havoc with his fingers to Alasdair’s tie, his shirt buttons, fly buttons. “Shame we’ll never get the chance to play a scene like this for the cameras.” “They wouldn’t even allow me to play one like this with Fiona. One little kiss then fade to black. Not,” Alasdair fought to get his words out against mounting breathlessness, “I hasten

54 The Roaming Heart ~ COCHRANE to add, that I’m complaining.” He didn’t fight the depredations of Toby’s keen hands. “It would be nice though, don’t you think? Playing the characters that we did in Wings of Love — a pair of squadron leaders — but instead of dancing with Patricia Morgan or whoever La Marsden was supposed to be, dancing with each other and smooching a bit.” Bowe’s fingers had found a particularly succulent piece of flesh to assault. “How am I supposed to answer sensibly when you do that?” Alasdair gasped. “It’ll never happen. They’d never dare show such a thing on film, even one of those avant garde French ones. Now leave off a moment.” He eased Toby’ shirt and vest off his shoulders, letting them follow where the jacket and waistcoat had gone. “It’s just as well, you know, all this censorship. This,” he jabbed a finger at the rug, as if it were responsible for their actions, “is strictly between us. I would never want anyone knowing what went on behind our own closed doors.” “Given what usually happens, that’s probably just as well.” Toby’s strong chest pressed his lover hard against the rug, his mouth unleashing a barrage of kisses on any part of Alasdair he could reach. “No need to put on a show for the cameras now. Just you, me and the fire with no necessity to repeat things again and again till we get them perfect.” Alasdair, breathless, husky voiced and about to lose all rational faculties, considered. “Actually, Toby, that wouldn’t be a bad idea…”

Outed CLARE LONDON

Guy said afterwards it was a relief to him that someone finally said something. But did it have to be Auntie Queenie’s apparently artless comment, right in the middle of her eightieth birthday celebration tea? In the aftermath of the shock, when conversation and social smiles froze like Siberian rain and Auntie’s shaking hand scattered sugar frosting from her cake all over our carpet, Guy took my hand and smiled and said yes, of course, what Auntie Queenie said was true, and no, he hadn’t seen last night’s eviction from Big Brother but he believed it was as controversial as always, and – in the meantime – did anyone want another cup of tea? Guy was British equanimity to the core. No melodrama, no fuss, and always enough tea to re-float the Titanic. Guy could be accused, perhaps, of living in his own – comfortable, chilled, charmed – universe. I often envied him for that, though I knew in his case it was born of sincere confidence, not self-delusion. Whereas I, on the other hand, lived in the real world, which was messy, prejudiced and emotionally tangled, and happening right now in my living room. The world where my mother turned a shade of colour I’d never seen on anything except museum parchment, and where my sister’s exclamation was rich and alliterative, courtesy of her expensive, convent-school education. Guy turned to me, still smiling, and asked me to fetch some more milk from the kitchen. His eyes danced with mischief. I sighed to myself. My sister was behind me all the way, her peep-toes tagging against my trainers, her hissed commentary nagging at me. “What the hell is going on? Rob, are you listening to me? I don’t know what Auntie was thinking, saying something like that. I mean, you’re not in trouble again, are you? At work? At home? Whatever?” I paused to reach in the cupboard for a milk jug and Melanie halted abruptly, just before her knees bumped against my legs. “Look, you know what Auntie Queenie is like, she gets nuttier every birthday. Christ, she probably doesn’t even know what the word gay means, nowadays –”

58 Outed ~ LONDON “But it’s true,” I interrupted. I watched my hand open the fridge door and lift out the milk carton, as if someone else were doing it. The door sighed shut again: I sighed along with it. There was a certain relief, at last. “She was right. I am living with Guy. We are gay.” There have been few times in my life when I’ve rendered my older sister speechless. There was some satisfaction that this was one of them. “Will you fetch out some dessert spoons?” I said, amazed that my voice sounded so calm. “Auntie Queenie can’t manage her birthday cake with those daft little forks that Mum brought with her.” “You’re gay,” Melanie said. “You know where the spoons are,” I continued. “Guy’s gay. You’re living together. Together? Not just flatmates. I can’t do this.” “I don’t see that my sexuality affects your ability to open a drawer and pick out some cutlery,” I snapped. “What about Mum?” she gasped. “Well, yes, I could ask her to get them, but it seems a lot of fuss over –” “Shut up, Rob. You know what I mean. What’s Mum going to say? What’s she going to do?” “Do?” I glared at her. Yes, there was relief, but there was frustration, too. “Why the hell does she need to do something? We’re not living with her, are we?” “What’ll they say at the Golf Club?” I couldn’t help but notice Melanie’s initial shock giving way to some rather more salacious mischief. “Glad to be the subject of your entertainment,” I said, coldly. “I can’t believe you never guessed, anyway. This shock/horror performance is rather hypocritical. Guy and I have been sharing the flat since last summer. We both come to all the family events; you know we go on holiday together.” Short of giving guided tours around our double-bedded room, what else did it take? Couldn’t social acceptability be achieved with discreet familiarity, rather than wearing a lurid slogan on a tight T-shirt? Instinctively, I imagined Guy in that T-shirt and my breath shortened. Then I was ambushed by another vision,

I DO! 59 of Guy dressed in nothing but a golfer’s flat cap and chequered trousers – unbuttoned – laid out on a lush, deserted green, laughing and grabbing for me and murmuring of irons and woods… Hell, it was tempting, but not sufficiently so for me to join the Golf Club alongside my mother. “And Auntie was right about the rest of it, too,” I continued, reckless now. “It is the reason I’m a lot happier nowadays. I’ve been in trouble, on and off, since I was a teenager, haven’t I? You and Mum know that, you’ve bailed me out enough times. God knows where I might have ended up if I hadn’t met Guy.” If I hadn’t found a comfortable place in life that owed nothing to a steady job, a particular neighbourhood or the material state of our second-hand furniture. Or membership of a local Golf Club, for that matter. No, the comfortable place was being with Guy; the stability; the belonging at last. Melanie retreated from the kitchen, her wide-eyed gaze trailing away from mine and the suspicion of a grin on her lips. She clutched the spoons to the front of her silk blouse like a talisman. I drew a deep breath, picked up the jug of milk and followed her back into the lounge. Heads swivelled around to face me, normal tea-drinking service suspended. The gazes were curious, shocked and some of them a little excited. Mum, the cousins, Auntie’s school friend Madge, the family friends from Number 32. All of them, looking at me. I paused, temporarily unnerved. Guy was sitting next to Auntie Queenie on the couch and he looked up too, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement. I concentrated on them alone and my spirits rose. “Is that the milk?” he asked, brightly. “Good. Let’s have that over here and I’ll pour Auntie another cup. She needs another slice of cake, too; the last bit went down the wrong way, apparently.” I’m sure a couple of the cousins snickered.

60 Outed ~ LONDON “Robert,” Auntie murmured as I passed her the plate and spoon. I bent my head down to hear her whispery little voice, squirming under the burning inquisition I could feel at the back of my neck: my mother’s indignation, my sister’s anticipation. “I seem to have caused a bit of a stir,” she said. “I only meant that you’re both happy – that you’re both so cheerful nowadays, especially you. Like a new man. You know, that’s what gay means to me?” Her little old eyes looked innocent enough and I smiled reassuringly. “No problem, Auntie.” Her friend Madge nudged up beside me, bringing the cup of tea. She rarely spoke in company and always looked mildly benevolent, whatever the occasion, so I may have imagined the gentle smile as her eyes skittered over my face. There was a murmur of voices in the background, and I thought I could hear Mum being quizzed about her handicap. To give her credit, she was responding gamely. Auntie shook her head gently, her pearls clicking and the scent of a floral talcum powder wafting up into my nostrils. Her eyes narrowed. “There’ll be no trouble, Rob, I can assure you. I’ll see to that. Not for you – not with this family of mine.” I frowned, puzzled. Madge coughed discreetly and Auntie grinned. Grinned. “Your sister wears her skirts too tight and is too fond of mischief-making, but she’ll come around. And leave your mother to me. I must say Guy is a charming young man, with a rather wicked sense of humour; I like him a lot. Isn’t that right, Madge?” Her friend nodded, silently and benevolently, of course. “And he’s built, I must say. You have good taste.” “Auntie?” I was startled. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Guy laughing. She turned to face my lover, my octogenarian Auntie who’d lived through two world wars, two marriages, and children who’d caused her both tears and laughter. Who’d never asked anything about my private life or miscellaneous mishaps, except

I DO! 61 to express support and press twenty pounds into my hand when it was most needed. I couldn’t see her expression but I could see Guy’s – and he winked back at her.

Lust in Translation STORM GRANT

Tyler steered his SUV to the curb, sending a tsunami of rainwater up and over the sidewalk. Usually a precise driver, tonight he gauged his distance by bouncing against the curb, first forward, and then in reverse: bounce, bounce, and park. Rain sheeted the windshield, tracing eerie patterns across the interior. He twisted the rearview mirror toward himself, raindrop shadows painting false tears on his cheeks. He drew his lips back in a rictus of a smile. “Nothing between my teeth,” he said, despite being alone in the car. “Guess I should go in.” Wishing he’d brought an umbrella, he grabbed a baseball cap from the glove compartment, the embroidered emblem reading “Mount Forest P.D.” Carefully, he reshaped the bill and slapped it over his short, spiky, brown hair. Exiting the car, he anchored the cap on his head with one hand, fighting the gusts of bitter wind threatening to snatch it away. He dashed across the road to the bar, asphalt glistening wetly, avoiding the deepest puddles as best he could. He paused in the entryway, searching for the friends who’d invited him out tonight, rainwater pooling on the parquet tiles around him. He shook fat droplets from his hat and wiped his feet on the little sisal mat near the door. His cell phone shrilled from his jacket pocket, startling him. “Tyler Cage,” he barked, hoping it wasn’t work calling. It wasn’t. “No, no. That’s fine. Bad driving. I get it. Maybe next week.” He snapped the cell phone shut with an unsatisfying click, shoving it roughly back in his pocket. He adjusted his damp ball cap a couple times, and wandered over to snag a seat at the bar. The place was nearly empty; he could have had any seat in the house. He downed one beer quickly, then nursed a second. He traced meaningless patterns in the condensation, and chatted briefly with the barman. After an hour, the deserted bar and overpriced beer lost its charm. Tyler chugged the rest of his mug and caught the bartender’s attention, requesting the bill. Although he’d had only two drinks, the alcohol hit him hard; he’d lost his appetite for drinking and partying following the nasty breakup of his last

66 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT relationship. Mostly he worked and hung around his condo alone. Five nights a week he worked out at the precinct’s tiny gym. Paying his tab and tipping well, he jogged back to his car. Soaked before he got there, he mused that an ark might be a better plan than his SUV. His years in Vice led him by habit through the dirtiest sections of town; the parts the tourist brochures never mention but the tourists often found anyway. Neon signs advertising pawn shops and discount liquor stores glowed dimly behind metal grates. Boarded-up, burned-out buildings lined one entire block. Shot-out streetlamps stood uselessly like blind watchmen. Great lakes of rainwater formed on the road where clumps of wet garbage blocked the sewers. The smell of rotting filth overpowered the pine-fresh scent of the little air freshener dangling from the mirror. Neither hooker nor john ventured out on a night like this. Tyler white-knuckled the steering wheel, his SUV hydroplaning around the corner. “Goddamn it!” He cursed the road, the SUV, the weather, and most of all his goddamn friends who’d convinced him to meet them for drinks and then begged off. “You’re all a bunch of wimps!” he yelled at the road. He drove cautiously through the storm, unable to remember the last time he’d seen weather this crappy. Must have been winter of ‘99. He’d been on stakeout and— He slammed on the brakes so violently his seatbelt locked, knocking the air from his lungs. The car fishtailed wildly out of control. He skidded sideways, halting just inches from the bedraggled guy meandering in the street in front of him. The drunk or whatever staggered straight into his SUV anyway, careening off the bumper only to wander into the other lane. Tyler squinted in the glare of oncoming headlights, their halogen glow fractured and blinding through the sheeting rain. He leapt from the truck and hauled the idiot out of the way barely in time. The car sloshed past, horn blaring, sending a spray of filthy water over their already-drenched clothing. Tyler fisted the wet leather jacket and dragged his rescuee to the

I DO! 67 passenger side. “I sure hope you’re worth my ruined upholstery,” he said, shoving the guy into the seat. He crossed to the driver’s side, shoes oozing rainwater with each step, and climbed in himself. Maneuvering carefully, he pulled his SUV onto the nearby lot of a boarded-up gas station. The vandalized gas pumps resembled dismembered robots that might wake at any moment to menace Mount Forest. “Hey, you okay?” Flicking on the dome light Tyler checked on his shivering passenger. He cranked up the heat. At least the guy appeared clean, smelling of wet leather and not of months without soap and water. The kid waved one hand around. “Hey, thanks. Um. Sorry I…. I’m soooo stoned.” His arm flopped back into his lap. He stroked his hand over his crotch, jacking himself through his sodden jeans. “And really horny.” He cut a sidelong glance at Tyler. “Dude, you’re real pretty. Wanna fuck?” Reaching over, he rubbed Tyler’s crotch once, twice before Tyler grabbed his hand and pushed him away. A hooker, Tyler concluded, ignoring his dick’s little twitch. A hooker with a nasty habit and a nastier pimp making him work the streets on a night like this. “Buckle up, kid,” Tyler ordered although he ended up helping the guy before clicking his own seatbelt into place. He pulled a U-turn and drove toward the precinct. The kid sat placidly during the drive, singing softly along with the radio, some 80s power ballad Tyler might have danced to at his junior prom. He was a little surprised the boy beside him knew the words; he looked way too young for it, but maybe his parents listened to that kind of thing. They arrived to find the police station in near darkness. Tyler pulled up in front but a uniformed cop in heavy rain gear rapped on his window. Tyler lowered the glass, blinded by the cop’s flashlight glare. “Point that somewhere else, will you?” he shouted over the storm. The cop lowered his beam. “What’s going on?” Black spots danced before Tyler’s eyes. “You’ll have to leave, Detective. We’ve got a situation here.”

68 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT “Situation? I’ll park and help.” Vision clearing, Tyler could just make out the officer’s grim expression. “No, sir. I have my orders. No one gets in or out until further notice.” “Officer, report!” Tyler ordered, pulling rank. The uniform surveyed the area. Apparently finding nothing else needing his attention, he focused back on Tyler, his eyes sliding dismissively over the stoned-out boy lolling in the passenger seat. Tyler hoped the other cop couldn’t see into the car where the boy was running his talented fingers along the inseam of Tyler’s jeans. “The storm, sir. Lightning hit a generator. We’re running on emergency power.” Tyler nodded. He’d experienced their antiquated backup generators before. The dim, flickering lights lent the bullpen a surreal cast, criminals, victims, and cops alike all wearing shadowy death masks. “Wasn’t there a big bust tonight?” He’d heard Robbery Division was scheduled to take down a fencing operation the size of an average Wal-Mart. “Do they need help in there?” “No, sir. Sorry, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. We’re expecting other units and you can’t block the driveway.” He held up his radio mic as if it explained something. “Okay. I get it. It’s Robbery’s bust and they’re not looking to share.” He raised his window and pulled away, tires screeching on the wet pavement. He cornered too fast and the hooker slid into him, landing with his damp head on Tyler’s shoulder. It felt kind of nice so Tyler let him stay. The kid alternated between sluggish and manically trying to lick every available part of Tyler. Against all better judgment, Tyler dragged the kid home with him. Just to sleep it off, he told himself. Just to keep him from staggering out in front of another car or dying of exposure on the cold wet streets. To keep him safe from his pimp, a john, or a dozen other things that might mean death for someone in the kid’s condition.

I DO! 69 He also told himself a single kiss wouldn’t hurt. The boy was so antsy, so aroused, so appealing. Maybe he’d settle down if Tyler just kissed him a bit. Or, you know, got him off. ™™™ Justin lay spread like a sacrifice to the strange god who knelt between his legs. “Oh, God. Don’t stop,” he murmured, his dazed words both an order and a plea. “Oh, yeah.” He gazed along the miles of his sweat-gleamed body to see the haloed head slowly rising and falling. “Pretty,” he said tracing patterns along the gilded skin. The statue-come-to-life toyed with his balls, fingers brushing lower. He shuddered with pleasure. “You say something, kid?” The god released Justin’s cock, raising his head. “You okay? Should I stop? You’ll still get paid.” “I…. You…. Don’t stop.” Justin raised his lead-weight arm. His arm had a halo too. He admired his wavy outline, tripping on the iridescent trails that followed his movements. He twisted his head on the pillow, surveying the room. A nimbus of shifting light ringed furniture, walls, and windows. The God Guy—Tyler, Justin recalled he’d said—Tyler returned his attentions to Justin’s dick. Justin tried to focus on feeling good but his mind kept jumping around, making him dizzy, making him crazy. “God, dude. I’ve never felt anything like this. I think I’m gonna come. I think I’m gonna be sick. I think I’m gonna die.” His breath stuttered and his heart raced. “Oh, oh, oh!” Right the first time. ™™™ Tyler swallowed reflexively, the bitter-salt taste crossing his palate. Eyes closed and enjoying the sensation, he focused on the essence of the pretty young man spread out before him. And quickly pulled away, heart thudding in panic. Latex. He shouldn’t taste both latex and come.

70 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT He bolted downstairs to the bathroom, leaving the stonedout hooker still shuddering through the last of his orgasm. He slammed the bathroom door and hastily swished around a mouthful of hydrogen peroxide, spitting the foul stuff noisily into the sink. Tyler cursed himself for his negligence. He’d forgotten about that ragged back tooth, the result of something unexpected and unidentified in his chili at lunch. Now it had worn a sore spot on his tongue and ripped the condom! “Oh, Christ, no!” An open sore. A hooker’s jism. A recipe for disaster. While rescuing the kid and blowing him had seemed like a brilliant plan at the time, it lost its luster now as Tyler sat in his bathroom wondering if anyone had invented a morning-after pill for AIDS. His gut clutched in panic: latex, come, bile, and hydrogen peroxide forming a bitter mélange on his tongue. Tyler was pretty familiar with the kids who worked the streets thanks to his job in Vice, but he hadn’t seen this boy before. Maybe this kid was new to tricking or backed off the hardcore stuff. The kid had felt pretty tight when Tyler shoved two fingers in him. “Okay, Detective,” he told himself. “Go do your job. Interrogate the rent boy.” He marched back toward the stairs leading up to his loftstyle bedroom. If he swayed a little on the journey he blamed it on the beer he’d consumed earlier. Not to mention his current state of panic. Reaching the bed, Tyler gently shook his guest. “Hey, kid. Wake up. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer me. Okay?” The hooker stared, eyes dazed and unfocused. Tyler lightly slapped the kid’s tanned cheek, admiring the boy’s tawny skin color. He hadn’t noticed the healthy glow before. In fact, an incandescent halo of soft light bathed the entire room. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. “Stay with me here, kid. This is important. How long have you been hooking?” he asked, just a little distracted by the shimmering highlights in the boy’s golden curls.

I DO! 71 “Not a hooker. ‘M a professor. Jefferson U.,” the kid mumbled. Tyler shook his head, the slurred syllables difficult to interpret. “Peeee ach deeeee!” the kid added, singing the letters loudly and off-key. Tyler wondered if the guy’s delusional state predated the drugs. Growing more panicked he demanded, “Do you have AIDS? Are you HIV positive?” This appeared to reach the boy. He actually lifted his head and met Tyler’s brown eyes for a long moment before responding. Between the blown pupils and the golden fog, Tyler failed to distinguish the kid’s eye color at all. Green maybe? Blue? Yanking his attention back from those pretty eyes, Tyler repeated his questions. The kid’s gaze wavered a bit but he spoke clearly this time. “Get tested regularly. Not sick. Wouldn’t be here if I was.” Tyler relaxed a little, finding it hard to stay panicked. He ran his gaze over the boy’s handsome features. More pretty than handsome really, although the dark stubble along his jaw highlighted the boy’s masculinity. The bronzy glow outlining the boy’s mouth caught Tyler’s gaze. He reached out a glowing hand to trace the sparkling patterns. The hooker’s head fell back on the pillow. Tyler continued to admire the naked man in his bed. “Beautiful,” he murmured, no longer wondering what inspired him to undertake so many things against his better judgment. Tyler’s mind wandered from danger and inexplicable actions to his returning erection; reminding him that while he’d taken care of the rent boy, the rent boy had yet to take care of him. He caressed and petted the firm young body, gently at first, just enjoying the intense sensation of touch. His touch increased in sensuality as he grew more aroused. He licked and nuzzled his way south, mouthing collarbone and nipples, down the fine flat stomach. He swirled his tongue around the kid’s navel. The kid moaned, so Tyler did it again. He lay next to the pliant body and rubbed against him. Feeling his sensitive skin catch he realized fuzzily that he hadn’t removed the boy’s torn condom yet and rolled off to deal with

72 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT it. The dead soldier sailed toward the trash but failed to complete its trajectory, puddling on the floor beside the wastebasket. Tyler, normally a neat freak and then some, failed to care. He rolled back against the closest body part, pressing his cock against the firm, hot flesh. Tyler’s thoughts ping-ponged around his skull, making it hard for him to focus on any one thing, not even on his dick, which usually managed to absorb his attention. A blunt hipbone interfered with the delirious friction. He rolled away a bit and pushed at the young man. “Roll over.” After a couple of unsuccessful attempts the boy managed to flop over onto his belly. Tyler rooted about the bedclothes, eventually finding the tube of slick he’d used earlier to ease the way for his fingers. He spread some on his dick. He shoved himself across the boy’s ass, shifting around, lining up his cock between the exquisitely rounded ass cheeks. Retreating to his one-syllable vocabulary, the hooker managed to raise his head and call “Nahhhh” back over his shoulder. Equally articulate, Tyler responded with “Whaaaa?” “Don’ do that, dude. Don’ wanna.” Gathering his minimal resources, Tyler slurred entire phrases, a full sentence beyond him. “Don’ worry. Not gonna fuck. Just rub off. ‘Kay?” “‘Kay.” Reassured, the boy sank face-first back into the pillow. Despite his reeling thoughts and fired-up senses, or maybe because of them, Tyler found the sensations of this basic act absolutely incredible, positively transcending. He wanted more of the skin-to-skin contact with this beautiful body, beautiful ass, beautiful glowing man. Time stretched and distorted like one of Dali’s dripping watches and, several hours or several minutes later he experienced the most powerful orgasm of his life. He rolled off the kid and collapsed beside him, wondering when the room had grown so dark he couldn’t see. At all. ™™™

I DO! 73 “Oh, shit.” Justin slowly raised one hand to the top of his head, pressing firmly to keep it from exploding. He tried to sit up. Succeeding on the second try, he levered himself up, his hand still buried in his sweat-matted curls. Turning his head with care, he glanced at his sleeping host. His memory of the previous evening was fairly clear. He pretty much recalled everything, right up to passing out. He knew he’d been high before he met the guy. He must have been, otherwise, he’d never have accepted a ride from a stranger, no matter how tall, dark, and gorgeous. Justin checked out his surroundings. The bedroom occupied the entire upper half-story, open to the downstairs. He staggered to the edge of the loft, peering over the railing. An open-concept living room, dining room, and kitchen comprised the main floor. Straight lines and an overall sense of rigid organization radiated from below, except for the messy trail of clothing leading from the front door to the staircase. A sliver of envy crept into Justin’s soul as he admired the well-maintained, two-story apartment. Thanks to the burden of student loans and a general sense of inertia, he still lived in the same tiny, untidy apartment he’d rented since his undergrad years. Trying not to wake his host, he descended to the main level, grateful for the sturdy stair rail. Reaching the bathroom, Justin rummaged through the medicine cabinet. He grabbed the closest prescription vial, squinting at the tiny type. “Valium,” he read along with the name, “Tyler Cage.” A second bottle, “Rivatril” this time, also dispensed to Tyler Cage, confirmed his host’s full name. Justin explored further, worry overriding any guilt he might feel. The cabinet held a bunch of other meds: for pain, for sleeping, some antibiotics, plus some vials sporting unfamiliar, polysyllabic names. “Jesus H. Christ!” Justin experienced a moment of blind panic, unable to breathe. He vaguely remembered Tyler asking him about AIDS and HIV last night. He sat heavily on the closed toilet waiting for the light-headedness to pass.

74 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT Still naked, Justin reached back and checked. White flakes— come or lube or both—speckled his fingers. He remembered Tyler had come on his ass. He relaxed a little. “Come on me, not in me,” the safe sex mantra of the AIDS generation. And he’d worn a condom during the brief but incredible blowjob. For safety’s sake, though, he needed to address this with Tyler. He frowned, knowing he’d lost his chance of escaping the uncomfortable “morning after” by just slipping away while his host slept. When his heart slowed, Justin rooted through Tyler’s medicine cabinet again. He located some Tylenol Twos just a little past their expiration date. He chased them with antacids, tap water, and a shudder, and helped himself to Tyler’s toothbrush. He figured a guy willing to have sex with a total stranger shouldn’t have any qualms about sharing a toothbrush. He found a clean towel under the sink and climbed into the shower. Exiting the bathroom still toweling his damp, blond curls, Justin collected his grungy clothing from their wandering trail across the living room area. Sniffing at his shirt, he deemed it not so bad and pulled it on, along with jeans and socks. The underwear he tucked in his jacket pocket. At least yesterday’s wardrobe had dried during the night, mostly. Once dressed, he wandered into the kitchen to find a source of caffeine. Two mugs of coffee later, the purloined meds kicked in. Justin decided he should just leave after all, but a moan from the upstairs bedroom stopped him from reaching for his jacket. Now he had to stay and do the “nice guy” thing. He climbed the stairs hesitantly, still considering making a break for it. “How you doing?” he said softly when he reached the top. He laid a tentative hand on Tyler’s shoulder. Tyler responded with another moan, followed by, “Bathroom. Now! Gonna puke.” Tyler’s hand clamped around Justin’s wrist, nearly overbalancing him. “Okay. Okay. Let’s get you downstairs.” Without answering, Tyler heaved himself up using Justin for leverage.

I DO! 75 Tyler staggered down the stairs, kept upright only by the effective teamwork of Justin and the wrought iron railing. Reaching the bathroom, he barely had time to kneel in front of the toilet before the contents of his stomach put in a reappearance. Justin looked away, hovering half in and half out of the bathroom, not sure whether to stay or give the guy his privacy. It was over pretty quickly, though. He watched Tyler feel around for the handle, missing it the first three times. The harsh flush echoed through the quiet apartment. “Help me up,” Tyler called, waving his hand around, fingers grasping at empty air. Justin helped Tyler to his feet. “Here’s your toothbrush man. I hope you don’t mind I used it.” Several expressions chased each other across Tyler’s face— disgust, anger, and finally resignation. He held out the brush and Justin applied toothpaste to it—lots. Tyler re-enacted Justin’s earlier hunt through the miracles of modern medicine, pulling down bottles and squinting at them. Leaning heavily on the sink he directed Justin: “Can’t see. Find me Anaprox. And Dramamine.” “Dude, I thought Anaprox was for menstrual cramps. You got your period?” Tyler glared at him. “Sorry. Two of each?” Tyler nodded, grimacing at the movement, and held out the hand not clutching the counter. “Only painkiller I can tolerate. I don’t do well with drugs. I have these weird and super-fast reactions.” “So you get a prescription, take a couple, have a bad reaction, and stick the bottle back in the cabinet, right?” “Something like that.” Tyler swallowed the pills Justin spilled into his palm, chasing them with the glass of tap water Justin handed him. Tyler swallowed and replaced the glass by the sink. He faced back toward the toilet. Justin lingered just outside the bathroom door while Tyler used the bathroom for its original purpose. “Should I take off now, dude?”

76 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT “Hang on a minute. I have something for you.” “Something for me? What do you mean?” “Help me to the couch. I can barely see through this goddamn fog.” Justin guided him over to the sofa. “Hand me my jacket, will you? The brown leather one on the hook there by the door. Can you sit down with me here for a minute? I want to ask you something.” Justin recalled he had a health-related question or two of his own to ask. He fetched the jacket and sat on the couch next to his host. “Thanks.” Taking the jacket, Tyler groped around in the pockets searching for something by touch. “Just getting you your money, kid. You earned it.” “My money?” Justin scratched one ear. “Hey! I told you last night I wasn’t a hooker.” “Yeah, right. You were hanging out on the street corner with all the other whacked-out professors.” Justin rolled his eyes, rooting around his back pockets for his wallet to show Tyler some identification, wondering why he cared what the guy thought. Sure he’d been a great lay and all, but still— “Oh, shit. My wallet’s gone. Shit. Shit. Fuck!” Justin buried his face in his hands. He had no idea who’d slipped him the drugs or what had happened to his wallet. He clearly recalled a night of incredible, if somewhat languid sex, though. He felt a warm hand on his wrist followed by something cold. He heard the click of metal on metal. He pulled his hands away from his eyes in time to see Tyler snapping the other shiny chrome handcuff around his wrist, the first half clipped snugly to his own. Cold fear gripped him. “Hey, dude. I’m not into the kinky stuff. If you wanna—” “You’re under arrest,” Tyler cut in. “For drugging an officer of the law. You have the right to remain silent.” Justin listened numbly to his Miranda rights as the stranger beside him felt around for the phone.

I DO! 77 Squinting at the receiver, the cop pressed a speed dial button. “Captain Palomino, please. Detective Cage calling.” ™™™ The huge, imposing Captain Palomino arrived looking exceptionally not amused. Tyler had insisted Palomino and only Palomino come to the condo and help him arrest the man who drugged him. Between the time Tyler called and Palomino’s arrival some twenty minutes later, Tyler re-cuffed Justin to the stairway railing and felt his way upstairs. He reappeared in some raggedy old sweats, wearing his gold Detective shield on a black cord around his neck. Grimly, with a minimum of words, Tyler explained to Palomino that Justin was a prostitute who had drugged him. “Jesus, Tyler. You must have been really stoned to bring him back to your apartment instead of the station when you arrested him.” “Actually….” Tyler tugged at the collar of his baggy sweatshirt. “He drugged me after we got here.” “Didn’t you know he was a prostitute?” Palomino peered at Tyler. “It’s an offense to pick up—” “Hey, look! I am not a prostitute!” Justin cut in. “I’m a professor at Jefferson University. I just look young is all. I teach modern languages. And coach basketball.” The two tall detectives gazed down at him. Justin stood as tall as his five-foot six-inches—and the handcuffs—would allow. “Basketball,” Palomino scoffed. “Yeah, right.” “I—” “Does he have any ID?” Palomino addressed his question to Tyler. “Claims to have lost his wallet,” Tyler said. “Just like he claims to be a professor. A Ph.D. even.” Palomino raked his gaze over Justin. Awkwardly aware of his wrinkled shirt and pants, Justin fidgeted. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window glass. His shoulderlength curls had dried into a tangled ball of blond frizz after his

78 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT shower. Not very imposing, nor professorial-looking, he realized. “He was wearing this leather jacket,” Tyler offered, holding the still damp garment pinched between fingers and thumb as if it were dirty. “What’s this?” Palomino extracted the used underwear from the pocket. Justin tried burying his face in his hand again, succeeding only in yanking painfully at the handcuffs. “And would our professor have a name?” Palomino asked, finally directing a question at Justin. Fuck you, he wanted to respond. “Justin Kidman,” he said instead. ™™™ Captain Palomino dragged both men to the hospital, insisting on blood tests to determine what drug Justin somehow slipped Tyler, and the extent of the damage to Tyler’s vision. “There was, um…. You see. We—” The intake clerk cut Tyler off mid-stutter and signed them both up for AIDS tests too. Despite Tyler and Palomino’s officer of the law status they languished in the ER admitting area, waiting for a lull in the bloodier and more critical cases. Justin sat sandwiched between the large Tyler and massive Palomino, hands conspicuously cuffed in front of him. He slumped in his seat and focused on the gray machine coffee they’d graced him with when they’d bought their own. He raised the cooling paper cup to his lips. “Dr. Kidman!” A pretty young woman hurried across the waiting room to stand in front of Justin. He froze, cup halfway to his mouth, the handcuffs clearly visible like tacky chrome bracelets. He slowly lowered his manacled hands to his lap. “Amber,” he acknowledged. His joy at seeing a friendly face outweighed his mortification—just barely. “I lost my wallet. Can you tell these nice officers who I am?”

I DO! 79 “Of course I can. What happened? Why are you here? Why is he in custody?” She addressed her final question to Palomino, whose well-tailored suit and cashmere coat screamed authority. “Who are you?” Palomino demanded. “Can you vouch for him?” “I’m Amber Silver. I’m a doctoral candidate at Jefferson University.” She waded through her large shoulder bag, eventually locating identification. “Justin must have drunk some of the punch at last night’s dance. Everyone’s talking about it. Some crazy spiked it with that new designer drug called ‘halo.’” “There were drugs in the punch at a school dance?” Palomino asked. “Don’t they have staff at these things? Who was in charge?” Amber fixed her gaze on Palomino. “I’m not answering any more questions until you identify yourselves. I want to see some ID now!” Even though she stood before his chair, she could barely peer down her nose at the big captain. Somehow she managed though. “My dad’s a lawyer. Darin Silver of Silver and Goldberg.” “I’m Captain Palomino with the Vice Squad and this is Detective Tyler Cage.” She seized Palomino’s badge and business card and examined them closely. A few seconds later Tyler located his badge where it hung around his neck and offered it in Amber’s general direction. “Feel free to call the precinct to check. We’re not going anywhere soon.” Justin sunk further into his seat. “Fine. I’ll believe you are who you say you are. Dr. Kidman was head chaperone at the party. Now tell me why he’s sitting in a hospital waiting room in handcuffs.” A crowd of hospital staff and other waiting-room occupants began to take interest, some openly staring, some surreptitiously watching the display. “He really is a professor? He had no ID so we couldn’t check.” Tyler hooked his thumb in Kidman’s direction. “Isn’t he kind of young to be a professor? Looks more like a student.”

80 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT “Dr. Kidman isn’t even thirty yet. That makes him the youngest professor in Jefferson’s history. His doctoral thesis on the Language of Cyber-Culture set the academic community on its ear last year.” She glanced with pride at Justin. “It’s an honor to be associated with him.” Tyler gawked at Justin, although a little to the left of his actual position. Palomino rolled his eyes. Justin flushed. “Yeah, that’s me all right,” Justin said. “Dr. Rent Boy, Ph.D.” Ignoring this last comment and the indignant Amber, Palomino focused on Tyler. “But you weren’t at the party, were you, Tyler? How did the drugs get into your system?” A lengthy pause ensued. After several long moments Justin’s head snapped up from his ongoing examination of his handcuffs: “Transference, topical contact—trans-dermal or oral ingestion.” “And what, exactly, does that mean?” Palomino asked. With an impatient sigh, Amber translated the geek-speak: “You know, ‘transference’ like via body fluids—sweat, saliva, semen….” Her cheeks glowed red, her gaze traveling from Justin to Tyler and back to Palomino. Palomino groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose and sliding further down in his seat. At that moment, the ER clerk called for Cage and Kidman, directing them to Exam Rooms B and C. TWO WEEKS LATER “Come in. It’s open” Justin called out in response to the soft knock on his office door. Panicking students, knowing his tendency to work late, tended to drop by at all hours. He kept on working until a large shadow fell across his desk. He sat back in his chair and gazed up into the warm brown eyes of his visitor. “Well. Well. Detective… Cage, is it? What brings you to my humble office?” Justin remembered Tyler’s name quite clearly, along with some other interesting personal details, but he hardly felt charitable toward his arresting officer at the moment. He watched Tyler glance around his office.

I DO! 81 He’d just recently moved up from the lower level and was pretty damn proud of his new second floor office with a nice view of the quad. Cage’s own office consisted of a little cubicle in the middle of the frantic Vice Department. Justin had seen it when he’d visited Captain Palomino’s office to discuss his situation. Since a quick check with Jefferson’s student health clinic had revealed several similar cases of involuntary drug ingestion, all charges against Dr. Kidman had been dropped. Still, quite a few parents felt Jefferson U. and Dr. Kidman in his role of Official Chaperone at the party had a lot to answer for. The deluge of angry parents had tapered off after the police department succeeded in rousting the recently fired janitor who had spiked the punch in revenge. The Vice Department, under the supervision of Captain Palomino, had received glowing press for the speedy investigation and subsequent arrest. Detective Tyler Cage had been removed from the case due to “personal involvement.” Justin kept a close eye on the case, volunteering to testify against the perpetrator. The janitor, however, in a bid to reduce his sentence, not only confessed but also agreed to testify against the dealer who sold him the drugs. Within a week, they busted the dealer and sole manufacturer of halo, thereby eliminating it from circulation. Justin hadn’t needed to testify and Palomino’s career had received a nice little boost. Clearing his throat, Tyler shifted from foot to foot. Justin hadn’t invited him to sit down. Books and papers covered every chair and flat surface, anyway. “Yeah. It’s Cage. Um. Tyler. Um.” He trailed off. Justin hid his surprise. Cage seemed an always-in-control kind of guy. After a long uncomfortable pause Tyler continued: “And thanks for calling to see if my eyes were okay. They are, by the way.” He punctuated this statement by staring directly at Justin for a second before returning his gaze to his shoes. “And…” Justin prompted. Tyler needed to accomplish this on his own. “I’m here to apologize. I think maybe I didn’t handle things as well as I could have. Maybe should have.”

82 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT Another long pause. Justin chose not to drag this out. He just wanted the whole awkward scene over with. Even if it meant Tyler leaving. “Look, Detective. You don’t have to do this. I already told Captain Palomino I wasn’t going to sue for false arrest. Or defamation of character. Or public humiliation.” “I know. The Captain told me. I just wanted to apologize, anyway. And return your wallet. Somebody turned it in yesterday. Without cash or credit cards, of course.” Tyler held up the wallet for a moment before placing it on the desk before Justin like an offering. To Justin, Tyler looked like a student asking for an extension on a term paper. He almost expected to hear “but my dog ate it.” The silence stretched out. Tyler removed his ball cap and skimmed his hand through his spiky hair. He plumped the cap a bit, re-creased the brim, and slapped it on again, bill toward the back this time. He gazed out the window. Justin watched Tyler struggle and fidget, different emotions flitting across his face—embarrassment, annoyance, longing. Finally, Justin relented. “You were only doing your job.” “Yeah. I know.” “What?” Justin demanded. “If you don’t think you did anything wrong then why the hell are you here? Why are you begging my forgiveness, dude? Is your apology all just so much bullshit? Why, I should call your—” “I really just wanted to see you again, Justin,” Tyler cut in softly. “I, uh…. I’ve been thinking about you. About that night. A lot.” Justin’s heart flip-flopped. Shifting gears swiftly, he asked, “You want to see me again?” He rose from his chair. “You’ve been thinking about that night?” He advanced around the desk toward Tyler. “A lot?” Cage fell back a step before drawing a deep breath and standing his ground. Justin strode right up into the big cop’s face. “You wanna see me again? Make it up to me?” “Yeah, I do.” Tyler shifted a half step forward. “Good.” Justin spun away back towards his desk. “You can buy me dinner. Now. I’m starving. And somebody stole my

I DO! 83 cash.” He gestured at the wallet lying on his desk. He glanced up at Tyler, trying for a stern expression but ended up grinning instead. Tyler’s head shot up; he looked cautiously hopeful. “Dinner.” He leaned slightly towards Justin in acknowledgement, the ghost of a smile hovering around his mouth. “I can do dinner.” “I’ll just be a second here.” Justin returned to his desk gathering a few papers to finish grading at home. No matter how much he enjoyed the dinner portion of the evening, he had no intention of a repeat performance of the night they met. Cage needed to work for that. Work hard. TWO MORE WEEKS LATER Justin demonstrated great fortitude and patience holding out an entire two weeks; Tyler’s stint on night shift for the first one had helped. The two men had spent almost every night together for the past week, limiting their intimacy to goodnight kisses and a little making out in the car when Tyler dropped Justin off at his apartment. Once Justin had weakened and invited Tyler up, but something had changed Tyler’s mind once inside. “I, uh…. Gotta go, Justin. I just remembered I’ve got an early briefing tomorrow.” Tyler had kissed him fleetingly and left. Justin picked his way across the living room and sat heavily on his thrift store couch, books and papers bouncing on the seat next to him. His boots banged noisily on the coffee table, dirty plates rattling with the motion. He wondered why Tyler had run off like that. They could have been having hot sex right this moment. He kicked at an old coffee cup with one foot but it was cemented to the table with something sticky. By the time Friday night and their eighth date in two weeks rolled round, Justin no longer remembered why he’d decided to wait. Something about respect, maybe. Allowing some distance between their disastrous first time, perhaps. All he knew at this point was that if he didn’t get together with Tyler soon, he’d

84 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT explode! Or maybe get fired. The Dean had had to call his name three times to pull him away from his fantasies and back to the curriculum discussions they were having. Who cared about Communications 101 when hot cop action one-on-one was burning up Justin’s brain? So they’d waited long enough; tonight was the night. Besides, Justin rationalized, I’ve had a tough week and don’t feel like another night out. So when Tyler called, Justin suggested they rent a movie and order some pizza instead of going out. “That’s a great idea but, ah, your apartment’s kind of… small?” Justin heard the hesitation in Tyler’s voice even over the phone. He figured “small” really meant “not hospital-clean like my place.” Justin’s linguistic background proved invaluable for translating Tyler-speak. “Can’t afford a fancy two-story condo like some detectives I know. Student loans, dude.” Justin glanced around his apartment and kind of had to agree with Tyler. Still he had to defend his apartment’s honor; they’d been together a long time now. “While one can apparently buy a Ph.D. off the ‘net fairly cheaply, I got mine the old-fashioned way.” He toyed with the phone while waiting for Tyler to say something tantamount to an apology. Tyler had a knack for reading people even over the phone. “It’s a great old building, though. Lots of ornamental trim and stuff.” “Forgiven, dude. Order something with lots of toppings. Extra cheese.” “That’s okay for you young whippersnappers but to a thirtysomething guy like me extra cheese means extra time in the gym.” “So we’re getting whole wheat crust and bean sprouts?” “Something like that, professor. Just come over. I’ll see you in what? Half-an-hour?” “Make it 45 minutes. I’ll rent us a movie on the way.” Justin hung up the phone, grabbing a quick shower and a close shave. ™™™

I DO! 85 Forty-five minutes later Justin followed the pizza guy up from the lobby. Five minutes after that, he was curled up on Tyler’s sofa, balancing a plate of pizza on one knee, with an icy beer on the coffee table before him. On a coaster. “Don’t worry about the sofa, Justin. It’s leather. It’ll just sponge off.” Which sent Justin’s mind spinning in all kinds of evil directions. Tyler fussed with the DVD player. Justin had picked up two movies, too nervous to settle on just one. He’d rented a comedy and a drama. They’d decided to watch the drama first. It was some Mexican film about two best friends who meet a dying woman and set out on a cross-country road trip with her. “I’ve heard good things about it.” Justin finished the first slice and dove back in for a second. “Pretty good pizza, dude. For healthy shit.” “Yeah? Glad you like it.” Tyler smiled. They shared the rest of the pizza, finding the movie fairly engrossing. After his third beer though, Justin started clowning around, repeating bits of dialogue with a bad Speedy Gonzales accent. “Thought you were all about sensitivity and political correctness, Justin,” Tyler said dryly. “Bite me, Señor.” Of course the movie climaxed with a ménage à trois between the two guys and the woman. Surprisingly, though, the climax of the climax featured the two guys getting together with a little cheerleading from the girl. He found the boy-kissing staggeringly hot and even though the movie ended on a down note, Justin found himself breathing a little heavy afterwards. He wondered if Tyler felt the same way. Tyler didn’t comment. Instead he began tidying up the living room, shoving the pizza box in the recycle bin and rinsing out the empty beer bottles. Something about Tyler’s tidying seemed to proclaim the evening’s end. “You up for the other movie?” Cold sweat prickled the back of Justin’s neck.

86 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT “No. I don’t think so.” Tyler didn’t turn around. “I think I’d like to go to bed actually.” Justin deflated. He’d grown to really like Tyler over the last little while. Perhaps a little more than like. “Okay. I’ll get my jacket and be going, I guess.” “Do you really want to go? I thought maybe we could….” Tyler strode into Justin’s space, looming over him, taking full advantage of his extra few inches. He placed one hand on the wall behind Justin’s head and the other on Justin’s shoulder. Delighted with the turn of events, Justin curved one hand around the back of Tyler’s head, drawing him down for a kiss. At first their kisses were gentle and sweet but rapidly entered the heady realm of devastating. Tyler attacked like a python, wrapping himself around Justin and practically devouring him. Justin responded in kind, sucking on Tyler’s tongue, chasing it out and following it into the other man’s mouth, taking control of the kiss, taking control of everything. He grasped Tyler by the upper arms, pausing to admire the curve of his well-developed muscles, yanking him in tight and grinding against him. Justin licked, bit, and nuzzled his way down Tyler’s neck, liking the scrape of stubble against his lips, loving the taste of salt on his tongue. “Upstairs?” Tyler gasped. Justin pulled back and nodded, words failing him now although they never did in the lecture hall. “Okay, good.” Tyler stepped back, running a hand across his hair. He drew in a deep breath, visibly trying to gather the threads of his slipping control. He glanced around the kitchen, gesturing at the two greasy pizza plates sitting on the otherwise spotless counter. “I’ll just—” “You’ll just come with me is what you’ll just. The dishes will still be dirty later. I promise.” Justin fisted Tyler’s tight black tshirt, using it as a very short leash to drag Tyler toward the staircase. Tyler groaned and followed without a struggle. Justin wrestled Tyler up the stairs. From the corner of his eye he noted the metal-on-metal scuffmarks on the wrought iron banister from the day Tyler had handcuffed him there.

I DO! 87 Good, thought Justin. Serves him right. His inner voice moved quickly from vindictive to kinky with thoughts of other fun things they could do with handcuffs… but not tonight. Once in the bedroom Justin stepped up to Tyler, kissing him soundly, licking into his mouth. He ground up against him, rubbing his groin against Tyler’s thigh. “Dude, you are just too damn tall!” Justin shoved him hard. Tyler hit the bed, bouncing a little. Justin leapt on him, landing with a knee on either side of Tyler’s slim hips. Tyler recovered fast and had a lot more physical training than Justin. In one smooth move, he swept Justin onto his back and rolled on top of him. He’d learned that maneuver at the police academy. The part where he ground their erections together, he improvised on the spot. They kissed a long time, until Tyler began stripping Justin, slowly, piece by piece, savoring each newly revealed bit of skin. Justin returned the favor with much less patience, practically ripping Tyler’s jeans and t-shirt off. Tyler kissed and nibbled and caressed Justin everywhere, neck, shoulders, nipples, belly. Justin shook and writhed at the attention. “C’mon, c’mon, Tyler. Will you fuckin’ hurry up already?” “What’s your hurry? We’ve got all night, don’t we?” “Yeah, we do. So we do it now, fast, and take our time later. I’m frantic, here, dude. I need to take the edge off.” Tyler rested his head on one hand, gazing fondly at Justin. “Ah, youth. Always in a rush.” He stroked a hand over Justin’s blond curls, ruffling his hair like a fond uncle. “Yeah. Well, fuck that, old man. I could be dead by the time I’m your ripe old age of what? Thirty-four.” Justin shoved his way back on top again and quickened the pace. He kissed and bit his way down Tyler’s washboard abs, bypassing his erection and moving downwards to nip and lick his thighs before moving back up to his straining cock. Justin knew he had a pretty mouth. He’d heard early and often that his mouth was “just made for cocksucking.” He grabbed a pillow and mashed it behind Tyler’s head.

88 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT “Jesus, but that’s hot,” Tyler gasped. Justin locked his lips around the head, swiping and teasing the slit with his tongue, pulling off and sucking him in shallowly a few times, earning himself a “Jesus, fuck!” when he finally slid it all the way to the back of his throat. He repeated this well-received maneuver several times before returning to the teasing and sucking again. He loved the warm taste of Tyler’s cock and the moans and gasps he drew from him. Tyler’s soft brown eyes grew dazed and unfocused. He gasped and twitched with every pull. Justin slid his fingers down, rolling and cupping Tyler’s heavy balls before moving further back. He gathered some saliva from around his lips, and eased one finger inside Tyler’s hot, tight hole. When he felt the other man opening to him, he slid in a second. Tyler spread his legs in surrender and Justin’s heart stuttered. Gently, Justin backed off a bit and sat on his heels waiting for Tyler to surface. “What, Justin? Something wrong?” “Condoms?” Tyler wrapped his long fingers around Justin’s wrist. “But we both had clean AIDS tests only a few weeks ago. Oh, you’ve been with someone else.” Justin had never seen an erection deflate so fast. “Oh, no. God, no, dude. Tyler. It’s just that…. I— I know you by now. You like things tidy.” Tyler gusted out a long sigh. “So, there’s no one else, then?” “How could there be? Between grading exams and spending every spare minute with you, I just don’t have the time to get with anyone else.” Tyler looked away. He yanked a corner of the comforter over his nakedness. “Besides, Ty.” Justin kissed him soundly. “I don’t want to be with anyone but you.” Tyler laced his hands through Justin’s curls and kissed him like he really meant it. “And so? Condoms?” Justin asked again, more than a little breathless.

I DO! 89 “Brand new box. Bathroom. Downstairs.” “Dude, downstairs is so far away,” Justin whined, but he crawled off Tyler reluctantly and wandered, naked, down to the bathroom, taking advantage of the locale to pee and wash his hands thoroughly. He peeked inside the brown paper bag, finding condoms and lube, too. He pulled out the one other item in the bag and smiled. Tyler had definitely set this up like a sting. Once a cop…. He laid the unopened toothbrush on the counter, grabbed the bag and a towel, and headed back up to the bedroom. He reached the top of the stairs to find Tyler slowly jacking his dick. Justin’s erection twitched against his belly but he smacked Tyler’s hands away. “Hey, hands off! That’s my job.” Finished with foreplay, Justin refused to wait a second longer. He shimmied down the bed and knelt between Tyler’s legs, smoothing the condom on his achingly hard dick, spreading the lube around generously. He grabbed Tyler’s muscular legs and pressed them against his chest, at the same time pressing his cock into Tyler’s body. Despite some initial resistance, Justin fucked his way in with a series of short hurried thrusts. Once deeply seated, Justin paused, admiring the way they connected, trying not to come just from that. “You okay, dude? Ty?” “Yeah. I’m good. Will you just get on with it? Please?” Justin figured direct orders were almost like begging and thrust in hard one time, eliciting a very satisfying groan from Tyler. Tyler dug his fingers into Justin’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. Taking this as the sign he’d been waiting for, Justin got down to some serious fucking. Sliding in and out slowly at first, he listened for Tyler’s sighs and muttered curses, gauging his strokes accordingly. Once Tyler began bucking back into his thrusts, Justin picked up speed, allowing pure animal instinct to guide his movements. “God, Tyler. You’re so tight. I’m not going to last.” Tyler huffed out a grunt with every stroke.

90 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT “Now you can jack yourself, man. Come with me. C’mon. I’ve got you.” Tyler obeyed without hesitation, wrapping his hand around his red and swollen cock. Justin watched mesmerized, Tyler’s hand sliding up and down his erection, giving it a little twist at the end of each stoke. “Now, Tyler. Now!” Justin pistoned his hips, slamming into Tyler, their moans and groans competing with the slap of flesh on flesh. “Yeah, man. Give it up. Give it up for me,” he ground out. “Yeah, here it comes. I’m gonna—” Tyler stilled his hand and arched off the bed, shooting thick strings of come across his belly. Justin watched Tyler come apart beneath him, muscles clenching around his thrusting cock. He felt his orgasm curling at the base of his spine building, building, and finally releasing in a heady burst of pleasure. He kept on fucking, filling the condom with pulse after pulse of come. He ceased thrusting and just held on for long minutes, riding out the aftershocks and trying to catch his breath. “God, Ty. That was awesome.” Tyler glowed almost as he had that first night. Justin’s heart swelled with… pride or possibly something else. His arms quivered and threatened to collapse. Justin let himself fall sideways, landing on the bed beside Tyler. He grabbed the towel he’d snagged while in the bathroom, wiping away the spatters from Tyler’s stomach. “That was great,” Tyler breathed. “Been a while since I’ve done that.” Justin raised an eyebrow. “But just two weeks ago you picked up a rent boy and brought him back here to fuck.” Tyler rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, not meeting Justin’s gaze. “It was such a bleak night and there was that thing at the station when I tried to bring you in. I couldn’t leave you back on the streets in your condition. I brought you here so you’d have a warm and safe place to sleep it off out of the rain and away from your pimp. I never meant to fuck you.”

I DO! 91 “You do know I’m not really a prostitute, right?” Justin rolled off the condom and tossed it in the wastebasket. “Professor. Prostitute. It’s a fine line, you know.” Justin laughed. “I guess. Cops too?” “Yeah. We all get paid to deal with dicks every day, right?” Justin chuckled and snuggled down, prepared to settle in for the night. Drowsing a little he noticed Tyler fidgeting, restless. “Something up, Ty? I can go if you need me to.” He hoped he sounded more cavalier than he felt. In truth he wanted to spend not just the night but also the entire weekend. In the trunk of his car, he’d stowed two days’ change of clothing and a briefcase of papers he needed to grade before Monday. Just in case Tyler asked him to stay, of course. “Go? No, but if you could just stand up for a moment I’d like to get this bedspread into the wash. If the jiz dries, it’ll be a bitch to get out.” “Dude, you are so anal.” “You should know,” Tyler replied. Justin chuckled and got up off the bed. He stood by, watching Tyler strip off the bedspread and haul it down the stairs. Feeling chilly, Justin crawled under the sheets, dozing a bit when he remembered the third item in the paper bag from the drug store. He dragged himself out of bed, finding the toothbrush where he’d left it by the bathroom sink. He carried it to Tyler in the kitchen. Tyler hummed something unrecognizable while he pre-soaked the bedspread in the sink. “Uh, Ty?” Justin began shifting the package from hand to hand. “Did you buy…? I mean, is it all right if…?” He held up the brand new toothbrush by way of explanation. “Oh, yeah. I bought that for you. You know, in case you wanted to spend the night or anything.” Tyler pinked up a bit, brushing hard at a sudsy spot on the bedspread. “Yeah, Ty. I’d like that. I’d really, really like that.” He kissed Tyler gently and carried his gift back to the bathroom.

92 Lust in Translation ~ GRANT “There’s floss in the medicine cabinet,” Tyler called after him. Justin smiled. He’d never felt more like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and he didn’t really mind, since he, too, had found his Prince Charming.

Making Memory LISABET SARAI

When the tire blew, I was not paying attention. I was thinking about Dad. The explosive report shocked me out of my reverie. It took all my strength to wrestle the Honda to a soft landing on the shoulder, just grazing the concrete post of the safety fence. I was cursing to myself as I swung out of the car to survey the damage. The rubber was in shreds, as if a bomb had detonated inside the tube. An ugly scratch marred the fender, but otherwise the car itself seemed intact. I flipped open my phone to call Triple A, but of course there was no signal. It served me right, taking the scenic back roads home instead of the freeway. But I had wanted the peace of the country and the sea. I had needed time to think. I had a spare, one of those half-sized, emergency-only deals, but I didn’t want to risk ruining my linen pantsuit. I liked to dress up when I visited Dad, though he probably didn’t notice. At this point, he did not even know who I was, until I reminded him. We would sit in the sunny courtyard of the nursing home where I had settled him after mom’s death, and I would tell him stories of my childhood. I would invoke the camping trips, the science projects, the tree house that he built for me when I was nine. He would listen, smiling vaguely, his face occasionally lighting up when he grasped some fragment of memory and held onto it for a few moments. Then his eyes would cloud again, and he would look puzzled. “What did you say your name was?” “Dad, it’s me. Nicole. Nicki.” “Oh, right, of course. Nicki. Thanks for coming to see me, Nicki.” My chest ached, recalling his formerly fine mind, lamenting its current splintered state. I could only imagine his own experience, the terror and disorientation he must feel at his own incapacity. Physically, he was in good health for his age. But his memory was as shredded and scattered as my tire. Despite the demands of my career, I tried to visit him every week or two. When I was not with him, I dreamed of him, horrible ravaging dreams in which I was a girl again, while he

96 Making Memory ~ SARAI was a vacant-eyed creature whose shambling footsteps echoed through the house behind me. I had taken to working late into the night, trying to exhaust my body and silence my mind. This last visit had been the worst ever. I was unutterably weary, my limbs and my heart heavy. The blowout felt like the proverbial final straw. I looked up and down the two-lane road, thinking to hitch a ride to the next town. The cracked tarmac was empty. All I could hear was bird-song and the breeze, whispering of the evening to come. With a sigh, I retrieved my overnight bag from the trunk, locked the car, and began walking in the direction I had been headed. I hoped that I would come upon civilization before my flimsy Italian heels disintegrated. Late afternoon sun slanted across the fields lining the road. The crisped remains of summer tangled in the steel safety cables: Queen Anne’s lace curled into brittle fists, shaking themselves at me; milkweed spilling silk into the mild October air; tall grasses heavy with seed. The breeze was fragrant with the sun-baked, browning vegetation. And the sea was not far off; mixed with the field smells, I caught the faint tang of salt and seaweed. The beauty of Indian summer penetrated my distraction, soothed my irritation just a bit, eased the tight knot of unshed tears. A whippoorwill called, prematurely. Ten minutes into my walk, I entered the village of Spruce Point. It was not much of a town: a grocery, a gas station, a store advertising “Antiques,” and a white-spired church, grouped around a miniature green. At six thirty p.m. on an October Sunday, all the commercial establishments were shut tight. I was newly disheartened by the “Closed” sign on “Ray’s Auto Service.” How in the world would I get my car fixed? I had to be back in Boston; I had a critical meeting first thing Monday morning. Behind the gas station, sharing a drive, there was a white clapboard house with green shutters. Bold in my desperation, I knocked on the door. It was answered after a moment by a

I DO! 97 gnarled, skinny figure. His chin bristled with stubble, but his eyes twinkled in his furrowed face as he gave me a warm smile. “Good evening, young lady. Can I help you?” “Are you Ray?” His oil-stained work clothes strongly suggested that he was. “Yes, ma’am. Thirty years experience, at your service.” “I’m sorry to bother you, but I blew out a tire about half a mile up the road. The thing totally burst. I really need to get back to Boston tonight. Can you replace the tire for me? I know that you’re closed for the evening, but it’s an emergency. I’ll be happy to pay you extra.” Ray looked me over. I could imagine what he saw: a slender, athletic woman with short, dark hair, designer suit and chocolate silk blouse, Gucci bag, impractical shoes. City folk. He grinned. “What kind of car?” he asked. “Honda Accord.” “Miss, I’d love to help. But I don’t generally stock tires for little foreign cars. ‘Round here, folks seem to prefer full-size Ford station wagons, or Chevy pickups. I can get you a new tire from Thomaston, but not until tomorrow.” He must have seen the dismay in my face, because he patted my shoulder kindly. “Look, I was just fixing my supper, but if you’d like, I can go out now and tow your vehicle back here to the garage. That way, it’ll be safe, and ready to be worked on as soon as I can get hold of the replacement.” I began to protest that this was unacceptable; I had to get back to Boston. Then I realized that it was futile. I could take a bus, perhaps, if I could get this man to drive me to Portland, but then my car would be stranded. With a sigh of resignation, I nodded. “I’d be very grateful for your help. But please, finish your dinner first.” I suddenly realized that I was ravenous. I had taken lunch with Dad in the nursing home dining room, but although he ate heartily, I had no appetite. “Is there a hotel anywhere around here?” Ray considered the question. “Well, there’s Maggie’s place, the Bellweather Inn, down at the point. She’s closed for the season, but I expect she wouldn’t mind airing out a room for

98 Making Memory ~ SARAI you. I can run you down there before I head over to get your car.” “What about your dinner?” I said, eager to find bed and food, but not wanting to seem impolite. “Just franks and beans,” he said with a grin. “I can heat it up again.” We piled into his tow truck and he headed south through the town. Soon the peaked roofs, shutters and picket fences gave way again to autumn-burnished fields. He turned east onto a dirt road marked with a weathered signboard. Up ahead I saw a building, silhouetted against the fastdarkening sky, flanked by two tall evergreens. “Them’s the spruces that gave our town its name,” Ray commented. We pulled up outside the inn. It was as weathered as the sign, but despite the graying shingles, it gave an overwhelming impression of solidity. Perched right on the rocky point, it had a wraparound porch that overlooked the surf-splashed cliffs on one side, a gently sloping lawn on the other. To the left of the driveway, I saw a well-tended garden, still bright with drooping sunflowers and brilliant purple chard. Lights shone in the ground floor windows, welcoming me. Memories washed over me, suddenly, memories of summer places. The turn of the century resort in rural Connecticut that we had frequented when I was a child, with its Adirondack chairs looking out over the lake, linen-draped dining tables, lumpy mattresses and bathroom down the hall. My dad taught me to swim there, when I was six, while my mom tended to my brother’s earache. The camp near Portland where I spent a harrowing but instructive eighteenth summer as a counselor: bundled in a sweater doing guard duty outside the cabin with the pines looming overhead; sleeping out with my charges on the misty shores of Lake Sebago and listening to voices drifting over the water. The historic National Hotel on Block Island, with its porch facing the harbor, where Michael and I spent a romantic night the June before we were married, never dreaming we would be divorced less than two years down the road.

I DO! 99 I can imagine spending the summer here, I thought. My musings were interrupted by Ray’s gravelly voice. “Maggie? You there? I’ve got an off-season customer for you!” My first impression, when she pushed open the screen door, was grace. She was middle-aged, plain, sandy hair shot with gray pulled into a ponytail. She wore baggy jeans, a plaid shirt and tennis shoes. Still, there was something about the way she moved, light but sure-footed, the way she smiled, illumining her whole face. Some part of me reached out toward her. “Maggie, this young lady broke down on the road into town. She needs a bed for the night, if you can manage it.” “My pleasure,” said Maggie, turning the warmth of her smile full upon me. I could see that all the lines on her face were echoes of that smile. She held out her hand. “I’m Maggie Benson, proprietor of this ramshackle place. It’s a bit rustic, but I am sure that we can make you comfortable.” “Nicole Stewart,” I responded, taking the proffered hand. Her skin was surprisingly soft, given her rugged countenance. “I’m really sorry to intrude, but it looks like I’m stuck here overnight, and the inn seems to be the only candidate for bed and board. Of course, I’ll pay your usual summer rate for your trouble.” “Nonsense! I’m glad to have the company. It can get pretty bleak out here on the Point, once the summer folk have gone.” “I insist...” I began, but Maggie had already turned and was dismissing Ray with a wave and a jest. As his truck rattled back up the rutted drive, she beckoned to me. “Come on in, Nicole. Are you hungry? I was just sitting down to supper. There’s plenty for two.” She led me through the darkened dining room, where tall windows faced the ocean, and into the bright kitchen. Delicious odors assailed my nostrils. My stomach growled, audibly, and we both laughed. “It’s nothing fancy,” she said, gesturing for me to sit at the linoleum table. “Meat loaf and mashed potatoes, with a bit of greens.” “Sounds, and smells, wonderful,” I said, and meant it. We ate, mostly, in silence. I could tell that she was curious, but she

100 Making Memory ~ SARAI was too polite to interrogate me. I felt some need to explain myself. “I was up in Augusta, visiting my father.” Deliberately vague. “I live in Boston. I’m a financial analyst.” “How nice,” she said, sincerely, though I wondered if she had any idea what a financial analyst was. We lapsed back into quiet mastication. Maggie radiated acceptance and comfort. I felt better than I had all day. “Do you live here all by yourself?” I asked after a few minutes. “I do now.” I caught a hint of sadness in her voice. I shouldn’t pry, I thought. “Summers, I have some live-in help, to clean and serve meals. But they usually go back to college come September. I don’t mind being alone, though. The sea’s company, and the gulls. I’m happy to have the time to think, and remember.” A dreamy look crossed her weathered visage. For a moment, her eyes were focused on something I couldn’t see. I had a sudden urge to rise and put my arm around her shoulders, but I resisted, not wanting to intrude on her reverie. The moment passed, and she turned her radiant smile on me once again. “Why don’t you go out in the parlor and relax, while I do the dishes?” “Nonsense,” I told her. “I insist on helping.” “But you’ll spoil your lovely suit.” I removed the jacket and draped it over the wooden-spoked chair. “Do you have an apron?” Maggie produced a classic gingham pinafore from one of the kitchen drawers. “It doesn’t quite match your fashionable outfit,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “It’s perfect,” I replied, tying the sash behind my back and donning a pair of yellow rubber gloves. “I’ll wash; you dry.” We worked well together. No sooner would I deposit a wet plate or bowl in the drain board than she would have it in her hands, energetically applying her towel. Every once in a while, she would anticipate me too closely, and her fingers would brush against mine. Even through my gloves, her hand felt hot. She was flushed, too, the rosy hue of her cheeks extending

I DO! 101 down to the triangle of bare skin that I could see at her open neckline. It must be the steam rising from the sink, I thought. My own cheeks felt as though I had been sitting too close to a fire. We were finished in record time. Maggie put on a kettle. I reclaimed my jacket. “Can I use your telephone?” I asked. “Out in the parlor. Go ahead. I’ll just fix us some tea, and be out in a moment.” I put in a call to my office, leaving a message for my secretary regarding my predicament. Then I looked around. “The parlor,” as Maggie called it, was a cozy room on the other side of the kitchen, also with an ocean view. A huge fieldstone fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by overfilled bookcases. A double-screened door led to the porch. I could hear Maggie singing to herself in the kitchen as I stepped out into the deepening twilight. The eastern sky still glowed with the memory of the day, luminous as the depths of a dark sapphire. A few stars flickered overhead, as if mirroring the lights of fishing boats near the horizon. The salty ocean smell was strong here. Looking down, I saw granite boulders tumbled at the cliff’s foot, exposed by the low tide. They were cloaked in seaweed, fronds swaying as the waves lapped at them. The familiar scent stirred something in me, some restlessness that I could not name. I felt the day’s dread lurking at the edge of my consciousness and pushed it away. A seagull swooped low over the waves, scolding. A chill evening breeze sliced through my linen jacket. I shivered. The screen door squeaked open, and then Maggie was beside me. She gazed at the sky for a long time before she spoke. “Peaceful, isn’t it? You should see it during a storm, though. The breakers climb right up the cliff. The porch gets drenched in salt spray. It’s frightening, then. But it’s still beautiful.” “How long have you lived here?” “A lifetime,” she said with a funny little smile. “My father built this place just after the First World War. I was born right there in the parlor.” She noticed me shivering. “It’s cooling down. Come on inside now, Nicole, where it’s warm.” In fact I

102 Making Memory ~ SARAI could feel heat radiating from her, as we stood shoulder to shoulder, as if the sunshine that fueled her smile burned in her body. I followed her back through the screened doors. She bolted the shutters over them, sealing out the night wind. “Have a seat and pour yourself some tea,” she invited, pointing to an overstuffed sofa facing the fireplace, and the teapot on the table before it. “I’ll just go and get some sweets.” As I began to comply, I noticed that the chimney was covered with photographs. I could not help going over to examine them. Many were of Maggie herself, in earlier days, kneeling in the garden, or swinging a hammer, or standing proudly with a three-foot bass on her fishing line. A sturdy, handsome man joined her in many of the pictures, with dark hair, brilliant eyes, and a grin full of white teeth. Then I found the wedding photo, Maggie graceful in her flowing gown, the man proud, his arm linked in hers. The photo must have been twenty years old, given its condition and their fashions, but the luminous joy in their eyes had not faded one bit. “That’s my Jack,” said Maggie softly. I jumped, not having heard her enter. “Our wedding day, twenty-three years ago. We were married here, you know, right on the porch, with all of the county in attendance.” “You look as though you were very much in love,” I commented, feeling once again as if I was invading her privacy. “Oh, we were. We always were. Up to the very last moment, last year, when Jack’s heart played him false.” I was alarmed to hear a sob lurking in her voice. “Oh, no! How terrible!” This time, I could not help putting an arm around her shoulders. Maggie looked up at me and smiled, though I could see tears brimming in her cornflowerblue eyes. “No, not terrible. He didn’t suffer. He just left me, rather suddenly. That’s the way he would have wanted it, no fuss, no long illness, just a quick kiss and then darkness.” “Here,” she said a little too briskly, pulling away from my grasp. “Have an oatmeal cookie. Homemade. I’m not one to

I DO! 103 brag, but my cookies have won first place at that last three county fairs.” I sipped my tea and took a bite of the cookie. “Delicious,” I commented. I could think of nothing else to say. I wanted to know more about her and her love. I couldn’t help it. As if she sensed my interest, she continued. “We never had any children,” she said. Her eyes still glittered with unshed tears. “Jack knew when he married me that I couldn’t have any. Something to do with a fever I had as a girl. He told me that he loved me so much, he wouldn’t have wanted to share me, anyway.” She turned to look out over the ocean, where the moon was rising. “We had so many good times,” she said, finally. “I have so many memories. They keep me company through the long winters here. Then when the summer people come, I’m too busy to be lonely.” Memories. All my anguish of earlier came flooding back, tenfold. I was suddenly choked with sadness. My father would never recall my mother and their happy years together. My own eyes filled and threatened to spill over. Maggie noticed immediately. “What’s wrong, Nicole?” She moved closer on the couch and gave me a solid hug. I felt both disturbed and comforted. “It’s okay. You can tell me, if you want.” So I did, all of it, my mother’s death, my father’s frayed mind, my divorce, and my busy, empty life. I sobbed it all out, dampening her blouse with my tears, while she patted my shoulder and murmured words of comfort. Finally, the storm was over. I felt exhausted, drained. Maggie seemed to understand. “You look tired,” she said, kind as ever, “and to be honest, I’m feeling a bit thin myself. But I’ve got just the thing to pick us up.” She opened the maple cabinet on the other side of the room, and returned with a bottle and two glasses. With a mischievous grin, she poured us each a generous portion of fine malt whisky. “Jack didn’t drink much,” she said, “but he believed in a shot of good whisky for comfort or for celebration.” She held up the glass of amber liquid and looked me straight in the eye. “I guess

104 Making Memory ~ SARAI this is both comfort and celebration,” she said evenly, and tossed down the liquor in one gulp. I sipped at mine, feeling its smoothness flow down my throat and its warmth trickle into my extremities. The memory of my pain receded rapidly into the distance. I curled my legs up underneath me and relaxed back into the softness of the sofa. I had not felt so well in months. “Tell me more about Jack,” I said. “How did you meet him?” “We were childhood sweethearts. Went to school together. In fact, we were kind of notorious, got into a certain amount of trouble. I’ll never forget the time that we got caught skinnydipping in Hampden Lake.” She grinned at the recollection. “We must’ve been fourteen or fifteen, tops. It was a glorious July day, the air sparked with salt and fresh as wine. Old Miss Robinson came down to the lake with her easel and paint box to capture the beauties of nature. She didn’t quite expect the kind of natural sight that we presented!” “It was all completely innocent. ‘Least, it was then. We were always totally comfortable with each other, naked or clothed.” I had a startling mental picture of how Maggie must have looked at fifteen, lithe and strong, bronzed skin and strawcolored locks shining in the sun. A funny kind of pressure invaded my chest as I listened to her tale. “Later, of course, we became lovers.” A wistful look flitted across her face, then evaporated as she turned her smile on me again. “Jack was all for waiting until we were married, but I brought him around to my way of thinking. Why deprive ourselves, I asked him, when we’re so sure of what we want?” “Valentine’s Day of my eighteenth year, we lay together the first time. It was wonderful. It was always wonderful, with Jack.” I felt suddenly embarrassed at the way Maggie was sharing her personal secrets with me. Embarrassed, and aroused. I had never known the breathless excitement of teenage love, but I could imagine it. I could hear the urgency, the exquisite, irresistible force of it, behind her simple words. The whisky had

I DO! 105 done its work; I felt loose and free, cradled in the rhythms of her voice. “What about you, Nicole? How did you and your husband get together? And, if you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t it work out?” Relaxed as I was, her questions did not reignite my anguish. “I met Michael in grad school, while I was working on my MBA. He had just finished law school, and was studying for the bar. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but between Michael and me there was definitely some kind of chemistry.” I paused, struck momentarily dumb by a vivid recollection of Michael’s black curls, bronzed muscles and lopsided grin. “When he was close to me, I felt as if I was on a roller coaster: my head spinning, my stomach doing flip flops, my breath coming in gasps. We went to bed together on our second date.” My companion’s attention was totally focused on me. I felt a need to explain. “You have to understand, that wasn’t at all typical for me. But the effect Michael had on me – well, it was something special.” Maggie took my hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “I do understand, believe me. There’s something blessed about pure desire.” She pronounced “blessed” as two syllables, as in the Sermon on the Mount. “But do go on, Nicole.” “Our first year together was a glorious romantic dream. We married as soon as I got my degree. I started working for Morgan Stanley right away, but at first that didn’t matter. We found a fine apartment in Back Bay, with a view of the river. We’d spend Sundays sprawled naked on the carpet in front of the fireplace, alternately reading the paper, snacking and making love. We took vacations whenever we could. For our first anniversary, he took me to Provence for two weeks. I still recall the saltiness of the olives and the hardness of his body as we lay in those sagging pension beds.” “So what happened,” asked Maggie softly, stroking my palm with a work-calloused finger. Her touch was making me nervous. Trying to avoid offending her, I extricated my hand and plumped up the pillow behind me. Her expression did not alter.

106 Making Memory ~ SARAI “Work,” I said with a sigh. “Life. He passed the bar and took a position at a firm where they milk every minute from their junior associates. I got a promotion and suddenly was at the office until seven or eight every night. Then my dad was diagnosed, and I began spending whatever free time I had up here, helping my mom. Michael couldn’t bear to come along. He found my father’s condition deeply disturbing.” “It got to the point where we didn’t really spend any time together. Days would go by without our having a serious conversation. Weeks would pass without our making love. He was like a roommate, not a husband, though when I was away, here in Maine, I ached for him.” “Then my mother died. There was the stress of the funeral, finding a home for dad, and so on. Three weeks after she was buried, Michael told me that he wanted a divorce.” The parlor was silent. I could hear the ticking of the banjo clock above the mantle. I could hear Maggie’s breathing. I stole a glance at her from under lowered eyelids. Her eyes were glistening again. Finally, she spoke. “Do you regret marrying him?” she asked. “Do you think it was a mistake?” I remembered Michael’s laugh, his touch that always drove me wild. “No, but I miss him,” I replied, finally admitting it to myself. “I feel so lost.” Maggie leaned across and laid a soothing hand on my brow. Something leaped up inside me. I felt suddenly confused, remembering Michael’s magnetism, stirred by Maggie’s closeness. I must be drunk, I thought. I smiled at my hostess and stretched my arms upward, working the kinks out of my shoulders. “Thank you, Maggie. You’re a talented listener. I feel better for having told someone about all this.” She shrugged. “Jack always teased me about liking to talk a lot more than to listen. But maybe I’m learning something as I get older.” The clock above the fireplace chimed eleven. “Heavens, it’s late. You must be exhausted. Let me show you to your room.” She was all bustling energy again as she led the way.

I DO! 107 It was a wonderful room, on the third floor, with a glorious view of the moon-silvered sea. Iron bedstead with handmade quilt, warm braided rug on the polished maple floorboards, oldfashioned chifforobe with a full-length mirror. I hung up my suit and pulled a T-shirt over my head. Then I turned out the light and sat among the moonbeams, gazing at the swelling ocean. Numb, emptied, blissfully void of pain. I must have slept, for I was wakened by the creaking of my door hinge. I turned from the window to see Maggie standing barefoot in a pool of moonlight. Her hair floated loose around her face. A simple, sleeveless cotton nightgown hung from her shoulders. She looked young, and somewhat confused, as if she was not sure how she got there. She took another step into the room. I rose to meet her. “I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered, as if there were others slumbering in the house. “I kept thinking about Jack. And about you.” Then, as if we had wanted to do this from the beginning, we kissed. Neither of us took the initiative. It was a spontaneous impulse, a reuniting of two halves into the glorious whole. A drawing together, like magnets, or lightning pulled to water. Her lips were sweet on mine, shocking and yet strangely familiar. Her hands traveled under my shirt, seeking my breasts, which she cupped and kneaded like bread dough. Her touch ignited me, recalling hungers that I had tried hard to forget. I brushed my fingertips over her nipples, poking stiff and girlish through her gown. She sighed, a sigh so deep it seemed that her soul was escaping her body. Entwined, we stumbled to the bed, prostrate in our mutual need. She smelled of fresh bread, flowers and the sea. Her skin was velvety soft, warm and welcoming as clean sheets dried in the sun. I shivered when she touched me, all my senses newly wakened as if from a long sleep. She moaned when I touched her, half-animal, half-human, arching upward, offering all to me. I will not recite the litanies of our lust, her tongue, my fingers, our breasts pressed together, hearts beating in synchrony.

108 Making Memory ~ SARAI She must have been as much a virgin in the art of pleasing a woman as I was. I was surprised by her knowledge and her daring. “We loved to experiment, Jack and me,” she whispered. “There wasn’t anything that I wouldn’t let Jack do.” From Maggie, I learned again the language of the body that I had pretended was gibberish after Michael left me. I learned again to give and receive, to be at once subject and object, to relinquish false modesty and scream with the joy of release. Later, we lay together in the waning moonlight, my head on her shoulder, while she stroked my cropped hair back from my brow and told me more stories of her love. “Jack always said that memories are fine things, but that the making of memories was the only thing that matters.” Our woman-scent hung in the air around us, and I felt again that lovely stirring in my sex. “Well, then, my darling Maggie, shall we make some memories?” ™™™ I slept soundly and late, blessedly without dreams. I woke alone, in a bed full of her essence. When I came downstairs, I discovered that she had cooked us a fine breakfast, hotcakes drenched with butter and local bacon, with black coffee hot and sweet as her kisses. We were shy with each other, and spoke little as we ate, almost as silent as at supper the night before. Whenever our eyes met, though, we found ourselves wearing silly grins. Clearing the table, our hands touched, and we burst into giddy laughter. I was drying the dishes when Ray arrived with my car in tow, tire replaced, ready to go. I found that I was reluctant to leave this place of autumn still recalling summer. I wanted to stay there and savor her wisdom and her kisses. But she shooed me away, telling me, quite correctly, that my life was elsewhere. “Still, next time you’re up this way, Nicole, you’re more than welcome to drop by.” She gave me a hug, and once more I felt her heart beating against mine.

I DO! 109 As I headed down the country lane toward the freeway, thinking of Maggie’s smile, I resolved to live without regret. And to remind myself often that memories are no more than lovely shadows cast by life’s brilliance.

Swansong SHARON MARIA BIDWELL

He broke the neck of the first swan the day after her funeral. By the following weekend, he had destroyed them all. ™™™ The younger of the two men stopped to linger in front of the large sepia print. Richard didn’t need to look at it; the poster was forever entrenched and vibrant in his mind. “Who is she?” Neil asked, his voice low, quiet, subdued, speaking almost as though they were in a church, or library. A mausoleum more like, although Richard hated where that thought led. He breathed in, and for the first time realised how stale and stuffy the house smelt. It made him think of little old ladies soaked in lavender, cats curled up on their laps amidst skeins of brightly-coloured knitting, jumpers made up and given to sons with set grimaces they hoped would be mistaken for smiles. He didn’t know where the vision came from. His Gloria had never been like that. Neither was his mother. Maybe the image was a memory of his grandmother, but he couldn’t remember. He pressed two fingers against the spot of tension that formed just between his eyes. Neil stood patiently awaiting his reply. Neil shouldn’t have to be so patient with him. The thought increased his irritation, but found no outlet. He had no reason to be irritated with Neil, or with Gloria. That only left one candidate, and he detested people who wallowed in selfrecrimination. He hated people who wallowed in self-pity even more. “It’s Gloria Swanson. The real one. I mean, the American actress.” His statement seemed to imply that his Gloria hadn’t been real. She might be gone, but he didn’t want to forget her. She deserved better than that. The other Gloria Swanson’s career went into decline with the advent of “talkies.” She had died in 1983. His Gloria had died more recently. Neil turned back to regard the poster once more. His lips stretched a little as though he felt the temptation to smile and was trying not to do so. “I think she had a good sense of humour, your Gloria.” “Do you?” The statement confounded Richard for a moment. Then he remembered the times Gloria had made him laugh. Neil was right even though he’d never met her. How

114 Swansong ~ BIDWELL strange that Neil should be so insightful. It made the years spent with her easier to bear, the fact that he’d married a good woman. “I suppose she did, at that.” Neil moved through the room. His presence alternately felt intrusive and comforting. Anger rushed up through Richard now, pushing back the sorrow. The emotion made him feel better, but it was a fleeting moment only. He didn’t seem able to hold on to his emotions for long these days. He often existed in a state of numbness. He didn’t know why Neil put up with him. The other man stopped walking. He stood in front of a pile of black garbage bags. He gave Richard a questioning look. “Her...clothes,” Richard whispered. In the stillness of the house, he had no need to speak louder for Neil to hear. “You’re finally getting rid of them, then?” “I’m dropping them into a charity shop next week. You said...” Neil shot him a glance that made him fall silent. That look said, “I shouldn’t have had to say, should I? And you shouldn’t get rid of these things because of anything I say. You should do it for your own sake.” He waited, breath bated, only letting it ease out of his mouth when Neil’s expression relaxed. “Everything else?” Neil asked. “I’ve got rid of it all, except those things I want to keep. There are things going to her sister. Some I’ve already had taken away. This,” he nodded towards the heap in the corner, “is the last.” “You changed the bedding like I said?” He couldn’t breathe. Richard imagined lying in a silk-lined coffin, straining to get at the air through six feet of earth. Closing his eyes brought no relief, just darkness. His eyes ached suddenly with the force of unshed tears. This felt like grief and yet, he’d shed his tears for Gloria. “Richard?” He couldn’t be sure if he heard Neil say his name first, or felt the soft touch of fingers against his face, or did they arrive together? It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did; he sought distraction. He opened his eyes and blinked, surprised to find

I DO! 115 them moist. He lifted a hand to wipe those tears away, but Neil caught hold of his wrist. Prevention. Richard looked around, gave a soft laugh. “I thought I’d cried all I needed to for her.” Neil’s soft green eyes looked at him the way they always did, seeing far too much. “These tears aren’t for her. You are allowed to cry for yourself.” The anger rushed in, and Richard pulled back. He had to, or he was going to shove Neil away. He was the bigger of the two. He could quite easily hurt Neil. Blind faith that he wouldn’t gave Neil courage in the face of his anger, but Richard wanted to tell Neil not to believe in him. Sometimes, Richard did want to hit him. He’d wanted to hit him that night when Neil first shoved his tongue into his mouth. Gloria had been dead three months then, and people kept telling him that he needed to get out of the house. The party given by a mutual friend had been in full swing when Neil dragged Richard into the back garden, both of them oblivious to the cold. In the heat of that kiss, Richard hardly felt the bitter wind at all. He could scarcely remember agreeing to leave, to follow Neil back to his house. He had put all thoughts of violence aside until later that night. Then later, lying there in the dark... Now, he could barely remember how it had felt. Only Neil slumbering beside him had told Richard it was real, no dream. All he could remember six months down the line was the tearing of the condom packet, skimming it over his cock, and the barest recollection of burrowing in somewhere tight and hot. It didn’t seem fair that the memory of his first time penetrating another man was such a blur. “Do you want me to leave?” Neil’s question brought him back to himself. “No,” Richard said, amazed to find that he meant it. “Good. Because you’re not getting rid of me so easily.” He couldn’t help it. The remark brought a smile to his lips. That much was true. They’d moved on from condoms to the point of no return: mutual trust. “I don’t deserve you,” Richard said.

116 Swansong ~ BIDWELL The other man looked a little awkward in reply. He shrugged. “Hey. If I’ve stuck around through all this, all this time, at least you know what I feel is real.” Richard wanted to ask why. Why? Why do you love me? Why would you, after all the crap I’ve put you through? He didn’t ask. Neil wouldn’t answer him. Not now. Not yet. Not this way. Answers to questions like that lay in the future and besides, Richard already knew. Far from being a Narcissus, still not many people felt that little of themselves. Neil loved him for all the good qualities that Gloria had told Richard he possessed. As he had said, a good woman was his Gloria. A good woman... “So, did you change the bedding?” Neil asked again. Richard laughed. “I did more than that. I changed the bloody bed.” Neil’s eyes flashed in surprise. Then he smiled. They stared at each other, grinning. ™™™ For a long time he’d thought of moving, but the house had been in his family for generations. On the way to the bedroom, they passed the glass cabinet in the hall. Even as he became aware of Neil’s pace slowing at his back, Richard winced. How could he be so stupid? He shouldn’t have brought his lover here prior to getting rid of it. He should have at least cleaned out its contents. He stopped, lingering on the stairs, and then looked back. Neil’s gaze settled on the destruction lining the shelves. Like the poster, Richard didn’t need to see. “It was an accident,” he said lamely. Neil looked up at him, his gaze once more burning through layers of skin, into flesh, into Richard’s soul. “Liar. You did this on purpose.” What could he say? It became his turn to shrug. He tried to keep the defensive tone out of his voice, but he couldn’t. “I hated them. She loved them. She thought it a fine joke.” He tried to stop then, but he couldn’t. The dam opened and the words flowed. He could no more stop the confession than deny the desire to fuck Neil. “I loved Gloria, I truly did, but this

I DO! 117 one little thing about her irritated me all to hell. Sometimes...” He fought the urge to grind his teeth, and settled for looking away from Neil to stare at the wall. “Sometimes I even wondered if she married me just for the name. Swanson. She married me and that made her Gloria Swanson. Everywhere we went, she saw a swan, and we would have to bring it home. Crystal ones, porcelain, wooden...” He stopped, drowning in the deluge of words that coaxed the sick feeling out of him as though it spewed out on a river of bile. He could almost believe that if he looked down the front of his shirt, he would see a spray of vomit. Neil drew closer, but Richard turned his head to look over his shoulder, staring into the cabinet now. “I can’t remember what made me break the first one, but I snapped its neck, and it felt...so good.” Richard looked down at his hands — his big hands — puzzled. “I don’t understand why it should feel so good.” Neil stepped in front of him. “Did it occur to you it wasn’t the act of breaking the swans that felt good, but that with each one maybe you were slowly severing a connection?” Richard chuckled. He often laughed around Neil these days, and it always felt so odd, though liberating. “Don’t analyse me. I’ve done too much of that myself.” He looked up into Neil’s eyes, and couldn’t help wondering what Neil saw when he looked into his contrasting brown gaze. Gloria had always told him his eyes were what won her heart. “Many gay men marry. Particularly...” Neil stopped talking. “Twenty years ago,” Richard finished for him. He wasn’t old. He was in his early forties. Neil was nine years younger, yet, often, he seemed the more mature of the two. Richard turned, walking up the stairs, moving into the bedroom, and Neil followed. He opened the window and the still warm September wind blew into the room. Richard breathed in. That was better. He didn’t need to look at Neil to see the approval in his eyes, but he did so anyway. He had left the bed turned down. It had taken months of patient persuading on Neil’s part to get Richard to bring his lover back to this house. A great deal of patient persuading had gone into Richard’s first experience of

118 Swansong ~ BIDWELL being penetrated, of making love face to face, of putting his dick in another guy’s mouth. They still had a barrier to breach. Richard had brought Neil home with the sole intention of sucking him off. ™™™ Neil propped himself up on pillows. He sat on a couple, and plumped the rest, spreading them around him for comfort. Richard had wondered why Neil wanted so many pillows. Now he knew. Neither of them were centerfolds, but Neil often said Richard could give Harrison Ford a run for his money. Neil told him he was magnificent in his nakedness. Such remarks had always made Richard shake his head...up until now. Neil...Neil was lean though lightly muscled, somehow soft despite the lack of fat, his stomach, sides and hips so smooth. That luscious body lay in presentation; the pillows lifted his hips, jutting his cock and balls forward for Richard’s attention. Richard could choose where to start. Mindful of his weight, he leaned over. He started with a kiss, drinking in the taste of another man’s tongue hungrily feasting as assertively as Richard did. It took Richard awhile to work down to Neil’s nipples, and even longer to work his way down the long line of stomach to that straining cock. Beneath him, Neil shivered. The reaction warmed Richard’s heart and other things. When Neil squirmed, Richard held him still. A hiss slithered out from Neil’s lips. He gasped. “You’ve never...” “Been so aggressive?” “I was going to say enthusiastic, but yeah, that will do.” Neil didn’t sound displeased. His chest heaved. He actually whimpered when Richard’s hand enclosed his cock. The two men stared at each other, in something Richard could only describe as shock. Unconsciously, he licked his lips, only realising he did when Neil’s gaze flicked down to the movement. He swallowed and everything slid into place. “It’s okay,” he told Neil. “I want this.” As he tightened his grip, Neil let his head fall back, a ragged breath escaping his lips. “Good,” he said, “because I think I’d jump off the roof if you stopped now.”

I DO! 119 Richard heard the words as a backdrop to his movements. He was already dipping his head. Prudence told him to lick first, get used to the idea. Ignoring what his commonsense told him, he went down, taking the soft glans into his mouth, taking it too deep and gagging, coming back up for air. A hand on the back of his head advised caution and took over, guided him. He suckled and licked, bobbed his head, going on instinct, on what he knew felt good, repeating an action when it wrung a sound from his lover’s mouth. Richard drew back to kiss the salty tip, and couldn’t help wondering if what he tasted was his lover’s release mingled with his tears too long held in check. ™™™ “I woke and you weren’t there.” Neil’s voice whispered through the darkness, but like the soft breeze that had finally wound its way through the house, the sound of the man’s voice no longer contained the quality of a whisper spoken in a funeral home, but that of a lover’s sigh. Richard, standing naked before the sepia poster of the Hollywood actress, almost raised a hand to touch the smile that surprised him by appearing so readily on his lips. Instead, he allowed his fingers to alter course. He took hold of the bottom edge of the poster, and tugged it, the sticky tack holding it to the wall tearing the wallpaper as the poster came down. “Whoops,” he said, looking back at Neil with a grin. He folded the poster up, damaging it, screwing it up in his hefty hands. “Did she know?” Neil asked, surprising him yet again. “She knew.” Richard didn’t need Neil to explain what he was asking. He thought back to that last day in the hospital, when she’d been so weak, so frail, not like his vibrant Gloria at all. She’d reached up to touch his cheek, looked into his eyes, and drew him down to kiss his lips. She told him what to do...after, and in that moment he’d told her he loved her, and knew it to be true. She wasn’t the love of his life, she could never have been that, but he loved her well enough. A short time later she died, quietly, when it seemed to him that her death should have made more of a sound, some lingering

120 Swansong ~ BIDWELL protest. That was it, done, all the glory in his life gone until now. “What did she tell you to do?” He hadn’t realised he’d said all that aloud until Neil spoke up. “She thanked me for loving her so well all those years. Then she told me to do whatever it was I wanted to do. To love whosoever I wanted to love.” “She wouldn’t have been happy about the way you’ve been living these last few months.” “No. She wouldn’t.” “You’ve nothing to feel guilty about.” “I know.” Richard stared at the torn wallpaper. The rip felt significant, portentous. “So, what are you going to do?” Richard standing there in his naked “magnificence” smiled. “Exactly what she told me to do.” Picking at the torn paper, he managed to pull a strip off. The vandalism lightened his heart. Neil returned his smile. Despite the property coming from his side of the family, it had always felt as though this was Gloria’s house. It was time to redecorate, time he made it a home for him and Neil.

Finally Forever

JEANNE BARRACK

Manny’s voice wobbled fretfully as he read the first item off his list. “Did you remember to cancel the newspaper?” Rafe sighed, but kept his cool. “Yes.” “Change our address with the post office?” “Of course.” “Get the vet records for Gershwin?” “Yes, yes.” “Get our clothes from the cleaners?” “Of course.” “Shut off the electricity?” “All taken care of.” “Tell the cable company we’re moving out of the area and cancel the rest of the month?” “Done and done.” “Shut the phone off?” “It’ll be disconnected by this Saturday. You’ll have to get in touch with me on my cell phone.” “Thank God I have you on speed dial. Did the movers get there yet?” “They just left. Sweetie, if you had taken some time off, you wouldn’t be so worried.” “You know I couldn’t. Jerry did swear he’d be at the new place to let them in, right? He has the diagram to show where all the furniture is supposed to go? He won’t decide to become an interior decorator and switch the bed in front of the window instead of opposite it?” “Darling, I took care of everything, I promise. If you had clients who lived in this country instead of halfway around the world...” “I know, I know. But Japan didn’t used to be halfway around the world and away from where we lived. We thought we’d be here for always, together, having kids, celebrating our golden anniversary. It was supposed to be forever.” “I know, babe, I know. I’ve got a surprise for you.” “You do? Tell me!”

124 Finally Forever ~ BARRACK “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” “Please. I need something to make this whole damn thing better.” “I know, babe. Well, you twisted my arm. Season tickets for the Boston Red Sox for next spring!” “The Red Sox? Damn, all those balls! And strikes.” “Now be good, you devil. You know I hate your lame jokes!” “Only because they make you laugh, they’re so bad! Did you give Angie all the plants? I wish we could take that wandering Jew. It’s gotten so big!” “We’re the original wandering Jews, bubbeleh. We’ll start another one in Boston, I promise you.” “Boston. I hate the cold! If I wanted to freeze my balls off, I would have stayed in Chicago!” “But then we would never have met, darling.” “We would have. You’re my fate. I would have found you.” “Oh? It was a quirk of fate that we bumped into each other at my book signing?” “Exactly! I never go to those things. I saw you inside the bookstore window on my lunch break and fell instantly in lust. I never take lunch breaks. I just had the urge that day to get out of the office. You think it was an accident that I knocked over that stack of books you were autographing? Ha!” “Oh, babe, you think I didn’t know? You looked like such a dork standing there in your old-fashioned three-piece business suit. Kinda like Superman in his Clark Kent identity. I thought you were the most adorable looking guy...you’re right. It was fate.” “Of course. If I hadn’t been on loan at the West Coast office for a month, I never would have been having lunch in San Francisco. Then you convinced me to move to California and the firm had an opening in California. My career took off and it was all because of you. And now I’m moving again but this time I’m doing it with you, thank God!” “Now no more trips down memory lane. Let’s concentrate on the future.”

I DO! 125 “Right. Did you book the hall? Did you make sure the rabbi is still available that day?” “Hartseleh —” “Something’s wrong! I knew it! You never start speaking Yiddish unless something’s wrong!” “Easy, easy. Nothing is wrong, I promise you. I just wanted to let you know that, are you sitting down? Are you alone?” “I’m sitting. I’m sitting. I kicked the boy toy out of my hotel room. Joking. Joking. Please don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet. Not now, not after all we’ve been through.” “Oh, babe, never, never. How could you even think that? Damn, I knew we should have done this after we made the move. This way I could have been with you in Japan and you wouldn’t be acting like such an idiot! Listen, babe, I told you this might happen, remember? I said it was tough enough for them to find out I’m gay, but...” “Your parents? They’re not coming. Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. Are you sure? You couldn’t convince them?” “Hartseleh, they said if we had a Reform Rabbi perform the ceremony, they wouldn’t consider us married. Hell, they didn’t even consider my sister married a Jew because Mark converted through a Reform ceremony! You remember, I told you he had to get his shmekie snipped and they had to do the whole thing all over again — conversion and the wedding!” “I guess this means your grandmother isn’t coming either.” “This is why I wanted you to sit down and make sure you were all alone.” “There’s more? Oh, God forbid, she died. That’s it. She died and we have to postpone the wedding. Oh, darling, sweetheart, I’m so very, very sorry. I know how close you and your nana were. That’s okay. We’ll cancel the hall and —” “Will you shut up for a minute? Nana Glassman is fine. In fact, she’s coming to the wedding.” “ARE YOU SERIOUS?” “Geezh, you broke my eardrum! I knew you’d react that way that’s why I wanted you to be alone. I knew you’d scream and they’d arrest you for shattering the windows!”

126 Finally Forever ~ BARRACK “But that’s amazing! Fantastic! Nana said she’d come? Without your parents? Who’s taking her to the hall? Oh, thank God it’s a kosher caterer. I’m so glad we sprang for that. She must really love her little tataleh.” “Yeah, she even joked about that. She said the only way she’d see her little tataleh become a father is if he married his beshert and adopted. Her little father would become a big father! I think that trip she came out to us you infected her with bad jokes.” “But she’ll be there. Is your sister taking her? She’s still coming, right?” “Yeah, yeah, she’s braving parental disapproval. She’s leaving the kids as a bribe for the folks not to make a scene when they find out she and Mark are coming to the wedding. All day with bubby and pop-pop. You know they can’t resist my niece and nephew.” “Maybe when we have kids...” “Maybe. So, you feeling better now? I’ll see you in a week in Boston. Everything will be taken care of and then the following week we’ll be married. Finally. Forever.” “Finally. Forever.” “Love you.” “Love you.”

Code of Honour MARQUESATE

“Nos anciens ont su mourir. Pour la gloire de la Légion. Nous saurons bien tous périr. Suivant la tradition.” The legionnaires who sang those words in unison were dressed identically in impeccable parade uniforms. White kepis on their shaved heads, white short-sleeved shirts and green epaulettes with red tassels. Blue cummerbunds wound tightly around narrow waists, held in place with leather belts over light grey trousers, ending in polished black combat boots. ‘For the glory of the legion’, Joe thought, concentrating on the words as their combined voices trailed off. While the average age of his comrades from all over the world was twenty-five old enough to have buggered up something in their lives badly enough to consider a radical change, while young enough to survive the gruelling training, he had just turned twenty. There certainly hadn’t been any chance for glory in his life. He had been an unemployed drop-out from a council estate in England, with no hope and no future. Unlike now. Despite being the youngest with the least service, he was taken seriously for the first time in his life, because he held his own, no matter what. He was one of them, and even though he got the shittiest jobs, had to do corvee and carry the heaviest kit, he had learned to stand up for himself. He’d become tough. Eleven months ago, at selection, he’d managed seven pull-ups while kicking his legs like a girl, and he’d thrown up after running five miles. Now, he did twenty pull-ups easily, climbed a vertical four-meter rope in under ten seconds without using his feet, and ran with the best of them. For the first time ever, he belonged to something greater and bigger. The disciplined life suited him; it had given him sense and purpose. Up at six hundred hours, duties until eighteen hundred hours, then lights out at twenty-two hundred hours. Obeying orders and excelling in military skills, instead of being no one and nothing with nowhere to go except down. To his surprise, he’d learned French faster than anyone else, and after almost a year, he conversed fluently in the language and hardly ever needed to ask. He’d prevailed, and he’d become someone. He stood up for himself. He was a soldier.

130 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE The lying had been worth it. ™™™ They had accepted his first choice, and together with other legionnaires, Joe was carted down to Nîmes, to join 2e Régiment Étranger d’Infanterie. At some stage, all of them had fallen asleep in the back of the open truck, huddled into their uniform parkas. The arrival was sudden and the awakening rude, like everything in the legion. Tough soldiers, expendable for France. They were just foreigners, after all. Still bleary-eyed and cold, they jumped off the truck, one after the other, to stand in line and at attention. Eyes straight, shoulders back, chest out, not a muscle twitched. Awaiting to be paraded in front of their new Sergent, the sous-officier in charge of their platoon. Joe prepared for his roll call, the formal address imprinted into his mind. Eyes ahead, he noticed the blur of a man in front of him, before he took one step forward and sharply expelled: “Legionnaire premiere class Evans, onze mois de service, Première compagnie, Section de Lieutenant Leroy, à vos ordres, Sergent!” Only then did he focus onto the face in front of him, and nearly took the step back again. Holy. Fuck. Joe almost jerked visibly, forcing himself not to move a muscle while staring at the sergent’s face. Dark shaved hair, incredibly pale grey eyes, sharp-angled, weathered face, possibly thirty. Impossibly striking. If he’d ever been asked to describe what perfection looked like, that would be it. Damn. The pale eyes focused on him, cool, dispassionate, studying him with detached scrutiny, before the sergent moved on to the next man. Joe just about managed to step back into line before his reaction became all too obvious, and he stood once more, staring straight ahead, but shaken to the core. Why, why now and here? He’d been too occupied, busy, or exhausted to think about anything but food, sleep and training for all these months. Why now?

I DO! 131 He was right back at the beginning. ™™™ They got shipped out to Mayotte, an island in the Indian Ocean, which the legion used for jungle training. Joe found himself in a place he’d never hoped to visit, and even the excessive training didn’t subdue his spirits. Not the swimming for miles in the crystal clear sea, with their kit heavy on their backs, and neither climbing Mt. Kali Keni, eight hundred meters straight up in full kit, and not back down in constant rain, either. Yet wherever they were, whatever they did, the sergent was with them. No matter how much Joe tried to ignore his superior, he was there. Getting over a wall? Sergent Roux did it faster and with less effort. Jumping into a pit and back up the other side? No one could beat Sergent Roux. Balancing along poles, climbing ropes, crossing ravines on a tightrope, jumping hurdles... Roux was there, with his grey eyes, his wiry strength, and his measuring gaze. Eventually, they got sent out for jungle survival training. One week together as a section, then one week alone. Each legionnaire was given a compass, a map, a bottle of water, and sent into the bush to make their own shelter, find their own food, and survive the week, while solving mock missions, such as finding the supposed crash site of a comrade. When they were separated in the early hours, it had been raining steadily for days. None of the men had a dry shred on them, and the morale would have been even worse, had they not been kept on their toes by the sergent, who sent each of his men off. Joe was the last one. He had been given the details of the first mission for the following day, checking over the map, when he heard a strange sound: part voice, part roar. The moment he turned, he saw Sergent Roux’s raised arm, a last glimpse of the green beret, all rapidly disappearing, sliding, slipping, crashing downwards and gone. The earth had opened in front of him, and the mudslide pulled the man with it, tearing branches on the way, burying the helpless body beneath the brown floods.

132 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE “Sergent!” Joe shouted, running after the man. Losing his footing, he slipped forward, towards the drop, managed in the last minute to hold onto thick, leathery leaves, which slowed his fall. He couldn’t see the body any more, a whole pile of dead wood had fallen on top. He slid downwards on his belly, and once he’d reached the bottom, he frantically pulled branches and vegetation out of the way. Finally managing to grab what felt like an arm, he pushed his legs underneath roots for leverage, and pulled with all his strength. Everything was slippery, soaked from rain and covered in mud, and he nearly lost his grip, but with a last bout of effort, Joe pulled the body free and to safety. He was breathing hard as he knelt beside the sergent, shaking him, but there was no sign of life. “Sergent!” Clearing the mud off the face, Joe checked the vitals. Pulse, yes, then he tried to clear the airways, but he couldn’t get rid of the mud. Reaching for the bottle on his belt kit, Joe didn’t think twice, using the precious drinking water to wash the sergent’s face. Mud ran in ever-clearer rivulets down the sharply cut face and over the shaved hair. Water gathered on perfectly shaped lips that were relaxed now, not sneering, nor shouting. Joe couldn’t look away, mesmerised by the face that was revealed beneath the grime, and he found himself staring at those lips. He didn’t think when he leaned down, nothing held him back or screamed at him to stop. All his hard work to ignore, lie, and pretend had been in vain, when he pressed his lips onto the sergent’s. Lingering against the wet warmth, he felt their shape beneath his own, sensed the traces of mud, and he closed his eyes for one brief moment, savouring the kiss; his first kiss. Joe opened his eyes and pulled back. The shock registered within a heartbeat as he stared down into wide open, grey eyes that looked at him coldly. That was it. He was dead. “Sergent... Je n’ai...” Joe never finished his frightened stammer. A hand grabbed the back of his neck and he was pulled down, crushed against the lips that parted now. Tongue

I DO! 133 and teeth clashing, demanding entrance, as the sergent claimed his mouth, and Joe obeyed the order. Taste, strength, everything different to anything before. He was pulled on top; the sergent held him, then rolled them around, changing positions. Joe groaned into the other man’s mouth. Hands were suddenly on him, groping and taking, while Roux thrust down onto Joe’s groin. Joe froze, unable to think, act, caught in the fulfilment of a need he’d fought for all of his young life. Another shove, and the sergent’s hard cock ground into his. That very moment Joe let loose, forgot who they were and how forbidden this was. Lust won, conquering every thought. Two bodies, mud drenched, wet, dirty and slippery, moving together and against each other in frantic need. He found total fulfilment in the strength of the sergent’s body and the non-negotiable demand. No asking, but taking and willingly giving. Joe struggled and fought, both muscular and strong, he relished each grip and every forceful touch. Thrusting their hard cocks against the other’s, lust built, spiralled out of control, and seconds felt like eternities of insanity and greed. When Joe came inside his uniform, he wanted to cry out and lose himself in the abandon, but the sergent’s mouth captured his own, and a hand at the back of his neck kept him in a vice grip, not allowing any sound to escape. Roux’s body bore down onto his own, forcing him to lie still, while the sergent came with nothing but a shudder and a strangled groan. Joe was trapped by the weight, the hand and the kiss, and for a while, there was nothing but heartbeat and tremors that ran through him in aftershocks. All too suddenly, though, Roux rolled off. Bereft of the heat and the strength, Joe forced himself to move as well, but his mind couldn’t catch on to what his body had just experienced. The whole magnitude of what had happened was too much to comprehend. He sat crouched, still breathless, trying to will his fingers to do something, anything, like wiping mud off his drenched uniform.

134 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE “You must learn to lie.” The sergent’s voice cut into the silence, and the sudden English with its French accent didn’t register straight away. It took Joe a second to make out the meaning. “You speak English?” The moment he’d said it, Joe cursed himself. “What does it sound like to you?” “English, Sergent.” “Clever.” Roux let out a soft snort. “You’ll go far.” That stung, like everything the man was saying, or not saying. Yet all Joe could do was swallow the jibe, like any other. Ranks and discipline were everything in the legion, but he was too curious to let go, despite the potential consequences. “You are not ‘Belgian’, Sergent?” “Wrong and right.” Roux stopped wiping himself down, the mud would have to get washed off with the steady rain. He didn’t bother to look up when he graced Joe with an explanation. “Canadian. French Canadian.” Picking up his beret, Roux put it onto his head after a disdainful glance at the soggy mess. “You are too transparent.” “Pardon, Sergent?” “Your face. Your eyes. You were obvious.” “I don’t understand.” The sergent had him outgunned like an RPG against a pistol and Joe was certain he didn’t believe the feigned ignorance. “What were you trying to prove when you joined up?” Not even the question if he did want to prove anything. Joe swallowed hard. “That I am...a man, Sergent. Not...” “Men don’t stammer.” Bastard. “Not a fag.” Pédé, he’d heard it often enough as an everyday insult amongst the legionnaires. “And you joined the legion for that? Of all places?” Roux’s brows rose with thinly disguised amusement. “Have you forgotten to look into your trousers lately? That should have given you enough proof.” Joe felt anger rising, why the hell hadn’t he just let that arsehole drown in the mud? Would have saved his water, too.

I DO! 135 And why the hell had he given into that stupid, dangerous impulse to kiss that man? “I wanted to be someone.” “Someone who was tough and an elite soldier, or someone who wasn’t a fag?” Both, was the first thing that came to Joe’s mind, but he bit his lip. No, wrong. Not both. He didn’t want to be a fag. “An elite soldier, Sergent.” From the minuscule flash in the remarkable eyes, Joe knew that the sergent had caught his lie, but Roux merely nodded curtly. “You will receive a new mission tomorrow from the caporalchef, and I suggest you be more careful with your precious water.” The sergent switched back to French. “Cinq jours de plus.” Five days. The whole survival exercise with hardly any water. “Oui, Sergent!” Roux turned and Joe made the mistake of opening his mouth before engaging his brain. “Sergent!” “Oui?” Roux looked at him. Impassive, the same cool, mocking gaze as always, and Joe felt that look twist his guts. “Rien, Sergent!” Nothing. Nothing at all. “Désolé, Sergent.” “T’as fini, Evans?” “Oui, Sergent.” Of course it was all, what else could he possibly want? The next moment Roux was gone, vanished with a few steps into the thick vegetation. ™™™ The following five days were the hardest since the month at the “farm” during basic training. Without his full water ration, Joe struggled through the tasks, while trying to find another source. The first couple of days it kept raining, and he managed to trap some of the water, but when it stopped, he eventually got so thirsty that he drank from a puddle. Aware that he could catch every goddamned parasite imaginable in that forsaken place, but he got lucky.

136 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE The thirst and the hunger, the sheer extent of exhaustion were at least keeping him from thinking too much. Even so, when he lay in his makeshift shelter at night, he cursed his weakness. It could cost him everything he’d gained so far. ™™™ The day after the end of the jungle exercise, the legionnaires stood lined up and to attention. All of them had lost weight or sustained visible reminders of the unforgivingness of the jungle, but none of them allowed themselves to show any weakness. Sergent Roux was slowly marching down the line, then turned and walked back. He stopped in front of Joe, who had to force down any sign of the sudden, horrible fear that froze his blood and threatened to flush his face. What if the sergent made his stupid, utterly forbidden faux pas public? No one would believe him if he claimed the sergent had reciprocated. No one. He was just a legionnaire premiere class. “Legionnaire Evans, step forward!” The French command was uttered with hardly any inflexion. “Oui, Sergent!” Joe called out, stepped forward, eyes fixed at a point above the sergent’s shoulder, standing ramrod straight. Silence, and Joe wanted to throw up with apprehension. “Congratulations.” Roux’s voice cut through the thick fog of fear in Joe’s mind. “You did your duty in the jungle.” Joe didn’t dare blink when he focused on the sergent, once again noticing every detail in that face. The sharp cheekbones, the dark, arched brows beneath the peak of the kepi. The eyes, always the eyes, shadowed by those long lashes, and he remembered them wet, glistening with the precious drinking water. “You acted bravely and level-headedly and saved my life. The legion is proud of you.” The moment was gone too soon, when Roux ordered, “Back in line.” “Oui, Sergent!” Joe uttered sharply and took the one step back. The man had once more taken him completely by surprise. ™™™

I DO! 137 That same evening, right after work, Sergent Roux stopped Joe as he was walking from the training area towards the accommodation block. “Evans.” “Oui, Sergent!” Joe stood to attention, then followed Roux when the sergent gave him a curt nod. They stopped behind the stores, where the area was deserted. “I want you to be in the storeroom at twenty-one hundred hours.” Roux had switched to English. “Sergent?” Joe stared at him, uncomprehending. “Are you British?” “Yes, Sergent!” “Then you do understand English?” “Yes, Sergent!” The cool, grey gaze remained level. “Do you know where the store is?” “Yes, Sergent!” Joe pointed at the wall in front of him. “Here, Sergent!” “Well done.” The mockery increased. “You can read the clock, can’t you?” “Yes, Sergent.” Joe felt the amusement burn holes of humiliation into him. Bastard. “Twenty-one hundred hours.” “Yes, Sergent.” What the hell did that man want from him? Joe was part mortified, part angry, and part confused. “Meet me. Here. Twenty-one hundred hours. Alone.” Roux cocked one sarcastic brow. “Do you understand?” The realisation finally hit him. Yes. He understood, and the understanding of what exactly the sergent had requested of him got him like another punch in the guts. The desire was instant, and Joe could do nothing but obey. No matter how angry that made him with himself for jumping at the order as if he’d been told to climb a rope or scale a wall, and not to meet a man to get off. Pédé. Fag. Poof. Gay boy. He heard them again, those taunting voices, but he couldn’t help it; couldn’t help himself.

138 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE “Yes, Sergent!” Yes. Please. ™™™ Joe felt almost sick. He didn’t know what to expect, but he was never going to admit – even to himself – that he was to all intents and purposes a virgin. He hadn’t been with any man, because he’d always fought against what he wanted. Back home, in a run-down estate in a shitty town in England. A home that was not his anymore. Legio Patria Nostra. The legion was his home now, and he wasn’t going to risk this newfound life. Then why did he sneak out of the common rooms at five minutes before twenty-one hundred hours, and into the deserted stores? The sergent was playing him and his weakness, and Joe was perfectly aware of it. He didn’t want to be gay, refused to be a “fag,” yet he quietly opened the door and stepped into the darkness of the store. A faint sound came from across the room, a deliberate shuffle of a boot, and then the sizzle of a flame as a match was lit, lighting a gas lamp. The yellow light illuminated the man who leaned against a tightly packed row of boxes. The face was cast in stark shadow, picking out the shape of the aquiline nose and throwing the sharp features into an even more stunning relief. Joe didn’t know what was expected of him, but he nevertheless walked across the room after closing the door. The sergent gave him no order, not even a clue, just kept silently watching, until Joe stood in front of him. At a loss. Eventually, Roux reached for his own beret and pulled it off his head, placing it beside the gas lamp. Joe tracked the hand, the beret, the play of darkness and light, until he lost sight of the hand as it reached for him, fingers splaying in the back of his neck. A slight pressure, pulling him towards the sergent, but there was no command, just a nonverbal request. Joe followed, because there was nothing else he neither could nor wanted to do. The touch of his lips on the sergent’s was like a shock to his system. Unlike the frantic madness in the jungle, this time it was deliberate. The moment they kissed, Roux became demanding,

I DO! 139 and Joe was swept into the heat and lust within seconds. The sergent’s hands were on his uniform, brushing his beret off, pulling him close and pressing him against the other’s hard body. When Roux turned them round, Joe followed, took the need as an order and obeyed the unspoken command. His back hit the wall of boxes, and he couldn’t breathe in air quickly enough, because need burnt all oxygen from his blood. It overpowered him, and he submitted willingly. Hands on both their trousers, belts, fumbling with buckles, buttons and zippers while kissing and grinding. They pushed fabric out of the way, releasing cocks, their fingers wrapped around hard flesh. Cock against cock and body grinding into body. Stroking while panting into each other’s mouths, the sound of boots shuffling on the floor, harsh breaths and swallowed groans. Joe was close, thrusting against Roux, who suddenly pulled away and murmured in a husky voice, “No stains!” Joe didn’t understand, just wanted the strength and the heat back, but the sergent went to his knees and reached for Joe’s cock, just like that, and just like that he sucked down on his cock. Joe nearly crashed into the boxes behind him, mind tripping on the sight of the sergent on his knees. Overpowered by sensations and sight, Roux brought him over the edge within a few moments. Joe’s hips thrust erratically; he had no control over himself as he came, and he had to bite his own hand to keep quiet. Still shuddering when Roux swiped his tongue along the spent cock, cleaning him, before coming back up to stand. Roux didn’t say a word, but the grey eyes looked straight at him, and Joe knew what the sergent expected: to be paid back in kind. Damn. He didn’t know...couldn’t...but he found himself on his knees, the hard cock in front of his face. Roux stood still, waiting, not demanding. The scent hit Joe’s nostrils. Male, musk, pure lust, and he could feel the saliva gathering in his mouth. He wanted that cock. Pushing all thoughts away, all those years of denying what he was, the gay boy, the “fag” who

140 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE got onto his knees to suck a cock. If his sergent, that tough bastard, did it, then it didn’t make himself less of a man. He parted his lips, closed his hand around the base of the cock, and pushed down to create suction and heat. He felt dots of pressure from fingertips on his shaved head. Increased tension in the body beneath his hand, a twitch of the cock in his mouth and a faint sound from Roux through clenched teeth, made him speed up, teaching him everything he needed to know about giving lust in return. He was still unprepared, though, for the sergent’s sudden orgasm. He couldn’t read the man’s signs yet, forced to swallow convulsively while Roux’s hand on his head tightened in a painful grip. Neither did he expect to be pulled up the next moment and into a deep kiss. Their tastes mingled, and Joe closed his eyes, breathed into the kiss while relaxing into the afterglow. One precious moment of feeling the body against his, of holding and being held, before the spell was broken, and the sergent returned to his usual self and let go. Joe found himself in such a jumble of emotions, he had a hard time tucking himself back in. “You’ve never done this.” Roux stated calmly, once he was dressed. Back to the impenetrable surface that Joe found so infuriating and simultaneously irresistible. “Was I that bad?” “Evans, learn to answer a question.” “With all due respect, Sergent, it wasn’t a question but a statement.” Joe didn’t know where his bold objection had come from. No immediate reply, but Joe wondered if he detected a flash of amusement in the pale eyes. “Have you ever done this before?” “No, Sergent!” Once again, no reply, and Joe couldn’t decipher anything in that impassive face in front of him. “It’s late, go to sleep, Evans. Lights out is in thirty minutes.” Dismissed, as if nothing had ever happened. “Sergent!” I need to see you again.

I DO! 141 “Oui?” “Rien, Sergent.” Nothing. Nothing at all. Again. Roux switched back to English for his last jibe. “Learn to think before you talk.” “Oui, Sergent.” Joe picked up his beret, put it back to the correct angle and left while cursing himself. ™™™ Joe’s life in the legion continued with the same routine, structure and discipline. Training, guard duty, work, washing their kit, ironing their kit, time off. Always the same, except for one immense secret: Sergent Roux would tell him where and when to meet, and without fail Joe would be there. He never asked questions, he took what he got and gave in return. Hand jobs in empty storerooms, blow jobs in deserted offices, and frantic kisses, whenever Roux wanted him. Always standing, leaning, or kneeling, and always in uniform, with their trousers open, flies pushed apart and briefs down, but never the touch of skin nor the heat of muscles and flesh. Too dangerous. Roux called all the shots, and Joe jumped at the man’s request. He was addicted, but the need only grew worse every time it was sated. ™™™ After Joe’s section completed their time in Mayotte, they went back to Nîmes, then a four-months tour of duty in Lebanon. France once more, and then finally Kosovo, as part of the French NATO contingency. They found hardly any opportunity to meet in the NATO camp, which had proper accommodation and offices, and a well-equipped gym. Despite plenty of British soldiers to talk to, Joe was rapidly going insane. Doing his duty every day alongside his sergent, and smelling his fresh sweat when they worked out in the gym, but without being able to touch, made it nearly impossible to hold onto the poker face. Finally, over two months into the tour, Roux had somehow secured the key to an empty office. Their mating was tinged with desperation and Joe lost control the moment he had his

142 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE hands on uniform cloth, warmed from Roux’s skin. He buried his face in the sergent’s neck to muffle his groans when Roux stroked their combined cocks. This time, Joe forcefully pushed him away and went to his knees. It wasn’t about keeping stains off their uniforms, it was about wanting to taste Roux’s lust. Eyes closed, Joe concentrated on the hard cock between his lips, while viciously stroking himself. Nothing passive about him, as he forced the cock deeper than ever. His reward was sounds he’d never heard from the sergent before. He got what he craved for; Roux came, fingers scrabbling at Joe’s head, hips thrusting out of control, but Joe took it, wanted it, allowed the cum to run down his throat, while coming himself. He was still panting, still coming back down, when Roux pulled him up and into a kiss. Neither of them said anything until they put themselves away and brushed down their uniforms. Like they’d done for a year. “You are a good soldier, Evans. You can go far. As long as you learn to hide.” Roux watched Joe wipe the cum stain off the floor. “I was desperate, Sergent.” “I noticed.” “How do you do it, Sergent?” Joe tried to read anything in Roux’s shuttered face, but to no avail. “I have an apartment in Paris,” Roux answered unexpectedly. “Le Marais. No one cares who or what I am.” Joe nodded. Le Marais, the gay district of Paris. He couldn’t imagine the sergent there, couldn’t even picture him in civilian clothes. Watching him stand there, he remembered how he hadn’t wanted to be who he was, how he’d fought against being gay, and he wondered when he’d stopped fighting. Roux broke the silence. “Have you got plans for your summer holiday, Evans?” “No, Sergent.” One precious week, and he’d probably just get smashed somewhere close to the camp in Nîmes. It sounded like a good idea. “I want you to visit me in Paris.”

I DO! 143 Joe stared at Roux, shocked. “You do?” “Would I tell you if I didn’t?” “No, Sergent!” One brow slightly raised with the usual infuriating mockery, Roux gave Joe an address. “Can you remember that?” “Yes, Sergent!” He’d memorised it already. “I expect you to be there on the Monday of leave, for two days.” “Yes, Sergent!” Joe broke into a grin when he left the office, to get back to his bunk before lights-out. ™™™ Sergent Roux’s apartment was small, a kitchenette cum living area, bedroom and tiny bathroom, up on the fifth floor of one of the old granite buildings. Roux had let him in without a word, and Joe put his backpack down in a corner, looking around. Wondering where on earth he was meant to sleep, since he could only see a bed, no couch. Time would tell, he’d learned never to presume anything. When he turned back round, he found Roux standing in the doorframe, cigarette in one hand, coffee bowl in the other, holding it out to him. The sergent seemed to be a different man in civilian clothes, if it weren’t for the shaved head, and the face and eyes, as striking as ever. “Thank you, Sergent.” He was grateful for the hot, milky coffee, and at the same time feeling oddly displaced by being given something instead of being told to fetch it, make it, do it. “Don’t call me Sergent out there. No ranks.” “What should I call you, Sergent?” Roux huffed tonelessly at the address. “Roux. That will do.” Joe nodded and took a sip from his coffee. They stood like that for several minutes, until Roux stubbed out his cigarette and Joe had finished most of his coffee. Roux took the bowl out of Joe’s hand and placed it onto the breakfast bar.

144 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE Joe stood still, hardly daring to breathe, while Roux started to undress him. His gaze dropped to the sergent’s hands as they opened his belt buckle. Efficient movements, swiftly undoing the whole row of metal buttons on his denims. When those hands moved to his shirt, Joe looked up and into grey eyes that were studying his face. Wordlessly staring at each other, while Roux opened Joe’s shirt. The rustling of fabric the only sound in the room, when it was slipped off Joe’s shoulders. No word, when Roux swiftly pulled his own shirt over his head and discarded it on the floor. Joe looked at the body before him, had seen the bare chest countless times during training, those sharp, chiselled lines and the smooth skin with its two lines of irregular scars around the shoulder, but the context was different, and the body was new, exciting, as if he’d never seen it before. Roux’s hand slid to the small of Joe’s back, and the contact made Joe draw in a sharp breath, which quickened rapidly when the other hand pushed the denims and briefs down his hips. Joe’s cock hardened just watching Roux open his own trousers, pulling them down, naked beneath. His pulse hammered in his throat, from nought to overdrive, when Roux stepped closer. Cocks trapped between their bodies, skin on skin, unlike ever before. Joe let out a strangled sound and let go, falling into the craved-for sensation. He finally understood what he was and what he wanted: another man’s body. ™™™ Hours later, after they were finally sated, Roux told Joe to have a shower and get dressed. He wanted to take him to the annual Bal de Pompiers, and when Joe asked why the fire-fighters of Paris had festivities and what it entailed, Roux shrugged and lit a cigarette, telling him he would have to find out for himself. The quartier le Marais was unlike anything Joe had ever seen before. People of all creeds and colours milled around, scantily dressed in the summer night, with music and dancing everywhere. He stumbled along at first, wide-eyed, until Roux placed a hand on his shoulder, cocked a brow with an amused grin and told him to stop looking like a tourist and to enjoy

I DO! 145 himself. No one would care about anything, and to make a point, he shocked Joe to the core when he pulled him close and into a sudden kiss. That was the moment when Joe finally ‘‘got it’’: right now they were just two men amongst many. The Bal de Pompiers attracted everyone. Women, men, crowds gathering in cafes and bars, and in the midst of them all, Paris’ fire-fighters, stripping off and dancing. Some were down to the nude, showing off bodies that were smooth, hard, sculpted for speed and endurance. Just like a legionnaire. The same short or shaved hair, and the same overabundance of testosterone and adrenaline. Roux took Joe to a club where a handful of fire-fighters were stripping on a couple of tables in the middle of the crowd. Pushing through, Joe followed the sergent, never taking his eyes off the almost naked bodies. Roux indicated that he’d be at the bar to get more drinks, and Joe nodded, felt the rhythm of the dance music pound in his ears, brain, body, and finally his guts. One of the fire-fighters grinned down at him and shouted something he couldn’t hear above the noise, but when the man pointed at Joe’s shirt, he got the message. Why not? No one was there to teach him the rules, because there weren’t any. Freedom, an intoxicating idea. He took his shirt off, let the other man take his hand, and pull him up and onto the table. Joe looked for Roux, caught a glimpse of his sergent who was standing at the bar, watching him with a drink in his hand. But then he felt hands on hips, and he turned his attention back to the man who was grinding against him while laughing and dancing. When the music cranked up, he was pulled closer. Hands grabbed hold of his buttocks, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Joe turned his head once more, saw Roux still looking at him. The sergent gave a small nod and turned. Gone the next moment, swallowed by the heaving crowd. Permission granted. ™™™ 3 A.M., and Joe kept pushing the button impatiently, before the buzzer sounded and the lock was released. Taking two steps at a time, the door to the apartment opened the moment he

146 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE reached the top floor. The man in the doorframe was naked, had clearly been asleep. Joe was breathing hard as he stood in front of Roux, who studied and silently challenged him. Why was he back already? Why indeed. The answer didn’t need any words. He knew what he wanted; the freedom had helped him come to his own conclusion. Joe didn’t know or care if he still tasted of the other man, because Roux’s scent and taste overpowered everything else. Pushing forward, they stumbled towards the bed. He somehow got his shirt off, trousers down and shoes off, he’d left the socks and briefs in another apartment. Falling backwards onto the bed, he pulled Roux with him. “Encule-moi.” Screw me. Fuck me. Do it. Crude and straightforward, and only French would do. Roux studied him, as if measuring and judging, until grey eyes flashed, taking on a sudden heat. “Oui.” Request granted. The condoms and lube were in the bedside table, but Joe didn’t give a damn what that meant. All he wanted was to find out why and how his conquest had enjoyed himself so much. If a fire-fighter liked getting fucked, then a legionnaire wouldn’t lose face if he offered his arse. Legs up on Roux’s shoulders, Joe was open, vulnerable and bared, but he liked being able to see what his request did to the sergent. He read the lust in the sharp-angled face, and deciphered the need, despite the time Roux took with condom and lube. “I’m not a virgin.” Joe murmured hoarsely. “Yes, you are.” Roux bent down and over Joe, positioning himself, “And no, you’re not...” he straightened back up, his hand on Joe’s flank. The discomfort was of no importance. Plenty of training and exercise had hurt a hell of a lot more, and Roux’s consideration allowed Joe to accommodate the cock that entered him. Looking up at the face, the lust, every shade in those eyes that were everything but cold and impassive right

I DO! 147 now. Each expression, smile, breathless parting of lips and Joe drank it all in, soaked up the feelings that played across the sergent’s face, until the ache changed into a new sensation of being stretched, filled, taken and wanted. Wanted. Roux. The moment his lips formed the name he rarely spoke, Joe arched up and pulled him closer, forcing the sergent to push deeper and enter him fully. Roux’s groan sliced through Joe’s mind, right down to his cock and balls. Stroking himself, Joe breathlessly demanded once more, “Encule-moi!” For the first time ever, a sergent obeyed a legionnaire’s order and Roux let go, fulfilling with smooth, powerful strokes the command of Joe’s lust. ™™™ The next day, Joe woke from the sensation of warmth on his face. A touch, stroking, something tender and gentle. He smiled, still half asleep, but the touch was gone when he turned his head. There was no hand when he opened his eyes and blinked sleepily into the sun that streamed through the open window. He must have imagined things. Roux sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him. Lighting a cigarette, he asked after the first exhale of smoke, “Coffee?” “Yes, please.” Joe smiled and stretched, aching in a thousand places and all of them good. He moved into a long, slow, stretch that went all the way from his fingertips to his toes, and when he finished, he was still being watched. As usual, he couldn’t decipher the look. “Do you want me to make it?” “No.” Roux got up, cigarette in the corner of his mouth. It was strange to just lie there and wait, letting the sun shine onto his face and chest. Even though corvee was getting less frequent, he still had to jump at any request, and he was still the youngest. He enjoyed every minute of this rare luxury. When Roux returned with a couple of coffee bowls, Joe smiled his thanks. Roux sat back down on the edge of the bed and lit a second Gauloise. “Do you want to stay longer?” “Sergent?”

148 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE “You still understand English, don’t you?” Bastard. “Yes, Sergent.” Best to sip his coffee, to hide his anger at getting told off again. Way to spoil his good mood after the best night of his life. “Do you want to stay for the remainder of the week?” Roux pronounced each word with exaggerated care, looking with mild mockery at Joe, who couldn’t quite believe he’d really got that lucky. “Yes, Sergent!” The mocking was gone, and Roux smiled briefly. The best way to crank Joe’s mood right back up to ‘‘brilliant.’’ ™™™ Joe never questioned that he slept in the same bed, sometimes waking up with an arm around him, or a body close, holding him. He relished every moment, each touch, every kiss and the intimacy of skin on skin. He took his fill, and Roux allowed him to. They didn’t talk much, but Joe felt increasingly comfortable around the other man, and when Roux took him to Fnac, to spend some of his wages on music, he found himself pointing at films and laughing out loud at a dry remark. Mesmerised by the way the sergent’s eyes warmed and darkened when he smiled. At the end of the week, Joe stood in front of the door, backpack beside him, ready to leave. “Sergent?” “Another question you’ll never ask and apologise for?” The mask wasn’t back on Roux’ face yet and Joe managed to decipher the spark of amusement, not mockery. “You’re wasting my time, Evans.” “No, Sergent!” “No?” The amused gleam was still there, a thousand times better than the ice cold, impassive gaze. “When can I see you again?” There. He’d done it. Had only taken him a year to ask that question. “In Djibouti. With 13e Démi-Brigade. I’m your sergent, remember?” “That’s not what I meant, Sergent.” In for a penny, in for a pound.

I DO! 149 “What do you mean?” Roux stepped closer, and Joe was suddenly assaulted by the scent, reminding him of his addiction. “You have to learn to ask the right questions, or you won’t get the right answers.” Roux’s lips twitched with suppressed laughter, and Joe wasn’t sure if he should feel anger or desire. The man was infuriating, especially when he was right. Joe took in a sharp breath. “Do you want to have sex with me again?” “Yes, I do.” “Do you know when you will have sex with me again?” “No, I don’t.” “Will you …” Joe didn’t manage to finish his question nor the dozen or so afterwards. Cut short by Roux. “See? You can do it. Direct questions. Direct answers.” That simple. If it really were that simple, then... “Can I fuck you before I leave?” Joe suddenly broke into a broad grin, not knowing what in the devil’s name had come over him. For the first time ever Joe saw his sergent taken aback, and he felt ridiculously pleased with himself. The cool superiority cracked and the grey eyes flashed. For a short moment the roles reversed, until Roux pulled himself back together, and the detached expression returned. “No.” “Worth a try.” Joe shrugged. “You’re learning.” “Au revoir, Sergent.” Joe had a hard time suppressing a grin when he saluted, picked up his bag and turned to leave. He was certain he could feel the other’s eyes on him long after he had left the apartment. ™™™ Once they’d returned to the legion, things were back to what they had always been. Joe wanted, needed, lusted and craved, but he was once more reduced to being like a dog who waited for a scrap of meat, jumping at every chance. It was all he got, and it was driving him insane.

150 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE “Evans.” Joe turned and saluted. “Sergent!” “Twenty-one hundred hours. The storeroom.” English. Their language. Whatever ‘‘their’’ was. Joe was suddenly filled with anger, along with the immediate lust. Another scrap that was being offered, and he knew he was expected to ask ‘how high’ when told to jump. He’d do anything to get his hands on that man, but the resentment exploded in his guts and spread like wildfire. “No, Sergent. I can’t.” “You can’t or you won’t?” Roux’ brows shot up, and the arrogant look of disbelief turned Joe’s anger into a sea of lava. “You treat me like a whore.” “You have no idea how I treat my whores.” “No, Sergent, I don’t. But I’m not at your beck and call outside my duties as legionnaire.” Roux’s reaction was not at all what Joe expected. “Good.” The sergent nodded slightly and smiled. “Sergent?” Joe was flummoxed. “Would you like to meet me at twenty-one hundred hours in the store room?” Not sure if he’d heard the request right, Joe stared at his superior, before he finally caught on. “Yes, Sergent!” Roux nodded once more. “Later, Evans.” Joe left in complete bewilderment, trying to make sense of what he’d just been told. ™™™ Over the next two years things remained the same - and yet they changed entirely. Operational tours alternated with stints in Nîmes, training exercises and overseas tournants. The section remained together throughout, headed by Sergent Roux, and thus their pattern and quantity of lust continued, while its quality changed. Eventually, after a tour in Iraq in the second year, Roux asked Joe if he had planned anything for his three weeks of

I DO! 151 leave, and if not, he could stay with him in Paris. He never said it in so many words, but in his infuriating manner of questions and answers. Still, by then Joe knew him well and played the game with ease. Those three weeks marked a familiarity that had become a second skin, and while Joe finally accepted that he was irrevocably in love with the man, he never knew what, or indeed if Roux felt anything. Despite closeness, mundane tasks that couples would do, and spending their days and nights together, the moment leave was over, the freedom and intimacy were gone, once more replaced with structure and discipline. Homosexuality in the French Foreign Legion was forbidden. That was that, and France would not budge. Joe had always known what he’d got himself into when he’d signed the fiveyear contract. He’d lied, and now he was paying the price. Outside of Paris and away from a small apartment, he had to pretend to be what he wasn’t. The sergent gave him the keys to the apartment, and a few months later Joe used the place, but it was not the same. He found one-night stands, but sex with those men only made him realise that he wanted someone else instead. Roux. Always Roux. When he eventually asked, in his third year, “Est-ce que je peux vous baiser, Sergent?” Can I fuck you...in French this time, with a mischievous grin and in the politest way he could manage, Roux huffed a laugh, told him he was finally asking the right questions - and got onto all fours. ™™™ In his fourth year in the legion, Joe’s section was sent as the French contingency to support ISAF. Afghanistan turned out to be worse than any other tour of duty before. No opportunity for intimacy, no empty offices or hidden stores. No safe places, no chance to touch, and none to connect. The only contact outside of the professional one was an occasional kiss, shared for a few seconds in some deserted corner, before they had to tear apart once more. Afghanistan proved more dangerous than any of the other operational theatres, and the international security force was

152 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE more often than not engaged in direct action. The land of mountains and dust cost them more than they’d ever expected, not just the inability of two men to share lust. Six weeks into the tour, they drove through the moon-like landscape in a convoy of light armoured vehicles. Joe was the driver of the first vehicle, with the lieutenant beside him, and Sergent Roux sat in the passenger seat of the second one, with five more VBLs behind them. All of the legionnaires had their weapons at the ready, constantly scanning the area, but nothing prepared them for the sudden explosion that tore into the convoy. The first vehicle was ripped open like a tin can, a gaping hole where the lieutenant had been. Instant hell, an inferno of glass, metal, dust and debris. “Arrête!” Roux yelled against the noise, and his driver slammed the brakes, when a body was catapulted from the driver’s seat of the vehicle in front. Crashing onto the road amidst rocks and bursting metal, fire and deafening sound. Despite the inferno, Roux recognised the man immediately. Soldiers came out of the VBLs, throwing themselves behind cover when bullets ripped through the air. Insurgents attacked the convoy, while one man lay defenceless and bleeding in the middle of the road. “Evans!” Roux shouted. He kicked the door of his vehicle open and jumped onto the road, straight into the line of bullets. He sprinted across without cover, ducking as he ran, while firing at the enemy. Dust everywhere, mixing with the screams of the wounded, the staccato of the firing on both sides, and the voices of the soldiers, coordinating their defence. Roux reached the man on the ground, grabbed hold of Joe’s webbing, and dragged him out of the firing line and into safety behind the vehicles, where he shouted for a medic. ™™™ Joe couldn’t hear anything, deafened by the blast, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel anything but pain and fear and ever more pain. Hardly able to breathe, he tried to scream, to move, but the pain had paralysed him.

I DO! 153 Alone. Darkness. Fear. But then a touch, someone wiped over his eyes, cleared the blood away, and he was no longer alone. If he had to die, he wouldn’t die deserted, because of the face above him. Familiar, needed, and wanted. The same face that would always be there. Grey eyes looked down at him, the only colour in a face smeared with grime and blood. Joe tried to say something, but the dust was suffocating him and the pain was too great. He reached out, and his hand was captured by strong fingers that closed around his own, anchoring him. Sergent Roux’s eyes were the last thing he saw, and the firm grip of his hand the last sensation he felt, before he slipped away when the medic began his work. ™™™ Joe couldn’t remember much of the flight, nor of arriving at the hospital in Marseilles, and nothing of the surgery. Drugged and floating, he lost track of time in the ICU, until he surfaced from the drug-filled daze. He woke up in a ward, alone, with all of the other beds empty. The drip had gone, but the pain in his leg and down his side remained subdued. He was exhausted, didn’t know how many days had passed, didn’t see anyone but the nurses and the doctors. Nothing to break the routine but checks of his vitals, bandage changes, and ever more checks again. He slept a lot, couldn’t concentrate on anything yet and didn’t have the energy to think much. Sleeping and healing, while being taken care of. He’d shed blood for France, one of the doctors said to him at one stage, while changing the drainage, he’d be ‘Français par le sang versé’, French by spilled blood. Joe only nodded. He hadn’t applied for citizenship after his three years, and he didn’t know if he was going to. All he wanted right now was to sleep and not to think. It was during one of his many daytime slumbers, when he was woken by a touch on his face, similar to those he’d imagined a few times, back in Paris. This time the touch continued, and its tenderness slowly dragged him back to the surface. He felt fingertips, rough and calloused, but warm and infinitely gentle. When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t believe

154 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE what he saw: Sergent Roux, in his Tenue de Sortie, the grey suit, white shirt, and green tie. Black kepi on the bedside table. Roux; smiling at him, touching him, stroking his face. Not the cool, dismissive gaze, but a smile full of emotions, which gave those eyes their rare warmth. Joe didn’t do anything but look for a long time, making sure the sergent really was there and not just a figment of his imagination. Roux. At his side. No one but Roux. He cleared his throat eventually, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded raw. “How did you get here?” “By plane,” Roux deadpanned, causing Joe to close his eyes with exasperation. He was too tired to play that old game, and in too much discomfort. Roux took mercy on him and explained. “I dislocated my knee a few days after the ambush. I’m on R&R.” Joe opened his eyes and he couldn’t help feel thankful for Roux’s almost normal human behaviour. Perhaps getting blown up had its - minor - advantages. “Thank you for coming.” Joe murmured. He stuck to English, even though it didn’t feel right anymore. But thankful he was. Deeply and truly, because he had no one else, and because he didn’t want anyone else. When it came down to it, there had only ever been Henri Roux, his Sergent. “Nowhere I’d rather be.” Roux said nothing else for a long while, and Joe was perfectly content to simply keep looking. Convinced he wouldn’t get bored even if he did that for several more days and nights. “I need you to tell me something, Evans.” Roux finally said. “I need you to tell me exactly what you want.” Joe blinked, and for once he went for what he wanted the question to mean. Maybe his brush with death had worn away his worry of not being good enough, old enough, tough enough, and a hundred other “not enoughs” on top of that. “What I can’t have.” “You’ve still not learned how to answer my questions?”

I DO! 155 Joe studied Roux’s face, but he was too tired to figure out if the man was taking the piss or not. “I need you to tell me what you want.” Roux leaned forward a little, taking Joe’s hand into his own. “No more, no less, no second guessing.” Joe wanted to word a proper answer, find some eloquent words, something to get out of this trap, but he didn’t have the strength, and it all came down to one simple thing anyway. “You.” Roux smiled. The smile lit up those pale eyes, and it took all the aloofness away, the sarcasm, and the judging mockery. “Good.” That was it? What the hell did it mean? Joe was confused, but then he felt his hand in the Roux’s, the comforting warmth and reassuring strength, and somehow the words came out before he could stop them. Once again, only French felt right. “Je suis amoureux de toi depuis longtemps.” Yes. I have been in love with you for a long time, and I am not going to lie about it anymore. “I know.” Roux said softly, in a voice he’d only rarely used before, “I have known and felt the same for a long time.” “Why didn’t you...” Roux smiled again and leaned even closer. “Because you were young, and because you never learned to have a poker face. So I had to have it for you.” “But...” “No ‘but.’ Except for: but comrades in arms should never be lovers. I would have risked my life in inappropriate ways, and I would have risked the lives of a hundred men, if I had to. Just to save you.” Joe let those words sink in, gradually understanding the true extent of their meaning. He moistened his lips. “What is different now?” Roux studied him for a while. “Will you sign another contract? You would go far in the legion, you are a good soldier.”

156 Code of Honour ~ MARQUESATE “No.” Joe knew at last that there was only one place where he could be who he was: outside. “I got what I wanted out of the legion.” “To be a man?” “Yes.” Joe smiled, a big mistake, because the stitches pulled in his face, “and a fag, but I don’t care anymore what anyone says.” “You’re growing up, Evans.” “Perhaps...but I also know that there is something far more important, and the legion can’t give that to me, on the contrary.” “Which is?” Joe was convinced Roux knew damn well what that was, but he said it anyway. Perhaps that was what Roux had wanted him to do all along, to say things out loud. Simple truths, which the secrecy had made so big, they had become suffocating. “I’m gay, that’s not going to change, and I’m not willing to live a lie any longer than I have to.” Roux looked at him for a long time. “Remember what you told me in that jungle? You wanted to prove that you are someone.” He reached for Joe’s temple and gave it a gentle flick. “You are, Joe. You really are.” He’d never used the first name before, the one Joe had been given by the legion and which he’d kept. “I have to decide if I sign on for another term. If I don’t, I am out in half a year.” Roux took in a deep breath, denoting a change in pace, thought, and a shift of life. “I want out, and I want you to live with me.” Joe stared, wide-eyed, unsure if he was shocked or overwhelmed, or both. All he brought out was, “Is that an order, Sergent?” Roux huffed a soft laugh. “Do you want it to be?” “What else could it be?” Joe suddenly found his footing and at long last everything made sense. More than ever before in his life. He smiled again, and this time it was easy to ignore the pain in his face. “It’s not that you can ask me to marry you.” “Not in France, no, but you still have your British passport and I still have my Canadian one.”

I DO! 157 “What do you mean?” Joe looked up, puzzled. As always, Roux had caught him unawares when he least expected it. “That...” Roux smiled and leaned down, so close, his lips touched Joe’s ear when he murmured, “you will have to figure out for yourself.”

Tango and Temptation ZA MAXFIELD

My career in deception started out as a way to get through school. I began life in a bassinet in the corner of a dance studio while my mother and her brothers, the famed Aimar Tango Masters, sashayed their way into competitive ballroom dancing infamy. So I came by my dancing persona honestly, copying the mannerisms of my uncles; that is to say, how they behaved when they taught dance and when they danced competitively. Everyone in the family knew that around the house they were simple men, guys in jeans and T-shirts who drank beer from the bottle and watched soccer on television. But at the studio, and more importantly while dancing in their many competitions they became entirely different men, impossible divas, raving lotharios, men for whom it was nothing to begin a terrible row over a careless remark or a misplaced sewing kit. It’s important to note that their dance partners adore them. The women who grace the arms of my uncles in the fierce battle for ballroom supremacy are their wives, and on Sunday afternoons when they’re not on tour, or competing, they all come over to my grandmother’s house for a vast meal, cooked outdoors most of the year, like a large choreographed meat ballet. My mother fills the role of Wendy in this collection of boys who never grew up. She regularly sews on their shadows, keeps the studio open when they’re away, does their accounting and advertising, and basically makes the whole thing work. Naturally it fell to me to dance along in their footsteps although I have eschewed the pressure to compete. Like my mother, I practice that other discipline; staying in the background, enjoying the view of the spectacularly plumed birds while hiding in my own nondescript feathers against the drab backdrop of academia. It was as a way to pay for my degree in philosophy that first made me don the persona of the Tango Master, teaching dance at odd hours in the studio. I sold myself as Gabriel Aimar, Tango Master, advertising in California Bridal Expos and wedding guides under the tag line, “First Dance to Last a Lifetime.” It wasn’t long before even the most sought-after wedding planners started to bring me their clients for instruction and

162 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD edification in the finer points of ballroom dance. All right, I don’t have an Argentinean accent, I’m rarely seen anywhere besides the dance floor in the tight black pants and poet shirt, and I really, really don’t normally act like a raging lunatic. But when Alexander Farmington and his fiancée, Alyssa, she of the-dog-in-a-purse, came in with Sophie Edmunton, their harried wedding planner—my friend and co-conspirator— one look at Sophie’s face was enough to tell me the entire story. Alyssa is what we in the wedding biz refer to as a Bridezilla-InTraining. The wedding being graduation day, the day on which Alyssa would blossom into the truly terrible to behold FullMental Bridezilla, was only weeks away, and already cracks were showing in her thin veneer of civility. We all waited while she made several phone calls, pacing and raving as she tapped her Bluetooth and lit a cigarette. “I’m so sorry, Querida, but this is a no smoking zone,” I told her, using my most effective purr next to her ear. She stared at me as if I hadn’t spoken English. Farmington drew her away and out the door. “What the fuck have you brought me this time?” I asked Sophie in my normal voice. “Shh,” Sophie hissed as Farmington came back in. I should make it clear that Alexander Farmington, Xander to his friends, would take anyone’s breath away. He’s a perfect storm of youth, vitality, money and good looks; he exudes the same kind of charisma that makes you sigh over pictures of the young Kennedy brothers. He had a cheeky grin and hair that flopped insolently into his eyes just when you wanted to see their astounding color, an arresting shade between blue and green that was at once either, neither, and both. Xander Farmington was not extraordinary; he went far beyond that, and something about him, something about his easy grace and masculinity compelled me to put my act in hyperdrive, over the top and back again, just to piss him off. It was an auspicious beginning. I tossed my own hair. “The young Alyssa teases us with her temper, does she not?” I asked. His eyes went wide with what I like to think was polite reluctance to laugh in my face. “She

I DO! 163 hisses like the kitten. Yet, we will make her purr in your arms on the dance floor.” Dear heavens, the way he reacted to this. My life was, in that moment, complete. “Yes, er…” he hedged. “Well. She’s nervous.” “I see.” I said. I let the series of things I wanted to say, things about brides, about wedding nights, about love, and sex, and death go… I wanted to reel this one in slowly. “Have you decided on a type of dance? Perhaps the ‘Sleeping Beauty Waltz’ to mark the occasion when your first kiss as man and wife awakens your lovely señorita and your first night together brings her to married womanhood? Hmmmm?” Xander might have said something after he got over his shock but the lovely señorita in question exploded back through the front door of the studio at that precise moment. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, can’t anybody get anything right? Robin’s Egg Fucking Blue,” she shouted into the phone. “Not turquoise. Robin’s Egg Blue. If you’re having trouble I suggest you check the color swatches, Mother. Right. Love you too.” It was only the intense training I’d had in dance and the fact that I ground the heel of one of my feet over the toes of the other that kept me from laughing with joy. We had six weeks of lessons, two per week, at two hundred dollars an hour. The night was young and so was I. ™™™ When Xander came in for the second week’s lesson, looking at his watch and making excuses for his fiancée, I was concerned. I continued my ruse, acting the part of the Latino dance master, like a guest star from an episode of “I Love Lucy.” But sadly, I had begun to like Xander Farmington, and on those rare occasions when I had to go over a dance step with him up close and personal, I discovered that he just might like me too. It was not the first time one of my groom-to-be clients reacted to my close proximity in an unexpected way. Most were horrified, and jumped away, for all intents and purposes ending the lesson, keeping six or seven feet of air between our bodies from that point on. Yet Alexander Farmington, damn him,

164 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD dared to smile at me, a knowing, worldly little smile that did nothing to put out the spark that jumped between us. His eyes promised to fan it to a conflagration and it was I who backed away. “Our princess keeps us waiting again.” I smiled my “waitingfor-princesses” smile and shrugged my “what-can-you-do-withwomen” shoulders. “Beautiful women are not to be rushed.” “You find Alyssa beautiful?” he asked, although I think he only said it because he knew that I did not. “Certainly she is beautiful,” I told him, ignoring the twinge I felt at the lie. “All brides are beautiful. It is their fairy story, is it not?” He frowned at that; did I imagine the fleeting flicker of pain in his eyes? “It’s a fairy story all right.” I took my time responding. “The wedding, yes. It’s a woman’s fairy tale for a day. But marriage is very real. One mustn’t be so caught up in the one that one forgets the other.” “Ah, marriage.” He gazed at me. I could not mistake the challenge. “Of course, you’re an expert on the subject of women and marriage.” “I? No.” I told him honestly. “I have never had the privilege.” I did that thing you do, the little bow, with my hand on my heart to show humility. “I have never been moved by a passion as great as yours for the fair Alyssa.” “I don’t need to defend myself to you,” he said quietly. “I meant nothing by—” “Of course you did,” he said. It was then that I realized he’d been handling me just as I had been handling him. “Anyone can see she’s got all the charm of a Viking berserker. You’d be preaching to the choir. I can honestly say that this whole wedding thing has proved to be a fairy story for us both, but it’s more like Hansel and Gretel. In this case our parents got together to lead us into the woods, and they’ve left a trail of incentives, if we go through with this charade, that have turned out to be far more than either of us can resist.” “You marry her for money?”

I DO! 165 “And status, and peace, and to merge two rather large competing businesses into one all-powerful entity.” “I see.” “What do you see, Tango Master Gabriel?” he taunted. “Do you see that the most genuinely authentic thing about the marriage between Alyssa and me will be the wedding itself? Sort of like a grand opening ceremony at a car dealership or a ribbon cutting at the mall?” “How truly sad.” “Why?” He put his chin up a little. “That is not what I believe marriage should be, Xander Farmington,” I told him. “Marriage is for choosing a companion to enhance your life. One whose joy makes you radiate your own.” I admit that at the time I was thinking of my uncles and their beautiful dancing wives. About the fighting, the making up, and the children who ran around the dance studio between the feet of their talented parents. “I see, you’re an old-fashioned sort of tango master who speaks in support of traditional marriage, even though your dick gets hard every time you brush against me.” “I beg your pardon,” I snapped. “I would hardly call you,” he advanced on me, his very proximity making my heart slam against my chest, “any sort of an expert on traditional—” “Oh, my fucking G—” “What!” both Xander and I started guiltily. “I can’t believe my hairdresser had her baby two months early!” She was frantically scrolling through the address book on her iPhone. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?” “Is she all right?” Xander asked. I had to give him credit for that. “Is the baby? Are you out of your mind? Who cares about your hair?” She sighed, and for the first time I saw that they might be friends. “Oh, shit.” Xander took her phone away. “You’re getting completely out of control, Lyssa.”

166 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD “I am? I am! Oh my fucking gosh I’m a monster!” He took her into his arms and she melted. It was completely at odds with what he said about the mercenary beginnings of their life together. I saw that they cared for each other. I saw they could soothe each other. I saw it could work. I hated her. “Well, if we aren’t too distraught to work, today.” I looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes of their hour was already gone. “Fine,” Xander was curt. “You’re the maestro. Lyssa, let’s find a nice place for your friend.” He took her voluminous purse, and set it down on the side of the dance floor. The dog rarely ventured a nose out while we danced; it didn’t seem as curious as it was exhausted by being dragged around by its owner. Alyssa ventured a smile. “We practiced over the weekend.” “Excellent,” I said absently as I went to the sound system and cued up their music. “Shall you begin by showing me what you’ve practiced then?” I prepared myself to hate it. Xander Farmington had the gift of natural grace, but used it like an athlete. He played soccer, I knew, which required speed and fancy footwork, but on the dance floor he lacked the required desire to be the center of attention. He had pride, but it manifested itself in other ways. Alyssa, on the other hand, adored the spotlight, and swung and whipped and swirled around him like a bullfighter’s cape. She could certainly sell the dance all by herself, yet I felt something driving me that day; something that compelled me to sit on Xander a little for his lack of spirit. “Mr. Farmington. Is this or is this not the woman you love?” His mouth dropped open a little and his eyes narrowed. “Of course,” he replied. “Then I suggest you begin by making it appear that you want her, Mr. Farmington.” I motioned with my hands. “Take her in your arms, she will not break. Look at her with longing. You will be the envy of every man in the room, make them feel your desire.”

I DO! 167 He broke off his dance abruptly. “Perhaps you should show me exactly how that’s done.” “Of course,” I said, turning to Alyssa, fully prepared to play the Don Juan. Xander stepped in the way as I went to take her into my arms. “I’ll get a better picture of the whole thing if you show me like this.” He gripped me in his strong arms, but then changed hands when he remembered I was supposed to teach him how to lead. “Sorry, you be the man.” He assumed the position. “Go ahead.” “Fine,” I murmured, pulling him close, even as I watched his eyes go wary. “You, Mr. Farmington, are the spark,” I executed the same steps I’d taught him. “The woman, she is the flame.” I don’t know where I come up with this stuff. It’s a cinch I heard one of my uncles say it to a client or to tease his wife. That I managed it with a straight face was glorious, as was Farmington’s face when I dipped him. “To dance, Mr. Farmington, is to make love in public. It is to allow all those present to share in the desire you feel for your partner. You must always be aware of her. You must gaze into her eyes and tell her without words what you feel for her.” Suddenly, as I brushed against him, his swelling cock told me something, no words required. The faintest hint of crimson stole over those tanned cheeks and his lashes lowered. I wondered if I dared let him go. My answering erection would be apparent in the tight pants I wore. His eyes rose back to mine just as his heel came down on my instep, crushing my foot. I gasped in pain and I doubled over involuntarily, striking his nose hard with my forehead. When I looked up I saw that he’d done it on purpose. “Shit!” Xander said as he cupped his nose and backed away. “I beg your pardon” “I’m so sorry,” I told him, limping over to the music player. “You and Alyssa continue on, and be glad she’s not the klutz I appear to be today.

168 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD “It was entirely my fault,” he said sincerely, meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry, I appear to be less in control than usual.” I eyed him, but he took Alyssa into his arms and began to dance. They hacked their way through the opening notes of the tango for another half an hour or so, until Alyssa’s dog started barking and her attention was claimed by that. Farmington’s focus was entirely on me, and I felt it all through my body like poison, that answering hum in my blood that told me to be ready for anything. “Alyssa,” Farmington said as he was showing her out. “I need to talk to the maestro for a minute; you go on ahead, I’ll see you later, all right?” “Sure.” She kissed him. “Don’t forget, tonight we’re going over Dad’s plans for the new building.” “Got it.” He shooed her out the door. I thought I should be preparing for a confrontation. Instead, he went to the CD player and cued up the music. He came back to me and pulled me to him. “I’ll lead this time, shall I?” I didn’t have a chance to reply as he cinched me to him, his entire body pressed to mine like it was velcroed there. He knew the moves and didn’t hold back one bit as he put me through them, lighting little fires along my skin with every brush, with every touch. I whirled and dipped at least as much as Alyssa did, automatically giving in to whatever his body told me to do. He pulled me close one last time and backed me into the wall. For a moment I just hung there, waiting. He lifted one of my legs by the thigh and ground into me, hips first, just to see the surrender in my eyes. “This is wrong,” I told him. “Alyssa knows I’m gay. We’re not like that, she and I. We make our own way.” “That makes it worse, if you ask me.” “I’m not asking you.” He moved in to kiss me then, running his tongue over the seam of my lips, trying to coax them open. “Not about that, anyway.”

I DO! 169 His big hands cupped my ass in those damned tight pants and I made a mental note to wear baggy blue jeans next time. Touching my ass through that thin fabric had to feel like caressing my naked skin. Somehow my hands had slipped under his shirt in back, pulling the fine fabric out of his trousers and seeking the skin underneath. I found muscle, hot and flexing, as he humped against my thigh. “Say yes, say yes, Gabriel,” he implored against my mouth even as he shook out of his jacket. It hit the ground with a thud behind us somewhere, and the next thing I knew his fingers were undoing the buttons on my shirt. “Are you out of your—” “You want this as much as I do.” He was fumbling with the fabric, slipping a hand in to brush against a nipple. It was a moment or two before I realized his hands were only free because I had my legs wrapped around him and my back was braced against the wall. “Stop!” I said, and to his credit he froze. “Don’t tell me you don’t want me; I can feel the evidence.” “I want you. Of course I want you. I just,” I searched for the right words and I had to work to keep the accent in place. “I simply want more than this.” He put his hands on my hips then and supported me while I put my legs back on the ground. “I know that you enter into this marriage as though it were a contract. You see it as something legal, to be negotiated. Yet I see that you begin a lifetime of dishonesty.” “Alyssa and I have no secrets from one another. I’m sure she knew I intended to hook up here when she left. She gave me one of those looks, like, don’t make a mess.” “A mess.” “I know how to keep thing separate. We could have something. I know you feel it.” “There’s nothing to feel here but flesh,” I said, taking his hand and pulling him to the studio office. Okay, since when was flesh a bad thing? Xander confused me.

170 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD “I’m okay with flesh.” He grinned cheekily and came along with a sigh. Once inside the office I indicated the pictures on the wall, hundreds of them, a shrine to my mother and father, my uncles, their wives, and their kids. “I am more than flesh, Xander Farmington. What you see here is the history of my family. We fill our lives with love, with laughter, with children. We do not grope in a dance studio because we feel like it and then move on to the next partner. We understand that partnership is a commitment. There is trust to be built. Intimacy to be explored. Time spent sharing and giving and taking. You know nothing of this.” In that moment the accent, the persona, and I became seamless. I realized that Tango Master Gabriel was far more than a role I played. “You know nothing of love, Xander, and you will never learn as long as dishonesty and subterfuge have any place in your life.” “You’re gay, Gabriel. You can’t marry in this state. You can’t have a family in the normal course of things. Society won’t permit it. What will you tell your family? Will they just welcome the idea of gay Gabriel?” In that moment I felt sorry for him. I could see his doubt, his pain, and his fear of his family’s rejection. “I am truly sorry, Xander,” I told him. “I understand your fear. My family knows all about me. I know it can be different for others, and I’m truly sorry if I made it sound—” “It’s all right,” Xander said, turning. “I don’t expect you to understand. If I were honest I’d lose everything. It doesn’t matter who I marry. Only that I do. Alyssa knows and understands. It’s a match made in…” He swallowed hard. “What about your children? What about when they wonder—” Xander straightened his shoulders defensively. “We’re a family of disinterested fathers.” He turned and left the office. I followed and watched as he picked up his jacket. “I’m convinced that—straight or gay—I can imbue my children with the same sense of obligation to tradition. I come from a long line of unhealthy role models.”

I DO! 171 “Straight or gay?” I mocked. “How nice for you to have that choice.” “Yes, well. As far as I know, even if they were to autopsy my cold, dead body, they wouldn’t find the answer to that question.” “As if you need the answer.” “Actually,” he turned to look me in the eye, “I don’t need the answer. I don’t care about the answer. I care about expedience. I care about what gets me from Point A to Point B. My family wants the package tied up with a nice little bow. Marriage, kids, church on Sunday. Who the fuck cares whether it’s real as long as we all play nice and nobody gets hurt?” “Another compelling case for ‘traditional family values.’ I am sold. Where do I renounce my citizenship in the human race? I too, want to live my life in the ‘who the fuck cares whether it’s real’ way.” I’m sure my accent got even thicker. He was smoldering with anger, but controlled it magnificently. Damn him. “I’ll just be leaving now,” he said, marching to the door. “See you next time.” Xander left without a backward glance. I’m sorry to say that I hated to see him go. I liked him. More than liked him. I felt bad for him, hated his dishonesty, worried for his future, but I wanted him. ™™™ When I thought about it I knew I was as big a liar as Xander Farmington. I might have been a little ashamed. Dishonesty for filthy lucre was, after all, my middle name. I spent several sleepless nights over this, rationalizing the fact that I lied to him every time he set foot in the dance studio. It might have all been easier to take if he’d shown by one solitary word or glance that he regretted the fact that we hadn’t, to use his words, hooked up. When he came back to the studio with the fair Alyssa draped over his arm like a waiter’s towel, he simply ignored the spark that I still felt leap between us. I no longer had to show either one of them the dance steps. Except for the fact that they’d

172 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD paid for the privilege and Alyssa clearly needed something to do besides go nuclear over every little detail, they probably didn’t have come at all. Which made me feel uncharacteristically melancholy. That was why I joined my uncles at Champs bar where they were watching the Angels play the Toronto Blue Jays. I was feeling blue and needed a beer and the company of my family to remind me that things would go on as usual even if I’d lost my heart, for a while, to a man who didn’t have any use for it. I was drinking and reminding myself that at least I hadn’t lost my head. “I’m telling you, Gabriel, this is going to be the Angels’ year,” my uncle Miguel was telling me. He waved his beer bottle around when he talked, a sure sign that it was his third. Good thing the bar was in walking distance of my grandfather’s house where all the wives were gathered, cooking. “You say that every year.” “I was right once,” he defended his loyalty. “It could happen again.” We all watched as Kendrys Morales, a family favorite, came to bat with two men on. My uncles had a particular soft spot for the Cuban-born Morales, and we all watched with interest as he took a fastball high and a little too far inside. “They’ve got no call to brush him off like that.” My uncle Hector watched carefully. I knew he calculated every statistic in his head. “He’s only batting around .215 since he was called back up. It’s not like he’s a threat.” “I have hopes for him though,” said my uncle. He’d been keeping an eye on the first baseman even after he was sent down in 2006. “A buck says he gets a base hit RBI.” “You’re dreaming, but you’re on,” Hector said. I just drank and watched, eventually drifting away from the conversation until Hector came right into my line of vision, blocking the big screen, his warm brown eyes concerned. “What’s up, Gabby? You’re off your game.” “It’s fine.” I said. “I’m fine, just busy with finals and wedding season.” “How’s that going? Tango Master Gabriel?”

I DO! 173 “I’ve got enough business to pay for school next year, and if I get a teaching fellowship I’ll be rolling in dough. For me anyway.” “Any chance of that?” “Yeah.” I said. “Not to brag or anything but I’ll be the best candidate.” “So what will you do, give up teaching dance? Give up dancing altogether to teach philosophy when you get your graduate degree?” This was a sore point with the uncles who always wanted me to compete. They’d even capitulated and agreed that I could compete on the same-sex dance circuit, as long as I continued to dance under the Aimar studio name. “I’m sure I belong in academics. I’m the official ugly duckling of the Aimar dancing men anyway, no chance of following in the exciting Aimar brothers’ footsteps.” I felt particularly sorry for myself and didn’t mind if he saw it. “I don’t think there’s going to be a partner for me, Tio.” He reached over and smacked me on the side of the head. “You’ll find a partner, little G. Someone who warms your heart. You’ll love him and coax him onto the dance floor with you. Thirty years will pass and you’ll still be looking at each other with the same heat in your eyes. It will happen for you.” “They don’t make many great guys like you here, Tio, but it’s nice to dream.” Just then Morales poked the ball into right field; it dropped right between the Blue Jays’ first baseman and their outfielder for a base hit. “Yes!” I shouted. “You owe Uncle Miguel a buck. Did you see that? He just lobbed it in there like the Goodyear fucking blimp!” Miguel got up and we slammed against each other, belly-bouncing off one another and high-fiving like the South American footballers we are instead of baseball fans. Baseball doesn’t have exciting moments very often; the trick is to celebrate each one as if it might be your last. “Hit ‘em where they ain’t!” “I couldn’t help but notice you seem to have left your accent at the studio,” came a frigid voice from behind me.

174 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD I spun around and found Xander looking like an underwear ad model even though he had clothes on. “Xander!” I brazened it out. “What brings you here, and where is your bride, the lovely Alyssa?” “You can cut the crap right now,” he fumed. “Your lecture on honesty kept me awake the last few nights so I called Sophie to see if she knew where I could find you. She gave me your home number and your mother told me you’d be here. Nice, Tango Master Gabriel. How refreshing to find you’re just as big a liar as the rest of us. Diogenes would walk his feet off in this town and find not one honest man.” “A true follower of Diogenes, a functional cynic, would not give up his personal freedom or his nature for money. And technically he was looking for a human being.” “So? I’m a dysfunctional cynic.” He raised his eyebrows. “And it seems I have company.” “The only thing I lie about? Is where I come from. I play a role and most people enjoy it. I don’t lie about who I am intrinsically.” “I don’t have time for the argument,” he told me. “But if I did you’d have the fight of your life. I have a wedding to prepare for.” He walked away for the second time, and I’m not ashamed to say I went after him and tried to apologize. Xander got as far as his immaculate cream-colored BMW before I caught up with him. “I’m sorry, all right?” I said, catching the door before he could open it. “I’m sorry.” He turned. “For what?” “Excuse me?’” “What are you sorry for? Are you sorry that you are just as dishonest as I am? Are you sorry that you accused me of being a jerk? Are you sorry you got caught in your lie? Which is it?” “Yes.” I told him, and he made a noise like a pop can opening. “Yes, all right? All of the above.” “Thanks.” He glared at my hand on the door. “Now if you’ll—” “I meant what I said, though. You’re wrong if you think marrying Alyssa will work. Sooner or later you’ll find someone

I DO! 175 who makes your heart sing and you won’t be able to go home to the wife and kids and act like nothing is wrong. Sooner or later you’re going to disappoint not only Alyssa, but your whole family and, most importantly, yourself.” “Why are you telling me this? Why would you even care?” He ran an impatient hand through his hair. “I’m getting married! It’s a ten-ton snowball rolling down a damn hill and picking up speed. What the fuck do you think I can do about it now?” “Nothing. I’m sorry.” I felt like crap, and it wasn’t helping to hear him yell. “You just being Mr. Honesty?” “I guess.” “Do you have any lube with you?” “What?” I looked at the ground. “Geez. No.” “Well then I’m going to shove off. If you want to fuck me, I’m there. If not? I have to get married and I don’t have time for shit like this.” I pulled my hand away from the door and stepped back. He got into the car, but sighed, as though he deflated, then looked back at me. “Do you actually think you’ll find that? That person who makes your heart sing?” In for a penny, I thought. “I have,” I told him. He could not have mistaken what I meant when I said it. Xander looked at me, then at the keys in his hand. Then he looked back at me and for a second, one incredible, tiny, brief second, I thought he was going to get back out of the car. “Good for you,” he said, and slammed the door shut between us. The next day Sophie called to tell me that Xander and Alyssa wouldn’t be coming back to finish their lessons. ™™™ Fall came, and with it my new teaching gig at school. The first quarter was almost over and only a few of the students were rolling their eyes behind my back. Wedding season was behind me, and I was looking forward to a brief respite from socializing. Sophie and her wedding planner friends still kept

176 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD me plenty busy with December brides, as many as I could squeeze in, and I’d gotten myself a better car because of it. When I took possession of it the first thing I did was call Sophie to show it off. She asked me if I’d meet her at the studio; she had a couple that wanted to meet me. It wasn’t unusual to schmooze couples before they signed on for dance lessons, although I wasn’t planning on working that day, so I didn’t have my “costume.” I showed up twenty minutes later in a pair of blue jeans and a tight T-shirt with a picture of Argentina on it and the slogan, “Countries That Should Not Cry For Me.” Soph’s car wasn’t in the parking lot when I pulled in with my new cashmere silver BMW 128i coupe. And yes, it was obvious that I was still chasing my thing for Xander Farmington in my heart even if I knew in my head there was not a hope in the world. I opened up the studio, and started the music in the background to give it ambiance. When I heard the door open, I turned to find Sophie coming in with Alyssa FarmingtonKitchner. I grabbed for the accent out of my imaginary closet of lame-things-I-do-when I’m surprised. “Alyssa, corazón, how are you? You sparkle like the new bride, where is your husband, the doting Xander? Is he not afraid you’ll be stolen by the many men who will look upon you and fall hopelessly in love?” She raised one perfect eyebrow. “He told me you were full of it, but you are the master of craptology. Awesome.” She fussed with her purse for a minute, moving her hapless dog out of the way as she searched for something at the bottom. “I brought you a CD of the wedding pictures. There are also pics on there of the honeymoon. Did Sophie tell you that we went to The Seychelles and stayed at Lemuria? It was fabulous. I couldn’t have asked for a better time.” “Thank you, Alyssa,” I said, gifting her with one of my humble bows. “I can see that my long and boring nights of watching pay-per-view wrestling are over forever.” Alyssa snorted out loud. “You really are something.” “But what? I wonder,” came a voice I recognized all too well from behind me. Even though in my head I was telling myself,

I DO! 177 ‘don’t turn around, don’t turn around’ my heart couldn’t take the strain and I did it anyway. Behind me stood Xander Farmington, every bit as luscious as he ever was, wearing… What the hell was he wearing? Xander stepped forward in a pair of excruciatingly tight-knit pants with flared bottoms, and jazz shoes. He wore some sort of body suit, tucked in, over which he’d slipped a kind of sparkly mesh bolero. It was exactly like my Uncle Hector’s dance costumes. I stared. “Yes,” he said, affecting an accent and reprising my role of dance master perfectly. “What, I wonder, is this man, this Gabriel? I wonder, does he understand the nature of dance, hmmmm?” I rolled my eyes at Sophie, wondering if these two had gotten together today to mock me. I didn’t think my roleplaying had been a terrible crime or anything. This seemed way over the top in the way of retribution. “Look, Farmington,” I said in my normal voice. “I said I was sorry for the deception. I really don’t think—” “No, you do not think at all, Querido, if you believe I would go to all this trouble because I was angry with you.” I had to admit, as he neared me and I caught a whiff of his attractive cologne, he was really good. “Your eyes betray you, and I can hear your heart hammering in your chest like the mouse, when confronted by a hungry tiger.” I sputtered some inane response to that. “Watch closely, Alyssa, while I, Tango Master Alexander, put this jackanapes in his place.” He pulled me to him, getting a hold of my body and pressing himself close. “I don’t understand,” I told him as he bent his knees and stepped back, leading me into the first steps of the dance I taught him and Alyssa for their wedding. There was a twinkle in his eyes, the sure result of a joke being played. I was beginning to feel a spark of hope that the joke wasn’t on me after all. “Your place is with me, Gabriel. When you watch the disc of photographs from our wedding you will not be able to take

178 Tango and Temptation ~ MAXFIELD your eyes off of us, especially as the last four photographs depict us filing documents for an annulment.” “Annulment?” I asked, still having a hard time catching up, especially since he held my body so close and in those tight pants there was nothing to disguise his desire for me. “Yet more support for the traditional marriage argument; you must be so proud.” “Ouch, Querido. Alyssa, the little mouse, he bites. This is what one does,” he said in that thick accent, “when one chooses to be honest about those whom one loves.” He spun me out and reeled me back in, crushing me to him in a kiss that shamed our ancestors with its sheer perfection. I gasped for breath. “What shall you say, mi vida, shall we dance together from now on? Shall we show everyone that to dance is to make love in public?” What could I say? I loved him. I raised an eyebrow of my own and asked, “Do you have any lube with you?”

The Mistake P.A. BROWN

Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. My mother always said I’d end up in a bad way. Who’da thought the old bitch would actually be right for once? I mean the only reason I ended up at the Sleepy Side Motel in the first place was the simple fact I hadn’t eaten in two full days and my gut was telling me to feed it now. How can you argue with your stomach? It’s not like you can tell it to shut up or else, right? So when the guy in the Lincoln stopped me on my stroll through Boystown and offered me a C note to let him fuck me how could I say no? He left me in the car while he paid for the room. I spent the whole time wondering if this was a major or minor mistake. A minor mistake you just feel like shit the next day, wondering how the hell you could have been so dumb. A major mistake and you might not be wondering anything at all. But the guy seemed nice enough. Horny and not bad looking. His eyes weren’t crazy and nothing about him shouted serial killer. Sheesh, like Jeffrey Dahmer wore a sign. In the end my stomach overruled what little common sense I actually possessed and I stayed there waiting for him. Daydreaming about three-course meals with a cheese plate and chocolate tray for dessert. He climbed back into the car and gave me a nervous smile. “There. We’re around back in Room 28.” He parked the Lincoln in the last slot in the shadow of a dumpster that stank of week-old garbage and together we found our way into the room. He shut and locked the door and dumped the key and his briefcase onto the rickety table beside the door. I looked around the hot-sheets hotel. Early American Moteldump. They had bolted a tacky landscape to the wall above the queen-sized bed. As though anyone with two active brain cells and an ounce of taste would actually want to steal the thing. Andrew Pollock it wasn’t. A TV hung from one corner, and a sign proudly proclaiming you could get ‘girls, girls, girls’ for only a few dollars. No thanks, I’ll pass.

182 The Mistake ~ BROWN Mr. Lincoln removed his jacket and draped it over the only chair in the room. He worked at his tie while he studied me. “You’re a sexy little thing, aren’t you?” I bristled. Okay, so I’m not big, barely topping five-eight in stocking feet, but it’s not like I’m puny. When I can, I work out, and until I lost my last job, I’d been a regular at Angel City Gym. I thought I was pretty buff. He tossed his tie on top of his jacket. With a languid wave he let me know it was time for me to start unwrapping. I dragged my leather jacket - courtesy of better times - off and hung it in the tiny closet. I pulled my T-shirt over my head and undid the button of my Levi’s. He watched me avidly and I thought, well why not put a show on for the guy? A happy trick was a generous trick, right? So I slowly eased the fly of my jeans down, writhing my hips more than necessary as I slid them down my legs and let them puddle at my feet. I still wore my Calvin Kleins. I reached in and adjusted myself, trying to stir up some interest in my dick. A few strokes and I managed to get myself semi-hard. It seemed to be enough for him. He had already stripped down to his own skivvies and he stepped up to me. His erection was not in doubt; it filled the front of his boxers and poked through the fly. Just to let him know I was in the game, I reached out and stroked the glistening head. He responded by pushing me down to my knees and thrusting his hips forward into my face, handing me a condom which I deftly slipped over him. Then I slipped my mouth around his fat six inches. This was going to be a snap; a quick bj and I’d be on way to the nearest restaurant to shut my stomach up. He began pumping, grunting and muttering. But before I could finish him off he pulled his dick out of my mouth and hauled me to my feet. “Not so fast, boy,” he said. He turned me toward the bed. I noticed it had a nice old-fashioned headboard, brass piping and all. “You want to earn an extra fifty?” A warning bell went off in my head but my stomach chose that inopportune moment to growl alarmingly. So of course I

I DO! 183 listened to my stomach and instead of hustling out of there I made the mistake of asking, “What do you want?” Damn if he didn’t haul a pair of velvet-lined handcuffs out of his briefcase. He indicated the brass headboard. His voice was hoarse when he said, “I want to fuck you. I’ve got lube.” I stared at him. Now my inner voice was really clamoring. But before I could say anything he pulled out his wallet and withdrew a handful of bills, the smallest looking like a Jackson, and a small tube of lubricant. “Please...” As though to encourage me he folded the bills up and tucked them into the pocket of my jeans. I slid off my Calvins and lay down on my back. I know, I know, I’m an idiot. What was I thinking, right? Well by then I guess maybe I wasn’t. I’ve always been a bit of a fatalist. Remember Doris Day and Que sera, sera? Well there’s my philosophy in a nutshell. What will be will be. He quickly cuffed me to the headboard. He was sporting a pretty impressive boner now; I could see the glistening drops of pre-cum smear the fat head and dribble onto his leg. I felt a jolt of fear when I realized he’d taken off his condom. I was helpless to do more than watch him strip his boxers off and approach me. Was this turning into a major mistake? A little late for regrets. Then he paused to put a second condom on and I relaxed – as well as I could given I was cuffed to the headboard. He slathered cool lube all over my hole, pushing several stiff fingers inside me. I humped against his hand, trying to get in to the proper mood. His fingers pushed and stretched me, stroking my prostate. The pressure finally produced the desired results and my dick saluted him. He seemed flattered by what he saw. “Hey, for such a skinny little thing you’re hung, ain’t you?” Before I could respond to that backhanded compliment he shoved my legs up and positioned the head of his dick against my back door. I braced myself for the pain I knew was coming, squeezing my eyes shut. Which is why I didn’t see what happened next.

184 The Mistake ~ BROWN There was a muffled thump at the door and a shouted command. Then the door exploded inward and the biggest, blackest cop I’d ever seen charged into the room. He was followed by a fat white guy who waddled in and stopped at the threshold, his piggy eyes sweeping the room. He whistled. “Hey, look at this. Doesn’t this look like fun?” Fatso smirked at his partner. “Didn’t I tell you that was Malone’s car? And you never want to listen to me.” If I hadn’t been cuffed to the bed I would have crawled under the floor and cheerfully vanished forever. As it was all I could do was watch as the two cops dragged Mr. Lincoln off me and apply their own cuffs to him. “You should have stayed in Pittsburgh, Malone,” the black cop said. “Now what is your wife going to say about all this? Not to mention Uncle Guido.” “Geez,” Fatso chortled. “What do you think the Family’s going to think of a faggot in the ranks?” “Don’t do this,” Malone cried, his face smeared with tears and his eyes wide with terror. “They’ll kill me. You know they will—” Fatso hauled him toward the door, pausing to scoop up the guy’s clothes and briefcase. “Well, maybe we can work something out. Guess it depends on what you got to tell us.” Fatso hesitated at the door and glanced at me briefly before asking his partner, “You gonna be okay here? I can send in backup.” The black cop smirked. “Nah, I think I can handle it. Let me just check this guy’s story. You take Malone in; I’ll join you at the station later.” “Sure,” Fatso said. He bounced the palm of his hand off Malone’s head. “Give me the keys to the cuffs, lover boy.” Malone stared at the floor and didn’t respond. I felt something cold slither into my gut and it wasn’t Malone’s lubecoated fingers. Fatso cuffed him again. “You’re wasting my time, asshole. Where are the keys?”

I DO! 185 Malone muttered something under his breath. “Speak up.” “I don’t have them.” Both cops turned to stare at me. I blanched. “Well isn’t this just fuckin’-A wonderful,” the black cop muttered. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Malone. “You telling me the truth here, Malone? Cause if I find out otherwise I’ll ship you back to Pittsburgh in parts.” “It’s true. I figured someone would find him and let him go...” “Sure, after you and your money were long gone. Nice one.” Malone briefly met my furious eyes. “Sorry, kid.” “Yeah, right.” Fat lot of good that did me. I turned begging eyes toward the black cop. “Please, you gotta get these off me.” He sighed and met Fatso’s grinning leer. “I guess you better haul this jerk in and start processing him. I’ll call a locksmith.” Fatso shrugged and dragged the still protesting Malone out. The black cop went over and shut the door, propping the chair against it to keep it closed. Then he pulled out a cell and dialed a number. After talking a few minutes he dialed another number and spoke to someone for nearly five minutes, finally giving them the name and address of the motel. When he turned around his gaze was apologetic. “It’s gonna take them at least an hour to get here.” “An hour.” I wanted to weep. This was insane. As though to remind me of what had started all this my stomach growled. He approached the bed, where I squirmed in shame and swept his gaze over my goose bump riddled body. Before he sat on the edge he gently pulled the covers up over me. I muttered thanks and turned my head away from him. “Looks like you got yourself in a bit of a mess here, son.” “Geez, you think?” “Well, while we’re waiting you may as well answer some questions.” “Questions? What kind of questions?” “Let’s start with your name.”

186 The Mistake ~ BROWN I thought of lying, but my ID was right there in my jean’s pocket, so that wouldn’t be very smart. Finally I sighed and admitted, “Rusty. Rusty Donaldson.” “Well, Rusty, I’m Officer Hank Wilson.” He rubbed the smooth skin of his face and flashed me a smile full of perfect, even teeth. I couldn’t help but notice he had the deepest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. “Most people call me Hawk. If I was to take you into the station would I find a sheet on you? Got a record for hustling, Rusty? Maybe drugs? B & E’s?” “No. I don’t.” I put as much indignation in my voice as I could manage. “I just met that guy tonight. He wanted some fun so we came here. Honest, that’s all it was...” “Well now, Rusty, the way I see it, it’s like this,” Hawk said. “I haven’t seen you around the street, so maybe you’re telling me the truth, but this,” he indicated the cuffs and my undressed state, “you gotta admit it don’t look good.” “Okay, you want me to say it? I fucked up big time. I’ve never done it before and I swear to you I will never do it again. Please.” I rattled the headboard and tears filled my eyes. Jesus, I was not gonna cry in front of this guy. “This is really embarrassing.” Then my stomach growled again. Hawk heard this time. “You must really be hungry.” “I’m starving,” I whispered, flushed with shame. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Rusty.” He stood up. “Since we’re gonna be here a while how’d you like it if I grabbed you a burger?” I stared at him. My stomach rumbled at the thought. “Would you?” And he did. He was gone maybe ten minutes and when he came back he had a bag stuffed with the most delicious cheeseburger I’ve ever eaten, fries and onion rings, and a couple of Cokes. Apparently he wasn’t taking any chances I’d expire of starvation. He even held the stuff while I wolfed it down, wiping my mouth when I was done. “Thank you,” I said softly, feeling almost human again. For a minute I could almost forget the state I was in.

I DO! 187 He grinned, a big easy grin that lit up his whole face. “Hey, think nothing of it.” He stared at the TV for a while and I thought he was going to turn it on, maybe watch some porn to kill the time, but after a while he turned back to me. “Where you from, Rusty?” “Ah, Wisconsin. Madison.” “Long way from home.” “Yeah, well, Wisconsin isn’t big on faggots, you know. I thought it might be nice to come someplace where I’m not a total freak.” “Hmmm,” was Hawk’s enlightened response. Like a cop could empathize with a gay man. “Is it?” “Is it what?” “Nice.” “You think?” I rattled the cuffs. “I think Wisconsin’s not much different than Kansas,” he said softly. I stared at him, not getting what he meant for a minute. Then it hit me. My mouth fell open. “You’re gay?” It was his turn to look embarrassed. “Guilty,” he said, then laughed. “Guess that’s not a good choice of words for a cop, is it?” “Jesus, that’s gotta be rough.” He shrugged. “We all make choices. You comfortable enough? Cold?” “No, I’m okay.” Suddenly I giggled. “Well, considering.” “Yeah.” Hawk gently grabbed me under my armpits and levered me up a couple of inches. It immediately took some of the pressure off my arms. I smiled gratefully at him and I swore the guy blushed. “Well, Rusty, what do you do when you’re not, ah, indisposed?” “Funny. I tended bar.” “Boystown?” “Yeah.”

188 The Mistake ~ BROWN “What happened? You look like you’d be popular.” “That was my problem,” I said and shook my head ruefully. “I was - popular that is. But I wasn’t compliant enough and I said no too often.” Again I rattled the cuffs. “Kind of makes this look like a bad cosmic joke, doesn’t it? I get canned for not fucking the customers and end up here for saying yes to another one.” “I heard Cavalcade is hiring,” Hawk said casually. “I know the owner, I could put in a word for you.” “You’d do that?” I frowned. “Why?” “You seem like a decent guy. You get a real job and I won’t have to go through this again. I should be out catching real criminals.” “Funny.” “Instead of being stuck in a motel room with a really good looking guy,” he added softly. My mouth fell open and I stared at him. “You think I’m good looking?” “You looked in a mirror lately? You’re a really hot looking guy, I can see why Malone took the chance he did.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The cop was flirting with me. Suddenly I knew that under his perfectly creased uniform he was hard. I swallowed against a sudden constriction in my throat. “You’re pretty hot yourself,” I said. His right hand slipped down to rest on my hip, his big fingers lightly stroking my flesh through the blanket. I tried to breathe. I felt hot and cold and realized with a shiver that I was getting hard again. I never took my eyes off his face. “What time do you think the locksmith is going to be here?” In answer Hawk pulled out his cell. When he got off it he shrugged. “At least forty-five minutes.” “Be a shame to waste this,” I murmured. “Now wouldn’t it?” He paused for only a second, then lowered his head and slipped his mouth over mine. I reached for him. He gently

I DO! 189 eased his tongue into my mouth and I groaned at the rush of desire. He broke away and laid a wet trail of fire along my jaw. “You sure about this, Rusty? We can wait—” “No.” I thrust my pelvis up and wished he’d take the blanket off me. “I want you, Hawk. Please.” In answer he threw the covers back. He stroked my chest and let his fingers trail down to where my dick pointed at the ceiling, already leaking pre-cum. I urged him on hoarsely and begged him, humping my hips up in supplication. Finally he leaned over and took my pulsing dick in his hot, supple mouth. I gasped at the sensation and groaned when his tongue swirled around my piss-slit and traced the outline of my dick. I bucked my hips up again, driving my dick down his throat. He pulled off me and smiled down at my heated face. “You like that, don’t you?” “Yes, oh Jesus, do it again.” Instead of doing as I asked he stood up and began shedding his clothes. When he was naked I stared at him raptly, devouring the sight. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his huge body. I guessed he must be six-four, six-five and he made my muscles look nonexistent. His chest was broad and hairless; two fat nipples rose out of his bulging pecs and a perfect six-pack flowed down into his slender hips. The trunks of his thighs were as big around as my waist. But it was at the juncture of his legs that my eyes were glued. He was at least eight inches of uncut dick bouncing against his flat stomach, over a pair of fat wrinkled balls as big as eggs. I swallowed against a sudden rush of saliva and reached for him, coming up against my restraints. Seeing my dilemma he rose over me, positioning his dick above my face. Eagerly I leaned toward him, sliding my lips around the fat head and getting my first taste of him. He moaned softly and his hands cupped my head, tangling in my short hair. “Oh, fuck yeah,” he muttered as he began pumping into me.

190 The Mistake ~ BROWN I struggled to take him all in without gagging. I got maybe six inches down my throat. He didn’t force it any further, content to rock back and forth, and I eagerly stroked him with my tongue and lips and even my teeth. His breathing grew harsh and ragged and I knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. But this time I didn’t want it to end so quickly. I twisted aside and pushed him away with my hips and when he met my gaze I smiled into his glazed eyes. “I got condoms in my pocket,” I whispered. “I think that guy left his lube behind.” He rolled off the bed and reappeared moments later with the promised skins and something else - the money Malone had stuffed into my jean’s pocket before the cops busted the door down. He was grinning. “I’d say your friend had a pretty high opinion of your charms.” I looked indignant. “Hey, the money was his idea. Besides,” I sniffed. “It’s not like he intended to leave it.” “Yes, but do you think you’re worth it?” In answer I thrust my hips up at him, spreading my legs to expose myself. “What do you think?” His grin slipped. Without another word he tore open the foil pack and rolled the condom over his glistening dick. I felt a shiver of fear as he positioned himself between my legs, knowing he could do some serious damage to me if he wasn’t careful. But for all his size, Hawk was very gentle. He slathered me with more lube, then eased the head of his dick past my tight outer ring, pausing often to let my body adjust to the invasion. There was a moment of intense pain that faded slowly to be replaced by a new sensation. I moaned and he lowered his mouth to within an inch of mine. “You okay?” he whispered. “Oh God, that feels good. I feel so full...” “You are full,” he said hoarsely. “Full of me. Fuck, you are tight.”

I DO! 191 At my urging he began to move, slowly at first, but quickly picking up speed as desire overcame the last of my pain. My head whipped from side to side and I arched my hips up, wanting to drive him deeper into my gut. He obliged by lifting my legs up over his shoulders and grasping my hips in his big hands as he drove into me. The bed under us began slamming into the wall and I swear the picture bolted to the wall rattled in its frame. This time when he lowered his face to mine I opened my mouth. He rewarded me by jamming his lips over mine and battering me with his tongue. I swallowed his heated moans and fought with his tongue. Our breathing grew harsh and ragged and his thrusts grew wild as he lost control. He wrapped his fist around my dick and pumped me furiously. “Oh yeah, oh fuck, Rusty,” he chanted. His dick swelled impossibly huge inside my tight channel. I couldn’t reach for him with my hands so I wrapped my legs around him and tried to pull him further inside me. My orgasm slammed into me with the force of a freight train. I shouted his name and shot thick globules of jism between us, smearing us both with juice. Then I felt his orgasm start. His face screwed up in a grimace and his entire body went rigid as he drove himself into me one final time. A long drawn-out groan shook the whole room and his impossibly huge dick pulsed and throbbed as he emptied himself into me. Finally he grew still. His arms came around me and he spread hot, moist kisses along my face and jaw, ending at my mouth. “Wow,” was all he said. Eventually he climbed off me and after disposing of his condom, he went in to the bathroom and came out with a damp towel, which he used to clean me off. Then he got dressed and produced the remains of a Coke. I sipped it gratefully. While we waited we talked and I found out he’d been a cop for six years and despite the oddity of being gay in a such a macho organization, he loved his job. He’d never had a boyfriend and most of his sexual encounters were furtive at best.

192 The Mistake ~ BROWN “That must suck,” I said, and he smiled tiredly. “I’ve accepted it.” “You ever think of not just settling?” He shrugged and started to speak when there came a sharp rap at the door. We jerked apart guiltily. It was the locksmith, who had my hands free in no time. I rubbed my sore wrists and watched the locksmith pack up his stuff and leave, trying to ignore the smirk on his face. Once he left, Hawk shut the door behind him and came back over to the bed. I stood up, still rubbing my wrists and arms. I collected my clothes and quickly got dressed. I winced at the soreness in my ass, but I was warmed by the memories the pain brought. I knew if he wanted, I’d take him again in a minute. “Thanks,” I said. “For everything.” “Anytime.” I sincerely hoped he meant that. I traced feathery lines across his broad chest, pausing to tweak one hard nipple through his work shirt. “So. Was I worth it?” He grinned. “Oh, sweetheart. You were the best.” So my mother always said I’d end up in a bad way. But I guess I got the last laugh on her after all. Hawk wants to see me again. In fact, he’s taking me to dinner tomorrow after we meet with the owner of the Cavalcade. After that we’re going back to his place to “talk.” I’ve already made a mental note to pick up a pair of cuffs, with keys.

Holy Macaroni (and Cheese) ALLISON WONDERLAND

I know we were only six years old at the time, and I realize that first graders aren’t exactly famous for their fashion sense, but it was our wedding day, after all. Maybe if we had known that one day, our wedding portrait would be hanging in the hallway of our home, its dimensions enlarged to three times their original size, we would have tried to look a little more presentable. I suppose it seemed like a good idea at the time: neon green stirrup pants paired with a powder pink sweater, a bikini-clad Ariel embroidered on the front. A dollop of fudge dotted Ariel’s nose, enhancing the beauty of the redheaded sea creature. The stain was also a lovely complement to the runnel of vanilla ice cream streaking the leg of my pants. On the sunny side, at least I can take comfort in knowing that I was not the worst-dressed bride in the photograph. Teri should have worn her matching mermaid sweater. I told her to wear her matching mermaid sweater, begged and pleaded with her to wear her matching mermaid sweater. But she didn’t wear her matching mermaid sweater. Instead, she wore this… well, it can hardly be considered an outfit, really. More like a hodgepodge of Halloween costumes, an eclectic ensemble at best. Her black Batgirl cape clashed with her Dorothy dress and hot pink jellies. Her marabou tiara, which sat crookedly on top of her braids, had shed half of its feathers and most of its sparkle. Our mothers thought we were the most dainty, darling daughters they had ever laid eyes on. Seated in plastic lawn chairs in Teri’s backyard, they made such a fuss that we almost called the whole thing off. “Oh, how cute,” they would coo. “Oh, how precious,” they would gush. And, when the opportunity presented itself, they would pinch our cheeks until our faces went numb. Years later, I wondered why they indulged us the way they did. Maybe they thought I was pretending to be a boy. I was the one wearing pants. More than likely, though, they probably thought of our marriage as a rehearsal for the kind of wedding they expected we would have when we were older. The authentic kind, with a gown and a groom, and a gaggle of grumpy, frumpy bridesmaids. Teri’s little brother, a year and a half younger than us, presided over the ceremony, declaring that we were joined in

196 Holy Macaroni (and Cheese) ~ WONDERLAND holy macaroni (and cheese) and that if anybody had any objections, they should speak now or forever hold their horses. Then he said, “You may now kiss the bride,” and we didn’t know which bride he was talking to. All we knew was that we were supposed to make our mouths touch and that we had absolutely no intention of doing any such thing. Only grownups did gross things like kissing, we insisted. Later, I swapped my grape Ring Pop, which was half-eaten, for Teri’s cherry one, which was also half-eaten, and didn’t think anything of it. As we devoured our diamond baubles, Teri and I began preparing for our domestic life together. We imagined that one day we would live in a house made of candy, like the witch’s dwelling in the story of Hansel and Gretel, but without the witch, of course. It would have licorice doors and chocolate floors, and we wanted gummy bear chairs, too, but decided that the bears would stick to the seats of our pants and we would never be able to get up. My marriage to Teri outlasted our Ring Pops, partly because we thought that only adults could get divorced, but mostly because we had perfected the fine art of compromise. That being said, our relationship was not without its discord. In third grade, a dispute over a jump rope prompted my spouse to take my special blue glue and paste the pages of my science textbook together. I didn’t speak to her for two hours. The next day, in an attempt to smooth things over, Teri presented me with a white cardboard box bow-tied with dental floss. Inside, nestled in a bed of white cotton, was a bracelet made of pony beads and plastic pearls. I was ready to forgive and forget. What can I say? I’m a sucker for fancy jewelry. I didn’t even complain that the bracelet was too large or that I had to wrap the string around my wrist twice in order to prevent it from falling off. “I made it extra big so that it’ll last extra long,” my wife had rationalized, fingering the trinket. “Because marriage is forever and forever is a very long time.” Well, it wasn’t really a very long time. Forever ended in seventh grade – or at least went on hiatus – when Teri and I broke our vows by going on a double date with two boys in our class. This became our routine for the next several years, and we always doubled, always, so that we didn’t have to talk about

I DO! 197 the date afterward. We could just put it behind us like a bad experience. These obligatory boyfriends came and went, but our feelings for each other didn’t. Whenever a guy flirted with one of us, the green-eyed monster, never one for subtlety, would make her grand entrance. Our friends could see what we couldn’t: the clenching of our jaws, the stiffening of our posture, the narrowing of our eyes. All the telltale signs of jealousy. But what they couldn’t see was that the guys were not the objects of our desire. We never coveted the guys. It was for this very reason that Teri and I were able to save our marriage, to restore the holiness of our macaroni. And cheese. In our sophomore year, during one of our double dates, Teri passed me a note. I loved Teri’s notes. They were sweet (Thanks for helping me with that Spanish homework.) and silly (I got the hiccups. Holla if you hear me.) and sincere (I love your shirt. It looks so pretty on you.) But this note, this note that she passed me in our sophomore year during one of our double dates, was all three of those things. With a few pen strokes, Teri had been able to say everything that neither of us had been able to say out loud. On one side, the note read: I still think boys have cooties. On the other side, the note said: I know you think so, too. When Teri and I told our parents that we weren’t getting divorced after all, they actually seemed… well, relieved is probably the most accurate way to describe their reaction. I have a feeling they saw it coming, though, and that they probably denied it for a while. But the adjustment period conveniently came with a ten-year head start, so they had plenty of time to get used to the idea of their dainty, darling daughters being wedded wives. Even so, we hemmed and hawed for months before we finally stood them up and told them. And I do mean stood them up, not sat them down, because people only sit for bad news and our news definitely did not qualify as bad news. When my mother heard the good news, she said, “Now I don’t have to tell you about the birds and the bees.”

198 Holy Macaroni (and Cheese) ~ WONDERLAND And my father said, “Now I don’t have to worry about sharing my daughter with another guy.” Then Teri’s father added, “That’s right. We have the privilege of being the only men in our little girls’ lives.” And then Teri’s mother said, because she likes to have the last word, “And no one has to worry about the two of you knocking boots and getting knocked up, at least not out of wedlock, anyway.” Then our mothers pinched our cheeks until they went numb and wished us the best of luck. It wasn’t about luck, though. It was about love. Luck can only take you so far, but love can take you anywhere. Teri and I may not be the most fashionable couple in the world, but our love will always be in style. God, I hate that woman. You see what she does to me? She’s reduced me to a sentimental sap. A walking, talking chick flick. God, I love that woman.

The Snow Queen ERASTES

ONE - JOSH We don’t get snow much anymore. That makes me sound like some old fogy reminiscing about how the summers were always warmer and better than now. I don’t know about the summers. Summer for me meant enforced boredom at some aunt or uncle’s house, an unfamiliar garden and the smell of dying grass. But the winters? The old men in London pubs wrap swollen-jointed fingers around their Real Ale and say that kids don’t know what cold is. They nod, and take bright brown tobacco from stained tins, wrapping their cheap roll-ups easily without dropping a syllable. You’re too young, they tell me – the winters they knew were cold enough to freeze your balls off. No, I’m not quite as bad as that. But I do remember my childhood, and it was snowy every year. I don’t hail from London originally, and where I lived as a young child - before I was brought to English summers and dog turd lawns - snow was like clockwork, blew in on the tail end of fall and didn’t leave till summer was knocking on its door. Here, in anarchistic London, they are surprised by the white stuff every year and the city grinds to an undignified halt, bumping its nose against Christmas. When I was a kid, I had clothes “just for snow;” special clothes that had to be replaced in the fall, because I outgrew them each year. Thick corduroy trousers, padded boots with soles made like animal tracks. Beautiful sheepskin jackets with hoods. I was a clothes whore even back then and, unnatural child, I looked forward to the fall break when one of my aunts would take me shopping. Then there was my sledge. I didn’t see Citizen Kane until I was a grown man so I never thought of naming the thing, but it was my most treasured possession none the less. I warm even now when I think of its heavy, honey-coloured beauty with smooth slats of solid warm ash. Two sturdy runners with shining steel covers. She was fast, and she was so very beautiful. When it did snow, I’d always know, somehow. I’d wake, like a child hearing sleigh bells overhead and I’d rush to the window leaving puffs of vapour on the glass. Wide-eyed, I’d see the first flakes fall and I’d pray to the Snow Queen that it would settle. Fanciful kid? Yes, I suppose I was. Being an only child will do that, I guess.

202 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES I used to watch for hours at time, tracking the progress of every flake that I could, hoping that it would not land only to melt away. Sometimes I was lucky, and the ground would swiftly turn from black to white, but other times and bitterly, more often than not, all it would end with was wet pavements. When it blizzarded, and it did a lot in the memory of my childhood, huge bird-sized flakes fell faster than I could follow with my eyes. It was then that I felt safe. I didn’t need to watch and hope, then I could bounce back to my bed and fall asleep knowing that when I woke, the world would have changed, and it would all be mine. Outside in the white bright light, I was Kay, but a Kay who had taken the Snow Queen to his frozen soul and loved her with all of his ice-stricken heart. I would break off icicles and kiss them in childish homage, imagining they were her stately fingers. Or sometimes I was Gerda – battling through the frozen waste on her beloved sledge to try save her brother, never knowing, never guessing that his heart was given irrevocably to an ice maiden. I never saved Kay in my stories; when I finally reached the Snow Queen’s palace, I would always switch my play to being Kay and I would abandon my sister for the glory and magnificence of the Snow Queen. Gerda brought warmth and thaw – whereas the Snow Queen could give me what I wanted. Eternal winter. Everything wonderful happened in winter. Christmas. Hot chocolate. Presents and hot, hot water, blankets so warm as to hurt, and someone who held you and rubbed your hair so hard your eyes stung. Everything wonderful happened when it snowed. ™™™ People talk about loss. Or rather – they used to. If you aren’t grieving, you find that people will talk about the death of their mother or the time their grandfather died, and how they felt, how they coped. The sudden silence was like a burn; people’s eyes glossed over me the first day I came back to work and I could almost hear their unspoken words. “I don’t know what to say to him.” “It’s not like he’s lost a wife.”

I DO! 203 “I can’t just say ‘Sorry for your loss’ – it seems so – inadequate.” Well, yes – it was inadequate. It couldn’t do anything, anything constructive. It didn’t raise the dead. It didn’t make a time machine. It didn’t make the bed warmer. Or smaller. It didn’t compensate for the terrible falling feeling I got when I turned over in the night and his back wasn’t there – his omnipresent back, curved and so tactile, skin strained over each kissing bump of his spine. It didn’t do that. But it would have helped, maybe a bit. People don’t think that you want to talk about the person that’s died, and perhaps in the spring - when Sam slid away – when I was left with only the shell of him to dispose of and the vacuum of my life – perhaps I couldn’t have talked about him then. But by the time I’d dried myself out, got my crying under control and got back to work, I could’ve done with talking with someone, even if they hadn’t known him. Angie patted my shoulder as I slid into my chair. “You okay?” I shrugged, but I knew what she meant. Out of all the people I’d called friends, she was the only one who had really been there. For the midnight phone calls, the Friday night visits that stretched into weekends because I couldn’t go home, the whole sorry mess that I had been throughout the summer and fall. When the leaves started to drop, I sat in her loft cocooned from the world with a duvet and Debussy - and I told her about the Snow Queen. She had the grace not to laugh; maybe she’d played with dolls in the same way, maybe she was just kind. All the same, I was grateful. I lost myself in work, the way I had dived into chardonnay. Some people need crutches. I tried to ignore the silences, the averted eyes and the way people no longer stopped at my desk for a quick gossip, but it cut deep, it was loss on top of loss on top of loss. “If I’d lost a wife, would they have acted differently?” I railed at Angie that night at the wine bar. She paused, then looked me in the eye and said, “Probably, I don’t know.” Her hands slid down to the Claddagh ring I

204 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES rubbed constantly, as if it were an itch I could scratch or a magic artefact that would grant a wish I dared not voice. “Don’t be too hard on them, Josh. They didn’t know him. You kept him so secret.” “Because he was mine.” I’d said it a thousand times before, but Sam had been mine. I could share TV shows and sports results. I could give my opinions on the news of the day and the typists’ clothes. I let people know my opinions on Obama and Brown and the weather and films, but I never asked people for details of their love lives and I never spoke about Sam. It wasn’t through any sense of shame or concealment; it wasn’t as if I were some hot-shot celebrity who was protecting someone from the glare of the paparazzi. It was simply there were things I couldn’t share. A throwback to a solitary childhood; box of treasures under the bed, sealed with tape. I didn’t know if straight men talked about these little things that turned the day from Sunday to sundae, I had no way of knowing. Surely wives and husbands shared the little sweetnesses of a day apart that we did; the soggy Post-It notes in my tuna sandwich, the unexpected e-mail with exploding balloons, or the daily joy when I switched off my computer and left the office, feeling the warm buzz of my phone going off with the message, “Comin’ home, darlin’?” in that cheesy way he had. None of that was anything I could share. I kept it sealed in a box, hidden under my heart, sealed. I still carried the phone, but it never vibrated in the same way. It was a thing of metal and plastic, cold to the touch. “You need to start going out,” Angie said. Her fingers played with her drink distractedly. Something thrummed in my chest. “You’re kidding, right?” My tone was light, but my stomach felt cold, like she hadn’t been there for the summer, hadn’t really been there. “I don’t mean dating, you plank,” she said, looking shocked. “What? Oh you idiot, how... Forget it.” She shut down like a steel trap. I had to touch her hand to get her to look at me again. “Sorry,” I said, hardly knowing what it was I was sorry for.

I DO! 205 She shrugged it off, with an edge of irritation, “I mean, just out. Fresh air. Walks. Get a dog.” I slugged my beer with a well-practised wrist. I had a retort on my lips but nothing that would help us progress. “Sure,” I said, “sure.” I trusted myself less than her right that second. She caught my hand as I went to ruffle her hair and she kissed it, and I knew right then that I couldn’t impose on her again. “Night, Josh,” she said. “Tomorrow will be easier.” “Sure,” I said again, like some stuck record. “Call me.” It was cold that night, but it smelled like hope. I went to bed when I couldn’t stand the TV any longer and the phone sat accusing and neglected on the nightstand. My sheets were as cold as ever I remembered, the draught extreme, as it always was when the wind turned. The sash windows rocked against the buffeting wind and I found myself sitting up and leaning against the windowsill, looking into the heavens in the same way I did every year. My breath ghosted the glass and for a fraction of a second I imagined that I could feel Sam breathing just behind me, and that his fingers were moving soft and light on my shoulder the way he did before he kissed my neck. I didn’t look round; I tightened my grip on the windowsill and I prayed to my Queen for snow, and for Kay’s iced heart and for Kay’s frozen soul. ™™™ I woke with my cheek stuck to the windowsill and such a crick in my neck I could hardly move my head. The light in the room was the claustrophobic greyness that I recognised like an old friend. Without looking, I knew, I just knew that the world was blanketed in white and my Queen had listened - to half of my plea, at least. I dressed warmly, clothes and boots I stored for days like these; most Londoners, like their city, were caught out by a harsh winter, and struggled through the streets on leather soles, slipping and sliding like Harold Lloyd, or picking their way in fashionable Wellingtons which were not up to the task. Then I just let my feet take me, finding patches of virgin snow so I could be the first to imprint them, but as the morning woke the sleeping city, the pavements turned from white to

206 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES brown and even the continuing blizzard could not renew the overtrodden carpet. So I turned aside and made for Regent’s Park. A few children were playing here and there, playing hookey, their squeals carrying over the landscape made alien by the snow. I cast a longing look at Primrose Hill; already there were lines of people trudging up to the best sledging area this close to central London, but I walked on, pushing my hood down and letting the snow blind me to the sight of people sliding down on sledges, skis and tin trays. The last time I’d been up the Hill I hadn’t been alone. I found I was walking past the outside of the wolves’ enclosure before I realised it and on impulse I turned into the zoo. The snow was stopping at last, although the sky was grey and full of the sweet promise of more. I sunk on the first bench I could find; the café, I discovered, didn’t open for another ten minutes and my stomach was calling for a coffee. The bench was wet under my legs. I was almost alone in the zoo this morning; a crocodile of uniformed children went east from the gate, their tutors hurriedly studying maps and shouting instructions to the rapidly fragmenting group. My breath was dragon vapour. I sat there - the last ice dragon in the world, lost in my thoughts. A little girl of about six clambered onto the bench next to me and I got that horrible sense of invasion of personal space that children never understand. She was dressed in a dark pink coat, the old-fashioned type with a big velvet collar. She sat there for a moment, swinging her legs against the wooden slats and humming tunelessly. I was just about to move when she was gone again, a pink blur in the white, leaving me to wonder who she was, and why she was unattended. Within seconds I realised I was wrong, as a man picked her up and swung her around, and she squealed happily before wriggling free of him and running towards the aviary. Her father, as I assumed he was, sat down and stuck his hands in his pockets. I had to smile inwardly that he’d wrapped his daughter up with gloves and a hat and yet was wearing nothing warmer than a fleece. We sat there in silence for a while and my stomach reminded me that it was empty, so I glanced

I DO! 207 toward the café, which was finally opening. I stood up and bumped right into him, and there was one of those awkward moments where we both apologised together, then we both laughed. He said he owed me a coffee for putting muddy prints all over my shoes and I looked at him and grinned and said, “Hell, why not?” The pink child ran to him and grasped his hand, her cheeks as rosy as her coat; she looked up at him and the look he gave her threatened the ice chips in my heart. And then it started to snow. ™™™

TWO - SEAN I didn’t even expect to have Bess over the weekend; and that was the first of the unexpected things that happened. Her mother rang me on Friday night, out of the blue, I mean, she never broke with our routine. It was fixed: Wednesday afternoon, and every other weekend, so to suddenly find I had another precious two days with her was something I grasped with both hands without asking why. Ellie told me anyway, taking great delight in showing off about her new Chelsea lifestyle and I listened politely. Our arguments were legend, and like a lot of legends were now firmly in the past. Now I did whatever it took to see Bess as regularly and as often as I could. The night before, I’d promised her the zoo, and like her mother, Bess was stubborn, bless her. “You promised,” she’d said, her baby lips setting in a line and her pudgy jaw hardening. “You promised,” she repeated over and over, and there was nothing I could say to convince her that the roads would be full of idiots with no snow sense and the ground was too wet and too cold. Nothing I could say - without blaming Ellie (who couldn’t have known that the Arctic would send us their weather) for not packing her warmest clothes. In the end I’d borrowed a thick coat, hat and gloves from a neighbour and we’d bought some boots from Mr Singh’s on the corner. They were shiny red Wellingtons and they clashed horribly with the coat, but Bess loved them. She danced. The snow let up as I opened the car door and I smiled – perhaps the sun would be out soon.

208 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES I parked as close to the zoo as I could and carried Bess, hoping that the zoo would have salted pavements at the very least. I was surprised that I hadn’t been over-optimistic. A bored boy with a galvanised bucket was chucking orange-pink salt over the paths and I half wondered why they still opened on a day like this, but when I mentioned it to the ticket girl she looked blank for a moment and then said “We’re open every day, ‘cept Christmas,” and gave me another leaflet, as if I were stupid. I dropped Bess on a half-cleared path, and laughed as she strode across the uneven ground. She was picking her feet up and placing them down dramatically as if the shiny red Wellingtons were seven-league boots. My hands and cheeks were numb, every breath I took burned in my chest, but - bad weather or not - she made me feel alive with the greenness of spring that I knew was coming. She ran ahead towards the penguins and by the time I’d caught up with her she was sitting on a bench, feigning impatience at “slow old daddy,” but when I approached she fled, so I sat down, tucking my frozen fingers into my coat. I couldn’t help but notice him. For one thing he was dressed for the snow; a thick sheepskin jacket, one of those padded checked shirts, his throat muffled with a soft scarf almost the exact colour of his hair that peeked from some Norwegian effort of a hat. He was everything that I’d said I’d stay away from. I promise - I’d said to Ellie, I promise. I’d promised it all away for unopposed access. I’d promised that I’d do nothing to confuse our daughter, not until Bess was old enough to understand. I stood up and because I was forcing myself not to look at him, about to call Bess, I smashed right into him and felt myself blushing like an idiot as I trod on his toes. He said it didn’t matter, and I don’t suppose it did, but I wanted it to, and seizing an opportunity that I could mask behind altruism, I invited him for a coffee. The café was warm, and I busied myself with peeling Bess from her wrappings. He pulled off his hat; his hair was dark where the snow had wet it, but light brown and wavy under that stupid hat. “I’m Josh,” he said, holding out a hand.

I DO! 209 “Sean,” I said, and I could tell he knew, and I don’t know how he knew. I hardly knew myself. The snow had started up again, worse than before, blotting the zoo from sight. His hand was warm and I put mine under the table when we let go, a tingling warmth remaining on my palm like a brand. Bess broke the awkward silence. I had been rehearsing a hundred openers, and they all sounded trite and as stupid as I felt. “Where’s your family?” she asked. There was a plastic giraffe on the windowsill and she launched herself at it, forgetting the question as soon as it was asked. The waitress brought coffee for us and hot chocolate for Bess. I was almost grateful to him for answering her. “I just like the zoo,” he said. His voice was a strange blend of accents, not quite American and yet not English. “And the snow.” He looked out the window, and there was a look in his eyes that I couldn’t fathom. It was as if he’d never seen snow before, or had seen a friend he wasn’t expecting. ™™™ “Then Daddy said we couldn’t see the animals.” Bess was climbing the stairs one at a time, complaining with every step. “It snowed and snowed and snowed and Daddy and Josh just talked – it was boring.” “I’m sure Daddy will take you again,” Ellie said. “I’ll be up in a minute.” She turned and arched an eyebrow at me. “Josh?” “Oh – so now I’m not even allowed to know men as friends?” I was instantly defensive and too late I realised that I’d given myself away. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” she said. I loathed her insincerity. “I just hadn’t heard the name before.” “I – We. I met him at the zoo.” I felt the constricting annoyance rising like it always did when she questioned me like this. “That’s all. Bloody hell, Ellie, it’s not as if we’re planning to elope.” She pushed the door shut. “And he’s gay too, is he?” “I don’t know – it doesn’t matter, does it?”

210 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES “I rather think it does if you are planning on seeing him again.” She left the implicit words “or Bess,” unsaid. I wanted to hit her, I wanted to tell her that she had no rights, that I could get a solicitor and have this all sorted out legally, and they might even give me custody – oh, the things I wanted to say to her. But I said nothing – there was nothing to be said that we both hadn’t said a hundred times. “I made you a promise, and I have no intention of breaking it.” “That’s fine,” she said, kissing me lightly on the cheek. Where her lipstick touched my skin, it irritated, and I left without another word to her, pausing only to yell goodnight to my daughter who I could hear singing in her room. Outside I wiped my cheek savagely and drove home in a black mood. The non-argument threatened to ruin the warm glow I’d been basking in since the day before. Eventually, I’d had to leave the café, when I couldn’t force-feed Bess any more junk food and the snow simply wouldn’t stop, so even the chance of sharing the walk around the zoo was ruined. Bess had been bitterly disappointed that we couldn’t stay, but Josh had managed her like a professional dad, saying that all the animals would be tucked up in bed anyway and that she’d not see anything much. “The penguins were out,” she’d said, accusingly. She liked him; she was only this forthright with people she liked. “But they like the cold,” Josh had said – he went on to distract her by talking about penguins and how Emperor penguins raised their young. “The daddies do it?” Bess said, unconvinced. “Yep,” he said, using a saltcellar cupped in his fingers to demonstrate how they balanced the egg on their feet. “And the mummies go and find them food. The daddies have to wait in the cold – for months – until the mummies come back.” Bess rolled her eyes and ignored him after that. It was clear she didn’t believe him. I was grateful just for the excuse to watch him, I gauged his age as similar to mine. His fringe was overlong, and it flopped over his eyes. I wanted to say, “Give me your number,” but I couldn’t find one single excuse to say

I DO! 211 it, and no matter what my suspicions were - if he wasn’t gay, then how stupid would I look? I tucked Bess back into her coat and hat and lifted her up, it was getting deep now, the zoo staff had given up sprinkling salt and were resorting to shovels and brooms. I cursed myself for my inexperience and resigned myself to never seeing him again when he said, “Perhaps, Bess, your daddy will bring you back when the weather’s not so bad?” “Yes,” she said firmly, nodding her head so hard that the pom-pom on the top of her head threatened to put my eye out. “I’d like to tell you more about the penguins,” he said and pushed a card into my hand. I drove home with a stupid grin on my face, which lasted all the way to dropping Bess off at her mother’s. On Monday as I sat down to write my column, I was a morass of justification. My promise to Ellie only really meant cohabiting, I said to myself, what Bess didn’t see didn’t concern her. I stared at the screen for ages, procrastinating. I didn’t write though, I sat and looked at his card. Then I Googled his company, searching the site for any mention of him, but there was none. Finally I gave in, punched the number and waited while my heart thudded in my chest. I was about to ask a man out on a date. I was about to... “Josh Kemsley,” he said. His voice sounded deeper on the phone, and slightly more international. “Josh? It’s Sean. From...” “The zoo,” he finished. “I recognised your voice. How’s Bess?” “Back at her mother’s.” It was the truth, and I congratulated myself on letting him know what the state of my relationship was, at least. He obviously wasn’t put off by the fact that I had a kid, either, and that was encouraging. I told myself I’d deal with Ellie when the time came, if the time came. There was, I told myself no point thinking that this first date, first potential boyfriend (I didn’t count Damien, the hand jobs and hurried fumblings in public toilets) was going anywhere, and until it did, no one needed to know anything more.

212 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES Somehow I stumbled out an invitation, asked him for a drink that evening. There was a long pause and it sounded like he’d put his hand over the mouthpiece. Then he was back, accepting and asking where. As I put the receiver down I wondered why he’d hesitated. He’d been the one to give me his card, after all. ™™™

THREE - JOSH The pub was crowded, as I pushed open the doors. Truth be told, it was Angie who had pushed them open, then pushed me through them. “Why did you give him your card, then, if you didn’t intend to see him?” she’d asked as she escorted me down the road from the office to the pub. The snow had gone from the city streets, the pavements treacherous with black ice for the unwary. “I don’t know,” I’d said for the hundredth time. “He was easy to talk to. And he seemed...” I didn’t like to say desperate, because that wasn’t strictly true. Hopeful? Anxious? It had been a long time since anyone had wanted to impress me, and I’d been flattered. He was nice-looking too, in a dark brooding sort of way, and that didn’t hurt. No one could say that I was going after the same type; he was as unlike Sam as could possibly be. “But you’re sure he’s gay? But he is – or was – married? Be careful, Josh – will you?” He grinned at me from the bar, bought me what I asked for. I felt as awkward as he looked, didn’t know if I should have kissed him on the cheek but I didn’t. We sat down and I asked about Bess again, it seemed our only connection. “I spoke to her this morning,” he said, grinning. He picked at the label of his beer in a distracted manner. It didn’t put me at my ease, any. I wondered if he was regretting this. I wondered a lot of things. The ground wasn’t solid beneath my feet, there was no traction. “Just to remind me that I’d let her down.”

I DO! 213 I didn’t really want to spend the evening talking about his daughter, so we chatted about each other’s work for a while. Then after a couple of more beers he sighed and said, “You haven’t asked me.” “No...I guess I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.” “Yeah, well. It isn’t easy. I’ve already had a lot of stick from people who think that I’m just sodding about.” He gave a dark chuckle, attractive and self-deprecating. “Not the right expression, sorry.” “Are you? Some people do – curious people.” “No. Not in the way they think, not the way you think.” “I’m not thinking anything.” It was strangely true, too, something was different. I felt disconnected, I thought I could ask him anything and it wouldn’t affect me. I felt sheer walls between him and me, centuries high, eons wide. “It’s difficult to explain,” he said. “You’ve always been gay?” I smiled. “I don’t think it’s a life choice, if that’s what you mean.” He coloured and I felt a smile cracking the side of my mouth. “Exactly,” he said. “You’ve always known, and I didn’t. I married late and Bess came along and I just coasted – until...” He paused and looked up at me, his eyes dark. I think he wanted me to take over but I didn’t move a muscle. “Someone I’d known for a long while, it happened over a long time, drinks, talks, then accidental touches...then – it was just like something broke. I wanted him so badly I forgot everything else.” I smiled at that, but it was an automatic response. “Go on.” “She found out almost at once, Ellie, that is – Ellie’s my wife — ex-wife — Someone told her – either that or she’d known that I’d been on the cusp of it, stupid of me really to think she wouldn’t know – he was a mutual friend.” “And I suppose that caused the separation?” He looked down, his nose crinkling, and he tore the label from the bottle. “Yes. She was pretty good about it, all in all – she thinks of Bess first, always has...which is how it should be of course,” he added hastily.

214 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES “What about the other guy?” “Nothing.” “It’s not like there’s any hurry,” I said. He nodded, but I got the strangest feeling he hardly agreed with me. We kept it like that the first night; it would have been, to anyone watching, two guys on the opposite sides of a table, drinking beer. There was nothing arranged, nothing discussed, but when we walked out into the freezing night I could tell by the way he was walking a little too close to the pavement that this was all I was going to get from him tonight. In fact, as we parted at the subway, I wondered if I’d even see him again. It was usually a bad sign, I thought, when they didn’t ask you one question about anything more personal than work. He surprised me by calling the day after next, when I had convinced myself he wouldn’t, had convinced myself that I didn’t actually care. “The other night,” he said. His speech was still full of silences, like holes under ice. “I’m sorry.” “Start again?” “If you want?” “I didn’t hang up on you.” “That’s a good sign?” “It is.” ™™™

FOUR - SEAN I was actually shaking when I met Josh the next night. All I had done was obsess about every word I’d said, every cool look he’d given me. He was so damned self-assured with his lazy drawl and the way he shielded his eyes with his lashes, that I felt sure I looked as gauche and as inexperienced as I felt. He’d said nothing about himself, either, I realised. Offered nothing up other than where he worked and how much he hated it. I didn’t know if he’d had no men in his life, or a thousand. I didn’t even know if he was available. I wondered what he’d thought of my constant nervous chattering.

I DO! 215 He’d suggested the restaurant, an eclectic place in Camden, Scandinavian and German with a mix of northern European beer and food. We were distracted from saying much of anything to each other while we discussed the overlarge Poirot look-alikes squashed into the tables and the pretty Aryan lovelies (who were probably from Chelsea or Camden) in starched white aprons who took our order. New restaurants are a boon to new relationships, there’s so much else to talk about. Once we got to the main course, our chat about the menu and where I’d travelled in Europe fizzled to a halt. This is it, I thought, Eeyore fashion, I’m boring and I can’t even sustain a conversation with a bloke that’s not about my daughter or food. So I took his hand. I couldn’t think what else to do. His hand curled around mine and he smiled. The rest of the meal was sinfully short. Beneath the table his lower leg pressed hard against mine and our hands didn’t leave each other once, not even when he paid. Out on the pavement a cab rolled towards us, its yellow sign fierce and predatory in the snowy dark and as I opened the door for him, he turned his head and kissed me, the merest brush that might almost – but not quite – could have been accidental. ™™™ Some eternity later, he rolled over and kissed me for what could have been for the hundredth time. His lips were cool, his eyes closed. I still felt awkward; it had been a long, long time since I’d had a ‘morning after’ thing even with a woman, and it seemed strange – almost sissy - to be affectionate in this way. “Breakfast?” I said. He grunted and propped himself up by the elbows. “Nice place.” “You said that, last night.” “Must be getting old.” He grabbed me by the arm and pinned me under him, and I wasn’t complaining. After a while I even let myself join in. When I finally crawled out of bed my legs were jelly, but I still wasn’t complaining. Josh was so different to Damian. With him it had been all secrecy and haste, nothing personal, nothing

216 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES affectionate. Bathroom stalls and alleyways, lifts and rooftops. He’d never invited me to his place and had never accepted an invitation to mine. Comparing the meagre two men I’d been involved with wasn’t strictly fair, but Josh’s relaxed attitude was perfect compared with Damian, who had always seemed ashamed of what we did. The phone rang as I stepped into the shower and I left it to ring, I didn’t need to pick Bess up until ten and until then I was going to enjoy the time we had left. It stopped short after a few rings, so I guessed it was nothing urgent. The shower restored me somewhat, and I stuck my head around the bedroom door. “Eggs and bacon all right? I’m not doing anything with maple… What are you doing?” Josh was almost dressed, and he’d gone away again, the clouds drawing over his face as he buttoned his shirt. “I’m going home. Seems I made a mistake.” Then he stopped and looked up at me. “No. That’s not true is it? Seems you made a mistake. The only mistake I made was answering the phone.” He walked towards me and past me into the hall. “Oh – and thinking you were actually available.” My heart gave a lurch. “You answered the phone?” “Yeah,” he said, but his drawl was sarcastic. “I know I shouldn’t, but hell, I didn’t know I shouldn’t. Make yourself at home – didn’t you say?” “Who was it?” It was as pointless a question as any, but I was stalling, trying to jump into a pair of track suit bottoms. “Oh, I think you know. It was your wife. Seems there’s things you hadn’t told me. She seemed pretty pissed off, Sean – why do you think that is?” And still he wasn’t shouting, he was just – cold. “I was going to tell you,” I said, knowing how pathetic that sounded. It was the words a million men used when they knew they’d hurt another. Give me another five seconds and I would be saying ‘I never meant to hurt anyone.’ Had I really turned into that lowlife? “It’s not like we—” “No.” he interrupted. “It’s not like we anything, is it?” “It’s Bess.”

I DO! 217 “Right.” He was sitting down, lacing up his boots. His face was so hard, I could hardly stand it. “Please,” I said, kneeling down before him, “please understand. She’s five. She’s...” “Probably a better judge of character than you know.” He stood up. “Look, I don’t know anything. I don’t know you; I don’t know your daughter. It’s just – a thing. That’s all. Let’s just leave it at that.” Walking to the door he shrugged on his jacket. “Just don’t go around making a habit of it, Sean. Better to stay on the surface if that’s all you’ve got to offer.” “What did she say?” “She asked me who I was, and when I didn’t choose to tell her, seemed she already knew. She then went on to threaten me – and told me to pass on a few choice things, which frankly, I’m not about to do.” I put my hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off, and wouldn’t look at me. “I’ll speak to her,” I said. “I don’t want this to end like this.” “Is it always like that, with you?” I didn’t understand what he meant, and as he walked away down the stair, I called after him, telling him I’d sort it out, but he didn’t even pause. ™™™

FIVE - JOSH He’d rung about seventeen times when I finally picked up the phone. I listened. His explanations were plausible and he sounded so very sincere, and when he said he had to see me I knew that it wouldn’t make any difference, not in the long run. He’d already decided. When I opened the door I could tell by his face. Guilt – and I wondered if his wife had seen that same expression – and I wondered why he was tearing himself apart like this. “It’s all right,” I said, turning away from the door and letting him drift into the flat. “You made it clear from the first.” “You’re angry.” I turned, perched on the back of the settee and examined his face. He looked ill - his face was pale and his eyes had big dark

218 The Snow Queen ~ ERASTES circles. He’d been beating himself up enough, he didn’t need me to add to it. We’d both been saved from the crevasse that we’d known was waiting for us. Another step, and who knows where we could have gone. I guessed we’d never know now. “No, I’m really not.” I wanted to say I was sorry, but that wouldn’t have been true. He looked at me, disbelieving. His eyes met mine and I felt nothing. No pity, no anger. I couldn’t even empathise with him and I just wanted him gone – he was only a stranger I’d got to know. He frowned. “You deserve to be.” “Do I?” I was suddenly tired. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.” I was reminded for a second of some film where the man was as cold as I – I wanted to say It’s beyond my control although the words should have come from Sean rather than I. It irritated me that I couldn’t remember the name of the film, my brain seemed numb; I knew I would have to dive onto the Net to find out what it was as soon as he went and I suddenly wanted him to go, so I could find out. He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t, and when the silence stretched to impossible proportions he turned and left. As the door closed behind him I breathed out, slowly. I tried to feel, tried to care, but I was numb; for all that we could have been, I simply couldn’t bring myself to care that he’d gone. It wasn’t as if I understood – I didn’t want to understand, but where the pain of losing Sam was – where there should have been a renewed and bitter rawness of Sean’s cowardice and instability, there was nothing but a cold and placid millpond of nothing. My hands felt cold, like some creeping frozen paralysis was moving up my arms, through the bone and marrow. I tried to remember Sean’s lips, how they’d brushed against mine that first night and found I couldn’t – whereas this morning it had been as clear as anything. With a dull resignation, I watched his car pull out of the car park and as it made its way up the avenue, the car itself was blotted out in the snow, only the red

I DO! 219 tail lights glowing as it reached the junction, turned left, and was gone. I sat on the window seat and watched the snow, resting my arms on the sill, breathing gently on the window and making vapour pictures. I seemed to feel cool arms around me, gentle, never accusatory, like sweet bands of ice. It was better this way, I could almost hear her say to me. Better to stay frozen – the world out there has nothing but fire for you. This is where you belong. I felt complete for the first time in months as the snow slowly covered the window, one perfect and unique flake at a time. And I was Kay, at last.

Better Than Beautiful ZOE NICHOLS AND CASSIDY RYAN

“So, what do you think? The Stella McCartney or the Donna Karan?” Charlotte turned away from the mirror holding the dresses on their hangers. She raised an expertly tweezed eyebrow in question. Stretched out on the bed, hands behind her head, Becca squinted thoughtfully, giving the dresses due consideration. “Hmm, blue or green? Decisions, decisions.” A mischievous smile tugged at one corner of her mouth and lit up her green eyes. “Actually, I think I prefer you in what you’re wearing.” Charlotte held the dresses to the side and looked down at the scrap of silk that claimed to be panties. “Thanks, but I think I’ll be required to wear just a little bit more.” “Yes, probably best.” She gave Charlotte her best theatrical leer. “Besides, I like knowing that only I get to see what’s under the wrapping.” Becca couldn’t hold the leer as a snicker escaped her. “Well, me and anyone who cares to flip through a copy of Vogue.” Charlotte grinned. “Better than a copy of Playboy. Now, which dress?” She gently shook them so that the expensive material rustled. “Where’s that black one? You know, the wraparound thingy with the sparkly bit at the hip?” Interest piqued, Becca sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “The wraparound thingy with the sparkly bit?” Charlotte laughed and went to the walk-in closet that held more clothes than Becca had owned in her entire life. “You mean the Gucci silk velvet wraparound with the jeweled belt?” Attention keenly focused on Charlotte’s silk-clad backside, Becca nodded distractedly. “Mmhmm, that one. Although the panties are looking better by the second.” She licked her bottom lip. “You could come with me, you know.” Charlotte’s voice was muffled from inside the closet. “Free booze, free food, wall to wall skinny-assed models.” She re-appeared holding another dress on a hanger. “Tell me that isn’t your idea of a fun night out.” Becca got off the bed and moved to stand in front of Charlotte. “All that sounds lovely, but the part I’m not quite so

224 Better Than Beautiful ~ NICHOLS AND RYAN fond of is the part where I have to stand beside my lover all night and pretend to be her friend or her assistant.” She took the hanger from Charlotte and held the dress up in front of Charlotte. “Yes, this is the one.” “Becca…” Looking up, Becca saw guilt cloud Charlotte’s blue eyes and decided to head it off before it had time to take root. “Now, none of that. Go to the party, have fun and bring me back some cake.” She grinned, hoping that Charlotte would return it. It was touch and go for a second – Charlotte hesitated, gnawed on the inside of her bottom lip, then gave Becca a smile. “You’re right, of course. That whole self-flagellation thing got old a long time ago.” She leaned in and placed a kiss on Becca’s lips. “So, what will you do with your free evening?” She unhooked the clasp at the side of the dress and turned around so that Becca could help her slip it on. Becca smoothed her hands over the soft, pale skin of Charlotte’s bare arms, and stood back to watch as her lover efficiently fastened the dress and secured the shimmering belt on the gentle curve of her hips. There was elegance in every movement of her long fingers as they dealt with the belt buckle; an effortless grace that Becca couldn’t hope to attain in ten lifetimes of trying. Turning away, Becca flopped back down on the bed. “I’m going to order pizza, open a bottle of wine and watch the Three’s Company marathon.” “Ooh, Mr. Furley; now there’s a man who knew his fashion.” Charlotte smiled in the mirror as she pinned her deep red hair up so that it was pulled back from her face, but tumbling in fat, glossy curls down her back. “Save me a slice of pizza?” “Hey, you’re not retired yet, missy. Two months and then you can have all the pizza you want.” Becca laughed when Charlotte responded by sticking out her tongue. “See if I bring you back cake then!”

I DO! 225 Becca snorted. “Yeah, like there was ever any real prospect of cake. It’s a cosmetic company product launch – there will likely be gun-toting hoods at the door to search guests for anything with more calories than Tic-Tacs.” “But they’ll be very well dressed hoods,” Charlotte reasoned, and turned away from the mirror. “How do I look?” Tilting her head slightly to the side, Becca appeared to give the question sincere thought, before nodding and answering, “Supremely fuckable.” Charlotte laughed just as the buzzer at the door sounded. “Hold that thought, baby, my car’s here.” Collecting her beaded evening purse, she came to the bed and laid a light kiss on Becca’s lips. “I won’t be late.” Shivering at the husky tone of Charlotte’s voice, Becca had to fight the urge to grab her lover and haul her down onto the bed. “Better not be.” Becca reached up and twirled one of Charlotte’s curls around her finger, and inhaled her scent. “Now, go while you can.” Charlotte’s sigh was all reluctance as she straightened up. Becca relaxed back on the bed and watched Charlotte leave. A smile tugged at Becca’s mouth and excitement unfurled in her stomach. Just two more months, then there would be no more hiding; no more lies. With a giggle that was so girly nobody else in the world would ever be allowed to hear it, Becca jumped up off the bed and reached for the phone. ™™™ “Becca! Oh, lovely, lovely Becca! Where art thou, my lovely?” Charlotte’s low, purring voice sang out the words and Becca tilted her head back on the couch, her mouth full of pizza. She swallowed hastily and called for her lover until Charlotte came slinking around the corner, still perfectly coiffed. “Mmm,” Charlotte murmured as she sidled over to the couch and sank into the cushions, sighing. Her little purse hit

226 Better Than Beautiful ~ NICHOLS AND RYAN the coffee table beside the bottle of wine and open pizza box. “Someone smells delicious.” Becca grinned. “Pepperoni by Chanel.” Charlotte chuckled, sliding out of her shoes and undoing her hair so the ruby curls tumbled down and around her face. “They must make millions,” she crooned before sliding in close and snuggling against Becca. “I missed you terribly, you know.” Tilting Charlotte’s chin up, Becca smiled into bright blue eyes. “I think that’s my cue to give you a thorough kiss to make up for it.” Charlotte’s face softened, and for a moment, something flickered through her eyes before they warmed again. “You don’t have to make anything up to me, baby. You’re perfect.” Becca’s heart gave a twist and she brought her mouth to Charlotte’s. “I love you,” she whispered before pressing in close and licking across the seam of Charlotte’s lips. Charlotte’s lips parted on a moan and Becca was quick to slip her tongue in. They slid together, closer, connecting like perfect puzzle pieces, and drank from each other in leisurely sips. They ended up with Charlotte on top, and when she lifted her head, she was panting. Becca licked her lips and opened her mouth, to say what she didn’t know, but then Charlotte growled, leaned down and captured Becca’s mouth, her tongue shoving in and challenging Becca to a duel. Becca groaned and filled her hands with Charlotte’s bottom, sliding the silky dress up to play with the wisp of material that laughingly called itself underwear. Heat bloomed as Charlotte bucked in her hands, suddenly wild, her mouth biting. Becca gasped, the urgency unexpected and devastating. Charlotte’s mouth took her will and filled her with a matching need. “You have too many clothes on,” Charlotte complained breathlessly, and Becca reluctantly released her lover to pull her shirt off quickly. She didn’t do it much, but when Charlotte decided to run the show, she wasn’t much for a slow ride. Charlotte let her up long enough to strip and to get Becca’s help with the dress, but as soon as the clothes hit the floor, Charlotte was on her again, backing her onto the couch and

I DO! 227 sliding between Becca’s legs once her back touched the cushions. Braless and clad in the barely there black panties, Charlotte was a delicious dream that Becca was humbled to have. Soon she would have Charlotte entirely to herself so she could live this dream over and over. Becca spread her legs and smiled at her lover, who looked over Becca quietly. “Are you gonna just sit there and stare or play with me?” she teased and wasn’t surprised to get a naughty smile in return. Charlotte slid up her body and her fingers popped open the front clasp of Becca’s bra. “Play,” she purred and her tongue flicked a wet path between Becca’s breasts, making her gasp. The bra slid away and Charlotte’s clever fingers went straight to work, playing with Becca’s nipples, cupping and lifting her breasts for Charlotte’s mouth to reach. Becca bucked, need rolling through her in a hot wave as Charlotte’s tongue worked over her nipples, leaving them wet and hard. “Charlotte,” she moaned. “Please!” “Mmm.” The approving sound vibrated through Becca, setting her blood to boil. Then Charlotte sucked her nipple in, tight and fast, and Becca shouted with the pleasure as it pumped through her, surging straight for her pussy. Her hands slid through Charlotte’s hair without control, as she locked her legs around her lover and arched into Charlotte’s mouth. Need rocked Becca as her lover’s fingers ghosted down to her thigh, loosening her leg’s grip enough so Charlotte could rub against her, pussy to soaked pussy. The heat between them, intense even through panties, made Becca gasp louder and Charlotte rocked against her, moaning. Charlotte lifted her head and Becca’s fingers slid free of her hair. She caught Becca’s mouth. “I want to see you come,” Charlotte whispered. “Will you come for me, lovely Becca?” Becca could only get out a moan. She was already there, balancing on the brink. Charlotte’s control over her body was absolute, and with her lover so attentive, it wouldn’t take much to push Becca over.

228 Better Than Beautiful ~ NICHOLS AND RYAN That push was Charlotte’s fingers, slipping in between them and tugging Becca’s panties down. They didn’t go down far, just enough for Charlotte’s long fingers, so elegant to look at, to slip in, two at once, stretching and filling her. Becca arched, her fingers twisting tighter into Charlotte’s hair. “Oh, Char…Char, oh God,” she panted. “Oh God, now, now.” Pressure built as Charlotte worked her fingers in and out, spreading Becca’s moisture and coaxing more and more. Becca twisted, her legs dropping to spread open, offering herself to Charlotte’s expert touch. She stared up at Charlotte’s face, focused and flushed with passion and the image imprinted itself on her brain, along with so many others. Then Charlotte moved to her clit and Becca caught her breath as the pressure burst in her, bowing her spine, and Charlotte’s name left her lips on a scream that would have embarrassed her if she’d had enough of a mind to care. Charlotte rode her orgasm with her, rubbing her clit and sending her over again with just a flick. Becca came furiously with the world bleeding around the edges, losing the ability to scream, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Then she was sinking down into the cushions, drowsy and replete, and Charlotte’s smiling face was above her. The thought of returning the favor occurred, but Charlotte was whispering, “Sleep, love. Sleep.” Becca was gone before she even realized she’d closed her eyes. ™™™ Becca only vaguely recalled moving into the bedroom sometime in the night, but the next time she woke, she and Charlotte were curled up together under the duvet, and weak winter sun was peeking through the gaps in the blinds. With her body still languid from pleasure and Charlotte looking so soft and young in sleep, Becca was tempted to just snuggle closer. But a grumble in her stomach told her that she wasn’t going to remain comfortable for very long. With a sigh, she dropped a light kiss on Charlotte’s forehead and slipped out of bed. She dressed as quietly as she could and, leaving Charlotte sleeping, headed for the coffee shop on the corner.

I DO! 229 Twenty minutes later, juggling two large cappuccinos and a bag of pastries, with a newspaper tucked under her arm, Becca let herself back into the apartment. Hearing the shower running, she went through to the kitchen, dumped the pastries onto a plate and sat at the breakfast bar with the newspaper, waiting for Charlotte to join her. Becca was quite accustomed to seeing pictures of Charlotte in the papers – Charlotte had been at the top of her profession most of her adult life, and was often invited to affairs that made headlines. So when she saw her lover smiling at her from the social page, Becca’s lips curled up in response. But when her gaze drifted to the print underneath, the smile faded and Becca felt the blood drain from her face. Charlotte Scott unveiled as the new face of Cloud Cosmetics. As she read on, a kind of numbness settled on Becca, and her chest tightened like it was being squeezed. It couldn’t be – it just couldn’t. She slid off the bar stool onto legs that were less than steady, and moved around the kitchen in something of a daze. When the door opened and Charlotte appeared, wrapped in a fluffy pink towel, their gazes locked and Charlotte’s eyes widened in alarm. “Becca…” She took a step forward, but Becca held up her hand to halt Charlotte’s steps. “Don’t. Just… don’t.” A sudden wave of anger washed over Becca, shattering the numbness. She pointed blindly at the newspaper lying on the breakfast bar. “Two years, Charlotte? Two fucking years?” Charlotte flinched at the force of the words. “Becca, please let me explain?” She held out her hands, but Becca ignored the silent plea, instead striding across the room and snatching up the newspaper. “What’s to explain, Charlotte? It’s all right here in black and white. You’ve signed a contract to be the face of Cloud Cosmetics for the next two years.” Her words ended on a hiccup and, angered at the show of emotion, Becca screwed the newspaper up into a ball and hurled it across the room. It bounced off the wall and fell to the floor with barely a sound.

230 Better Than Beautiful ~ NICHOLS AND RYAN “I haven’t signed…” Charlotte tried again, her voice small. “Yet!” The word sliced through Charlotte’s attempt to speak. Becca’s chest rose and fell sharply and heat invaded her. “When were you planning on telling me? I assume you were planning on telling me?” “Of course, I just…” Charlotte’s voice trailed off and she moved to the breakfast bar where she leaned back on a stool as if she couldn’t stand up any longer. A part of Becca wanted to go to her lover; hated seeing her look so defeated. But another part – the greater part – was in turmoil as anger, pain and disbelief warred for dominance. “What about us?” Becca hated the fear she heard in her own voice. “What about me? Do I just slink back into the shadows; your dirty little secret?” Her words seemed to re-energize Charlotte, who shot to her feet. “No! No, you were never that. I never treated you like that. I thought you understood?” “What I understood was that you were retiring in two months. I understood that we were going to be married. I understood that we were going to have a life – a real life – together.” Becca could feel tears build and sting the backs of her eyes. “What am I supposed to understand now, Charlotte?” Charlotte stepped toward her, her hands reaching, imploring. But when Becca stayed rooted to the floor, those begging hands fell and Charlotte blinked hard. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know. Becca, I…I’m sorry.” Becca’s heart shattered. The numbness came back, catching and wrapping around her. It cocooned her from the hurt. “I am too, Char. I am too.” Becca tore her gaze from Charlotte’s defeated slump. “I’ll start packing.” She’d barely taken a step when Charlotte’s head snapped up. “What do you mean, packing? You’re leaving me?” The last came out as a bare wisp of sound. “What did you expect? That I’d…that I’d stay here and wait again? That I’d continue playing second fiddle to the catwalk?” A sob started building in Becca’s throat, and she clung to her numbness, praying she’d make it through this goodbye with

I DO! 231 some dignity. She’d break down later. Much later. “I can’t do that, Charlotte. I love you but I can’t do that. Not again.” Charlotte’s face crumpled, still beautiful even in her pain. “No, Becca…please. Please, don’t leave me.” Tears welled up, spilled over. “I love you.” Becca shook her head, hugging herself. “Give me a reason to stay, Char. No more promises, no more pleas to understand. Give me a real reason.” She lifted her head and stared at her lover. “Tell me why.” Charlotte slumped back against the stool and as she rubbed at her wet eyes, she sighed. The sound was heavy in the still air. “I’ve lost you so what does it matter anymore?” Becca thought to answer but the question didn’t seem aimed at her. Charlotte dropped her hands and stared at them for so long, Becca wasn’t sure Charlotte was going to talk. The words that tumbled out next shocked Becca to the core. “I’m scared.” The words barely made it into the air; fading no less than a second after they were said. Becca thought she’d imagined them. But Charlotte’s eyes, huge, stark and definitely terrified told her she had. Becca frowned. “What do you mean, scared? What are you scared of, Char?” “Everything.” Charlotte’s eyes squeezed shut. “Of not being a model anymore. Of failing you. Becca, I’ve been a model for nearly twenty years and it’s all I know how to do. How to be. I’m just a mannequin that can talk. I don’t know if I’m anything else. If I can be anything else.” Becca’s heart broke all over again for the open despair in Charlotte’s soft voice. “Oh, baby,” she whispered. Becca covered the distance between them in a heartbeat and cupped Charlotte’s face, waiting until Charlotte opened her eyes before continuing to speak. “You’re so much more than just your face and your body. How can you think otherwise?” Charlotte blinked and more tears tumbled. “How are you so sure?” she whispered. “I’ve been doing this since I was thirteen, Becca. I don’t have any other skills. What do I have to bring to a marriage? What kind of wife will I be if I can do nothing but smile and look good?”

232 Better Than Beautiful ~ NICHOLS AND RYAN Becca lowered her face until their noses brushed. “You have yourself. We’ve been together for two years, living together; the whole nine yards. I didn’t stay with you to date the model, Charlotte. I stayed with you because I love the woman behind the Prada gown. That woman is the one I sleep with at night, kiss in the morning. You’re that woman, Char. The model is just a piece of your personality and when you’re ready to leave her behind, you’ll still be you.” A hard shudder wracked Charlotte. “I don’t want to fail you, Becca.” Her eyes begged Becca for reassurance. “But I don’t know who ‘me’ is going to be if I walk away from modeling.” Becca slid her hands away from Charlotte’s face to her hands, entwining her fingers with her lover’s. “You’ll be my wife.” Becca smiled, putting all her love for Charlotte into it. “And I’ll be yours. We’ll have our marriage to work on and we’ll have each other to entertain. We’ll eat pizza and watch movies and fight over who gets to be on top. We’ll grow old together and gross out our single friends when we make out at the table. You’ll be Mrs. Charlotte Scott and I’ll be Mrs. Rebecca Scott and we’ll live happily ever after.” Charlotte’s laugh was watery but hopeful. “That’s a tall order.” Becca nodded. “Very tall. If we want to make any headway on it, we’ll have to start soon.” She started to hesitate after she spoke the telling words but Charlotte was nodding and smiling, albeit nervously. “I need to make some calls then.” Charlotte straightened and squeezed Becca’s fingers before she hesitated as well. “Becca…I wanted to ask you. When did you…want to...?” Becca smiled. “Today,” she said firmly and her smile widened at Charlotte’s wide-eyed look. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m a clingy woman. It’s taken me this long to get you. I’m anxious to get you wedded and bedded already. Preferably in that order because I have a recurring fantasy.” Charlotte gave her a mischievous look that made Becca’s heart dance. Becca tugged her closer, reveling in her warmth. “And what is this fantasy?”

I DO! 233 Becca dipped her head so they were nose to nose again. “They all end up the same. You’re naked, sexy and satisfied. But the best part to this particular fantasy is the gold ring sitting on your left hand.” She didn’t have to fake the dreamy sigh. “Naked with my ring on your finger. Baby, it doesn’t get much better than that.” Charlotte’s laugh was pure shocked pleasure, as was the hug she trapped Becca in, still vibrating with the happy noise. Becca fell in love with the sound all over again, especially knowing that she was going to get to hear it over and over for the next fifty years or so. No, Becca thought, stealing a kiss from Charlotte’s smiling mouth and letting that happiness spill inside her like sunshine, it really didn’t get much better than that.

Semi-detached EMMA COLLINGWOOD

James Denningham’s flat overlooked the Thames, but he was too busy with the documents on his desk to pay attention to the striking view of the sun setting over London’s Docklands. The flat’s interior - minimalist design, more expensive than useful - clashed painfully with its Victorian origins. Sebastian thought that James was the type of man made for Chesterfield sofas, Georgian secretaries and cigars, and he was doing his best to destroy the immaculate state of the Denningham residence while sitting on the carpet in the living room. Why that only splash of colour had to be puke-green was beyond him; he hated the damned thing. The TV was on, and Sebastian yelled at it every time the contestants in the quiz show stated that Sweden was the capital of Paris or the Mississippi Italy’s main river. Long legs stretched out, a heap of red boxes to his right and a can of beer to his left, Sebastian was busy removing price tags from the small boxes. From time to time, James would cast him a worried glance through the open door of his study; should the can get knocked over, the carpet would be ruined. That aside, Sebastian was a pleasant sight, and James would have been the first to admit it. He was handsome, but had no fashion sense whatsoever; he always looked as if he’d slept in his jeans and T-shirt after digging them out of a dustbin. Anything beyond enjoying the view was off-limits, though. James was a one-man’s man - and that man wasn’t Sebastian. An open pizza box was just within reach on the coffee table, and Sebastian made a point of leaving grease stains on Thomas’ football magazines every time he reached for another slice. Thomas was James’ boyfriend, a fact Sebastian had finally come to accept, but still, it was important to mark one’s territory. Being outrivaled by a freckly redhead with the charms of a rabid badger and the complexion of a fish’s belly had been a bit of a blow to his ego. Sebastian was licking his fingers clean after devouring the last slice of pizza when the front door opened and Thomas entered, shopping bags in one hand, key in the other. His red hair stood out in spikes and was covered in sawdust.

238 Semi-detached ~ COLLINGWOOD “The working class has arrived,” Sebastian announced, “looking cranky as usual, but he bought beer. Good man.” Upon noticing Thomas’ black eye and split lip, Sebastian arched an eyebrow. “The proletariat’s been struggling. What happened, mate?” Thomas dropped the bags and put the key back in his pocket. “Nothing,” he replied curtly, and took off his leather jacket. This revealed a washed-out black T-shirt as well as bruises on his arms. His right hand was bandaged. Sebastian looked over his shoulder and noticed the disapproving expression on James’ face. “Have you two discovered the fascinating world of BDSM? Or has Conker Boy here been attacked by homophobic skinheads?” he inquired. “Football,” James replied, frowning. “His team lost last weekend. Mens sana in corpore sano and all that.” Sebastian grinned. “More like men insane. I’ll never get the attraction. Most football players are ugly as fuck, anyway. Rugby, on the other hand...” Thomas showed him the finger, but showed no sign of taking the bait. He picked up the shopping bags and headed for the kitchen. Sebastian shrugged and continued removing price tags. He was at box number twelve when Thomas returned to the living room. “You’re just the man to talk about insanity. What are you up to this time?” He picked up one of the boxes, read the label and pulled a face. “What the fuck - laxatives? You got a constipated elephant at home or what?” He dropped the box and went to the study, where James sat in front of his laptop and a notebook, chewing on a pencil. “Probably something kinky I don’t want to know about, anyway.” He rested his hand on the back of James’ neck, rubbing it gently, and kissed him. “I love the taste of graphite in the evening. How are you?” “I’m fine. Hard day?” “The usual. I’ll tell you later. Still working on the speech?” “Yes. No. Sort of. Listen, I’m working on something here which we should discuss, and-” James broke off, drumming the pencil nervously on the mouse pad. “No, it’s not that important. No hurry.” Thomas knew James well enough to make a mental note to get back to him about that “unimportant” business as

I DO! 239 soon as Sebastian had left. If something wasn’t “that important” according to James, it actually was of greatest importance to him. “Sebastian is making a political statement, by the way.” “With laxatives? Sounds more like the preparation for a sitin.” Thomas shook his head and returned to the kitchen to fetch a beer. “Be a good man and get me one as well,” Sebastian called out to him. Thomas muttered something rude, but took two cans of beer from the fridge and threw one to Sebastian, who caught it deftly mid-air. “Cheers, mate. And yes, I’m politically active here. In fact, I’m making a statement in support of my rights as a bisexual man,” he added with pathos. Thomas took a swig. He closed his eyes and enjoyed that first taste, which was always the best, no matter how many cans would follow. “Politically active. Sure, right. Who’s it this time The StraightWay Foundation? Christian Voice? Gafcon? The Prime Minister?” “Iris.” “Oh hell, no,” Thomas groaned. “Why the fuck can’t you just ignore her? She only wants attention. Can’t you just let her believe what she wants? Not that her beliefs make any sense. Unless you’re drunk. And maybe not even then.” “She’s on a mission from God. I just haven’t figured out which God yet; certainly not mine, because I’ve talked to my inner Catholic, and my inner Catholic told me I’m perfectly fine the way I am.” “Yeah, no doubt. I’d say your inner Catholic was pissed, and by that I don’t mean angry. Are you hearing voices, by any chance? Did he also order you to buy tons of laxatives?” “The envy of the Godless heathen. Dear Iris generously offered to put gay folks in touch with friendly Christian psychiatrists who can turn them around and get them back on the right way, which is the straight way. I feel this generous gesture entitles her to a present in return.” “Laxatives?”

240 Semi-detached ~ COLLINGWOOD Sebastian removed another price tag. “I’m only trying to treat all politicians equally here. Pretzels for George, laxatives for Iris. It’s called ‘globalisation,’ Thomas - asininity is a worldwide problem. Now if I could only come up with something for the supporters of Prop Hate...” “What?” “Proposition 8,” James explained helpfully, looking up from his notes. “California. Restriction of the definition of marriage to a union between a man and a woman. It’s been all over the news.” Thomas flopped down on the sofa. “I know it might come as a surprise, but I do read the news as well. I just don’t get how that’s any of our business. I’d say we have enough trouble with our home-grown fuckwits. I don’t get what’s the problem, anyway. Marriage or civil union, so what? Different name, that’s all.” Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “No, it’s not the same. They don’t have the same rights, okay? Some benefits are only available if you’re married, not if you live in a civil partnership, for example. That’s fucking disgusting, and just because you sit here and could get hitched and get it all if you wanted, it doesn’t mean you don’t have to bother about the rights of others across the pond.” James stood up and joined the two, ready to act as mediator if it should become necessary. Sebastian never knew when to stop once he started, and Thomas had the habit of playing dumb to wind him up, only to come up with a perfectly reasonable, intelligent and unexpected response in the end, raining on Sebastian’s parade of righteous indignation. Most of the time, such arguments would end in good-natured banter, but Sebastian really seemed to have a bee in his bonnet about this particular issue, and that bee was about to ruin James’ plans for the evening. “Could we just drop this now, please?” James said. “Or else go outside and fight it out. I wouldn’t want to explain the blood on the carpet to the cleaners.” “Wasn’t me who started it,” was Thomas’ predictable comment. “Why the fuck are we talking about marriage,

I DO! 241 anyway? It’s not like anybody here would get married, right?” Thomas frowned and crushed the now empty can in his hand. “I don’t see the point in marriage, anyway.” “Look who’s talking! Tell you what, next time you go to the pub wearing the wrong club colours, one of your fellow cavemen might break your neck. You’d be wheeled off to the hospital, a vegetable for the rest of your life, and James the man wouldn’t be allowed to visit, because I’m pretty sure that gobshite who’s your brother wouldn’t let him anywhere near you. The law would be on his side, because James is not family. So your old folks could hold a big funeral service for your atheist arse, with a vicar and everything else you never wanted, and just to piss you off, they could ask people to donate to Christian Voice in your honour. Or, God forbid, Manchester United.” Thomas waved Sebastian off. “Listen, Armchair Warrior, if you care so much about gay rights, why don’t you return to lovely Londonderry and start your crusade there rather than shooting your mouth off here where it’s comfortable and relatively safe? You could even have your own mural, you know - ‘Warning! You’re entering pink territory!’” He’d gone too far, and he regretted his outburst as soon as the last word was spoken, like so often before. This could go both ways now: Either Sebastian would explode and they’d have an epic brawl here in the living room, or he would take the high road. Luckily, the latter seemed to be the case. “Right. I’ll come by tomorrow to clean this mess up. The one on the floor, I mean.” Despite James’ protests, Sebastian put on his hooded sweater and leather jacket, then kissed his friend on the cheek. “Call you tomorrow. Bye.” “Bye.” Thomas hadn’t moved. However, when Sebastian opened the front door, he followed him. “Mate - sorry ‘bout that,” he said, scratching his head. “Kiss my Derry arse.” Sebastian slammed the door and was gone. Thomas sighed. “I fucked that up again, didn’t I?”

242 Semi-detached ~ COLLINGWOOD “One could say so, yes. Coffee?” “Good idea.” Thomas sat down and leaned back, staring at Sebastian’s political purchases. In the background he could hear the comforting sound of James fiddling with the coffee machine. “I hate it when he does that, you know.” “What?” James asked, opening the fridge and looking for the milk. “Leaves rather than fights?” “No. Being right. I mean, he’s got a point there.” James brought the coffee and placed the two mugs on the table, taking a seat next to Thomas. “I wish you two would stop pretending you hate each other. Nobody buys that. You gave him a can of your own beer without being forced at gunpoint.” Thomas pulled a face; James knew him all too well. “He always has to push my buttons, the bastard. Marriage! Two years ago, it was me and Maggie and the house, and who knows, by now we might have even had a baby. And then she left me for that fucking idiot, and all that was left for me were the mortgage and the bills and her old clothes in a box.” “The latter made a nice bonfire. And I can’t say I’m sorry she left you.” Thomas gave James an awkward, lopsided smile. “Of course not. I have no regrets; meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. But my old man’s still not talking to me, my brother wants my head on a plate, work is like running the gauntlet - and I didn’t expect you to be like - this.” James reached for the mug and rolled it between his hands. He preferred tea, but it was good to have something to keep his hands busy. “Like what?” Thomas didn’t reply right away; the tip of his tongue firmly pressed into a corner of his mouth, he tried to sort his thoughts first. “It’s not like La Cage aux Folles. Sebastian’s tough, drinking and kick-boxing and all, and you don’t wear pink spandex or walk a poodle. You’re so - normal.” “Well, thank you for that most charming compliment,” James replied tartly. “Lucky me! I’m a normal gay, unlike - who, if I may ask?”

I DO! 243 “No! No! That’s not what I meant! Oh fuck.” Thomas raked his hair with his hands. “Now look, I’m sitting here on your sofa, I love you, the sex is great and I even put up with Sebastian fucking Quinn, and it’s fine. I’ve met your bi-homocosmo-metro-whateverthefuck-sexual mates and I liked most of them, even the ones with the pink spandex and that strange stockbroker who insisted on wearing a collar and a leash at your birthday party. I don’t think I’ll ever get that appeal, by the way. But seriously, I’ve never been happier, despite everything. I never thought this thing - I mean, between you and me - was wrong. I just didn’t expect anything like it to happen, and I can’t simply snap my fingers and forget what I was taught as a lad, or forget what I was like ten years ago. You know, it’s a damned big step from beating up gays to dating one.” “Or being one.” “I’m not gay,” Thomas insisted. “No, of course not. You’re bisexual.” “I’m not bisexual, either.” James stretched out on the sofa, his head on Thomas’ thigh, and looked up at his face. According to Sebastian, Thomas had a mug only a mother could love. At times, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, Sebastian had the sweets for Thomas. “I hate to break the shocking news to you, but being attracted to both women and men can be a sign that somebody might be bisexual.” “I’m not attracted to men,” Thomas protested. “Only to you. That’s not the same.” “Oops! Did I just use the evil b-word? Of course you’re only bisexual for me. In other news, excessive wanking causes hair to grow on your palms, and while we’re at it, never forget the consequences for your mum’s back if you step on a crack. It’s a big world out there, Thomas. No point squeezing all the colour out of mankind by pressing people into monochromatic moulds.” Thomas shrugged. “I just don’t know why he’s starting campaigning for marriage all of a sudden. Never thought that

244 Semi-detached ~ COLLINGWOOD was one of his priorities. I mean, he chases anything on two legs that’s not a ladder.” James caressed Thomas’ forearm. “It’s important to him.” “No doubt the benefits are of special importance.” “Benefits are important, because they are part of equal treatment. But that’s not all there is to marriage. It’s about making a commitment, isn’t it? Standing there for the entire world to see and tell them ‘that’s my man and I love him, deal with it.’” Thomas looked nonplussed. “That’s very serious business, I’d say.” “Yes.” “Ah.” Thomas wasn’t sure what to say next. Had this been a hint? Or just a general statement? Should he ask? Awkward. Luckily, he found a door to escape. “Talking about serious business - you wanted to discuss something with me.” “What?” “You tell me. You said there’s something we need to discuss. Don’t look like a doe caught in the headlights. What’s up?” James, caught off-guard and not expecting this sudden change of subject, bit his lip. “I’m going to sell this flat.” Thomas’ beady blue eyes became wide like saucers, and he stared at James as if he’d just grown a second head. “You’re going to do - what?” “Sell it. The flat.” “Yes, I got that, thank you, I mean ‘what’ as in ‘what the fuck, why?’” James shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not a home. But it’s a home I want. Not just some decorative place where I’m nothing but just another expensive accessory.” “Accessory? What are you, a side table? What kind of home do you want then?” “Mrs. Brownlee’s.” Thomas needed to process that news first. Mrs. Brownlee was his neighbour, the owner of the other half of the semi-

I DO! 245 detached Victorian house he’d lovingly restored over the last three years. New floors, heating, wiring, wallpaper — Thomas had spent a lot of time and money on it. James had helped him, changing his trademark brown corduroys and black turtleneck for old jeans and a ratty sweater, scraping off wallpaper, mixing plaster and keeping the cats from jumping in the paint buckets. They had enjoyed the work on the house enormously, smoked like chimneys and often ended the day with sex on the sofa. Always the sofa. They never made it to the bedroom, a fact James jokingly blamed on the fumes from the paint. Thomas had been worrying about who might buy Mrs. Brownlee’s house, now that she’d moved in with her son and put it on the market. She’d been an old darling, not caring much about James staying overnight, but who knew how new neighbours would react? They could make his life hell. “You mean, you’d leave Canary Wharf to move to fucking Croydon?” Thomas finally asked. “It’s not that bad, is it?” James said nervously. “And don’t worry, I won’t breathe down your neck all the time; I’d have my own place. But we could see more of each other. And I could work from there just as well as from here.” “Ah.” “You don’t sound enthusiastic.” “Eh.” Thomas didn’t comment further, just stared at the telly. A soap was on, and while the characters argued about yet another daily drama, James came to the conclusion that he’d just made a big mistake. Of course Thomas wasn’t ready to take that step yet, the previous argument with Sebastian had made that obvious. Moving in next door - what an idiotic idea! There were the neighbours and the family, and the situation was difficult enough already. He’d ring the estate agent tomorrow and call the deal off. “It’s not a supporting wall,” Thomas said all of a sudden. “Wall?” “I could knock it down, easily.” “Knock down what wall?” Thomas looked very excited all of a sudden.

246 Semi-detached ~ COLLINGWOOD “In my bedroom. I think Mrs. Brownlee has a guestroom on the other side, so we’d get a really big bedroom. I didn’t like the floor, anyway. Parquet would be better. And as you wouldn’t need the kitchen, we could turn it into a study for you. What do you think?” “You’re talking about turning the two houses into one?” James croaked. “As in - we’d live together?” Thomas nodded, in his mind already setting down the basics for his plan. “Don’t worry, it’s not half as bad as it sounds. We’ll need an architect, of course, and I’m afraid Mrs. Brownlee’s house needs new plumbing and everything. But the central heating’s new, put in only two years ago, and her son rewired the place last summer. He did a good job, I think.” Living together. Sharing the house. One bedroom. One kitchen. Their names on the doorbell; Barnett and Denningham. James’ head was spinning from this sudden turn of the conversation. He took Thomas’ healthy hand and squeezed it. “I can tell you’re already calculating how many nails and metres of pipes you’ll need, but are you sure that you want this? Living with me? That would change everything, Thomas. It would be like - being married.” Thomas licked his lips. “That’s not a bad thing, is it? I mean - that whole commitment business. I could do that. And who knows, maybe one day - hey, as long as I don’t have to wear a white puffy dress...good thing we could if we wanted to, isn’t it? Get married, I mean. Just without the baby.” “Well, there’s Sebastian...” James suggested. Thomas cringed, but then he pressed a kiss on James’ head. He remembered Maggie’s mother, and compared to her, Sebastian wasn’t all that bad. At least he wouldn’t use Thomas’ razor to shave his legs.

Rules of the Game MALLORY PATH

“Never?” Scott asks, swiveling the pitcher so he can reach the handle. “Never,” Charlie confirms as Scott pours for him. “Thanks,” he adds. Scott sets down the pitcher without pouring for himself. He watches Charlie tip the stein to his lips and hold it there for a few swallows. “What?” Charlie asks, finally lowering his drink. “Charlie,” Scott says, “are you telling me that Noah has never, ever, not even once bottomed for you?” “That’s what I’m telling you,” Charlie says. “I don’t see what the big deal is. We do everything else. Maybe not everything under the sun.” He pops a few pretzels into his mouth. “But everything I’ve ever dreamed of. And a few things I hadn’t, until Noah.” Scott tops off his own glass. As he takes a long, deep swallow of beer, he considers his friend. “It’s not a big deal,” he concedes at last, tipping his chair back comfortably as he puts his drink down. “You’re both consenting adults; whatever you agree upon between you is your own concern, right?” Charlie doesn’t bother to cover his pause with a drink or a pretzel or anything. The gap in conversation just lies there, Scott looking across it, until Charlie catches the look and says, “Right,” in a tone completely lacking conviction to Scott’s ear. “You’ve talked about it, right?” Charlie shrugs. “It’s just sort of an unspoken agreement. It’s just the way it is, Scott.” “And you’re good with that?” “I’m good with him, yeah,” Charlie says. Scott gives him one more look before turning his attention back to the game on the TV above the bar. “Okay.” A few scoreless plays later, Charlie says, “You think it’s weird that he always tops?” “I think it’s weird that you aren’t curious about it,” Scott says without moving his eyes from the screen.

250 Rules of the Game ~ PATH “It’s not like we don’t do other things.” Charlie twists the ring on his finger. “It’s not like we don’t talk. It’s just when it comes to that, that’s how it is.” “Okay, Charlie,” Scott says, glancing over. “Forget I said anything, okay?” “Okay,” Charlie says, in a tone completely lacking conviction to his own ear. ™™™ “Noah,” Charlie says when they are in bed a few nights later. “Noah,” he says again between kisses, pulling back more than he needs to for breath, enough for eye contact. He smiles when Noah looks at him, and Noah smiles too. “Do you fancy a game tonight?” Noah’s brow quirks up without disrupting his smile. “What sort of game?” Charlie pushes Noah onto his back as he sits up, swinging one leg over to straddle him. Taking Noah’s hands by the wrists, he leans forward as he curves Noah’s arms to the headboard. Without being told, Noah curls his fingers around the slats. Charlie sits back, settling himself on Noah’s abdomen, feeling the swell of breath between his thighs. “As long as both hands stay on the headboard,” Charlie explains, “I have to do whatever you ask. “If I’m able to do something so wondrously that one of your hands comes off the headboard, I don’t have to do what you say anymore–but I can’t do anything you say no to. “If I’m able to get both your hands off the headboard,” Charlie flashes a grin, “then I can do whatever I want.” The grin slides another shade towards wicked. “Anything I want.” Noah matches his grin. “Okay.” He adjusts his grip on the brass slats. “Let’s start with a blowjob.” Charlie moves his smile to Noah’s cock, first kissing the head, then licking the length before swallowing it as Noah directs, sucking until Noah comes down his throat. He keeps Noah in his mouth, listening to the words of praise drip from Noah’s, as Noah goes completely soft.

I DO! 251 When Noah says, “Lower,” Charlie releases him and slides back so he can move his mouth to Noah’s balls. He hovers, painting breath on the tender flesh, inhaling the musk. He hovers until Noah says, “Mouth them.” And Charlie does, brushing his lips against them, parting to breathe them in, drawing them into his mouth with gentle suction, lips still moving, tongue moving too in tender little licks. When he hears the moan from Noah’s mouth, inarticulate but communicating more to him than words could, Charlie almost smiles around Noah’s sac: the first hand will soon be his. A moment later it’s in his hair, not asking for more, not asking anything, just wanting, wanting and needing to be there, burrowing into the softness. Noah chokes a sigh at the loss when Charlie raises his head. Smiling, he acknowledges the fingers in his hair with a touch, briefly curling with them as he says, “May I go lower?” “Yes,” Noah breathes his permission, his smile less obvious, resting at the corners of his mouth. As he moves farther back on the bed, Charlie has a moment of regret for not thinking to ask to kiss Noah’s cock, already hardening and darkening with blood again. But he doesn’t want to break his rhythm, so he slides all the way back between Noah’s legs until his own go over the edge of the bed and his feet touch the floor. Mischief flashes across his lips as he dips his head to press a kiss to the inner spur of Noah’s ankle. He hears a low rumble of laughter and looks up to share Noah’s grin before going down to kiss the other ankle. With Noah’s permission, Charlie makes his way back up Noah’s legs, kiss by kiss, until he reaches their joining. One hand on each thigh, he applies enough pressure to suggest what he wants and Noah spreads for him. “May I kiss you there?” Noah’s breath plays heavy over his lips, the backdraft coaxing out his smile. “Where?” Charlie presses his middle and forefinger to his mouth. “Here,” he smiles, touching the kissed fingertips to opposite sides of Noah’s hole. Noah has to lick his lower lip before the path is slick enough for his “yes” to slide out.

252 Rules of the Game ~ PATH Charlie lowers himself to his belly again, takes a moment to smile at the fingers of Noah’s one hand re-threading into his hair, and then his smile and kiss meet each other as he puts his mouth to Noah. He circles with the tip of his tongue, drags the flat across, presses the pucker of his lips to the pucker of Noah’s asshole. He comes up for breath and for another request: “Lick this for me?” He offers his finger and Noah moves forward for it. As he suckles, Charlie lets his gaze drift from Noah’s face to Noah’s hand, white-knuckled around the headboard’s bar. With a sigh at the pleasant scrape of teeth along the underside and the gorgeous wet softness inside Noah’s lip, Charlie drags his finger free of Noah’s mouth. And then he pushes into a different gorgeousness, just the tip of his finger inside Noah, not pushing more, just sliptwisting. He bends to lick his finger; keeps licking as he withdraws it, and now it is just his tongue slip-twisting, licking, fucking. And then both of Noah’s hands are in Charlie’s hair. The hands fall from him as Charlie sits up. Noah is arching and yielding and open, his body open, his mouth open, his eyes closed. Noah’s eyes open when Charlie touches the head of his cock to Noah’s entrance. They pause the moment to look at each other. Noah’s mouth quirks up in a grin on one side, but he doesn’t say no. Can’t: the game, they both know, doesn’t allow it. Charlie doesn’t push in. He takes Noah’s right hand and curls Noah’s fingers back around the bars of the headboard. His fingertips trace the curved band of gold on the ring finger as he does the same with Noah’s left hand. They look at each other. “Rules of the game,” Charlie says. “You’re back in control.” “Rules of the game,” Noah agrees. Smiles with open eyes and heavy-breathed open mouth: “Fuck me, Charlie.” And Charlie, open-eyed, open-mouthed, open-hearted, does.

Templeton’s In Love JERRY L. WHEELER

The line curled around the block like a pubic hair, I typed in my head. Maybe not the most effective simile, but writing porn for a living leads you to make some weird comparisons. And the line did stretch all the way from the new faux red brick front of CARMINE’S SUPPER CLUB AND RISTORANTE down to their landmark sign a block and a half away. But even landmarks change. The flowing script of the old “Carmine’s” logo had been replaced with a blocky Bodoni whose straight, modern design was almost as offensive as the pretentious “Ristorante” squeezed in at the bottom. This part of Colfax had always been the hip, trendy district, but the patchouli-fragrant head shops and musty used bookstores had been replaced by gourmet ice-cream stands and chain coffee shops with parking spots for strollers and dogs allowed on the patios. The only survivors were Sailor Jack’s Tattoos – now known as BODYART – and Carmine’s. I stepped out of line long enough to gauge the distance to the front door: about fifty or sixty people away. I hoped they wouldn’t sell out. Templeton hasn’t played in ten years – I have to be there. Seeing him without Stan will be strange, but Stan and I haven’t seen each other for ten years either. I wondered if I should get two tickets and who I could ask to go with me when a familiar face emerged from the front door and began walking the line, stopping occasionally to talk to someone. It was Carmine Jr., looking a little older than when I’d last seen him. His face brightened with recognition when he approached. “Tom!” he said, grabbing me in a bear hug. “How are you, buddy? How come we never see you down here anymore?” “I’m good,” I said as we separated and looked at each other. He’d filled out nicely, acquiring that stocky barrel chest Carmine Sr. had, little tufts of hair sticking out of the collar of his white shirt. “I moved out to the burbs – don’t get to the old neighborhood much. If I hadn’t gotten your flyer, I wouldn’t have known about this.” “Flyer? Wow, I didn’t think the homeless guys I hired got out that far.”

256 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER “Your folks still around, or are you running the place now?” He chuckled. “They say it’s mine but Mama comes down to the kitchen every day to tell me what’s wrong with my red sauce and Pop’s usually behind the bar buying drinks for his buddies – you know how it is.” He handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s a ticket voucher. Just pay when you get up to the window. I want to make sure the old crowd gets in to see Templeton.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe he’s playing after what – ten years? He’s got to be in love again. Did you talk to him?” “Pop did. All I know is that I had to get the piano out of storage and have it tuned. He’s gonna be here for one show, tomorrow night – hey, are you still with Stan?” I knew he’d ask. “No, not since Templeton stopped playing.” “Sorry to hear that. You guys were a good couple.” He looked down the line. “I gotta finish handing these out,” he said. “Look, when you get here on Saturday, hunt me down. I won’t have a lot of time to talk, but I’ll make sure you get a good table. If it wasn’t for the old crowd coming to see Templeton, we never would have made it through some pretty lean years. We want to treat you guys right. See ya, buddy.” He clapped me on the shoulder and continued his trek down the line. The old crowd, I thought. Our crowd. Stan and I had seen a lot of the same faces every Saturday night – mostly other gay men, dykes and goth kids with bohemian aspirations, but once word spread, young straight couples started driving in from the suburbs looking for emotional diversions they couldn’t find at the multiplex. Carmine always found tables for us, though – tables for dreaming of ‘the someone’ Templeton sang about, tables for falling in love and tables for breaking up. And in front of the stage sat his partner, Taylor, his bulky frame as out of place at their small table as a stuffed bear at a dollhouse tea party. He was as big and tall as Templeton was short and skinny – opposites who attracted attention. They lived in the neighborhood and Templeton was an accountant. That’s all anyone really knew about them. No one knew how they met or when their birthdays were or even how Templeton

I DO! 257 had started playing at Carmine’s. We didn’t even know his first name. You could spend dinner talking to them, as Stan and I had on a few occasions, and be as clueless by dessert as you were when the salads came. Taylor parried direct questions effortlessly as Templeton smiled, his skinny face full of pianokey teeth, and told another isolated anecdote unrelated to the subject at hand. They were a world unto themselves, and they never handed anyone a map. But Gershwin was in their world – Gershwin, Cole Porter, Rodgers & Hart, Dorothy Fields and Jule Styne. “Nothing past 1960,” Templeton used to say, “when music became vulgar.” And he sang those witty, urbane songs of love and loss directly to the man at the front table, who looked up at the stage with admiration. He played them all for Taylor. Everyone else just happened to be in the same room. Then Stan and I started falling apart. Arguments and tantrums and nights of silent disgust for each other kept us away from Carmine’s for a couple of months. When we went back for an attempted reconciliation dinner, Taylor had lost a shocking amount of weight. AIDS, cancer – who knows what he had? The rumors ran rampant. Templeton still sang to him but a shrill desperation crept into his voice, as if the melody could keep Taylor alive. And we resumed our regular Saturday night attendance, as if it could restore us as well. But in the end, it didn’t work for anybody. Taylor died, Stan and I broke up and Templeton stopped singing. Carmine tried out a few other acts, but it wasn’t the same. And then the small stage was gone, replaced by a few more tables and a coffee station in the back of the room. I moved to the suburbs to hide and write. Now, Templeton was playing. He must be in love again. The box office was getting closer – only a few more people now. We stepped around the legs of a homeless guy sleeping against the wall. His head tilted to the right, slumped on his shoulder as he snored out a foul stink of unbrushed teeth and stale wine.

258 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER Homeless man sex, I thought. That’d be great for the collection of fetish stories I had in the works. It didn’t do anything for me personally, but someone would be bound to get off on it. I noted his craggy, unshaven grey jowls and the stains on the thighs of his tan work pants, forcing myself to look higher at the slight bulge of his crotch and trying to imagine his unwashed cock smell. I stepped closer, hoping no one would notice me trying to sniff a homeless guy. “Tommy? Is that you?” Even if I hadn’t recognized Stan’s voice or the way he called me Tommy, I would have known by his presence. I’d been feeling it since I stepped in line. I figured he was around somewhere – he had to be. I hadn’t let myself look for him because I dreaded seeing him as much as I longed to. If we were supposed to see each other again, he’d have to find me. It was his responsibility. After all, he was the one who left. “If you have to ask, I must be.” I couldn’t help but smile when I looked at him. He always made me smile. What would we do now? An awkward hug that reminded us of what we used to mean to each other – or even worse, a tepid handshake? What do you say to someone whose last words were “Fuck you”? Stan solved the problem by stepping in with a combination hug and clap on the back, heavy on the reassuring clap part. I mirrored his actions, trying to ignore his smell, which I loved – a combination of aftershave and pheromones that always drove me to sniff his pillow long after he’d left our bed. He broke away first, holding me by the shoulders at arm’s length. “You look great,” he said with a broad smile. “So do you.” It wasn’t a lie, at least on my part. Stan used to be geek-chic, tall and skinny with a nose the size of Idaho and deep-set blue eyes. But somewhere between “Fuck you” and “Tommy, is that you?” he’d grown into his nose and put on a few pounds. None of it looked like fat, either. He’d had his teeth fixed and was wearing an Armani sports jacket over a gleaming white shirt, some expensive-looking jeans and loafers that looked too buttery soft to be domestic. Corporate law must have been good to him. And Connie.

I DO! 259 “Thanks, buddy.” The “buddy” sounded too foreign, too straight to be coming out of his mouth. “I can’t believe Templeton’s playing again after all this time. He must be in love again.” “I was thinking the same thing.” “How many, please?” The girl’s face was irritated and expectant. She held a wad of tickets and a finger poised for counting. How long had I been standing in front of the window? “Are you going?” I asked Stan. It was a reflex action. “I wanted to, but it looks like the line’s pretty long. I just got here.” I turned back to the window and reached for my wallet. “Two, please,” I said. She snapped the tickets off a roll and took my money. “Next.” “Does this mean you’re taking me?” he asked as we stepped away from the window. I handed him his ticket “I just gave you a ticket, didn’t I?” “Maybe you’d rather take your boyfriend or partner or whatever.” “Nope.” I tried not to say it like I hadn’t been on a date in five years. “Great,” he said. “I’m looking forward to it. Hey, how about you come over and see my place, Tommy? It’ll shock the hell out of you when you see where I’m living. Or do you have to get back home to the boyfriend?” Two “boyfriends” in two minutes, I thought. This from a guy who couldn’t even say the word ten years ago. “Sure,” I replied. “Let’s go.” He took the lead as we crossed the street against the light, a weird air of expectant hesitation between us. We both wanted to talk, but how to start? True to form, I let him begin, content to admire the grey in his hair and the lines on his face. They made him look even more handsome than ever. I had always imagined they would. “So, how have you been?” he finally asked.

260 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER “Good – and you?” “Can’t complain.” “How’s Connie?” “Don’t know. Haven’t talked to her in a long time.” “What happened?” A half-smile crept across his face. “What you said would happen. How did you know?” “I didn’t. I mean, I thought … okay, it’s what I wanted to happen. But at least she had the baby. You got some of what you wanted.” “Nope. She lost it, and the doctor wasn’t optimistic about trying again.” He fell silent for a few seconds, staring away as if another life of his was off in the distance. “We thought about adopting,” he said, looking at me again, “but our lives seemed too tentative after that. After a couple of years, we got tired of making each other miserable and packed it in. She lives somewhere in Portland now.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “Why? Portland’s nice,” he said with a grin. “No, no – I’m sorry to hear you split up.” We paused at a curb, letting traffic go by as he squinted into the sun. “Why should you be sorry?” he asked. “I walked out on you – on us. You should be raging, but you’re sorry instead.” The cars cleared and we crossed Colfax. Just like Stan to tell me how I should be reacting. “I don’t do rage very well,” I said, shrugging. “Anyway, that was a long time ago.” “You’re too nice, Tommy. You always have been. You know, I was the luckiest man alive, but I fucked up. I walked out on the only person who ever really loved me.” “Connie loved you.” “Not like you did. And you know what? I’ve never loved anyone like I did you. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to throw it away. We could have had a beautiful life together, but you’re probably settled down with some nice guy in the suburbs. Dogs and a mortgage and everything.” Who the hell was I walking with? Stan the Contrite? Stan the Apologetic? I wished I could think fast enough to invent a

I DO! 261 fantasy husband, but he always knew when I was lying anyway. “I do live out in the ‘burbs, but I’m single. I haven’t been on a date in, like, five years. Sad, huh?” “Sad? I think it’s a damn shame. You don’t know how many times I picked up the phone to call you, Tommy.” “Why didn’t you?” “I wasn’t sure if you’d hang up or not. You know I’m not good with rejection.” “Who is?” I replied before thinking. He was silent for a few moments. “I guess I deserved that.” I hadn’t meant it like that, but nothing I could have said would have convinced him otherwise. Letting him think whatever he needed to, I walked alongside him. The route was disquietingly familiar – two blocks south of Colfax and east one block on 13th to Sherman. When we turned south again, it hit me. “You rented our old apartment,” I said. “No,” he said quickly. “I rented the one across the hall. When Connie and I got divorced, I needed a place to stay, and I’ve always liked this neighborhood. When I was down here looking, I ran into Madeline. She told me there was a vacancy, so I took it. That’s all.” Too many coincidences and too much denial, I thought. I didn’t know what was going on, but it was cute rather than menacing, so I decided to let things play out – and despite the weird vibe, I was enjoying being with Stan after all this time. There was a reason I’d never fallen for anyone else. We walked down Sherman towards Poet’s Row, a series of apartment buildings named after famous poets, and stopped in front of the Robert Frost. The entry door had been refinished and some of the brickwork redone, but it was as charming as I remembered. Virginia creeper laced the eaves and framed the second and third floor windows, shadowed by huge elms that were just starting to drop leaves. When we stepped into the entry hall, the sight of the mailboxes and the scent of mildewed carpet and wood oil took me back ten years. We were young and in love and just coming

262 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER home from a walk around Capitol Hill, fresh and energized by talking and walking. And horny. God, we were so horny then. I had to touch him. The feeling was so instinctive and automatic that my reaction surprised even me. As he dug in his pocket for his front door key, I reached up and began massaging his shoulders. He stopped, straightened up and leaned back into me, the pressure of his body making me want to press myself into him in response. But I couldn’t. I had already gone way farther than I intended. I tried distracting myself by remembering the distance between us those last weeks, remembering his “Fuck you, Tommy” and how I crammed our pictures into a cardboard box without even taking them out of the frames, sobbing as they crashed to the bottom of the dumpster in the alley. And how I slammed the lid down on the whole broken mess, swearing I’d never let anyone do that to me again. “Mmmmm, that feels nice,” he said. And it all disappeared into his breath and his smell and his voice and his flesh giving way beneath the flex of my fingers. He turned his head towards mine, his eyes closed and his lips parted. They looked soft and warm, exhaling a ragged passion as familiar to me as my own. All I had to do was lean forward a few inches and throw myself off the cliff again. That’s why I let go. His eyes popped open when we broke contact, and he sighed. I may have too. I can’t remember. All I remember is instant regret. “I can’t,” I think I said. He nodded, his lips closing around a rueful smirk. “I know. I’m sorry.” But I knew he wasn’t. “You still want to come in for a few minutes?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, not sure at all. I followed him down the hall, going further back in time with each step until I got to the door of our old apartment. I felt the heft of the suitcase I left with and I swore if I’d looked at my palm, the imprint would have been there like stigmata. Stan must have noticed me staring at the door. “It was pretty weird for a while,” he said. “Now, I don’t even notice it. C’mon in.” The floor plan was just like our old

I DO! 263 place except turned around – same arched doorways, same radiator, same vaulted ceilings with the same ceiling fan. “Want something to drink?” “Water would be great, thanks.” Glancing around the room, I noticed a general shabbiness. The carpets were worn, the sofa fabric shiny and frayed in spots, un-refurbished second-hand furniture. Not the surroundings for a successful corporate lawyer. “So, how far is this from your office?” I asked, sitting on the sofa. He came back from the kitchen with two bottles of water. “I don’t have an office,” he said as he handed me one and sat down beside me. “I’m not doing corporate law anymore.” “Did you retire or what?” “Eh – bought some properties, sold ‘em, made some money. Don’t do much of anything anymore. I’m trying to live simply. Do you remember the day I left?” “Parts of it.” “I’m sure you remember the ‘fuck you’ part – you don’t know how sorry I am about that. But do you remember what you said right before that?” “No.” It wasn’t a routine denial, either. I really didn’t. “You said I’d never be happy until I learned to live in my own skin, and you were right. Well, that’s what I’ve spent the last five years doing – learning to live in my own skin. I’m in therapy, I came out to my sister and my folks and, believe it or not, I’m happy for the first time in my life.” “No more hiding, huh? Feels great, doesn’t it?” “It does,” he said, putting his bottle of water on the coffee table in front of us, “but I only have one problem.” “What’s that?” “I miss what we had.” He moved so close our knees touched. I was up against the arm of the sofa and had nowhere else to go. “You’ll find it with someone else,” I replied, holding my bottle of water as if that would ward him off. He moved in even closer. “I don’t want someone else,” he said. “I want you.”

264 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER Stan took my head in both of his hands and guided it to his lips, but I already knew the way. His smell and the touch of his fingers on my cheeks rendered me helpless. Our lips met in a soft, speculative kiss that soon became eager and definite. I put my arms around him and he let go of me. I was in his grip regardless. Dizzied by the frantic dance of our tongues, each kissmuffled sigh cast me further and further back, into a warm, safe place I knew well but never hoped to see again – and it was just as beautiful and narcotic as I remembered it. We waltzed dangerously close to the edge of a precipice without a rope to pull us back to reality. I had to stop the music in my head, no matter how much I liked the tune. “I can’t do this,” I said, pushing away from him and getting up from the sofa. My lips already felt cold and deserted. “I can’t go back.” “It’s not going back, Tommy,” he said, a pleading I’d never heard before in his voice, “it’s going on. Right from where we left off.” I didn’t want to argue the point. I couldn’t. “I have to get out of here,” I said, heading for the door. “Wait, Tommy – don’t …” But it was too late. I was already out in the hall. I felt something running over my hand and realized I was squeezing the water out of the bottle I’d been holding. I wiped my fingers off on my pants and dropped the bottle on Robert Frost’s carpet, fighting my way to the front door through a flood of memories. ™™™ I must have taken that ticket out of my pocket a thousand times trying to decide whether or not to go. By the next afternoon, it was smudged and torn a quarter of the way through due to a hasty decision after a few vodka and tonics that were supposed to put me to sleep but didn’t. Staying home with yet another drink would have been the easiest thing to do – let it all pass me by and forget the whole damn thing. But I couldn’t. If I could have forgotten it, I wouldn’t have gone down there to pick up the ticket in the first place. It wasn’t Templeton, it was Stan. It wasn’t over between

I DO! 265 us – maybe not in the way he thought, but I had things to say and he needed to hear them. Or at least I needed to say them. I wasn’t about to get back together with him, that was for sure. He might be in therapy, he might be sorry, he might even love me, but I’d moved on. Too bad he hadn’t. That was in my stronger moments. Other times I wondered just what I’d moved on to – an empty house? Meals alone by the television like my widowed dad? Not going to the symphony because I hated going places by myself? I needed to make more friends, but I didn’t socialize well. I’d never acquired that skill. I don’t know if it was curiosity, fate or the unfinished business with Stan, but Saturday night found me standing outside Carmine’s with my smudged, half-torn ticket in my hand watching a lot of people file in but none coming out. Hoping Carmine Jr. would make good on his promise to find me a table, I straightened my tie, brushed some lint off my jacket and went inside. The main dining room was packed, and so were the two new overflow rooms off to either side. They had the same burgundy carpet, dark wood paneling, maps of Italy and framed pictures of Frank Sinatra on the wall. There must be an Italian Restaurant Warehouse that every Carmine’s, Angelo’s and Dino’s in the country buys this stuff from, I thought. But the new rooms also had video screens and speakers. “Hi Tom,” Carmine Jr. said, coming around from the reservations desk. “Glad to see you. We weren’t sure if you were gonna make it.” “We?” “Follow me – your table’s this way.” He zipped into the main dining room, quickly weaving his way down front between tables, waiters and customers. I almost lost him in a near collision with a family-style platter of pasta primavera, but I was able to catch up with him when he stopped for a crossing dessert cart. He motioned me closer to the stage and pointed to a small table with a huge bouquet of flowers. Stan occupied the other chair.

266 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER “Don’t ask if I have another table,” Carmine Jr. said. “It’s here or the alley. You boys talk. I’ll have Stephanie take your cocktail order. It’s on me, so drink up – I’ll be overcharging you for dinner.” He smiled. “Enjoy.” “I’m glad you showed up,” Stan said. “I would have looked pretty stupid sitting here with these flowers and no date – wait, maybe I shouldn’t have called it a date.” His grin was as disarming as ever, bringing to mind some of the crazy stuff I used to do to see that grin. I had to smile. “I think this qualifies. Thanks – they’re beautiful.” “And,” he said, moving them between us and the rest of the room, “I got them big enough to hide everyone else, so it just seems like it’s us and the stage. I hope the waitress knows we’re back here.” I couldn’t banter without speaking my piece first. “Look, I’m sorry about running out on you yesterday.” “I’m sorry about springing it on you like that. I should have warmed up to it first, but you know me – I’m pretty direct.” “Yeah,” I said. “I remember. That’s why I’m going to try to be the same. I know how you feel, believe me. And if this had come right after we broke up, there would be no question about giving it another shot. But it’s just too long, Stan. Too long. And I’m not sure it’s what you really want.” “What do you think I want?” “I think you want to take back ten years, Stan. You can’t do that. I mean, look what you’re calling me. No one ever calls me ‘Tommy’ anymore.” I thought I saw a tear in his eye but it could have been a trick of the light. “But that’s how I remember you.” “See? That’s the problem. I’m not that guy anymore.” “I don’t believe that,” he said. “Do you mean to tell me the man who enjoyed romance more than anything else in the whole world is gone? What happened to him?” “He starved to death,” I replied. “We can be friends, Stan. I’d really like that. I enjoyed spending time with you yesterday. Let’s just be friends, okay?”

I DO! 267 “I’m not sure I can do that,” he said as the waitress appeared over the flowers. “What can I get you gentlemen to drink?” As we gave her our drink orders and requested two house specials for dinner, the dining room lights flickered on and off, finally settling on dim as the crowd began to buzz. A familiar figure walked briskly from the bar and took the stage. Templeton hadn’t changed much. Always small and thin, he’d gotten even thinner. His brown eyes looked hard and flinty. His moustache was still black, but his dark hair was flecked with grey and wrinkles grooved the corners of his mouth. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment, then brought his hands to the keyboard and began to play Come Rain or Come Shine softly. He hummed in a barely audible voice until he’d played the verse through, then he sang out. His voice was lower, hoarser than I remembered it, but it had a gravity that wasn’t there before. Finishing the opening number, he ignored the enthusiastic applause and swung into Misty without a break. His voice was getting stronger, swooping and swirling sassy through Ain’t Misbehavin’ then vamping on the melody to segue into a soft, seductive version of Mean to Me. He was in great form, as if he hadn’t been away from Carmine’s for ten years. I always loved his piano skills because I seemed to hear more notes than he looked like he was playing. But as terrific as his performance was, it was different – lonelier. It needed joy. The audience lapped it up like heavy cream. The warmth they exuded in return filled the room, but Templeton remained unaffected by it. He neither acknowledged or discouraged the attention. He let it wash over him – a wave of devotion that crashed against the stage and pooled uselessly beneath the pedals of the piano. He continued playing for an hour, moving from song to song without a break for even a sip of the Calistoga water sweating atop the piano. Stan and I were mesmerized. Neither one of us said anything during that hour, despite the arrival of our dinners. We ate, but I don’t remember a thing about the food.

268 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER The only pause in the set was before the last number. He took his fingers off the keyboard and nearly drained the Calistoga dry in a couple of swigs before leaning into the mic. “This is something I wrote many years ago,” he said, “for someone who never got a chance to hear it.” He began a soft, sad intro of minor keys bespeaking major heartbreak. There were no lyrics; only a slow, desolate melody that rendered words insufficient. The middle was stronger, more hopeful, but it was only a 32-bar oasis that lingered long enough for relief before the chord progression turned somber and elegiac once again. I realized then that Templeton was not in love. It would have been impossible to invest that tune with that much pain, that much sorrow, if he had been in love. He was a wonderful performer, but no one was that good. Why was he performing again, then? Was it a tribute to Taylor? Some sort of closure? Towards the end, the melody simply drifted off. Templeton played it softer and softer until it disappeared like bitter smoke over the crowd. In the silence that followed, I heard sniffling and saw many people daubing their eyes, including Stan. Without waiting for applause, Templeton left the stage and walked quickly to the bar area, disappearing behind a door in the back. He must have heard the crowd’s deafening appreciation. I clapped so hard my hands hurt. “He’s not in love,” Stan said as we sat back down. “There’s no way. I mean, he was great, but there was no joy.” We still thought alike. “I was thinking the same thing. You remember he used to say he couldn’t perform without it. That’s why he quit when Taylor got sick. So, why is he up there?” “Mr. Tom?” said a creaking, accented voice. It was Carmine’s mother, Rosa, standing inside the tubular aluminum cage of her walker. She had to be in her eighties. She was wrinkled and stooped, her black and red dotted dress draped in folds over her tiny frame. Her pulse beat through the paper-thin skin of her wrist as she held out her hand. I stood up and clasped it. “Rosa,” I said, “how are you? You look terrific.”

I DO! 269 “I look old,” she cackled, “but it’s okay. At least I don’t look dead.” She glanced down at our empty plates. “Mange bella – the special, it was good?” “It was great.” “Grandmama Cochelli’s red sauce, it don’t miss. Carmine learns pretty good, but I make tonight. Good to see Mr. Templeton back, eh?” “It certainly is – he sounded great.” She broke out in a white, dentured grin. “Beautiful,” she said. “He got to have a little bit Italiano in him, eh? Ah, is just too sad what happened.” “I know. I still think about Taylor to this day. He was a wonderful guy.” She knitted her grey eyebrows with confusion. “Mr. Taylor, yes. He always make me laugh – but Mr. Templeton...” “Templeton?” “He has the cancer too.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh my God,” I said, “we had no idea.” “He don’t say nothing to nobody, but he hurts. I see sometime when he comes in the morning to practice for tonight. You should stop at St. Catherine’s and say a novena for him before you go home. For him not to hurt so much.” I really couldn’t speak. “We will,” Stan said for me. “Thanks for telling us.” “You are good people, so you should know. Nice to see you boys again. Buona notte.” “I don’t get it,” I said. “He’s dying, but he’s playing again.” “I think you have the order wrong there,” Stan replied. “He’s playing because he’s dying. He’s anticipating seeing his joy again.” The lights dimmed again and Templeton emerged, taking the stage a little less adroitly than before. Or maybe it was my imagination. He sat down at the bench and began to noodle through Come Rain or Come Shine again. The audience fell quiet, but this silence wasn’t the expectant one that had preceded his

270 Templeton’s In Love ~ WHEELER first set. It was the solemn, respectful silence that ensues after an unsettling disclosure. Either from the wait staff or Carmine Jr., the news of Templeton’s illness had spread and he definitely noticed the difference in the crowd. He continued playing with the song, running down the same sixteen bars over and over as he gazed out on the audience with a thoughtful frown. Suddenly, he seemed to understand. His playing became more purposeful and the frown vanished, replaced by the thinnest of grins as he bent down to the mic. “Oh, I see,” he said. “But you shouldn’t feel sorry for me. I’m not sorry. It’s the second best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He played harder, staring straight up as he crooned the verse loud and clear. He could have been looking at the water-stained ceiling or he could have been looking at God, but we knew who he was looking at. My gaze went up there too for a respectful moment, but there was nothing for me in that direction. I looked at Stan, then I took his face in my hands and kissed him as hard as I could, thinking that maybe sometimes you have to go back before you can move on.

True Love MOONDANCER DRAKE

Shona pressed her chest against Kai’s back to hold her steady, as the cotton-covered plastic crinkled under their weight. The midwife’s voice sounded far away as she coached Kai to breathe slower, but Shona focused on her instructions as best she could. Alan and Ely stood across the king bed, their hands locked together and eyes wide as they watched Kai struggle to breathe through the next contraction, her heartshaped face tensed with the strain of the labor. Despite the exhilaration of being so close to welcoming their son into the world, Shona was frustrated beyond words at her inability to shield the woman she loved from pain. Kai had insisted on a home birth so they’d have the luxury of all four parents being there when Jae came into the world. Shona had resisted at first, but after Kai had been in labor for twelve hours, she was thankful to have both men around to help out. They’d spent the whole day and night taking care of the mothers’ needs, allowing Shona to devote her full attention to helping her wife. At the 36-hour mark all four of them were emotionally and physically spent. As low as Shona’s energy was, her temper was just as high. She had to give the guys credit. They took her grouchy manner and Kai’s demands with an air of patience and understanding that she wasn’t sure she could have managed. Even with the extra help, Shona was relieved to hear Mitexi, their midwife, tell Kai it was time to push. Soon. Just over eight months she and Kai had waited for their son, eight months and nine years if she counted how long they’d talked about wanting a child together. The idea filled Shona with new energy and gave her the strength to hold Kai up so she could squat. Alan and Ely hovered closer. Mitexi moved to kneel at the foot of the bed. “We’re nearly there. We’ll start slow. Keep breathing nice and easy, and when I tell you to push only do it for as long as I tell you to. I know you’re as ready to see your son as he is to see you, but we have to be gentle.” They’d chosen Mitexi to look after Kai during the pregnancy because she was their friend, but her commanding tone and alert presence even after all these hours reminded Shona what a skilled midwife she was. Kai nodded, and at Mitexi’s signal, her body tensed. Shona could feel Kai’s muscles tighten beneath her embrace, her

274 True Love ~ DRAKE whole body shaking with the effort. Alan and Ely offered words of encouragement, but Shona doubted Kai could hear them over her grunts of effort. Between pushes, Kai leaned back against Shona and Mitexi massaged Kai’s perineum. Ely fussed over the wrinkled bedsheets, smoothing their edges with the side of his hand. Alan’s assistance proved to be far more practical when he brought Shona a bowl of cool water and a soft cloth folded into a thick sash. Shona dipped the end of the sash in the water and rung it out over the bowl. She placed the cool fabric against her wife’s forehead and cheeks and Kai smiled in gratitude. “You’re doing great.” Shona whispered. “Not long now.” “I’m so tired.” Kai sighed and laid her head back against Shona’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I can do this.” “I’ve seen you run a party for two hundred, short staffed, and have everything go off without even a missing crab puff.” Shona kissed Kai’s forehead. “If you can pull that off, you can do it all.” “Just because you burn microwavable popcorn doesn’t mean I’m a catering superhero.” Kai scolded, but with a chuckle in her voice. “This baby’s a far more demanding client.” “He wants to be with us, just as much as we want him to be.” Shona rewet the cloth and dabbed Kai’s neck and chest with it. “Just keep thinking about how much you want to hold our baby in your arms. That’ll get you through.” “I want to marry you.” Kai whispered. “We are married.” Shona did her best to hide the worry from her expression with a smile. Kai always talked about marriage when she was feeling tired and melancholy. “Almost ten years now.” Kai closed her eyes. “No. Not handfasted. I want to marry you. I want a big wedding with all of our friends and our parents. Just like the one my sister had.” “Which one. She’s been married what, four times now?” Shona teased.

I DO! 275 “Three.” Kai scowled. “That’s not the point. I don’t just want to call you my wife. I want to be married. Really married. It’s not fair.” Shona hugged Kai and nodded. “Soon. I promise. Maybe after the baby is older we can take a trip to do it. If we can’t do it here in Wisconsin by then, maybe we’ll go up to Canada.” Mitexi tapped Kai’s arm, signaling her it was time to push again. Shona focused on moving Kai back into position, but she couldn’t help her thoughts drifting to the worry she knew was still very real in both Kai’s and her own mind. This was not the first time they had talked about marriage. Their handfasting had been beautiful. Even so, the fact the union wasn’t recognized in Wisconsin left them feeling unsteady and vulnerable. It’d been the worst when Shona went through the ordeal of breast cancer three years before. Her parents were far from supportive of what they called her “choice of bedmates.” If Shona was hospitalized or died the law would give Kai no recourse when Shona’s parents swooped in and took over. “Look at all that hair.” Mitexi called out. She pulled a hand mirror from the nightstand and held it so Kai and Shona could see. Shona’s breath caught in her throat as she was awarded her first glimpse of the mound of wet curls. The thick clump of black hair jutting from between her wife’s legs caught Shona by surprise. She’d always assumed all babies were born bald and wrinkled like miniature old people. Excitement and dread filled her as she watched expectantly. She hated watching even the fake medical stuff on TV. After all the videos of babies being born that Kai had made her watch, Shona dreaded the blood and grossness she knew accompanied birth. “Push long and hard this time.” Mitexi said. “Your son’s almost here.” At the sight of their son’s head new life seemed to fill Kai. She groaned as her muscles stiffened. Mitexi crouched low and Shona watched in awe as a pair of shoulders pushed into the air with a soft pop quickly followed by a wet, goop-covered baby.

276 True Love ~ DRAKE The silence of their collectively held breath was shattered as Jae’s cries filled the bedroom. Tears blurred Shona’s vision and she swiped them away with the back of her free hand. There was no revulsion. All she saw was the most beautiful baby boy she could have imagined. After a single wipe down with a damp cloth, Mitexi placed the baby on Kai’s bare chest. His curls were plastered against his face and his nose was crinkled in disapproval. Alan handed Shona a blue and gold throw. She unfolded the soft blanket over Kai and Jae so it covered them from his shoulder to past her feet. In moments Jae had found one of the waiting breasts and was nursing. Every sign of tenseness melted away from Kai’s face leaving them both in blessed contentment. Alan and Ely hugged and laughed. Mitexi quietly moved about the room, cleaning up and gathering her tools. The birth wasn’t entirely over. Sometime in the next hour or so Kai would push the placenta out and the cord would need to be cut. At first Shona thought she’d be too repulsed by the blood to want to be the one to do the cutting, so Alan had volunteered. Now Shona wanted to be the one. Cutting the cord was her right, to cut Jae free of his tie to Kai alone so he could be theirs. The dim light of the reading lamp accented Jae’s round face and Shona traced her finger tenderly over the familiar nose, a miniature copy of Kai’s. The sharp feature looked so strange on the tiny face of the newborn, a face Shona swore she’d engrave in her mind if she looked at him long enough. She traced Jae’s caramel cheek just beneath his crescentshaped eyes, now growing heavy with sleep. He had Kai’s eyes, there was little doubt of that, but his skin was far much more like her own than Kai’s. That wasn’t surprising. Kai had insisted that Alan be the donor because he looked the most like Shona, with his mocha skin and traditionally African features. It was a touching gesture at the time, but now Shona found herself resentful at the necessity. She knew she couldn’t give Kai the baby they both wanted, but the reality didn’t stop Shona from longing to be closer to her son. Soon they would be signing the birth certificate. Not she and Kai, but Kai and Alan.

I DO! 277 Her gaze shifted from the face of her sleeping son to the two men now curled up together on the love seat in her and Kai’s bedroom. It had been a long labor and they were all exhausted. Both Ely and Alan had been great through the whole thing, so then why did Shona feel so angry at Alan right now? It wasn’t his fault that she had no legal rights, no matter how they all felt about her place in their special family. A piece of paper. Wasn’t that all it was? Just a stupid piece of paper. Kai stirred and the movement drew Shona’s attention back to her and Jae. It was more than that, more than the truth that she couldn’t sign Jae’s birth certificate. What really bothered Shona, worried her, was she wasn’t the one the law recognized as his parent. The law she’d grown up in school being told was there to protect all good Americans was the same law that forbade her from marrying the woman she loved, forbade her from even adopting the child they wanted to raise together. Kai’s parents were no more supportive than Shona’s regarding their relationship. Without the protection of the law, they could easily come and take Jae should something happen to Kai. That was the biggest reason they’d chosen Alan as a donor. He and his husband were dedicated not only to Jae’s wellbeing, but to using Alan’s legal status as “father” to protect Shona should the unthinkable happen. I should be grateful. Why do I feel so angry? Does the detail of a single piece of paper matter so much? The answer was easy. Yes, it mattered. It mattered a lot. “You should get some rest too.” Shona turned toward Kai. The baby was still sleeping, and Kai looked at her over his head, her crescent eyes half-mast and her lips curved in a soft smile. Shona returned the smile, pushing away her anger. She was being silly. They were a family. All of them. That was what was most important. “Soon as I burn off this third wind I’ll rest. I promise.” She looked down at Jae. “He’s so beautiful. Just like his mother. See, he has your nose and your eyes.” “Remember what Mitexi said. He’s going to get darker as he gets old. His eyes will change color too,” Kai said. “Don’t go

278 True Love ~ DRAKE trying to do his portrait just yet. He won’t look anything like it in a few months.” Shona chuckled. She had been memorizing him the way she did anything she wanted to paint and couldn’t drag into her studio. “Sometimes I think you can read minds.” “After thirteen years I don’t need to read your mind to know something’s wrong.” Kai gently ran her nail under a clump of Jae’s matted hair and fluffed it off of his face. “Aren’t you happy?” “Oh, love, of course I’m happy.” Guilt pressed down on Shona. “It’s not that at all. I was just pouting about all the legal crap. You know how moody us artist types can get.” Kai rolled her eyes. “Don’t I know it. You don’t need to worry. We’ve got everything covered. You trust the guys to hold up their end of the agreement, don’t you?” “Yes,” Shona admitted. “It’s not them. We’ve got a great deal going here. We’re really lucky.” She glanced over to the envelope she couldn’t see on the dresser, but knew was still there. “I wish I could sign Jae’s papers. Mother, father, and mom.” “Maybe when Jae becomes president he can change that.” Shona looked down at their son. The rise and fall of his tiny chest calmed her spirit. The future. That’s what she was looking at. Their future. With a new president and even more changes still to come, their son wouldn’t grow up the limits she had. She would never tell him he couldn’t do something because of the color or his skin or his gender, as her parents had felt the need to do with her. The world lay ahead for Jae in a way none of his parents had ever known. Shona placed her head on the pillow next to Kai and rested her hand on the blanket, her fingers just over their baby’s side. If so much could change in just her own lifetime, what might change in his?

Salad Days FIONA GLASS

“Yoo hoo, Tim, where are you?” The front door closed with a slam that shook the little house to its insubstantial foundations. “In here, love,” Tim yelled from the kitchen, chopping a carrot into the salad bowl with a flourish. “Supper will be ready soon.” “Good, I’m starved.” Jake’s pouty face appeared round the door, then broke into a grin. “I thought it might be salad. I brought you something.” He reached into a pocket and produced a small paper bag with something roundish inside, and tossed it across. “Jesus, Jake, I’m not a bloody circus act,” said Tim, trying to field knife, carrot and bag at the same time and dropping most of them. The knife clattered to the floor by his foot and he danced aside, only for the carrot to spin up, flip over and catch him in the eye. Tears trickling down his face, he did at least manage to hang onto the bag. He uncurled the top, opened it up and peered rather blurrily inside. And paused. Something small and round and green peered back at him. It was shaped like a giant crocus bulb with pale green stripes and a few feathery leaves growing out of the top and he’d never seen anything less like a cucumber in his life. “Er...thanks. Er...what is it?” “Fennel.” “Oh.” He had another look. “Er...what do I do with it?” “Chop it up and put it in the salad, silly,” said Jake, leaving off the door-hanging and coming into the room. “It’s nice. Tastes a bit like aniseed. Ed used to use it all the time.” “Oh, well, if Ed used it...” Tim could feel himself scowling at the merest mention of Jake’s famous ex’s name. Trouble was, Jake tended to drop it into their conversations at every opportunity. If they went on holiday, Ed had always been there first. If they tried a new wine, Ed had drunk it when it first hit the shelves. If they saw a film, Ed had written the screenplay or bonked half the cast, or both. Tim was one hundred percent sick and tired of Ed - and knew he was in danger of letting it show.

282 Salad Days ~ GLASS He picked the fennel bulb up, sluiced it under the tap, and sat it on the counter. He scooped his knife up off the floor, sluiced that too and prodded the point into the bulb. It didn’t squeak, so he prodded it again before gingerly beginning to slice. All the while he was conscious of Jake’s eyes on him, burning a hole through the top of his head where he’d bent over his task. Eyes that seemed to see straight through his skull and read the thoughts beneath. Oh shit. The knife slipped, the bulb bounced off the counter and he found he was sucking his thumb. “Ow. Shit.” “Oh, poor baby,” said Jake, and hurdled straight over the counter to hold his hand. “Ugh, you’re bleeding. Here, run it under the tap.” He fussed around, cleaning the cut and finding antiseptic cream and a plaster, and Tim thought perhaps he’d got away with it. But once the thumb was bandaged and the fennel had been retrieved from the corner it had rolled away into, Jake put both hands on his shoulders, span him round till they were facing one another, and said, “Okay, tell me what’s wrong.” “Nothing,” said Tim hastily, trying to turn away. “The knife just slipped, that’s all. That thing’s slippery, and my hands were wet.” Jake refused to let him go. “You’ve been dropping things a lot lately. You spilled your drink on Monday, and tipped popcorn all over yourself in the cinema the other week, and then there was that bottle of shower-gel... Tim, you’re not...ill, are you?” His grey eyes reflected his concern right through the round little specs he always wore. “No, no,” said Tim, uncomfortably aware that he was being selfish. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just...well, it’s Ed.” He peeled away from Jake’s arms and peeled another carrot instead. “Ed? But...why? What d’you mean?” Tim risked a quick glance. His lover looked mystified. Really, genuinely mystified. He began to feel better, and attacked the carrot with less savagery. “It’s just...well, you never stop talking about him.” “Me?”

I DO! 283 “Yes, you. Every five minutes. It’s Ed said this and Ed did that until I could thump something. I keep thinking you’re measuring me up against him and finding me lacking. It’s giving me the jitters.” “Oh, Tim...” Jake’s arms were back, strong and safe around his shoulder and waist, and Jake’s warm lips pecked him on one cheek. “You’re an idiot. I left Ed, remember?” “I know.” Tim tried very hard not to snuggle and spoil his sensible man-about-the-house image. “But...” “What’s more, I left him because he was an arrogant prick who treated me like arm-candy most of the time and ignored me the rest. Tim, don’t tell me you’re jealous?” Tim had finished the carrots. He searched around for something else to keep his hands busy and found he’d picked up the fennel again. Holding it firmly this time he began to slice into its bulbous flesh, imagining it was Ed’s smoothly handsome face. Him, jealous? Now what could he possibly be jealous about? Ed was only a fantastically successful writer with film star good looks, all the money you could ever need and a five-bedroom house in the posh end of town. Oh, no, he wasn’t jealous at all. He glanced up and saw Jake’s eyes dancing. “Sorry,” he said ruefully. “I guess I do give myself away sometimes.” “Yes, you do, but I love you anyway,” said Jake. “I left Ed six months ago and I’d left him behind long before that. I’m sorry if my nattering has given you the wrong impression - I’ll try to keep my tongue in check from now on. But why the hell didn’t you say something sooner? That strong silent stuff never solved anything.” “I know. I just... Oh bloody hell!” “Oh, baby, don’t cry,” said Jake in a cracked voice, reaching for him again. “Tell me I’m forgiven and I promise I’ll never mention Ed’s name again.” “It’s not that,” said Tim, reaching blindly for the tap. “The fucking fennel’s slipped again. I think I’ve hacked off my thumb.”

Wedding Announcement LEE ROWAN

“Calling the old man?” Caught in the act with his hand on the phone, there was nothing Kevin Kendrick could do but nod and say, “Yes.” He was enveloped in warmth as his lover wrapped both arms around him from behind. “I’m glad,” John said. “I understand why you left it this long, but—” “Can’t put it off any longer.” He left the phone in the cradle and turned, catching his breath at the sight. Fully dressed, John Hanson’s curly mop of dark hair, deep brown eyes, and sensuous mouth were distracting enough. In nothing but snug, rainbow-striped briefs, his slim, leggy body was trouble on two bare feet. Kevin pushed him away, holding him at arms’ length. Any other time, he’d have pulled John over to the sofa and to hell with their schedule, but not today. They hadn’t a moment to spare. “I can do it myself, Johnny. For God’s sake, go put your clothes on. The worst the Brig can do is disown me, but if we’re late for this you’ll never get another meal from my mother.” “You know me too well.” John swooped in for a quick kiss, then loped off upstairs. “And change those pants!” Kevin called after him, knowing that even if John heard that order, he’d ignore it. No harm in that, really. John spent much of his time doing crisis counseling; if his silly underwear gave him something to smile about, more power to it. It wouldn’t show under the formal attire anyway, and it would be fun to help him take it off, later... Kevin shook his head. He was stalling, and he knew it. He’d faced gunfire, terrorists, disgrace, and a very determined murderer, but he would sooner tackle any or all of them at once than make this call. He must do it now; he didn’t have time for cold feet. They had to finish dressing, pick up the elderly lady who’d been John’s surrogate grandmother since he’d moved to Portsmouth, and present themselves at the registry office with a little time to spare in case of last-minute complications. He picked up the phone again, punching the number one digit at a time even though it was loaded into speed-dial. What can he do, after all—jump through the receiver and throttle me? He might want to.

288 Wedding Announcement ~ ROWAN The call was answered after two and a half rings. A strong voice, brusque, accustomed to command. “Kendrick.” “Hi, Dad.” “Kevin.” A pause, as though the Brigadier was trying to guess why his younger son had called. “Your mother’s not here. She’s off at the hall, supervising the caterer for your friend’s reception. I’m going to meet her there in an hour.” Mrs. Kendrick had suggested this explanation, and it was not entirely false; Pat and Tess were tying the knot this morning, too. Tess’ mother had never been able to accept that her daughter’s partner was a woman, and she had flatly refused to have anything to do with their civil union. Kevin’s mother, who liked nothing better than a family wedding, had flung herself into the breach. Since John was the biological father of the very pregnant bride’s unborn baby, the two couples had decided to combine festivities. But no one had told Brigadier General Marcus D. Kendrick (Ret’d) the whole story. He had always been inclined to the Yank policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell” with regard to his younger son’s love life, and did not even officially know Kevin was gay. “Yes,” Kevin said. “I know. I meant to call you.” Damn it, he had no reason to be nervous. His father was a forceful man, not an ogre, and he was, after all, many miles away. “Dad, I just wanted you to know that John and I are having our civil union ceremony today, and –” He held the phone away from his ear. He’d never heard anyone make that sound before. “Dad?” “You’re what?” “Getting married, Dad. I know that’s not the legal term, but that’s what it amounts to. For us.” Silence. But he could hear breathing. Good, the old man hadn’t keeled over. Kevin plowed ahead. “I didn’t tell you earlier because it’s not open for discussion, but I’m not going to sneak around behind your back.” “But—” Another long silence, then, “Why? Damn it, I guessed as much, but why bother? Can’t you just—do whatever it is you do—without—”

I DO! 289 “Of course we could.” Kevin felt a twinge of pain in his hand, and realized how hard he was clutching the receiver. “Of course we could, Dad. But do you remember what you told me about this? I couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. I forgot all about it, until just now. Guess it made an impression.” “Told you what?” “That when I found the right one, I should grab hold with both hands and make it permanent. Make it real, you said. Be a man. Give your word and honor it.” “I was talking about a real marriage, boy. A home, children. Not some–” “Yes. Exactly. So am I.” God, interrupting his father twice. He didn’t know if he’d ever done that before. “The real thing. I know it’s not what you expected and I’ll understand if I don’t see you there. But this is who I am—who I love—and I’m not going to hide it.” He sensed John behind him once more, felt stronger for his presence. “That’s all, Dad. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I didn’t think you really wanted to know. Take care.” He fumbled as he put the receiver down with an unsteady hand. Adrenaline hangover; he turned blindly into John’s embrace and just held on. Eventually he was breathing normally again. “Think he’ll be there?” John asked. “I don’t know, Johnny.” Kevin took a deep breath and raised his head, meeting the eyes of the man he loved. Lover. Partner. Husband. He felt lighter somehow, almost giddy. “That’s up to him. If he doesn’t accept you as a son-in-law, it’s his loss. Have you got the rings?” “I do.” John grinned in delight. “Just rehearsing my line. Come on, love—get us to the registry office on time.” ™™™ Kevin and John’s story can be found in the novel Walking Wounded.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS ALEX BEECROFT: DESIRE AND DISGUISE

Alex Beecroft exists only intermittently in the real world. She has led a Saxon shield wall into battle and served as a Georgian kitchen maid, but she still can’t work a mobile phone. www.alexbeecroft.com

CHARLIE COCHRANE: THE ROAMING HEART Charlie Cochrane writes historical gay mysteries/romances. Her Cambridge Fellows Mystery series began in November 2008 with ‘Lessons in Love’ and continues in February 2009 with ‘Lessons in Desire’. ‘I Do’ is the second anthology she’s contributed to, the other being the trilogy of stories ‘Speak Its Name’. www.charliecochrane.co.uk

FIONA GLASS: SALAD DAYS

Fiona lives in Birmingham (UK) with one husband, several visiting cats and far too many spiders. She writes darkly humorous fiction involving gay characters, almost always with a twist in the tail. She’s had work published in anthologies, e-books and magazines including Velvet Mafia and Haworth Press. Find out more at www.fiona-glass.com

JEANNE BARRACK: FINALLY FOREVER

Jeanne Barrack had a dream that she should write about gay Jews from the Old World to the New, so her first story took place in both worlds. A multi-published writer, MLR Press will release her single author dual novella anthology in 2009. Learn more about her gay fiction at: http://thesweetflagmenlove.blogspot.com/

P.A. BROWN: THE MISTAKE

Born in Western Canada, which explains her intense dislike of snow, Pat escaped to Los Angeles, sealing her fate. She wrote her first book at 17. She read her first positive gay book, The Lord Won’t Mind, by Gordon Merrick, and had her eyes opened. www.pabrown.ca

ERASTES: THE SNOW QUEEN

Erastes lives in Norfolk UK with too many cats. She writes gay historical novels and short stories. Her second novel, transgressions, a gay English Civil War romance, is to be published by Running Press in 2009. She welcomes visitors to her website and blog which can be found at www.erastes.com

TRACEY PENNINGTON: THE LINDORM’S TWIN Tracey Pennington lives in West Hartford, Connecticut, baffling doctors who don’t usually see incurable progressive genetic illnesses get better. She’s been published by Torquere Press and the now-defunct webzine, Deep Magic. She loves cooking, Terry Pratchett, Doctor Who, historical accuracy, proofreading (yes, really!) and snark.

CLARE LONDON: OUTED

Clare’s pen name is from the city where she lives, loves, and writes – despite constant interruptions from a frenetic family. Her literary passion is for strong, sympathetic and sexy characters. She has 3 print novels at Dreamspinner Press, ‘Freeman’ contracted with MLR in 2009, plus many short stories e-published. www.darkpearldiva.com.

SHARON MARIA BIDWELL: SWANSONG

A writer from the UK, Sharon doesn’t get out much these days. She’s too busy creating vibrant worlds to share with others. Visit this diverse writer at “Aonia” http://www.sharonbidwell.co.uk for in Greek myth that’s where the muses lived, and she’s delighted and grateful for every idea that comes to her.

LISABET SARAI: MAKING MEMORY

Lisabet Sarai writes erotic fiction in many genres and featuring pretty much every possible combination of genders. Lisabet adores travel almost as much as sex. Currently she lives a superficially respectable life in Southeast Asia with her husband and two spoiled felines. Visit Lisabet at www.lisabetsarai.com

STORM GRANT: LUST IN TRANSLATION Cubicle resident by day, professional fictioneer on weekends, Storm Grant lives in Toronto, Canada, in a messy house with many pets and one husband. Look for her first full-length novel, “Gym Dandy,” at the usual print and electronic

I DO! 293 outlets. www.stormgrant.com Fiction that’s pretty, witty, straight and gay!

MARQUESATE: CODE OF HONOUR

Marquesate is associated with the British Forces and writes military gay erotic fiction. Characters find themselves in a maelstrom of duty, comradeship, courage, loyalty and lust, to emerge battle-hardened and touched at the very core of their selves - by another man, another soldier, an enemy or ally. www.marquesate.org

LEE ROWAN: WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENT Recently relocated to the Great White North, Lee Rowan is still sorting things out. Cook, masseuse, chaffeuse, snowshoveler, pet-nanny… in between crises, she writes. Her Articles of War series and other books are published by Linden Bay; she’s currently working on a novel for Running Press’s new m/m romance series. www.lee-rowan.net

Z.A. MAXFIELD: TANGO AND TEMPTATION

Z. A. Maxfield started writing in 2007 on a dare from her children. Pathologically disorganized, and perennially optimistic, she writes as much as she can, reads as much as she dares, and enjoys her time with family and friends. Stories get written. Giving up housework helped. www.zamaxfield.com

MOONDANCER DRAKE: TRUE LOVE

Moondancer Drake is an author of multicultural fiction who draws much of her inspiration from her spirituality as well as her experiences as a Cherokee woman and a mother. If you want to know more about Moondancer and her writing you can visit her at her website. www.moondancerdrake.com

MALLORY PATH: RULES OF THE GAME

An overeducated underachiever and dedicated daydreamer born in Manhattan, Mallory Path now lives across the bay from San Francisco with two adorable special needs hamsters. Mal’s fiction has seen light of day or is forthcoming from Clean Sheets, gay-ebooks Australia, Lucrezia Magazine, STARbooks Press and Torquere Press, among others.

EMMA COLLINGWOOD: SEMI-DETACHED Emma Collingwood is so vanilla, she only attracts strawberries. Her books aren’t, though: historical male/male

love, adventure and suspense. “Semi-detached” features characters from her book “The Purser, the Surgeon, the Captain and his Lieutenant”, a twisty tale about four tangled lives, from the Age of Sail to modern London. www.emmacollingwood.com

ALLISON WONDERLAND: HOLY MACARONI (AND CHEESE)

Allison Wonderland has a B.A. in Women’s Studies, a weakness for lollipops, and a fondness for rubber ducks. Her favorite sound is Fran Drescher’s voice, and her cocktail of choice is a Shirley Temple. See what she’s up to at aisforallison.blogspot.com.

JERRY L. WHEELER: TEMPLETON’S IN LOVE

Staff writer for Out Front Colorado, Jerry L. Wheeler has appeared in Law of Desire: Tales of Gay Male Lust and Obsession, edited by Greg Wharton and Ian Philips, and Focus on the Fabulous: Colorado GLBT Voices, edited by Matt Kailey as well as online in Sean Meriwether’s Velvet Mafia.

CASSIDY RYAN AND ZOE NICHOLS: BETTER THAN BEAUTIFUL

Zoe Nichols discovered romance and Happily Ever After at 12. Then she grew up and discovered alternative lifestyles and the hopeful Happy for Now. These days, she writes gay and lesbian fiction and pretends that the Day Job doesn’t exist (at least until pay day). Find out more at www.zoenichols.com Cassidy Ryan lives and works in Glasgow, Scotland. When not writing, she enjoys reading, the cinema, music and watching football (soccer to our friends across the pond). She also loves British sit-coms from the 70s, and American cop shows – also from the 70s. Find out more at: cassidyryanwrites.tripod.com

THE TREVOR PROJECT The Trevor Project operates the only nationwide, around-theclock crisis and suicide prevention helpline for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning youth. Every day, The Trevor Project saves lives though its free and confidential helpline, its website and its educational services. If you or a friend are feeling lost or alone call The Trevor Helpline. If you or a friend are feeling lost, alone, confused or in crisis, please call The Trevor Helpline. You’ll be able to speak confidentially with a trained counselor 24/7. The Trevor Helpline: 866-488-7386 On the Web: http://www.thetrevorproject.org/ THE GAY MEN’S DOMESTIC VIOLENCE PROJECT Founded in 1994, The Gay Men’s Domestic Violence Project is a grassroots, non-profit organization founded by a gay male survivor of domestic violence and developed through the strength, contributions and participation of the community. The Gay Men’s Domestic Violence Project supports victims and survivors through education, advocacy and direct services. Understanding that the serious public health issue of domestic violence is not gender specific, we serve men in relationships with men, regardless of how they identify, and stand ready to assist them in navigating through abusive relationships. GMDVP Helpline: 800.832.1901 On the Web: http://gmdvp.org/ THE GAY & LESBIAN ALLIANCE AGAINST DEFAMATION/GLAAD EN ESPAÑOL The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) is dedicated to promoting and ensuring fair, accurate and inclusive representation of people and events in the media as a means of eliminating homophobia and discrimination based on gender identity and sexual orientation. On the Web: http://www.glaad.org/ GLAAD en español: http://www.glaad.org/espanol/bienvenido.php

SERVICEMEMBERS LEGAL DEFENSE NETWORK Servicemembers Legal Defense Network is a nonpartisan, nonprofit, legal services, watchdog and policy organization dedicated to ending discrimination against and harassment of military personnel affected by “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” (DADT).The SLDN provides free, confidential legal services to all those impacted by DADT and related discrimination. Since 1993, its inhouse legal team has responded to more than 9,000 requests for assistance. In Congress, it leads the fight to repeal DADT and replace it with a law that ensures equal treatment for every servicemember, regardless of sexual orientation. In the courts, it works to challenge the constitutionality of DADT. SLDN Call: (202) 328-3244 PO Box 65301 or (202) 328-FAIR Washington DC 20035-5301 e-mail: [email protected] On the Web: http://sldn.org/ THE GLBT NATIONAL HELP CENTER The GLBT National Help Center is a nonprofit, tax-exempt organization that is dedicated to meeting the needs of the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender community and those questioning their sexual orientation and gender identity. It is an outgrowth of the Gay & Lesbian National Hotline, which began in 1996 and now is a primary program of The GLBT National Help Center. It offers several different programs including two national hotlines that help members of the GLBT community talk about the important issues that they are facing in their lives. It helps end the isolation that many people feel, by providing a safe environment on the phone or via the internet to discuss issues that people can’t talk about anywhere else. The GLBT National Help Center also helps other organizations build the infrastructure they need to provide strong support to our community at the local level. National Hotline: 1-888-THE-GLNH (1-888-843-4564) National Youth Talkline 1-800-246-PRIDE (1-800-246-7743) On the Web: http://www.glnh.org/ e-mail: [email protected]