The Pharaoh's Concubine

Beauty is only skin deep…until love reveals what lies beneath.

As mob boss Yvgeny Mosko’s open secret, Dylan Anderson is happy enough with a passionate, if loveless, arrangement that affords him a life of luxury. But at thirty-six, he wonders how committed Mosko will be to an aging lover. He finds out when a rival gang kidnaps him in a turf war everyone’s sure to lose. Mosko unleashes deadly force, leaving no one alive except for a young man whose dark eyes tug at Dylan’s heart—and the conscience he thought he’d excised long ago. Though he tried to stop the kidnapping, William “Memo” Escobar knows Mosko will use what’s left of him to send a powerful message to his rivals. When Mosko’s pampered pretty boy risks everything to help him escape, he can’t believe his luck. William figures he’s better suited to life off the grid, but as the days go by he begins to realize Dylan’s beauty is more than skin deep. And as Dylan coaxes more and more beguiling smiles from William, he yearns for things—like family ties—he’d thought were best forgotten. Yet behind their newfound happiness lurks the certain knowledge that no matter how careful they are, Mosko will come for what’s his.

Warning: This book contains a mob boss, a kept man, and a reluctant kidnapper who will never have to hear the words, “Size doesn’t matter.”

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520 Macon GA 31201 The Pharaoh’s Concubine Copyright © 2011 by Z.A. Maxfield ISBN: 978-1-60928-329-2 Edited by Sasha Knight Cover by Valerie Tibbs All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: January 2011 www.samhainpublishing.com

The Pharaoh’s Concubine Z.A. Maxfield

Dedication

This is for my friend, Liliana V. Thanks for all your enthusiasm and your help with Spanish— especially the cursing. :D Any mistakes are mine alone.

Chapter One

“Thank you very much, Mr. Anderson.” The woman in the black spa uniform used a voice modulated to be soft and pleasing. Her pitch was low and sultry, and she had a slight European accent, which Dylan found attractive. She handed him a beautiful ivory-colored paper bag with his purchases in it, creams and lotions, his usual assortment of cosmeceuticals. He glanced up as he took it from her and caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He looked vibrant and healthy, but had started to show his age. His skin was still flawless, but new, fine lines had appeared around his eyes, and grooves deepened like barely visible parentheses on the sides of his mouth. He’d just begun to worry about getting older. It approached him like a lonely single-prop airplane on the horizon, its distant noise a harmless buzzing—innocent enough to look at, but all the while carrying an atomic bomb on board. That worried him more than he cared to admit. He wondered if Yves would accept that his boy was growing older, or if he’d expect Dylan to resort to the plastic surgeons his friends used to keep themselves looking, if not fresh, more glamorous than the average Joes and Janes who came from all over to live it up in the big Vegas hotels. Dylan worried that someday he’d have that odd, lifted, elfin look that characterized men who underwent plastic surgery. Aging, Vegas style. Inwardly he cringed. “Call me Dylan,” he said absently as he signed for the goods and services he’d received. The very air of Ethersphere, the upscale day spa he attended weekly, throbbed with a soothing, sweet-moist vapor, like the honey-thick creams they smeared on his face and the oils with which they anointed his skin. Sometimes it was hard to go back outside after the peace and tranquility he found here. The receptionist grew pink and glanced up at him shyly. Not flirtatiously. He was an object of nothing more to the women at Ethersphere than curiosity—Yvgeny Mosko’s gay lover. As such he was as far out of reach as the moon. He privately referred to himself as The Pharaoh’s Concubine. To be cared for, adorned, anointed, displayed, talked about, tittered over, but ultimately left alone. Which didn’t bother him at all, really, since there were plenty of things to enjoy and keep him busy. He had lots of free time and all the money in the world with which to enjoy it. On the way home he’d stop at the library for books. Dinner would be a perfect offering from his private chef/housekeeper, and if Yves was unable to share it with him, he’d watch a DVD he’d been looking forward to seeing. Yves would show

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up or not, as he chose, to share his bed. If he did, they’d make love or dine or talk for hours. At least until he had to go home to his wife. When they were together, Yves was thorough and attentive and Dylan believed himself genuinely cared for. Yves lavished him with affection and attention, calling him a treasure and treating him like spun glass. Dylan liked his lover; he was able to return Yves’s regard with genuine affection. Dylan was loyal and discreet because he knew his place. Dylan handed over his locker key and got the key fob to his Lexus in return. “Have a lovely evening, Mr. Anderson. We’ll see you next week.” He favored her with his most dazzling smile as she escorted him out through the VIP exit, using her keycard to open the private elevator and ushering him inside. “Next week it is, thank you very much,” he told her as the doors slid closed. Alone, he pressed the cool, polished stainless-steel button for the parking garage. After a long descent, the elevator opened to the VIP parking level in what seemed more like a subterranean garden than a parking lot. The plants were nurtured by special lighting and cared for by diligent gardeners, yet still had to be changed out frequently because the automobile fumes killed them. There was probably an object lesson there, about things that couldn’t thrive where they weren’t naturally inclined to grow. Dylan ignored it. It was enjoyable to walk through the small space, very much a part of the enhanced experience of visiting one of the city’s most exclusive spas. As he neared his car he heard footsteps and turned because the only others allowed to park on that level were celebrities who needed the privacy of an ultra-exclusive egress. He was enough the product of his small-town upbringing to be curious as to which celebrity it might be. The moment he turned, a body hurled into him from the side and a black fabric bag was dragged over his head. A fist slammed him in the stomach, causing all the air to burst from his lungs. Hard hands gripped his upper arms, yanking them around behind him where they were zip tied together. It pinched, cutting off the circulation to his hands. In the smothering blackness he could hear the muffled, anxious conversations of his attackers. “Chíngatelo, Memo,” a voice hissed. Dylan’s heart sank at the viciousness of those words—Fuck him up. He wasn’t about to share the fact that he was fluent in Spanish. The hands gripping his arms pulled him backwards. “No necesitamos. Lo tenemos.” We have him. A younger voice. Uncertain. “Tienes que chingártelo, Memo. Todo el mundo está mirando.” They wanted whoever was holding him to hurt him. Maybe it was an initiation. They’d pressure the new boy to beat him—maybe kill him—as a rite of passage. “Don’t do this.” Dylan hoped to reach his captor. “You don’t have to do this. I can get you money—”

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“Abre el pinche baúl y mételo a ese fregado adentro.” Open the trunk and put him inside. Was he being carjacked? For the first time Dylan regretted the keyless entry system on his car. As long as they took him with them they could unlock his car and drive it away without taking the key from his pocket. Would it work if he was in the trunk? The man who held him grew harsher physically, but his voice was laced with doubt. Dylan wondered if he could reason with him. You were supposed to remind people of your humanity in a situation like this. Eye contact was out because of the bag, but you were supposed to call them by name. Dylan fought a surge of fear and tried it. “Memo, I can give you whatever you need. I can get you cash. Right now. Lots of it, with no strings attached except you let me go. I can put my hands on fifty thousand in less than an hour.” Dylan heard a grunt just before a fist connected solidly with his rib cage. Sparks shot off behind his closed eyelids as he doubled over in agony. He tasted blood where he’d bitten his lip to keep from crying out. The fist slammed into him again, two more times, even though the man who held him pulled him backwards, away from the blows. He tried leaning back against the solid body behind him, but the man let him fall to the ground. “My name is Dylan, Memo. You don’t have to—” “You don’t talk.” A hard kick connected with his body, just inches above his balls, and then another, and another. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. He didn’t want to throw up with a bag over his head. “We’ll get twenty times that. Your man will give us whatever we want for his pretty mariquita.” Taunting voices joined in with lewd noises and jeers. “Dale en toda la madre. No le toques la cara,” someone ordered. “We don’t want to mark up that pretty face.” Dylan wanted to say something more, but pain forced all the air from his lungs. He clenched his teeth against the desire to sob. A vicious kick to his back knocked his head into the pavement. “You don’t understand.” “We understand all right, puto. Yvgeny Mosko thinks he runs this town. We’re here to tell him he doesn’t.” “Paco, déjalo. Basta ya.” The one with the young voice didn’t want it to continue. “No, Memo. Tienes que hacerlo, si no nadie va a respetar a tu hermano ni a la familia. Piensa que diría tu jefe.” If you don’t, no one will respect your brother or your family. Think of what your father would say. “He’s not my father,” the one named Memo said decisively. Dylan heard the crack of a hard slap. A deeper voice growled, “Tu hermano es veterano, Memo. No lo vayas avergonzar. No seas pinche puto.” Don’t shame your brother. Don’t be a fucking pussy.

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Another voice commanded, “Chíngatelo. No me hagas que te pegue.” Fuck him up. Don’t make me hurt you. Shit. Someone, probably Memo, kicked him halfheartedly. While he was still reeling, rough hands dug through his pockets and got his key fob before they lifted Dylan and shoved him into the trunk of his car. He heard laughter as the lid was slammed down. Yves had warned him. The possibility had always existed that he would become a pawn. He’d lived so securely in the rarefied world of VIP entrances and high-luxury, high-security hotels he’d become complacent, never really anticipating such an event. Dylan’s home was a fortress, manned day in and out by guards armed with automatic weapons. Yves had even had his security team brief Dylan on what to expect in the event of a kidnapping. Plans were in place. If his captors didn’t kill him outright, if he didn’t get caught in the crossfire, if he could only survive the beating he’d already been given, he’d be free within hours. Their mocking laughter got under his skin, itching and poisoning him, making his blood boil. If they thought it made him weak to beg for his life, they could think again. It didn’t matter what they tried to take. They were dead men. No one touched what belonged to Yvgeny Mosko and lived long enough to brag about it. Their laughter only made him regret he’d gone to the trouble of trying to warn them off. The parking garage had a number of speed bumps, and each time the Lexus went over one, despite the legendary smooth ride, Dylan was treated to a new kind of torture. No doubt they’d cracked his ribs. Maybe they’d damaged his kidneys. Another rough jostle hurled Dylan airborne for a time. He gave in to tears, knowing no one could see him. The last time he’d cried was the day he’d left his family behind. A hymn from his childhood came to him then. There was irony in that. It was possible the last song on his mind might be the first he’d ever heard—his mother’s favorite, though he hadn’t thought of it in years. It currently played in the jukebox of his memory, complete with the sweet, dulcet contralto voice that had been his mother’s gift from God. For the beauty of the earth, for the beauty of the skies. The final dip of the car as it careened onto the Strip with its tires squealing threw him against some tools he kept in the trunk. Sick and sweaty, he tried to brace himself as the car dodged around traffic. His left arm was gouged by something—he didn’t know what—but a sticky wetness pooled in the crook of his elbow. Each time they stopped, his right shoulder nudged something cold and hard, battering it to the bone. For the love which from our birth, over and around us lies. Eventually, the car made a wide slow turn that indicated they were taking the freeway onramp, and the ride from there was fairly smooth. He felt vibrations as they merged on, a result of the raised pavement markers—Botts’ dots—under the tires as the car changed lanes. He had no way of knowing where they were headed, but he knew that by now Yves would be aware he wasn’t coming back home. Even though

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security hadn’t gotten to him in time to prevent it, someone would realize he’d been carjacked. They had to have seen his attack on the security cameras. The tapes would be scrutinized. The car transmitted a signal, and for that matter so did his watch. They were both essentially private GPS trackers, the technology monitored by Yves’s own men. They would come after him armed, and there would be no mercy. Heaven help him if he was in the way. Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise. Dylan’s heart hung suspended on an invisible wire that stretched tighter with every mile they travelled. He held his breath, listening carefully, certain that at any moment his connection to Vegas, to home, to Yves and the life they’d shared would snap, and he’d be blown into a million pieces.

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Chapter Two

If he’d taken the wheel, William could have run the car into the side of the parking garage at top speed. At least if it didn’t kill him, it might get him out of the fucking mess he was in. As it was, he was in the back, sandwiched between the two veteranos, his brother Paco’s homeboys, Sanchez and the man they called Rigo. At Paco’s right was Enrique Vasquez, his brother’s best friend. These three were stone-cold killers, vicious and proud of the terror they inspired, quick with a fist, armed with Glock 9mm pistols and ankle knives. These were men like his father. Cruel men with no mercy. They weren’t saying what they planned to do with Anderson, but William doubted they would let the man live. “Where are we going?” William asked in English, earning a disgusted look from Rigo. “Habla español, Memo,” Paco ordered. “Eres Sureño. Habla tu propria lengua.” William didn’t answer. Sanchez nudged him hard with his elbow, but he just looked past Rigo, out the window, stubbornly silent. Enrique snorted. “Your little brother still thinks he lives with his abuelita, Paco.” Paco’s eyes flicked to the rearview and then back to the road. “Ya sé.” Sanchez shook his head. “It may be too late. He’s soft. We shoulda got him when he was Esteban’s age.” Rigo’s little brother had been jumped into the gang at fourteen and was currently in a juvenile detention center for boosting a car. Sanchez glanced at William. “Maybe earlier, considering how Esteban fucked up.” “Little fucker was stupid, but he’ll learn.” Rigo elbowed William again. “At least he’s got balls. Not like you.” Paco frowned from behind the wheel. “Shut up about my brother. Memo ain’t like us. Jefe says we gotta help him learn how to survive because Abuelita spoiled him.” William’s gut twisted. How he’d missed his brother when his grandmother had taken him away to live with her. He’d cried for Paco for months, even longer than he’d cried for his dead mother. Rigo shot him an assessing look. “I don’t know. It might be too late. El me parece débil.” William frowned at this. These fuckers thought he was weak because he didn’t want to pull shit like this botched crap they had going here? They were all going to get themselves killed. In his book, getting killed for nothing was weak. “Cállate, Rigo. We gotta figure out what we’re going to do with the mariquita.” “I say we cut off his finger and send it with his fancy watch. Mosko will give us whatever we ask.”

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William frowned. “What’s to stop him from getting his boy back and then hunting us down like dogs?” Paco shrugged. “Jefe says he’s got people waiting to go to war.” William grunted. These people would get him killed exactly the way his abuelita had feared when she’d taken him and fled Los Angeles. Before she was even cold Paco had showed up to bring William back, ignoring the fact that he had a scholarship for college and a job. Jefe told him the family business wasn’t optional. They were all caught up in the drama of it, pride and family honor, loyalty and legacy. What William wanted hadn’t mattered one damn bit. Paco drove the Lexus east out of Vegas. In about a half hour he’d pull off onto the Moapa Valley area around Lake Meade. The adrenaline rush was wearing off and William was too warm from sitting between his brother’s friends. He was nearly asleep when his brother uttered a filthy curse. “Qué pasó?” Rigo glanced out the rear window. “Chinga chinga, chinga.” William turned to look. “We’re being followed?” Three black SUVs bore down on them at high speed. Rigo and Sanchez pulled their Glocks. “They can’t shoot at us. They’ll risk hitting the boss’s maricón.” William saw his brother’s grim face in the rearview mirror. Enrique glanced around, pistol in hand. “Qué piensas?” he asked Paco quietly. Paco continued to drive, saying nothing. Suddenly the car engine lost power. “Fuck.” Sanchez leaned forward, worried. “Piérdate… Maneja, hombre.” Paco tried the ignition again but got nothing. The SUVs pulled up and boxed them in easily now that the car was completely dead. “Vamos, brinca ya!” Paco shouted, and all five men dove out the passenger-side doors, ducking behind the car for safety. “Think it’s the feds?” “No sé,” came Enrique’s reply. Paco grabbed William and shoved him to the ground behind the rear wheel of the Lexus. His worried face said everything William needed to know. “You stay put, Memo.” Enrique licked his lips, peering over the trunk. “I don’t—” Two men burst from the third SUV, firing automatic weapons. They shattered the windows of the Lexus and took up position to cover Paco’s men. Glass rained down on William’s head, cutting his hands and dropping into his hair. It felt like sparks from fireworks, striking his scalp with sharp bites of pain, then hissing out as he shook his head to clear it. Rigo crawled toward the rear of the Lexus. He no sooner put his head out from behind the bumper when a shot rang out and his body fell with a thud next to where William crouched with his head in his hands.

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Paco signaled Sanchez and Enrique to pull the hostage from the trunk, and then laid down cover fire, but Sanchez caught one in the chest and Enrique pulled back. Finally Paco shouted to the men that he was willing to give up. “Don’t shoot. I have Anderson in the trunk.” He lifted his arms, holding the Glock limply from his index finger. A long, unnerving silence followed. William barely breathed. He couldn’t move or speak. He prayed he didn’t have to do anything. That Paco didn’t expect him to do anything. Someone shouted, “Show yourselves.” After Paco’s nod, Enrique stood, holding his gun from his finger like Paco. Before William could even consider standing, shots rang out and both men fell to the ground in front of him. Paco stared straight ahead in death, eyes open but unseeing as foamy blood gurgled from his mouth into the dirt. The back of Enrique’s head was blown off. William froze where he was, appalled to feel the warmth of urine seeping through his jeans. Someone approached him, but he refused to look up. Feet appeared in his field of vision and something cold nudged into the skin of his cheek. “This one’s unarmed. Looks like he’s pissed himself.” Mosko’s men. William heard the trunk lid pop open. “Fuck. There he is. Help Mr. Anderson out of there and see if he’s all right, then put in a call to Mr. Mosko. Ask him what he wants us to do from here.” While Mosko’s men took care of Anderson and put him in the first SUV, William stayed where he was, acutely aware of the muzzle of a gun, pressed like an obscene kiss to his face. William kept his eyes down when Mosko’s men finally pulled him to his feet and pushed him into the back of a different ride. They hefted the bodies of Rigo, Sanchez, Enrique and Paco into the Lexus, and then poured gasoline over them. William watched in shock as they lit the whole thing on fire with a flash grenade. As the SUVs pulled away, fire fully engulfed the car, causing a thick, foul plume of smoke to rise in the air. William didn’t know how Anderson was. He doubted anyone would tell him if he asked. As for whatever Mosko had planned for him, he was too numb to care.

Dylan sat in the passenger seat next to Mosko’s man Lasko, trying to process everything that happened. He couldn’t quite believe he was alive, much less going home. Mosko’s men didn’t speak with him except to ask the most basic of questions. He held his tongue, even when they went over potholes, and the pain in his ribs was torture. Finally, they passed through the security gates and rolled up the drive to Dylan’s house, coming to a stop in front of his massive entry doors. Yves, whose dark, worried eyes watched Dylan’s every move as he emerged from the car, leaned in to help.

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“I’ve asked Dr. Kahn to be here. He’s waiting to tell me whether you need a hospital.” Dylan leaned heavily on the older man’s arm. “Thank you.” Someone spoke quietly to Yves in his native Ukrainian as another SUV drove up. Mosko’s men got out and opened the rear door to pull a young Latino out. Even from that distance Dylan could see the boy was shaky and pale. Yves inclined his head toward the side gate, and without a word they led the boy through it to the back of the house. Yves helped Dylan up the steps and into the foyer. The aroma of home, of beeswax furniture polish and the promise of dinner—something his housekeeper Elsa had cooking that was redolent with sweet butter and white wine—hit him with a force that nearly buckled his knees. “Come, Dylan,” Yves said gently, drawing him toward a bedroom on the first floor. “Let me take care of you.” “Thank you.” Now that he was safe Dylan knew he would be sick. “I need the bathroom, I’m—” He pushed past Yves and into a powder room, a small affair mainly for guests. With tears streaming from his eyes he knelt and threw up in the toilet, spitting until he felt strong enough to stand. His hands shook as he flushed. Even though he knew Yves waited anxiously on the other side of the closed door, he stood at the sink a long time, gazing into the mirror. “Dylan?” He absorbed reassurance from the sound of Yves’s voice. “I’ll be out in a minute.” There was nothing to relieve the foul taste, but Dylan washed his hands and rinsed his mouth as well as he could. He needed a shower and a toothbrush. He needed to feel clean again. To breathe fresh air. Dylan opened the door and rejoined Yves, who looked him over carefully. Whatever Yves saw caused his jaw to tighten as he put a comforting arm around Dylan’s shoulders. “Oh, my dear boy. Tell me.” Despite the rich affection in Yves’s voice, Dylan shook his head. He wasn’t ready to talk; he’d shatter if he said one word. He owed it to Yves. He refused to embarrass him by breaking down in front of his men. Yves led Dylan to the guest bedroom where his physician waited. Dr. Kahn confined himself to yes/no questions as Dylan unbuttoned his shirt. He palpated the obvious contusions carefully, helping Dylan to lie down on the bed so he could check for broken bones. As he probed Dylan’s abdomen, Dylan flinched. “Does this hurt?” Dr. Kahn pressed his fingers into the area above Dylan’s hipbone. Dylan hissed in response. “This?” Dylan jumped again, saying nothing. Dr. Kahn turned to Yves while he pressed a sterile gauze pad over a deep laceration on Dylan’s arm. “It would be best if you headed for the hospital. He should be treated for shock and I’m concerned about possible internal injury. Some of his ribs may be broken.” Dylan shook his head but they ignored him.

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“You must get treatment.” Yves’s cool lips touched Dylan’s forehead. “Will you go with me?” Yves drew away. “I can’t. Tomorrow is Sasha’s first holy communion. Helena and I will be entertaining the family tonight and they’ll be staying over so we can attend Mass in the morning.” “I see.” Yves’s grandchildren were his life and legacy. He allowed Yves to pull him into a gentle hug that smelled of wine and the strong Dunhill cigarettes he sometimes smoked on the sly. “As soon as the children leave I will come to you and we will make this whole nightmare disappear. We’ll be together soon, I promise. Go with Dr. Kahn now. I’m leaving Pavel here to take you to the hospital. He’ll see to it that you don’t get into any more trouble.” Dylan frowned. “You make it sound as if I asked for that.” “Of course you didn’t. I was merely trying to lighten the mood.” Yves’s big hand cupped his chin. “My heart stopped when I understood who had taken you. Their audacity won’t go unpunished. Go with the doctor now, be a good boy.” Yves took his hand and squeezed it gently before turning him over to Dr. Kahn, who murmured kind words and pulled him along the hallway. Dylan had no strength left to fight. Maybe he’d never had any strength to begin with. When Pavel took his free arm to help him to the car, he pulled away from both men. “I can walk.” “Yes, sir.” Dylan sensed Pavel’s disapproval. “What will happen to the boy?” “Boy?” Pavel pressed his lips together. He glanced at Yves, who remained inside the house talking with Dr. Kahn. “He tried to help me. I think he would have helped me escape, given time.” “Mr. Mosko will do what is best.” Pavel opened the door of the SUV and helped Dylan in. He pulled the shoulder strap around and smoothed it over Dylan’s sweater, letting his fingers take up the slack so that it didn’t press on Dylan’s chest. Pavel never looked him in the eye, but that was all right. None of Yves’s men ever did.

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Chapter Three

The house shivered, as if even inanimate objects hovered on the brink of some momentous change. Dylan descended the stairs carefully in the unusual, ominous silence. Elsa made him breakfast—an egg white omelet with peppers and onions smothered in fresh, homemade salsa—saying little more than necessary to inquire after his health. He knew he looked battered, but what he saw in her eyes told him it was much worse than he thought. Later, after Dylan took a long hot shower, he worked at scraping the stubble from his chin, routinely tapping and rinsing his razor. Did the changes he sensed exist only in his imagination? As he slapped a bracing, lemony cologne on his skin, he studied his face in the mirror, tilting his head this way and that to really see himself, and realized why the staff had been so quiet. Anyone who looked at him could see the naked fear. The disorientation. The traces of shock and anger and helplessness. His eyes had changed, and the men and women who knew him avoided them, reacting to the pain they found there as surely as if he had the word “victim” stamped across his forehead. Dylan’s hands stilled. Every time he closed his eyes, he was once again trapped in the stifling closeness of that scratchy black bag. He swore he could hear gunfire erupt—pop-pop-pop—and the exact sound the glass made as it shattered…not in his memory but as if it was right next to his ear, reverberating throughout his body. Dylan crawled back into bed and didn’t come out until it was well after dark, when another impulse, pure curiosity, stole over him and he realized he hadn’t heard from Yves, or anyone at all, the fate of the boy who was the only person alive who’d shared the experience with him. He crept along the hallway that led to the stairs and passed the bedrooms on the ground floor, but heard nothing. The basement door was locked. In all the years he’d lived there, he’d never seen it unlocked unless someone needed to get at the furnace. He doubted they’d keep the boy there, right under Elsa’s nose. Yves wouldn’t let anything that ugly mar the sanctity of his home. Passing through the kitchen, he turned off the security system so he could open the door to the spacious backyard. The air was painful, crisp and dry enough to bite. The backyard was mostly pool, with areas surrounding it for entertaining, a large outdoor kitchen, covered patios with automatic mist generators and a tiny traditional garden area. In the corner he had a large gardener’s shed, and Dylan assumed that’s where they’d stashed the boy. Stepping off the flagstone

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patio and onto the lawn, Dylan made his way to the far wall. The token patch of spongy manicured grass squelched damply under his bare feet. “Mr. Anderson?” A dark shape materialized from the shadows to stand before him. “Lazlo?” Dylan thought it was Lazlo, but it could have been his brother Bernard. It was damned dark. A beefy hand came out of nowhere to steady him when he stepped into the small crater around a sprinkler head. “Yes, it’s me, Mr. Anderson. I think you should go back to the house.” “Why aren’t the lights on?” “Nothing is lit at this time of the night, normally.” That was odder still, since Dylan knew it wasn’t true. Beyond the soothing burbling noise made by the unlit fountain Dylan heard another, more ominous sound—like the faint wail of a wounded animal. Dylan had the awful feeling it was the boy, crying. “What the hell is that?” “Just an animal, sir, probably.” “Lazlo.” It never hurt to bark at them. At their core, Yves’s men believed a real man should bark and expect obedience. “I’m well aware that’s the boy from—” “I beg your pardon, sir.” Lazlo backed down immediately. In this he was unlike some of Yves’s other men who might challenge Dylan’s authority and go straight to their boss. “I have the right to face him,” Dylan said evenly. If it wasn’t a command, it didn’t have to be scrutinized as closely. “I have the right to look him in the eye.” “Yes. Okay.” Lazlo turned. “Follow me. He’s in the shed.” Dylan fell into step behind Lazlo. The man was like a big jungle cat, all muscle and sinew, lithe and graceful. He never put a foot wrong, as though he could see in the dark. The same couldn’t be said for Dylan, who required his assistance twice more as they neared the building where the gardener’s equipment was stored. Lazlo opened the door and the first smell to reach Dylan’s senses was gasoline, kept there in spillproof safety cans for the gas-powered weed whackers and leaf blowers the gardeners used daily. As soon as he registered that odor, though, a number of others assaulted him. The awful smells of urine and vomit were among the most prominent. Feces and blood and fear. If Dylan hadn’t heard crying, he might have believed the boy was dead. There was a switch on the wall for a single bulb light and Dylan toggled it. Seeing what he’d smelled made the situation far worse. The young man, a boy really, lay on an old army cot in the corner. A rusted canteen hung from a nail above a bucket for waste. It smelled as though it hadn’t been emptied in days. The boy’s face was nearly black with bruises and dried blood. He’d cried off and on the entire time Dylan had been in the yard, yet now he was silent, as if holding his breath. Dylan started to go to him.

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Lazlo’s hand came out. “Yvgeny will see to him when he returns.” “I see.” Dylan paused in the doorway, adapting to the appalling smell. “I plan to talk to him.” “I cannot allow it.” Lazlo frowned down at him. “It’s my right. The insult was to me.” Dylan believed Lazlo would sympathize with his need to confront his attacker, so he allowed the truth of that to show in his face. “His death belongs to Yvgeny.” “I know. I need to speak while he’s still alive.” “All right,” Lazlo finally agreed. “Thank you.” Dylan watched Lazlo leave, seeing relief in the set of his shoulders when he opened the door and breathed fresh air. Dylan moved until he stood over his kidnapper, half holding his breath. Dylan pulled a large basket up next to the cot, overturning it. He thought it might hold his weight, but sat down gingerly to test it. As for speaking to this…person, this almost-man who’d caused him so much grief, now that he was here he found he had very little to say. “I expected something more,” Dylan said, mostly to himself. Before him, the bundle of rags and skin gave up a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a deep, gut-wrenching sob. “Me too, man.” “Memo.” Dylan tried the name. “That’s your name, right? Guillermo?” “William,” came the curt reply. “You don’t like to be called Memo?” The boy looked away. “How old are you?” No answer. “Are you in high school?” “Twenty.” Dylan glanced at the boy’s body briefly. He was lying on his side with his knees drawn to his chest. It was impossible to tell how old he was. His face, though bruised and caked with blood, was fairly smooth. “You don’t look twenty.” “Sorry. I’m not exactly going to bring my ID to commit a crime.” “You don’t talk like a gangbanger.” “Again. Sorry if I’m a disappointment to you. I guess I should try to do better in the future. Not that I’ll have the chance.” Dylan remained silent. After a time William asked, “You okay though?” “Yeah.” Dylan thought about it for a minute. “I guess. Yeah.” “That’s good anyway.” William closed his eyes and with a pained grunt, rolled over to face the wall.

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“You tried to help me.” William didn’t respond. “You did. I felt it. You didn’t want to be there. You went along but—” “I hated what they did to you.” William’s head turned fractionally. “You think I had a choice?” “I don’t know. Did you?” “No.” “You were new to that. Did they jump you in? It isn’t your deal, is it?” “No. It isn’t.” Dylan leaned forward, peering at him in the poor light of the single overhead bulb. It cast deep shadows in the windowless, airless shed. The closer he got, the more noxious the smell. He swallowed convulsively as bile burned his throat. “William, look at me.” The boy rolled back over, and up close his face was such a mess that Dylan gasped. William’s eyes were like holes in his mottled skin. An oozing cut split his lip. The rest of his face and neck bore bruises of every color. Would he’d be recognizable after he healed…? William was right, he wasn’t going to get that chance. As soon as Yves had the time he’d personally carve this kid into an example none of his peers would ever forget. And William knew it too, because holy fuck, his eyes. Dark brown, probably deep set, but it was hard to tell because of the swelling. Rich with lashes like a girl’s. Hurt, not angry, when they should have been. Hopeless. The boy’s eyes were already dead. William touched Dylan’s arm experimentally with the tip of one finger. “I’m sorry for everything.” It just felt wrong. Dylan’s heart sped up, and his mouth went dry. Anger lodged in the area of his chest where he used to think his soul resided. Where he used to believe burning pain was a manifestation of the Holy Ghost, telling him what to do, telling him when something was right and something was wrong. Right now it was telling him that standing idly by and watching this kid die was wrong. Dylan had been so numb for so long, emotions hurt like frostbite—like blood flooding back into icenumbed skin. And they scared him after so many years of feeling little to nothing at all. But at the same time it felt so good. “I’ll be back later,” Dylan whispered. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” the kid growled—false bravado, when anyone could see he was terrified— and rolled over to face the wall again.

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Chapter Four

Dylan regretted betraying Yves’s trust, and not just because it would probably get him killed. Yves had never been anything but kind to him from the moment they’d met, back when he was parking cars at The Mirage. Yves had come to the hotel night after night with his business associates, dressed in expensive suits, using exquisite manners and tipping unreservedly. He wore an aura of mystery and danger along with a brilliant smile and a fascinating watch that Dylan later learned was a Doxa Valjoux vintage chronograph from the forties. Word spread quickly among employees that he might be involved in criminal activities, which only served to entice Dylan—a shy but adventurous boy from Utah who was starting life over in sin city. A boy whose new motto was Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. After watching Yves for a while, Dylan got up the nerve to offer to detail Mosko’s car weekly at his home, where Dylan had the opportunity to see how the man lived firsthand. Taking care of Mosko’s car led to conversations, although Dylan doubted that Yves was normally inclined to stroll out, coffee in hand, to talk to the help. It quickly became clear Yves was interested in more than the products Dylan was using to care for his expensive cars. Soon the conversation turned to loneliness and longing, beauty and love, family and necessity. Dylan accepted a dinner invitation from the handsome older man, even though when they left together the man’s wife had peered at them from the front window of his palatial home and waved goodbye. Dylan didn’t blame himself for succumbing to an all-fronts assault by a wealthy man who wanted him primarily for his body. He no longer had family. He had no friends. No phone. No car. After long, lonely months of ramen noodles, of going back and forth from a dingy apartment to The Mirage using public transportation, Yves’s wealth and the attention he paid to Dylan was like falling into a dream. And Dylan had never taken either for granted, which made Yves’s trust harder to betray when he finally had to do it. But it was easy too. It wasn’t until Dylan contemplated how to render the guard keeping the prisoner in the gardener’s shed unconscious that he realized how terribly, how awfully, simple it would be. Yves trusted him, held him exempt from all the precautions he had in place for others, and like Caesar, it was only mildly ironic that after having been so careful with his enemies all along, the real threat to Yves’s security came from his closest friend. From his lover.

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Dylan approached the tiny gatehouse in sleep pants and slippers, carrying a mug of coffee. “Hi, Andreas. It’s cold tonight.” He gave the man a small smile. “I brought you something.” Andreas frowned at him. Since Dylan had never done this before, he couldn’t blame Andreas for being suspicious. “How are you this evening, sir?” After Andreas took the coffee Dylan stepped back and crossed his arms, fumbling with the long sleeves of his T-shirt. “I could be better. I’m having trouble sleeping.” “I see. You bring me coffee so I will be extra vigilant?” “No…well, maybe.” Dylan edged closer to the guard and peered over his shoulder at the monitors. “I keep thinking they’ll come back to finish the job.” Andreas eyed him. There was no love lost between them. Andreas saw him as Mosko’s dirty secret— his Achilles’ heel—but he wouldn’t allow anyone to harm Dylan as long as Mosko cared one way or the other. “No one can come for you but ghosts. I will stop the living.” Dylan shivered. He rested a hip on the small desk, surreptitiously palming the keys to Andreas’s car and leaving another set, one of Yves’s many spare key rings, in its place. He was pleased to see they were similar and might not attract Andreas’s attention right away. “I’ll take the ghosts. They’re less likely to leave scars.” He tried another smile and this time Andreas relaxed. “I won’t let you come to harm, sir.” “Thank you, Andreas.” Dylan turned to go back to the house. “For everything.” “Good night, sir.” Dylan walked backwards on the path for a minute, but Andreas had lost interest in him. He was busy with his ear buds and his eyes were on the monitors. He sipped his coffee. Dylan let himself back into the house to put the rest of his plan into action. He changed his clothes, then left all the things that he felt rightfully belonged to Yves—his wallet, credit cards, and the watch and phone Yves could use to track him—on the kitchen counter. It was time to head out the back door to get William, but before he did, he put several bags of popcorn in the microwave for thirty minutes at seventy percent power. The landscape lights remained off. Dylan listened for a minute, taking in the silence. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dark before making his way along the shadows, from the edge of the house to a place near the bushes along the far wall, and then to the back, where he could see Lazlo was stationed again near the shed. Dylan didn’t have a hope of getting past Lazlo by stealth. The man was military trained and good at his job. When Lazlo turned to him, surprise evident on his face, Dylan simply tased him. Lazlo hit the ground with a groan and a meaty thud. Dylan wished he’d been carrying the taser when he’d been taken in the first place, as Yves had instructed him to keep it with him at all times, but he’d never imagined that on

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the highly protected VIP floor of the spa he’d have trouble. Yves never said I told you so. He didn’t have to. After fumbling in Lazlo’s pockets for the key to the shed, he opened it quickly, starting a count inside his head, thinking that if he’d timed this correctly, he’d get the boy out and both of them away, and if he didn’t, he’d be joining Memo in that shed by morning. He toggled the light switch. “Memo.” Not a sound. “Memo, it’s me.” Dylan made his way to the cot and put a gentle hand on the boy’s arm. “You have to come with me, there’s no time to waste.” “William.” “What?” “My name is William.” “Argue with me later. I figure we have about three minutes before neither of our names will matter except in the obituaries. Come with me.” “I can’t, man. I can barely even move.” “You have to. I didn’t do this to leave you here.” “I can’t.” “If I pick you up, it’s just going to hurt you more. Don’t make me do that.” William tried to roll over and it was obviously agony for him. Dylan’s heart sank. “Here, let me help.” “No.” William bit his lip. Dylan didn’t ask this time, he just took William’s arm, pulled it over his shoulder, gave him a moment to get used to that, then hauled him to his feet. “No time to be gentle. It’s either this or a fireman’s carry.” “This.” William groaned. “You fucking sadist.” “Yeah, well.” Dylan didn’t disagree. Once they left the shed behind he hugged the perimeter, scraping his arms on the rough bushes where the ambient lighting from the street and the moon didn’t penetrate the shadows. “Next time kidnap a nicer guy.” They made it unseen to the row of cars belonging to the guards. Dylan ducked behind the last one, Andreas’s nondescript Honda sedan. He held William steady, close and quiet, even though he stank like raw sewage. It took all of Dylan’s concentration to keep William from falling over onto the ground while he unlocked the car with the key to avoid illuminating the headlights. He helped William in and made his way around to the driver’s side, getting in quickly, praying the dome lights wouldn’t give them away. “Now, we wait,” he told the boy. “What are we waiting for?” “Popcorn.”

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“Popcorn?” Dylan chewed his fingernail. Did he set it high enough? He’d scorched and burned microwave popcorn before, filling the house with acrid smoke when he wasn’t even trying. He’d been so sure that it would work, but as seconds ticked by he doubted himself, and his heart started to sink heavily. What if he just brought more suffering to the kid? Nothing happened, and Dylan was ready to start the process of hauling the kid back when sirens filled the air and the front floodlights blinked to life, bathing the entire house in blinding white light. In the commotion no one noticed that Andreas’s car started. Smoke had already begun to fill the first floor as the two remaining guards pulled the front doors open. Protocol required that Yves’s men search for him inside the house, while Andreas checked to make sure the fire department received the alarm. Andreas was supposed to open the gate for emergency vehicles when they arrived, but Dylan hoped he would be sleeping quietly, draped over his monitors, as blissfully unaware of everything as the three temazepam capsules Dylan had emptied into his coffee could make him. His plan was for the two men inside the house to split up, one looking for him, and the other for Lazlo, to see why he hadn’t responded. That left Dylan and William with only a brief window of time to make it to the guardhouse, open the gate, and then leave without being seen. He approached the guardhouse cautiously, pulling up right alongside it. If Andreas hadn’t drunk his coffee, or if the drugs hadn’t taken effect yet, there’d be hell to pay. If one of the guards looked out front or found Lazlo too soon… Sick dread covered Dylan with sweat. A quick glance found Andreas slumped in his chair. Dylan put the Honda in park and jumped out to activate the remote. It seemed like the massive wrought-iron gate took hours to open, sliding slowly on the track while Dylan’s heart clattered in his throat. It wasn’t hard to imagine what punishment Yves would mete out to a lover who betrayed him. If he were spotted now, it would be nearly impossible to get away. A low groan came from William, reminding him why he had to try. “Fasten your seat belt, Memo.” “William.” Awkwardly, the kid did as he was told. “Remind me when we’re not about to die.” When the gate finally opened enough for them to slip out, Dylan glanced in the rearview mirror. I’m leaving. I’m really leaving Yves. There was no time for grief. If he thought about what he was doing, he’d surely freeze in his tracks. He punched the accelerator and worked the manual transmission. William shifted to look behind. “No pressure, but we should probably go faster.” “What?” Dylan sure felt pressured. He pelted out of his driveway and headed east. “What do you mean, no pressure?”

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“I mean about my name. No pressure to remember.” Dylan shook his head. “I’m lucky to remember my name right now. Much less how to drive a manual transmission. It’ll come back to me—like riding a bicycle.” Dylan winced when the transmission gears made a telltale grinding sound, then tried to shift again. “I hope that means you know how to ride a bicycle…” “Yeah.” Dylan made a sharp right turn and it threw Memo into him. “What happens now?” “I don’t know. I only thought this far ahead.” William accepted this, or else he was in too much pain to argue. Dylan’s heart stopped racing when he’d driven several miles and as far as he could tell no one followed them. He wet his dry lips and slowed down. They’d made it. He didn’t want to say it out loud, he didn’t have the nerve to count on it, but it was entirely possible he’d gotten away with it. While they were stopped at a red light, he glanced over at William and allowed himself to hope. The kid looked like he’d been hit by a train. Dylan cursed. The real work—the hard part—was just beginning. He had to keep William safe until he healed, and that meant they needed a place to hide where Yves couldn’t find them. If such a place existed. He drove Andreas’s car to a large long-term nursing care facility and exchanged it for a Chevy Caprice with an inch of dust on it. He opened the car using an improvised Slim Jim he’d made with a rigid piece of plastic from a trash bin at the house, then transferred the contents of Andreas’s car—a duffle full of tools, weapons and a number of fake identification cards with Andreas’s picture—into the Caprice’s trunk. He parked the Honda nose out and removed the front plates. As an afterthought, he covered it with leaves and debris so it would blend in. He didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until they were headed out of Las Vegas, north on the I-15. Leaving Yves was harder than he thought it would be. He’d loved Yves, and Yves reciprocated in the only way he understood, showering Dylan with possessions. Still, Dylan owned very little that he cared about. Yves’s watch, that same Doxa that had been Yves’s first gift to him, was the only thing he could even think of. After he realized what they had planned for the boy, his clothes, his phone, his bank accounts and credit cards—even his life—hadn’t meant much to him at all. He was sorry he had to hurt Yves. And he would miss that watch.

William had allowed himself to be moved from place to place, car to car, but neither he nor the pretty gringo had spoken after the first few tense minutes. For some reason it was easier that way. Especially now when the man had to pick him up and practically drag him into a gas station bathroom so he could piss.

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William’s swollen fingers were useless, so Dylan was forced to unbutton him and take down his zipper. It killed him to let another man hold his dick while he pissed. The water turned murky red. He blinked to hold back tears. “Looks like there’s internal damage,” Anderson said right next to his ear while the process of unfastening went in reverse. “We should probably get you to a hospital.” William stared blankly in the mirror while the man washed his hands. “No.” “I guess you know my name is Dylan.” He punched the dryer button and rubbed his hands beneath the noisy flow of hot air. “I want to help you.” “Why?” William asked when the air shut off. Dylan shrugged. “Hell if I know. Just goofy that way.” He came to collect William, putting an arm around his waist to bear most of his weight. Dylan led William back to the car, then took off for the mini mart. While Dylan was gone William dozed off, only to wake hours later as dawn broke over the Eastern horizon. They’d stopped again, this time in the lot of an attractive city park in a town nestled at the foot of some flat red mountains. The air was crisp and clear, carrying birdsong and the scent of trees and grass to him through the slightly open window. He realized he was alone and panicked until he saw Dylan sitting on the hood, watching the sunrise. He and his brother had stalked Dylan Anderson for days, learning his every move, so this was hardly the first time William had seen him, but he thought it might be the only time Anderson was completely at ease. He leaned casually back on his hands while the sun kissed the gold in his hair and outlined his upturned face. He wore inexpensive jeans and a lightweight parka over a long-sleeve T-shirt. His shoes had seen better days. Dylan was hardly the protected plaything of a rich man here, driving a dirty car in an anonymous western town, and it suited him. William barely moved, but he must have jolted the car on its springs because Dylan turned. He slipped down off the hood and came around the side of the car. When the door opened, cold air rushed in, raising the hair on William’s arms. Dylan lifted the lever and helped to pull the seat to its upright position, then peered into William’s eyes. “I can’t drive much more without rest. We have to find a place where I can sleep.” “I wish I could do more to help.” “I’ll get us to a motel, no worries. I was just…taking a break.” “It’s nice here.” William glanced around at the immaculate park. “Clean.” “Yeah. It looks that way doesn’t it?” Dylan rose and removed his jacket, placing it across William’s chest. It smelled like Dylan—light, a little green, fresh and natural, like good soap. He soaked up Dylan’s residual body heat shamelessly, even as he realized he reeked and the jacket would need cleaning—or

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maybe burning—after he used it. He flushed deeply. How had the fastidious Dylan endured being enclosed in the car with him for hours? Maybe that’s why he’d opened the windows and gone outside for a while. “Thank you.” “We’re nowhere near safe. Don’t thank me yet.” Dylan walked back around the car and got in. He tapped the wires together until the car started, then twisted them away so he wouldn’t get shocked. They pulled out of the parking lot without speaking. Dylan drove back onto the highway, heading east, then stopped at the first motel they saw. It was a dismal place, dingy and falling down, but a sign in the office window indicated it was open and had vacancies. Dylan parked inside the courtyard and got out. He came around to William’s door and opened it. “Wait here. Don’t run.” “Where the hell would I go?” Tenderness lit Dylan’s eyes, and exasperation. He smoothed one finger over William’s battered hand then—inexplicably—brushed his hair back and kissed him on the forehead. “What was that for?” “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re like one of those frilled lizards that puffs up to scare away predators and it makes me laugh.” Dylan closed the door between them. While William watched him enter the office he noticed two things. First, Dylan was trying to hide how battered his body was, but it was no use. He was pinched and pale, and he walked like he was a hundred years old. And second, the tenderness in Dylan’s eyes felt real, which came as a surprise. Maybe Dylan found some sort of meaning in helping a kid who’d had it rough. Maybe he felt his brief time as a captive was a connection they shared. Whatever caused it, Dylan’s warmth wrapped him in a cocoon of well-being so enticing it held him immobile even as his instinct for self-preservation warned him to run.

An annoying brass bell jangled when Dylan opened the door to the motel. An old woman came out of a back room to stand behind a slim gray computer monitor. She wore a stained housedress and looked as though she’d only just woken up. “It’s a little early.” She blinked at him, patting her dirty gray hair behind one ear. “I was not at all prepared for gentlemen callers. What can I do for you?” Gentlemen callers? Dylan grinned at her, although that was more likely to frighten her than anything, given his battered face. “I need a room for a couple of days. I’ve been driving all night.” “Credit card and ID.” She held out her hand. “I’m afraid I don’t have one. I only have cash. Of course I’ll pay a deposit.” “I don’t want any trouble with the law.” “I’m not wanted by the police.”

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“How do I know you’re telling the truth, Mr.—” “Smith. Beauregard Smith.” Shrewd green eyes that appeared far younger than the face surrounding them looked him over. “Of course, Mr. Beauregard Smith. How long will you be staying?” “What will it take for me to rent a room for three days with no bothersome paperwork?” She didn’t skip a beat. “Three hundred dollars.” Dylan’s eyebrows rose. “Cheap at half the price.” He counted out three hundred dollars in twenties. She scooped up the money and stuffed it in the pocket of her shift. “Any trouble and I won’t hesitate to call the law.” “I will be the soul of discretion.” Maybe he was simply in the mood for playacting. Nothing had been real for him since he’d left home anyway. He drew the line at bending over her hand to kiss it, but he shook it when she offered it. “Last room on the ground floor. You can park your car behind the building if you want, go around the alley on the side. You’ll find my truck back there. It can’t be seen from the street.” “Thank you.” “Need anything else?” He hesitated. “A microwave would be really good.” She rolled her eyes. “I can get you a hotplate.” He smiled with gratitude and went a little heavy on the Southern charm. “I’d be much obliged, ma’am.” She peered at him. “You know…you didn’t come in here talking like that.” “Yes, but that was before I became a gentleman caller.” He took the key from her. “That seemed to require a little extra effort on my part, don’t you think?” Dylan left the old woman fairly happy with him. She wasn’t likely to run his plates or turn them in to the local law, and she could have no idea about Yves. He decided to park next to their room and get William out of the car, then leave him while he parked out back. William was asleep again, warm to the touch, which worried Dylan—especially since he couldn’t stay awake much longer. True to her word, the motel manager came out of the office carrying an ancient hotplate. She handed it through the window. “It’s real old, but it works.” “Thank you—” “Sue.” “Thanks, Sue.” Dylan watched her flinch when she saw William. All she could see of him—hunched as he was under Dylan’s jacket—was a face black with bruises.

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She gripped the fabric of her housedress, wrinkling it further. “You better tell me you didn’t do that.” “Hell no, I didn’t do that. I’m trying to help him.” “If he needs a doctor, I can tell you where there’s a low-cost clinic. They don’t ask too many questions.” “Thank you. I’ll let you know once I figure things out.”

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Chapter Five

William glanced around the sad little motel room. It contained the usual furnishings: two double beds, a dresser on which sat an older television, a small round table, two chairs on castors and a desk. The décor was ’70s conquistador, complete with a bullfighter portrait on the wall that showed an ugly squat man in the traditional traje de luces with a red cape and flowers strewn at his feet. The drapes and bedspreads were brassy gold and shiny with wear. It was the kind of place William expected to find covered with crimescene tape, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing over the floor, looking for the telltale signs of chalk outlines or bloodstains. Dylan never let go of him, and he found it pleasant to be led—to be connected to another human body when he felt so awful. He hardly had words for how good that simple press of human flesh made him feel. Dylan backed him down onto the farthest bed in the room and said something William didn’t catch about it being close to…something. He was so cold. Soon he was between the threadbare sheets and Dylan was covering him up with a heavy layer of blankets, rubbing his arms briskly, bringing much-needed blood to the surface of skin that was covered with gooseflesh. When Dylan’s hands left him he dozed again, only to wake up after an unknown amount of time, dizzy and disoriented. The bed seemed to pitch and roll beneath him, and for a horrible moment, he panicked. Where was Dylan? Was this his idea of revenge? To leave his last living tormentor alone in a hotel room and helpless? Without water and food, he’d die. What if Dylan never came back? Would he have the strength to rise from the bed and look for help? When Dylan re-entered the room, William was so relieved he let out a half-sob and covered his face. “I thought you left.” “What? I went to park the car out back.” The side of the bed dipped when Dylan sat on it. He pulled William’s hands down and loomed over him while William’s tears streamed down his cheeks. “What’s all this about?” “I hate being so fucking helpless.” “Shh.” Dylan gathered him up, sheets, blanket and all, and held him. William pressed his face into Dylan’s warm chest and dragged in a deep breath. “There’s no need for all this. It’s just the pain talking. You’ll be all right. I’m here. I didn’t go anywhere.”

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“I’m such an idiot.” William used the sheet to wipe his swollen nose. “My head hurts.” “It’s going to be okay. I won’t leave you alone. I promise.” Fresh tears spilled over and he was helpless to stop them. “Shit.” “It’s going to be all right.” Dylan lowered him gently to the bed. “Thanks.” Shame burned William’s cheeks. “I’m sorry.” Dylan wore a thick patina of exhaustion. He dragged his coat off and threw it on one of the two chairs that flanked the tiny table by the window. “Right now I need to sleep for a bit. I have to. I’m sorry.” “That’s okay.” Dylan pulled the heavy flannel-lined drapes together, enclosing the room in near total darkness. William heard him toe off his shoes and draw back the covers. The mattress springs squeaked with each movement as he crawled onto it. “Wake me if you need me. Don’t hesitate. I need your promise that if something happens, or if you start feeling worse, you’ll say something.” “I promise.” “Thank you.” Dylan’s head had hardly hit the pillow before his breathing evened out and he began emitting small throaty sounds that couldn’t quite be called proper snores. Eventually they grew heartier, and William smiled to himself in the darkness. It seemed that no matter how perfect a man appeared from the outside, sleep—not Colt—was the great equalizer. He listened to the sound of a man sleeping nearby, such a comforting thing, until he drifted off again. “Hey,” Dylan whispered. “How long…?” “It’s late afternoon. I slept around nine hours.” To William, it felt like no time had passed at all. “Here, drink to stay hydrated.” Dylan curved his arm around William’s back and gently lifted him. He held a bottle of water with a sport-style top to his lips. William drank greedily until Dylan pulled it away. “Slowly.” “Thanks.” William swiped his forearm across his mouth. “We need to get you cleaned up. I don’t suppose you could stand for a shower?” William shook his head. Even that small movement hurt. “How about a bath? I’ll do all the work if you can just get there.” “You can’t bathe me.” “Why not?” “Because I’ll die of shame.” He refused to look at Dylan. “Don’t be an airhead. You’ll feel better.”

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Dragging the covers over his face, he stated, emphatically, “No.” Dylan pulled them back and teased, “You can hide but you can’t run.” William pressed his lips against an angry reply. Dylan left and within seconds William heard water running. Dylan returned to help him up, peeling the sheets and blankets off him. “I got a pretty good first-aid kit at the last place we stopped. In the meantime I’ll distract you by being so vastly amusing that time will pass so quickly you won’t even notice.” Distraction wasn’t working. William shuddered. “Fuck you.” “I’m sorry to be a smartass. I know you feel like crap, but you need to get clean. Trust me, we’ll both feel better.” “You just don’t want to be around me because I stink.” “What’s your point?” William threw his hand out to halt their progress while he tried to figure out if he was going to hurl. “What’s wrong?” When nothing happened William’s shoulders sagged. “I thought I was going to puke. You can’t possibly want to do this.” “It is what it is. Relax. Have you ever seen a gangrenous foot?” “Gangrene? That’s dead, right?” “Yeah. My mother was a nurse and she got a bad feeling when we didn’t see one of our neighbors for a while. This guy’s foot was dying but he didn’t want to call emergency services. I guess he was afraid they’d take him from his home. Put him in a facility. My mom convinced him to go to the hospital and we had to carry him to the car. I was probably fifteen or so and it stank so bad…but I couldn’t let that show on my face, you know? You do what you have to do.” “What happened?” “Eventually, he lost his leg up to the knee, but he survived and went back home with a CNA and visiting nurses.” Dylan took most of William’s weight again as they made the rest of the short trip to the tub. “I’ll get you clean clothes to wear later. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.” Steam had already begun to cloud the mirror as William let Dylan strip him. To Dylan’s credit he did it impersonally, stuffing the clothes William had been wearing, including his shoes, into a plastic bag from the mini mart. William flinched when he put his foot into the water. It was a little too hot, but he didn’t doubt it would feel heavenly to sink into it and let the heat do its magic with his sore muscles. “Your clothes won’t fit me.” Dylan didn’t look at him. William caught the blush staining his cheeks and found it funny under the circumstances. “You’re shorter. I have sweats and they’ll work for now.”

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William put his other foot into the tub. With Dylan’s help he sank down, sighing deeply when the heat enveloped him. Dylan wet a washcloth and draped it over his chest. The sudden rush of pleasure from its warmth caused William to groan and laugh all at once. He drifted, dreamlike, while Dylan used a second washcloth on every inch of his body, moving him, lifting his limbs, keeping the cloth on his chest warm with water from a plastic cup. With some amusement, William watched Dylan’s cheeks go from pink to crimson as he worked, because it was for damn sure William was well favored by whichever of the gods gave out cocks. His was longer and thicker flaccid than a lot of men he’d seen hard. More than once, his brother had tried to talk him into amateur porn, but he’d argued that his tats made him easily identifiable and he didn’t want to be filmed nude. He’d never admitted, even when things got heated between them, that he didn’t think his cock would stand up and give so much as a lazy look at the big-eyed, curvaceous fantasy girls Paco and his boys gawked at on XTube. Dylan’s eyes remained downcast while he worked. William tried to keep his cock from twitching in those beautiful hands, but itched to lift Dylan’s chin, just to decide if he was embarrassed or interested. The rough texture of the washcloth rubbed the skin of his perineum and whisked over his hole and the jig was up. His cock jerked to life, pushing itself into Dylan’s hand. Spine arching, water sloshing, he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. Dylan glanced up, the pupils of his eyes blooming like black ink stains, eclipsing the irises. He bit his lip and for a second William thought Dylan would yank his hand back, but he didn’t do that at all. It slid over his soapy skin and trembled on William’s now-throbbing cock. Dylan lowered his gaze to his hand as though he’d never seen it before. Dylan withdrew his hand from William’s flesh slowly, fingertips lingering, as if he didn’t want to let it go. “I’m sorry.” “Are you?” Dylan ignored William’s words as he sluiced water over the soapy skin, his hand moving from William’s groin to the hollow of his pelvis on the right side where it hovered delicately over one of his tattoos. “I like this.” Dylan traced the circular pattern. “It’s a calendar.” William’s mouth went dry. “I know. I’ve seen them. It makes a great tattoo.” Their hands met over the colorful round design. “I got it in San Diego. Abuelita nearly killed me.” “Why?” Dylan’s eyes held nothing but admiration. “It’s beautiful.” “She thought tattoos were only for bangers and thugs. She associated them with my father’s friends.” “And the ones on your back?” Dylan referred to the stylized nickname Memo tattoo on one shoulder blade and the X3 tattoo on the other.

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William shook his head. “She never saw those. Paco made me get those after she was gone.” Dylan’s thumb stroked the round shape on William’s brown skin. “This must have taken a long time.” “Yeah.” William covered Dylan’s hand with his and they stayed like that. “I’m glad you like it.” “Yves had tattoos.” “Yeah? I guess he would.” William’s cock still throbbed, but it seemed they were going to ignore it. “Those Russian guys have tattoos like…all over.” Dylan nodded. “Do you have any ink?” “No.” Dylan moved away and the magic of the moment faded. “Yves didn’t want my skin marked.” William didn’t know what to say to that. “I was raised to believe it was wrong anyway.” William had Dylan figured to be some white-bread midwesterner whose mama wouldn’t approve of shit like that. “I don’t know if Heavenly Father really cares about that though. I doubt He worries about how many piercings a guy has or…whatever.” Dylan was Mosko’s fuck toy. Did he really worry about stuff like that? There was something not quite real about this man who’d rescued him from Mosko’s men. “I liked Yves’s tattoos though,” Dylan admitted. “I found them…very attractive. They reminded me of the cathedral windows in Europe. The pictures told his life story, if you knew how to read it.” He went back to his task, diligently but gently scrubbing the skin of William’s legs. William stifled a moan. This was bound to turn into one of his greatest stroke fantasies ever, someday. Dylan’s hands moving all over him, the heat of the water, the scent of soap mixed with his excitement and, every so often, another aroma that William thought might be Dylan’s body responding to his, perfuming the air with its own arousal. Dylan asked him to slide down so he could wet his hair, then shampooed and rinsed it twice, each time gently coaxing William’s head back and using the cup to rinse the soap out. He drained the water when it was gray and then refilled the tub. William succumbed to his soft commands, only moving if Dylan needed him to move, barely aware of anything beyond the warmth of the water, the gentle hands and sweet music of Dylan’s low voice. His hard cock throbbed and bobbed on the surface, ignored but not forgotten. Dylan finished the second round quickly and drained the water again. For a minute he was gone, but before William could even register that Dylan had left the room, he came back with soft gray sweatpants and a long-sleeve T-shirt. William borrowed Dylan’s strength to get out of the tub, then sat on a towel they’d draped over the lid of the toilet while Dylan dried him. Dylan’s movements slowed down when he got to William’s erection.

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Dylan glanced up at him. “That’s remarkable… Oh, to be twenty again. You could have a sucking chest wound and still get a hard-on, huh?” William shifted uncomfortably. “Well. I… It’s…a thing. Mine.” Could he sound any dumber? Dylan’s long-fingered hand wrapped around the base of William’s shaft. He was so hard his flesh didn’t give under Dylan’s gentle squeeze. Not a fraction of a millimeter. If Dylan toyed with him like that, he’d burst. “Ah shit, Dylan…” “This must hurt,” Dylan murmured. William gave up a needy sound that echoed within the silence of the small, tiled room. Dylan’s breath seemed to ghost over his dick, and the fine hairs lifted on the back of his neck. “I guess I like the feel of your hands on me.” Dylan gave William’s dick an experimental pump. Pearly beads of precome oozed from the tip and dripped in a glistening trail onto his thumb. William watched Dylan for signs of revulsion. His mouth had gone too dry to speak. “It’s beautiful.” Dylan opened his hand, and when William thought he was going to let go, disappointment flooded him. Instead, as if mesmerized, Dylan gathered up that pearlescent fluid and spread it over the dark bulbous head of William’s cock, using it to lubricate his movements, which by then were obvious. Dylan Anderson was jacking him off. William sucked in a surprised gasp and jerked his hips to pull away and that—oh fuck—that made Dylan’s fingers tighten reflexively as they started to fly from base to tip, twisting on the ridge of his glans, just how he did it himself, just how he needed it. Every few strokes those slim fingers flowed over the head of his cock, digging into his piss slit with a sharp burst of pressure that made nerves all over William’s body tingle—as if sparks touched him at random intervals. The pleasure/pain and solid pulls on his cock drugged his senses until he lost control completely and whined like a damned dog. “Motherfuck. More, baby. Please…” He shifted his hips to give Dylan access to more skin. Dylan’s fingers tightened. His thumb rose, leading an advance that traveled William’s entire dick on each stroke—up, around, over, everywhere at once, while Dylan’s other hand dropped a shy caress on William’s balls. He upped the ante, rolling them in the palm of one cool hand and working William’s dick over with the other so fast William could barely see it. “Like this?” “Yeah… Yes.” At some point William closed his eyes. Dylan seemed to know exactly what he was doing to William’s senses, seemed to want to be doing it, so William gave himself up to his pleasure. He started pumping his hips, directing sharp little jabs into the hands that held him tight. “Just like that, papi.” Dylan shifted his body and made a needy sound of his own.

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William opened his eyes just as Dylan leaned over his cock, mouth open, ready to lap at it with his slick pink tongue, eager to taste it. His pupils had gone supernova, his eyes unfocused, wide, mesmerized. His desire sent William over the edge. “Fuck.” William’s hand shot out to stop him. He caught Dylan an instant before he could come closer, and exploded, jizz rocketing from his body to arc in the air and drop in ropy jets all over Dylan’s face. Come draped his hair. It flew into his surprised eyes and landed in his open mouth like a gob of spit on his tongue. William wanted to die. Amused blue eyes raked him over and then—the most amazing thing—Dylan kissed him, sharing the flavor, passing it back to him while he swept his tongue over the roof of William’s mouth. He whipped the towel around William and hauled him in close. “I felt those balls pull up, but I thought I had time to taste your skin…” William swallowed hard, still reeling from his orgasm. “Sorry.” Dylan sounded almost chipper. “Not to worry.” Not to worry? “What’s going on?” “Nothing, all right? Feel better?” Dylan was all business as he drew the towel back and used it on himself, swiping it over his face and chest, getting most of the come off. Dylan got William to stand, no mean feat since his knees felt like jelly, and proceeded to dry him. When he got to William’s swollen hands, he frowned. Dylan lifted one to get a look. “How did this happen?” William couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. “One of Mosko’s men stomped on them.” Dylan paled. “On purpose?” “What do you think?” “I guess I never wanted to see that side of them.” “Mosko wasn’t going to let you anywhere near the ugly part of his life.” “I thought I was the ugly part.” “Mosko’s dirty secret. Except you weren’t that secret.” Dylan drew back, stung. “I know.” William nudged Dylan’s chin and lifted his face. “You know he protected you from that. I’d be the last one to judge. Guy like you? You were probably a collector’s item.” Dylan helped support William’s weight as they left the bathroom. “You get into my bed and I’ll go beg clean linens from the manager to change the other one so it’s fresh.” He lifted the covers and William slid between the sheets. Clean sheets, clean skin… He couldn’t remember anything feeling that good, except maybe Dylan’s hands. Dylan sat on the edge of the bed and offered more water. “Drink?”

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William complied. When Dylan would have risen, William stopped him. “What about you?” “I’m fine.” Dylan removed William’s hand and stood. “Sleep helped a lot.” “Don’t need anything…?” William looked where Dylan’s still-hard cock formed a ridge under the zipper of his jeans. “No.” Dylan blushed. “No that’s not… I’m not comfortable with that.” “But you’re okay with—” “You have a beautiful cock and your hands are useless. I wasn’t really trying to start something. I just thought…” “A public service.” Dylan flushed. “If you want to say it like that.” “Shit.” Now he was embarrassed. “That is some fucked-up shit.” “Sorry.” “Okay. But what about you?” “I’m fine,” Dylan said tightly. “I told you I don’t need—” “I’m talking about your injuries. I saw how you walked when we got here.” “My ribs hurt,” Dylan admitted. “Everything hurts. I took a beating in that trunk.” “Maybe you should be worrying about taking care of yourself instead of me.” Dylan nodded. “I will. Right now I’m hungry. What about you?” “Yeah. Me too.” If William was hungry, Dylan would make food a priority, and he looked like he could use some food. “I’ll head out then, after I talk to madame.” Dylan went to his bag and rummaged around until he found a bottle of generic anti-inflammatory tablets. He read the label and shook out two pills, giving them to William along with more water. “I’m going to leave a second bottle of water right here. And the wastebasket, just in case…” “Got it.” William gave him a painful thumbs-up. On his way to the door, Dylan turned back, his brow furrowed with worry. “I hate to leave you alone.” “It’s fine. I’m fine.” William shrugged. “Get some food.” “Any preferences?” “Whatever sounds good to you. I don’t even know where we are.” Dylan hesitated. “I…kind of know the area. I’ll be back in a while.” “Yeah? Okay.” William already felt himself drifting on a clean and peaceful cloud. “Thanks, man.”

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Chapter Six

Dylan fled the awkwardness of the motel room as fast as he conceivably could. First he’d been caught looking at William’s extraordinary cock, then he’d gone on to smooth his hands all over it. He’d lost his mind—that was the only excuse he could have for what he’d done—and the shame he felt for being so mesmerized by it… He’d have to put that away for another time. He’d nearly sucked it, he’d wanted to jump on it and feel it inside him, wanted to grind on it and watch William’s eyes go soft and hot for him. What had he been thinking? William didn’t need a guy who wanted to exploit him. Dylan cursed his lack of self-control where William’s cock was concerned, and looked around. St. George, Utah. It was like traveling through time, heading into the historic district. The Red Cliffs Mall was new, but the rest was as familiar as the park they’d stopped in that morning. It seemed the old adage was true. Like a car-chase scenario on the television news, no matter how fast or how far he ran it was natural he’d wind up somewhere close to home. He’d had a choice to go north or south on the I-15 and he’d picked north by instinct, away from L.A. where William’s problems waited, away from Vegas and his own. North on the I-15 led home. Except this wasn’t his home anymore. He hadn’t set foot in a Sears in years, preferring to shop the big warehouse home-improvement stores and succumbing easily to the lure of Yves’s high-end tailors and the designer-clothing boutiques that knew him by name and kept his size on file in case he needed something sent over for an event. Despite that, he still knew right where he’d find some tough and serviceable Levi’s boot-cut jeans. He picked out a couple of Henleys and T-shirts—long and short-sleeved—for each of them, two flannel button-down shirts, and hoodies for layering. Underwear, socks, sleep pants. He bought a pair of simple athletic shoes for William, grateful he’d found the sizes still legible on all the labels from the clothes he’d peeled off William and thrown out that morning. On impulse, he got himself a pair of reflective, aviator sunglasses and a baseball cap so he could hide his most distinctive features. He’d look like a bank robber wearing them under a hoodie, but no one would immediately see his bruises or his hair and eyes, which people tended to notice and remember. Once he left the mall he drove until he found a Laundromat where he could wash the sizing out of everything so it wouldn’t irritate his skin. While waiting for the single load to dry he walked around. He lucked out and found a thrift store, emerging twenty minutes later with a nearly new Land’s End parka for

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William, some basic camping mess kits and utensils, and a very pleased feeling in his bones. He may have lost his integrity while living with Yves, but he hadn’t lost his ingenuity. He hadn’t lost his ability to work or his brains or his survival skills. Maybe he’d lost his instinct. He still thought like a consumer. When his ran out, he had skills he could use to earn money or barter, ways to find or create shelter. He could even go off grid and live on nothing if he had to, but he was still comfortable enough that the fire hadn’t been lit within him to do it. That would change as his wad of cash started to run out. He’d have to find work to buy the things he needed. It had to be the kind of job he could do on a handshake, something for which he’d be paid in cash, at least until he could establish a new identity. He was scanning the bulletin board on the wall of the Laundromat when the dryer stopped. Nothing much there, but he pulled a card off that advertised a car for sale. 800 or best offer. He tucked that in his pocket. Eventually they’d have to ditch the car he’d stolen and get wheels that wouldn’t get them arrested. While he folded his laundry, a couple of college-age girls eyed him warily. That made sense—he still wore the rainbow of fading bruises on his skin. Soft color touched their cheeks when they realized he was looking back at them, but they didn’t meet his eyes. When he was finished he pushed past them and left the laundry room behind. On the way back to the motel he stopped at a reputable-looking little mom-and-pop taco shop. It seemed like a big square box of a place, where he ordered at the counter from a handwritten menu and then sat down at one of a handful of tables on the patio to wait for them to bring his food. Given the number of workmen eating there, a lot of them Latinos, he felt hopeful about the quality of the food. While he sat there, a pair of LDS missionaries sat down at a nearby table, laughing and giving each other a hard time. He tried not to let them catch him staring, but they attempted to engage him in conversation anyway. “That looks like it must have hurt a lot,” one said. He was young and earnest. His Asian companion seemed to be the newer of the two, maybe still struggling with culture shock. Dylan joked, “You should see the other guy.” The Asian boy leaned over, held out his hand and said in careful, halting English, “I am Elder Om and this is Elder Johnson.” Dylan smiled and shook but said nothing. “Do you eat here often?” Elder Om tried again. “I’ve never been here before.” “I see.” Om turned to his companion. “We eat here very often. We like the food and it is reasonably priced.” “That’s good to hear.” Dylan glanced around, a clear signal for anyone but a missionary that it would be all right if the conversation ended.

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“I enjoy the carne asada…” Om glanced at his companion who nodded, as if to let him know he pronounced it correctly, “…and Elder Johnson gets the arroz con pollo.” Dylan couldn’t help but smile. “Are you trying to learn Spanish, by any chance?” “Yes.” Om smiled. “English and Spanish.” “You’re doing very well.” Dylan couldn’t help it; he was drawn in by the kid’s obvious delight. “I served my mission in Guatemala.” “Cool.” Johnson eyed him. Dylan guessed Johnson was probably still young enough to believe a guy went off on his mission and after that life would be nothing but a series of picture postcards featuring his eternal family at all the proper stops along the road to the great destination—scholastic achievements, careers, temple marriages and covenant births. That he’d have a long hallway full of big family portraits. He who dies with the most grandkids wins. That was the box they sold, and if you didn’t fit inside, if you were sitting alone in wrinkled clothes at a cheap Mexican joint, all beat to hell, that did not compute. Dylan looked away, well and truly done with the conversation, when a young man brought his food. Om wasn’t finished, though. “What is that dish called?” “This…” Dylan glanced down at his mix-up of chicken, eggs, strips of fried tortilla and sauce. Should he give it the name they called it at the restaurant? Or tell them about it? “They call this chilaquiles here, but that’s usually just the fried tortilla mixed with sauce, maybe with a little cheese on top. When the chips are scrambled with eggs and sauce like this, it’s sometimes called migas. It’s served mostly for breakfast.” “It looks very good to eat,” he pronounced carefully. He seemed happy to continue the conversation. Dylan resisted the urge to offer him a bite. “It’s a kind of comfort food. Filling and cheap. Easy to make.” “Missionary food,” Elder Johnson joked. Dylan dug into his food, which was delicious. The eggs were perfect and the beans they served them with were creamy and flavorful. There was nothing better than a homemade corn tortilla—and these were soft and perfectly fresh—wrapped around an improvised burrito of migas and beans with a healthy splash or two of Cholula hot sauce. Dylan was in heaven. The boys got their food next and Dylan was able to eat his in peace. That didn’t mean he wasn’t watching them out of the corner of his eye. He figured them to be around William’s age, somewhere around twenty. But William was older inside. Maybe a little jaded. To Dylan he seemed lost. He’d been running with punks, ready to go along when they’d tried on a kidnapping for cash. Well…if not ready, at least not willing to openly refuse. It was impossible to tell which direction William’s life would take now, but Dylan liked to think his involvement was on the order of an intervention. He had to get William well enough to head out on his

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own. Then Dylan could move on to whatever was next, knowing he’d done everything he could to head off a tragedy. When his plate was empty he sighed with repletion, realizing he’d been hungrier than he’d thought. He nodded to the missionaries and tossed out his trash, then stepped up to the window to order the same thing for William.

William didn’t know what woke him. Probably the scrape of the key in the lock, once he thought about it, but Dylan had been moving around the motel room for some time. Something smelled good. William watched him spoon some kind of food from one of those white Styrofoam takeout boxes into the bowl from a metal mess kit. “You’re awake.” Dylan glanced his way. “I got food for you.” William was silent when he brought it over, some sort of Mexican food, scrambled eggs and chicken and beans. Dylan held out tortillas wrapped in waxed paper and a fork, and oh, fuck, he was being so nice. It excoriated William’s pride that he’d become a charity case to the pretty güero. The man jerked him off out of pity and then brought him food. “So.” William tried to sit up, but it was hopeless. Dylan took his arm and helped him lift himself until his back was braced against the headboard. “You pick up a stray dog and figure you should get the kind of food he’s used to?” “No.” Dylan frowned. “I—” “Dumb Latino gangbanger kid, he’s gotta love Mexican food, right? Got to be used to the refritos and tortillas.” William folded his arms. “I notice you’re not eating this. Don’t eat campesino food? Or is it the Styrofoam box? Too cheap for you? Need bone china?” “I ate mine there.” Dylan peered down at him with unhappy eyes. “I had the same thing, but I was so hungry I ate mine at the restaurant.” William pressed his lips together. Would he never say the right thing? “It’s good,” Dylan offered. “The beans are creamy and—” “I’m sorry.” William took the food from him, eyes downcast. “I guess I’m still trying to figure out why you’ve been so nice to me.” “Seriously? Me too.” Dylan sat heavily in one of the chairs. William couldn’t tell if he was joking. Probably not. “I imagine that when you’re in a gang it pays to have a big chip on your shoulder.” “Yeah.” William grunted around a mouthful of beans. Damned if they weren’t delicious. Like someone’s abuelita worked all day to make them perfect, and even though he’d had virtually no appetite before Dylan walked through the door, he couldn’t eat fast enough. While Dylan was gone he’d felt achy and feverish, but he’d taken the pills Dylan left for him and that had passed. It didn’t take long for him to feel full. A few spoonfuls of the egg and tortilla dish and a few more of beans and soon he couldn’t keep

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his eyes open. Dylan studied him as though he ought to have instructions written on his forehead. He gave Dylan his bowl and let his eyes drift shut. Fingers pressed against his cheek. “Do you think you have a fever again?” “No,” William lied. “I’m fine. Just tired.” “Drink this.” Dylan held a bottle of cool water to William’s lips. William took a few sips and slipped back down to sleep some more. He was dimly aware of Dylan and at one point, when he opened his eyes, he found Dylan watching him. “You’re sure you’re all right?” “Yes.” William closed his eyes. “It’s okay. I’m just tired.” Dylan hung over him for a long time. William didn’t know what Dylan was looking for but absurdly, whatever it was, he tried to give it to him. Since Dylan’s return neither man had said a word about what happened between them in the bathroom. William assumed that Dylan wanted it forgotten. Finally Dylan spoke. “All right.” He moved away and turned the lights off. Before he let himself drown in the black oblivion of exhaustion, William’s last thought was he’d do anything Dylan wanted. That should have surprised him more than it did.

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Chapter Seven

The rattling woke Dylan and put him instantly on alert. He lay frozen in his bed, pretending sleep until he realized the frame of William’s bed was jerking against the wall. Dylan sat upright and turned on the light. A quick glance at the clock told him it was five a.m. William lay huddled beneath the covers, shaking miserably with violent chills. Barely healing bruises stood out obscenely against his pale skin. For the first time Dylan worried that he’d completely underestimated the beating that William had taken, and that William might pay for his crime with his life after all. Dylan sat on the side of the bed and tried to stroke some warmth into the boy’s flailing arms. A hand gripped his. “Hey.” William blinked up at him. “The light hurts my eyes.” Dylan shifted so his body blocked the worst of it. “You’re shaking.” “I’m so fucking cold…” William’s teeth chattered. “Aren’t you?” “No. You must have a fever.” William’s eyes closed. “Maybe.” Dylan picked up a water bottle from the nightstand and held it to William’s lips. “Here, drink this.” He cradled William’s head in his hands and found he didn’t want to let go, even when it seemed obvious that William had lost interest in drinking the water he offered. William turned his head. “I’m okay.” Violent tremors continued to give the impression he wasn’t being entirely honest. Dylan ignored the resignation in William’s voice. “C’mon, William.” Dylan slipped in between the sheets with him. “Just relax.” “I can’t.” William’s teeth chattered. “Too cold.” Dylan pulled William into his arms. It wasn’t unpleasant, far from it. They pressed together, shoulder to knees, until Dylan lifted his leg and wrapped it around William’s waist to bring him in closer. He didn’t plan it that way, but from William’s contented sigh it worked. William’s swollen hands crept around his back and insinuated themselves into the top of Dylan’s sleep pants. After a moment Dylan found himself rocking and whispering hush as William’s tremors subsided. “Shh.” Dylan stroked William’s back. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” A burst of air left William’s body, as though he’d laughed before he quipped, “But who’s got you?”

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“Maybe we’ve got each other.” Little by little, William’s trembling subsided. His cock lay flaccid against Dylan’s thigh, weighty and real, while Dylan’s own cock tried to nudge William’s belly. He was tired, and not a teenager, so when he told it to behave, it did. The last hint of movement before he fell asleep was William’s swollen hands, lightly circling the skin at the base of Dylan’s spine.

Dylan opened his eyes and glimpsed William up close. His limbs protested when he moved; his muscles still ached. The pop of joints and tendons seemed loud in the tiny, nearly airless room. A thin crack of light between the heavy thermal draperies indicated it was morning. “William?” William lay silent and pale. It worried Dylan enough that he switched on the reading lamp between the beds. “William?” When he got no spoken response he picked up the handset of the phone and dialed the front desk one-handed, hoping the woman he’d talked to the day before would answer. On the third ring she picked up, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Manager, how can I help you?” Her whiskey-and-cigar voice betrayed her impatience. “Yeah, okay, right,” Dylan said, trying to remember the name he’d used. “This is Dy—Beauregard Smith. You said there was a clinic?” “He’s doing poorly?” “Yeah. Something like that.” The manager gave him an address and directions, and as soon as he hung up he wrote them down. Later on he’d marvel at how he’d muscled clothes, including new shoes, onto William’s unresisting body. He ran around the building and drove the Caprice back to the space in front of their room, then led a cooperative but largely silent William to the car and got him buckled into the passenger seat. A quick glance to his right when he started the engine showed that while William was conscious, he certainly wasn’t reacting. Dylan fought the fear that he’d missed the signs of serious head trauma. “Hang on, William.” Dylan pulled out onto the road. “We’re going to a clinic to get you some help.” “No.” William seemed to be waking up more, moving his hands, stretching his legs. Pleased that something was beginning to get through William’s fog, Dylan said, “Look. If you’re not legal or something, if you’re afraid…” “Fuck you. I’m a U.S. citizen. I’m from Inglewood, man.” “You need help. It’ll be all right. I’ll see that you get what you need if you would just stop biting my head off.” “I hate doctors. They don’t know shit and they charge an arm and a leg.” “You need one.”

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“Not like anything will stop them from sending me to Mexico anyway, since I don’t have any ID. Oh crap, are we in Arizona?” “We’re in Utah, and I won’t let them send you to Mexico. It’s going to be fine.” “Don’t handle me like I’m some kind of kid. I hate that. It’s not going to be fine. You don’t know shit about what it’s like.” “I know it makes me feel better when you’re hissing at me like that. You can’t be too bad off if you can still be such a little prick.” Bad choice of words maybe, but it shut William up. Mostly. “I got your little prick right here, pendejo.” William sagged against the door. “Shut the fuck up.” Dylan glanced over and then back at the road. William had hunched himself into a miserable ball. What was it with strays? Dylan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Despite William’s surly attitude, or maybe even, sadly, because of it, he liked the little shit. He was a curious and familiar mix of pride and pathos, someone who needed so much but accepted so little that he tugged at Dylan’s heart like a wounded puppy. William’s bite belied his obvious desire to be soothed and cared for, and the fact that the boy came in an attractive package didn’t hurt the illusion at all. Despite the state he was in, he was a fine, fine-looking young man. Shit. Dylan shot him another glance as he pulled into the parking lot of the run-down and unremarkable clinic. William stared resolutely out the window but everything about his body language, from the tense set of his shoulders to the tilt of his head, told Dylan that William was aware of every move he made. Dylan put the car in park. “Look, I know that we met under trying circumstances.” At this, William snorted. “But I will not abandon you. You can count on me, I promise.” William turned his head, his brown eyes piercing. “I can’t count on anybody or anything. No one can.” Dylan started to speak, but really…what could he say? He had no business promising anything since his position was as precarious as William’s. How many people had abandoned William in life or through death? “It doesn’t have to be like this. I can be your friend, William. I’m a good friend. That’s all I’m saying. I don’t let my friends down.” He removed the keys from the ignition and was about to get out when one of William’s injured hands tentatively came down on his arm. He covered it with his own. Why did he reach out to touch the prickly kid so often? “Thank you.” William looked away. “For everything. I’ll go.” “Okay then.” That was probably as much trust as Dylan was going to get, and he’d take it and be glad.

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Dylan helped William walk into the clinic, where he was surprised to find the waiting room already full. There were a number of older men and women and what seemed like a vast and busy hive of children. They were clustered around one small table set up with little wooden trains and another with nets full of Legos attached to the sides. Other children rested miserably, rocked in their mother’s arms and coughing occasionally into the air. The clinic was similar to one where Dylan’s mother, a nurse, had volunteered her time when he was young. He tried to find a seat for William and had just about given up when a middle-aged woman with a kind smile stood and offered hers. William tried to argue but in the end she won him over and he sat. Dylan smiled his gratitude even though she eyed him speculatively. He tried to make a gesture that indicated that he wasn’t to blame for William’s injuries, but he didn’t know if she bought it. William’s pride was definitely going to be a recurring theme. When Dylan went to sign him in he was handed a clipboard with a stack of papers for William to fill out. He showed William, who snorted and held up his hands. “I know you can’t write with those hands, but I can help you.” William leaned over. “I don’t want to tell them about me.” Dylan’s head had started to throb. He sensed people watching them. “Not even if they can help you?” “I don’t put anything in writing.” William’s pale face grew hard. “They’ll only use it against me, and what can I even prove? Driver’s license? Social security number? Insurance? I don’t have proof of any of that shit with me.” “William—” “I don’t want them to know shit about me. I don’t want to be here. You think you can just tell me what to do?” He got up. Dylan put his hand on William’s arm. “Don’t be like this, it’s—” William shrugged him off, knocking the clipboard out of his hand. When it hit the ground, the forms scattered at their feet. “Just leave it alone, man. Leave me alone. Give me cash for a bus ticket and I’m out of here.” Dylan crouched to retrieve the scattered papers. “I know I don’t have to remind you that you are in no condition to—” A stern voice spoke from behind Dylan. “Is there a problem here?” Dylan glanced up. He had to tilt his head back and look up a long way. The man wore scrubs like a doctor. He was a big guy too, obviously used to being in charge, called in this time to play the bouncer. He was tall, tanned, with dark hair. His mouth was little more than a thin, disapproving line. He held a cell phone in his hand as though he was ready and willing to call the police. The din of Dylan’s heartbeat drowned out all his other senses. “Peter?” This was his hitherto unimagined worst-case scenario.

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Oh fuck. The man frowned. “Do I know you?” Dylan stood, taking off his sunglasses and ball cap. “It’s me. It’s—” Golden-brown eyes bore into him. “Skip.” It sounded more like an accusation than recognition. “It’s Dylan now.” Peter looked Dylan over briefly and then his gaze returned to William. Dylan felt dismissed, for the moment, in favor of professionalism and order. No surprise there. “What seems to be the problem?” Dylan’s mind stalled out. When he’d imagined seeing Peter again, it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t terse and angry. It didn’t take place in a low-income clinic where he was dressed in cheap, poorly fitting clothes and covered in bruises. When he’d thought about it at all, his imaginary Peter didn’t look at him like he’d found him on the sole of his shoe, either. “Can I talk to you alone?” Dylan glanced back at William, who stared up at both of them mutinously. “Two minutes.” Peter led Dylan to the corner of the room and stood impatiently by a half-dead potted plant. “As you can see I have a lot of patients to care for and I don’t have time to head down memory lane.” Dylan hardened his heart. It was one thing to have whatever illusions he’d had about Peter shattered, it was another entirely to let it affect William’s care. “I have no intention of heading down memory lane or anywhere else with you. My friend needs help but I’m having trouble convincing him to fill out the paperwork.” “You can tell him that I’m only required by law to report certain things to the authorities, like gunshot wounds and seizures. Citizenship status isn’t a factor in whether he’ll be treated here. The uninsured get the same treatment as anyone who walks through that door.” “He says he’s legal, but—” “Crap, Skip. Is this what you’ve become?” Dylan froze. “What do you mean, what I’ve become?” Dylan looked into brown eyes that were as familiar as his own. “You come in here, beaten half to death by the looks of you, clinging to a man young enough to be—” “What?” “This is exactly what we were all trying to prevent.” “Whatever you think this is, you’re way off base. I was the victim of a violent crime.” Dylan jerked his head in William’s direction and only prevaricated a little. “That young man tried to help me and he was injured in the process. I’m trying to help him in return and I’d like him to be seen by a doctor. Do you think you can do that, Peter?” Peter’s features tightened. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

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“Fine. But he won’t fill out paperwork. He’s worried about reprisals from—” “Fine,” Peter spoke softly. “Afterward, you move on.” “Happy to.” Dylan watched Peter walk through the door by the desk. “What was all that about?” William asked when Dylan returned. “You know him?” “I do.” Dylan didn’t elaborate. The patient next to William was called into the office. Instead of sitting, Dylan touched William’s shoulder and indicated that he should move to the man’s empty chair because it was on the end, next to a nice stretch of wall where Dylan could lean. It freed up William’s former chair for use by a woman with a baby who looked like she needed it. “What did he say?” William asked finally, his curiosity overcoming his surliness. “He’ll see you, no paperwork.” Dylan shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s an old friend. He’ll be professional.” “He didn’t look too friendly to me. He looked like he wanted us gone.” “Yeah. Well, he probably does. But in general he’s a good man. He’ll check you out and make sure you’re healing properly. I don’t mind telling you, you scared me earlier.” “I guess I have a fever.” William dropped his gaze. “I got chills. When I woke up…I don’t know. I just didn’t have the energy to react much.” “No kidding. You’re doing too much reacting now, though.” Dylan dropped a gentle hand on William’s back. “Peter will get over whatever is up his nose. Sometimes he’s a little stubborn, but he does the right thing eventually. Always.” William gave the door where Peter had gone a hard stare but said nothing. Skip. Dylan marveled how one word uttered in Peter’s familiar voice could usher in a host of memories it had taken nearly a decade and a half to forget. He wasn’t Skip anymore. He’d left Skip behind as he’d left behind this town and this state and everything from his past that might conceivably be connected to it. It only took one word to make the whole damned thing wind around and bring him down like a rodeo calf. At last the door opened and they called William’s name. Dylan stayed with him—without even really thinking about it—while the nurse weighed him and wrote his vital statistics down. Eventually they were led to a room where they waited some more until Peter walked in and picked up William’s empty file. Peter’s attention was on the folder in his hand when he addressed William. “What, specifically, is the problem?” William sat mutinously silent. Dylan shot him an exasperated glare. “If you’re not going to talk, I’ll talk for you.” When William still said nothing, Dylan turned to Peter. “He’s recovering from a bad beating and he has a fever. This morning he was shaking so hard with chills I thought he’d fly apart.”

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“Why no paperwork?” Dylan considered his words carefully. “He witnessed a crime. Some people will be looking for him, and he needs to stay out of sight.” “So naturally you brought whatever trouble you’re in to my doorstep.” He didn’t say like always, but Dylan heard it just the same. “Have you seen me in thirteen years?” “No.” Peter put his pen back into his pocket. “Whose fault was that?” Dylan stayed silent. “Why didn’t you take him to the police? Surely—” “The police can’t protect him from this.” Peter put a hand on William’s shoulder in a detached, professional way. “Let’s see if there’s anything we can do to help you out a little.” William looked away as Peter examined him. It was obvious he had suffered abuse for a long time, longer than he’d been with Mosko’s men. Dylan tensed when William hissed in pain, but did and said nothing until the examination was over. Afterwards, Dylan unwound fractionally, watching Peter’s strong, sure hands—as long-fingered and elegant as he remembered them—fill in William’s new, blank file, cataloging his injuries. Peter’s hands had always been square and powerful. As at home with a pen and paper as they were on the basketball court, on his patient, and on the keys of the church organ. A surreptitious study of Peter’s face proved he was still as good looking as he’d been on his twentythird birthday, when they’d spent the weekend hiking in Arches National Park. They’d only both just returned from successful two-year missions for the LDS church. That night, they’d fallen into their sleeping bags, exhausted from hiking and climbing. They’d watched the sunset in silence, but when the stars came out, so did every feeling, every desire they’d repressed and hidden from one another for years. Those very same hands had brought Dylan the kind of pleasure two boys who planned their lives around the LDS church should never experience. The passion that grew between them then—and the explosion of guilt and remorse and recriminations that followed—blew them in two entirely different directions, like sparks from fireworks, sizzling across the sky only to land and sputter out worlds apart. They’d returned to civilization with their mouths shut and their eyes down, vowing that they’d take it to their graves. Peter had been the first to crack under the pressure of a secret like that. He’d confessed his so-called problem to his bishop right away and sipped the Kool-Aid of a Christian conversion therapy camp which only scarred him more, isolating him as a Mormon boy who was ostracized by his fundamentalist peers. Ostensibly he’d changed his ways, or he might not have. He’d told his family he no longer had urges of a homosexual nature. Dylan saw no reason to doubt Peter’s sincerity, even if he doubted the truth of his

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claim. Besides Peter, only Dylan knew they had gone farther than inconvenient attraction, and he was never, ever going to tell. It was Dylan who hadn’t been able to let it go. For Dylan that yearning—at the time specifically for Peter—grew stronger from one month to the next, even through enforced celibacy and urgent self-denial. Even through prayer and penitence and a long, grim period of self-loathing that led to therapy outside of the church, where he realized that it was less to do with Peter, and more to do with how he was made. What he wanted would only be found in a man’s arms. Once he knew that, he’d had to find his way out of the life everyone expected him to have. If Peter found his way out through conversion therapy and conformity, Dylan found his by becoming someone who believed in himself enough to walk away from his old life and never look back. Now his gaze followed Peter everywhere he moved. Every so often Peter would lift his head and their gazes would meet. Peter’s was angry, accusatory, guilty and painful to look at. Dylan shot a glance at the nurse and then William, who didn’t appear to be aware of the tension in the room. “He’s bleeding into his urine,” Dylan told Peter quietly. “I helped him in the bathroom yesterday and I saw it.” “Excuse us a minute, William.” Peter pulled Dylan into the hallway where William wouldn’t overhear. “What he needs is an IV and few days in the hospital to see how much trauma his kidneys received.” “That’s not possible.” “Why not? He’s obviously someone you care about and you need to do what’s best for him.” Peter’s tone held condescension, irritation and maybe a little jealousy. “I don’t really even know him. I just don’t want to see him die.” “Why the hell did you have to bring him here?” Dylan stepped back, shocked. “I never expected to find you here. How could I have known? At any rate, no one can connect me to you.” “Why not?” “Skip Hatcher is dead. Or he might as well be.” “What do you mean?” “I’ve used a different name, an entirely different identity, since I left. You’re entirely safe from any connection to me.” Dylan hadn’t meant his remark to sound bitter, but it did. And his words found their mark in Peter, who had reason to fear connection to him more than most. Dylan sighed. “Just tell me what to do for him and I’m gone.”

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“This is exactly what your parents were afraid of, that you’d end up someplace like this, with nothing. With no one. That you’d get yourself involved in something sordid and get in over your head. That you’d have nothing to show for your life but—” “You know nothing about my life.” “I know you brought a beat-up gangbanger—half your age—to my door.” “I don’t want to tell you what happened. The less you know the better. If someone asks you if Dylan Anderson came here, don’t lie. All you need to know is the only crime that boy committed is he tried to help me, and he’s too young to die.” “Come with me.” Peter headed to the end of the corridor and into a tiny cluttered office. It was obviously shared by all the doctors who volunteered their time at the clinic, because Peter would never keep a private office in such disarray. When Dylan took in the mess on an inexpensive desk, the first thing he saw was a picture of Peter’s family. Peter stood behind a woman with a tiny blonde girl in her lap, flanked by two redheaded boys. Dylan’s knees buckled, but Peter was there, bracing him until he made it to the chair. “You married my sister?” “Dylan—” “My twin?” Dylan laughed. “That’s like…some Russian novel.” “It’s not like that. I love her.” “Of course you do. What’s not to love? But…it’s…” Dylan rubbed his forehead. What could he say? “The kids are beautiful.” “I know. Thank you.” “Christ.” Dylan wasn’t sure if he was cursing or praying. Peter flinched. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.” “How else would you tell me? Singing telegram?” “We didn’t know where you were!” “It’s not like I could attend your sealing ceremony, banished as I have been from The Kingdom.” “Dylan. You left us. It wasn’t some kind of banishment…” “There’s an awful symmetry here, as if you’re on one side of the looking glass and I’m on the other.” Peter stayed silent while Dylan absorbed the news. “I’m leaving town as soon as we’re done here. I swear I won’t bother them.” “That…” Peter appeared to be at a loss for what to say, “…maybe isn’t…” “You never saw me. I was never here. I didn’t know…” Dylan swiped impatiently at tears he tried furiously to control. “This week hasn’t exactly been a slice, you know?”

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“I was going to say”—Peter handed him a piece of paper—“that you have to go see them. You have to tell Desiree you’re all right. I wrote down our address. If she finds out you were here and didn’t come to see her, she’ll never forgive me.” “I can’t. You don’t want me to do this, don’t ask—” “I gave it a great deal of thought. It’s something you have to do. I can call in some prescriptions for your…William.” “Peter—” “I’m not an idiot, Skip Hatcher. As far as I know they don’t let you be a doctor if you’re an idiot. I’ll call them in under Desiree’s name. There’s an anti-inflammatory, a pain reliever and antibiotics. He should drink plenty of water. Watered juice would be good. Clear soup. And you need to watch him for signs of kidney failure. Do you know what those are?” Dylan, still numb, shook his head. “More bruising, foul breath, bloody stools, changes in urination. Nosebleeds. Desiree can Google it and print you off a list.” He paused. “Skip, please, for his sake…you should take him to the hospital.” “I can’t. He won’t go.” “Then he needs bed rest. Maybe as long as a week.” Dylan pressed his lips together. They could hole up at the motel for a while, at least until anyone got curious. “I’ll see what I can do. I need to help him. I think it could make a big difference. It’s a chance for him to turn his life around.” “You always have to be the hero, don’t you?” With that Peter got up and headed for the door. Dylan wanted to resent Peter for his well-ordered, immaculate life, but he got up and followed. How could Peter think that? Hero? His family, his friends, his entire community had run him out on a rail. How was that heroic? “I need to think. I’ll call you.” “What about William’s meds?” “I don’t know…” “At least let me give you the antibiotics. We have those here. I’ll bring them to you in just a minute.” Dylan waited until Peter came back with a container of big blue and red capsules. “Follow the instructions on the package and have him use Tylenol for pain with plenty of water. Please go see Des. She’s never really forgiven herself. It’s important.” Dylan let Peter drop the pills into his open hands. He didn’t want to take the chance of brushing Peter’s fingers accidentally. Peter’s jaw tightened. “Will you at least think about calling her?” “Does she know about us? Did you ever tell her?” “What would have been the good of that?”

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Dylan tried to read Peter’s expression. Was it regret? Pity? “I’ll think about it. Don’t tell her I was here.” “Dylan—” “Don’t,” Dylan said finally. He headed back to the exam room where he’d left William and found him waiting in the hallway. “We can go?” William glanced past Dylan to where Peter stood uncertainly. “Are we done here?” Dylan held up the drugs but didn’t look back. “We’re done.”

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Chapter Eight

William watched Dylan drive, aware that something was bothering him. They drove a long way in silence, and William could have sworn they’d passed by the same restaurant several times. Finally, they pulled up to the curb in front of a ranch-style house with yellow siding and white trim, and Dylan stopped the car. He sat for a long minute, palmed the keys in his hand, then looked past him at the house for some minutes without speaking. “I don’t know what kind of reception we’ll get here.” Dylan’s face held no hint of what he’d been brooding about. William said nothing. “I’m sorry about this morning. Peter isn’t normally… I don’t know why he acted like such a jerk.” “You don’t need to apologize to me.” “Let’s go.” Dylan seemed to have made up his mind. He exited the car on his side and came around, helping William up onto the curb. They walked together up the landscaped path between multicolored clumps of flowers and the occasional abandoned toy. William didn’t want a repeat of that scene in the doctor’s office. Doctor Peter had treated them like so much garbage. He could understand that kind of behavior toward him, but he hated the man’s callous treatment of Dylan. He supposedly knew Dylan yet he’d treated him like some criminal. “You have family who lives here?” “No.” Dylan rang the doorbell. William shivered, even though he’d dragged the parka Dylan gave him on over his new clothes. “Maybe no one is home.” “They’re here.” Dylan opened the screen door and knocked below a sign that read Welcome Friends. Finally the door swung inward, creaking on its hinges, but not in an unfriendly, horror-movie way. William had to look down to see who opened it, a kid about four years old. The child, a boy with short red hair, stared at him, openmouthed, his light blue eyes wide with surprise. William had certainly seen eyes exactly like those before. His tension ratcheted up another notch. Not your family, my ass. A woman came up from behind the boy, wearing a knee-length sleep T-shirt. She had no makeup on at all and she’d dragged her golden hair back into a ponytail, but she looked as beautiful as any woman he’d ever seen on television. Her light eyes matched both Dylan’s and those of the boy who’d answered the

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door. When she saw Dylan, the drink she held in her hand seemed to slip in slow motion to the floor where it shattered, scattering broken glass and sticky orange liquid everywhere. Dylan calmly reached over and lifted the boy out of the way, preventing him from cutting his bare feet when he jumped back to avoid being splashed. He’d done it so fast the boy’s mother barely had time to react. She’d jumped out of the way herself, then realized her predicament. Both she and the boy were shoeless. She looked to Dylan with gratitude. “You always had great reflexes.” Her eyes clouded with tears. “You shit.” Her arms lashed out to prevent a little girl and another little boy from running into the entryway to see what happened. “Look out, broken glass.” She pointed to the floor. “Get a broom, Micah, please.” Micah, the second boy, eyed them curiously but ran off to do what his mother asked. When she noticed William standing there she flinched. He guessed it was the sight of his injuries. Her nostrils flared delicately, and he had the awful feeling she could smell his nervous sweat. Between having to go to the clinic and meeting Dylan’s family, William wished he could just drop through the ground and disappear. As usual when he made a wish, nothing happened. “Oh, Skip.” She covered her chest with her open hands. “It’s Dylan now, Desiree.” Dylan still held the red-haired boy in his arms, as easily as if they’d known each other forever. “How’d you hurt your face?” the boy asked. William didn’t know whether he was talking to Dylan or him. They both looked pretty bad. Dylan answered him, “Big fight. We won.” The boy nodded. William wasn’t doing a great job of standing up. He’d begun to lean more and more of his weight against the doorframe, and sooner or later it wasn’t going to be enough to hold him. A wave of dizziness hit him hard and his stomach roiled. Micah came back with the broom just in time to see William get sick on the tidy front porch. Dylan handed the child over to its mother and patted William on the back until he could stand again, positively incandescent with shame. Dylan’s sister shooed her children off somewhere, then Dylan swept the glass up. She mopped up the juice by dropping a towel down over it and scooting it along with her feet. When she was done she turned to Dylan and said, “You’d better bring him inside.”

After helping Dylan make William comfortable in the guestroom where he fell almost immediately into an untroubled sleep, Desiree made some sort of herbal-tea concoction for Dylan that tasted like honey and chamomile.

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“You saw Peter at the clinic? He volunteers there a few times a month. He has a practice downtown and privileges at Dixie. What he must have thought… You just walked in?” “Yes.” Dylan wished he could tell what she was thinking. This new Desiree, mature, self-possessed— with three kids for heaven’s sake—wasn’t easy to read. Motherhood looked good on her. She reminded him of their mom. Competent. Unflappable. “He told me to come see you. He called in some prescriptions for William in your name. I’ll need you to pick them up for us.” He knew it wasn’t the right thing to say as soon as he said it. She trembled with anger. “You walked away from everything without a word for over a decade. Now you come back because you need something?” “I didn’t know you two were married.” She refused to look at him. “Congratulations, Des. You have a beautiful family. You should be so proud.” He meant every word. Des was silent for some time. “I understand now why you left.” Did she really? He hoped not. Not entirely at any rate. She probably knew he carried a torch for Peter long before he was her husband, but was certain she never really understood how spectacularly his love had been requited. That was lifetimes ago. “Do you still love him?” Dylan shook his head and smiled sadly. “Do you know how old I am?” She rolled her eyes. “Twenty-three minutes younger than I am.” “Exactly. Far too old for fairy tales.” It hurt to look at her just then. For the briefest moment—before she could hide it—he could see she wasn’t happy either. He felt a sharp stab of dismay. Surely one of them should have been happy. “Me too.” She sighed. “Far too old to believe in happily ever after.” It broke his heart. “But tell me, what brings you to St. George?” She wasn’t likely to let him fob her off with non-answers so Dylan told her, as briefly as he could, about the attempted kidnapping, its aftermath, and the fact that his lover beat William to teach him a lesson. “What kind of a man thinks it’s okay to beat someone like that? Why not leave justice to the authorities?” Dylan said nothing. “This is bad.” She slumped against the wall. “You have to turn him in to the police. Let the kid take his punishment.” “He’d never survive it,” Dylan told her gently. “When he’s well he’ll want to go his own way. I owe him that much. A week of my time, maybe.”

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“Why?” Dylan considered her question. “Because he tried to help me. Because I knew it was right. And maybe because knowing like that—having no doubt whatsoever that what I wanted to do was the right thing—felt good.” Whatever conclusions Des came to made her smile at him in a way he thought he’d only see again in dreams. “Let me get changed.” She squeezed his hands and left him standing there. Dylan went back out to the family room where he watched television with his niece and nephews. After a while he realized they had only the vaguest idea who he was. They did a lot of furtive staring and made furious eye contact with one another, but no one spoke to him. When Desiree returned she asked, “How long do you plan to be here?” “I promise I’ll be gone before lunchtime.” “After…are you going to go back to your…boyfriend?” Dylan shook his head. “He’ll never forgive me for this.” “Surely he can’t imagine you’d stand by and let him kill someone?” “I’m sure that’s exactly what he imagined, but I found out…” Dylan grew silent when it really sank in that he was talking to his twin sister and he didn’t have to hide anything anymore. “I realized, when it came right down to it, I couldn’t do that.” “That gives me hope.” “Don’t waste that on me, Desiree.” Dylan spoke sharply. “We all know I’m a lost cause.” She wasn’t fazed. “You’re such a complete airhead. You haven’t changed at all.” That caught Dylan by surprise. “Your friend needs to rest for a while. He shouldn’t have to sit in a car for any length of time while you pelt across the country. Take him someplace where he can lie down for a few days. He needs to heal.” “I will.” She stared at him. “Is this it? When you leave are you going to take off for another dozen years?” “We’re staying at a motel on the edge of town. Something Acres…” She took off for the kitchen. When she returned, she pressed a paper into his hand. “I wrote down our number and a few others. People you know.” “No.” Dylan tried to give it back. “You don’t have to call them. But if you should need help, Jeff Kettles is with the Salt Lake City PD. Christina Smith married Cameron Rooney and he’s a lawyer in Provo.” “I don’t want to talk to any of them. I don’t have a phone, and anyway”—Dylan refused to take the paper from her—“they wouldn’t want to admit they know me.” “But if you need—”

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“I won’t call them.” He cuffed her arm. “But I like the idea of being able to talk to you again.” “I always had your back. No matter what.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I had your back and you deserted me.” “I’m sorry. I thought you felt the same way Mom and Dad did.” Desiree reached for him. She simply snatched him into a hug, pulling him to her through time and space…vast distances, oceans of emotion through which he was helpless to impede her. “Desiree…” She clung to him and cried hard. The kids glanced up at their mother with wide blue eyes, then pretended to be fascinated by the television again. “You’re still a total pain.” She sniffed. “I know that.” “But you’re my pain. Don’t ever forget that. I’ll take the kids and go to the drugstore for William’s meds. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

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Chapter Nine

At Desiree’s insistence, Dylan waited with William at the house while she took the children with her to retrieve the prescriptions Peter had called in. It felt too quiet, but he was glad they’d gone with their mother. The children, two redheaded boys and a tiny, exquisite blonde miniature of his sister—and by extrapolation, him—had seemed to accept his and William’s presence without question. Dylan didn’t interact with them much before their mother took them to the store, even though he read the curiosity in their eyes. They’d been told about him at some point—that their mother had a twin brother—but what else they knew, whether they thought he was living far away and that’s why they never saw him, or whether they’d been told he wasn’t welcome, was less certain. All three were lively and intelligent, and as they lost their suspicion and fear of him they warmed up and preened for his attention. He would have loved nothing more than to have given it without the reserve that his current predicament forced on him. He wished he’d been there, welcoming them into the world. He wished he’d been asked to stand at Peter’s side when he named and blessed them in front of the congregation at church, and he would have enjoyed lavishing them with material things and attention because they—better than any others—could be his borrowed children. When he explored that urge, he imagined things like drum kits and pedal cars and long rainy afternoons spent splashing in puddles and wallowing in mud. He certainly couldn’t have that now, when he was poised for flight yet again, on the cusp of another transformation. They were gone and the house was quiet, but Desiree and Peter’s children continued to peer at him from elaborate picture frames as he walked down the hallway toward the guestroom where William rested. He pushed the door open and moved silently inside, approaching the bed, his hands tucked in under his armpits. When he leaned over to look, William’s eyes were open. “Hey.” Dylan sat on the edge of the small bed. “The woman is your sister?” “My twin. Her husband is the doctor who saw us at the clinic.” William nodded. “What makes you think Mosko won’t find us here?” “I don’t know how he would. I haven’t used my real name since I left this town, and Desiree goes by Peter’s name now. I took great care to leave my old life behind.”

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William frowned at this. “Seems like you’ve got a nice family.” “Seems like it, doesn’t it?” Some of the old bitterness returned but Dylan firmly crushed it. “I don’t fit in here, is all.” “The doctor doesn’t trust you.” William seemed to ponder this. “He watches you.” “Does he?” “His eyes follow you, but he doesn’t like it.” William closed his eyes. “Is that because you’re gay?” “Yes.” “Some of the kids I grew up with looked at me like that. My grandmother always stood by me.” “You were lucky to have your grandmother.” “Yeah. But she died. My brother thought things should change when he brought me back to Los Angeles.” “I left home because I knew things weren’t going to change.” Dylan allowed his hands to rest on his knees. “When Desiree gets back she’s going to bring your medications and then we can take off.” “You should cut me loose. The longer we stay together the more dangerous it will become for both of us.” “Maybe.” Dylan rose to leave the room. “But for now I have other things to worry about. You should rest while you can.”

William watched Dylan go. These people, Dylan’s family, lived like a Hallmark commercial. Every available space in that tiny guestroom held some sort of family photograph or a painted bible reference. Decorative things, dolls, little painted boxes and quilts lined cluttered homemade shelves. Was this the life that Dylan left behind? What must they think of him? A dumb thug with gang tats who had been beaten half to death. He lived entirely outside the world these people inhabited. He’d spent his life watching them on television, reading about them in books and pressing his nose to the windows where they lived like the wholesome families in Norman Rockwell paintings. The sounds the doctor’s children heard at night didn’t include skidding tires, bottles breaking, angry screaming and gunfire. They wouldn’t have to run home through alleys and across people’s backyards, hopping over fences so they didn’t get jumped into gangs or manipulated by dealers. It was hard not to resent that. Impossible to remember the last time he felt safe. William’s grandmother had saved him from the worst his life had to offer, but it only went so far. They’d lived in subtle poverty, his abuelita quietly sacrificing everything for him. Even though as soon as he was old enough he worked all the hours he could get after school and on weekends, they hadn’t always been able to make ends meet. Medication sometimes didn’t get taken, dental visits and trips to the eye doctor went by the wayside.

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They ate what they could afford, mostly beans and rice, homemade tortillas. Sometimes a chicken, stretched over two meals, his grandmother insisting that she wasn’t hungry while he ate guiltily, wishing he could do more, promising himself that someday when he’d finished with high school, he’d get a full-time job and take care of her properly. Of course, Abuela hadn’t allowed that, especially after he got a scholarship to go to school at nearby San Diego State University. He’d never forgiven himself for how she’d had to step in and care for him. She stood by him and created a happy, if humble home for the two of them, and she’d died before he ever got the chance to pay her back. Now Dylan had come along, the pretty kept güero, and William had to think he was about to cost someone else the life they’d planned. It galled him, but he didn’t know what to do. It was as if all his life had been a free fall into hell. People reached out to him to slow his descent but his momentum was such that they only got hurt. Probably Dylan’s biggest decision every day was which designer fragrance to wear, so he could be hurt more than most. He might be able to steal a car, and he did have family who could help, but in the long run, Dylan was a liability. If it came to blending into the urban landscape, getting a chump job under the table and hiding out from both Paco’s boys and his dad, having Dylan along would be like dead weight. William could hide from someone like Mosko because to him, the multitudes of Latino homeboys all looked and dressed alike. He’d blend in so easily his own family wouldn’t know him. Dylan would stand out anywhere. Even if he dressed like everyone else, everything about him set him apart. He carried himself with quiet confidence and he had a kind of stillness inside him—a peaceful quality—that William wanted to soak into his skin like sunshine. The way he held his hands when he talked and the way he walked were unique. It wouldn’t be possible to hide Dylan from a man who’d known him intimately, not behind old clothes or dyed hair. William hadn’t missed how the doctor looked at Dylan either. The good doctor believed William and Dylan were lovers, and for some reason he was unhappy about it. William had watched the two older men curiously, trying to figure out what was behind the tension between them. Did Dylan realize that his brother-in-law gazed at him hungrily when he wasn’t looking? He wondered if the good doctor’s wife knew her husband wanted her twin. Maybe she’d react to something like that with resignation. Maybe it was old news. Or maybe the doctor and Dylan had once been friends, but they’d had a falling out and it was all in William’s imagination. There was something at the heart of their behavior that he didn’t comprehend, and his nerves, already wound like a spring, pulled tighter. Why would a man walk away from a life like this one? Maybe Dylan hadn’t been given a choice. But he’d had a choice with Mosko and he’d left him too. Paco and his men had watched Dylan for days before they made the grab for him, and William had been along for the ride the entire time whether he’d liked it or not. He’d seen how Dylan lived, how his

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every move was greased by Mosko’s money, how the power and prestige of his gangster boyfriend got him the best of everything, everywhere he went. He’d seen Dylan and Mosko together, and at the time he’d thought Mosko wasn’t keeping Dylan simply because he was pretty. Mosko looked at Dylan like he was a god. Even when they were just getting coffee together, Mosko’s eyes followed Dylan with a kind of happy pride. Not like Peter, who seemed to hunger for Dylan but hated him for it. Mosko loved Dylan and Dylan had basked in the warmth of that. Had he returned it? One thing William knew from his life among Paco’s friends—an element essential to his survival— was how to read people. Mosko treasured Dylan. How could Dylan walk away from that? No matter how William looked at it, he didn’t understand. William’s gaze landed on a picture of the family—the doctor, his woman and their kids. They were seated in fancy clothes in front of a monstrous white church building. It looked like the ones that came in picture frames when you bought them, like they’d never bothered taking the model family out of the frame to replace it with a picture of normal people. William tasted the bitterness of repressed grief. There had been many framed pictures in Abuela’s apartment, old family photos, his graduation and the few school pictures they’d been able to afford, but just days after his grandmother died Paco cleaned out her things, tossing what she owned into cardboard boxes, picking and choosing what they thought might be valuable and heaving the rest into the big Dumpster behind their apartment building like so much rubbish. William had saved a few pictures, but even those were lost to him now. He tested the strength of his arms, pushing himself up first to his elbows and then when he found he could do that, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. A wave of dizziness washed over him, leaving him drained and nauseated. He couldn’t stay like that, lying on some stranger’s bed and accepting their hospitality. He didn’t want to spend one more minute of his life relying helplessly on others for his safety. He hardly knew what he planned when he left the bedroom to find Dylan, if he wanted to thank him and go his own way, or if he simply wanted to be part of the decision-making process when those decisions affected his life. Any plans he might have had died when he saw Dylan standing at the sliding glass door that opened into the doctor’s backyard. Dylan must have been oblivious to his presence—another reason to worry about trusting his safety to this man, because he’d made enough noise to rouse the dead. Dylan’s back was to the room as he gazed out the window, limned by light from the midmorning sun. The view was spectacular, like a picture postcard of the red rock walls that rose over the western side of the city. Dylan stretched his arms wide, palms flat against the glass as though he could touch the mountains, as though he wanted to feel the sun-warmed stone beneath his fingertips. The pose was striking, especially

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because Dylan was as majestic as the view, and the way his arms curved it was as if he completed the circle made by the arc of the landscape—as if it only needed someone like Dylan to be whole again. William’s entire body tightened at the sight. Long strong legs, lean torso, muscular shoulders, tan arms, at the end of which were those gorgeous fucking hands. The memory of those hands working William’s dick made his mouth go dry. “Is this where you grew up?” William asked. He should have cleared his throat or something first because Dylan jumped with surprise and turned to him. “You should be resting.” “I feel okay.” “Do you want something to drink?” Dylan left the window behind and headed for the kitchen. He returned moments later with a bottled water. “Here.” “Thanks.” William took it from him and realized unhappily that he wouldn’t be able to open it. He lifted it and stuck it in his mouth to try with his teeth but Dylan snatched it back. “Not with your teeth. Bad patient.” William looked at the bottle when Dylan handed it to him opened. “Are you going to keep treating me like a child?” “That depends.” Dylan’s lips twitched. “Do you plan to act like one?” A little of William’s enthusiasm ebbed. It hurt to grip the bottle in order to drink, but if he held it in both hands he’d look ridiculous. “Look. I know I owe you for getting me out of your shed and bringing me here.” “You don’t owe me.” “The thing is, it’s going to be hard to hide, you know?” Dylan tilted his head. “What do you mean?” “I’m sure that the rest of my brother’s boys, the ones who didn’t come to Vegas with us, will be looking for me. As soon as they figure out I made it and Paco and the rest didn’t, they’re going to think I punked out and come gunning for me. Your man’s going to come after me too.” “Probably,” Dylan agreed. He said it amiably, as if William had said he was expecting rain. “Well. I was thinking. There’s not a lot of places we can hide. See?” “I’m not certain I know what you mean.” “I mean that I need to find some rathole to hide in and some kind of shitty cash job. You don’t want that, and together we stick out like…those mountains.” He pointed out the window. “I see.” So far, the expression in Dylan’s cool eyes hadn’t changed. “I’ve been giving some thought about where we should go.” “What do you mean?”

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“It’s critical that you rest for a few days. You can barely stand. If your kidneys are damaged, you could go into renal failure and die. I’m sure you heard Peter talking about that.” William nodded. “Yeah.” “I suggest we find someplace where I can make sure you get the rest you need. I have enough cash for that. Someplace like the motel where we’re staying, or if my family makes you uncomfortable, we move to another town. We can go our separate ways when you feel better.” “Okay.” William contemplated this. Dylan agreeing this easily had thrown him off. Maybe it made him sad. Like Dylan couldn’t wait to be rid of him. He stayed his course though, continuing with his thoughts. “At some point we’ll only tangle each other up, see? If we’re together, then—” “Someone is bound to remember us,” Dylan finished for him. “Not me. But you kind of stand out. You’ve got those eerie gringo eyes.” Dylan’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?” “You’ve got eyes like ice, man. You and your sister both.” Dylan turned back to the mountains. “I can wear contacts. Dye my hair. It won’t be the first time I’ve had to start over.” “I’m sorry about that.” Dylan shrugged, more to the mountains than to him. “You had a pretty good thing going there in Vegas,” William pursued. “You lived pretty well and I’m—” “Was my life good enough to kill for?” Dylan asked. “Good enough to die for? I didn’t think so. This just is what it is. You should probably get some rest while you can, lying down. We’ll be leaving as soon as Desiree comes back.” William’s emotions bounced from hope to wariness to utter despair and back. “Where do you plan on taking me?” Dylan turned to look at him without expression, those weird eyes unreadable. “You’ll just have to trust me. Which is ironic”—he smiled but his eyes stayed cold—“actually.”

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Chapter Ten

Desiree pushed through the front door in a tsunami of plastic grocery bags and small children. Dylan automatically took the bags and carried them into the kitchen. Each kid had a cup that bore the logo of a local smoothie place and swirled around her feet anxiously as she put her purchases away. “Is he still sleeping?” “He was up for a bit but he went back to rest.” “All right. I have some things to tell you.” She hesitated. “You parked down the street, didn’t you. No way that car you’re driving is yours. It’s filthy.” Dylan shook his head tightly. “I uh…borrowed it for a bit.” “You boosted a car? Are you still doing that?” He bit his lip. Of course she knew he had done that as a teen, and why. Even though she hadn’t seen him for years, it was still probably hard for her to imagine he would actually steal for real. “Not as a general rule. No.” “What kind of life have you gotten for yourself? Kidnapping, guns, gangsters, car theft…” Dylan shrugged. He knew what he was. Knew he’d turned a blind eye to Yves’s dealings and accepted his protection, his money and his body. That made him guilty of all of Yves’s crimes by omission if nothing else, since he had certainly benefited from them. He was a married man’s whore even if he liked to think he and Yves regarded one another as more than that. Even though he knew that Yves’s wife tolerated him and regarded him as a necessary evil in an old-fashioned way that his family—that most people—were unlikely to comprehend. “You have to get rid of that car.” “I will. I’ll go do that now. But I have to make other arrangements and I haven’t decided what they’ll be.” “I have.” Desiree watched him expectantly. Dylan frowned. “Excuse me?” “I called Bishop Farnsworth. He always had a soft spot for you.” Dylan’s heart froze. “Des, you had no right—” “I do have that right since you brought this to me.” “Farnsworth must be eighty…”

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“He’s seventy. He retired a while ago and opened a resort property up by Panguitch Lake with his daughter-in-law. You can go and stay with them until William is recovered.” Dylan burned with shame, unable to forget Farnsworth’s stony silence as he sat, wearing a suit and tie in their family’s living room the day after he’d approached his parents with his problem. Together, his parents and their bishop had decided Dylan’s fate before he’d even entered the room. Dylan had sat there numb with shock, hearing nothing but the sound of his mother’s quiet sobs and the tick of the clock on the mantle until his father gave him the choice to accept conversion therapy or leave their home forever. “I am not going to Scott Farnsworth for help. Not now. Not ever.” “Dylan. He always liked you. He tried to help you.” It took an effort for Dylan to unclench his teeth. “Yes. I remember the help he wanted to give me. Camp Rewire for the gender impaired.” “It worked for Peter.” “It must have.” Dylan didn’t let her see the lie in his eyes. “But Farnsworth—” “He loved you. He thought the sun rose and set in you and he wanted to help.” “That must be why he sat there and did nothing when our parents disowned me.” “They didn’t disown—” “I will not talk about that day,” Dylan whispered. “Not ever.” “You should. You completely misread the situation, and when they realized how determined you were—” “I wasn’t determined.” Dylan smacked his hand onto the countertop, causing the kids in the family room to look at them in alarm. He lowered his voice and tried to shake off his tension for them. “I wasn’t defiant. I wasn’t any one of a number of things they called me that night. I was just… I wasn’t going to lie again. They disowned me because I didn’t choose to lie about who I am. They let me walk out that door and they told me not to bother coming back. And as I’d done my entire life, I obeyed my parents.” “You know they didn’t really mean that. They tried to find you. They looked everywhere for you. Hired private investigators. They were devastated when you left and thought they’d still have a chance to talk you out of something rash. If you—” “I did what I had to do.” “You’ve never regretted it?” Dylan turned away. “I’m going to check on William.” She caught his arm. “You need to get rid of that car, then I’ll drive you to Farnsworth’s lodge.” “I won’t go.” “Not even for William? It’s the best possible thing for him to lie quietly and heal before he has to go on the run from whatever trouble he’s in, and that’s the best possible place for him to do it. If you really want to help him…”

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Dylan blew out a shuddering breath. Des persisted. “It’s quiet. No one would ever think to look for you. Think of it, room and board…” “I won’t take his charity, I have cash—” “You can work there. He said he needs people to do repairs. He’s giving you a chance to help William without charity…” “All right.” He tried to pull back his arm but Desiree tightened her grip. “It’s not far. Four hours. It’s private. I just don’t want you to disappear again.” “If I hadn’t stumbled into Peter in that clinic, the last place I ever expected to find him…” “Thank goodness for that.” Desiree pulled him to her. He resisted, but maybe not that much. She threw her arms around him and held him tight. “Thank God. I’ve missed you so much. Let me help you, Dylan. Let us help you.” He knew she meant people he’d turned his back on when he’d left. People he’d been close to, his friends and family. People like Bishop Farnsworth who’d been his Scoutmaster and youth leader and eventually the figurative shepherd of his ward, who’d counseled him through everything until he’d uttered the one, so-called terrible secret that blew everything apart. Des let him go, expecting him to accept her offer. “Who are you helping? Who I am, or who you want me to be?” She shook her head. “You idiot. It doesn’t matter. It never mattered to me. And if you’re honest with yourself, if you’d given us a chance, you might be surprised at who else would have stood by you.” “Not the church.” “No, of course not the church.” “Not Mom and Dad.” Des didn’t address the issue of their parents. “I’m talking about at least some of the people. Or haven’t you figured out the difference yet.” She did that finger thing, church, steeple, people. He snorted, patting his pockets for his wallet. “What do I owe you for the meds?” “Nothing.” She handed him a small brown shopping bag from a big-name wireless carrier. “Here. Don’t say I never gave you anything.” “What is it?” He peered inside. “It’s called an Android. It was a buy one get one free, so I upgraded my own phone too. I’ll have to fill out all those dang rebate forms, but whatever. Don’t call China. I’ll be paying for it.” “I don’t understand.” Desiree shrugged. “I got you a phone on my plan, under my name, because from now on I want to talk to you. Often. I never want you to leave me alone like that again. We came into this world together, Dylan, and I need you.”

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The phone made him tense in a way he didn’t understand. It was as if something he’d yearned for was almost within his reach but it felt like a trick. “I don’t know about this, Des. I don’t know if I can do this.” She ignored him. “Call me when you’ve ditched that car and I’ll bring William to pick you up. Meanwhile, I’m going to drop the kids off at Peter’s mom’s place. It’s going to be four hours to Panguitch and four back and they’ll be better off waiting for me where someone will spoil the heck out of them.” Dylan’s eyes drifted to the children. “What will you tell your mother-in-law when she asks why I brought a wounded kid to your door? What will you tell her when she asks about me?” “I’ll tell her charity begins at home.” Desiree’s eyebrows drew together in the middle and Dylan wondered if she had problems with the formidable matriarch of Peter’s family. Dylan surely had, even before he’d been deflowered by Peter J. Evans the third, which hopefully neither Des nor Mrs. Evans knew anything about. Peter was as different from him as black from white. Easily intimidated. Less confident. Less selfcontained. Dylan couldn’t imagine Peter walking away from everything he’d known. Maybe going along had been his only choice. “Don’t cause yourself a problem over this.” “My problems are nothing you should worry about.” “But I do.” He looked into her eyes and saw himself reflected there. “You know I do.” Desiree sighed. “It’s not easy having her for a mother-in-law.” “If this is going to cause trouble between you and your husband, I can find another way. Get another car.” “You mean steal.” He shrugged. “Your car theft days are over, at least for now.” Her disapproval made things worse. “I’ll leave it spotless with a couple hundred dollars in the glove box.” “Still a Boy Scout.” She sighed. “A thieving, reprobate Boy Scout.” He fumbled around with the new phone, taking it out of the box and switching it on. He picked up the quick-start guide and started reading, thumbing through the different applications. “I had to leave my phone at home. You don’t know how often you want to use one until you don’t have it.” “Call me. My number is programmed in as speed dial one.” “Pushy.” He bumped her with his shoulder. “You don’t know the half of it.” She finally grinned at him, and for a minute his heart went warm and it felt like home. “Is it okay to leave William here by himself?” Dylan bit his lip. “I really don’t know him. If you’re asking if he’ll steal…”

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Desiree glanced at her kids, who were playing with big Lego blocks on the floor of the family room. “I’m not worried about that. The only thing I care about is coming with me to Grandma’s. I mean do you think he’ll run or call his friends?” “I doubt it. He wasn’t happy to be with them in the first place and now he’s scared as hell they’ll find him.” “All right. Tell him that I’ll be back to pick him up in about forty-five minutes and a little about where we’re going.” “I don’t know if he’ll want to be in your gang any more than he wanted to be in his,” Dylan told her, thinking it was apt. Whether William liked it or not, he was about to be jumped into the LDS gang. Even though they were helping him, they couldn’t be said to be entirely harmless to men or women who didn’t fit their preconceived notions of how people should be. Dylan considered himself living proof of that. “I’m going to take the car somewhere I can wash it and then I’ll leave it in plain sight in a parking lot or something.” “One of these days”—she shook a finger at him—“you’re going to get caught. Don’t screw up now that I’ve only just got you back.” How could he tell her that theft wasn’t exactly a habit with him? She saw only the boy he was, and admittedly he’d learned early on how to hotwire a car from his more rural friends who thought joyriding was a rite of passage. By himself, Dylan had only ever taken their neighbor Mrs. Smith’s car to repair it, keeping it clean and running, taking it to the service center in his dad’s RV dealership to work on it because they knew she couldn’t afford it and they realized she was too proud to ask for help. From the way she sat in the living room of her dilapidated house and banged on the window so he’d come to her door and maybe accept a handful of cookies, a slice of cake or a glass of ice-cold lemonade, he thought she might have had a good idea why it always seemed to run so perfectly for such an old car. Later his knowledge of cars, though not necessarily his ability to steal them, stood him in good stead on his mission. He’d become known as the go-to missionary for car troubles and it opened doors he’d otherwise have found closed. When he’d taken that Caprice in Vegas it was dire necessity. Life or death. But how could he tell Desiree that? Who would believe him if he got caught? She was right. It had been a stupid, stupid chance to take. “I only just found you too. I won’t screw up,” he reassured her. When tears shimmered in her eyes again, he put his hand on hers. “Better not.” She gave him a little shove. “Off. Wash like the wind, evil twin.” “Got it.” He walked away but turned when he got to the door and held up his phone. He had to swallow twice before he could form words. “Thanks for this. Thank you so much.”

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Dylan put the phone back into his pocket and headed out. A phone. An invisible line connecting them together was the most enticing thing. Of all he gave up when his family handed him their ultimatum, leaving her was the hardest. He’d needed her more than ever when he found himself all alone, without his family, without his church, without the men and women he’d looked up to and the friends he’d counted on. That had been like cutting off a leg and then trying to run a marathon. But along with that terrible ache to connect with her, there was also the fact that she was one of them. And no matter how much he wished it were different, he’d believed she disapproved of him. It appeared she felt more strongly at the time than she did now. Or maybe in his pain and fear he’d misread her. Perhaps she grew more tolerant as she matured. But now she was married to Peter. If Desiree wanted to believe that Peter had gone to his Lifestyle Camp and been cured, it was not Dylan’s place to tell her that it probably hadn’t happened the way everyone hoped. That based on the way Peter still looked at him, the treatment had been palliative at best, and not a cure. It was none of his business, anyway. Dylan stopped by the hotel first to clear it out, packing up his and William’s few things before he went to say goodbye to the manager. She told him—in that husky, strident voice of hers—that with cash deals there were no refunds, which made him smile. He gave her the hotplate back unused. After that he pulled on his hat and sunglasses and drove around until he found a self-serve place to wash the car. He opened the trunk and loaded everything—except for the handgun that belonged to Andreas and his fake IDs—into a large, inexpensive duffle bag he’d purchased at a truck stop. Altogether, there wasn’t much to take to Farnsworth’s place. Farnsworth. Dylan tried to recall what, exactly, Farnsworth had said to him the last time they’d met, but even though the scene was etched permanently in his memory, he only recalled his parents’ words. Was it possible that Farnsworth had let them do the talking? Had he said anything at all? Dylan went through the motions of cleaning up the Caprice, scrubbing dirt from the exterior and then digging through Andreas’s things for a pair of latex gloves, which he used when he carefully eradicated any trace of his fingerprints on the interior and vacuumed it as well as he could. After that, he drove it to the parking lot of a busy grocery store, placed two one-hundred-dollar bills inside the glove box, then locked the door from the inside and closed it. With his black bag slung over his shoulder, he left the Caprice behind. Maybe he’d cleaned it well enough that they wouldn’t be looking for him specifically or the gun and the IDs he’d left in the trunk would point the police in another direction. If he’d messed up somehow and the police looked for Dylan Anderson, too bad. They’d have to find him first.

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Chapter Eleven

William woke when a gentle hand brushed his arm. He couldn’t say why, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t startle. He just came awake, opened his eyes and breathed through his nose like he was back home in San Diego and his abuelita was trying to get him up for school. “William?” “Sorry.” Pain shot along his bruised ribs as he rose. “No. I’m sorry to have to wake you. It’s time to go.” She kept her voice low and he supposed that was for her children’s sake, although he didn’t see any of them around. He didn’t see her brother either. “Where’s Dylan?” “He took the car to get rid of it. I’m going to drive you two out to a friend’s place. Somewhere you can rest.” “You don’t need to do that.” William allowed her to help him to his feet. “I told Dylan I should probably head out on my own from here. Keep you guys out of it.” Desiree’s brows rose. “How did he respond to that?” “About how you’d think. He seems stubborn.” “Isn’t that the truth.” Desiree motioned for him to follow her. “Are you hungry? Do you want anything to eat before we go?” “I’m fine.” “I don’t really understand why my brother is helping you. You… He said you tried to kidnap him? For money?” William pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to talk about that with Dylan’s sister. There was more to the story than he wanted her to know, and he was embarrassed by his own stupidity. He followed her into the kitchen. She handed him a water bottle, then picked up her keys and purse. “I don’t know anything about the situation except what Dylan told me. I don’t know how he lived or what you and your…friends were trying to do. But if he gets hurt because of you, I will hunt you down and see that you pay for it.” William wasn’t surprised. Tall and attractive—far more commanding than her brother—this woman was cut from a different sort of cloth. She had balls of steel. What she said made him smile. “You think I’m kidding?” she asked in a deadly, quiet voice.

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“No, ma’am,” William told her carefully. “I think you’d better take a number and get in line.” Desiree’s lips twitched but she motioned for him to go ahead while she held the door. He followed her to the driveway where she remained silent as she unlocked the front passenger door of a black Tahoe. She keyed the ignition. “What made your friends pick my brother?” How could he make her understand? Dylan and his sister were the kind of people who helped someone they didn’t know. They took him out of danger. They cared for him. How could he explain that his father and brother would only see that as weakness to be preyed upon? He didn’t deserve her kindness. “For money.” He glanced at him in surprise. “Whose money?” “Dylan’s man is loaded and connected. My father and my brother Paco thought he would pay big to get Dylan back. There were other reasons. They all thought they could take a fag pretty easily.” “Don’t use that word to refer to my brother.” “Sorry, ma’am. That’s just how they are. They think Dylan and men like him—me included except they don’t know about me I hope—aren’t worth shit.” “You’re like my brother? You’re gay?” “Yeah.” William looked down at his hands. “It would have been more than my life was worth to tell my family about it though.” “Dylan told us, but we let him down.” Desiree backed out of the driveway and took off, slowly, edging her way through her kids-and-cul-de-sacs neighborhood toward the main drag. Young teens in helmets and pads played a game of rollerblade hockey in the street. They had traffic cones and yellow folding plastic signs that said Drive Safely: Kids at Play. “Safety first here, huh?” Desiree was distracted by his comment. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Well. Lots of children in this area. We take family pretty seriously.” “I can see that.” William thought he hid his sarcasm fairly well. “Where’s your brother now?” William didn’t know how much to say. The image of his brother’s face the last time he’d seen it dogged him. He swallowed the bile that rose to his throat. “He didn’t make it.” She drew in a quick breath. “What happened?” “Nobody made it out alive but me. Dylan’s man was prepared for a kidnapping. His security team came after us right away and there was a firefight. I guess they expected something like that because of the money maybe… It’s a miracle they didn’t hit Dylan, because he was locked in the trunk.” “Shhhhhhhhit,” Desiree hissed as she pulled the car into a gas station driveway and maneuvered behind a convenience store. She opened her door with shaking hands, got out and puked. William struggled

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with his seat belt, ignoring the pain of his swollen hands. He pushed the button with his thumb and leaned on the door until he practically fell out. He tried to give her his water which he hadn’t opened. “Here. I didn’t drink from that.” She shoved his hand away forcefully and it hurt like a bitch. “I’m sorry,” William told her, helplessly pulling the curtain of her hair back off her face while she retched. “If I could fix this, I would. I never wanted any part of it. I never wanted anything but to be left alone.” Desiree leaned against the side of the SUV and closed her eyes. “I’m not going to like what my brother’s become, am I?” “How should I know? None of this was his fault.” He was absurdly irritated by her words. Why wouldn’t she like Dylan? He looked away from her, up the road, unwilling to let her see his anger on Dylan’s behalf. “How should I know what you like or don’t like? He’s been good to me. He’s rock solid. His heart is as beautiful as his face. That’s what I know.” She regarded him silently. William lifted his hands. “He didn’t deserve any of this.” “No one does.” Desiree’s hair whipped around and got stuck in the sick that still clung to her face. He wished he had a handkerchief to offer her. His abuelita used to make him carry them, ironed them into stiff little rectangles. He slumped next to her and shielded his eyes from the bright sun with his forearms. “I can’t make it right. He lost everything because of me.” “He lost everything a long time ago. Maybe he’s finally positioned to get some of it back.” She pushed away from him. “Get back in the car.” She watched as he walked back around. When she got in, she grabbed a wipe from the console and cleaned herself up. While she adjusted the rearview mirror she checked herself out, turning her head first this way, and then that. “It’s a longer drive if we go the scenic route but it’s one of Dylan’s favorite places and I think he’ll like that. We can go through Zion.” “Thank you.” His voice wasn’t very loud, but he thought she heard him. “For everything.” She kept silent and drove until they arrived at a strip mall and headed for a space in front of the market. William studied her face. “I’ll look after him while he’s with me. I swear I’ll let them take me—I’ll let them kill me—if it will protect him.” Desiree shot him a look that said she’d believe it when she saw it. “He said to look for him here.” The door of the market opened and William spotted Dylan immediately—even though he’d dressed like the Unabomber—when he came out carrying a drink holder with three cups. He wore a hoodie over a baseball cap to cover his blond hair and aviator shades that hid the remarkable blue of his eyes. He carried a

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big black duffle. Even camouflaged like that, wearing jeans and worn work boots, Dylan stood out. He carried himself with grace. He was both light on his feet and confident and wouldn’t be out of place in a government office building, a Fortune 500 company board meeting or on the red carpet of a film premiere. Maybe it was because he and Paco had watched Dylan to learn his routine and they’d seen him in formal wear, but William didn’t imagine that anyone would take Dylan Anderson for just another guy. As he approached, William started to unbuckle his seat belt. Desiree reached over and unlatched it for him so he could let himself out and take a seat in the back. She leaned over to talk to him while Dylan put his bag in the trunk. “It’s a long drive. You should push the seat back and rest if you can. Have you taken your pain meds?” “Yes.” Dylan slid in beside Desiree, holding the carrier carefully to keep from spilling their drinks. “I got hot chocolate.” He took a cup and handed it to William, who took it in both hands. Dylan placed the remaining cups in the holders for him and Desiree. “I thought a little something…” “It’s nice.” Desiree’s smile was forced. “Whipped cream?” “Of course.” Dylan’s return smile was equally forced. Dylan looked out the side window once Desiree got the car rolling again. His shoulders dropped visibly, as though he’d let go of whatever issues he was carrying around with him for the moment. William studied his profile. Sunglasses covered his eyes but beneath those William could see his high cheekbones, the way they rode over hollows like his face had been planed from stone. Light caught and danced along a soft growth of beard. Dylan was a beauty, in every way, just as his sister was. Dylan put his cup to his lips and drank his cocoa cautiously, blowing on it and slipping his tongue out to lap up the droplets. For a lot of reasons, William knew he shouldn’t be watching Dylan Anderson like that. Dylan’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed and William’s own throat tightened, causing him to swallow too. Dylan said, “I can honestly say I never expected to be back here.” Desiree murmured something in reply and turned on the radio. Insipid love songs filled the air as they drove in silence for a long while.

Dylan was glad for the music in the car, glad to hear William’s breathing change to gentle, rhythmic snoring because he had little to say. He sensed a landslide of questions behind his sister’s resignation, and he was grateful she didn’t ask them. He kept his sunglasses on so she wouldn’t see his eyes as he took in the sights—the sheer blessed familiarity of which threatened to make him cry. They began their trip on Highway 9 between the two mountain ridges, past the golf course and new development area into the plateau of land called Purgatory Flats. They drove along a long stretch of highway, saying nothing until they passed over a second ridge, where they crossed the Virgin River, then

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climbed up to another plateau. The road descended into Hurricane, and swung a little to the north and then east into the area crowned with mesas to the west of Zion National Park. “Did you ever come back? Have you been here and just not let me know?” Des asked him. Given that she knew how attached he was to the land in Utah, how many, many times he’d hiked and camped and biked the trails here, it was a valid question. “No.” “Never?” She turned to him briefly. “You never once came back?” “No,” he repeated. “I’ve been in Las Vegas.” “That close?” She smacked the steering wheel with the palm of her open hand. “That close and not once…?” She glued her lips together firmly. Dylan said nothing. What could he say? He’d been four hours away, hidden in plain sight. First he’d worked parking cars, but later he worked for Yves, mostly behind the scenes arranging travel and entertainment for Yves and his more noteworthy business partners and friends. He’d been a busy, if not prominent, member of the community. He doubted very much the Hatcher or Evans families had been aware of the AIDS fundraisers, the opera galas or the liberal political events to which Dylan made his rare public appearances, near Yvgeny Mosko—but never at his side. Even then, he was careful to maintain his anonymity, just another tuxedo in the crowd with money, willing to help out with something he believed in, ducking photographers in an effort to remain discreet. He wasn’t photographed often, and it was unlikely anything had drifted back home. Home. How long—how painful—did a man’s exile have to be before the place where he was born stopped being home? They drove in deeper silence because even Desiree must have gotten sick of the country love songs. Dylan thanked his maker when she finally turned the radio off. He flipped down the sun visor and opened the makeup mirror to check on William. He slept, leaning against the door with his battered hands tucked protectively under his arms. His head hung to one side and his mouth formed a slack O. Not for the first time, Dylan wondered what the young man’s future could possibly be. At that point, Dylan could only guess what his face would look like without the bruising. His nose seemed straight and slightly proud. His cheekbones were high and sharp. They seemed to hint, along with the bronze color of his nearly hairless body, at Native American heritage. His lips were full and relatively untouched by the violence done to the rest of him. There was a split in his lower lip, in the center, but little swelling. They were soft. Moist and plump. They were a child’s lips and made him look young, particularly since William had no beard to speak of. It wasn’t a mystery to Dylan why he felt so protective.

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In light of that, it was nearly unbearable that Dylan found himself so attracted. After giving him that hand job when he’d bathed him, Dylan had to force himself not to think about it. He might have been nearly twice William’s age, but he had no experience with men besides Yves and he’d been awed by William’s cock. Transfixed by his young body. He’d seen William’s need and used it as an excuse to touch him like that. It was, at best, an abuse of trust. Yet even now, he couldn’t believe the deafening sound of his pulse in his ears when he thought about holding that monster cock in his hand. More than that…the look in William’s eyes when he’d done it. Surprise, desire, then satisfaction. He could almost taste William’s flavor on his tongue. As if he was aware of Dylan’s scrutiny William’s eyes fluttered open, and for the briefest flash of a moment, they held terror. He met Dylan’s eyes in the mirror and his expression softened into one of tremendous relief. He pushed his short brown hair back from his forehead then tucked his bandaged hand back under his arm again, curling into a tighter ball and returning to sleep. Desiree interrupted Dylan’s thoughts. “How old do you think he is?” “Late teens? Maybe twenty?” “What a waste. He said the others, the men with him, didn’t make it?” “No.” “What kind of—?” “Leave it, Des.” The truth was Dylan didn’t have the words to talk about his other life. Not when he looked out on the breathtaking landscape of Zion, whose wild purity made him feel small and dirty. Not when the midafternoon sun turned the western horizon a brilliant, fiery red and deep shadows fell from each eerie rock formation. Once, Dylan felt as big and as immutable as Checkerboard Mesa. Now, he gazed out the window and felt less a part of the earth than the car they were driving. He was a stranger to this land he once knew like a lover’s touch. As if reading his mind, Desiree said, “Getting away from the city might do you some good.” “Yes,” he replied automatically. “The resort is made up of rustic, individual cabins and a hotel lodge where people can dine and socialize. They have ATVs for exploring and boats for fishing. He said he could always use some help keeping the vehicles working and doing repairs on the cabins. They’re getting ready for winter and all the summer help has headed home. They won’t have any guests until spring.” “Des—” “Take the time to find your way, Dylan,” Desiree counseled. “This could be a gift for you. A place to find balance.” Dylan looked back out the window so she couldn’t see how much her words affected him.

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He’d lived for years sublimating—completely out of touch with a part of his nature that had begun to claw its way free as soon as he saw the impossible-seeming features of his beloved Utah landscape. Balance. Balance could be good.

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Chapter Twelve

William woke when an aging Latino he’d never seen before slipped an arm around his shoulders to help him out of Desiree’s car. Someone switched on a light. He could see they’d parked at the end of a rough driveway in front of a cabin, which had a porch with a swing and a narrow front door. Gravel crunched under his feet. Ahead of him, Dylan and Desiree waited. He’d grown painfully stiff in the car so he allowed the man to help him walk. Dylan’s duffle bag sat on the porch along with the paper sack that held William’s medicines. He was just climbing the steps when he heard footsteps behind him. Dylan acknowledged the arrival of an even older man—maybe late sixties—who had a full head of hair that was so white it glowed like snow in the moonlight. “Bishop Farnsworth.” Dylan’s voice was chilly. The man inclined his head to Dylan and smiled warmly at Des. “Hello. I had Carol bring some supplies up here for you when Des told me you didn’t have gear or linens. You’re on the end here. The weather’s cooling down. You’ve got plenty of firewood in the crib out back. There’s a space heater and a fireplace.” “Thank you, Bishop.” “Call me Scott. I’m not your bishop anymore.” “The title is—” The old man sounded tired. “I know, Skip. I’m asking you to call me Scott.” “Dylan,” Dylan corrected. “All right. Scott. It will take some getting used to.” The man gave up a weary smile. “Fine. Dylan. Ernesto will help you get your friend situated here. Afterwards, come up to the lodge and we’ll see about getting you some supper.” “I don’t think that’s necessary.” “I do,” the bishop disagreed. Dylan tensed. It was clear in the rigid way he held himself before he answered, “Of course.” “I’d like to catch up and your friend needs something to eat. We’ll box a meal up for you to bring back here for him. Des and I will be waiting for you.” Dylan turned to Ernesto, who was still holding William up, and motioned them through the cabin door. There were two double beds, one on each side, pushed against the walls. Someone had placed a stack of linens and pillows on each, and Dylan started making up a bed while Ernesto helped William into one of two rocking chairs. He heard Desiree’s car roll away on the rocky drive toward the main buildings.

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“You want water?” Ernesto indicated a tiny kitchenette. “Yes, please,” William answered. Ernesto leaned over and dug around in a half-sized refrigerator and came up with a bottle of spring water. He twisted the cap off and took it to William, who sipped it gratefully. “Everybody’s giving me water all the time.” “It’s dry here. You need to stay hydrated.” Ernesto turned around to make up the second bed. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” Ernesto didn’t take his eyes away from his work. After a while he said to Dylan, “You don’t remember me, do you, Skip?” The look on Dylan’s face was one of genuine concern. It was interesting to see the normally unflappable Dylan as he searched his memory. Finally he gave an embarrassed shake of his head. “No, I’m sorry. Really. I haven’t been back for a long time.” “I know. You meet a lot of people. I don’t suppose you’d remember. I used to work for your dad at the—” “Ernesto! Yes! Of course.” Dylan’s face changed to one of recognition; it wasn’t possible for him to be faking the warmth William saw there. He came around the bed he was making to shake Ernesto’s hand and pull him in for a one-armed hug, nodding, alight with the most sincere smile William had ever seen on his face. “That’s not fair, you used to have a mustache and beard.” “Yes, my wife made me shave it off.” “Esmeralda.” Dylan sighed. “Oh, I remember Esme. Is she still making those chorizo-and-egg-stuffed poblano chiles with the crunchy breadcrumb coating?” “Yes.” Ernesto was pleased to be remembered. “She is. She’s cooking here for the guests. She loves it. She says it’s like having her own restaurant.” Dylan still held the older man’s hand. “I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you right away, Ernesto. When I first left, everyone I saw reminded me of someone back home, but I stopped asking, because I didn’t want…” “It’s all right. It’s been a long time.” Ernesto took his hand back and looked down. “I’m sorry,” Dylan whispered sincerely, and William wondered if they were still talking about familiar faces. “William, Ernesto used to work for my dad’s RV dealership. He taught me everything I know about cars.” “No, I didn’t,” Ernesto demurred. He turned his back to fluff a pillow but seemed pleased by the praise. “You did.” Dylan smoothed the covers on the bed he worked on. “Except for how to steal them. I learned that from my friends.”

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Ernesto rolled his eyes at William. “His dad was mad enough at me for teaching him how to drive them.” Dylan straightened up to his full height. “I remember.” “I’m glad,” Ernesto said shyly. Dylan shot him a happy smile. They worked in silence for a few minutes more, until both beds were made and Ernesto told Dylan he’d wait outside while he got William comfortable. Once he was gone, William said, “I wonder why he wanted to wait outside.” He took off his sweatshirt jacket and sat down to get at his shoes. It proved difficult for him to bend over far enough to remove them. Desiree had helped him earlier. He started to toe them off. Even that hurt somewhat. “Shit.” “I’ll get those.” Dylan kneeled on the floor and began undoing the loosely tied laces. “I think maybe Ernesto thinks there’s something between us, and he wanted to give us privacy. It’s time for another pill, and you have water. Do you need more?” “No, I’m fine.” William pursed his lips while Dylan matter-of-factly removed his socks. “You don’t have to do this. I can shove my own shoes off, sleep in my socks.” Dylan lifted his gaze and continued to undress him. “I don’t want your pity.” William pushed Dylan’s hands away when he reached for William’s T-shirt. “And I for damn sure don’t need to be babied like this.” “Well.” Dylan stood and frowned down at him. “You’ll be back on your feet in no time and then you can go where you want. In the meantime, this is all I’ve got.” “Wait. Shit.” William stopped him. “It’s not that I’m not grateful. I am. But you don’t need to wait on me and you don’t need to be so nice. Okay?” “Okay. Note to self. Don’t be nice.” “Is this some kind of joke to you?” William asked. “You guys have been terrific, but maybe I don’t want you and Mrs. Doctor-lady treating me like some fucking war orphan you can take home with you and adopt.” Dylan laid the flat of his hand on William’s cheek. He kept it there, even when William felt snarly and tried to jerk his head away. “Better not let Ernesto hear you swear like that or you’ll find yourself sitting there with a juicy, wet bar of pumice soap in your mouth.” He turned and headed for the door. When Dylan glanced back, his face was unreadable. “Believe me. I should know.”

The main communal room of the Farnsworth’s lodge was rustic, yet at the same time elegant and comfortable. The bare log walls were covered with old sports equipment, wooden skis and poles, fishing creels and snowshoes. Native American weavings formed colorful backgrounds for a couple of the smaller collections. Rich, abstract rugs dotted the floor and delineated conversation spaces. In pride of place over

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the mantle was a snowboard, autographed by a number of world-class boarders, one of whom was Farnsworth’s own son, Jared, who had been a good friend of Dylan’s in high school. Bookshelves lined one of the walls, and Dylan realized that the books were all about the LDS relationship to the state of Utah, either the history of the church or fictionalized accounts of Latter-day Saints in their struggle for independence and then statehood. Dylan browsed the busy shelves, realizing he’d read a lot of the books himself at one time. While Des chatted with former Bishop Farnsworth’s daughter-in-law in the kitchen, Dylan kept his mouth shut. He felt like an archeologist, exploring the ruins of his own civilization. He tried to make sense of the artifacts, cataloging them and finding explanations for the trappings of a life that felt foreign and inexplicable to him, but shouldn’t have. This man was someone he knew. He was a friend of Dylan’s parents. Dylan grew up alongside his son. They had to have something to say to one another after all these years. They must have something in common. All at once, the question that had been hanging in the air just out of sight materialized for Dylan, even if he didn’t speak it out loud. He glanced around the large rustic room until his gaze landed on a triangular glass frame with an American flag folded carefully inside it. Dylan’s eyes met Bishop Farnsworth’s, and it seemed as if the old man had been waiting for that all along. They gazed at one another for a long time. “How?” Dylan’s voice rasped like it scratched over sandpaper as he exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “IED. An Improvised Explosive Device hit the armored personnel carrier he was driving in Habbaniyah. Right at the beginning of the war.” Dylan’s eyes stung. “I’m so sorry.” Scott shrugged. “We’ve had a long time to grieve.” “So Carol…?” “His widow. She’s like my own daughter now, since we bought this place.” “Jared,” Dylan whispered. He shook his head, all out of words. There was a picture of Jared next to the flag case. He wore his army uniform with such pride. A hundred different memories came to Dylan, all of them silly, most of them unexceptional, except they were all precious now that Jared was gone. “Son.” Farnsworth put a hand on Dylan’s arm but he pulled away without thinking. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be touched by the old man. It wasn’t that he held a grudge, really, but if the old man offered him even a hint of kindness, he’d crack open and bleed out on the Navajo-inspired rug under his feet. “I’m glad I have the chance to say this, Skip. I might have done things differently if I’d known some of what I know now.” Farnsworth’s voice held regret. “I might not have held my silence when your parents gave you that ultimatum. I should have counseled them better. None of us ever imagined that we’d spend so many years wondering where you were.”

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“It wasn’t you.” Dylan remembered clearly now. Farnsworth had been calm but didn’t say a word. His parents had done the damage all by themselves. “I didn’t stop them. At the time I believed that only your parents had the right to talk to you about the choices you were making. I meant to be there solely in the capacity of…” Farnsworth shook his proud white head. “I don’t know what. Shepherd? Figurehead?” Dylan didn’t reiterate his conviction that there hadn’t been a choice to make. That was simply old news. “It wasn’t anything you did or didn’t say. My parents had already made their minds up. They chose what they believed was right for their family.” “Your family.” “No. Not anymore.” “I understand.” Farnsworth held out his hand. The space between his brows narrowed as he focused intensely on Dylan’s face. “I’m only sorry I didn’t offer you my hand and my friendship then. I’m sorry I didn’t stand beside you. I should have. Even if I don’t agree with your choices, I knew you were a good man and I should have told you so when I had the chance. I don’t let those chances pass me by anymore. Not for anything in this world or the next.” Dylan looked at the picture of Jared and wished…he didn’t know what. If loss was Farnsworth’s key to finding compassion, then he’d accept it for what it was. “Thank you, sir,” Dylan said formally. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “Thank you,” Farnsworth told him earnestly. “Thank you very much. It’s my pleasure to welcome you into our home, Skip Hatcher.”

Desiree arrived home at eleven in the evening. She didn’t expect to find Peter there, but when she pulled up she saw the bluish glow of the television through the front window. She’d planned to pick the kids up in the morning because she hadn’t been certain how long she would be gone. She wondered if Peter had picked them up. The lock turned easily in the door, indicating that Peter hadn’t even bothered with it, so she doubted the children were home. She put her purse and keys on the kitchen counter and found him sitting in the living room, in the dark, watching the news with the sound virtually muted. She dropped onto the sofa beside him. He muted the television. “Big day, huh?” “You could have warned me,” she said. “It was a terrible shock to open the door and find my brother standing on the other side. You could have spared me that with a phone call.” “And said what? I wasn’t sure he’d come here. He actually said he wouldn’t. How did Farnsworth take the news? I assume from what my mother told me that’s where you planned to take him.” “Scott seemed glad to see him.”

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“Right. Fatted calf and all that.” She picked up his soda without thinking and took a long drink. He tensed. “You couldn’t get your own drink?” “Sorry.” She replaced it on the soapstone coaster and peered at the television. “Well?” “Well what?” Peter picked up the remote and turned it off completely. “Well, what do you think?” “I don’t know what to think,” Des said carefully. “Will your parents be glad to see him?” “No.” Des knew they wouldn’t agree to meet with Skip—Dylan—unless they believed he was truly ready to repent what they thought were his sins. They’d never given up hope of finding him and changing him back into the boy they believed he should be, but allowing him to remain gay wasn’t in their game plan. As if they could say some sort of magic words and he’d give up on it. As if it were a fling or a phase or something. “He’s not going to lie and say he isn’t gay.” Peter’s features tightened. “It’s not a lie if he believes it.” “I didn’t mean—” “Of course you didn’t.” Peter got up and stalked to their bedroom alone.

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Chapter Thirteen

When Dylan arrived back at the cabin he shared with William, he keyed the lock and pushed his head in first to ascertain whether William was awake or not. He couldn’t explain his apprehension, since he’d gone to a great deal of trouble to give William a second chance. Except now that everything was said and done, now that what was required was hiding out, as opposed to running away, he found the idea of running much more palatable. At least in the abstract, running away gave him something to do besides think about William’s thick, velvety cock or the surprise and pleasure in his eyes when Dylan had touched him. Scott had plenty to keep him busy. Ernesto kept a small army of workers in the summer, mostly college students, but it sounded like the resort could always use another hand in the fall and winter when they headed back to school. Dylan heard William’s voice. “Hey.” “Hey.” In the dim light he could just make out William sitting up in the bed with his back resting against the wall. Dylan didn’t allow his gaze to fall below William’s neck. “Okay if I turn on the light?” William lit the lamp on his nightstand. It illuminated the space more than adequately. Dylan set the basket of food Esme and Carol had given him on William’s bed. “The cook prepared you dinner and some snacks.” He couldn’t tell William how completely undone he’d been by his reunion with Esme. She felt like a second mother to him—as familiar as the land itself, as kind and caring as he’d believed all people were before he found out differently. She’d hugged him hard, bending him nearly in half to pull him to her tiny, plump body, and cried as though he were her own son. William lifted the cloth napkin that covered his food and looked inside without touching. Not for the first time, Dylan wondered if he’d have to fight the mistrust he saw in William’s eyes every time he was offered something new. In a way it was like taming a mistreated dog. Luring it with treats and soft words and earning its trust over and over again. He had to start fresh with every conversation—with every word. “Looks like Mexican food.” “Yeah, she made enchiladas zacatecanas. There’s ensalada nopales as well and some sopapillas for dessert.”

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“No way.” William blinked up at him. “Ernesto’s wife Esme is a terrific cook.” “No, I mean…listen to you. You’d think you were born eating this stuff.” Dylan frowned. “I was.” “Yeah, right. You eat nopales?” “Cactus paddles? Yeah. Prickly pear. People eat that all the time.” “Did Mosko have a Latino cook in that mansion of yours?” “No. Elsa was Austrian.” Dylan indulged William with the entire truth. “I ate nopales as a kid when I lived in Mexico, but when I lived in Guatemala I discovered picado de rábano. In Mexico we ate pintos a lot more and in Guatemala, black beans.” “Seriously.” Dylan nodded. “So you speak Spanish.” “Yes. Bet that comes as a bit of a surprise, huh, Memo?” William glared at the use of his nickname. “Why didn’t you say something before now?” “What was I going to say? Por favor, no me chingues? No me des en todo la madre? At the time, I thought it might be best if the homicidal maniacs who kidnapped me didn’t know I could understand them, in case they said something I could use.” “Like your guys were any different? Mosko’s men killed everyone but me. My brother surrendered to them and they shot him in cold blood.” Dylan eyed William, his heart thundering. “What’s your point?” “That was cold, man. That was some psycho shit your—” “That’s what happens when you play with the big boys, Memo.” “I told you not to call me that. Mosko’s men were crazy. They—” Dylan picked up the basket and rose from the bed. “Believe me when I say that you have no room to talk.” “But—” “I will not apologize for Mosko’s men.” Dropping the food on the tiny kitchen counter with more force than he intended, Dylan tried to steady his nerves by counting to ten. William’s angry voice interrupted him at five. “I’m not responsible for the actions of my brother or his gang.” “No?” Dylan turned. “What about your actions? You wear their ink on your skin. I think that speaks for itself.” William’s eyes narrowed. “What about your fuck-toy self? What about the ass that accepts Mosko’s cock? You’re as marked as I am.”

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Dylan turned his back on William, strode out the door and headed down the gravel trail toward the lake. It was a dumbass move to wander around at night in a place like this. Besides the number of nocturnal animals he might not want to run into, there was uneven ground and getting lost to consider, as well as the fact that it was getting cold and he wasn’t dressed for it. But he didn’t want to be in that cabin either. He didn’t want to remember the awful moment when those boys pulled a bag over his head, and he didn’t want to let William off the hook for being one of them. That was human, wasn’t it? To be angry that someone tore into his life in such a spectacular way? Dylan would forgive it—eventually. But he wasn’t likely to forget it. And he wanted it to mean something. Dylan stopped stomping around and looked up. The sheer number of stars in the sky startled him. He was so overwhelmed for a minute he nearly fell down. The way the lights in the heavens—and the gibbous moon—shimmered in the dry air dazzled him, and emotions he’d thought were firmly held in check blasted through his resolve. He moved blindly toward the lake, out onto the dock, where he found a place to wrap his arms around himself and let his tears fall silently. All Dylan’s life had been made up of moving on. In his early childhood, his father had worked as a consultant at the oldest GM plant in Mexico. They’d lived in Mexico City for a few years before his dad decided to take a job back home in the States. There had been several moves after that, the last to St. George, where he’d opened his RV dealership. Dylan never once allowed himself to feel anything beyond the minor annoyance of being the new guy. He’d talked himself into the adventure of it and played up the positive, given himself a mental shake when things got tough. He’d concentrated firmly on action and never complained. That is, until he tried to see it through William’s eyes. It was only then that the consequences of a new life and the inevitable pain and loss of leaving the old one behind became more than he could bear. This time—this one time—it wasn’t just Dylan who would carry that and, inexplicably, he found he could hardly stand a pain that empathy made real for him in a way that experience had not.

William wanted to kick himself when Dylan stormed out. Besides the obvious—that Dylan was the only thing standing between him and a violent, painful death—he’d been thoughtful, caring and gentle in the extreme. And why that sometimes made William angry was a mystery, except that maybe he knew he faced a double disaster. Every time William looked at Dylan, he wanted him so badly it was like an ache in his bones, a fever. The chance to be with Dylan again fired him up inside and every word, every glance between them either fanned the flames or blew them out. In the face of that, it was impossible to lose sight of what his actions had cost Dylan. He ate his dinner—some of it anyway—then turned off the lights and got into bed to rest until Dylan came back.

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When the latch finally clicked signaling Dylan’s return, William lay frozen in darkness, indecision and fear. The soft whisper of a T-shirt being pulled off was followed by the pop and slide of a zipper. Dylan wasted no time folding, but dropped his clothes and slipped between the sheets. William was wondering if Dylan slept naked or wearing briefs when he heard him exhale a long, shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry.” William spoke into the darkness. Dylan’s hoarse voice answered, “It’s all right. Don’t apologize, I was—” “No.” From the sound, Dylan had been crying. It made William feel like the worst shit in the world. “It isn’t. I’m only alive because of you.” “I didn’t really understand about your brother.” Dylan moved. The sound was familiar, like a lover’s skin whispering on cotton sheets as he turned to face him after sex. The soft slide of linens and blankets. How he wished he still had the excuse his fever had given him the night before. Maybe Dylan would slip in beside him again. “What did you see?” “I was…” William swallowed. “I totally punked out. I hid behind the rear wheel of the car. Paco and Enrique were the last men standing. They surrendered but then…pop-pop-pop they fell—just like that—in front of me. Paco was staring at me but he was already dead.” “I’m so sorry, William.” “That was going to happen,” William conceded. “It had to. That’s how they lived. That’s how they were going to die. Everybody in the life knows that.” “But you’re never ready for it when it happens, really, are you?” “No. When my mom and dad were first married, he was a small-time gangbanger but a basically decent guy. Then he got caught moving some drugs. He went to prison when Paco was little. Abuelita said by the time he got out and they had me he’d changed. He wouldn’t talk about the shit he did in prison, but he had dangerous new friends that scared my mother.” Dylan said nothing to that. He couldn’t imagine it. “All my abuelita would ever say was that she didn’t trust him anymore. My dad respected her wishes and left me alone until after she died.” Dylan asked, “When was that?” “Late last year.” William forgot his bruises and hissed when he rubbed his forehead. It was easy to talk like this, in the dark. “I was in the first semester of my sophomore year at UC San Diego. They brought me back to L.A. and set me up in a house with my brother and two of my dad’s soldiers to sell meth. It’s a wonder I didn’t fuck up and get plucked off the streets by the cops or give myself away somehow and get myself killed by my dad’s soldados. I was such a—” “What do you mean? Give yourself away…” “There are three rules that get you dead: you don’t inform, you don’t punk out and you don’t suck dick.”

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“In Mosko’s world too. He was just the biggest badass in town and no one ever dared to call him on it. Which rule did you break?” “None of them while I was there. I was just afraid of where my eyes would land when one of my brother’s friends got out of the shower.” Dylan laughed. “You think that’s funny?” “Well…yes. You must know by now that my gang kicked me out for nearly the same reason.” “At least they let you live.” A long pause. “So you’re gay.” “Like you couldn’t tell when you had your hand on my dick?” “I have to wonder how many guys would turn that down in your position.” “I guess.” William had to smile. He wondered if Dylan could hear that in his voice. “That felt damned good, papi.” Dylan snorted. He for sure heard that. “So how old are you really?” “I told you. Twenty. My birthday was last week, actually. Just before all this shit went down.” “Jeez.” “My life of crime, though, unless my old man finds me, is over, thank fuck, and I don’t intend to let that happen. I’d be dead before my next birthday. I don’t know how I’m going to go back to school though.” “I never did go back. I parked cars. I had a little auto-detailing business for some of the guys I met regularly—guys who came and went from the Mirage until…well. Until I didn’t need to detail cars anymore.” William listened to what Dylan wasn’t saying. “Did you love him? Mosko?” “Yes. I guess in a way I did.” “He’s married.” How could a guy do that? Be someone’s dirty secret? He didn’t mind a casual fuck, but over ten years? No way. He wouldn’t share. “Didn’t that bug you? Didn’t you want something that belonged only to you?” “Nothing belongs to anyone. In the end it’s better not to hold on to anything too tightly.” Silence settled between them again for a while, and William noticed the crickets outside. Nature sounds. That was going to be a new thing. And it was probably going to keep him awake. He wrestled around with the bedding a bit to get more comfortable. When that didn’t help, he tried again. And then again. Finally he sighed. “So. You speak Spanish?” “Claro.” Dylan’s bed squeaked and rustled again. “No puedes dormir?” “It’s weird to hear you talk. You sound like some homeboy. No. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

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“No? I can help with that. Estás listo? Bien, escúchame.” Dylan’s voice held a smile. “What?” “Listen. I’ll tell you a story I know by heart. Escúchame. En el principio creó Dios los cielos y la tierra. Y la tierra estaba desordenada y vacía, y las tinieblas estaban sobre la faz del abismo, y el Espíritu de Dios se movía sobre la faz de las aguas…” William listened. If it seemed weird that Dylan knew the book of Genesis from memory in Spanish, William wasn’t about to stop him from reciting it. He liked the sound of it. Rich and fluid, musical even, like poetry. It stood to reason that Dylan, who gave the best hand jobs in the good old US of A, who didn’t seem fazed when William spooged all over his pretty face, and who snowballed it back on the front end of the best kiss William had ever gotten in life, could make the book of Genesis sound erotic and compelling. But it also sounded reassuring and safe. Like the smell of a pot of beans cooking or hearing his grandmother hum tunelessly while she ironed and watched her telenovelas. “Y dijo Dios: Haya luz, y hubo luz…Y vio Dios que la luz era buena, y separó Dios la luz de las tinieblas. Y llamó Dios a la luz Día, y a las tinieblas llamó Noche. Y fue la tarde y la mañana el día primero… Y dijo Dios: Haya un firmamento en medio de las aguas, y separe aquél las aguas de las aguas. E hizo Dios el firmamento, y separó las aguas que estaban debajo del firmamento de las aguas que estaban sobre el firmamento. Y fue así…” In no time at all, William’s eyes drifted closed to the deep and resonant melody of Dylan’s voice as he fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

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Chapter Fourteen

Dylan cleared the last of the debris out of the gutters on the north side of the lodge and called out to let Ernesto know he was heading back down the ladder. He pulled off the old straw cowboy hat Scott had loaned him and wiped an arm across his forehead. The sun had come out and the air had warmed up, but clouds on the horizon meant more changes were coming. He loved this place. The physical exertion only served to fuel his enjoyment. It felt good to put his body to work. It felt good to be useful. Dylan was in great shape for a guy his age and he knew it, but even a fit man got sore doing unfamiliar and repetitive tasks. They’d had to cut back brush on some of the hiking trails the first day, and the next he’d worked in the lodge itself, building another bookshelf and installing it in Scott’s office. He’d helped him hook up three new computers and wireless internet for use by the guests, bounding up and down the lodge’s stairs so many times his thighs were killing him. Today they were outside again, clearing the gutters, and later on in the afternoon they planned to patch the roof on one of the cabins where the flashing had come away from the chimney. Ernesto still had a long honey-do list for him, things that included little repairs to the grounds and the lodge and some cleaning and carpentry on the outbuildings. Esme nagged Dylan to make use of his hat and sunscreen and to drink lots of water—or else. He wasn’t accustomed to working outdoors in the high mountain air anymore. He wasn’t accustomed to most of the tools he used either, and he’d had to sacrifice his pride in the first hour of the first day and ask to borrow a pair of gloves. For three days Dylan had left William just after dawn and headed for breakfast at the lodge. Esme filled him with food and packed a basket to take back to William before he and the others started the workday. Lunches and dinners were handled the same way. Dylan ate with Scott, Carol, Esme and Ernesto, and took food back to the cabin for William. Today he headed back to the cabin with roast pork sandwiches, barbecued beans and rice. “I brought you a great lunch today.” Dylan was pleased to find William sitting up in one of the rockers, idly playing with a portable radio they’d found in one of the cupboards. He looked better than the day before. The colorful bruises were fading, shade by shade, from black to purple to a hue that could be considered anywhere between olive green and tennis-ball yellow. “Are you getting anything good?” William looked up. “I can get some stations, but I think the batteries are dying.” “What does it take?” Dylan walked to the kitchenette and took down a plate. He arranged William’s food and got some tableware and a paper napkin. “I’ll see if I can get them from Scott.”

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“AA. It needs four. It’s no big deal, but now that I don’t sleep all the time it gets awfully quiet. I thought some tunes…you know?” “Yeah.” Dylan opened the small fridge. “Do you want water or pop?” “Pop? What kind?” “Root beer and lemon lime. Later on maybe I can charm some ice cream out of Esme and we can make floats.” “Just water, please.” Dylan got him one and walked over. “Where do you want to eat?” “Right here is fine. Thanks.” William lifted his hands for the plate and the water. “I hate when you wait on me. But thank you.” Dylan sat in the rocker next to his. He pulled the hat off his sweaty hair and set it in his lap. “It’s okay to need help sometimes.” “I won’t argue with that.” William ate a bite of the sandwich. “Or this. Man, that woman can cook.” Dylan smiled. “I’ll tell her you said so.” William glanced up at Dylan, his eyes untroubled for a change. They even, Dylan thought, held a hint of mischief. “You’re a mess. What have they got you doing?” “Today I was cleaning the gutters on the lodge.” “I can’t picture you doing shit like that. Your cheeks are burned.” “I was up there a long time and I’m afraid I took my hat off for a bit when I got too hot.” “The color looks good on you.” One side of William’s mouth lifted in a shy smile. “Yeah. Well.” Dylan felt his face heat even more. “Esme gave me sunblock. I should have reapplied. I’ll get used to the work if I stay.” “You planning on that?” “Maybe.” Dylan looked around at the tiny cabin. “I would enjoy this, at least for the winter. Help out for room and board, work at whatever they need, and take some time to think about what might be next.” William shook his head. “I don’t get you.” “What don’t you get?” “You lived like a king and now you’re fixing roofs and waiting on me. Why don’t you call your guy Mosko? I’ll take off and you can tell Mosko you made a huge mistake and you want to come home. I’ll take my chances. You’d be free to go back.” Dylan sighed. “You don’t understand a man like Mosko. We only got out of there alive because he trusted me, and in the end, I betrayed him. He will never let me close enough to tell him I’m sorry. I’m not anyway. There was no way I was going to stand idly by while he killed someone.” “Right.” William rolled his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

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“You think that in all that time—all the time you were his man—his enforcers sat around doing nothing? That he never capped anyone while you were sleeping in your nice soft—” “You don’t know that,” Dylan said sharply. William’s face held pity. “I’m sorry, but you don’t get to be a guy like Mosko without having to prove you’re willing to do what it takes all the damn time. That much I know.” “How do you know what Yves is like?” William glanced down at his food. “Look, maybe we shouldn’t—” Dylan folded his arms and leaned back. “No. You tell me all about Yvgeny Mosko, since you know so much.” William sighed. “Mosko controls most of the crystal meth in that town and none of the Mexican narco-traffic goes up the I-15 past Vegas without him knowing it. He’s the troll under the bridge and that’s part of how he makes his money. He’s got strip clubs of every kind and runs the boys and bitches that work in them. He’s got a hotel and casino, and that pretty upscale spa where you get your ass polished. But he’s gay and that means he has to be twice as tough to earn barely grudging respect from outsiders. That’s why my father and Paco made you a target. Jefe said, ‘who’s going to back a weak faggot boss who can’t protect his own?’” “Like that crew needed an excuse,” Dylan muttered. “That was probably my father talking through his ass. He’s always trying to start something so people think he’s a big man. He sees himself as a spider, spinning an invisible web from behind bars, but what he really is…” William swallowed hard and looked out the window. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about this, William,” Dylan told him gently. A fat tear spilled down William’s colorful cheek. “What he really is, is a fucked-up old man who nearly got both his sons killed for nothing.” Dylan hesitated before speaking. “Maybe I didn’t have my eyes wide open, and it’s probably true you know more about organized crime than I do. But I know a little something about moving on.” “So what?” William pressed his lips together. “So right here, right now, I have work to do. I have people who look to me for something like friendship, or…I don’t know. Esme and Ernesto feel like family. Des needs me. I guess I really let her down when I left, but I can be here now. Or I can spend my time worrying about Mosko and what he will or won’t do. I made my choice.” “So that’s how you do it? No regrets? No attachments? You don’t try to make sense of things? You just…it’s only now and the rest is left behind?” “I guess.” Dylan wiped his damp palms off on his jeans. “There’s plenty to do right now, it seems to me.”

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“Don’t you care about anything enough to want to hold on to it? Don’t you get angry when life hands you shit and hangs you out to dry?” Dylan shrugged. “That’s not even human.” William glanced away. His food sat in his lap, forgotten. “I guess that makes you better than the rest of us. You’re above it all.” Dylan flushed. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been accused of being cold. Detachment, or at least the appearance of it, was an art he’d perfected. He rose and calmly set his hat on his head. “That’s me. I glide along on an unseen current of personal perfection. If you’ll excuse me, I have more gutters to clean out.” When Dylan got to the door, William stopped him. “Wait.” Dylan turned. “I keep doing that.” William ran his hand through his dirty hair and hissed in pain when his fingers got caught in it. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. I’m sorry.” Dylan sighed. It wasn’t fair to expect William to understand. “It’s okay.” “Can you teach me how to turn my emotions off?” Dylan huffed a weak laugh. “Is that what you think? That my emotions are turned off? You couldn’t be more wrong.” William stood and put his food down on the counter in the kitchen. “Then what? You’re laughing at me and I want to know what the joke is.” Dylan got a grip on himself. “I’m not laughing at you. I don’t have an answer. I guess you feel like you’re reeling from all the blows that life has dealt you and maybe you think I figured out how to take them and keep on smiling. Get real. I have no clue what I’m doing still standing. I can’t make sense out of anything anymore. I keep going because…” He searched William’s eyes. “Maybe I just don’t know how to stop.” William lowered his gaze, and suddenly Dylan wanted to go to him and draw him in for a kiss that made him forget everything that troubled him. Or maybe he wanted to deliver a kiss that would remind William of when he’d wrapped his hand around that fat dick and watched his eyes roll back in his head. “William.” Dylan’s voice was hoarse. His blood roared in his ears and he knew if William made the slightest move toward him, he’d give him something entirely new to remember. “I have emotions.” “I know.” William laid his hands carefully on the counter and Dylan felt a new stab of anger for Mosko’s men. He glanced around the small cabin sadly for a minute, then turned to leave. “I’ll be back later. Why don’t you wait to shower until I can help you get your hair clean. That must be making you crazy.” William snorted. “Yeah. Dirty hair. That must be what’s doing that.” The little shit.

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Dylan left to get back to work. It seemed to him that twenty was a black-and-white age. Dylan had shades of gray inside his shades of gray. William made him feel protective. If being around William didn’t make him feel old precisely, it made him act old. Stuffy and didactic. Yet the kid was obviously not a kid. Each day it became more apparent, as William’s bruises faded and his body healed, that the body in question belonged to a grown man. And each day Dylan wanted him more. William was fit and attractive, and as his health returned so did a masculine swagger and an Alphadog personality. How had he survived under his brother’s and father’s thumbs? The only way Dylan knew how to deal with William was to treat him like a younger brother, and since neither of them bought his act at all, considering how often his eyes tended to stray toward William’s package and how often his own cock was tenting his jeans, exhorting him to do something about it, it was causing them to butt heads more and more. William was right about Mosko because he called it as he saw it. Yves wasn’t sitting around having tea with his family every day. He was a hard, hard man. He was good to—even honest with—the wife he respected too much to deceive. He’d been kind to Dylan because Dylan had never given him reason to be otherwise. Now Mosko would have to make an example of a lover who betrayed him, and whenever Dylan allowed himself to think about that, the inevitable result was that he got thoroughly and violently sick. Work was the only way to occupy his mind and keep his fear at bay, so he pushed himself harder every day. Unemotional, my ass.

“This is nice.” Scott handed Dylan another bottle of root beer from the cooler. “It’s one of the privileges of my new life, knocking off early on a Friday afternoon after things are put away, when it’s still light enough to get in a little fishing. The rain looks like it’s holding off.” Dylan agreed. The old fishing boat bobbed gently beneath them and the water rippled against its sides. “I’ve forgotten almost everything I ever knew about an afternoon of fishing on the lake. This feels good.” “I love it out here.” Scott tugged his line. “I was glad when Carol said she’d like a place like ours. After Jared…I was glad to find something new to put my heart into. I found my old life no longer filled the void the way nature does. I wanted to spend less time talking about God and more time talking with him.” “I understand the impulse. Carol hasn’t found anyone…since Jared?” “No. I wish she would. She should have kids. We’ve been talking about getting horses. It seems like such a waste for her to be up here with an old man. She didn’t have much family of her own to speak of.” “I can see she’s happy here. Maybe she doesn’t want a lot more than this.” Scott raised his gaze to Dylan’s. His eyes were grass green and undimmed by age—intelligent and lively under the fishing hat—and the hair that had long ago faded from red to white. Carol was a wonderful

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woman, a hard worker, and she loved Scott like a father. She was completely immune to Dylan’s charms in a way that very few women were, young or old, married or single, and because of that, she could never seem to get entirely comfortable with him. Dylan thought she might be more like him than either of them let on. “I’m not an idiot, Dylan.” “What?” “I have noticed her disinterest in dating and marrying again and can rightly assess the cause.” “I see.” Dylan had wondered if Scott had anything like gaydar. Maybe he did. “There was a woman who worked in the home store for a while that caught Carol’s eye. I believe it took Carol as much by surprise as it did me. I felt for her then… It wasn’t reciprocated.” “I imagine that led to unpleasantness.” “Not really.” Scott picked up his rod and muttered, “Aw shoot, fish devil got my bait.” Dylan thought about what it would be like to be Carol while Scott re-baited the hook and recast. “So what now? All she gets is to be the keeper of Jared’s eternal flame?” “I guess that will be up to her. I don’t think I’d stop her from finding someone. I’d probably actually like the excitement of it all. It gets kind of quiet up here.” “Even if that someone was a woman?” “Even if. I keep telling you. I’m not your folks.” Dylan digested this. “I don’t understand you. The church—” “Is made up of humans, Dylan. We all try to do the right thing. We interpret the scriptures. We live the gospel. We try to hear the still-small voice, and sometimes we get it wrong. I know I’m supposed to tell you that same-sex attraction is part of the burden you bear, that you can overcome it someday, and you’ll be rewarded for your perseverance and suffering. But I remember how I felt about my wife, Naomi, and I try to put myself in your shoes. If someone told me I couldn’t have her, that I was expected to marry and make a good life with someone else, maybe that I had to pick a man, well…” “Puts a different spin on things, doesn’t it?” Dylan said. “Not many people follow logic to that extreme.” The older man grinned at him. “See, I can’t help myself. I’m a rebel.” Dylan smiled back. “I did not know that about you.” “The thing is, Naomi died when Jared was four, and since then, even though I’ve known I could have another wife, another marriage, I never wanted one. I married later than most, and…I don’t know. I knew I’d already found my eternal companion. A lot of people tried to tell me it’s not natural for me to live alone, but I don’t want anyone else. After a lot of thinking and praying, I believe that I’ve been blessed despite the fact that I’m alone. I don’t fit in, at this point, any more than you do. I made my choice. I have no right to dictate to anyone else about theirs.”

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“Some people marry and have children and then have their physical needs met on the side.” Dylan alluded to Yves. He’d never felt particularly guilty about that, but he would have if he hadn’t known that the situation was understood and accepted by all parties involved. “I don’t think that’s what I’d choose for you. As you know, that’s not really my department anymore.” “I wish you’d had this attitude when my parents confronted me.” “I regret I didn’t speak out then.” “You haven’t called them?” “No.” Scott shrugged. “It’s not my place.” “I wonder if Des has.” Dylan got a nudge on his line but only that. The fish didn’t bite, but swam away—much to his chagrin. “Shoot. Even as a kid I was far too impatient for this.” “Des hasn’t called your folks either. No one will until you’re ready, and then it needs to be you.” “I’m not going to.” Dylan checked his hook and sure enough, the fish had gotten his bait too. “You have some pretty wily fish around here.” Scott shot him a wide, white grin with more than a little mischief in it. “It’s no fun if it’s too easy.” “But aren’t we fishing for dinner? What will Esme do if we come back empty-handed?” “That woman has more tricks up her sleeve than the entire Food Network. No one will starve.” “But if she’s expecting fish?” Scott laughed. “Then I guess we put our nets down in the deep water and have a little faith.”

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Chapter Fifteen

“Will you hold still?” Dylan tried not to laugh. “Dude. You’re getting soap in my eyes.” “You’re worse than a little kid.” There was more water on Dylan’s clothes and on the floor than he’d been able to get on William’s head. “I have to get all the shampoo out or you’re going to feel just as bad as you did before.” William hissed and jumped around some more. “There, one more bit and we’ve got it all.” When he finished rinsing, Dylan draped a towel over William’s head and helped to dry his hair, which was cut short at the nape of his neck but longer on the top where it had gotten matted. “I’ll get you a comb. Do you think you can handle it?” “Yeah, I got it.” William turned his back, pulling the towel from Dylan’s hands. “I’m sorry.” “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. How many times do I have to say it?” Dylan opened his mouth to apologize again, but closed it. William slumped, resting his hip against the tile counter. “Thank you for washing my hair.” “You’re welcome.” Dylan got a second towel and knelt on the floor to start wiping up the water. “I’ll get that.” “It’s all right.” Dylan didn’t mind. He could at least do this. “No it’s not.” William bent down and took the towel from him. “Can I have privacy please?” Dylan stood. “Sure.” He knew better than to apologize again. He left the room and felt a wave of relief when William closed the bathroom door behind him. It was easier to deal with William’s prickly pride when he didn’t need anything. Dylan hadn’t been raised with the same rigid code as William had, or Yves for that matter. Yves’s pride was all tangled up with his image. His wife and family had to be beautiful. They had to have the best of everything. His lover had to live in splendor, like the consort of a king. They’d had to live up to the ideal or risk Yves’s reputation as a man and a provider—as a protector—so they were all careful to maintain the illusion. Now that he had distanced himself from it, he realized the reality had been days of mindless activity and ennui, where everything Dylan’s heart desired had been granted, except the one thing it wanted most. Even having the best of everything, even being kept on a pedestal and cared for as tenderly as Yves had

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cared for him, Dylan’s enthusiasm had slowly eroded until he faced each day with equanimity but no real anticipation. Dylan could see beyond the shallow gratification of ego, especially when he was cleaning out rain gutters. He wasn’t, for example, too proud to ask for help when he needed it or to say he was sorry if he genuinely felt regret for something he’d done. Dylan needed to feel useful and Scott gave him something to do—a way to spend his time that taxed his muscles, doing work that required skills long forgotten—and mostly left him alone with his tasks, conveying confidence in him. That was the only kind of pride Dylan needed. It came from a job well done at the end of the day, with blistered hands and sunburned skin and currently, a very large splinter that he needed to remove using the tiny tweezers from a Swiss Army knife with his clumsy left hand. Shampooing William’s hair had softened and slicked his skin. He’d thought that would make the little shard of wood’s removal easier, except he couldn’t quite get hold of it. He was at work attempting to do just that when William emerged from the bathroom, wearing clean sweats that were too long for him. His hair looked like it had been combed. “What are you doing?” William asked. “I got a splinter; I’m trying to take it out. These tweezers are useless.” “Here.” William motioned Dylan into the brighter light of the kitchen. “Let me see.” Dylan waited while William pushed his sleeves up. They fell right back down. “Let me fold those.” Dylan cuffed the sweatshirts sleeves a couple of times on each side so they rode William’s muscled forearms instead of covering his hands, then stepped back when he caught the clean scent of soap and man coming from William’s skin. “I must reek.” Dylan hadn’t taken his shower yet and knew it had to be bad. “I’ve been working in the sun for hours.” William stepped forward, holding his battered hand out for Dylan’s. “You smell fine. Let me help you with that.” Dylan retreated but his back hit the counter of the kitchenette. “You don’t have to, I can—” “I have a couple of usable fingers and a thumb left on this hand. I can do it. You’re not going to get a better offer.” Dylan held out the tweezers. William took them carefully between the thumb and middle finger of his right hand and urged him to sit on one of the high counter stools. “Oh, look at that.” William gently lifted Dylan’s hand, turning it palm up so he could see. He smoothed the abused skin with his little finger while he studied the splinter. “Your pretty hands are all fucked up.” Dylan pulled his hand away. “It’s nothing.” “Whoa.” William frowned. “What’s wrong?”

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“They’re ugly.” Dylan held his hands, fisted, to his chest. “They look like hamburger.” “No, they don’t. They’re fine. They’re still—” “They’ll be nothing but calluses soon.” Dylan flushed but held his hand out again. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” William took his hand again, stroking it gently between his. “You still have beautiful hands. I noticed when you were driving. Beautiful man-hands.” Dylan tried not to show how pleased William’s words made him feel as he used the tiny tweezers to capture the sliver of wood embedded in the pad of his palm. It required that he dig under it to catch a piece and then pinch hard to take it out. Dylan sat without making a fuss even though everything William did hurt like hell. William focused on the task at hand. His body—legs spread wide and hips jutting forward so he could hunch over to see what he was doing—was only a breath away. Warmth radiated from him. The scent of William’s hair and skin drifted to Dylan, bringing a hint of arousal with it. While William concentrated on his hand, Dylan reacted predictably. Heat flooded his cheeks; his heart sped up. His cock filled, trapped within the tight confines of his well-worn jeans. “I’m sorry it’s taking… There!” William grinned up at him in triumph. “Got it.” “Thank you.” Absurdly, tears stung Dylan’s eyes. William must have seen them because his brows drew together. “I feel like I pulled a thorn from your paw.” “Some lion.” Dylan brushed at the moisture with his free hand. “Hey.” William didn’t let his other hand go. He leaned over and peered at Dylan, concerned. “It’s okay. You’ve had a miserable fucking week, papi.” Dylan heard the casual endearment and clenched his jaw so he wouldn’t speak. The lump in his throat practically guaranteed that he’d blow what little cool he had left. He was sore and tired. The optimism that kept him going under ordinary circumstances had eroded. He’d realized what it would mean to start all over again at his age, and it scared him. The hard work. The pain of isolation. The intense, endless loneliness. He suddenly felt too old for any of it. William pulled him in for a rough hug. That big cock hardened against his belly and it took biting his lip not to react. William had to feel Dylan’s growing erection too. It was obvious now, tenting his loose jeans, prodding William muscular thigh. William acknowledged Dylan’s desire by the way he inhaled a quick breath to the fast beating of his heart. For a long moment neither of them moved. “Dylan?” William searched his face. Dylan’s mouth was too dry to speak when William’s thumb rubbed over his lower lip. “So…beautiful.”

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This wasn’t anything like that hand job because when he’d done that it seemed…what? Medicinal? This was mutual. This was passion. And if he gave in to what his body wanted from William’s, everything between them would change. Dylan wanted to take what William offered and lose himself inside the heart of another strong man so very much. With his hands lightly balanced on William’s upper arms, he could almost feel what it would be like to be beneath him. To watch William’s face as he moved over him—inside of him. Dylan wanted William more than he should ever want anything, and it scared him more than he expected it too. Wanting was bad. Wanting always led to disaster. He made himself remember that and stepped back, breaking the contact between their bodies, shattering the intimate moment. William’s eyes held regret and something that Dylan couldn’t really name. Maybe contempt or the fire of challenge. “I have to…” Dylan needed to escape. William cleared his throat and turned away. “You have to wash this hand and put something on it to keep it from getting infected.” He wiped the tweezers off on a clean paper towel. “The broken blisters too. Don’t pop the unbroken ones.” “I know.” Dylan turned on the water in the kitchenette sink and waited for it to warm before he washed his hands thoroughly with the antibacterial soap he found there. He kept his back rigid and his face blank. “All right.” William found Dylan’s knife and replaced the tweezers in the hole where they belonged. Dylan asked, “Do you want to eat dinner here again? I can bring it back…but we could walk to the lodge and see if Esme wants me to clean the fish. If you’re up to it, you could eat dinner with us there for a change.” Doubt clouded William’s expression. “Right. They want a guy like me hanging around their nice lodge.” “Do you want to go?” Dylan ignored William’s comment. “I know Peter said you needed bed rest, but I imagine it gets pretty boring here by yourself. I doubt an hour or two will make a difference.” “Yeah. I just…” William glanced back up. “Does everybody know what I did to you?” Dylan briefly considered softening the truth, but decided against it. “Scott does.” “Maybe I should just—” “I couldn’t ask him for help without telling him the whole story in case…” William’s eyes narrowed. “In case what?” “I wanted them to make an informed choice whether to have you here in case I was wrong about you.” “Then I guess it’s up to me to prove you weren’t, isn’t it?”

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Dylan gave him a tired smile and stretched. “I’m going to take a quick shower and change. We can go in a bit.”

William watched Dylan close the door behind him and let out the breath he was holding. Dylan, or Skip, or whatever name he was planning to go by, was the most perfect motherfucker William had ever known. He exuded class like some Nordic James Bond when he was wearing Dylan Anderson’s perfectly tailored clothes, but he was equally at home here in Utah, as Skip Hatcher, in worn jeans and a borrowed cowboy hat. And wasn’t that the biggest fucking joke. He was smoking hot in an all-purpose, fulfill-everyfantasy way. A dream man with whom William was locked in a nightmare. No one, least of all William, could have imagined the kind of man, the kind of survivor, Dylan was turning out to be. Honest and capable. Intuitive and inventive. That was the man his father thought was a worthless pawn in a game of drug trade one-upmanship. Chíngame. Fuck, fuck, fuck… When William had that fit body up close, when he’d felt Dylan let go in his arms—even though it was only for a minute—he’d nearly pushed Dylan up against the wall and taken him right then and there. There was certainly no doubt that Dylan wanted him. Not for any damned pity hand job either. But the situation made it impossible. Dylan was determined to save him from a misspent youth. Consequently, he backed away, offering detached compassion and friendship. Every time Dylan apologized, every time he performed any kindness, William told him not to. Yet Dylan would keep on bringing him food and washing his hair, going to his knees on the floor to mop up the water as though William were his kid brother and it was his job to take care of him. What William couldn’t say—what he’d held inside though it cost him—was that as soon as he’d seen Dylan on his knees, the urge had been overwhelming to turn it into something else entirely. To take Dylan’s head between his hands and feed him his cock until Dylan either begged him to stop or made him blow all over that pretty face again. He wanted to crawl into Dylan’s bed in the darkness and fuck him until he owned him. William had never been so wound up by anyone. Dylan was it. Ordinarily he was so far beyond William’s reach he might as well have been living on Mars. He was someone William could look at through the window of a fancy car, or in the society page of the paper. But here, he could be with Dylan up close and personal. And he planned to do something about it again, soon. They were fully grown gay men thrown together by fate, stuck alone in a cabin. They wanted each other. Shit, it was like porn. Dylan thought of him as a kid. So pulling him in for an embrace, pressing his dick into Dylan’s abdomen and letting him feel his need…that wasn’t a bad idea. Probably. He’d been standing close enough

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that William could smell a man’s good sweat and the earth on Dylan’s skin, and now he knew: Dylan had needs and desires of his own. William glanced at the bathroom door again. Dylan was showering just behind it, naked and wet. Was he touching himself? Was he knocking one off so he could go to dinner without disgracing himself like William would unless he could get his mind on something else besides Dylan? He took a few seconds to imagine being in there with him. No doubt about it. Dylan had him sprung like no man ever. William cursed again. As much as he wanted Dylan, he also wanted to make this entire episode of his sorry-ass life go away without dying or going to jail. And the only thing standing between William and both of those things—just at the moment—was a naked, wet, hot motherfucking güero named Dylan Anderson. If he did anything to jeopardize that, his life would be worth nothing.

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Chapter Sixteen

As William and Dylan walked up to the lodge, an owl hooted from a nearby tree. A loud scrabble followed that, then the dull thud of beating wings as it took to the air. William jumped back, heart pounding, “Shit.” “You’re so jumpy.” William glanced up the dark path again and rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “Doesn’t this place seem scary to you at night?” “You’re from L.A. How can this be frightening after that?” “It’s too dark. I can’t see what’s coming.” Dylan ran his hand down William’s arm then interlaced their fingers. “Clouds are blocking the moon and stars. It’s not usually this pitch black. Let your eyes get used to it and it will be easier. Like anything else, darkness can be an advantage or a disadvantage.” “How can not knowing what’s going to jump out at you be an advantage?” “Never been a Boy Scout, huh?” William shrugged. “Cubs. When I was a little kid.” “Okay, try this. Close your eyes.” Dylan gave William’s hand a squeeze and let him go. “What do you hear?” William concentrated. Dylan was standing behind him now, close enough that he could feel his breath, warm in the otherwise crisp air. “I heard an owl.” “Where was it?” “To the right, maybe twenty feet?” “Think of it like a clock. Which hour?” “One o’clock.” “Right.” Dylan’s voice sounded farther away. William opened his eyes and…Dylan was gone. “Dylan?” There was no answer. He turned a full circle, mouth going dry. “This isn’t funny, man.” Nothing. Dylan had vanished as completely as if he’d never been there. William stayed where he was, frozen, listening, the metallic taste of fear in his dry mouth. “Dylan. You made your point. The big city kid’s scared of a little rustling noise in the bushes. Big fucking deal. You’d better come back now or—”

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A shape materialized from the low pool of shadows between two trees not five feet away and unfolded, seeming to grow to twice its size as it headed toward William. “Basta.” William flung his arms out to protect himself. “Hey. Shh… I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to show you—” William lunged at Dylan, uncertain whether he wanted to hug him or deck him. “You asshole.” Dylan enfolded William in his arms and held him close. “I swear I didn’t do that to scare you.” “I know, man. I didn’t see you at all. That’s—” “That’s one of the reasons I like it up here. All you have to worry about are the animals.” “Give me the city any day. I can handle people. But when I don’t know what’s coming at me out of those bushes, shit… How’d you do that?” “I’m wearing jeans and a dark shirt. In this low level of lighting you can’t really see me unless you know I’m there. I pulled my hood up, covered my face and closed my eyes.” “I was looking for you but I couldn’t see a thing.” “I’d never fool an animal, but people can’t scent me like they can. We used to play camouflage games in scouts, hide-and-seek at night. I got quite good at evading the other guys.” “I guess I do that back home. I wear dark clothes at night and keep to the shadows.” “Same principle applies. You wanna try it?” William fingered his light-colored shirt and jacket. “I’m not dressed for it.” “Doesn’t mean you can’t, just means you have to be creative.” “Yeah, okay.” The challenge lit up William’s competitive nature. “I’m game.” “Do you want me to close my eyes?” “Yeah. Give me a minute, all right?” “Sure, I’ll count slow. One Mississippi…” William tried to walk as stealthily as Dylan did, but his feet slapped like dead mackerels as he stepped over the rich blanket of the pine needles and loamy earth covering the ground. He toed off his shoes and picked his way carefully over twigs and dry leaves until he was about twenty feet away. He figured that if Dylan was so good at this, he’d need both stealth and subterfuge, so he pulled off his jacket, arranged a little surprise, and then waited for Dylan to come looking. He kept his lips closed. It wouldn’t do to ruin his hard work by grinning into the darkness.

“Sixty Mississippi… Ready or not, here I come.” Dylan didn’t move at first, he simply listened for anything unusual the night had to tell him. When William had first taken off, Dylan thought it would be a cinch to find him, but Dylan had heard William take his shoes off, and after that he got too quiet to hear. The occasional puff of breath or rustle of branches could be anything. Lots of critters scurried around, especially since he and William had disturbed their quiet.

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He moved forward slowly, trying to make out any differences he could see in shapes and shadows. William was proving to be good at this. “William?” Dylan was oddly glad when he didn’t answer. It had been years since he’d played like this, ages since the simple fun of stalking a pal in the dark had been an innocent and joyful pastime, and he wanted to hold on to it a bit longer. “You’re good,” he whispered. Maybe William was close enough to hear his words. “A natural.” The only reply came from the owl they’d heard earlier, mocking him for thinking finding the kid would be easy. “Where oh where…” Dylan saw the tip of a white running shoe peeking out from behind the base of a big fir tree. Low branches and deep shadows obscured the area beneath it, but Dylan was pretty certain that’s where he’d find William. He headed in that direction, quick and stealthy… “Aaaaah ha.” For a minute, Dylan was confused. The little shit must have put his shoes behind the tree to trick him. Motionless except his eyes, Dylan scanned the shadows for some sign of where William might have gone but found none. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, but suddenly, heavy fabric draped over his head and with that a surge of terror—a vivid memory of his kidnapping—seized him. Such an intense blast of panic reverberated through him he started fighting, thrashing and flailing his arms, knocking the solid body behind him with his elbows, even trying to get a piece of his attacker with his teeth. Anything to get away. “Whoa, Dylan. It’s me.” Locked in the past, cursing viciously, Dylan hurled all his weight against William. “Damn you, motherfucker. Get the hell off me, you—” “It’s me…William.” William wrapped both arms around Dylan’s body, trapping him. “It’s me.” “Shit.” Once Dylan’s head was free and he could breathe the cool night air, his heart stopped clattering against his ribs. He sobbed and sagged in William’s arms, spent. “Shit. Don’t do that, ever…ever…” “You’re trembling…” Dylan dragged in deep, gasping breaths between sobs. “I thought…” “I know what you thought.” William turned Dylan in his arms. “It’s all right. I was stupid. I should never have done that. I didn’t think.” Dylan pressed his face into William’s neck and clutched at him, newly aware that what he felt beneath his fingertips was skin, velvety soft over the sinew and bones of a strong, fit frame. “Your shirt?” “I figured I could hide in the dark better without it. It’s getting fucking cold though.” “Ah.” Dylan let his head droop, forehead brushing along the silky expanse of William’s chest. “I’m so messed up.”

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“No. I should have realized. I didn’t mean to scare you. Of course you remembered…” William’s body relaxed against Dylan’s. “That was a dumbass move. Breathe…take a breath, papi.” William stepped forward, forcing Dylan’s body against a tree. That small movement brought their hips together, and from the way William gasped he could feel the rigid steel of Dylan’s erection up against his belly. Dylan’s mouth was too dry to speak. His heart found another rhythm—one that sent blood roaring past his ears and made his cock throb. “William?” “Yeah?” William’s voice cracked. Dylan didn’t look up, but pressed his ear to William’s chest to hear an answering heartbeat. William’s skin smelled like he’d been pressed into pine boughs when he hid. “I want…” William gave Dylan a little push with his hips. “I know what you want, papi, I got that.” “No.” Dylan stopped William from digging clever fingers into his jeans. “That’s…no.” “I get that you don’t owe me or anything.” “You’re wrong, because I owe you a lot.” “Yeah?” “Yes. But I don’t owe anybody that.” William pushed away from him and started walking. “Don’t get bent. I was just trying to help out like you helped me.” “I…” Dylan ran to catch up before William could get too far. “Maybe I wanted that. Maybe I liked touching you.” Dylan held out his hand. When William shrugged and took it, Dylan pulled him in and gave him a rough hug. He would have ended it there, would have backed away, but William lifted his chin and pressed their lips together for a tender and tentative, even comforting, kiss. Dylan couldn’t help sinking into its sweetness, opening when he felt William ask without words, letting William in so their tongues could tangle while they fought to eradicate every millimeter of space between their bodies. William nudged Dylan’s legs apart and cupped the back of his neck to hold him tight while Dylan melted in his arms. Dylan finally stepped back when he had to breathe. He didn’t release his grip on William’s upper arms, having discovered they were holding each other up. “You’re so young.” William ignored him. “Fuck that. You’re not as tough as you look, güero. When will you admit you want me?” Dylan met William’s gaze. “I want you.” William dragged in a deep breath. “What is wrong with this place? There’s not enough damned air.”

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The lodge came into view, the porch lights almost hard to look at now that William was used to the dark. Dylan led him around the side of the rustic building, past a big wide veranda that looked to be full of rocking chairs and little tables. “Here it is. We can go into the kitchen from the back, this way.” “It’s like a scene from a cowboy movie.” “It’s a beautiful building. I’ll bet the upstairs rooms have great views of the lake.” “I heard Ernesto say some of the folks around here have horses.” “Sure.” Dylan walked up the steps to the back porch and wiped his feet on a jute matt that read Wipe Your Paws. “Do you ride?” “Uh, yeah, sure,” William said sarcastically. “’Cause there’s all those horse trails in Inglewood.” “I do.” “It’s hard to picture you playing cowboy, Opera-man.” “Yeah, I guess you boys didn’t stalk me as well as you thought you did.” Dylan knocked on the door. “I rode a lot in Vegas. Yves gave me a horse for our…after we’d been together about five years. I board him north of the city, where there are trails to ride. Used to board him.” William was about to say something when Esme opened the door and welcomed them into the big, colorful kitchen. The tiny, apple-shaped woman wore jeans with a wide leather belt and a western shirt in a pretty shade of blue that went well with the jewelry—turquoise bracelets and a majestic squash-blossom necklace. She had on a chili-pepper apron and a red bandana kerchief held her long, braided hair back off her face. “Do you need me to clean those fish, Nina?” Dylan asked. “Scott did that for me when he brought them in. You guys did okay, huh, m’hijo?” “We caught some good ones when they got tired of playing with us.” “Scott said he thought you were just planning to feed them and come back to order takeout.” “I admit they had us on the run for a while.” Dylan gestured toward William. “This is William. You’ve been cooking for my mysterious guest long enough. Time for you two to meet.” “Aye, pobrecito. Look at you. You’re just a baby. I’m going to fix you a nice big plate. I grilled that fish with jerk spices and made a sweet-hot mango salsa. Once your hands are washed, go sit at the table, honey. Dylan will show you where it is. We’ll be there in a minute.” William washed then Dylan did likewise. “Can I help you carry anything?” William asked. “No, William.” Esme winked at him. William saw he had established himself firmly in her good graces with the offer. “You go sit, Ernesto and I have it.” Dylan showed William through a swinging door to the empty main dining room of the lodge, where only a handful of places were set at one table.

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“During the peak season, this place would be packed,” Scott told them, standing when they came through the door. “We had some folks in last weekend but no one is here today. There’s supposed to be a bad storm coming, plus business has been pretty sketchy since the economy tanked. Good thing this is more of a hobby for us and Carol is some kind of frugal genius or we’d be hurting.” “Thanks, Dad.” Carol colored at the praise. “Have a seat there by Carol, Dylan.” Dylan took a place and motioned for William to sit across from him. “You like the place, William?” Carol asked. She was a tall, angular woman dressed much the same way Esme was—in jeans and a white Western shirt. She wore brown and blue cowboy boots. Her hair was cut straight off and curved around a determined chin. Her hazel eyes seemed to take him in without judgment. “I do, ma’am. Very much. It feels like living in a western movie.” “You like westerns?” Scott asked. William smiled tentatively. “Yeah.” “I like a Peckinpah film,” Esme announced. “I like my westerns with a bloodbath in the end.” “Nina.” Dylan stopped in the middle of pouring water into her glass. “Esme’s a hard old woman,” Ernesto replied solemnly. “She likes all her movies with a bloodbath. We must have watched Scarface a hundred times.” Esme wiggled her eyebrows and quoted Al Pacino, “Say hello to my little friend.” Ernesto nudged his wife. “This fish is delicious.” Scott winked at Dylan. “But I’m sure the ones we caught were twice this size. How did the work go today? I saw you up on the roof.” Ernesto nodded. “I wish my summer helpers were more like Dylan. We wouldn’t have a list of things to do right now.” Scott nodded. “The kids try real hard, but they don’t always know what they’re doing and in the summer when it’s so busy we don’t have time to show them.” “Please.” Dylan spooned rice onto his plate. “Anyone can clean out a gutter.” “You were always a good boy.” Ernesto turned to William. “Maybe when you’re feeling better we can ask you to help out too.” “I’m…” William looked at each person at the table in turn. “I’m not going to be much good at fixing things. I worked at the local veterinarian’s office in high school. In college I cashiered at a club store.” “College?” Dylan lifted his gaze from his plate. “I’ve only done one year. I got a scholarship to study biology so I could try for veterinary school.” “Really?” “Yeah. I like animals and our local vet was cool. Dreams…whatever.”

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“You’re not eating a second piece of fish?” Esme asked. “No. Thank you. It was great but one is all I can handle,” William answered. Esme tried the others at the table. “’Nesto? No? What about you, Dylan, Scott? You’re not going to let it go to waste. It’s small. I know Carol won’t eat it. She eats like a little bird.” Dylan eyed it. “Maybe half? We heard animals in the bushes. What’s out there?” “Mostly raccoons at night,” Ernesto told him. “And opossums.” William shuddered. “Rats with ’roid rage.” “Don’t tell me a guy who wants to be a vet is afraid of some little crawly rodents.” “I just like to know what I’m dealing with.” “Not much of a country boy, are you?” Scott teased. “No, sir.” “Call me Scott.” William looked down. “All right, Scott. Sir.” Dylan laughed. “Can I help you clear, Esme?” “Yes, m’hijo. You clear the table and I’ll get dessert.” William backed his chair up to help but Dylan waved him off. “Stay. I’ve got it.” William frowned but stayed where he was, glancing Scott’s way when the older man asked something about Balboa Park and the San Diego Zoo. When Dylan and Esme returned with the ice cream in thick crockery bowls Scott’s eyes nearly rolled back with pleasure. “Ah, Esme. What a treat.” William took a bite. “Did you really make this?” “She makes ice cream every day in the summer. She’s known far and wide for her cold magic.” Esme preened. “Last of the summer peaches.” Esme’s ice cream was unexpectedly creamy and light. It had small chunks of the fruit mixed in, ice cold, sticky and juicy. Perfect. It tasted of childhood, of summer, of something clean and uncomplicated and perfect. William held a spoonful of it on his tongue until it melted there, the peach bits warming so he could savor their flavor. At some point, he glanced up and found Dylan watching him. William swallowed hard as dark longing lit his heart. The look he sent Dylan was unmistakable. Hungry and possessive. Dylan broke eye contact first.

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Chapter Seventeen

Scott looked out into the darkness as he held open the back door. “You’re sure I can’t talk you into staying for a while. It’s bound to stop raining in a bit.” “No, thank you.” Dylan took the umbrella that Esme offered them. He’d been watching William as they’d talked after dinner and seen how tired he’d become. Possibly he was even in pain. Sitting for so long probably hadn’t helped. “I think maybe William needs to lie down and rest. He’s not supposed to do very much. Peter said he should be careful for a few days.” “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. I’m fine,” William muttered. Dylan opened the umbrella and ushered him out onto the porch. “But you’re going to do what Peter says, yeah?” “Yeah, okay.” “Good night.” Scott waved. “If you find you need anything, don’t hesitate to come in or call. We’ll be happy to help.” “Here, take this.” Esme pressed a metal tin of goodies into Dylan’s hands. “In case you get hungry.” Dylan leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Nina, see you tomorrow.” “Hasta mañana, m’hijo.” The walk to the cabin started out slow, the rain lashing down, but they huddled under the umbrella, finding their way along the path through the darkness, watching their step. Lightning in the distance lit the path intermittently as the wind whipped the drops around them. By the time they got halfway, though, Dylan had to fight for his hold on the umbrella and the water had saturated the path. “It’s really coming down.” William shook his head, sending big drops of rainwater everywhere like a wet dog. Dylan blinked water from his eyes. “It gets like this sometimes. It comes on fast and then disappears just as quickly.” They picked up their pace as the storm raged around them. Eventually Dylan came around the last bend and caught sight of the cabin, but a fierce gust of wind caught the umbrella, turning it inside out and rendering it useless. Dylan turned to William and shouted, “I don’t know about you, but I’m making a dash for it.” “Right behind you!”

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They took off at a run and when they reached the cabin, Dylan dropped the umbrella and gave William Esme’s tin. He fumbled for the key to get in. They fell through the door when Dylan finally got it open and slammed it shut behind them. “I’m soaked.” William wiped the water from his face with the sleeve of his wet sweatshirt. “Throw me a towel.” Dylan made no pretense of getting his wet things off, although he did turn his back when he unzipped his jeans. “You take the bathroom, I’ll change out here.” Seconds later a towel sailed across the room and hit his back, falling to the floor at his feet. “Thanks.” Dylan pulled his soaked Henley over his head and kicked off his shoes. He sat on the bed to get his wet socks off. “I’m going to head into Panguitch with Scott tomorrow or the day after. I need better work boots up here. If you need anything, let me know.” “Don’t spend your money on me.” William came into the room drying his hair. “You’re going to need everything you have to start over if—” “I have what I need. Scott will pay me for the work I do here and I brought a wad of cash with me when we ran.” Dylan’s breath caught when he saw William’s nude body, the skin of his bare back golden and glistening, inviting in the low light even if his abominable tattoos reminded Dylan of things he’d rather forget. Yves had a mural of colorful tattoos, quasi religious in nature, each facet symbolizing some part of his life in prison, his status among his men, his years in the mob, reworked and added onto with each new turn in the road his life had taken. William’s tats, with the exception of the enticing round one next to his cock, had been etched there as a beginning, the once upon a time of his story. Dylan didn’t doubt he was meant to have become part of the inked résumé—as a victim, had their attempt to ransom him been successful. Yet he could no more stop staring than he could have stopped breathing. If only he could remember how to breathe at all. Everything had changed with that earlier embrace. Dylan saw William with new eyes, and he hadn’t imagined William’s appraisal of him at dinner or the subtle sensual challenge he saw there. After a silent moment, William spoke. “I could use boots.” Dylan lifted his focus from William’s chest to find him watching, his gaze cautious but maybe a little smug. William waited. “Maybe a hat and some shades like yours? That would be cool.” Dylan’s soggy jeans were half undone. They draped precariously low on his hips. William’s gaze dropped to the line of pubic hair that showed above wet blue fabric. Dylan’s cheeks flushed. Any slight shift and William would see the effect his presence was having on Dylan’s body. Again. Dylan grabbed up his towel and muttered, “Excuse me,” before heading to the bathroom.

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Well, shit. What was that all about? Dylan wanted him. Why did he keep running away? William was too fucking sore, cold and tired to worry about it. Walking had sucked the energy right out of him. He felt a little sick, like the mountain air really didn’t have enough oxygen in it for him to do more than lie on his bed and rest. Going to dinner had tired him, even though it was fun and tasted as fine as anything he imagined he’d get in a fancy restaurant. He’d felt Dylan’s eyes on him the entire time. I want you. Green light. Maybe—finally—Dylan would stop treating him like he was some kid he had to watch out for until social services stepped in. William grabbed a blanket and sat on one of the rockers in front of the fireplace. Curiosity kept him still, waiting. When Dylan returned from the bathroom, he wore the usual cool, distant expression on his face, even though he wasn’t quite meeting William’s eyes. He busied himself with building a fire while William watched and soon had a bright blaze glowing behind the fire screen. “This ought to warm things up.” Dylan pulled a blanket off his bed and sat in the rocker next to William. “Thanks.” “I’m glad Ernesto put firewood in here. The wood out back is probably pretty damp. We have enough for tonight, anyway.” “I checked, there are more blankets in the cupboard next to the kitchenette.” “We won’t freeze; there’s a space heater.” “I guess I’m just not used to it.” “It can get pretty cold in Vegas at night. One time it even snowed. Nothing like here though.” “I saw that on the news. Snow in Vegas.” “That was pretty amazing. Yves and I were having breakfast and he just…” William’s curiosity got the better of him. “What did he do?” Dylan smiled. “It’s nothing. He and I were together and he left so he could go home and play in the snow with his grandkids. It was beautiful. So serene. I felt a little like playing in it myself.” “I can see that.” William closed his eyes. It wasn’t hard to picture Dylan looking through the window of his opulent house, a man who had everything except someone to play with him in the snow. William was so tired the heat from the fire pulled every last bit of strength from his body. No matter how much he wanted Dylan, he could hardly keep his eyes open. “I bet you do all that snow stuff.” “I ski and snowboard. Des is a maniac. She’s completely fearless. She used to play ice hockey.” “I’m glad you can see her again. Sometimes I think…” He drifted into sleep, his rocker slowing to a bare back and forth, inches only.

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Dylan’s voice startled him. “William?” “Hm?” He started rocking again. “You were in the middle of a sentence.” When William opened his eyes, Dylan faced him, half illuminated by the fire, made up of reflected light and mysterious shadows, as enigmatic as the moon. “I was just saying I’m glad you have your sister back. Maybe when I’m thinking about you I can think of that and I won’t feel so bad for what we did to you.” “You don’t need to feel—” Dylan’s voice stopped. “I can’t say what you need to feel.” “I have to go and start over somewhere, and I’d like to know that you don’t…that you won’t be feeling responsible for me or some stupid shit like that.” Dylan’s hand came down on William’s so timidly he didn’t move for fear that Dylan would snatch it away. “I wish I could give it all back to you. I’ve been trying to think of a way you could keep your college credits and maybe even renew your scholarship, but I can’t think how to do that without risking your—” “Shh. Don’t worry.” William turned his hand and carefully laced his tender fingers with Dylan’s. “But I do worry. What are you going to do?” “I don’t know. Look at you, going all concerned for me—like in that syndrome.” Dylan snorted. “Stockholm syndrome? Doesn’t it sort of feel like you’re my hostage now?” William gave up a sad smile. Maybe he could be honest for once. Maybe it wouldn’t get him in too much trouble to say what was on his mind. In his heart. He lifted his gaze and found Dylan watching him. “Papi, I’ve been your hostage since day one. Since the first time I saw you.” The grip on William’s hand went slack. “You don’t seem to know it, but you’re one very fine motherfucker, Dylan. My personal walking wet dream.” Dylan whispered, “How come you call me papi?” William tilted his head. “I don’t know. It’s just a thing. Like when Esme calls you m’hijo.” Dylan didn’t break eye contact. He held William’s gaze for a long enough time that it made William want to look away, but he forced himself to meet those strange light eyes. What he found there was something pure and—probably—more honest than he was ready for. He didn’t find acceptance, necessarily, but what he saw didn’t cause him to lose hope, either. “You should sack out, huh?” Dylan said quietly. Disappointment flooded him. “Yeah.” William got up and carried his blanket back to bed. “Lots to do tomorrow.” Dylan padded to his own bed. “Ernesto has a list a mile long and I’m not sure we can do half of the chores with the grounds so wet.”

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“There’s new shit that will come up with the storm.” “Yeah. Maybe more roofs to check out.” “Night, Dylan.” William turned his back and pulled his covers over his head. “Night, William.”

Dylan didn’t rest easily. Between the storm outside—rattling the entire cabin—and the one inside his body, it took a while for him to fall asleep. Even then, he had fitful dreams, populated by everyone he’d ever known, and most of them were telling him he was hurtling into a long dark tunnel of disaster. He didn’t have to be a psychologist to figure that out, either. He punched his pillow into something that might support his head, rolled onto his back and sighed. When William had been helpless it was easy to take care of him impersonally. But now he was getting better, regaining his strength and spirit. Dylan already found him attractive. How much more attractive might he be at full-watt power, when his infectious grin wasn’t tempered by the bruises on his face? Dylan didn’t fall prey to just any pretty face. He’d been shoulder to shoulder with the most attractive men Vegas had to offer for years. He was drawn to people with charisma and inner strength, and he understood that men with those traits, if they were for real, didn’t need model-perfect looks or money to back them up. So yeah. As long as William was hurt and needed him, he hadn’t foreseen any problems. But as of now it was a race against time. If William healed up and wielded his easy charm, if he trotted out the flirtatious—even dangerous—side of his personality Dylan had glimpsed that night, it wasn’t going to be easy to say no to what he had to offer. Even hours later, just the thought of the spark between them was enough to make Dylan’s heart race. Dylan calmed his breathing and tried to find sleep. Physically, William was getting better by the hour. It was only a matter of time until he chose to move on. He was certainly not going to want to stay in a rustic one-room cabin in Panguitch Lake with a man Dylan’s age—even a man he thought was a fine motherfucker. Dylan twisted in the sheets and drifted in and out of a haze of bizarre dreams. A particularly bright flash of lightning woke him up and he found William standing by his bed, tense and breathing heavily. William gazed down at him, eyes dark with desire. During the next flash, when Dylan saw William’s cock poked out of the fabric of his sleep pants at the waist, its head already glistening with moisture, he couldn’t stop himself from checking it out. It was nearly level with his eyes, thick as a beer bottle and throbbing with need. Dylan lifted his hand and brushed over the slick skin of William’s cockhead with the back of his knuckles. William hissed, then let out a shuddering sigh. Time’s up.

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Dylan lifted a corner of the blankets off his body and welcomed William into his bed.

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William didn’t know why Dylan invited him in—at last—but he wasn’t about to lose his chance. He’d heard him rustling around, punching his pillows and trying to get comfortable, and come across the room on the very remote possibility that the reason Dylan couldn’t sleep was the same thing keeping him awake. Maybe it was, because when William slid into bed, Dylan’s skin felt hot to the touch. He was damp with sweat and unmistakably aroused. Dylan pulled down William’s sleep pants just enough to get a grip on his cock. He gave it a couple of experimental pumps and thumbed the slit, causing William’s back to arch and his abs to tighten like steel. “Uhn…papi. When you touch me like that I can’t think.” Dylan’s hand stopped in mid-stroke. “Don’t think.” William hesitated. “All right.” “What do you want?” William had no blood left in his brain to think with. “I want to touch you.” Dylan nodded. William rolled until he had Dylan tight up against him. Dylan’s soft leg hairs whispered and tickled against William’s ankles and calves as he skimmed his fingers down the long column of Dylan’s throat, pressing kisses there until he could feel Dylan’s racing pulse beneath his lips. William kissed the soft skin solemnly. “This okay?” Dylan reached out to cup William’s face. “Is this what you want?” “Yes. You?” William pressed his lips to Dylan’s. He licked the full lower lip and demanded entry with his tongue. Dylan gave way and opened for him with a sigh, trading kiss for hungry kiss as William nipped and nibbled at him, teasing and soft, yet determined. “Yes.” Dylan surged against him. They fit together perfectly. Dylan wriggled out of his sleep pants and helped William rid himself of his, then wrapped a leg around one of William’s thighs to hold him in place while William ground their hips together until his only thoughts were of friction and repetition, the thrust and drag of skin against skin where sweat and the slick fluid oozing from their cocks eased the way. William wanted it to last forever. He wanted to come. He wanted more than just a fuck in the dark with this beautiful man but had no words to give him and no way to slow his body down. His hands were still too sore to grip Dylan’s ass or pull him in close, so he had to be content to wrap his arms around Dylan’s neck and hang on. He might have cursed a little and bitten Dylan’s shoulder in frustration when he couldn’t get enough friction, because Dylan slipped an arm around him and rolled over

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onto his back. He pulled William on top, opening his legs to cradle him and crossing his ankles against the back of William’s thighs. They strained together, Dylan using his strong legs to get the pressure just right while his small moans drove William crazy. Dylan was so responsive, so sensual. He undulated beneath William, matching him move for move. William pressed his face into Dylan’s neck and savored his scent, a heady mix of generic shampoo and wood smoke, a hint of rain over a base note of pure, clean man. He wanted to take his time, to kiss and mark every square inch of Dylan’s creamy, nearly translucent skin, even as he realized there could never be time enough to properly enjoy making love to a man like Dylan Anderson. As they got the rhythm right between them, William dry-humped him like a teenager, speechless with awe that the man was in his arms, that Dylan let William touch him at all. “Damn, baby,” William murmured against Dylan’s skin. The tempo of his hips sped up when he felt Dylan’s desperation. He began to talk nonsense, rocking his pelvis frantically, rutting against Dylan like a bull, his cock and balls firmly in charge of everything and his brain in the backseat, just going along for the ride. “Yes…Dylan. So good. Corazón…” Against Dylan’s delicate frame William imagined he was clumsy and huge, the tip of his cock battering the man’s belly like a bat. He figured the only pleasure Dylan was getting was whatever opportune contact he was taking for himself. Too far gone to see to Dylan’s needs, he rolled like thunder toward his climax, feeling its beginnings in his spine. William continued, driven higher with each soft sound, each little gasp of pleasure Dylan gave up. “Talk to me.” William stroked the back of Dylan’s neck with an open hand. “What do you need, baby?” Dylan panted. His breath came in short bursts as he thrust desperately upward, stabbing his cock into William’s belly. William watched his eyes darken as their bodies found a smooth, fast rhythm together. Dylan licked his lips. “Close.” William’s heart sped up. Dylan’s arms tightened around him seconds before a spray of heat shot between them. Dylan groaned and simply froze, clinging to William. Dylan shuddered as William continued to snap his hips. He dropped his head back onto the pillow and gave up everything with a brief sweet sigh. William swept over the edge in a tremendous rush of pleasure. He grunted deeply and shot between them, mixing his warmth and scent with Dylan’s, crushing him and burying his face in the skin of Dylan’s neck. “Damn.” William shuddered. Dylan was still rocking him, still cradling him as they rode out the last waves together. “That was sweet, papi.” Dylan groaned at that. William hid his face. Hello? Not a poet. His heart rate slowed and the sweat began to cool on his skin. Dylan rolled them to their sides and extricated himself, wiping come from his belly onto the sheets.

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Dylan rose gracefully from the bed, then headed to the bathroom for a towel. It took a while for him to come back. By that time, William’s heart felt like lead. “What’s the matter? Over slumming already?” Dylan stood over him naked. His belly still looked slick. Instead of handing William the towel, he waited there clutching it. William couldn’t help but notice that his skin was pale. “Was it something I said?” The towel hit his face with a thwap, then Dylan stalked away. The bathroom door closed with a bang.

Dylan stayed in the shower until the water was cold. After that, he sat on the toilet and shivered, shocked by his behavior. He would not cry. He would not. He had to put on his game face and head out of that bathroom like everything was normal. He was, for all intents and purposes, the grownup here. The mature one. The role model. He opened and closed his hands, fascinated by the blisters and the scratches. His skin was white and wrinkled, and the blistered bits had the look of uncooked bacon fat. If he put salve on them, the broken skin would sting. That’s what he needed to worry about. Whether his hands would get infected. Whether there was enough work at Scott’s place to keep him on and able to afford sundries until he decided to move on. He needed to worry about whether being back in town would put an undue burden on Des’s marriage or place her family in jeopardy. In the face of those things, the fact that he’d let a near stranger use him for sex hardly mattered at all. Except it did. He’d wanted William. William wanted him. But he hadn’t ever been with someone for so flimsy a reason before—at least that’s what he told himself. He’d loved Peter. Would have made a life with him. Would have been his eternal companion. One man. But that hadn’t been in the cards. Later, when he’d been with Yves, he’d fooled himself into believing it was love. That it was special. They’d known each other for months before it had gone even as far as he’d gone with William that night. He didn’t have sex for fun or for why the fuck not. He wasn’t that kind of man. Sure, in the modern world, it seemed stupid to want to love someone before he became intimate with them. It was hopelessly naïve to imagine there was one person out there he could make a lasting partnership with. He’d believed in it with Peter. He’d allowed himself to be blinded by Mosko’s charm and his money and his laissez-faire morality. But no doubt about it, William would be moving on. William planned to disappear and Dylan would never, ever see him again. Dylan swallowed hard. Maybe feelings simply weren’t important—a hard thought, but a possibility. He’d had sex with someone because he felt like it, and the world hadn’t come to an end. He’d gotten off with a guy who could offer him nothing except a really great release. Maybe that was okay, because maybe that’s all there ever was, and the rest was what he told himself so he didn’t feel bad about it.

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But it wasn’t his way. He knew it. And now he’d have to live with it. It brought back the last argument he’d had with his parents with such clarity it played back in his mind, squeezing his heart painfully even after all the years that had passed. “What makes you think all homosexuals are like that?” Skip’s mother’s face contorted with contempt. “Well you’re sure not doing it to have children. It’s not pro-creational sex is it?” “So every married couple in the church, young or old, fertile or barren, is having sex to have children or not having any at all?” It was a familiar argument. He’d had it enough with his therapist. “That’s different. And you know it. There are times when intimacy is for comfort, or to express affection.” Skip crossed his arms. “And God says gay people don’t get to have that.” “God says people don’t get to have that with people of the same sex, no.” “So I’m destined to live my life without that, without something you take for granted? Something you say God gave us for comfort and to express affection.” “You certainly can have that, young man. You certainly can choose to marry a woman and share that intimacy with her. If you don’t, then you have to know that you have no place in the—” “I choose to believe that God has a place for people like me, that he made me what I am and he has a plan for me too.” “But if you persist in choosing the easy way out, you’ll never learn the lessons you were meant to learn from the burdens you carry.” Skip pounded his fist on his thigh. “The easy way? This is the easy way?” Forrest Hatcher stood and put out his hands as if to calm the waters of Galilee. Bishop Farnsworth sat with his arms crossed, watching in stony silence. “That’s not what your mother meant, son. She’s understandably having a hard time. No one is saying the path you’re on is easy. We can’t tell you how sorry we are that you bear this…same-gender attraction. But we can’t let you make a wrong choice here. You need to have an eternal perspective, and when you’ve prayed and fasted you’ll see that—” Skip stood, uncertain where he got the courage. He’d risen like a jack-in-the-box, surging up out of his chair with energy from an unknown source. “I need to find my own path, Dad. I’m sorry, Mom. Nobody asked for this. Nobody wanted it. But it’s real and I own it. I know in my heart I need to leave.” He’d worked up to that for months, and when it came down to it, when he had to turn his back on his family and walk away, he was very nearly prepared for it. “Goodbye.” Skip Hatcher closed the door softly behind him. He took nothing except the clothes on his back and the last paycheck in his pocket and headed west.

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It would be impossible to explain any of that to William, who was pretty pleased with himself. Young, hung and proud of any conquest. Dylan picked up the towel and rubbed himself dry—nearly raw. He only had to take a deep breath and open the door, make some excuse: he liked to be clean, he needed a hot shower to get warm, he was feeling a little faint. He wouldn’t think of Peter, whom he’d loved, who loved him back and held him when they were merely boys. Of one solitary night spent learning the delights of the flesh together. Peter had known him intimately, every cell of his body, and whispered a choked I love you, over and over, when they realized what they’d done and how irrevocable it all was. He most certainly would not think of Yves, who was years older, a little grizzled, and more than a little soft. Yves’s skin wasn’t tight and his cock wasn’t exactly a showstopper, but he cupped Dylan’s face between his big hands after they made love and kissed him tenderly to let him know he was cherished. There had been no one else. Maybe—probably—love was a fantasy. Dylan knew where he stood with Peter. He grieved, but he understood. He came in a distant second to pleasing Peter’s family and hedging his bets that the church was right. And with Yves as well, Dylan was always second best, alone on major holidays, the one who stood at the bars of a pretty cage like a pet waiting for its owner to take him out to play. But he’d never felt…disposable. He’d never seen himself as interchangeable. Yves had wanted him, not some nameless-faceless man in a bar. While it wasn’t necessarily love, and couldn’t be remotely called family, it was more affection and respect than Dylan ever believed he’d be entitled to, more than he’d ever had since leaving his family. It was as close to what his heart truly desired as he believed he’d ever get. Dylan opened the tiny bathroom window to let out the last remnants of steam and waited for the mirror to clear. Dylan Anderson…Skip Hatcher… The face in the mirror was nearly the same as it had ever been. The familiar mouth, nose and light blue eyes were still striking. The careful blonding of his hair, once achieved by applications of aluminum foil and bleach, was already being overtaken by the sun over Panguitch Lake. Looking at himself objectively, he could say he was beautiful. It hadn’t mattered much, because contrary to what people believed about him he’d never been looking for what his beauty could buy him. But now… Whoever Dylan was…whoever he had become, he had no one to blame but himself.

Not knowing how to proceed, William moved back to his own bed so he could fake sleep if he needed to. When Dylan finally left the bathroom, he returned to his bed and pulled the covers over his head. William sighed. He was no good at this stuff. He lay there frozen with uncertainty. He didn’t know how to act when he wasn’t sure where he stood. He’d gotten off with guys from school when he was

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younger, and he’d been in more than a few dance clubs where a sideways glance would guarantee a round trip for two to the bathroom. In college he’d gotten laid with a frequency that surprised him. What did he know about guys like Dylan? With someone like Dylan, William wanted everything to be perfect. He wanted to say the right thing and touch Dylan like he’d never touched anyone else. He wanted to take his time and prove he was worthy. So naturally he’d groped his way into Dylan’s bed and thrashed around until he came like a rabid dog. Shit. William quietly rose from the bed and made his way to where Dylan lay unmoving. “Dylan?” Silence. William reached under the sheet and took hold of Dylan’s hand. “You don’t have to sleep on the wet spot, papi. Come over here. I warmed up the other bed and everything.” Dylan’s lashes lifted. “Come on.” William tugged Dylan’s hand. Dylan shifted his legs until he sat up, allowing William to pull him to the other side of the room where he got into bed without a word. William slid in behind him, spooning. “That’s better, huh?” Dylan nodded. “Can I tell you something? I wanted you really bad, but I was kind of scared too, you know? I didn’t mean to just…loom over you in the middle of the night and jump on you, you have to know that, right?” “I know.” Dylan’s voice was as soft as the patter of the now-gentle rain on the roof. “See, I think a guy like you…” William’s throat tightened and he cleared it. “You’re kind of special, maybe.” Dylan chuckled at that and patted William’s arm. “No, I mean it. You’re a good-looking guy. Beautiful really. And you have this heart… You belong with someone rich and connected, like Mosko. Or a doctor like Peter or something.” “Yeah, right.” “You do.” Dylan turned to face William. He settled on his side, head propped on one hand. What little light there was from the window kissed the curve of his cheek. “Peter was my first love.” William experienced a flare of jealousy. “He wants you.” “He had me,” Dylan murmured. “He didn’t want me enough.” “Seriously? And you left, so then he married your sister?” Dylan nodded. “That’s cold, man.” “I didn’t know he’d married Des until the clinic.”

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William digested this. “Shit. So he blew you off, then you went off to sin city? Then what?” “I met Yves. He wanted me right away. I think I was his ideal twink. He still calls me his boy. He was persistent, and in the end, I didn’t refuse him.” “And he offered to take care of you?” Dylan smiled. “It wasn’t exactly like that. He treated me well. He loved me. I felt lucky that he did.” “So in all those years it’s only been Mosko?” “And one night with Peter. That’s it. The sum total of my experience.” “No fucking way.” “Yes. Now you. I’m not really the kind of guy who just wakes up with a hard-on and looks for the nearest—” “And you think I am?” William’s voice rose a little. “You think that’s what I was doing?” Dylan drew back. “Well, no. I—” “What an idiot.” William brought his hand up to cup Dylan’s cheek. “You’re gorgeous, and you know that. But you’re good. Solid. I want to be near that. I want to touch it.” “It?” William barely breathed. “You.” Dylan shifted. “Come here, baby,” William said softly, and Dylan’s body relaxed into his. He brushed the creamy skin of Dylan’s arm, letting the fine hairs prickle under his fingertips. William pressed his lips to Dylan’s forehead, over each closed eyelid, the tip of his nose, his cheeks, and finally, delicately, his lips. Dylan smiled when William traced a light-as-a-feather line over his lower lip. His cock stirred where it pressed against William’s belly. Dylan gave up a sigh and opened his lips, so William angled his head to deepen the kiss. Soon he was dueling with Dylan’s tongue, slick and exciting, sweeping his mouth and tasting him, exploring the moist cavity while his fingers trailed along skin that rippled and rose to every touch. They exchanged soft puffs of air, gulped gasping breaths when their cocks inadvertently came into contact. William rolled them so he could look down at Dylan’s face, into his eyes, which appeared surprised and maybe a little dazed. He maneuvered Dylan’s boxers down and lifted his hips, parting Dylan’s knees until he rested in the junction of Dylan’s thighs. His cock slipped against the tender skin behind Dylan’s balls, gliding up and down, leaving a slippery sheen of sweat and precome. “Dylan.” He exhaled. “You know how many times I’ve imagined us doing exactly this?” William rocked his hips, simulating sex, leaving no doubt what he wanted. What he needed. “All right.” Dylan lifted both his hands and cupped William’s face, giving up control and curling around him like they were made for each other.

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William tensed, all his thoughts on his cock, on rubbing the sensitive tip against the soft moist skin of Dylan’s hole until he could press it inside. “No… Damn.” William froze. He pressed his forehead to Dylan’s, hard, trying to get a grip on himself. “No condoms.” “Oh.” Dylan’s eyes searched his in surprise. “I didn’t think.” “You carry them?” Dylan shook his head. “No. Sorry.” “Damn.” Disappointment moved through William like a poison gas. He wanted to be inside Dylan, but he wasn’t about to do that without a condom. “I could suck—” “No, baby, this is for you, okay? I want be inside you. I want to make you feel good. But later. Next time.” William eased himself off Dylan and urged him to roll over. He kissed the skin at the base of Dylan’s hairline and stroked small circles with his tongue. “Just relax, all right?” Dylan’s shoulders came up. “Tickles.” William sat up. “Okay, tickle man, then I’m going to stop.” Dylan went still. “No.” William smiled at the urgency in Dylan’s voice as he brushed his hands along Dylan’s inner thighs to part them. He nudged up between them again, and as he did so he kissed and licked, nipped and bit his way down Dylan’s strong back. “You look slim but you’re all muscle, aren’t you?” William asked. Dylan talked into the pillow. “I don’t know.” “Yeah.” William caressed Dylan’s shoulders, kneading his muscles. “You are. No wonder Mosko called you his boy. You’re thin like a boy.” He punctuated each adjective with a kiss to Dylan’s back. “Reedy. Beautiful. Ageless.” Dylan shifted and squirmed under the tender assault. William laid his hands on Dylan’s shoulder blades. “I’m frankly surprised about this though.” “Hm?” Dylan turned his head and blinked up at him. “What?” “It’s all smooth here.” William leaned over to tease in Dylan’s ear. “When you came into that shed, that was the first time I saw you up close, you know?” “Yeah?” William watched one side of Dylan’s face turn a nice shade of pink. He smiled and thumbed the high cheekbone where the color was most pronounced. “Mmhmm. I was truly fucked up. I thought you were an angel. Like maybe God sent you to me because I prayed so hard. I thought God or my abuelita asked you to watch over me until…” William swallowed hard. “To stay with me until Mosko…you know.” Dylan’s muscles tensed.

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“Thing is, you don’t seem to have any wings, angelito.” William pressed a reverent kiss on each shoulder blade. He went on, his kisses slower and longer, involving tongue and teeth as he inched along the column of Dylan’s spine, until he tongued a circle on the skin between the dimples of Dylan’s ass. “That’s…” Dylan sucked in a breath when William dipped lower, parting the globes of his ass cheeks, slicking a line to his hole. “William.” William fought with the fabric of Dylan’s shorts for a minute but he’d had enough. “Up,” he urged. Dylan rose to his knees, then let William muscle the shorts off first one leg and then the other. Dylan’s underwear fell to the ground on the side of the bed, forgotten. Dylan started to lie back down, but William stopped him by clutching his hips, burying his face between the soft half moons of his ass and nuzzling the delicate skin there. Suddenly William laughed. “You manscape?” William gave Dylan’s hairless perineum a swipe with his tongue. “So smooth, papi… So pretty.” Dylan burrowed back into his pillow. “Yves liked me to look young.” William ran his hand over Dylan’s pale skin and thumbed the area around his puckered hole. He followed it with his tongue, licking and flicking until Dylan gasped with pleasure. He raised his head. “You like that?” For an answer, Dylan reached back and cuffed the side of William’s head. William grinned. “Yeah. What’s not to like?” He concentrated then, arrowing his tongue and returning to Dylan’s stubborn portal, teasing the tough ring of muscle with his mouth until it relaxed enough to let him in. He could feel Dylan’s surrender and hear his soft cries, and he thought nothing could be better than that. Than giving this sweet man pleasure. Dylan shivered beneath his hands as he probed the musky, dark recess of that most intimate place, preparing it for an invasion with his fingers. When he had Dylan slick and ready, he added his thumbs, the least sore part of his hands, first one, then the other, to drive deep as he stimulated both the sensitive little ring at the surface and the nub of nerves he knew he’d find inside. Dylan’s moans changed pitch and tenor, from small cries of simple pleasure to deep throaty grunts and groans of need. William lifted his head. “Touch yourself, angelito.” Dylan shivered beneath him, but he did as he was told. “William…” “I know, corazón. You need. Touch yourself.” William continued to flick and tease, all the while plunging his thumbs into Dylan’s channel, searching for the secret combination that would send him flying apart. “Oh, William,” Dylan gasped, rocking between his hand and William’s mouth, “More… Please, harder.”

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William thrust both thumbs into Dylan’s tight heat and kept them there, feeling Dylan’s muscles clench and tremble around him. Dylan’s body jerked and he let out a deep cry, part groan, part laugh that continued to hover on his lips until he dove back into the pillow. William draped over his back and together they fell flat.

Dylan trembled when William’s body fell on his, crushing them both to the mattress. His cock lay spent, rippling with new sensation each time William’s dick skimmed across his tender hole to slide along the skin behind his balls. William was heavy and sweaty, grunting as he pressed his cock into the tight space Dylan made by crossing his legs and clamping his ass cheeks and his thighs together. More than ever he regretted that they didn’t have condoms. He wanted William inside him. Wanted to know what it was like—at last—to be with a man who wasn’t ashamed to want him and was also free to claim him. William smelled good. He felt good. Dylan reached back with his hand and clutched at William’s ass, wanting that thick cock inside him even then, when he was lying beneath him sated, simply because he liked the way William’s heavily muscled buttocks rose and fell, lifted and scooped, pumping his velvety iron cock between them. William huffed deep, rich breaths in his ear. When he was close, he whispered sex words, nearly angry bits and pieces of love talk in two languages. His words lifted and caressed Dylan, like a song playing to the rhythm of William’s hips. William arched his neck and stiffened, his whole body tensed, and Dylan felt the rush of hot fluid as it dripped down onto his balls. “Dylan.” After dragging in air, William pressed his open mouth to Dylan’s neck, rocking his semihard cock, now slick with come, back and forth in the pressure between Dylan’s legs. “Eres me angelito, Dylan. Mi propio angelito guardian… Corazón…mi vida…” Over and over as he pressed tightly against Dylan’s back, he spoke the words, calling him his angel, his heart and his life. After a while, even as the sweat on Dylan’s skin cooled, William fondled him every so often or gave him a pinch. “Sí, basta ya.” Dylan tipped William off him and turned so their faces were inches apart, then smiled as he dropped a kiss on his lover’s lips. Suddenly William acted self-conscious. He backed away and wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. “You probably want me to go brush again or something, huh?” “Not really.” Dylan shook his head and drew William toward him for an incendiary kiss. Dylan held him for a long time and continued kissing and touching. Nuzzling with lips and tongue, unable to get enough, until William’s cock rose again between them and Dylan slipped down to take it into his mouth.

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William clutched Dylan’s hair even as Dylan realized he’d never be able to suck William’s whole cock at once. He wrapped one hand around the base and cupped William’s balls with the other, then took as much cock as he could to the back of his throat and swallowed. “Oh, papi, damn…you’re a dirty, dirty boy.” Dylan nipped him a little, then did it again, making William squeal like a girl. “Chíngame, angelito.” He swore. “Fuck, what you do to me.” Dylan smiled around William’s cock and decided that he’d only just gotten started.

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Chapter Nineteen

Dylan had barely pulled on his jeans when he heard a knock on the cabin door. He walked over barechested to answer it, thinking it was probably Ernesto coming to bring food for William and pick him up to start the day. He opened the door and found Peter there, in his scrubs and a barn jacket, carrying a backpack and looking tired and foul-tempered. “That’s a heck of a drive.” Peter didn’t wait for him to say anything, he just entered the cabin and looked around. William was in the shower, but both beds were messed up. Dylan thought that whatever Peter expected to see, he didn’t find it. “I just got off duty and I thought I’d come up here to take a look at your young thug to see how he’s holding up.” “He’s not a thug, Peter.” “Why do I have to keep telling you I’m not an idiot? I asked a friend from the St. George PD to look up his ink in a gang-tat registry. He says that’s one bad, bad crew your boy runs with.” Dylan gave a light laugh. He wondered what Peter would have made of Yves’s tattoos. They ranged over his entire body, even extending to his cock. “You think that’s funny?” Peter asked, outraged. “You brought that…criminal into my home.” “I told you everything I knew about him at the time. You’re the one who told me to go see Des. You offered to help.” “I can’t not help. You knew that and you took advantage of our friendship.” “I took a chance you’d show compassion for someone who’d tried to help me. I believed I knew you well enough that you wouldn’t let me down.” Peter ran his hand through his hair. “Skip…” “Dylan,” he automatically corrected. “This isn’t you, you know? Hanging around with gangsters. This guy kidnapped you. He would have held you for ransom, maybe killed you instead of giving you back if you hadn’t escaped. Don’t think I can’t see the injuries you sustained. They’re faded, but I can tell. He hurt you.” “Not him. He tried to help me.” “You’re making excuses for a felon.”

The Pharaoh’s Concubine

Dylan’s attention was drawn away from Peter when William opened the bathroom door. Anger radiated from him in thick waves. He’d adopted a different walk, a different facial expression, even the way he grinned bore a kind of arrogant smirk that Dylan had never seen on his face before. “You know.” William swaggered out wearing only low-slung sleep pants. “Nothing’s ever been proved in a court of law, man.” He cupped his dick suggestively and said the word “man” like mang, and Dylan stifled a surprised laugh. “I came to see if you were well enough to be thinking about moving on,” Peter told him. “You seem to be much better. Will you lie down so I can examine you?” “Sure, Doc.” William started for his bed, then turned and headed for Dylan’s. “Let’s do this one. I don’t wanna hafta get on the wet spot, if you know what I mean.” Peter flushed and put a hand on Dylan’s arm. “You”—Dylan pointed at William—“need to stop, payaso.” William glared at him. “But—” “Enough. You behave.” Dylan shot William a killing look and tugged on Peter’s arm. “And you come with me.” He picked up a work shirt on his way out the door and jammed his feet into boots, jerking his head for Peter to follow. After a brief hesitation, Peter grabbed his backpack and went after him. They emerged from the cabin into a perfect, pristine early morning. The air smelled of ozone and raindrops sparkled on every surface like little glass beads. Fluffy white clouds danced across an endless blue sky. It was cold enough that Dylan regretted not bringing a jacket, but so beautiful he forgot his discomfort right away. “You don’t make anything easy, ever,” Peter growled once they were out of earshot. Dylan took the path that headed for the lake through aspens and evergreens. “Probably not. In that respect I doubt I’ve changed a bit.” Peter grunted in reply. They walked in silence until they reached the water’s edge, where they continued along the rocky shore. “Why did you have to come here?” Peter asked finally. “I don’t know. It’s home. Everyone goes to ground at home.” Peter kicked at the dirt. “That doesn’t explain why I’m helping you. Why am I helping you?” “I don’t know. Because you owe me?” Peter folded his arms. “How do you figure I owe you?” “For one thing, there’s the fact that we used to be best friends.” “Best friends don’t ask this kind of thing of one another,” Peter shot back. “Best friends don’t blow back into town with fugitives in tow and expect—”

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Dylan’s temper flared. “How many times do I have to tell you? I had no idea you would be in that clinic. None.” “Did you know that police found the burned bodies of his brethren in a stolen car out by Lake Mead? The police are betting it was a drug deal gone bad. Your boy is here and alive. It’s not too hard to put two and two together, Skip.” “Dylan. My name is Dylan now. And I told you what happened. You think I’m a liar now too?” Peter got right in Dylan’s face. “If I told the cops what you have tucked away in that little cabin with you, I’ll bet they’d be happy to ferret out the truth. I’ll bet they’d slap you with aiding and abetting too.” “Go right ahead.” Dylan pushed back hard. Peter had to windmill his arms to keep his balance. “We’ll be long gone and you’ll only end up looking like a fool.” “I’ll look like a fool?” Peter shoved Dylan back. “You’re the one protecting some pretty-boy gangbanger half your age. You’re irrational where he’s concerned. What’s gotten into you? Or should I say who?” “What about you, you hypocrite?” Dylan sneered. “You’ve got some irrational shit of your own. What if my sister knew she wasn’t the Anderson who had you first?” Peter took a swing at Dylan but Dylan ducked back out of the way. “Look at you.” Dylan held his hands up. “You’re going to hit me? What is wrong with you?” Peter drew back, shaken. “Is this you trying to punish me? Because I get it, you know? Maybe I didn’t do the right thing by you back in the day, but you don’t need to screw up my life, or your sister’s. We have kids.” “Peter.” Dylan stepped forward warily. “I’m not here to screw up your life. This was never about you. I’d be just as happy if the doctor at that clinic had been from Mars.” “You bastard.” Peter turned to the lake. The surface of the water sparkled. “I hate this.” “I know.” Dylan started to put his hand on Peter’s shoulder but changed his mind and let it drop back to his side. Peter stooped over and picked up a flat rock, testing its weight before hurling it at the water. It skipped three times before it sank. “I’m not going to call you Dylan. I don’t know who Dylan is.” Dylan searched the ground for another stone. It certainly seemed to be a good way to lessen the tension between them. Unless he skipped his more than three times, he thought wryly. Peter hated to lose. “Dylan is who I became when I had nothing else. I guess Skip Hatcher is somewhere inside me but—” “No. No way Skip Hatcher is with that…boy.” Dylan launched his stone. It skipped three times and dropped into the rippling water. “I told you. I’m not Skip Hatcher anymore. And I’m not exactly with William. He was yanking your chain, Peter.” Peter watched an arrow of birds overhead, flying south. A muscle in his jaw worked. “You gave yourself to him.”

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Dylan was silent. Peter took that as confirmation and turned away. Dylan sighed. “I told you the truth. Those boys…the ones in the car… They were the ones who took me. They had me shoved in the trunk. There was a firefight when I was rescued. William and I made it out alive. That’s all true.” “The cops are calling that a gang war! How could you be involved in a—” “You wouldn’t understand, Peter. Drop it.” “All this time…” Peter hurt. Dylan could see it, but he was powerless to help him. “All this time you were gone and everything was just fine.” That stung. Dylan hurled a rock too large to skim and it hit the water with a thunk and a mighty splash. “You have to know that I wouldn’t do something like this lightly, okay? When it came down to it, when I asked myself, Can I let this boy die? the answer was no. Very loud, very clear, and it came right from the source. I felt it!” Dylan thumped his chest. “Here. You know? And I knew it was true and I can’t tell you how long it’s been since anything felt that true to me. Not gray, but black and white, true. I had to help him. It’s not about you, or us. It’s about me doing what I know is right.” Peter stared at Dylan for a long time before he spoke. He turned back the way they’d come, heading for the cabin. “Then let’s get this kid checked out and see if he’s ready to leave. I’ll buy him a bus ticket.” “I can hardly ask for more.” Dylan followed him. “You can hardly ask for that,” Peter shot back.

William slumped back down on the bed unhappily. Baiting Peter wasn’t as much fun as he’d thought it would be, especially since it upset Dylan. Seeing the two of them together brought home how very much alike they were. They shared a past and a family. They were the same age. Despite the pleasure of the previous night, William didn’t think it was a stretch to assume that when he left, the two of them would be glad to see him go, which hurt a little. It wasn’t long before Dylan and his doctor friend returned. They seemed frosty with each other. They didn’t make eye contact or speak. Dylan took up a position against the wall. “Behave.” That was for William and he knew it. Dylan nodded to indicate that the doctor should do what he had to do. William rolled his eyes. “Let’s see what we have,” Peter began, fishing in his backpack for a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. He put on surgical gloves and grasped William’s chin, shifting his head this way and that to look over the healing bruises. William sat quietly while he was under scrutiny, flinching occasionally, like when Peter asked him to lie back down so he could touch his sensitive ribs or when he uncurled his stiff fingers.

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William frowned when Peter looked at Dylan and said, “He’s healing nicely. Does he still have blood in his urine?” “I’m right here.” Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t watch him pee.” Peter said, “You were the one—” “That’s because I had to help him that first day.” “Do you think it would be okay if we talked as if I were sitting right here in front of you?” William asked. Peter sighed and turned his attention to William. “Do you?” “Not anymore. No.” “That’s good.” Peter slipped the blood pressure cuff up his arm and went through the process of inflating and deflating it slowly. “No fever?” “No.” “Dizziness, nausea, vomiting, vision problems?” “No.” “What can I say, kid? You took a licking but keep on ticking. I’d say you could start normal activity but don’t overdo. What are your plans from here?” “I don’t have any plans,” William said carefully. “In that case, may I suggest you find a way back to wherever it is you came from? I told Dylan I’d be happy to buy you a bus ticket.” “What did he say to that?” William’s heart stuttered. He looked at Dylan, who said nothing. “Dylan?” Dylan seemed to find his boots fascinating. “I have cash. I’m heading in to Panguitch with Scott to get some supplies later. I was going to get to that soon. I was going to see if we could find him a ride—” “There are bus terminals in Cedar City or St. George. I looked it up. That means that if Junior wants to go someplace by bus, since I’m heading to St. George his best bet is to come with me. I’ll take him and make sure he gets a ticket anywhere he wants to go.” “William?” Dylan asked quietly. “That’s okay, right? Is that what you want to do? You can start over. Completely fresh.” William’s throat tightened. “Get your things together.” Peter packed up his equipment then shoved his gloves into the trash bin in the kitchenette. “I’ll be heading out as soon as I’ve had a chance to say hello to the Farnsworths.” He headed out the door as brusquely as he’d come in. “Thank you, Peter.” Dylan watched him go.

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When the door closed behind him, the cabin was silent except for the whirring of the small refrigerator. Dylan said nothing, but moved to the closet where he started collecting William’s clothes in the black duffle. “I’ll get another duffle in Panguitch. You can take this one.” “Thanks.” Dylan glanced down at him. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” “Sure.” William didn’t look up from the bed, where he was pulling off his sleep pants to put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. “I’ve gotta get the hell out of Dodge and start over. Maybe up north where my brother’s boys won’t look for me.” “Maybe if you went to Seattle? Damn. I thought I’d have time… There are sites on the internet that… You’ll need a new identity, you know?” “I know. I’ll figure it out.” William tossed his sleep pants to Dylan, who folded them and tucked them into the duffle before he zipped it shut. “One good thing is it’s pretty easy to get me packed.” Dylan’s fingers tightened on the bag. “Don’t worry, mi angelito.” William smiled softly. “I’ll find an under-the-table job, and I can get internet at the library and go from there.” Dylan turned back to the closet. “Here. I can give you some cash. I have plenty and I don’t need to use it as long as I’m working for Scott.” “No, man, I don’t want your cash.” Didn’t Dylan know that would make things worse? “Please take it. I can’t bear to think of you out there with nothing, trying to get along, no ID, and nobody to help you. I know you don’t want to. Just…for me, all right?” William nodded tightly and watched Dylan count out a thousand dollars in twenties and fifties. Shame burned in his gut. He knew he had to take the money or eventually he’d end up doing something desperate and stupid, but that didn’t make it any easier. “This should help…” Dylan bit his lip when their eyes met. William tried to relax and smile a little. “I hate taking your money.” Dylan tilted his head in the endearing way he had. It expressed understanding and affection and sorrow all at once. “I know you do. I’m sorry—” “I told you never to apologize to me.” William took the wad of Dylan’s money in one hand as he cupped Dylan’s cheek with the other. “Sooner or later you’re going to realize how angry you should be.” Dylan smiled and leaned into his touch. His eyes closed and he breathed in. “And someday someone will write epic poetry about this.” William’s heart broke—just shattered into a million pieces until he knew that he’d never be whole again. He threw himself at Dylan, who crushed him in a hard hug. Their lips met and the contact caused an electric tingle to surge throughout his body. When they broke apart he was hard as glass. “Fuck, corazón. I wish we had more time…”

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Dylan closed his eyes. “Me too. This is best though. Safest, yeah?” “Yeah. I…” William pressed his lips together and thumbed Dylan’s high cheekbone. “Bye.” Dylan’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. He gave William a shove. “Go. Don’t keep Dr. Attitude waiting.” William strode to the door. He took one last look at Dylan, who stood with his arms wrapped around his chest and a sad smile on his face. William turned and headed out the door, closing it quietly before he took the path to the main lodge. He glanced back at the cabin briefly, wondering if he was leaving the best part of his life, the best person he would ever know, behind him.

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Chapter Twenty

Peter started the engine and gunned it, the sound like a stuffy man clearing his throat. William climbed up into the doctor’s SUV without showing any emotion. He took that as a win. It was enough to face the rest of his life, he didn’t have to be transparent for Dr. Disapproval too. William kept his eyes focused on the horizon when they made the turn out onto the road that led to the highway. “Those shoes look wet.” Peter gave him a cursory once-over, then faced forward again. “Yeah. It rained last night. Dylan and I had to run back from the lodge to the cabin in a downpour.” The conversation died for another three or four miles. Peter didn’t seem to want it to continue and William didn’t have a thing to say. He looked out the window. He could have gotten used to life up there. He would have liked to see fall in the trees. Even though a lot of them were evergreens he thought some might change colors. Dylan told him there were aspens. Coming from Southern California that was something he didn’t have much experience with. He’d like the snow too. At least seeing it fall might be nice. He’d seen snow fall once, when he’d been at outdoor science camp in the sixth grade. Snow fell silently, just like little bits of nothing. Tiny, lacy flakes that drifted down like powdered sugar from a shaker. He’d thought something that chilling, frozen water, as cold as the high drifts of snow they’d found outside their door in the morning, must come from something violent. Something loud, and shocking, but in that case, it fell like feathers in the lazy currents of ice-cold air and landed on his nose with less impact than gnats. That would have been nice to experience with Dylan. “Des said…” Peter glanced over and then back, as if he was checking to make sure William was still there. “My wife told me that Dylan lived in Las Vegas?” “Yes.” “I wondered.” I bet you did. William watched Peter struggle with his curiosity. “What was it like? Do you know?” “What was what like?” “Did he work? What did he do? Was there…someone? A family?” “You should ask Dylan those questions.” “I’m asking you because I don’t… Maybe I don’t have the right to ask them at all.”

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“Maybe you don’t.” William didn’t want to share what he knew about Dylan, but at the same time he felt like taking a shot at the man who had hurt him all those years ago. It was a dilemma he didn’t want to face for over a hundred miles. “Was he out?” “Yes.” William didn’t think Dylan would mind him telling Peter that. “I see.” Peter remained silent for so long that William assumed he’d dropped his inquiry. But then he said, “Was he happy?” William had to think about that. Had Dylan been happy? “Dylan seemed to live a very good life,” William said finally, because that’s all he could think to say. “He had someone who loved him, money, friends, a nice house…everything a man could want.” “That’s not what I asked.” William shrugged. “I know. Are you happy?” “Yes.” Peter answered fast. As if there were a time limit and if he didn’t get it right he’d be ejected from the car. “Sure I’m happy. I love my life.” “Good to hear.” “Dylan seems to be…” Peter relaxed fractionally. “I was worried. Being gay, living that lifestyle…it seemed so tragic.” William rolled his eyes. “Being gay doesn’t make you unhappy.” Peter turned to face him then jerked his head back around to watch the road. “Are you kidding me?” “People treating you like shit makes you unhappy, Doctor. Family turning their back on you, shrinks trying to change you. Friends telling you they love you one minute and then they don’t want to know you the next. That’s what makes people unhappy.” William blew out a breath. “Shit. Being gay just is what it is, man.” “Is that the party line these days?” William didn’t answer. “Because you know, around here, it’s harder than it is in Los Angeles or wherever you’re from.” “Whatever.” It wasn’t so easy in L.A. Maybe it was easy for movie stars, but the average guy on the street? Ordinary Jose Vato? Not so much. William didn’t tell the good doctor that where he came from it got you dead. “Around here, you’re expected to live a certain way, fit into a box, all neat and tidy and wrapped up with a pretty white bow. You grow up, go to college for a year, go on a mission, come back, find a wife, finish up the education, have some kids, and raise them to do the same thing all over again. He who dies with the most descendents wins.” “Well you’re well on your way, congratulations.” “You think I’m a closet case.”

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I might think that, but I wouldn’t say it. “St. George is a long way to have to walk.” “I admit I had certain feelings for Skip. More than friendship. But we were kids. It didn’t have to dictate our whole lives.” “Fine.” “When he left, I was devastated. I lost my best friend.” “So did he,” William pointed out. “And his family. Then his twin sister gets to live with the man he loves and have his children. It seems to me like you wound up with all the marbles, huh?” Peter smacked his hand on the steering wheel. “Don’t say it like that. We weren’t competing. We weren’t… It wasn’t like that. He walked away. He never looked back.” “You don’t really believe that, do you? I’ve only known him for a week, and even I know he never left this place. You should have seen him when we headed up to the lake. Dylan loves this land. He left his soul here. He loves Des and he wanted to be part of her life. He wanted to know her children. He only left to make it convenient for you and the rest of the people he loves.” “Yeah.” Peter snorted. “After a week you know him so well.” William ignored him. “Could we stop in that town Dylan talked about? I need some stuff from the store. Then you can leave me at the bus station and you’ll never have to think of me again.” Peter muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Not a moment too soon,” and nodded. They would never agree. But that wasn’t as important as seeing to it that if Dylan stayed with Scott, someone would look after him. “Des is thrilled to have him back.” “I know.” Peter sounded resigned. “Don’t fuck that up. She can help him heal. You owe it to both of them. You know you do.” Peter’s jaw tightened and he said nothing further until they reached the town. They pulled in, and it seemed that mostly the place was a throwback, the little western town that time forgot. Peter nodded toward a drug store, and William found his way inside. Soon he had some more Tylenol, several bottles of water and some snacks and gum for the ride back. On impulse he bought condoms and some lube, though it felt a bit like too little, too late. Once he’d paid for his purchases, he rejoined Peter outside. Together, they decided to grab a sandwich at the local Arby’s. “They have a rodeo here,” Peter told him while he carefully unwrapped his sandwich. “And a balloon festival. With quilts or something. Des likes to take the kids.” William glared at him. “Can we just stop talking like I’m supposed to care?” Peter leaned back in his chair and dropped his hands to his lap. “You’re an unpleasant bastard, you know that? Dylan wants to rescue you like some puppy that just needs love and a little discipline, but you’re like a rabid pit bull and he’s just too naïve to know it.”

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“Think what you like, but he’s not naïve, he’s unspoiled. He is unbroken. That’s a very different thing.” “I’ve thought from the beginning he had it all wrong about you. That you’re not above using his weakness as a way to get something out of this deal.” William snapped, “What weakness?” “You’re preying on the fact that he likes men. Using your particularly odious brand of charm to confuse him and get him to protect you.” “What the…?” William drew in a deep breath. “I have never, ever met a stronger man than Dylan Anderson. You’re such a lame-ass friend you have no idea. He walked away from a life of luxury because of his conscience—even though I begged him not to—and since we left he’s shown me time and again how resourceful, how honest, how hardworking and how kind he is. He’s never once made me feel responsible for our troubles, even though I am, and through all that? He’s never once complained.” “But—” “Fuck you very much, Doctor, I would give anything—anything at all—to spend the rest of my life in the shoes you threw away.” Peter’s sandwich was still untouched when William tossed his wrapper in the trash. He took a gulp of his soda and discarded that too. He said, “I’ll wait by the car,” and exited the tiny restaurant by himself, fully prepared to be patient for however long it took. An idle glance at the newspaper in its vending machine gave him something to do. He read the headlines out of sheer boredom, then purchased one. At least he’d have something to read in the car. It didn’t look like conversation was going to be much of an option. Peter finally came out surly and disgruntled. He got behind the wheel without a word and William discouraged him further by opening the paper and holding it up like a shield. The only thing William worried about at that point was whether the read would last as long as the drive. At least it kept him from thinking about Dylan. There was a tiny, buried follow-up to the story of several corpses found burned in a car in the Moab Valley. The police spokesperson said that Dylan’s car was leased by a corporation rumored to have organized-crime connections and had been reported stolen. No word about Dylan. They were assuming it was a drug deal gone bad. Clearly Mosko expected to handle the kidnapping in-house, but didn’t Dylan’s recent disappearance raise anyone’s red flags? What about the fact that while the car was registered to that corporation, Dylan was the one who drove it? “Anything of interest?” Peter asked. “During the last few days, did you see anything about the guys they found in the Moab Valley?” “Sure. That was huge news when it happened. Drug crime in the desert just outside our fair city.” Peter glanced at him. “Friends of yours?”

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William’s face heated. “Something like that.” “Lucky escape for you though, huh, tough guy?” “One of them was my brother.” “I’m sorry for that. Like I said, you’re alive. Came out smelling like a rose, with Dylan as your knight in shining—” “I pissed myself with fear, all right? I hid. I am not proud of that.” A long silence descended between them. William switched to the sports page. After a while Peter asked, “Is anyone ever going to find out exactly what happened out there?” “You mean will they be able to punish the people responsible?” “Yeah.” “Nope,” William told him from behind the paper. More silence. “Anything else interesting?” “The American League championship series has been decided although the National League is tied at two games a piece. Last night’s game was postponed due to rain.” Peter sighed. “You really care about Skip?” “I care about Dylan. Yes.” He tried to find something fascinating in the local arts section, but failed. “So…you’re like him?” “Yes”—William snapped the paper down between them—“I’m like him. Yes, I want him. And no, I don’t care who the fuck knows it.” “Jeez.” Peter shifted in his seat, and William laughed. “Does that get you hot, papi?” “If you want to know, it makes me damned uncomfortable. And not in any way that’s pleasant.” William shook his head and buried his face back in the paper. “Are we there yet?”

Dylan missed William. Wasn’t it crazy to miss the author of his current misfortune? The surly, proud, sometimes irrational yet very young blowhard got on his nerves and required his constant care, but Dylan felt his loss as keenly as he felt all the others in his life. Even though he had plenty of work to do winterizing six ATVs for Scott so they could be put safely away for the off season—a task that would probably take a couple of days to do right—he couldn’t stop thinking about the look on William’s face when he left. Dylan cursed Peter’s timing, but Peter was entirely right. It was best to help William move on, the sooner the better. William was well enough to travel, and even after their passionate night together there wasn’t any real reason for him to stay. They hadn’t spoken of love or made promises.

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Dylan had achieved exactly what he’d started out to do. He’d saved William from Yves’s wrath and gotten him a second chance, and whatever he did with it was none of Dylan’s business anymore at all. Except…if Dylan thought of William—when he thought of him—what he remembered was a stunning white smile and eyes that seemed to follow him wherever he moved. He remembered a man who didn’t have many friends, someone prickly, taciturn and fatalistic. And Dylan had the feeling that maybe their hollow places matched. That what they had to give each other was something they both needed in the worst way. Dylan tossed the toothbrush with which he was exhuming dirt from every crevice of his third ATV of the day to the ground and wiped the sweat from his forehead onto the shoulder of his T-shirt. A twig snapped behind him, and he turned to find Esme carrying a pitcher of lemonade and a glass with ice. “I thought you might be thirsty.” Her eyes widened when she got a look at him, probably because he was covered in grime and paste wax. “Thanks, I was parched.” He washed his hands as well as he could with the hose, then joined her on a bench someone had thoughtfully installed in the shade where guests might wait for their turn to ride. He looked at the solitary glass and offered it to her. “If you want this, I’ll pour you one then drink from the pitcher.” She gave his arm a pat. “You go ahead, I had mine.” Dylan did as she said, downing nearly an entire glass in one go. He couldn’t help a pleasurable moan. “That’s perfect.” “This is thirsty work. Ernesto did it last year. He’s glad you’re here, for sure.” They looked up through the trees above their heads. Big white clouds skittered swiftly across the sky. They moved so fast it disoriented Dylan for a minute. Then he looked back at Esme who waited for him to speak, patient as always, and the feeling passed. “I’m happy to do it. I’ve done three so far. Washed and waxed like they were going on a date, oil and filters changed, topped off the tanks. I added stabilizer and ran them for a few—” “Ernesto taught you well.” “He surely did. He still is. He told me that mice like to spend the winter in an open exhaust pipe and I should cap them off last thing before I tarp them. I had no idea.” “Did he tell you how he knows?” Esme grinned at him. “Mice make him scream like a chick.” Dylan laughed out loud. “There’s my pretty boy. I didn’t think I was going to see that smile today, m’hijo.” Dylan’s grin faded a little but he tried to keep it in place, if only for her. “You miss him?” Dylan glanced down at the floor. “Yeah.” “Why’d you let him go?”

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“Peter was headed that way and it just made sense for William to go to St. George when he had a ride.” “But why did you let him go?” Esme pressed. “I saw how you two looked at each other at dinner last night. He idolizes you. And you take good care of each other.” “He’s better off now. He doesn’t need to hide out here anymore.” “Did you ask him? Did you ask him if he wanted to stay?” “No.” Dylan frowned. “That wasn’t part of the plan.” “Maybe you should have made a new plan when you started to look at him like he put the moon in the sky, m’hijo.” Dylan’s cheeks heated. “I didn’t look at him like that.” Esme was silent. “Did I?” Esme refilled his glass. “He reminds me of my Ernesto. He has to be the big man, always so tough, yet gentle with me like I’m his treasure. Even when he’s angry. That’s the way William looked at you…” “He’s half my age, Nina.” “He’s hot too. That, my friend, is nice work if you can get it.” Esme let that percolate while she returned to watching the clouds. “The sky looks like it’s going to open up again later. It’s dark in the west.” She hummed a tune he vaguely recognized as some mariachi standard. “Cielito Lindo”, maybe. It fit. Heaven. “When I met William—when we ran away together—I gave up everything, and at first it was only a vague principle. Something I believed in, in the abstract.” Dylan thought of William at dinner—smarter than Dylan guessed at first, impatient, sarcastic, yet polite and self-possessed. He pictured him soaking wet, running along the woodsy path from the lodge to the cabin, white teeth glowing like the Cheshire cat simply because he was free to run and laugh in the rain. “You know? That changed as I got to know him. I should have told him that I thought he was worth it.” “Maybe he’ll get to be a vet someday?” “I don’t see how. His family pushed him into that life, and since his brother was killed they’ll want revenge. He needs to start over.” “Maybe he’s got something to trade, huh? Go into witness protection like in the movies?” “I don’t know. It’s not my problem anymore. I don’t even know how to get in touch with him.” “Aye, pavo.” Esme rolled her eyes. “I’m going to make a prediction. I don’t think you’ll need to. You stay here and get strong for a while and we’ll see.”

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Chapter Twenty-One

William said goodbye to Dr. Evans at the bus station after talking him into buying an unrestricted one-way fare to Seattle. He used the excuse that he didn’t feel well enough to sit on a bus after being in a car for four hours and wanted to spend a night or two in a motel first. Evans was eager to be rid of him and didn’t argue, even though he looked suspicious, as if William were trying to pull something over on him but he couldn’t figure out what. Since William was doing exactly that, he wasn’t unhappy to see the doctor drive away, his SUV’s right turn signal blinking properly on the way out of the bus terminal parking lot. After spending several hours with Dr. Evans, William knew two things conclusively. The first was that the man was an insensitive jerk and the second was Dylan had definitely dodged a bullet with regard to in-laws. Evans’s mother called him three times while they were on the road to ask him to pick things up for her because she didn’t feel up to going out. He constantly referred to the things he owned, his house, his vacation cabin, his clinic and his practice. He didn’t mind dropping the people in his life into that category either. His wife. His kids. He let William know more than once that illegals could become citizens and offered to tell him the proper procedure to take, even though William told him he was born in L.A. He’d been obsessed with Dylan, unable to stop talking about him even when William tried to discourage it. William frowned, remembering the conversation they’d had just as they’d rolled into St. George. “Did Dylan talk about me after I treated you at the clinic?” “No, man. Only that he knew you. You’re married to his twin.” “Was he surprised? Did he say anything?” “No.” “He didn’t tell you anything?” “No.” He didn’t have to. Duh. “What did he talk about with Des?” “I don’t know. I was sleeping.” “Do you think he’s happy?” “You already asked me. I think he was happy until I came along.” “What was he like? The man Dylan was with.” “Are we in high school, or what?” “Seriously, I want to know. Was he good to Dylan?”

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“Yeah. I guess. Mosko was rich like a king. Married. He kept Dylan on the side.” “Really?” Peter frowned his disapproval at this. “Yeah. Dylan said the wife was okay with it because the family came first.” “She knew?” “Yeah. They were Russians or something. Acted like it was a cultural thing.” “And Dylan was happy?” “Look. I don’t know what you want me to say. He was happy. They seemed affectionate. I watched him for a while from a distance. Before, you know? When I saw them together the dude was…he cared about Dylan. You could tell. He cared about him a lot.” “Did Dylan care about that man? Did he love him?” “Yeah. Dylan did.” William closed his eyes. “That’s why I suck. Because of me Dylan gave that up.” “Do you think—?” “Look, Doctor. You’re giving me a fucking headache. Isn’t that against your oath or something?” “There’s no need for profanity.” “It’s obvious what’s going on here, yeah? You threw him away and someone else picked him up. You wanted him when you were kids. You never stopped wanting him. You might even love him. And you chose the most convenient substitute you could find and built a house of cards over that.” “You don’t know anything. You’re just a piece of common—” “This is what happens when that house of cards comes down, Dr. Evans.” The doctor fumed for a long time. “You know nothing about me.” “I know everything I need to know. You love Dylan—” Evans slapped the steering wheel. “Skip. His name is Skip Hatcher and he was my best friend and I loved him very much. But I’m not like you. It isn’t something squalid.” William rolled his eyes. “Fine. A long time ago you loved Skip Hatcher, but let me tell you. You lost him because you didn’t have the balls for it. It’s time to move on.” At the time, William thought Evans would eject him from the car right then and there on the side of the highway. He was probably saved by a fourth call from Evans’s mother, this time asking what was taking him so long. He wanted to feel sorry for Evans. He was after all a closeted gay man whose family took unfair advantage of him. That sounded familiar to William in a way he couldn’t ignore. But no. All William felt was a kind of vague amusement at Evans’s expense. Dr. Evans, in the end, didn’t have the balls to love a man who deserved it, who was by far the kindest, best man William had ever known. And to William, well…to be the guy who got it? That felt good. And wouldn’t you know, he was in sucktastic St. George on his way to some suckier hastily chosen destination in Washington with no idea how to find his way back.

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He walked around the streets local to the bus station until he found a place called Wing Nutz where he bought a couple of plates of spicy wings and a glass of iced tea. It was time to think but it seemed the waitress was hell-bent on keeping him from doing just that. She asked questions about his food and whether he was local. She had dyed blue hair that spiked up in the middle like a shark and shiny pink lips. Her neck and chest bore vine tattoos that weren’t visible unless she twisted a certain way, which she did—deliberately—while she refilled his iced tea. She stuck out among her coworkers like a cat in a school of fish. Any minute one of her fresh-scrubbed, wholesome coworkers was going to start singing one of these things is not like the other. Only marginally ashamed of himself, he relaxed back in his chair, let his legs fall open like the damned peacock he was, and prepared to flirt.

Desiree glanced up from the chair where she was reading when Peter came home. “You didn’t have to wait up.” “I didn’t.” Desiree watched Peter walk across the room and accepted a peck on the cheek. She put her book down. “I was soaking up the quiet while it lasted.” “Tough day?” Peter sat on the chair opposite and went through the pile of mail and messages she’d left for him. “No more than usual, hectic but fun. Petey and Micah had water wars in the tub and Sarah has decided to go on a hunger strike for a horse because she watched The Black Stallion at your mom’s place. I put them to bed, finally, and got them to sleep, and since then I’ve been enjoying my book.” “My mom mentioned that horse thing. She thinks that’s great. She said when Sarah’s old enough she wants to buy us a good horse.” “Your mom won’t have to board that horse and shuttle Sarah back and forth between lessons.” Des took a deep breath and told herself to relax. She didn’t want to start a fight about his mother. Again. “You like horses. Lots of girls go through a horsy phase, don’t they? They buy the little plastic horses instead of dolls?” “I never did.” Des remembered her friends in elementary school soaking up books like Black Beauty and Misty of Chincoteague but they left her cold. She’d always been more interested in people than animals. They both knew what they didn’t say out loud. Skip had been the horsy one. He’d practically been a centaur. He’d ridden as soon as he could persuade their parents to let him and badgered them for lessons until they gave in. “You, Des, were far too busy being intelligent and talented,” Peter teased. “If Sarah wants, later we can consider some lessons on a rental horse for a while. She’s way too young to even think about it now.” “I’m sure mother can persuade her to wait.”

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Des settled back in her chair and watched his face. “How did it go? Was William doing all right?” “Yeah. Jeez, what a pain in the…” He sighed. “He’s fine. Well on his way to being a full-fledged nuisance in someone else’s backyard. How Skip could have endured his attitude as long as he did—” Des tensed. “What do you mean as long as he did?” “The boy is fine. I bought him a bus ticket to Seattle. He’s out of our lives and I don’t mind telling you, I’m glad.” “Why is that? He seemed polite enough when he was here. And he’s not exactly a boy.” “I don’t pretend to know why Skip—” “He wants us to call him Dylan now.” “All right.” Peter’s hands tightened on the pile of junk mail and flyers. “I don’t pretend to know why Dylan got involved with someone like that, but it seems to me even Dylan could set his sights a little higher than some young gang member, no matter how attractive he might be perceived to be. There’s such a thing as personality to be considered, but I guess Skip—Dylan—doesn’t value that as much as I do.” The muscles in Des’s jaw clenched rigidly. She knew Peter could have no idea how much his words upset her. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that if personality were important, he should consider growing one. In despair she let out a long, deep breath. “Everyone is different.” “They are indeed. I need a shower.” He gazed at her for a long moment, his expression softening, turning playful and a little pouty. It was a hangdog sort of come-on that used to make her want to fix what made him sad. “Will you be coming to bed soon?” Des’s heart clattered nervously. She honestly couldn’t bear that look right then. She glanced away from his attractive, hopeful face and decided just this once to tell the truth. “I’m really enjoying this book. I want to finish it and I don’t have far to go. I’ll be in when I’m done.” Peter’s face fell. “Suit yourself.” She fielded the smile she used for small talk at church. “Thank you.” He smiled grudgingly back at her, displaying the uneven, on-again, off-again charm she’d once found genuinely amusing. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your book.” He turned his back and switched off the overhead lights, leaving her sitting in the circle of illumination from a single standing lamp. Des took the phone out from under the throw pillow next to where she sat and sent a text message to Dylan, although she had little hope he’d receive it until he went into town. Are you okay? Peter said William left? I hope everything is all right. Good night. So far he hadn’t answered any of her messages or texts, and she realized he must not have coverage at the lake. Surely he would get her voicemail messages if he went into Panguitch itself. Panguitch should have coverage. Maybe then he would get in touch. Now that she’d seen him again she yearned to simply sit down with him somewhere and open up her heart. To fill him in and find out everything about his life,

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everything he’d done, everywhere he’d been. She wanted to ask his advice, share her children, and link their lives together as they should have been linked all along. If anyone was going to teach her baby to ride a horse, it should be Skip. She trusted him completely to choose a good stable, a gentle mount and a teacher who would provide safe instruction. Somehow in the past three days she’d gone from giving up all hope of ever seeing him again to stitching him into the patchwork of her daily life. It would kill her to lose him now. This time, she wouldn’t be able to endure the loneliness. She heard the shower shut off and imagined Peter going through his nightly routine. He would brush, floss, pee, wash hands, slip on sleep pants, then slide between the sheets without disturbing the blankets and quilts. He went through the motions as automatically as she did. Des did her thinking at times like these, when it was dark and quiet and all her responsibilities were put away for the night. She wondered—when everyone she cared about was safe and could be let go—if at least once or twice Peter had found some sort of wild and happy passion in Skip’s arms. Because he surely hadn’t found it in hers. And even though it was odd in the extreme, she hoped that Peter had, at some point, experienced true passion with someone. She loved him at least enough to wish him that.

William was waiting outside the employee exit for blue-shark Annie when she got off shift. She cocked her head to one side and grinned at him. “Do I need to worry about this? Are you a serial killer or something?” He rolled his eyes. “Nope. But I’m not perfect or anything.” “Who is?” “So you want to do something?” “Sure.” She stood right there under the safety light for a while, thinking. “You don’t have a car?” “Nope.” “Probably got no money either and no place to stay, huh?” Her face had lost its happy anticipation. He wanted to put her at ease so he shot her a cheeky smile. “That’s where you’d be wrong. I’ve got some cash. I can take you out someplace, if you want. I don’t have a place to stay though.” He balanced his duffle on his hip, tried to look attractive, wondering again if he was doing it right. Mostly girls liked him fine. While he’d lived with Paco he hadn’t been above fucking around with them either. He got off and his brother’s boys didn’t kill him. Win-win. She looked him over and licked her lips. “What if where I want to go is back to my place?” There it was. Easy-peasy. He was in. And shit, just like that, he knew he couldn’t do it. He closed his eyes. “I’m kind of seeing someone. Maybe I just need a friend.”

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She turned away and started walking. “Maybe I’ve got plenty of friends.” He raced past her and turned around, walking backwards as she headed to her car. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He sang a few lines from “Friend Like Me” from the Disney Aladdin flick until she stopped and sighed. “What will it take to get you to stop singing?” That seemed like a pretty good sign. “I need a place to stay for a couple of nights.” Her gaze was shrewd. “Who beat you up?” “My brother’s gang.” Partially true anyway. They certainly had beat on him. “I don’t want to go back to that.” Her shoulders relaxed a little as she considered him. “For real?” “Yeah.” “Are you armed or anything?” He shook his head. “You can check my stuff. Search me. A guy helped me and gave me money, but I’m… I don’t know anything or anyone around here and I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.” If he could get a cheap car or a motorcycle, he might head back to Dylan…maybe. He’d go on foot and hitch if he thought Dylan wanted him. She lifted her purse and removed her phone. Quick as a wink, she snapped his picture and spent a few seconds thumbing a text to someone. “What was that for?” he asked, slightly irritated that she’d done it without his permission. Spots danced in front of his eyes. “I just sent that to my best friend Courtney. If anything happens to me, she’ll give it to the police. Come with me.” He followed her to an older model Jetta that had definitely seen better days. She unlocked the doors remotely and he opened the back, throwing his duffle in before getting in at the front. “I appreciate this, Annie. Normally I don’t just…you know.” “Hit on girls and ask them to do shit for you?” William frowned at her. “Hey, I told you I’d take you out. Is there someplace you’d like to go? A movie you want to see?” “I am hungry…” “See, that’s good. I’ll take you out for dinner. Anything but wings, man. That’s like picking the meat off baby mice.” Annie snorted and eased the car out onto the street. “Then why’d you come in?” “It was local. I was at the bus station and I didn’t have a car. Like I said. I don’t know the area.” “So you’re relying on your charm and Disney cartoons to get you a ride and a place to stay?”

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“That’s about it. How’s that working so far?” He bit his lip. Some people found him charming. Maybe if he kept working it. She relaxed a little. “Pretty good I’d say. Usually guys just use their charm to get laid.” He shrugged. “I’m not most guys. I like you, Annie, but I’m not like that. I could use a friend.” They drove in silence for quite a while, until she pulled into the parking lot of an Outback Steakhouse. She asked, “You like this place?” “I never ate here. Anyplace is fine.” She drove into a space and took the keys from the ignition. “I hope you don’t regret letting me pick.” “I’m sure I won’t.” He waited while she checked her look in the rearview mirror and patted her hair into place. While she was reapplying her pink crayon lipstick, her phone rang. She pulled it out of her purse. “Hello?” He watched her face as she listened to her caller. Whatever she was hearing made her unhappy in the extreme. She said a few words and then a curt goodbye. When she hung up, she thumbed the keypad on her blackberry maniacally while she frowned at the screen. “What’s the matter?” She shook her head. “Wait.” He waited. He didn’t have any idea what she was doing. His phone, when he’d had one, was a burn phone his brother gave him. It wasn’t exactly state of the art. She seemed to be surfing the web. “Jeez…” She glanced up at him and smacked the steering wheel. “Just my fucking luck.” She barreled out of the car at top speed and took off at a dead run for the restaurant. Panicked, he did the same, catching her about twenty-five feet from the entrance and holding her so she couldn’t go anywhere. “What the hell is going on, Annie?” She held up her phone. “Look. If I press this the phone dials nine-one-one. You have exactly ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t do just that, since you’re wanted by the authorities for questioning in the disappearance of a Las Vegas man, and they’re showing your pictures everywhere on the news.”

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Chapter Twenty-Two

Dylan watched the news broadcast in stunned silence. His mind had been reeling ever since Ernesto came to get him at his cabin with the cryptic message from Scott that there was something he ought to see. They’d run back from his place in the rain without speaking. He knew something was wrong but hadn’t imagined this. His face, a picture taken at an Opera Las Vegas fundraiser where he’d been wearing an understated, simple tux and a straight black tie, was displayed on the screen next to the newscaster. Apparently he’d been reported missing, feared dead, by Yvgeny Mosko himself, who’d held a press conference just that evening, in time for the five o’clock news broadcast. Scott had recorded the very last few sound bites of the story for him. William, shown in what looked to be a grainy security camera photo, was considered a person of interest in his disappearance. What a mess. No doubt William would be recognized and detained at some point along his bus journey if he hadn’t already been. Shit. “Why has he done this now?” He glanced up at Scott. “I’ve been gone for nearly a week.” “Mosko and his wife showed up with attorneys and fielded questions. He’s saying he didn’t realize at first that his ‘dear friend’ had gone missing, and then when he realized you had, he expected that your housekeeper would receive a ransom call. They called the police in when several days passed and none came.” “Did anyone question why he—of all people—came forward? It certainly isn’t something a man like Mosko would normally handle publicly. What the hell is he up to?” “Given that there have been a number of drug-related kidnappings recently in the Southwest and it was a car leased to one of his corporations that turned up with burned bodies locked inside, some of the reporters asked questions about deals gone bad and other alleged illegal activities. Mosko’s attorney shut them down. He said Mosko—a ‘prominent, legitimate business owner’ in Las Vegas—was only there in the capacity of concerned friend, and the sooner you were found, the happier he and his wife would be. He told reporters that Mosko refuses to believe your disappearance had to do with drugs or anything of that nature, that you’d apparently, in his words, gone home with the wrong kind of man.” “Ah, jeez.” Mosko, intensely private, wouldn’t show his face in public, wouldn’t allow himself to be scrutinized like this without a really good reason. “I don’t know what he’s doing.” “I’m sorry, son.”

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“I wish I had a way to warn William.” “What about you? I thought you said that Mosko would come after you?” “He might. And if he does find me, it won’t be pretty.” “That doesn’t sound like you care too much one way or the other.” Dylan folded his arms. “It’s more like I don’t know what I can do about it one way or the other. I had a really good ride with Mosko. I knew what he was. I knew I’d have to pay for all of it someday. That day has come and I can’t have regrets. Well…I wish William could be safe. That’s all.” Dylan turned to leave but Esme stopped him. “That’s bullshit, m’hijo. You can’t stand back and let this happen. You have to find a way to fix this. You won’t be able to show your face. You’ll be hunted. There’s a big reward if anyone finds you.” “I don’t know what to do.” He rubbed his forehead. There was no point in hiding his problem now. “I think he’ll kill me when he finds me.” “Maybe you should call the authorities and tell them you’re fine? Go public?” “And say what? I went on a walkabout? Yves isn’t going to forgive my betrayal, and he said he’d send William back to L.A. in pieces. I promise you he hasn’t changed his mind.” “So what do you plan to do?” “What do I always do?” Dylan’s heart contracted painfully. “Run.”

Desiree yawned and turned the last page of her book. She stretched, her muscles, knowing she’d pay for the quiet moments with dark circles under her eyes and a looser grip on her emotions the following day. Sometimes the pleasure of the moment, especially a quiet, uninterrupted period of solitude, so difficult to come by, made the price she’d have to pay worth it. Her phone sang from where she’d tucked it back under the pillow, and she got up quickly to answer it, frowning. Dylan. It had to be Dylan. Peter wasn’t on call. Her heart sped up. She was enough of a doctor’s wife to know that nothing good ever came of a late-night phone call. “Hello?” She was proud that after she saw Scott Farnsworth’s residential number on the caller ID she hadn’t said what’s wrong? “I’m all over the news,” Dylan told her without preamble. “It seems I’m missing and William is wanted for questioning as a person of interest in my disappearance. Our photos are out there. I have to leave again.” “Wait. Aren’t you about as safe as you could be where you are? No one will find you there. If Scott has guests, just stay out of sight. You haven’t done anything wrong!” “Des…”

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“Just hold off and think this through. At least until morning.” Des glanced at the clock again. “Wait there. We’re coming up.” “But—” “Do that for me at least, all right? Wait at Scott’s place and I’ll be there before morning. We’ll decide what we need to do together, as a family. I’m not letting you slip away again.” She disconnected over Dylan’s protests and headed for the bedroom. She found Peter on his side, facing the middle of the bed. She knew he was tired, driving to Panguitch and back on top of his shift had to be exhausting. But Dylan was in trouble and she wasn’t going to let history repeat itself. “Peter.” Des gently prodded his back. “Peter, wake up.” Peter rolled to his back and glanced up at her with one eye. “What?” “Dylan’s in trouble, we need to go get him. We have to—” “Des, it’s the middle of the night, it can wait until morning, surely?” “No.” She hated that she wrung her hands and instead gripped her thighs tightly to keep them still. “Dylan’s picture was on the news. They think William did something to him and the authorities are looking for both of them.” Peter grunted. “Then they’re damned perceptive because that’s exactly what happened. Dylan can just call the authorities and tell them he’s fine.” “No he can’t. Dylan’s afraid of the people looking for him. There’s someone after him who wants revenge. He’s going to panic and run again. We have to stop him this time.” “Des. How is this our problem?” Peter sat up and switched on the lamp that sat on his nightstand. He pulled Desiree down to sit beside him on the bed and held her hands clasped in his. “He’s only running from what he got himself into. It’s none of our business anymore.” Desiree pulled her hands free. She noticed idly that Peter’s hair stood on end a little less endearingly than it used to. It was cut short, and he nearly always wore it tortured into a conservative side-part affair. After they got married, it dawned on her that he must like it that way. “He’s my brother,” she said with quiet authority. “He made his bed.” Peter frowned at her. “He consorted with gangsters and hoodlums and who knows what else. Heaven knows what kinds of men he’s been with. What other messes he’s gotten himself into. He has no right to bring that into our home, to our family.” Her fists clenched where they rested on her thighs. “He is my family.” “Des. You need to calm down and listen to me. Cut him loose.” Peter caught her hands again and squeezed hard. “I know it’s difficult but he made his choice. Let him go. He’s unrepentant. He’s lived in unforgivable sin. He’s lost to us.”

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Once again, she yanked away from him. She rose and headed toward the closet to get her jacket. “You’d better hope that’s not true,” she shot over her shoulder. “I don’t know who you think you are, and I sure don’t know how dumb you think I am, but Dylan isn’t going to pay for that so-called crime anymore. I’m taking the kids and we’re going to figure this out together, him and me…” “The hell you are!” Peter shot to his feet. “Those are my kids too.” She turned to face him, her upper body leaning heavily against the wall. She clutched her jacket in the fingers of both hands, her knuckles white with strain. “Then you’d better respect that I’m their mother and Dylan’s my family. I’m going. I’m taking the kids. You can stand in the driveway where they can see you wave goodbye to them, or you can listen to the car drive away from in here and wonder how much information I have about your private-sex-line phone bills and your gay-porn surfing and whether I’ll use it against you should I ever sue you for custody. Your choice.” “Des…” Peter whispered. “I’ve never…” “Stop lying!” Des wanted to cover her ears with her hands so she didn’t have to listen to it. “Stop it right now and I promise you everything will be fine. I don’t want to hurt you, but you’ve messed with my brother—my family—enough. You have no idea what I’m willing to do to protect them.” Peter’s mouth opened and then closed again. He stood stunned into silence before her. “I’m sorry. Really,” Des told him quietly. “About everything. You will never know how sorry I am.” He said one word, “Go,” and turned away from her. Des took a long look at him. “I promise you, Peter, someday you’ll realize today is the first day you can be honest with yourself in a long time, and I’ve got your back, like I’ve always had Dylan’s. I swear. It’s all going to be okay.” He shook his head and she took her leave, waking up the boys while she picked up a sleeping Sarah, and then leading them to the car. She strapped her daughter into her car seat while they arranged themselves in their boosters, double-checking the webbing and latches on everyone’s seat belts before she got in. “Why isn’t Daddy coming with us?” Micah asked sleepily. He waved to Peter as Peter walked out to the front porch. “He’s got to work, sweetie,” Des told him. “He can’t come this time.” Peter blew the kids kisses, exactly as she’d asked him to. Des waved at him. She hoped he understood that she was more than equal to the task of defending him against his mother and protecting his place as the father of her children. She hoped he understood that she loved him in spite of his lies and beyond them. That ultimately, she’d been there for him in ways he’d never dreamed. Probably he didn’t. But she’d enlighten him, little by little.

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Chapter Twenty-Three

When the sky opened up again, Dylan felt a curious kinship with it, like it was acting out in his place, raining down all the anger and bitterness and disappointment he’d been feeling for years. He sat on the swing suspended from the covered porch of his tiny cabin with his arms wrapped around his knees and watched, not caring how the occasional shift in wind lashed and pelted his skin with icy drops that stung and soaked him. He felt divorced from his body and disconnected from the few friends he had. He already mourned them, knowing that in the morning he would head out for more long years of solitude. The optimism that he usually held in his heart failed him utterly. He doubted his ability to bounce back from this. He worried that maybe tearing off his past like a Band-Aid and trying to start over someplace new wasn’t something he could do again. He made a point of being detached, of living his life free of strong desires and entanglements, and he’d begun to think that maybe his life with Yves hadn’t meant that much to him. That he’d been marking time, because now he remembered what it was like to love someone. To lose someone he loved. And it wasn’t the same at all. He loved William. He wanted him like he’d never wanted anyone in his life, ever. Not even Peter. William was uncomplicated and real. Dylan felt a kinship to him the same way he felt a connection to the earth. He believed that William saw him, every part of him, the good, the bad, the contradictory, the tiny kernel of self-loathing that even Dylan hadn’t realized was there, and loved him anyway. Not just in spite of his flaws, but because of them. Because what he saw as beauty on the outside wasn’t as important to him as the strength he found on the inside. And how could Dylan begin to explain how that made him feel? William was a tough kid with a prickly pride and a sweetness that seeped from him like sugar sap. He was young and hot but perceptive as hell. Dylan had trusted him to tell the truth. Trusted him with his body and his heart. And now that he’d gone it was a wrenching blow. In the final analysis Dylan had to wonder if that meant he had spectacularly poor judgment. He’d trusted Peter, and Peter had turned out to be a hypocrite. He’d trusted Yves and betrayed that trust, which might cost him his life. He trusted William, but William had to move on alone. He wondered whether it was simply that he couldn’t trust himself. Scott had an older truck he was willing to sell Dylan for virtually nothing and in the morning he’d say goodbye to everyone and leave. He figured he’d throw some grass in the air and see which way the wind

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blew and head off in that direction. Skip Hatcher was gone, Dylan Anderson was gone. He’d bury them deep and find some new name, some new identity to use and start over. The king is dead; long live the king.

“Okay, this is really scary,” Annie shouted over the boom of thunder overhead. “I’m not used to driving mountain roads.” “You’re doing really well, Annie.” William’s stiff hands were white where he clutched his seat. “It’s not easy, but you’re going slow and steady. There’s no traffic, so just worry about staying on the road.” “It feels like the wind is blowing the car around.” “If you want to pull off at a turnout and let me take the wheel I can, but I don’t have a lot more experience than you do.” “That’s okay. If I’m going to die, I’d rather it be by my own hand.” “That’s very reassuring.” He leaned forward and turned on the window defroster. “This should help the fogging problem.” “So this guy…Dylan.” “What about him?” “Well, we’re driving through a category-four hurricane to get to him at the top of a mountain…” He glanced over at her tense face. “Dramatic much?” “The least you could do is tell me a little about him. Think of it as taking my mind off my fear.” Thunder clapped overhead again and he felt it in the hollow of his chest, like a punch. “Maybe your fear is a good thing. Keep your eyes on the road.” “I am.” She drove in anxious silence for a while. “He has the book of Genesis memorized in Spanish.” “Is he a Mormon or something?” “Yeah. I think he is.” William shrugged. “Or he was at one time, but his family kicked him out when he fell in love with a guy.” “That sucks.” “I doubt he’s left it as far behind as everybody thinks.” She frowned. “Nobody ever does, honey.” “Okay. He’s a hot, hot man.” “I saw his picture on the news, William. He’s totally hot. But he’s old.” “Yeah, like Brad Pitt is old. He’s fucking fine, I’m just saying… Anyway, he’s used to all kinds of rich shit. Expensive food, nice things. I’ve got nothing to offer him.” “So what are we doing this for again?” She flicked a glance his way. “Just to say we did?”

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“No.” William gazed out the window even though he saw nothing. He could tell that on his side of the car, just feet away, there was a steep drop, and if Annie made the tiniest error in judgment they’d plummet to the bottom of a gorge and no one would find them, probably ever. Annie was scared shitless, but he’d had a while to offer his heart up to the possibility that his life could be over in the blink of an eye. Something teased at him, a new idea beginning to form, at the epicenter of which was a pair of startling blue eyes. “The thing about Dylan is that he’s like a pretty rock. You can be walking along on a path and see a billion pretty rocks, but he’s unique. Right away I saw that he had something, some kind of inner fire, something so valuable, so rare, that it made me feel special. I want to laugh out loud because all these other people who know him don’t see it. Like I have x-ray vision or something and he belongs to me because I’m the one that found the prize inside.” Annie said nothing, just looked at him like he was crazy for one second then turned back to the road. “I realize that sounds nuts.” “People describe love all different kind of ways.” “Love? Is that what that is?” “Seriously. Dude. What else could it be?” William frowned. “He thinks I’m a kid.” “Yeah, well. Compared to him you are.” “He’s got the looks. He could get anyone he wants.” “Yeah probably.” “But here’s the thing. He’s like a code I cracked, and he’s mine.” William turned to face the window. “That’s the spirit. I can’t wait till I tell my friend, Courtney. She’ll puke with envy that I’m embroiled in some sort of homosexual love tragedy.” “Maybe we could try to avoid calling it a tragedy just yet.” “When I get back I’ll tell her you both did me like a sandwich-cookie filling. Ooh, I got it. I’ll tell her you guys insisted on double penetration. I’ll tell her—” “Er… Annie…” “She will glow green like she’s radioactive or something.”

Dylan heard an engine nearby and wondered who the hell it could be. It didn’t rattle like Ernesto’s small pickup or roar like the Farnsworths’ four-by-four, but for a second he thought it might be Esme, delivering some kind of treat she’d baked for him. He had been awfully shaken earlier and had returned to his cabin over everyone’s protests. It would be just like Esme to whip up a little something to make him feel better and drive it down here so she could talk him out of his funk.

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Tires crunched over the pea gravel, and he could hear the slap-slap of windshield wipers going double-time to sluice off the pounding rain. When an unfamiliar black Volkswagen Jetta pulled up and parked next to the cabin, he waited until it stopped and the interior lights came on. He saw a girl first. She was college age and seemed to have blue hair. She tore around from the driver’s side and up the steps to his cabin, squealing as she wiped the water from her eyes. Dylan’s heart sped up. The girl’s passenger was slower to get out. He was yanking on the strap of a black duffle bag that had lodged itself firmly between the two front seats and wasn’t coming loose. He got out of the car and stalked to the rear door, then opened it to retrieve the bag. He turned after slamming both doors, and taking a minute to lift the strap over his shoulder as if he had all the time in the world, marched up the stairs to the porch where he dropped onto the swing seat next to Dylan. “When we get our place, we need a porch swing just like this one, papi.” Dylan stared at him, afraid to say anything. Afraid to ask what it meant that William came back with a blue-haired girl in the middle of a terrible storm. The girl looked down at them and laughed. “Yeah. Nothing like enjoying a porch swing on a beautiful day like this one.” William’s hand captured one of Dylan’s and he laced their fingers together. “Meet Annie. She gave me a ride.” Before he knew exactly what it was he was going to do, Dylan had wrapped his arms around William so tight that it probably squeezed all the air out of him. He put his face in the junction of William’s neck and muscled shoulder and held on, breathing in the scent of rain and man that had transformed itself only the night before into something he realized he didn’t want to live without. Something he would always associate with William and belonging and home. “You came back?” he whispered. “Yeah.” William cupped Dylan’s face in his hands, gentle and firm, exactly the way Dylan liked it. “I’m tired.” Dylan sagged against him. “I know. Just rest now.” William started the swing rocking. He nodded to Annie, who took their bags and went inside the cabin, closing the door behind her.

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Chapter Twenty-Four

In the early hours of the morning Dylan woke fully clothed in one of the cabin’s beds, pressed tightly against William, who was awake and seemed to find some idle comfort from petting him. He enjoyed the feel of soft fingers tangling through his hair for several minutes before speaking. “I vaguely remember how I got in here.” “It didn’t take too much effort. You got up and walked by yourself once I told you I needed you to keep me warm.” “You came back.” Dylan smiled again. “Yes.” “Why?” “Maybe I never wanted to leave in the first place. After about the first ten miles I spent my time trying to figure out how soon I could ditch Dr. Impossible.” William rolled his eyes. “Your boy Peter is a pain in the ass.” “He’s not my boy.” Dylan could well imagine how awkward the situation had been. Given the news reports the night before— “Wait.” He rose abruptly. “I was on the news.” William’s hand tightened in Dylan’s hair. “I know. I saw the whole thing last night. Annie showed me the story on her phone.” “So you didn’t hear it before last night? Did Peter know?” “I don’t know. I read the paper on the way back and it didn’t have anything about us at all, except that they were attributing the bodies in your burned-out car… They were calling that drug-related. I didn’t see a word about you until we saw that story on Annie’s web phone last night.” “Yves held a press conference.” William sighed. “I know. Shit.” Dylan looked over at Annie, who slept on the other bed, and lowered his voice. “What about her, you think we can trust her? There’s a big reward.” “Yeah.” William considered the girl, who had removed only her shoes before tumbling into the other bed exhausted. She’d been rustling around and snoring like a buzz saw for a while. He smiled fondly. “She seems trustworthy. She was scared to death for most of the drive up here, but she gave me her word and she didn’t back down. Paco’s boys weren’t half that solid.” Dylan linked their hands together and pressed his face to William’s chest. “This is a mess.”

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“I know.” William brushed fingers over the back of Dylan’s head for a bit. “I could go, I know. I could move on. I could hide. I’ve done that before.” William’s voice held a warning. “We could go together.” Dylan smiled sadly. “No. Now that I’m all over the news—” “Like I’m going to give you a choice.” William lifted Dylan’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. “We stay together. If it all goes to hell?” He shrugged. “Des said they’re coming up here. That we should discuss this as a family.” “Great,” William growled. “We all know how much Dr. Peter loves me.” “I think I owe it to Des to hear her out. It seems I may have misread the situation with my family.” “What do you mean?” “It’s possible I jumped the gun when I left home. I thought they wanted me gone. All of them.” “You thought that about Des? No way. That woman has got your back. She’s a pit bull when it comes to you.” “That’s what she said. I’m starting to think that maybe—” “Hey, whoa.” Annie sat up. “For a minute I didn’t know where the hell I was.” “Morning.” William grinned at her. “Sorry about…everything, really.” “It’s cool.” When she stretched her arms over her head, her joints popped loudly. “You think we could find something to eat? You were supposed to buy me dinner.”

Desiree paced the golden wood floor of Scott’s office. The kids were in the kitchen with Esme, watching while she whipped up some sort of breakfast for everyone. Ernesto had been sent to bring Dylan to the lodge. “Dylan has guests,” Scott told her. “Who?” “I believe William talked a friend into driving him back up here last night during the storm.” “Jeez.” Desiree shook her head. “I had to stop for a while to wait it out. We found a place to get some food. The kids fell asleep right there in the booth. I couldn’t chance it. I called Peter so he wouldn’t worry.” “That was a bad one. How is Peter?” He indicated that she should take a seat and she did. It was uncomfortably familiar. He shot her an apologetic smile. “I’m not your bishop anymore. I’m just asking as a friend.” “He’s unhappy that I came up here.” “I see.” “We had words.” Scott was silent for a while, watching her. Desiree swallowed hard. “I don’t really think… I think maybe…”

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“You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m really—” “Peter isn’t very happy. I can see that what he did—what everyone asked him to do back when he was young and had some important questions—wasn’t the right thing.” “You think it wasn’t?” “How could it be? His heart is in it. Heaven knows he wants it badly enough. But it’s not, fundamentally, what’s right for him. He’s like a puppet and everyone is controlling the strings but him. It’s going to break him. Sooner, probably, rather than later.” “I know he loves you. He loves those kids. He’d give up everything in a second for every one of you.” “Of course he would. He has. That’s what makes it so awful. He works and smiles and disappears a little bit further into himself every day. When Dylan came back, I could see the conflict in his eyes. Then they just died altogether.” “Because Dylan moved on.” Des felt sick, but it was good to admit what she’d been thinking for a long time. “I know. I think some part of Peter imagined him cryogenically frozen in space or something. I guess he wanted to believe Dylan would be his forever. That makes me a pretty poor—” “No.” Scott shook his head. “Don’t go there.” Des put her hands over her face and bent over, resting her elbows on her knees. Once her tears started to fall she wasn’t able to stop them. “I’m trying to remember that I love him. I’m trying to remember he’s the father of my children, but this hasn’t exactly been like I imagined. I’m not any happier than he is. I want to be there for him. I want my kids to know we will always take care of them. But I want a man who wants to be with me.” She’d finally said—out loud—what she wanted and there was no way to go back. “It’s a mess, Scott.” Scott pressed his lips together. Des pulled tissues from a box on his desk. After she dried her eyes she sat in silence for a while. She felt infused with a sense of peace she hadn’t known for a long time. “I need Dylan in my life. My parents may never accept who he is, but I’m not going to let him go off on his own again like some…hobo.” “I’m a hobo?” Dylan said from the doorway. “Cool.” He walked into the room and bent over to hug her from behind, kissing her cheek when she turned her head. Des sagged with relief the minute he touched her. “I’m so glad you’re here. I worried that you’d be gone before I could get here.” Until that moment she hadn’t entirely believed she’d see him again. Dylan pulled another chair up beside hers and glanced across the desk at Scott. “This feels familiar.” Desiree clasped his hand in hers. “I’m sorry about William. Peter said he pretty much gave him no choice but to leave.” “Don’t be. William is downstairs with your kids and Annie the blue-haired girl, who risked life and limb to bring him up here last night despite the weather.”

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“They’re lucky they didn’t get killed.” Dylan nodded. “I know.” “Peter will be fit to be tied. He doesn’t like it when things don’t go as he planned.” “I know that too.” Dylan lowered his lashes. “I’m sure that he’ll be fine—eventually.” “And I’m equally sure that he won’t. But he’ll have to get over it. We all will.” Desiree put her hand on Dylan’s and gave it a firm squeeze. “We need to figure out what to do next. You can’t just run. Your picture was on the news. And you’re not a fugitive from the law.” “But William is.” “Is he?” Scott asked. “There’s been no mention of the kidnapping in the news, and all the report said was that he was a possible witness in the disappearance of Dylan Anderson. If Dylan Anderson shows up, there’s been no crime. Is William wanted for any other crimes?” Dylan lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know.” “He’s still in danger from that man, Mosko, who reported you missing though, isn’t he?” “Yes. And so am I since I betrayed Mosko’s trust.” “So where does that leave us?” Des asked. “I need to contact Mosko.” “What?” No way was Des on board with that. “It’s the only way. I have to try to talk to him and ask him to let me go. If I don’t do that, I’ll be on the run for the rest of my life.” “Do you think he’ll harm you?” Scott asked, very real concern written in the lines of his face. “Set some kind of a trap for you?” “I don’t know.” Des gripped his hand tighter. “You should call the police. You should tell them everything that happened and let them protect you.” “I can’t do that.” “Why not?” Dylan said nothing. “Why can’t you go to the police, Dylan?” Scott’s voice was imbued with the residual authority of age and leadership. “I wasn’t a witness to anything criminal, ever, when I was with Yves, except the firefight between his security team and the men who kidnapped me. I’d have to give evidence. I’d have to testify against him. I could be charged as an accessory after the fact. They killed all those men when they rescued me. I didn’t see anything because I was in the trunk. But I knew they did it because I watched them burn the car.” “Jeez.” Des felt lightheaded.

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“I can’t testify against him, we have a history together. I’d rather go to jail. I’d rather be dead. I loved him in my own way and I know he cared for me. I could betray him only because it meant William’s life. I couldn’t do it for mine.” “Scott,” Des implored. “Talk some sense into him.” “There’s nothing he can say.” Dylan stood. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going downstairs now. If you want me, I’ll be in a pancake-eating contest with my niece and nephews.” “Dylan.” Des followed him. She grabbed his arm and gave it a firm shake. “Think about what you’re doing.” “I can’t think of anything else. I’ve always done what I thought was right, Des, and I’m for damn sure not going to stop now. I told you before. I’m telling you now. I know it’s right. I feel it”—he touched his heart—“here. I’m not arguing with that. Never.” When Dylan disappeared down the stairs, Des turned to Scott. “Why aren’t you trying to talk some sense into him?” Scott shrugged. “I don’t know. Seems like he’s got some sense already.” “What if that man kills him like he did the others?” Scott shook his head. “We don’t know he’ll do any such thing. Dylan’s been wrong about people before.” “What do you mean?” “He was wrong about you. He was wrong about me. He walked away from us, completely sure that we never wanted to see him again.” “But—” Des stopped herself from arguing. “Yeah. I see what you mean.” “Like I said, he’s been wrong before. I think we have no choice but to let him play this his way. His moral compass is in good working order, but he doesn’t read people very well. He has no idea of his own value. Haven’t you noticed that?” “Of course I’ve noticed… He’s got no clue. I hope you’re right.” Scott eyed the door Dylan had exited moments before. “I hope so too.”

Dylan took Scott’s old truck and drove in the general direction of Panguitch until he had bars on his phone. He got a clear signal about fifteen miles from Scott’s place, so he got out of the car at a turnout and found a boulder in the middle of some pretty trees where he could sit down. He looked straight up at the sky, brushed by the tops of evergreens, blue and fathomless, dappled by clouds. Birds sang. He heard the whisper of the breeze through boughs, the familiar hiss and rattle of aspens. He heard water somewhere, a stream foaming along its pebbly path, rustling rhythmically as light and happy as Des’s kids’ laughter. He breathed in the smell of all that nature—the rich pine tang of living trees and the scent of decay, fallen leaves and pine needles already decomposing in the soil.

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Home. Dylan had found his way home through no fault of his own, and certainly through no ingenuity. Home was simply a handful of people he trusted—those people he loved who loved him back and a place that made him feel as though he had roots that twisted to the center of the earth to hold him firm, and branches that stretched to the sky. The concept would be difficult to explain to Yves. Impossible to explain to Peter. But he was happier than he’d ever been in his life. And more frightened. Dylan dialed Yves’s private number and waited. When it eventually went to voicemail, he called the phone in his house. If his housekeeper was there, she’d answer. Elsa answered on the third ring. “Anderson residence.” “Elsa?” Dylan cleared his throat. “It’s me. I need you to get a message to Yves.”

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Chapter Twenty-Five

William had just built up a decent fire when Dylan returned. “Everyone is all tucked in.” Dylan hesitated in the doorway. “Annie’s in her room at the lodge, and Des and the kids have a cabin of their own.” William rubbed his hands together, uncertain, now that they were alone, what he should do. Dylan closed the door behind him. “William… Do you like me?” William huffed a laugh. “Do I like you? What the hell kind of question is that?” Dylan’s gaze traveled to the floor where he scuffed his feet on the rustic planks. “I’m trying to…” William waited a long time for Dylan to finish his sentence. When he didn’t, William walked to where he stood and caught his hand. “You’re trying to what?” he prompted. “I was with Yves for nearly thirteen years. Did you know that? He called me ‘an unusually industrious boy’, and gave me a job keeping the family cars clean. He kept coming outside when I was working to talk to me, but in all that time… Really, in all our time together, I never understood why.” William shook his head. “You’re pretty easy on the eye, homes.” Dylan grimaced. “Yeah. I mean besides that.” Maybe Dylan was serious. “And you’re wondering now because…” “I’m wondering why you like me.” William drew Dylan into the room so they could sit on their rockers together. “Why wouldn’t I?” “I don’t know. We hardly know each other; we got thrown together. Is that what brings people together, blind fate and physical attraction?” William sensed an unexploded bomb there, like when a girl asks if her jeans make her look fat. “What else is there? I mean, at first?” “Peter and I knew each other forever. Practically from birth. We had all this history. We were best friends. When we finally made love it made perfect sense.” William’s heart squeezed painfully. “Are you and Peter—?” “Oh hell no.” Dylan rubbed a hand over his forehead. “That’s not what I meant.” “’Cause that would be pretty confusing for those kids. I’m not saying you couldn’t make it work. But—” “Just forget about Peter.” Dylan rose but William kept his hand and pulled him back down. The fire crackled behind the screen, and it cast light over Dylan’s skin in all the right ways.

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William tried to read his face. “Help me here, okay? I don’t understand what’s going on in your head.” He took a chance and rubbed Dylan’s hand over his cheek, briefly grazing his knuckles with a kiss. “I don’t speak blond.” Dylan cuffed him. “Why do I want you?” William froze. “Okay, now this is just getting insulting.” “No, I don’t mean— I can’t seem to— I want you. Heaven knows I can’t keep my mind on anything else, but I guess I expected there would be a reason.” William folded his arms. “This just gets better and better.” “I’m twice your age.” “No. You’re not.” “I’m nearly twice your age. And you don’t know anything about me. Not really.” “And?” “And I don’t know anything about you except stuff I wish I didn’t know. Things that can get you arrested or killed. All I know is that I’m afraid all the damn time—except when you touch me I feel safe.” “That’s right. You know you’re safe with me. The world? That can totally fuck you up. But I’m not going to.” “When we met—” “I don’t mean when we first met. And I swear I would have figured some way to help you out of that. I was working on it, but everything happened so fast.” “You still went along.” Dylan shuddered. Sometimes thinking about the kidnapping brought it back in all-too-real detail. “Of course I did. Paco could be like a rabid dog. That was my father’s doing. He thought a man had to be all psycho to get along in the world. Maybe Pop learned that in the joint. I don’t know. He trained Paco to be a thug. He was everything your Dr. Peter believes is true about me.” “He’s not my Dr. Peter.” The rocker scraped over the floorboards as William repositioned it. It put him farther away but on an angle to face Dylan. “I don’t know what you want, Dylan. Things seem pretty black and white to me. Can I trust you? Do you have my back? Are the words that come out of your mouth true, or do you lie?” William put his hand on Dylan’s chest where he could feel a heartbeat, strong and steady, beneath the palm of his hand. “I know how I feel about you. I know what’s in here and it’s solid as a rock. I’d consider myself lucky to try building a life around that.” Dylan laid his hand on William’s chest, mirroring the gesture. William’s body released the tension brought on by Dylan’s odd mood. He framed Dylan’s face with his hands, admiring the symmetry of it. Dylan closed his eyes and sighed. Every muscle in his body visibly relaxed and he pushed his face into

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William’s hands for more. William stroked Dylan’s cheeks and forehead with his thumbs. He smoothed his hands over Dylan’s hair and down his neck. Dylan melted for him. William had worked with dogs and cats that seemed to sigh and go boneless when you put firm, confident hands on them. Especially lost pets—animals that’d been raised by loving families but for whatever reason got loose. Maybe someone left a gate open accidentally, or they found themselves in unfamiliar territory after a move and they tried to go back to what they knew. Maybe the owner died and there was no one to take care of them. Sometimes a stray got vicious. But sometimes they acted exactly like Dylan. Like all they could ever want in life was to curl up in the palms of his hands and sleep for a while. Suddenly a lot of things made perfect sense. “Come here.” William rose to his feet and brought Dylan with him. As easily as that, he led him to bed. “We’ll talk more in the morning.” William pulled Dylan’s shirt from the waistband of his jeans. Starting at the bottom, he unbuttoned one small button at a time. By the time he got to Dylan’s chest, Dylan sighed. It was uncomplicated. Dylan’s eyes shone with desire and he was hard. Maybe that’s all it had to be. He brushed his hands over Dylan’s chest and up to his shoulders to sweep the button-down off his arms to where it pooled on the floor, forgotten. He unbuttoned Dylan’s jeans and then carefully unzipped his fly. While he did that Dylan’s gaze held his. He slipped his hands around Dylan’s waist to cup his buttocks under his jeans and shorts. “I think I have a kink for putting my hands under your clothes.” “Yeah? Maybe I do too. Do I?” Dylan tugged at William’s shirt, pulling it away from his skin and insinuating his hands under it to brush at his nipples. “Let me see.” William sucked in air. “Ah, yeah. I do.” Dylan’s finger teased first one bud and then the other. He scraped a nail over the sensitive skin and William hissed his pleasure. He was finding out he liked a little pinch here or there, the scrape of a nail or a squeeze, and Dylan—it seemed—like to deliver one. William’s shirt hit the floor next. The backs of Dylan’s knuckles brushed William’s cock as he worked it free of his jeans. They stood like that, kissing, jean’s hanging at half mast, with Dylan’s hand wrapped around both their dicks, until William got Dylan’s jeans to his knees and pushed him back to lie on the bed. Dylan fell back, hands tucked up under his neck, waiting.

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“Let me just get these…” Dylan’s shoes hit the floor, one by one, along with his socks. William hooked a finger in both jeans and shorts and as quick as that they were gone and Dylan lay naked and spread out before him. “So hot.” William sighed. He toed off his own shoes then nudged and knee-walked Dylan across the bed until he kneeled over him, his half-hard cock hanging from his trousers. Dylan’s eyes were glued to it. “What?” “That’s…jeez.” “It’s not like this is the first time you’ve ever seen it.” “I’m surprised every time. My memory must be faulty because each time I think I’ve never seen anything so…” Dylan licked his lips. “That’s just crazy.” It was William’s turn to color. He made a joke of it. “Why you gotta say it like that, man? Now it’s going to feel all stupid and shit.” Dylan put a tentative hand on it. His knuckles brushed over William’s tattoo, the skin in the hollow of his pelvis, so sensitive his muscles contracted and he jerked like a puppet. He leaned over and pressed his forehead to Dylan’s. “Oh, baby. I need your hands on me so bad.” He kissed Dylan, teasing his mouth open, tasting the sweetness he found there, then sweeping his tongue out for a nice tangle with its counterpart. He pulled back and dropped a light kiss on Dylan’s lips. “You like it though, huh?” “Yes.” Dylan’s lashes lowered. Nearly holding his breath, William leaned over to the nightstand to take out the plastic bag he’d placed in the drawer before Dylan came in. He tossed it near the pillow on the far side of the bed. “I got condoms and slick, baby. I want to be inside you.” Despite the apprehension that clouded his eyes, Dylan whispered, “All right.” “You’re worried?” Dylan shrugged, but his eyes were large and luminous in his pale face. “I’ll take care of you, papi. I’ll go real slow. I’m not going to hurt you.” William used his newfound knowledge of Dylan—broad strokes of his hands, flat over Dylan’s face and neck, sweeping down to the tense muscles of his shoulders—to soothe him. It worked better than he’d hoped. Dylan’s whole body relaxed, his legs opened and his hands came up to cup the back of William’s neck as he offered a hungry mouth to kiss. He nudged into the vee of Dylan’s thighs as they nuzzled one another. William scrabbled through his bag for the lube, which he’d unwrapped beforehand because it wasn’t easy to do one-handed. Nobody liked a clumsy fight with the safety seal on a bottle of lube while they tried to act smooth. “Aren’t we prepared,” Dylan remarked before William could distract him with another deep kiss. He slicked his fingers and slipped down between Dylan’s thighs to explore. He nipped the inside of Dylan’s

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leg and sucked up a mark even as he used his still-bruised index finger to draw a wet circle around the tightly puckered skin of Dylan’s entrance. William nuzzled his face into Dylan’s balls as he toyed with them. He sucked first one and then the other into his mouth and tongued them, teasing the base of Dylan’s cock with his nose. As gently as he could, he pushed the tip of his middle finger past that first ring of guardian muscles. As soon as he felt it take him he mouthed the crown of Dylan’s dick. Inch by inch, William’s finger pressed past Dylan’s defenses at the same time he took his length down his throat. “Ah, jeez. William.” Dylan gasped and clutched at the bedding while he rocked between William’s mouth and his finger. William added a second finger and scissored them inside Dylan to stretch him while he expertly massaged the crown of Dylan’s cock with his lips and tongue. He stopped what he was doing for a second to speak. “Don’t hold back. I want you come for me, baby. I want you boneless and relaxed when I take your ass.” Dylan’s hands clenched the bedding but he allowed himself to move. William held still for him, letting him fuck his mouth, breathing when he could get air and controlling his gag reflex. The muscles of Dylan’s ass tightened around William’s fingers, but he added a third anyway, giving them a little extra push as he entered, opening them and curving his fingers on the draw back. Dylan’s balls pulled up into his body when William found his sweet spot. He jumped when William stroked it on the way in, three fingers to the last knuckle, and Dylan shot down his throat, coming like a train, clamping down until William could barely move his fingers around. He continued to suck and pump, teasing long shudders of pleasure from Dylan’s body. “William,” Dylan whispered, his arms over his face. “Damn.” William rose to his knees and rolled a condom on. He used more slick and coated himself carefully, then lifted Dylan’s long legs over his shoulders. “Coming in,” William warned needlessly, the head of his cock poised at Dylan’s entrance. Dylan’s channel still throbbed but was relaxing, growing pliable. Still, William knew he was thick as well as long. He took it slowly. Girls or guys, the size queens always wanted him, but his cock could hurt someone if he wasn’t relaxed. He’d learned that lesson from his first fumbling high school fuck: tears and recriminations were no way to end a nice evening out. “Talk to me. Are you okay?”

Dylan’s mouth dropped open and he concentrated on breathing. He nodded, panting, as the fat dark head of William’s cock breached him. For the first time in his life, he wished he could see it up close. He wanted to watch that big dick spear him, wished he could see his own face as he took it. A sound escaped him that wasn’t exactly human and holy shit if his dick wasn’t coming back to life.

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William’s fingers gripped his shoulders. His eyes were nearly black the pupils were so huge. With each inch William gave him, Dylan’s heart beat faster. By the time Dylan felt those heavy balls on his ass it was rocketing around in his chest and he couldn’t breathe. Huge. Impossible. Irresistible. Iron, in his ass. He could feel it everywhere, hot and solid, sliding and brushing his sweet spot and leaving burning trails of sparkles and uhn and ouch in its wake. So. Damn. Good. Yet… Not, yet. Dylan’s mouth went dry from the confusing combination of shock and arousal. He wasn’t sure he could do this. He lifted his hips a fraction of an inch and let out a garbled moan and a hiss. “Urgh…yeah. Fuck. Yes, William…” William used his hands again, stroking away Dylan’s tension, calming his nerves. They smoothed over his skin until having that monster cock inside him felt… Dylan’s mouth formed an O through which he gasped in air. Then tears stung his eyes. “Ah, fuck, William.” It was too good. Too much and too hard and… “Give yourself a minute, papi.” Dylan nodded, still panting. He could do this. William was gentle and took his time. They didn’t have to do this every time. Did they? William drew out a little then nudged back in. Another high-pitched moan escaped from Dylan, startling in the near silence. He shifted experimentally—and got something very, very right. “Oh damn. Fuck, yes.” “Good?” William asked tightly. “Because I don’t mind telling you it would be cool if I could move.” “Move.” Dylan closed his eyes as William flexed his hips back and rolled forward. “You make some pretty sounds, papi,” William teased. “You want to sing for me? Like Uhn, do me good, baby, I need you? You want to talk all foul and dirty when my big, fat dick is in your ass, missionary boy?” Dylan’s mouth still hung open as he tried to draw in air. He managed to say, “Bite me.” He regretted it when William actually bit him. He grabbed William’s head and brought him down for a quick kiss, glad he was flexible, gladder still when William rose and lifted his hips to pound him, even though he’d had no idea that it would feel so good before the little fucker did it. Between gasping breaths he cried out, words like fuck and shit and damn. Words that rarely found their way out of his mouth crowded it now, gathering speed like a word train, straight from his brain and out, no brakes. Tightly wound spirals of pleasure began in Dylan’s spine, in his balls, in his heart, he didn’t know. They coalesced into something so bright and powerful that they blinded him, his cock pulsing between his skin and William’s while William continued a punishing rhythm until he faltered too, seizing and freezing

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as deep inside Dylan as he could be, inside Dylan’s ass, inside his heart, wrapped around him and crying out his name. “Dylan.” Dylan’s legs fell off William’s shoulders when William gathered him up and pressed him close to his chest. He clung in return—his arms wrapped around William’s neck like a monkey’s. He was still gasping, still drawing in air like there wasn’t enough in the cabin for both of them. “Corazón.” William kissed his hair. He did that thing with his hands again, smoothing over Dylan’s head. Dylan could barely move but his chin followed those hands, seeking reassurance, until William was kissing him even more senseless. It was too much yet he couldn’t get enough. William’s dick softened and threatened to slither from his ass until William grabbed it, held on to the condom and pulled. That, too, was good. Dylan laughed out loud. “I love you.” Dylan rested his face in William’s palm. “I don’t know why.” “Me too.” William sighed. “And me neither. Maybe we’ll figure that out together.”

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Chapter Twenty-Six

Dylan waited on the observation deck at the rim of Sunset Point in Bryce Canyon, staring out at the amazing view. He’d left early to be here because he’d grown tired of arguing with William and Des, the primary opposition to his plan. He’d discovered—to his surprise—that there atop the overlook he had cell service, so he’d called Des to let her know he’d made it safely and to thank her for everything she’d done. He tried to find words that didn’t sound like he was saying a final goodbye. He tried not to feel that way either. As plans went, his wasn’t much of one. His basic strategy was to drive Scott’s battered Ford pickup truck to Bryce Canyon where he and Yves could meet on neutral ground, and apologize. He planned to throw himself on Yves’s mercy and beg for his and William’s life, for whatever good that would do. Dylan didn’t want to go on the run again and he was tired of hiding. It was time to take a stand. The morning sun illuminated the rock canyon, shooting light on the layers of cedar-colored rocks. Every shade of rust was represented, from the deepest, richest reds, to terracotta to pink, like a tremendous flag over which someone had stitched tall clusters of evergreens—a spiny surprise. It was crazy. It was beautiful. It was like no place else he’d ever been. Alien and familiar at the same time. His barn jacket did little to keep out the damp morning chill and wind whipped his hair across his forehead. The cold burned his ears and stung his eyes. Or maybe it was emotion that was doing that. He looked out over the canyon and caught sight of a half circle of rocks, hoodoos, formations caused by erosion that reminded him of people. They were sometimes called fairy chimneys, but for the most part he thought they looked like men and women frozen in time, sealed at the moment of transgression, standing like guardians of an immense rock temple, waiting to be pardoned for their sins. “You look like the rock people yourself,” a voice said close behind him. Yves. “Beautiful. Immutable. I think you resonate with these stones as if an angel holds a tuning fork that plays your note and this place rings with you like a crystal bell.” “Hello, Yves.” He turned to find Yves standing by the rail. Tall and strong, bearlike, Yves wore a camel-colored cashmere overcoat and leather gloves. Around his neck he’d draped a wool scarf Dylan had given him at some point, subtly decorated with whimsical images of trees. The color flattered him. His subtly lined skin, reddish now with cold, looked healthy. The scarf made his gray eyes appear as silver as his hair. “You look good.” “You look tired.” Yves studied him shrewdly.

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Had Yves worried or suffered from Dylan’s betrayal in some other way? Had he been losing sleep? Dylan’s gaze turned to the parking area and Yves’s big, bulletproof Mercedes. His driver, Pavel, watched them warily from behind his shades and the brim of his baseball cap. “So we find ourselves here in this remarkable place,” Yves said. “How odd.” “I’m so sorry.” Dylan’s lip trembled. Yves’s face was unreadable. Dylan saw none of the friendship, none of the connection they’d shared in the past. Yves simply gazed at him. “I never meant to hurt you.” “Betrayal is a very painful thing. It’s bitter in the extreme when it comes from family, and eventually it cuts both ways.” “Is that what I was? Family? I thought I was just—” “Don’t, Dylan.” Yvgeny’s eyes narrowed. “You’re well aware of what you are to me. Were.” Dylan let out a breath. It fogged the air between them. “Yes.” “The question is what should I do with you?” Dylan let his silence answer. He had no idea. Maybe he didn’t care all that much as long as William was safe. Maybe. “And your friend, William. What am I to do with such a blatant display of disrespect?” Yves’s brows drew together. “Do you have any answers for me, Dylan? Or are you going to continue to play the stone angel now that you’ve moved on?” “Yves—” Yves’s voice cracked like a whip. “I trusted you! Do you realize what a fool that makes me before my men? Before my enemies? That I’m so led by my cock that I’m vulnerable to pretty boys like you?” “I said I was sorry.” Dylan gazed miserably at Yves. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, you know that. I wouldn’t. I’d have died for you. I just couldn’t let William be killed, especially since he didn’t want to be there in the first place, especially since he tried to help me. Even if you asked me to, I couldn’t do what I knew in my heart was wrong. Spare William’s life. Find some other way to make your point. He’s special to me. I’m sorry.” Yves pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and gave them a scrub. “I have no choice. Don’t you understand that?” “You always have a choice.” “I don’t, Dylan. If you’ve never heard anything I’ve said before, hear me now. My hands are tied. More than you know is at stake. Am I now to understand you’ve come to care for this boy?” “Yes.” Dylan swallowed hard. “I do. A lot. I’m sorry.” Mosko sighed. “Try to comprehend. We are none of us free from the restrictions placed on us by our codes of honor. The loyalty of men, the protection of certain freedoms, business, family—it all depends on rules. Action and consequence, stability and order, even in the face of change. As I prepare to hand my business down to my sons I’m also handing them a legacy, purchased at a terrible price. The entire

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enterprise only works if everyone knows the rules. I can’t break them. I can’t so much as bend them, my dearest, dearest boy, even for you. They would have killed me when I first made you mine but no one dared. Why? Because I’ve never, ever let a challenge like the one presented by your William go unanswered.” Dylan risked laying a hand on Yves’s arm and found it solid and reassuring. “You have to do with me what you think is right, Yves. I’ll consider it part of the privilege of being your boy. But I’m begging you. Leave William alone. Let him go. Go to a back-up plan if you have one or make one up if you don’t. Lie and say you buried his body in a place where no one will ever find him. For me.” Yves took his hand, and as he’d done so many times before he placed it in the crook of his arm. He took off walking, leading Dylan companionably, strolling along the narrow, descending path to the lower observation deck of the vista point, as if they were old, old friends or father and son. He had a small sad smile on his face. “I think my wife Helen realized even before I did how much I loved you. Did you know that?” Dylan shook his head tightly. “I didn’t.” “She was angry at the time, and jealous of you. She told me that I only wanted your youthful purity so I could destroy it because I destroy everything I touch. She called me a dirty old man.” Yves rolled his eyes. “You know how she can be. A lovely termagant. She believed you would never remain untarnished by your association with me. This moment comes as a sort of vindication. I believe she will owe me some money. But perhaps I haven’t won yet.” Dylan allowed Yves to take him to the edge of the canyon rim, across a long spire of land with terrifying, steep drops on either side, to another observation platform, this one looking over the same view from a different angle. “I understand you better, now that I’ve seen your home.” Yves gestured to the rocks fanned out before him. They stood and gazed at it for what seemed a long time, saying nothing. “I wish you had come to me instead of running. We could have talked.” Dylan lowered his gaze. “You weren’t there.” “As usual, you mean. I wasn’t there for you when you needed me, again.” “That’s not—” “Don’t be facile at this point. Let’s say what we mean and mean what we say, shall we?”’ “Yes.” Dylan hesitated. “I always wanted more.” “I know. And you imagined you were very wicked, because you were such a lucky boy. You had a man who gave you everything you dreamed of, and you had no wish to be ungrateful. But still…” Yves’s lined face held remorse. “It wasn’t enough,” Dylan finished for him. “It should have been enough. You loved me. I knew that.”

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“And I hurt you every time I left you alone to rattle around that big house with only Elsa for companionship. Did you think I didn’t know?” Dylan kept his mouth shut. “Ah. You thought I didn’t care. That what little time I had with you was enough for me as well. It wasn’t. It was never enough for me either.” Yves turned Dylan to face him. “You are the love of my life, Dylan Anderson. With you I could have stripped off my suit jacket, rolled up my trousers and set sail in some leaking bucket of a sailboat, forever, just us, drifting around the world together. I’d never have grown tired of you.” Dylan was heartsick. “Yves.” “But I wasn’t some company man, free to retire and take my pension. The bonds I’ve forged, the oaths I’ve taken, go both ways, and they’ll only end with my death. The power that I wield is a contract. The organization owns me, body and soul. I skated close enough to the edge by taking a male lover. Everyone looked to my terrifying Helen to see how to respond. She looked the other way and shrugged off their curiosity as if they were bourgeois fools for doubting me for a minute. I owe her more than I can say for that.” “I understand.” “Do you? Because there are things that I must do, things I’ve done, which would freeze the blood in your veins. This is one of them. I’m truly sorry, Dylan.” Dylan raised his gaze to Yves’s. Gray eyes looked back, and they held such pain. “I know.” Yves gripped Dylan’s upper arms with a strength that always surprised him. He let himself go still, nearly boneless, and gazed at the man who’d been his lover for over a decade. In that moment Yves could hurl him to his death. It would be easy. Maybe he’d even done something similar before to someone else, off a building or a bridge. Maybe he’d squeezed the life out of someone in prison. He had blood on his hands, certainly. His soldiers killed at his behest, but he’d committed murder as well. The tattoos on his body attested to that. There were few people around, if any, who would see him push Dylan over. Even then, he could say Dylan stumbled, that he’d tried to catch him as he fell. Yves could make Dylan’s death look like a terrible and tragic accident and sell it too, given that he genuinely loved Dylan. He’d be the very picture of grief—a devastated friend, an inconsolable lover, who’d had the chance to save Dylan’s life but failed. Dylan’s heart raced and his mouth went dry. He felt the blood drain from his face. Yves was very close, his expression unreadable except for the bleak certainty in his eyes. Dylan gasped. “What?” The hands on Dylan’s shoulders tightened. “If you only knew what you meant to me, if I could make you understand what it was to be betrayed like that—”

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“Yves.” When push came to shove, literally, Dylan realized he wasn’t as passive as he thought. “Stop this. You’re hurting me.” “I could kill you. You know that, don’t you? I could throw you from this place and watch you fall to your death, watch you break apart like a pretty doll on the way down.” “I know.” Tears burned Dylan’s eyes. “I know. I’m trying to understand.” “I have that right,” Yves continued. “You drugged my man and made me a joke among my enemies. I have every right to visit a terrible punishment on you. To torture you. To crush you.” Dylan pressed his lips together. He would not beg. Not for himself. He deserved Yves’s anger. Yves made a disgusted sound. “You’re impervious, as always. Untouchable.” Dylan felt himself be lifted off his feet, but he broke free of Yves’s viselike grip and threw his arms around the older man. “I’m sorry, Yves.” Dylan’s tears flowed onto the shoulder of Yves’s coat and spread there like a dark shadow. “I’m so sorry. I love you. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I had to save William. I still don’t think it was the wrong choice.” “Dylan, stop.” “I’ve always loved you, always—just maybe not enough. I know that now. I’m sorrier than you will ever know. I didn’t want to hurt you. Not ever. Please understand that.” Yves pushed him away and Dylan braced himself. “Go ahead.” Yves’s eyes fluttered closed. He didn’t move except for a muscle that twitched in his cheek. “Go ahead.” Dylan swiped at the tears flooding his cheeks. He felt strangely calm. “It’s all right now, Yves, I’m ready.” A chirping noise shattered the silence. Yves pulled a cell phone from the breast pocket of his coat and answered it. He turned away and spoke briefly. “I’m sorry, Dylan. I would give anything to avoid this.” Dylan nodded. He wondered if he’d be able to breathe when he fell, or if it would be like his experiences on the high dive in school, when air rushed past him so fast it felt as though he were drowning long before he hit the water. He wondered if he’d be able to fall without screaming, or if he’d survive the fall and die on the ground while he waited for help to arrive. “I need to show you something.” Yves didn’t touch him but held out his phone. At first Dylan didn’t understand, but after a second he realized that Yves wanted him to look at the image on the screen. Dylan took Yves’s phone and turned it so the early morning sun didn’t shine directly on the window. He frowned at it until he understood exactly what he was looking at. William.

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Lasko had William bound and gagged in the back of some car. Dylan saw it was video conferencing. Yves and his men must have gotten new phones. It was jerky and difficult to make out because the car was probably moving fast, winding over the rough roads on the highway near Scott’s place close to Panguitch, the first place by the resort where they would have cell coverage. The place where he’d called Yves. The image faded and reappeared as they moved from light to shadow. Lasko was trying to hold it steady and talk as they drove. He spoke to Yves in Ukrainian while William gazed sullenly out the window. They had William. They’d taken him from Scott’s place even as he’d talked to Yves, begged him, admitted he loved him, offered himself as a substitute. All the while, Yves had known it was futile. Yves had William.

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Chapter Twenty-Seven

Everything inside Dylan’s head ground to a halt. By the time he finally realized what he was seeing, Yves had snatched his phone back and started to walk away toward the parking lot. Dylan hurled himself at him. “You bastard… My sister was there, her kids…my friends. What have you done?” Yves gripped his wrists with hands that felt like steel manacles. “Cease. Your family was not involved in this. They won’t have been touched if they left my men to do their jobs unhindered.” “There were children there…my niece and nephews… Don’t you understand what—?” “It is you who apparently will not understand, Dylan. It is not your place to question me.” Suddenly Dylan understood how Mosko had survived to the ripe old age he carried, and why he called the shots, even if they defied the natural order of things. His face was terrible in its rage. Biblical. “Yves.” Dylan tilted his head. He was so damned sorry for everything. His emotions roiled, conflicted, raged. Hope died. “Yves.” Yves turned his back and kept walking. It was steep going in thin air; the effort looked like it cost him. Even Dylan, who was physically fit, had a hard time. He didn’t bother to say anything, and by the time they got to level ground they were both panting from the exertion. Pavel waited next to his car. He was huge and probably armed—a menacing presence. Dylan remembered him. He’d been polite only when Yves was within earshot, but treated Dylan with contempt whenever his boss wasn’t around. None of Yves’s men dared to disrespect Dylan in Yves’s presence, but most of them, to varying degrees, would have been happy to show him what they thought of their boss’s male lover behind Yves’s back. He rose to his full height from where he’d been leaning against the fender of some other person’s car, reading the paper. “Yves, wait.” Yves didn’t turn. “I’ve said what I came to say, Dylan.” “Please, listen to me. Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.” Dylan tried to stop Yves, but a beefy arm came out and blocked his path. Apparently Yves’s protection of him had ended with his betrayal because it seemed to turn off like a switch. The burly driver clocked him across the jaw and he fell back against the car next to the Mercedes, stunned. That punch was like getting hit with an anvil and it left his head spinning.

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“You, stay back,” the driver cautioned. Yves opened the rear door of the big Mercedes and got in. Dylan was stunned. Did he now live in a world where Yves allowed people to hurt him? A place he’d never even imagined? He held his throbbing jaw and watched while Yves’s driver got into the car and started the engine. He backed out sedately then put the car in gear. The tinted windows gave no clue as to what the occupants were doing inside. The powerful car surged forward like a shark, sleek and predatory, rounding the loop of the parking lot and rolling past on the other side as they drove out. Yves had to be looking at him. He had to. Maybe Yves wasn’t going to stop people from punching him, maybe he would never speak to Dylan again. But Dylan knew in his gut that it hadn’t been easy for Yves to turn his back and walk away. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t logical, and Yves had taken William, for fuck’s sake, which made him a vengeful prick, but at the last moment Dylan lifted his hand to say goodbye. He pressed his fingertips to his lips and raised it, palm out, for Yves. Untarnished, my ass. Crying openly, Dylan pulled his keys from his pocket and headed for his truck. He needed to go home to Scott’s. He tried the house number but got no answer, then lost the signal as he drove out of the canyon toward the highway. Des and the kids must have been there when Lazlo took William, as well as the Farnsworths and Ernesto and Esme. Endless minutes ticked by until he had coverage. Finally he got Des on the phone. “Des? Are you all right?” “Dylan! They came. Men with guns like a military operation. They took William.” “I know, Mosko showed me on his phone. What about you? Are you and the kids all right?” “We are, but Ernesto tried to make a stand and they knocked him out. Carol, Scott and Esme have taken him to the hospital in Panguitch.” “Esme must be beside herself.” “She’s devastated. It was a terrible shock. They just drove three SUVs onto the property and about ten guys jumped out. They had us all cornered within minutes and then went from room to room, cabin to cabin, looking for William. That’s when Ernesto got hurt.” Dylan felt sick. He pulled onto the shoulder of the road. “If anything happens to him because of me…” “What’s going to happen now?” “I don’t know. Mosko turned his back on me for good. We should probably call the police or the FBI—” “No.” She interrupted him. “You can’t call the police. They told us not to. They told us if we called the police they’d have to kill us. They’d have to kill you too.” “What?”

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“They said you were free. They said Mosko was finished with you, and as long as Dylan Anderson disappears for good, they won’t bother us again. But if we call the police, if you don’t stay out of it, none of us will be safe. They s-said they’d k-kill my b-b-babies.” Des’s voice dissolved into sobs. “Would they do that?” Ah, shit. Checkmate. “Des. I never meant for any of this to happen.” Dylan leaned his head back on the rear window of the pickup truck. “I’m so sorry.” “Just come home, Dylan. Peter was already angry with me. He’s on his way, and when he hears about this, he’ll flip out and do something stupid, I know it. This is going to be the end.” “Des—” “Just come home, Dylan. Please. We need you.”

When Dylan finally arrived at the resort, the first thing he noticed was that nothing looked out of place. He guessed he’d been expecting the serenity of the environment to be shattered somehow in the aftermath of Yves’s men, as if the insects and birds wouldn’t dare go on about their business in a place that no longer felt safe. He was wrong. Except for a number of unfamiliar tire tracks on the dirt and gravel roads leading to and from the place, it seemed as untouched and pristine as it had when Des first brought him there. He pulled his keys from his ignition and opened the door, listening. Angry voices came to him from a short way down the path toward the lake—Des and Peter, arguing where the children wouldn’t hear them. “I can’t believe you think for one second that I’ll let my kids stay here. Someone should have called the police the moment those men—” “I already told you why we couldn’t do that, Peter. You need to listen to me for a change. If we call the authorities, they will kill Dylan. They’ll come after us. They made themselves perfectly clear.” “Use your head, Des. What are they going to say? Everyone says don’t call the police.” “You weren’t here. Those men were organized, professional killers. No way was I taking that chance.” Dylan found Des and Peter in a small clearing about a hundred feet down the path to the lake. They stood facing off against one another. Peter’s arms were folded and he glared down at Des, who had her fists clenched and trembled with outrage. Each looked beyond furious. “So we’re supposed to let them get away with terrorizing our children and beating up an old man.” Dylan stepped between them. “Hell yes. That’s exactly what you do. That’s exactly what any sane person would do, if they understood the odds of going against a man like Mosko. I told you what I was up against. It wasn’t some sort of drama.” Dylan glanced at Des. “Have you heard anything about Ernesto?” “We’re waiting to hear. The doctors will check him out thoroughly. Scott said they’d probably be back late this afternoon or this evening.”

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“Kids still shaken up?” “They’re sleeping. Annie is looking after them while we talk.” Peter shifted his anger to Dylan. “Right. Because William’s blue-haired freak was the only one left after your friends decimated this place.” “Were you always a dickhead?” Dylan got right in Peter’s face. “It’s as if I don’t even know you anymore. I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. If I could go back, if I could make it all go away somehow, I would. I can’t. You should be thanking your maker that Des and the kids are all right. If Mosko says he’ll leave you alone when I disappear, then that’s exactly what I plan to do.” Des grabbed hold of Dylan’s shirt, and he turned and wrapped his arms around her. She cried openly. Dylan stared at Peter over her head. “I don’t want you to go.” Des sobbed. “I just got you back. You’ll leave and I’ll be alone again.” Peter flinched. “Right. I forgot. I’m the invisible man.” “Stop.” Dylan closed his eyes. “Just stop. I’m sorry. I’ll be leaving tomorrow. Maybe you guys could use some counseling—” Des interrupted him. “That’s not going to work and you know it. That’s not going to change the fact that Peter never wanted me in the first place.” Peter froze with shock. Dylan met his gaze. “Des…” “Can we all just start telling the truth for a change?” Des pushed away from him and shoved her hair back from where it had fallen in her face. “We’re grownups. We’re supposed to act like adults. It starts now. We can do this. We can beat this. We can behave with grace and raise those kids with love and respect, but only if we start telling the truth.” Peter’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Des, you don’t know what you’re saying.” “I do know. I know.” She mimicked Dylan’s gesture, thumping her fist to her chest. “I know in my heart that we can do way, way better than this.” “You can talk more later when you’re calm.” Dylan put his arm around Des and started walking her away from the clearing. “You’ll find a way to handle this. When Scott gets back I’m going to ask him if I can buy his old truck, and in the morning I’ll take off.” “Dylan—” “Hear me out, Des. I have to leave. I need to start over somewhere, but this time we’ll keep in touch, see? I’m not going to disappear, Dylan Anderson is.” Des wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “No. I don’t understand.” “I can be Skip Hatcher again and we’ll be there for each other. I promise. But I need to do that someplace else. I can’t stay in St. George.” Dylan risked a glance behind her at Peter, who followed them, his face impassive.

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Des nodded, mollified, as they made their way back to the lodge. Peter was silent when they mounted the stairs toward the back porch door. Des entered Esme’s airy kitchen first, but Peter caught Dylan’s arm and pulled him back. “Can I have a word?” Dylan glanced at the doorway and then allowed Peter to pull him around to the front of the porch where Scott had rockers set up for his guests. He waited until Peter sat down, then took a seat himself. Peter was silent for what seemed like a long time. “You wanted to talk?” Dylan prompted. Peter pressed his lips together, sucking them until they turned pale, then he let them go with a snap. “I owe you an apology.” Dylan didn’t speak. Where was Peter going with this? “I’ve blamed you for a lot of things that were frankly not your fault, and I’ve shifted the responsibility for a lot of my personal failure—” “Peter, this isn’t the time for—” “I need to have my say.” Peter glanced down at his hands. “I can never be like you. I can’t turn my back on everything and walk away like you did.” Irritation got the better of Dylan. “No one is asking you to, Peter.” “I’m not saying this right.” Peter fumbled miserably with the fabric of his trousers. “I apologize for being a coward. For being a loser. For using your sister and trying to make it seem like my problems were everyone else’s fault but mine. I’ll try to do better in the future.” “Thank you,” Dylan said stiffly. If Peter meant that it would be great, but… “I’m also sorry about William. I thought I was doing the right thing.” Dylan’s blood thundered in his ears. “What?” “I called the tip line. I told them where you were. I told them you were alive. I wanted to—” Dylan shot out of his chair. “You what?” “I thought I was helping. I thought if they realized you were alive and perfectly fine, they’d stop looking for William.” “Did you understand nothing I said?” “I didn’t think—” “You’re damned right you didn’t think.” “How could I have known that William would come back here after I left him at the bus station? Mother said—” “Your mother put you up to that? Your mother told you to give me up to the authorities? To Yvgeny Mosko?”

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“No. No. It wasn’t like that. She thought… She believed we should tell the authorities where you were so you could stop hiding and…” Peter no longer met his eyes. “And then I could move on.” “Yes.” Peter sighed. “So you could get out of my life—Des’s and mine—and we could get on with it.” Unbelievable. Dylan’s stomach turned over. Had he cared about this man? This loser who blamed Dylan for his problems with his wife? “What a fucking toad you turned out to be. I’d been with two men when I came back to St. George, and while Yvgeny Mosko didn’t exactly turn out to be a prince, at least he wasn’t a fucking toad. William is gone, they’re going to kill him, and it’s partly your fault, you selfish, self-centered prick.” Peter’s jaw tightened. “As if your tattooed Mexican boy was worth my shit.” “Peter.” Dylan found a handhold on his emotions, barely, by remembering the children were asleep inside the lodge. He felt calm, deadly. He recalled Yves’s words to him when they’d been on the canyon rim. Anger boiled out of him. “If you don’t treat your children right, I will break you. If you don’t show Des the respect she deserves, I will crush you, and if I am even marginally disappointed with your behavior over…say…the next twenty years, I will destroy you. I will rat you out to your mother and the church elders and the newspapers. I’ll see to it that the Westboro Baptist Church is on your fucking hospital doorstep every single day protesting your ass, and if you don’t believe me when I say this, take your chances.” Peter gaped at him. “My mother said you’d show your true colors sooner or later. She said it would be better to be rid of you once and for all than to—” “Tell her good luck with that. I’m just getting started.” Dylan strode along the wraparound porch until he reached the corner. Before he turned it, he looked back at Peter. “Don’t think that just because you’re Des’s husband and the father of her children I’ll be lenient. I learned from the master, Peter. There are rules in life. If you break mine, my hands are tied. I will be forced to make you pay.”

Peter left without going back inside the lodge. Dylan and Des made small talk and sat with Annie, watching cartoons with the kids when they woke up from their naps. When they got hungry Dylan explored Esme’s kitchen and ended up making scrambled eggs and sausage for supper. Des threw together biscuits. Dylan thought it was safe to say that they were all in shock. Annie barely said anything to anyone. She moved from room to room like a ghost, her eyes rimmed red from crying. She admitted that she dreaded driving back to St. George, and Des agreed that she should wait and go in the morning, when Des planned to return to her house. Des said she had to make arrangements to move.

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Dylan thought Peter should move out so the kids wouldn’t suffer more trauma than they had to. He’d left a terse message to that effect on Peter’s voicemail. “Pack a bag, you’re going home to mother.” By the time Esme, Scott and Carol brought Ernesto back to the lodge it was nearly nine o’clock in the evening. Des and Annie had the kids tucked into one of the guestrooms on the second floor. Esme and Ernesto went straight to their place after a brief greeting, and Scott and Carol filled them in. Scott leaned against the counter and accepted a cup of coffee. “There should be no lasting damage, but it rattled him good. I don’t mind telling you my life passed before my eyes when he went down.” Carol shuddered. “I never imagined anything like that. The way they drove in and took over.” “They had those machine pistols.” Scott wrapped his arm around his daughter-in-law. “No emotions. I hate being helpless. We pleaded with them. I wish we could have done something. William needed us and—” Dylan spoke. “I’m sorry, Scott. It’s all my fault.” Carol was quick to disagree. “No, don’t say that. Those people—” “But none of this would have happened if I hadn’t come here. They invaded your home and hurt Ernesto and scared Des’s kids because of me and I’m so sorry. I swear to almighty God that I never, ever imagined this would touch your life. I can never apologize enough.” Carol was quick to reassure him. “You’re not the criminal here. We all know that.” Des came down from checking on the kids. “Annie’s going to try to get some rest. We’ll head back in the morning.” “I wish we could have helped more,” said Scott. “I’m just glad you’re all safe.” Dylan meant it. He wanted William safe too, damn it. He wanted to look into those soulful brown eyes and say I love you one last time. He wanted the chance to say goodbye. If wishes were horses… Scott started up the stairs. “I’ll be upstairs if anyone needs me. I suggest we all try to get some sleep.” “Me too, Dad. I just want this awful day to end,” Carol said as she followed him. That left Desiree and Dylan staring at each other. Dylan had no words. Desiree blinked back tears. “I thought I’d get a book or something until I can fall asleep.” He followed her to the bookshelves where she ran a hand over a row of old paperbacks, looking at the selection. “Unofficial library of Utah. Nobody expects coffee with their breakfast here, I’ll bet.” “Esme makes it for the guests who want it. I noticed Scott keeps a lot of history books here. That should put you to sleep.” “I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to sleep.”

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“I’m not anxious to sleep either.” Dylan picked up a fictionalized account of church history, the first of a series he’d devoured in high school. “I can’t go back to that cabin. Maybe you could go there with me in the morning when it’s light out.” “Ah, jeez.” She turned to face him, clutching a fat cookbook to her chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” Dylan shrugged. “I need my stuff.” He didn’t want her to see his gut churning. “Maybe we should have a contest to see who can find the most boring book.” “I could do that.” Dylan tried to put his heart into it. Des apparently found something to interest her in her cookbook, so he simply grabbed an older hardback, a history of the Paiute Indian Tribe, and followed her to a comfortable reading spot in the community room. When they were settled she spoke. “You know what I’m surprised by?” “What?” Dylan wondered when the aftermath of the day would hit her. When the adrenaline would fade and she could crash. So far she’d been remarkably resilient. He figured her for a collapse pretty soon. “I’m experiencing all these emotions. Anxiety. I guess that’s only natural when something like this happens. And Peter enrages me…” “What are you going to do?” “What I should have done a long time ago. I can’t live like this, pretending it’s me he wants and not you.” Dylan didn’t know what to say. “It’s been a long time coming. I wasn’t ignorant. Only maybe too optimistic.” Somewhere upstairs he heard the sound of doors closing. Footsteps along the wooden hallway floor. He looked toward the stairs but no one came down. “Anxiety. Anger.” Des ticked them off on her fingers, but she glanced over at the stairs too, always on the lookout for her kids. “Like I said, expected. But I’m excited too. Is that wrong do you think?” “Freedom is good. Even if it’s just the freedom to tell the truth.” “I didn’t realize that. I’d been avoiding the truth for so long. Going through the motions. Pretending. Trying to hold our lives together for him, and now… The only emotion I’m not experiencing is grief. I expected to be a lot more unhappy than I am.” “I’ve got grief covered.” Des’s face fell. “Oh, Dylan. I’m an ass.” “It’s all right. We’re here for each other. It’s good, yeah? To be together?” “What I don’t understand is how they knew William was here. I know none of us said anything. Do you suppose that Mosko knew your real identity?” “Maybe.” Dylan wasn’t about to tell her Peter betrayed him. Peter was short on truth at the best of times, but when that commodity would make him look as bad as this did, he’d keep his mouth shut.

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“Maybe someone saw us on the drive up and they asked around. Maybe someone followed us here. I don’t know.” Des didn’t seem to peer at it too closely. “I’m sorry.” Dylan reached for her hand and she gave it to him, turning it to lace their fingers together. “Tomorrow we’ll go to your cabin and get your things. You can come home with me and the kids.” “Des—” “I just need a plan. I need to know we’ll all be all right. And that’s my plan. You, me, the kids, Annie. We’re all going home in the morning.” “All right.” Dylan gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “We’ll all go home in the morning.”

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Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dylan woke when the first rays of light came through the crack in the cabin’s curtains. He felt William behind him—his breath teased the fine hairs on Dylan’s neck. He burrowed deeper into the pillow. “Tickles.” Large hands gripped his hips and a fully erect cock teased the crack of his ass. “Morning, papi.” Dylan smiled to himself but pretended to be asleep. “Are we playing Sleeping Beauty? Do you need a prince to wake you up?” One of William’s hands slipped down to Dylan’s balls while another pinched a nipple. “Ow.” Dylan looked over his shoulder. William grinned at him, all laughing eyes and mischief. “Is that how you like to be woken up? By being pinched?” “Nuh-uh. I like when a certain pretty someone wraps his lips around my dick and sucks me.” “In that case…” Dylan rolled over to face him and slithered down beneath the covers, “…you may just be in luck.” “No. You, man? You’re a troll,” William teased. “I like a pretty man. Not some weird blond gringo with eerie ice-chip eyes.” Dylan muscled his way between William’s legs and nuzzled in. “You’ll have to make do. Close your eyes and think of England.” This had to be the best ever—morning wood, lightly furred balls, all warm and slightly damp with sweat. He tongued William’s sack, sucking and lapping around it, then he licked a slow line from there to the dark pucker of William’s ass with the flat of his tongue. He glanced up and got sucker punched by William’s soft, loving smile. “Papi… You must love me, huh?” William smoothed his hands over Dylan’s head, down to his neck, over his shoulders. Dylan lost himself a little, pushing his chin against the soft skin of William’s thighs and scrubbing him with his beard. He wrapped a hand around William’s cock and arched his hips shamelessly, rolling them to get friction from the sheets. Dylan sucked up a big mark on William’s thigh. “Oh, no fair, man. You’re bristly. That’s gonna make me bruise… Oh, yeah.” “Mine.” Dylan blew softly on the damp skin. “Yeah, baby.” William used his hands to guide Dylan’s head to his cock. “All yours.”

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Dylan took William in his mouth and savored the familiar, briny, bitter taste on his tongue. He wrapped his lips around the head, teased the ridge of skin at the base of the mushroom-cap glans, and sucked his way down as far as he could go, far enough that he had to control his gag reflex and relax his jaw like a python. “What you do to me… I love you, papi. So much.” Dylan looked up from what he was doing because William’s voice seemed reedy and distant. As if it had come from a long way away. He kept his hand on William’s cock, still jacking it, but he couldn’t see William’s face. “William?” “I love you, man. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” Dylan looked down at his hand and found it empty. So was the bed. He reached up to rub his blurry eyes and they came away wet with tears. “William.” “Dylan? Wake up, honey.” Desiree’s voice. Dylan’s heart sank. It was light outside when he opened his eyes. Des sat in the club chair next to his with her book in her lap. Someone had lifted his legs onto an ottoman and draped a quilt over him. He blinked and breathed in deeply through his nose. “I think you were having a bad dream,” Des told him quietly. He scrubbed his face with his hands and realized he’d been crying for real. “Sorry. How long have I been sleeping?” “It’s nearly nine.” “In the morning?” “Yeah. Scott got your things from the cabin. The kids are finishing up breakfast. They’re almost ready to go.” Dylan pushed the blanket off his legs and sat up. “Wait. What?” “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to pack your things. I didn’t know if it would be easy or difficult so Scott packed them up for you, but we can go to the cabin if you just want to say goodbye or take some time…” Dylan gazed beyond her, out the window, past the porch, to the pathway that led to the lake. He shook his head. “No. I don’t want to go. Thank you. That was very thoughtful.” “Scott signed over the old pickup to you. He says to give him a dollar because you’ll spend more fixing it up than it’s worth.” Dylan laughed at this. “Maybe. Did you hear from Peter?” Desiree nodded. “He’s with his mother.” “They’re perfect for each other. Congratulations, Mrs. Evans, it’s a boy.” Dylan lurched to his feet. “Skip.”

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He froze. He supposed he’d have to get used to that. Skip was his middle name but his first was Forrest, like his father’s. He’d never used that in the past, and he wasn’t about to start now. “Yeah?” Desiree bumped him with her hip. “Just trying it out.” Dylan shook his head. “That’s going to take some getting used to if I decide to use it again.” He followed her to the kitchen, as if in a dream, and then eventually to the car.

Like an odd funeral procession Dylan traveled back from Panguitch to St. George in his new old truck, while Annie drove her Jetta, and Des took the kids in the SUV. The truck, which must have had a cracked radiator, overheated every hour or so, which required that Dylan stop to top it off with water and antifreeze. While Annie and Des waited for him, they took turns herding the children to the bathroom and looking for odd, sometimes unappealing snack foods in the minimarts. If nothing else came of their ordeal, Des had a solid lead on a good babysitter who seemed to enjoy her kids a lot. The biggest problem Dylan foresaw after Annie left was Des’s determination to put him up in the guestroom. He wanted to go back to the motel he’d stayed in outside of town, somewhere he could be alone to think and grieve in peace. For some reason the dim, slightly dirty room with its bullfighter paintings and the raspy-voiced manager seemed like the perfect place to go hide out until he got his bearings. “You can’t go to a motel. We have a spare room and you won’t have to spend a dime on food.” “I have cash.” Dylan needed quiet. Des’s kids had practically burned a strip in the carpet on their way to the television to watch some cartoon show that caused them to shout words in Spanish. “I know, but who knows how long you’ll have to make that last. I can put you up here for as long as you need.” Dylan shook his head. “I need a place where I can be alone.” “Will you at least come here for dinner?” She nudged him with her shoulder. “I’ll make homemade mac and cheese and fluffy layered Jell-O.” Three pairs of hopeful eyes looked toward him at that. Was that a favorite meal at the Evans household? “As enticing as that sounds…” Dylan made a teasing yucky face, “…I’ll pass tonight. Maybe tomorrow. I need time to myself.” “I understand.” She hesitated, then wrapped her arms around him. “I love you. I’m so sorry things turned out this way.” Dylan gently disengaged her and walked toward the front door. He waved to her—and the kids as well after she called them away from the television—then headed for the motel. At least he wouldn’t have to hide his truck. No one who knew him would believe it was his, and he’d bet good money no one would steal it.

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The manager remembered him as Beauregard and expected the same cash deal. He gave her enough money for a couple of nights. “Are you going to need the hotplate?” she asked. “No. I think I’ll eat out.” “How’s your friend? The one that wasn’t doing so well? I hope he’s doing better.” Dylan’s face must have given him away, because she was already clucking with sympathy by the time he got out the words. “He’s not.” “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Sue clutched at the round zipper pull on her housecoat. “He’s going to be all right though, right?” “I’m sure he will,” Dylan lied. “It’s going to take a while though, and he won’t be staying with me anymore.” “That’s a damn shame.” She shook her head. “I’m hoping for the best.” “I’ll keep you both in my thoughts and prayers, son.” “Thanks.” The new room didn’t have a bullfighter. It had what looked to be a family portrait of some prosperous Mexican landowners. For some reason it reminded him of the film Zorro, and Tyrone Power talking about growing grapes and raising fat children. He fell asleep before he could remember any more than that.

“This is a pretty rattletrap truck, homes.” William grinned down at him when Dylan rolled from underneath it on the creeper. Dylan wiped an arm over his sweaty forehead and realized he’d probably left a big, ugly grease mark there when William busted up laughing. “It’s going to run like a top when I’m done with it, though.” “I’ll keep an open mind.” William helped Dylan to his feet. “I never pictured you for a grease monkey. You surprise me every day.” “Proves you don’t know everything, doesn’t it. Seriously, this baby’s got good bones. Do you want to take a look?” “Me?” William scratched the back of his neck. “The only thing I know about cars is how to drive them. I guess if push came to shove I could gas one up. My abuelita never had a car. We took the bus a lot.” “Some L.A. boy you turned out to be. I thought all you bangers drove around in those lowriders with the hydraulic shocks.” “Don’t believe everything you see on television.” “Okay, seriously, get under there. Take a look.”

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“All right.” William lay down on the creeper and Dylan pushed him back until he was under the engine. “What am I looking for? All I see is car guts.” Dylan laughed. He knelt by William, put his hand on a muscled thigh and gave it a squeeze, then dragged his fingers up William’s leg until they tickled his balls. William hissed when Dylan began to unbutton his jeans. A solid thunk came from beneath the car. “Ow. I just hit my head. What are you doing?” “I’m teaching you about auto maintenance.” Dylan unzipped him and wrapped a hand around his cock. “I usually take a look at the hoses to see if anything’s frayed. Make sure they’re supple. See if anything’s leaking.” He swiped his tongue across William’s dick and, predictably, it oozed pearly fluid— salty and tangy on his tongue. “Oh, fuck, papi.” William’s hips shifted. They punched up, trying to get more. “You check anything that might look corroded or rusty and determine whether a part needs cleaning or whether it’s too far gone and should be replaced.” He polished William’s cock by buffing it hard with his hand, while using his tongue to lavish attention on his balls. “Oh, yeah. That…baby. That’s good.” “Do you know what a dipstick is?” “Huh?” William’s skin had grown flushed, and he clutched at the sides of the creeper. Dylan got his finger good and wet with spit and pushed it deep into William’s ass. He drew out the words, “The dip…stick.” “Uhn, papi. Yeah, do it…just like that.” “Mmhmm, yeah. The dipstick. That’s where you check the oil to see if there’s enough or if it needs changing. If it’s dirty, it doesn’t lubricate the engine the way it should.” William’s panting breaths punctuated his words. “Lubrication. Is. Key. Close.” “I can tell.” William got into Dylan’s game, hips tilting up for Dylan’s mouth, then down again to push onto Dylan’s finger. Dylan added another finger and went harder and deeper. He twisted them, looking for William’s sweet spot, and when he hit it, William’s hips stuttered and his balls drew up. Dylan wrapped his lips around William’s dick and swallowed as much as he could to the back of his throat. He massaged the base of William’s cock with one hand and fucked him with his other, overloading him, giving him everything he had. “Shit.” William shot, then hit his head again as he jerked and shuddered as wave after wave of his release slid down Dylan’s throat. “Ow… Oh shit, papi.” “Mmn.” Dylan gently pulled his fingers free while he licked William’s softening cock clean. “Come here, you.”

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William’s body relaxed under his hands and Dylan pulled on the creeper to bring William out from under Scott’s old truck, but it didn’t budge. He tried harder, giving it a yank, checking the wheels on the thing to see if there was something blocking them. He gave another tug, and pulled…then pulled some more. Dylan glanced back at the garage door into the lazy afternoon sunlight to see if there was anyone around he could ask for help, but when he looked back down, William was gone. Dylan rose from lying in his bed to standing beside it in one sudden move. His heart hammered and his mouth felt dry. He looked around the dimly lit room, trying to remember where he was. William. William was gone. He only appeared in Dylan’s dreams. Dylan slid back between the sheets and curled around the pillow. He remembered grief, distantly, from the days just after his family shunned him. Back then, he’d discovered that it was best to only open himself to it a crack at a time instead of processing the impossible-seeming totality of loss all at once. He would survive this. Dylan let himself believe that as he drifted back to sleep. He wondered why, now of all times, William invaded his dreams. While they’d been together, he’d hardly dreamed at all. When he slept again, it was untroubled except for the nagging desire to put off waking as long as he possibly could. It irritated Dylan when the phone rang. It seemed the inevitable was upon him and he was forced to wake up. “Hello?” “Beauregard, honey?” The raspy-voiced manager’s words grated in his ear. “You better turn on the television now, local news.” “What?” “I don’t know how to break this to you so I’ll just say it. You’re dead.”

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Chapter Twenty-Nine

William switched on the television, but the local news report was over. He dressed quickly and headed for the office to find out what the manager knew, if anything. As soon as he closed his hotel room door his phone rang. He checked caller ID. “Des?” “Oh, Dylan. Thank God. Thank God. They’re showing your picture on the news and saying you burned to death, but I kept thinking you couldn’t be—” “Wait. Slow down. What exactly did they say?” “Oh, Dylan.” She sobbed. “They said you died in a fire. You and William. They pulled two bodies out of a burned-out house in Vegas. They interviewed a woman on the scene and she said it was you. She said you and William were home, that you ate dinner. That you ‘retired to your room’.” “Wait, what? Someone said they saw me in Vegas?” “She said she knew you! She said she was the cook in your house and you were there last night. I thought…I thought—” “That must have been Elsa. German accent?” “Yeah. Plump. Pretty.” “Shit.” “She told reporters there was an explosion that woke her, and when she left her room, she saw masked men running out through the back door. The house was a wall of flames. She called 9-1-1 and ran outside.” “There were bodies? Obviously I’m not one of them.” “She said you introduced your friend as William. That places you there—in that house. Both of you. The authorities believe the bodies are yours.” “She’s Mosko’s employee, Des, she’d say whatever Mosko told her to say.” “What are you saying? You mean…William might be all right?” Sick dread swamped Dylan when he realized that—very likely—William was dead along with some unknown stranger. His knees threatened to buckle. “I don’t know. I’ll call you later when I know more.” He could still hear Des’s voice when he hung up. Would Yves do that? Go to all that trouble to eradicate Dylan Anderson completely? It made a certain horrible sense. He leaned against the fender of his truck and called Yves’s private number. Yves answered immediately. “My boy.”

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“What have you done?” Dylan demanded through clenched teeth. Mosko’s pause was cagey. “What do you believe I’ve done?” Where did he even start? To his surprise, the question on the tip of his tongue, the one about William, died before he could ask it. “Are you there, Dylan?” “My sister says everyone thinks Dylan Anderson is dead.” “They do. And they will continue to think that unless you are a very great fool and disabuse them of that notion.” “Someone else died in my place? How could you…? How could you think I’d want that?” “I wanted that.” Yves’s voice was sharp with anger. “I stopped worrying about what you want when you betrayed me. Surely you knew there would be consequences to an act of that nature. I told you as much.” “Yes. Of course. Consequences. But to me…not someone else! How am I supposed to live with that—knowing that someone died in my place?” Yves was silent for a long while. “There are always consequences. Did you expect to walk away from a life like ours unscathed?” “Was that William?” “What do you think?” Dylan sank to the pavement. “Now what? Do I just…start over?” “That’s up to you. I have something for you. You need to let me know where I can send it.” “Why would you think I’d let you know where I am?” “Come now, Dylan. What we did to your home last night was my final gift to you. You’re free. You should understand that if Dylan Anderson shows up again, his life will be worthless.” Dylan considered that. “I’m afraid to trust you.” “To know what a man fears, you only need to know what he sees in the mirror.” Yves huffed a sad laugh. “Did I ever betray your trust?” Dylan squeezed his eyes shut. “No, Yves.” “Then trust me when I say that you need have no fear of me if Dylan Anderson stays dead. My life, as well as yours, depends on it.” “What do you mean?” Dylan asked. “Your life?” “I can never be weak. I thought you knew that. Tell me where you are.” “Just north of St. George on the I-15 at a motel called Mountainview Acres. Yves…” “Yes?” “Don’t hurt the manager. She’s an old lady and not too—”

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“I’m sending a small package, Dylan, not a missile. It contains some things I would like you to have. A way to start over. I want—” Dylan disconnected the call and wrapped his arms around his knees. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there leaning against the wheel of his truck when a pair of pale blotchy legs came into view. He blinked his eyes and looked up to see the motel manager there. “Are you all right?” “I’m sorry. I just got some bad news.” “Your friend?” she asked. “I saw him on the news too. Maybe if you’re okay, it wasn’t him either? Maybe it was all a terrible mistake.” “Yeah, maybe.” He doubted it, though. Yves needed for his men to see that he’d undertaken the terrible vengeance he’d sworn to take in the first place. His honor demanded it. “I’m so sorry, honey.” She patted his shoulder. “You want some coffee?” “No thanks. I need to sleep.” If he could sleep, he wouldn’t think anymore. Maybe he would dream of William. “I’ll just be inside the room there. Thanks though. For everything.” “If you’re sure. Don’t do anything stupid, all right? I’ll have to clean that room myself if anything happens…” That surprised a weak laugh out of him. “You won’t have extra work on my account.”

Des pounded on Dylan’s door. She’d already talked to the manager, who confirmed that Dylan went into his room the morning he supposedly died and that he hadn’t reappeared, at least to her knowledge, since. Three days. “Skip Hatcher. Open up this door or I will go to that woman in the front office who calls you Beauregard and so help me—” Dylan opened the door with his hand over his eyes, squinting against the sun. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She pushed past him into the room. It was dark as a cave and smelled like man soup. He’d obviously left the place at some point because there was food trash in the wastebasket. The table was littered with condiments, the nightstand—and the floor around it—held about a dozen empty water bottles. “That’s it, you’re coming with me.” “Des.” Dylan flopped back onto the bed. He wore only sleep pants and appeared unwashed. It looked as if he hadn’t shaved in days. “Knock it off.” “I’m serious. You’re scaring me. Maybe it’s time to consider getting help. You’re the victim of a crime. You need to address that with someone, and if you can’t take it to the police, I suggest you talk to a private therapist.” “Leave me alone. I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep for a while.”

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She sat next to him. “I can’t possibly know what’s happening inside your head unless you tell me.” “Nothing’s happening. I just need sleep.” He dragged a pillow over his head. “Have you been watching the news?” “No.” “Aren’t you even curious about—?” “No, I’m not curious. I suppose eventually I will have to get up and figure out what’s next. I’ve never been a whiner and I’m not going to start now. I just need to rest for a while.” Des grabbed up a few of the empty bottles and held them in her lap. “Do you still dream about William?” Des caught his barely perceptible flinch. “Yeah.” “Oh, jeez. Skip. I get that you’re devastated. I understand loss, but you need to get up, shower and put on some clothes, yeah?” “I will.” Dylan’s reply was muffled. “I tried to call but you didn’t answer.” “I unplugged the phone and my cell needs charging. I’ll get to that.” Des’s heart broke for him. “I know you’re in pain, honey, but you can’t act like your life is over. You can’t sleep the rest of it away.” She brushed his dirty hair back from his face. “You’re alive. William—” “But he’s there, Des. He’s in my dreams. That’s the only place that William exists anymore. I have to keep dreaming if I don’t want him to be gone forever.” “Aw, shoot, honey.” Des put an arm around him. “I’ve never had anyone who was only mine. A man who wanted me and didn’t have a hundred other things that mattered more.” “I’m so sorry.” “I got to come first with someone for once.” “I understand. Really.” Desiree picked up the shoebox-shaped package she’d brought him from the office. “You need to open this. Maybe it’s from—” Dylan stilled. “It’s from Mosko. Put it down.” The icy chill of fear slid down her back and she did exactly as he ordered. “Dylan, you don’t think—” “To be honest, I don’t believe we need to worry.” He sat up and peered at the box from several different angles. “But I don’t want you here when I open it, just in case.” “No way!” Des pushed him back. “No way I’m going to leave and let you do this by yourself if it could be dangerous.” He frowned at her. “You’re not thinking straight. What about the kids? Get in your car and go home. I don’t believe there’s anything to worry about. If he wanted me dead, I’d have been in that fire. Yves said he sent me something to help me start over. I need to know what it is, but I need to be alone for this.”

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Des was torn between his very persuasive argument and her fear. In the end, her kids won. “Call me the minute you make plans. If you even think you can disappear from my life this time, think again.” Dylan shook his head sadly. “I promise. No disappearing. I’m so damned tired of being alone. No more running away.” Des leaned over and kissed his forehead, then rubbed her lipstick off his skin with her thumb. “I’ll expect your call.”

Once Dylan heard Desiree’s SUV pull from the motel parking lot, he was able to look at the package Yves sent him dispassionately. He was nearly one hundred percent positive it wasn’t dangerous, but at that point he hardly cared. He used his Swiss Army knife to slit open the packing tape—Yves always used far too much—and pulled an old shoebox from the wrapping. That too was taped. He’d unwrapped a lot of gifts that were sealed like they were intended to hide heroin under water for years. If his heart ached for Yves, it broke for William. He slipped the blade of his knife around the lid of the box and lifted it. Tears stung his eyes. The Doxa. Yves knew how much he loved that watch. Tucked in beside the vintage timepiece was a map, thumb drive, a GPS navigator and the business card of a lawyer in Bozeman. Bozeman. Montana? Dylan sat on the bed and looked at the box for several minutes, then dialed Des’s number. She answered immediately. “Dylan?” “Skip,” he corrected. “Look, I’m not dead. I’m… The box is full of maps and things. I’m going to follow them and see where they lead me.” “Are you sure? What if it’s some kind of a trap?” “I told you, if Yves wanted me dead, I’d be dead. When I talked to him last, he said he wanted me to start over.” “What if it’s some kind of…I don’t know, more elaborate revenge?” “Whatever else is true, Yves loved me. I know that much.” Dylan hesitated. “I’m going to see what’s there, Des. I don’t expect you to understand, but I’ll be in touch.”

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Chapter Thirty

Getting to Bozeman only required a straight shot north on the I-15 Interstate through Utah and Idaho until he got to Montana, where he followed the I-90 for a bit. Once he got there he had to continue east after the I-15 wound north again. He drove all night, refueling and babying Scott’s old truck until he had to pull over to the side of the road and sleep for a while. Despite the long drive, Dylan felt better than he had in days. He’d showered and shaved, then put on clean clothes. He had a destination in mind. He was free of responsibility for the time being and loved the wide-open landscape that flew by as his truck sped past. By the time he got to Butte it was after nine in the morning, so he stopped at a Denny’s and called the lawyer’s number from the parking lot. A woman’s voice answered. “Brinkman and Farley, how may I help you?” “I need to speak with Ms. Farley. My name is…” Dylan thought about it for a moment. “Skip Hatcher.” “I’ll see if she’s available, Mr. Hatcher.” “I believe…I think she’s handling an estate matter for me.” “I see. One moment please.” Dylan waited for a long time before she came back on the line. “Putting you through now, Mr. Hatcher.” “This is Ms. Farley. How may I help you?” Dylan tried to think how to proceed. He didn’t know what he was asking for. “I was given your name by a friend of mine in Las Vegas, along with a map of Montana and a thumb drive. My name is Skip Hatcher. I’m a friend of the late Dylan Anderson’s.” There was a long pause on the line. He heard fingernails tapping on computer keys. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Hatcher. Where are you currently? I believe I have some information for you.” “I’m in Butte. I’m on my way to Bozeman. I have a GPS navigator, can you give me an address?” Dylan plugged his GPS into the cigarette lighter and turned it on. Where it asked for an address, he typed while she talked. Dylan entered the address she gave him and said a polite goodbye. His GPS led him, after over an hour’s drive time, directly to the building where Brinkman and Farley was located, and he parked on the street. When he got to the office, the receptionist glanced up from her desk.

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“I’m Skip Hatcher. I’m here for Ms. Farley. I think she’s expecting me.” “Certainly. Wait one moment please.” She shot him a detached professional smile and picked up the handset of her phone. There weren’t many buttons to push, but she had the air of someone who controlled a high-rise office building. “Ms. Farley, your appointment is here.” Moments later a woman in a gray suit headed toward him from the hallway behind reception. She had brown hair and blue eyes, and rich coppery skin like William’s. She was pretty, poised and confident, and like any good lawyer, her outward appearance hinted that a predator lurked below the surface. “Mr. Hatcher. So good of you to come.” She held out her hand and he shook it. “I have some papers for you in my office, and then you can head out to the property. I assume that you’ll want the password?” “Password?” “For the files on the flash drive. Mr. Anderson did give you one didn’t he?” Dylan nodded. “My understanding was that if you had the drive, I was to provide you with a password to open the files. All the information is on that flash drive. Accounts, investments, real estate. I never met Mr. Anderson, but he was certainly thorough.” “Yes…” Dylan frowned. “Who did you meet?” “I did my work here in conjunction with an attorney from Vegas, a Mr. Blevins, who handled everything on that end. I was charged with taking care of things here because the property is just outside of Livingston, along the Forest Service land and—” “Wait, what property?” “Mr. Anderson’s vacation home. I understood from Mr. Blevins that you planned to live there.” Her face was carefully blank, but Dylan thought she knew far more than she let on. Perhaps she waited for him to catch up? “Why would Mr. Anderson leave me a vacation property?” “He didn’t exactly leave it to you. It’s in both your names with right of survivorship. I assumed when I saw you that it has to do with the remarkable resemblance you bear to him. Are you not related?” “Well. Yes, we are. In a manner of speaking.” “I see.” She tapped her pencil on the table. He had the oddest feeling she was still playing a game, clueing him in to the story one hint at a time. “I don’t want to overstep, but I assumed an affair by one of your parents. That you were half brothers who found each other and he wanted to protect you.” “Ah.” Dylan went along, for the moment. “Can you think of another reason?” Dylan shook his head. “Do you have a computer?” “No.”

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“You should probably get one, and once you’ve had a chance to scan the information you can get back in touch with me. In the meantime, I believe you should drive out to the cabin, take a look around and see what you think. I’ve had it provisioned, but it wouldn’t hurt to take stock and outfit it for winter. If you’re not used to the weather up here, once the snows start you’ll want to stay safe and warm at home. You’ll need to lay in adequate supplies.” “I can do that.” “Mr. Blevins said his client cared very much about your well-being, Mr. Hatcher—” “Call me Skip.” “You’ll be set for life, Skip, if you’re conservative. You’ll be able to do whatever you wish, within reason. School. Travel. Take up a craft. Pursue art. Work or choose not to. Involve yourself in charities. Not many people have those kinds of options.” She got to her feet. “Thank you, I’ll be giving that a lot of thought.” Ms. Farley picked up a bulging manila envelope from her desk and handed it over. Dylan rose and accepted it. “Thank you. I hope I’ll be hearing from you by the end of the week. We’ll talk more then. I’m sure you’ll have many questions for me. Here are the keys to the place and a few other things, papers and phone numbers, a map of Livingston.” On impulse Dylan asked, “How long has Mr. Anderson owned this property?” She smiled. “Oh, it must be going on eight years now. Since about the time I started practicing here.” “And when did he add me as one of the owners?” “In the very beginning, when he purchased it, he listed both your names on the title. Is something wrong?” “No.” He shifted from foot to foot, gripping the envelope. “I appreciate this.” “My pleasure. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you.” Dylan climbed up into his truck in a daze. Yves had known his name—his real name—and probably everything about him from the beginning. Of course he did. He was Yvgeny Mosko. He’d never take a lover, especially a man, without doing some sort of deep, probing background check. Apparently what he’d found hadn’t scared him off. Dylan picked up his phone and dialed Yves’s private number, but got a message that it was no longer in service. He tried several others but they’d all been disconnected as well. It was as if he heard Yves’s voice in his ear, whispering, “Forward, my boy. There is only forward now…” Dylan entered the address of his new home into the GPS and pulled out into what passed for traffic in Bozeman, Montana. He continued along the highway until he passed Livingston. Yves couldn’t have picked a better place. Montana was stunning, teetering on the edge of fall, crisp and cool. He passed miles of ranchland with mountains in the distance, until he finally left the highway and traveled narrower roads,

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then a few miles of old pea gravel until the GPS said he’d arrived, and he parked outside a redwood cabin in the middle of a clearing. A moderately sized log home sat at the end of the drive. Stairs led up to a fancy hunter-green door with sidelights, and to his delight, a covered porch wrapped around the entire building. Soaring windows on the second floor looked out on the mountains and unspoiled land in all directions. The cabin was rustic, it was exquisite, it was exactly what he’d have chosen if he’d chosen it himself. A dollhouse for Mosko’s most loved doll. He tore open the envelope the attorney gave him and keys fell into his lap along with a framed picture of Yves and him in an unguarded moment, taken professionally at some event. At the time Yves had fumed at the photographer and purchased the negatives, but it was Dylan’s favorite of the two of them together. No one could fail to see the love in Yves’s eyes. A note fluttered to the floor and he bent to pick it up. He had to turn so the bright sunlight didn’t hit the paper directly—Yves’s spidery hand was light and he preferred a fountain pen with a fine nib that made it all the more difficult to read.

My dearest boy, when you read this you will have moved on. You may have left my side, or perhaps if I’ve been lucky enough to keep you for my lifetime, it will be me who has gone ahead into the unknown. Either way, I should tell you that separation from you breaks my heart, in this moment when I can barely conceive of it. I love you. You can’t possibly know how much, unless you know what I risked for you. In the end, all I have to give are the trappings of wealth: material goods, this house, some cash, and investments I’ve made in your name over the years. I wish it could be more. I wish I could have given all my time and all my love to only you. I wish I could have lived my life with you there in the mountains, untouched by the world around us. You deserved so much more than I could ever give. You gave me more than you will ever know. My heart is yours, wherever you go. Yves.

Dylan’s throat burned and he closed his eyes against tears of real grief for Yves. A brief flash of movement caught his eye by the cabin, and he jerked in surprise and not a little fear. The green door opened slowly, and a dark head peeked out from behind the frame. William? Dylan dropped everything he was holding and took off running toward the porch, his thoughts racing as fast as his heartbeat. William. Am I dreaming? If I’m dreaming, I hope I never wake up. Not dead, not gone, here. Alive. William.

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He took the steps two at a time and captured William when he stepped out from behind the door. “William. Oh fuck, William.” William wrapped his arms around Dylan and clung tight. “Shh, papi. It’s me, yeah. I’m okay.” Understatement of the year. “Tell me I’m not dreaming. Tell me I’m not going crazy.” He pressed kisses all over William’s jaw. “Tell me it’s you and they’re not hiding inside with another fucking trick.” “I’m so sorry, papi. There’s no phone and this place is miles and miles away from anywhere. Mosko’s men brought me here blindfolded. Told me to wait.” “Jeez.” “I didn’t know what to do. When I heard you drive up, I thought they were coming back to finish what they started.” Dylan laughed weakly. “Let me look at you. Did they hurt you?” There was still old bruising on William’s face and arms, but he didn’t look as bad to Dylan as he had when they’d taken off together. “Not much.” William swallowed hard. “They had this other guy who looked like me…younger, some homeless kid…” “Oh fuck.” “…and a blond guy about your age.” Dylan’s shoulders sagged. “I thought they’d killed you.” William shook his head. He looked so young just then, staring at Dylan with wide eyes. “I don’t know how I feel that someone bought it in my place, you know? I expected it to be…I don’t know what. Not like that, man. Not like some down-on-his-luck kid had to—” “Shh.” Dylan pushed both hands into William’s thick hair and held his head still. “I know.” A fat tear rolled down William’s cheek. “I wish I didn’t keep seeing his face in my dreams.” Dylan pressed a kiss to his forehead. Tell me about it. “I wish it had been me. I don’t know how to fix something like that. I can’t bring him back and who knows who he was, if he had family, a mom somewhere waiting for him to come home. He’s not even going to be buried under his own name. He didn’t deserve to die, man.” “I know, baby,” Dylan soothed. “And maybe neither of us deserves to live but here we are.” “We could try to do good now, though,” William murmured. “We could do something to help homeless guys. We could work with kids or build houses or something. We could…” “Shh.” Dylan kissed William’s eyelids, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. By the time he got to William’s mouth his voice had trailed off. Their lips met and the heat that bloomed between them warmed Dylan’s body for the first time since William had been taken. He shivered until William wrapped both arms around him.

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“Cold?” William pulled him past the door and into the cabin. “Come inside. I don’t know whose place this is, but it’s really nice. Cowboy stuff and quilts. Leather furniture.” “It’s mine.” Dylan blinked in the shadows of the cabin’s tiny entryway, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He reached out and took William’s hand. “What?” William glanced up at him. “This place is yours?” “Yeah. It belongs to Skip Hatcher now that Dylan Anderson is dead. The papers are outside. I think I dropped them out there by the truck though.” He looked back the way he’d come but it seemed so far away and William was close, and so warm… William frowned at him. “So. You mean you think we’re free?” “Yeah. Maybe.” Seconds passed where neither man did anything, then with a burst of speed, Dylan trapped William against the back of the door and gripped his ass, lifting so William had no choice but to wrap his legs around Dylan’s waist. William’s cock pressed snugly against his belly and Dylan shifted so his own slid right alongside William’s. He ground against William, kissing him with all the passion he thought he’d never be able to express again. William moaned, his dark eyes soft, nearly black. Dylan’s gaze met William’s and he wondered if he’d ever telegraphed his desire like that. I’ll bet if I looked in a mirror… William clutched at him, pulling his head in to press kisses along his cheeks and down his neck. They sagged together against the door, panting for breath, until Dylan lifted William just long enough to slip a hand into his tight jeans, locate the wrinkled aperture of his ass and insinuate the tip of his middle finger inside. William lurched in surprise and squirmed while Dylan pumped that fingertip in and out of William’s hole, mostly because he couldn’t seem to wait— William tightened around him everywhere. “Yeah, just like that. What are you waiting for, papi? Come and get it.” Dylan pressed tighter against him. Lifting his hips in fast, short jabs, Dylan slapped William against the door with each thrust. William’s head lolled as he flew apart in Dylan’s arms. He begged and clung, crying out “Yes, papi” over and over in a rising crescendo that shattered the air when he finally came, spattering hot and wet on Dylan’s belly. Dylan climaxed in his jeans—the only clean pair he had left—and nudged in for deep, passionate kisses that went on forever. Dylan kept William wrapped around him until he got so tired they slid to the foyer floor together in an untidy heap. Dylan lifted his lips from William’s to ask, “You all right?” “I’m all right.” William put his head on Dylan’s shoulder as their bodies relaxed against one another. “I’m going to be fine…thanks to you.”

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About the Author

Z. A. Maxfield is a fifth-generation native of Los Angeles, although she now lives in the O.C. She started writing in 2007 on a dare from her children and never looked back. 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. If anyone asks her how a wife and mother of four manages to find time for a writing career, she’ll answer, “It’s amazing what you can do if you completely give up housework.” To learn more about Z.A., please visit www.zamaxfield.com and http://abstractrx.livejournal.com/. Send an email to Z.A. at [email protected] or join her Yahoo! group to join in the fun with other readers as well as Z.A. http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ZAMaxfieldsCyberCafe/.

Look for these titles by Z.A. Maxfield

Now Available: ePistols at Dawn

Choose your weapons.

ePistols at Dawn © 2009 Z.A. Maxfield Jae-sun Fields is pissed. Someone has taken the seminal coming-out, coming-of-age novel Doorways and satirized it. He’s determined to use his Internet skills and his job as a tabloid reporter to out the author as the fraud and no-talent hack he’s sure she is. Kelly Kendall likes his anonymity and, except for his houseboy, factotum and all-around slut, Will, he craves solitude. There’s also that crippling case of OCD that makes it virtually impossible for him to leave the house. He’s hidden his authorship of Doorways behind layers of secrets and several years’ worth of lies—until he loses a bet. Satirizing his own work, as far as he can see, is his own damned prerogative. Except now he has an online stalker, one who always seems several steps ahead of him in their online duel for information. A chance meeting reveals more than hidden identities—it exposes a mutual magnetic attraction that can’t be denied. And pushes the stakes that much higher, into a zone that could get way too personal… Warning: This book contains large Korean men; Will, the houseboy, factotum, and all-around slut; hot sexy manlove including oral sex, and serious ass play. (Jae’s note to self: OCD + socks + mouth = BAD.)

Enjoy the following excerpt for ePistols at Dawn: Kelly stood looking at the clock tower. Jae broke the silence. “Originally, I thought maybe we could go to the observatory.” “Oh, that would be—” “We don’t have to.” Jae took his hand. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to, I don’t know, gird your loins to come and see me. I don’t want you to dread coming up here.” Kelly quirked a small smile that was genuine and dazzling and then whispered, “I think it far more likely I’m going to dread going home.” “Yeah?” Jae used his remote, but instead of entering the car Kelly leaned against the door and smiled up at him in invitation. “You make me feel like a doll,” Kelly said on a breath, his eyes on Jae’s. For all Jae had been thinking about Kelly’s eyes, he found things in them he hadn’t noticed before, tiny gold and orange flecks inside the hazel irises and coal-colored rings around them. Long, dusky eyelashes caused smudgy shadows when they swept down, either to blink or to hide his thoughts. Kelly lowered them right then and a delicate flush stained his cheeks. “Do I stand too close?” Jae asked. “Loom too much?”

“No.” Kelly swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. The first pleasant rush of arousal flooded Jae’s body. For once he didn’t want to act on it immediately. He didn’t want to shatter the delicacy of the moment. “I can think of someplace to go. Someplace quiet.” Kelly smiled. Jae could see what he thought. He thought Jae was suggesting someplace where they could act on what Jae was sure they both wanted. “All right,” Kelly murmured with an expression that defined surrender. Jae opened the door for him and helped him in, sliding a hand down his arm and around to help him buckle up in a gesture that became an excuse for brushing touches on skin that rippled and got gooseflesh with anticipation. Kelly made the most of the opportunity to touch him back. “I have just the place.” Jae closed the door and walked around the back of the car. While Jae drove, Kelly kneaded his shoulder. Jae had placed his coat in the back of the car. With only the thin fabric of a black T-shirt between his skin and Kelly’s fingertips, he felt the warmth of the man’s hand as it caressed him. He pulled into the parking lot of the Kyoto Grand Hotel, and to his surprise, Kelly asked no questions, just allowed himself to be led. It was as if Kelly didn’t look at anything but him. That unnerving and frank gaze was serene as he waited for Jae to tell him—to show him—what was going to happen. There was a waiting stillness in him that Jae was willing to attribute to wisdom, to age, to tranquility, to fear. To anything, really, but indifference. When Jae put his hand on the small of Kelly’s back and led him from the elevator out into the garden, he felt the heat coming off Kelly in waves. Not indifference then, far from it. Submission. Jae had a moment’s regret that he hadn’t taken Kelly straight home to his apartment. “Wow,” Kelly breathed. “Yeah.” Jae began down a path rich with mounds of blooming pink azaleas and sprays of ornamental grasses, dotted by bonsai trees. They walked slowly, savoring the scents of late summer flowers and soil and water, which fell in sheets from a waterfall and collected in placid pools. “Oh, good, good place.” Kelly seemed to examine each and every plant and rock eagerly as he passed the large chunks of rosy-colored stone imported from Japan. Beds of sand had been meticulously combed into swirls and patterns, like south sea island tattoos, evocative representations of the ocean. “You could hardly believe anything like this existed if you were simply down on the street looking up.” “I come here when I need to think.” Jae didn’t mention that he’d come here once or twice to think about Windows, and how to draw out the writer and expose what he’d thought was the woman who’d mishandled his sacred text. “It’s wonderful.” Kelly let him lead the way. “I like to garden. At home, I have a kind of gazebo in the middle of mine, where I like to sit. I’ve found over the years that it’s important to me.”

“You garden?” Jae couldn’t equate the act of gardening with the seeming grab bag of phobias that manifested themselves in Kelly. “Isn’t that kind of…” “Dirty? Messy?” Kelly laughed. “I had a friend growing up whose mother had a crippling case of OCD. She had to bleach anything, and I mean even my friend, before she could touch it. It was actually kind of sad. But for some inexplicable reason she used to eat at fast food restaurants whenever I went to visit.” Kelly shook his head. “It was as if whatever made her phobic about germs hadn’t quite presented itself logically and said, here, germs are everywhere. She would go for miles to avoid touching a child’s toy, but drove through a chain restaurant for lunch without giving it a second thought.” “So what you’re saying is it makes no sense?” “Yup.” “How do you stand it?” “The very fact that it makes no sense is how I stand it,” Kelly explained. “It’s like…being allergic to something, only you don’t know what it is…or maybe it changes every day. You go through all the motions, and you think, well, crap. Here we go again.” “You’re very well adjusted for—” Kelly barked a laugh. “For someone who is so obviously not.” “I didn’t mean it like that,” Jae said, taking Kelly’s hand and leading him along the path beside the sand ocean. “It’s all right. Sometimes I feel so old. I didn’t always have this, but it didn’t happen overnight. The panic attacks came on gradually, and at first…well. I don’t want to talk about that. I just got some help dealing with the physical manifestations and worked on trying not to avoid or anticipate the events.” “That’s almost…heroic.” Jae stopped him. “I doubt if I could be that sanguine about it.” Pain flickered briefly in Kelly’s eyes and Jae wondered if he’d accidentally said something wrong. It was there and gone so quickly he might have believed he’d imagined it if Kelly hadn’t tightened his grip on Jae’s hand. “That’s the joke. Everything extraordinary that I’ve ever done has occurred entirely in my head.” Jae touched the back of one of his fingers to Kelly’s cheek. “Surely not everything.” “Well—” A loud cough from someone on the path nearby caused Kelly to begin moving again, and Jae was sorry Kelly never finished his thought. They spent the rest of the early afternoon sitting in the rooftop garden, and then they wandered over to the section of Little Tokyo where they explored the shops and found another Japanese garden next to a community center. They walked around that for a while. Kelly sat on a stone bench near a lotus pool. Jae joined him there, enjoying a lengthy companionable silence. Eventually Jae’s stomach rumbled loudly and they both laughed. “Hungry?” Kelly watched schools of tiny fish darting back and forth in the water. “I am.” Jae sighed, getting up.

“What a spectacular place to spend time, thank you so very much.” “It wasn’t the most exciting afternoon.” Jae took his hand again and began to lead him back the way they’d come. “I’ve been known to show a date a better time.” “Different,” said Kelly. “But I doubt better.” “Thank you.” Kelly turned to him, looking up. He had to shade his eyes as the afternoon sun slanted over them. “Well. Not if you didn’t think so. It might have been less than exciting for you. I’ve been known to bore more outgoing people to death.” “I don’t ever think I could find you boring. You take such interest in things. It’s fun to watch.” Kelly smiled as Jae led him back to the car. In the dark and isolated cool of the parking garage, Jae pulled Kelly in and kissed him, smoothing down the crisp white fabric covering the smaller man’s torso. He didn’t stop until his hands cupped each of Kelly’s tight ass cheeks. He lifted Kelly up to his toes in an incendiary embrace, from which they eventually broke apart, dazed and panting. “It’s official, I will never find you boring,” Jae stated shakily, taking Kelly’s hand. To his surprise, he felt a sharp tug of resistance. He turned. “What?” “I don’t know.” Kelly glanced back the way they came. “Problem?” “Kind of.” “Can you tell me?” Jae put his hand on Kelly’s shoulder, experiencing a protective surge somewhere in his chest, which felt tight and expansive all at once. “I just…” Kelly’s eyes rose to meet his. “I wanted to freeze that. Get it right here.” He fisted the front of his shirt. “So I would never lose it.” “Kelly…” Kelly began moving toward the car again, catching Jae’s hand as he went. He shot Jae a smile over his shoulder that was at once sweet and sheepish. “I wanted to hang on to that a little longer, is all.”

Giving screwball mystery a whole deadly new meaning.

All She Wrote © 2010 Josh Lanyon Holmes & Moriarity, Book 2 A murderous fall down icy stairs is nearly the death of Anna Hitchcock, the much-beloved “American Agatha Christie” and Christopher Holmes’s former mentor. Anna’s plea for him to host her annual winter writing retreat touches all Kit’s sore spots—traveling, teaching writing classes, and separation from his new lover, J.X. Moriarity. For J.X., Kit’s cancellation of yet another romantic weekend is the death knell of a relationship that has been limping along for months. But that’s just as well, right? Kit isn’t ready for anything serious and besides, Kit owes Anna far too much to refuse. Faster than you can say “Miss Marple wears boxer shorts”, Kit is snooping around Anna’s elegant, snowbound mansion in the Berkshires for clues as to who’s trying to kill her. A tough task with six amateur sleuths underfoot. Six budding writers with a tangled web of dark undercurrents running among them. Slowly, Kit gets the uneasy feeling that the secret may lie between the pages of someone’s fictional past. Unfortunately, a clever killer is one step ahead. And it may be too late for J.X. to ride to the rescue. Warning: Contains one irascible, forty-year-old mystery writer who desperately needs to get laid, one exasperated thirty-something ex-cop only too happy to oblige, an isolated country manor that needs the thermostat cranked up, various assorted aspiring and perspiring authors, and a merciless killer who may have read one too many mystery novels.

Enjoy the following excerpt for All She Wrote: I want to fuck you, Kit. I raised my head, cleared my throat. “Come again?” J.X. smiled at me, a lazy smile. His eyes were dark and tender. “And again and again and again.” His voice was soft. It seemed to raise every hair on my body, like the drifting ripple of static electricity. “Oh.” I lowered my head to my arm, looked into the serious regard centimeters from my own. Well, good luck avoiding him at that distance. I redirected my gaze to his mouth. It was soft and moist and his lips were faintly pink as they shaped his words. “You never let me before. Is it a problem?” “Uh…no.” “You don’t sound sure.” I wasn’t sure. That is…the idea turned me on, no denying it. The idea of J.X. taking me, all that warmth and strength burying itself in me and making me his own—bizarre thought and yet…definitely a

turn-on. Which was kind of weird because I’d never liked being fucked. Never enjoyed it. Found it uncomfortable, a little painful, and too much like subjugation. And David had felt the same way. So we’d taken turns with it, because that was the fair thing to do, but there had always been that niggling knowledge that both of us were never truly enjoying sex at the same time. That it was always a concession on someone’s part. J.X. and I hadn’t really fucked since we’d got together. I wasn’t sure what his feelings were now days. When we’d first hooked up all those years ago, he’d let me fuck him and he’d accepted without demur my refusal to reciprocate. I mean, I’d tried to put it in more diplomatic terms than that, but the bottom line was…for me there was a bottom line. And I hadn’t planned to cross it. Not for him and not for anyone else. Not ever again. I suppose it was all tied up with my feelings for what had happened with David. Maybe it was still tied up with that. Although, the truth was, I never had liked it. But recently I’d found the idea not merely acceptable, more and more I’d found myself truly excited by it. Which, frankly, made me sort of uneasy. “Talk to me,” J.X. said. My eyes were probably starting to spin—black and white swirls while my brain overheated. I said, “I know it’s only fair that we…trade off.” His brows drew together. “So you don’t like the idea?” “No. It’s not that.” “Come on, Kit. Tell me what you think.” Not impatient. Coaxing. I think I’d have preferred exasperation. Then I could have worked myself into a snit and we could have sidestepped the issue for the time being. I rolled onto my back. “I don’t know. It’s never been good for me like that.” “Did someone hurt you?” Startled, I turned my head. J.X.’s nostrils had a pinched look, his mouth a straight line. I realized he was angry on my behalf. Angry at the idea of this imaginary lover who had hurt me with his careless, selfish ways. J.X. not realizing that I had probably been as careless and selfish as any of my lovers. Not that there had been so many of them, though I’d indulged in the usual youthful experimentation before settling down with David. “It’s not like that,” I said quickly, and I reached over to stroke his hair back from his serious face. The strands felt like silk—short, cool, black silk—and they clung to my fingers. “I mean it does hurt—” “It shouldn’t.” “But that’s not really it. I don’t mind a little discomfort if the payoff is worth—” I stopped in time. Not really in time, though. “But the payoff isn’t worth it?” His tone was absolutely neutral.

I held his gaze with my own. “I think it would be with you, which is why, for probably the first time in my life, I’m starting to fantasize about it.” His face softened. “I think I could make it good for you, Kit. I’d make sure nothing hurt you. I’d take care of you every step of the way.” His voice went dark and husky, and he put his hand to my crotch, feeling me up through my jeans with an expert, even possessive hand. I heard myself make a sound in the back of my throat, and I closed my eyes, focusing on that touch. “I love you,” he said, and his mouth covered mine. There was a lump in my throat. I wasn’t used to someone…caring so much. It got to me in a way I’d never have expected. I made another of those freaky sounds—uncomfortably close to a whimper—and thrust against him. J.X.’s tongue slipped into my mouth, wet, hot, intrusive. Another thing I’d never been crazy about. What can I say? There’s a reason I chose to write about an elderly spinster and her cat. It wasn’t just the, um, hygiene factor—although supposedly dogs’ mouths are cleaner than humans—it was so personal having someone push his tongue into your mouth. Hard to think of other things when a guy’s checking out your back molars. J.X., however, French kissed me with delicacy and skill, and need bloomed like fever in my bloodstream. “I do want it,” I panted. “I want you to fuck me.” He groaned like I’d granted some amazing, impossible wish—which, frankly, was all the more exciting. He kissed me again, broke the kiss with seeming reluctance. “Hang on. We need something…” “Condoms. Hell. It’s been years since I’ve had to—” “No, not condoms. I mean, yes, condoms, but I’ve got condoms. I mean something we can use as lube.” I was still dealing with the fact that he evidently carried condoms everywhere like he was still nineteen, when the significance of the word lube hit me. I gave a shiver that was half excitement and half alarm. Jesus, we were going to do this. I was going to let him push that long, thick cock right up my tight little asshole. Wide-eyed, I watched him disappear into the bathroom and reappear a few seconds later with a bottle of Fekkai glossing conditioner. I was still clumsily trying to peel off my clothes as he took his place beside me on the bed. Together we helped each other undress, warm hands lingering in unconscious caress, accommodating each other. My heart was going a million miles an hour as I leaned back against the pillows he’d propped up for me. I watched his face, so grave and absorbed as he squirted the pale, shimmering liquid onto his fingers.

The scent of sex mingled with that of sunflower and olive oil and citrus. Very California. Very us. He leaned forward to kiss me again. As our mouths brushed, a thought occurred to me. “Not on this bedspread!” He laughed against me, drew back. We did some frantic shoving and rearranging of bed linens. “Anything else?” His eyes were crinkling at the corners, and the knowledge that he would deal patiently with any further minor uproars went a long way to relaxing me. What was the big deal after all? It wasn’t like I’d never done this. “Be my guest,” I said. He grinned, reached forward to stroke me, cupping my balls lightly in his hand. “And what a wonderful host you are.” I spluttered a laugh, let my legs fall wide, making a cradle for him as he lowered his lean, muscular length onto me. “Am I hurting your arm?” “It’s not my arm I’m worried about.” I said it without thinking. His face was instantly serious. “We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to.” “I know. Don’t listen to me.” He appeared to consider this. “Sometimes I think the words get in the way with you and me, but I always listen to you. I always will.” I nodded. “You’re better at this than I am. I’m trying to learn by example.” He looked touched. “That’s one of the nicest things you’ve said to me.” “I need to say more nice things to you.” I proceeded to turn over a new leaf. That led to some nuzzling and nibbling and other forms of unspoken communication. As J.X.’s clever fingers tweaked one of my nipples, I arched up. He watched me, his eyes dark and hooded, his mouth pink from kisses and love bites. I knew what was next and I consciously relaxed my muscles as I felt his warm hand spreading the silky lotion in the cleft of my ass. This was it. I shifted, allowing him better access, trying not to tense as J.X. pushed his finger through the tight band of muscle. It was invasive, certainly, but it was electrifying too. I bit my lip, trying not to make any sound that might be mistaken for pain. It was a bit uncomfortable, but the wicked pleasure of J.X. touching me there melted any resistance I might have had.

He looks good on a horse, but it’s hard to love a man with a big ego and a small alibi.

Half Pass © 2011 Astrid Amara Paul King’s inheritance is named Serenity Stables, but for him it’s far from serene. He has one plan for the crumbling facility: unload it as fast as possible. But two months on the market, and he’s still mucking stalls and dreaming of his old life back in San Francisco. It doesn’t help that he seems to have misplaced a horse. Not just any horse—Tux, a million-dollar Warmblood who, despite lacking opposable thumbs, has an Olympic medal to its name. So does its Brazilian trainer, Estevan Souza, a man whose darkly sexual, smoldering glances almost make Paul forget his horse phobia. Intriguing as Paul finds Estevan, distractions are piling up. The boarders are picky. The arena roof is leaking. His drunken cousin is wreaking havoc. Tux’s owners are threatening to sue. On top of that, a bucket of blood points to possible murder. Suddenly, Estevan’s glances are looking more suspicious than sinful. And, if Paul can’t come up with a plan to save Tux, he could lose not only his chance with Estevan, but his life. Warning: Includes beautiful horses, men in tight breeches, murderers, horse thieves, Olympic champions, cowboy hats, anal sex, broken dreams, and the conquering of traumatic childhood fears.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Half Pass: It was strange. It had been years since I had sat in a saddle on a horse, but all the sensations came rushing back to me—the exhilaration, the nervousness and the peace. With each stride my muscle memory returned, and somewhere deep inside of me, a part of my brain switched on with a sigh of contentment, like this was what I had been missing out on all these years, like this was all I had needed. There had been a time that I had loved riding, more than anything in the world. I had forgotten, in the long months of physical therapy and mental grief over the death of my friend. But now, astride Jasmine in the open air, a spark caught fire in my soul, and I breathed deeply, feeling a sense of connection that had been lost since I was a young man. Estevan led the way as we wound around the outdoor arena and to the back gate separating our property from the neighbor’s. Estevan didn’t bother dismounting—he expertly leaned over the side of Cosmo and fiddled with the latch. He urged Cosmo forward, and the horse pushed open the gate with his chest. Estevan shut the gate behind me and we began our ride in the slightly rolling wild grass of the Hendersons’ orchard. Estevan pointed out trees and chatted about Jasmine and Cosmo, and seemed relaxed to a degree that made me wonder if he was going to fall asleep at any moment.

As for myself, I had hoped the ride would be romantic. Me and this man, on horseback, in the wilds of Whatcom County. In truth, my heart beat too rapidly to really have a good time, but I enjoyed it slightly, in the way one enjoys getting off a roller-coaster ride. But for a few minutes at a time, I loved it in this incredible, all-body way, as if I was one with something alien and spectacular and perfect. It helped watching Estevan, who was a natural at riding. He sat on Cosmo like the saddle was a big armchair and the reins were an icy-cold beer. His legs hung down elastic, loose, and yet somehow exuding invisible energy, channeling Cosmo forward, holding him collected together. But relaxed as he looked, Estevan was still working. Cosmo jolted at a bird in the underbrush and Estevan urged him forward, without tightening the reins or squeezing his legs or even moving. He looked so calm and in control. Part of me wanted the ride to go on forever. Another part of me wanted off as soon as possible. “Do you want to trot?” Estevan asked, and before I could answer, he trotted down the long edge of the neighbor’s field, and I followed. It took a minute of trying to get Jasmine to realize I was seriously asking her to do this. With a loud groan like she had been stabbed through the heart, she trotted, tripping slightly on a hillock and nearly sending me plummeting. We struggled to catch up to Estevan and Cosmo, whose strides were enormous and who moved across the landscape like a hydrofoil on the surface of a clear lake. As we circled by Beth’s old house, I caught a glimpse of someone huddled on the ground. It took me a minute to recognize my cousin, but I couldn’t fathom what he was doing, crouched like that. Fireworks shot out of his hands and suddenly—no time to think—Jasmine galloped the other direction. My heart scrambled up my throat. I tried to steer but Jasmine didn’t listen. She veered toward the woods and at the last minute jerked away from a tree, petrified, and I nearly toppled off the other side of her. I gripped on with my knees, knowing that any minute now, I would be living the Christopher Reeves’ story. I heard hooves and saw Estevan galloping toward me on Cosmo’s back. Jasmine reared. I slipped backwards. Estevan reached out and grabbed me by the shirt, yanking me onto his horse. It must have been a good idea in his mind. But in reality, he cried out in surprise as my full weight crashed against him and we both tumbled off Cosmo and landed on the ground. It was a high fall, and I was stunned, frozen while my heart tried to gallop away. Estevan lay on top of me, his hot, heavy body crushing me. He jerked up his head and stared into my eyes.

“Puta merda! Are you all right?” “What the fuck were you doing?” I shouted. “I was trying to save you!” “By making me fall off two horses instead of just one?” “I’ve only ever done that with girls, you know.” Estevan’s cheeks turned red. “I underestimated how heavy you are.” “Oh, thanks!” “No! You’re just… I haven’t swung a full-grown man onto my saddle with one hand before.” “Well then next time, don’t try it!” “I won’t!” We both caught our breaths, panting, glaring at each other. I realized I could feel his entire body pressing against mine, and the contact was pleasant, pleasant enough to overpower the growing agony of my shoulder, which had taken the brunt of our fall. His lips were close enough to kiss. If my shoulder wasn’t screaming and if my heart wasn’t racing, I probably would have. “Jesus.” Estevan shook his head. “You sure you’re all right?” “Hard to tell with hundreds of pounds crushing me into the blackberry bushes,” I said, and Estevan bolted off me, as if he hadn’t realized he was lying on top of me like a lover. His face turned crimson. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. “Sorry,” he said. “No harm done, I think.” I moved slowly, pulling myself into a sitting position. My jaw hurt from where my chin had smashed against my helmet on landing, and my shoulder ached profusely, but the rest of my joints seemed to be functioning, if dusty. The only true casualty was my heart, which beat as if it was just trying to get to the end of its life and terminate. Another horse ride, another horse fall. This didn’t bode well for my equestrian future. Estevan stood carefully. “I’ll catch the horses.” Cosmo politely stood beside us, nosing through the undergrowth for something to eat, clearly unimpressed with our flip-over-his-back-into-the-brambles trick. Jasmine was running all over the place in an erratic pattern of terror. When Estevan returned with her, he still had color in his cheeks. “Are you okay?” I asked, spotting a bloodstain on his arm. He glanced down quickly and shrugged. “I skinned my elbow.” “I thought you said Jasmine never lifts more than one foot off the ground.” “That doesn’t include situations where that son-of-a-bitch cousin of yours lights fireworks behind her.”

“There’s always fine print, isn’t there?” I approached Jasmine, who had a wild, white-eyed look about her. I glared at Collin’s house. “I’m going to end up killing that bastard if he doesn’t kill me first.” My fury toward my cousin softened my feelings toward Jasmine, who looked wrung out. I patted her neck. “I suppose you think I should get on her again to show her who’s boss.” It was what Beth would have told me, but to my immense relief, Estevan shook his head. “No, she is too frightened. However, you should get on her in the next day or so, to get over the bad memory.” I laughed bitterly. “Bad memory? Not even close. At least this time I’m not going into shock from blood loss.” “What?” Estevan stared at me. “Long story.” Estevan’s curiosity was palpable, so I changed topics. “I will get on again. But first I have to get better about freezing up when I’m tense.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, she wouldn’t have reacted so badly if you hadn’t frozen. Just remember this about bravery and riding horses: you fake it till you feel it.” “Right now I feel it. Feel it all the way to the bone.” He gently touched my shoulder. “How bad is it?” “It’s not broken.” I rolled my shoulder and winced at the shock of pain that bolted through the joint. Estevan frowned. “It took both our weights. You should probably go to the doctor.” “Nah.” It looked like he was about to protest, but instead he rubbed my arm furtively, as if afraid of being caught showing affection. “We’ll put ice on it when we get back to the clubhouse.” I liked the “we” part of that sentence.