The Princess of the Andes

A new and unpublished short story. If you like this, we can do it again

The Princess of the Andes

By Victor J. Banis

The Princess of the Andes was registered in Ecuador but her owners and her crew were German. She was a freighter, and although the heyday of the ocean freighters was long past, The Princess managed each year to make a modest profit for her owners by trundling endlessly up and down the coasts of North and South America, carrying from port to port at modest rates whatever cargo she could gather—cattle or potatoes, cheap rum and tin-ware, dates and palm oil. So long as it was legal and paid an honest penny or two, anything was welcome.

She carried some passengers as well in a dozen cabins, six on the upper deck and six below. These accommodations were not of the sort to be found on the more luxurious ships that cruised the Mediterranean or the Caribbean, but they were adequate and the food, though plain, was plentiful and well prepared. Perhaps best of all, the fares were cheap, which had been a deciding factor for Randolph Letterman.

Randolph liked to take a cruise each winter, when the tourist business fell off at his little shop just off Hollywood Boulevard. Generally, he closed down for the months of December and January. He had come on board the Princess at the Port of Los Angeles, when the ship was filled with Mexicans and Central Americans taking advantage of the modest fares to return home for the holidays.

Randolph was placed at the chief engineer's table and did not really get acquainted with Captain Herrman until after they had discharged most of their passengers at Mazatlan. Indeed, for the first week of the trip Randolph found himself sharing a cabin with a Mexican gentleman who was coal black, but Randolph, who was sixty and said of himself that he had been around the dance floor a time or two, was fond of declaring that one had to make the best of things and take things as they came. He was no snob, which had enabled him to make a success of his little shop, and he was a good mixer who fancied he could find something of interest to talk about with anybody.

"If you take an interest in others," he liked to say, "Others will take an interest in you. Practice makes perfect." And, "It's an ill wind…"

After Mazatlan, there were only a few passengers continuing on, some getting off in Nicaragua and a handful more in Costa Rica, so that by the time they reached Panama City, Randolph was the sole passenger on the rest of the journey, through the Canal and as far as Haiti, where the ship turned about for the return voyage.

"I hope you won't be uncomfortable with no other company but ours," the Captain said when he seated Randolph at his table for dinner. "We're only rough sailor men." They were joined there by the first mate, the chief engineer and the ship's doctor.

The Captain turned out to be a hearty fellow, short and thick-built. When he talked, he bellowed more than not. Randolph thought him a rather peculiar specimen but he was prepared to make allowances. Because he found that the men at table with him were inclined to be taciturn, which he attributed to shyness, he quickly made it his business to take charge of the conversation. Before he had opened his shop, he had been by turns a schoolteacher and a librarian, and prior to embarking on this journey he had made it a point to learn as much as he could about their various ports of call. By the end of their first dinner together, he had shared with his tablemates no end of interesting information about the history of Panama, the building of the canal and its importance to world shipping. When at last Randolph retired to his cabin he said to himself, "There's no question about it, travel is the best kind of education. For everyone concerned."

He lay alone in his cabin and listened to the Captain and his mate chatting on the deck. Because they spoke German and Randolph knew not a word of that language, he could not know that the Captain was expostulating on "what a bore that little man is. At this rate, I am going to toss him into the sea."

Sadly, this was the truth of the matter. Raymond was a bore, an excruciating bore. He traveled alone because none of the friends who had traveled with him in the past could be induced to share another journey with him. He talked without ceasing in a steady monotone. Interrupting him was folly, because he would then only start all over again from the beginning. He had a cliché for every situation. When the men at table with him were silent, Raymond racked that up to their loneliness and set himself all the more assiduously to amusing them. Nothing stemmed the torrent of his words. They were like a force of nature.

Once, the Captain began to talk with his shipmates in German, but Randolph would have none of that.

"We speak of technical matters which could only bore you, Mister Letterman," The Captain said, but Randolph only tut-tutted at the suggestion.

"I am never bored," he said, "Which is why, if you'll forgive me a slight immodesty, I am never boring. I like to know everything. You never know when some other dear soul will want to hear something on the very subject you were about to discuss with your crew."

The Captain said a silent prayer for that dear soul of the future. He would like to have told his passenger in the bluntest terms to please shut up, but he could not. Even if his position as master of the ship had not forbidden it, he wouldn't have had the heart to be so cruel. He sighed and found some trivial matter to discuss with his mate—not so trivial, however, that Raymond could not chat about it at great length

* * *

They were a day or two out of Haiti, on their return voyage, when the doctor took ill. This was an old intestinal malady that troubled him sometimes. He was used to it, and never unduly alarmed, but he did not care to discuss it with others. When his bowels troubled him, he wanted nothing so much as to be alone.

Because his cabin was small and inclined to be stuffy, the doctor settled instead on a long chair on deck and lay back with his eyes closed. He was aware that Mister Letterman liked to walk up and down the deck morning and evening, for exercise, but the doctor thought that if he pretended to be sleeping the passenger would surely leave him alone.

Raymond passed him by half a dozen times, to and fro, and finally stopped dead in front of him.

"Is there anything I can do to help, doctor?" he asked.

The doctor had continued to pretend to be asleep, but he was so surprised by this question that his eyes flew open of their own accord.

"What makes you ask that?"

"You look quite ill."

"I am in some pain. It will pass shortly."

Raymond went away but he returned in a short while. "You look so uncomfortable there," he said, "I've brought you my own pillow, I always travel with it. Let me put it behind your head."

At the moment the doctor felt too ill to decline and he let Raymond lift his head gently and place the soft pillow behind it. Really, he thought, it did feel a great deal more comfortable.'

"I know what doctors are like," Raymond said, "They haven't the foggiest notion how to take care of themselves."

He left again but returned after a few moments and brought his own chair next to the doctor's. The doctor groaned inwardly, but Raymond said, "Now, I don't want you to talk, you just rest there. But I do think that when one is feeling under the weather it is comforting to have someone close at hand. I'm only going to sit here and read."
To the doctor's amazement, that is just what he did. It made an odd impression on the doctor. The rest of the crew were used to his idiosyncrasies and didn't notice at all any more when he took ill. He could not but be touched that the funny little man, usually such a monumental bore, had noticed, and he did indeed find it strangely soothing to open his eyes from time to time and see his companion sitting reading in silence. After a time, the doctor fell asleep. When he woke some while later, Raymond was still there. He gave the doctor a smile but said nothing. The doctor found that he felt much better.

When he went into the dining room a bit later, he found Captain Herrman and his mate, Hans, drinking a beer together.

"Join us, Doctor," the Captain greeted him. "We're just holding a council of war. "You know that Christmas Eve is only three days away."

"Of course."

They had brought a Christmas tree all the way from Los Angeles and the crew had been looking forward to the occasion. Separated as they were from their families, they took a very sentimental view of the holiday.

"Mister Letterman outdid himself at lunch today," the mate said. "He scarcely stopped for breath the whole time."

"It's hard enough to be apart from one's family at Christmas time, but I cannot endure the thought of spending the entire evening listening to that incessant chatterbox."

"Short of throwing him overboard, I don't know what you can do," the doctor said. "He's not a bad old soul, you know. He just needs a man."

"What on earth do you mean?" the Captain cried.

"Oh, come now, gentleman," the doctor scolded them, "Surely you must have realized by now that Mister Letterman is homosexual. Gay, in their own terms."

The Captain's face reddened. "Yes, that thought crossed my mind, but the man is sixty if he's a day. You can't mean to suggest that he's thinking of romance at his age."

"I think it all the more likely at his age," the doctor said. "All that loquacity. A good session with a lusty man, whatever it is that those people do together, it would relax all those jangled nerves. I give you my word we'd have some quiet then."
The Captain smiled at the suggestion and his eyes twinkled. "Well, then, doctor, since you are a bachelor, and this is the remedy you suggest, I think it is up to you to see to the matter."

"Pardon me, Captain, but as ship's doctor it is up to me to prescribe treatment for the afflictions of our passengers, but it is not my duty to administer it. Besides, I am past the age of sixty myself. I think that youth is an essential in this matter, and good looks an advantage. I believe our mate here, Hans, would be the ideal one to solve the problem."

Hans leapt to his feet. "Me. I wouldn't. I couldn't. Are you suggesting I am…?"
"Oh, don't be foolish," the Captain said. "You're a sailor, aren't you? Sailors have a long tradition in these matters. Didn't I see you dancing with another sailor in Belem not so long ago?"

"It was only a samba."

"Besides, you're handsome, young, and strong. We have two more weeks before we reach Los Angeles and can be free from this pest. Surely you wouldn't let the rest of us down."

"No, no, Captain, you ask too much of me. I was only married two months before we set sail, and I can hardly return to my bride and confess that I have already been unfaithful, and with a man in the bargain."

"Am I then to have the rest of my trip, and my Christmas holiday to boot, ruined because there is no man on my ship to show a little kindness to an aging homosexual? I swear it, I shall run us aground."

"What about Peter?" Hans said in a flash of inspiration. "The radio operator?"

The Captain gave a roar and pounded upon the table. "By all the angels in Heaven," he cried, "You have found the very solution. Bring that young man here, at once."

When the radio operator, young Peter, was brought into the dining room, he wondered uneasily if he had done something wrong, but he clicked his heels smartly together and stood at attention while the four men—the engineer had now joined the others—looked him over at some length.

Peter was tall, wide of shoulder and narrow of hip. His hair, a riot of curls, was golden, his eyes the blue of the sky—the very epitome of Teutonic manhood.

"How old are you, young man?" The Captain asked.

"I'm twenty one, sir."

"Married?"

"No, sir."

"You are aware, are you not, that we still have one passenger aboard?"

"Yes, Sir. I've seen him a time or two on deck. He always says a very polite good morning to me."

"And I trust you have responded in kind?"

"Yes, Sir."

"That is good, then." The Captain assumed a serious manner, and his face took on a stern impression.

"We are a cargo ship," he said, "But as you know, we also carry passengers and because it allows us to turn a profit, this is a branch of our business our owners want us to encourage. My instructions are that we are, each of us, to do everything that we can to ensure the happiness and the comforts of our passengers. I trust that you recognize the importance of that mission."

The radio man looked puzzled, but he nodded and said, "Yes, sir. I am always happy to do what I can to make our passengers happy."

"Good. The gentleman in question needs the attentions of a man."

"Attentions, Sir?" Peter screwed up his face in puzzlement.

The Captain reddened, but he said frankly, "Of a sexual nature. And the doctor and I have decided that you are the perfect one to resolve this issue."

"Of a sexual nature, Sir? You mean, from me?" The young man blushed and gave a little laugh, but he quickly saw that this was not a matter of amusement to the others in the room. "But, I'm not inclined that way, Sir. Anyway, the gentleman is old, he's old enough to be my father."

"At your age, that shouldn't matter in the least. When I was twenty one…well, no matter, my exploits are not the issue here. Besides, this is a gentleman of distinction. He has talked with us evening after evening of his acquaintances in the city of the Angels."

"He appears to be on a first name basis with a great many members of the movie community," Hans added.

"There, you see," the Captain nodded his approval. "Who knows what might come of your kindness in this matter? You're a good-looking fellow, I don't mind telling you that. Who's to say you might not find yourself enjoying a movie career as a result of doing a good deed. It's not often one gets the opportunity to combine a little pleasure with a chance at fame and fortune."

"But, Sir…"

"I am not making a request of you," The Captain interrupted him in his sternest voice, "I am giving you an order. You will present yourself to Mister Letterman in his cabin at exactly eleven o'clock tonight."

"But, what shall I do?"

"Do? What kind of foolish question is that? Do what comes naturally."

***

The Captain and his mates were already at table the next day when Mister Letterman bustled in. He seemed even more talkative than usual, but halfway through the meal he paused and said, thoughtfully, "I had a strange experience last evening."

For a change the others at table hung on his words, waiting breathlessly for him to go on.

"I was just about to get into bed when someone knocked at my door. 'Who is it?' I asked. 'It's the radio operator,' came the reply. 'What do you want?' I asked, and he said, 'Could I speak to you for a moment?'

"Well, I was puzzled, but I slipped on my bathrobe and opened the door, and the young man said, 'Excuse me, Sir, but would you like to send any radio messages?'

Which struck me as very amusing. I'd have laughed in his face, but I didn't want to hurt the poor boy's feelings, so I simply said, 'Thank you so much for thinking of me, but I don't care to send any messages.' I must say, he looked at me quite oddly, as if he were embarrassed, so I simply said 'Good night,' and shut the door."

"That damned fool," The Captain cried.

"He's young, Mister Letterman," the doctor said, "I suspect he thought that with Christmas approaching you might want to send someone holiday greetings."

"Oh, I took no offense," Randolph said with a little laugh, and launched into one of his more interminable stories.

* * *

When Randolph had gone, the Captain sent for the radio operator. "You fool," he berated him, "What on earth made you ask Mister Letterman if he wanted to send any messages?"

"But you told me to act naturally. That's what I do, is send messages. I didn’t' know what else to say."

"Idiot. The man is homosexual, and you are young and handsome. I put it to you, the honor of Germany is in your hands. Now, try again tonight, and do think of something a little more appropriate to say."

That night there was again a knock at Randolph's door. "It's Peter, the radio operator," came the reply when Raymond asked who it was. "I have a message for you."

"For me?" Raymond was astonished. He could think of no reason for anyone to be sending him a message—unless the worst had happened and his shop had burned to the ground.

"Slip it under the door," he said, "And I'll write an answer and slip it back to you."

When he read the message that was slipped under the door, however, his head swam and he had to fetch his spectacles and read it again to be certain he wasn't mistaken.
"Merry Christmas. Stop. I am in love with you. Stop. I want to be with you. Stop. Please, let me come in. Stop."

For the longest time Randolph could only stare at the slip of paper in his hands. He was aware of a tumultuous silence from the other side of the door. Finally, he took off his glasses and laid them on the dresser, and reached for the knob.
"Come in, please," he said.

* * *

The next day was Christmas Eve. The stewards had decorated the dining room and the Christmas tree stood lighted on a table against the wall. The officers were in a festive mood when Mister Letterman came in, a little later than was his custom. When the others greeted him, he merely nodded in return. He ate well, but said hardly a word the whole time.

Finally, the Captain said, "You're very quiet today, Mister Letterman."

"I have things on my mind," was all he would say. "Could I have a bit more of that gravy, doctor? And some more potatoes, I think."

The Captain inwardly breathed a sigh of relief and congratulated himself on what he now saw as his cleverness in discovering a solution to their problem.

After dinner the entire crew gathered to sing Christmas Carols. Randolph sang with them in a pleasant tenor. Once or twice the doctor caught him looking at the radio-operator with an expression that the doctor could only think was bewilderment.

The Captain had produced a very nice champagne. Everyone drank a little more than might have been wise, and they were all a little tipsy by the time they said good night, but Randolph, who had matched them drink for drink, managed to walk quite steadily to his own cabin.

When the officers sat down to lunch the following day, they found that Mister Letterman was already seated. At each place he had left a small parcel. The men gave Randolph questioning glances.

"You have all been so kind," he said, "I wanted to give each of you a present. I'm afraid they aren't very much."

The Captain found some fine Cuban cigars in his package. The Doctor got a half dozen silk handkerchiefs, the mate a bottle of cologne, and the engineer a pair of ties. When Randolph had retired to his cabin after the meal was ended, the officers looked a bit uncomfortably at one another while they fingered their gifts.

"I feel a little guilty for playing that trick on Mister Letterman," the mate said at last.

"He is a good old soul," the Captain said. "I doubt he could afford these presents. I wish now we'd left him alone."

"It wouldn't have hurt us any to listen to his chatter for another couple of weeks," the engineer said. Randolph had spoken hardly at all throughout the meal.

"Maybe he's ill," the Captain said.

The doctor scoffed. "He's eating like a she-bear. I think on the contrary the man's been cured of what was ailing him. But," he raised an eyebrow in the Captain's direction, "You could always speak to the radio operator."

The Captain turned red. "I think that would be indelicate." The truth was, he was a little ashamed now of forcing the radio-operator to do something that had clearly been against his own nature.

***

For the rest of the trip, the crew treated Mister Letterman with the utmost consideration. He might have been convalescing after a lengthy illness and they the nursing staff charged with looking after him. They competed with one another to see who could be the most charming, the most entertaining.

Despite their efforts, Randolph did not revert to his former loquacity. To the doctor it appeared as if Mister Letterman treated them all with a sort of polite disdain. He seemed to find them and their efforts amiable, but the doctor couldn't help feeling he also found them a trifle ridiculous.

At last they chugged into Los Angeles harbor. The Captain came to bid his lone passenger farewell. "I hope we've made you comfortable," he said, shaking Raymond's hand and thinking that a peck on the cheek might have served better, if he could have summoned the courage to do so.

"You've all been so very kind to me," Randolph said. "I shall never forget this time spent with you. I think it's changed my life for me."

It was with an undeniable regret that the officers saw their Mister Letterman disembark from the Princess of the Andes.

They were neither loading nor unloading cargo at this port on this occasion, however, and no sooner had their passenger left the ship than the Captain turned her around and started for the open sea again. They had a load of timber to pick up along the Oregon coast, and they were already a little behind schedule.

They were no more than half an hour out of port when the mate rushed into the Captain's quarters.

"We'll have to turn around and go back," he said without preamble. "That damned radio operator has jumped ship. He'll have to be replaced."

FREE FICTION - Give and Take by Clare London

GIVE AND TAKE by Clare London

Ethan opened the bedroom door quietly and stepped out into the lounge. It was in darkness, apart from the moonlight sneaking through a broken slat of the blind and stretching a couple of pale, gleaming fingers across the couch and its cushions. Several of them were scattered carelessly on the floor. The room was silent, too, the only background noise the occasional swish of a car passing through the drizzle of rain on the road outside. It was a quiet neighborhood and at this time of night, there was little traffic.

He padded across the lounge into the bathroom and took a leak. Then he rummaged for a few moments in the cabinet. Damn. He let out a soft tutting noise. He tugged absentmindedly at the waist of his boxers. There’d been no point in putting anything else on, for obvious reasons. What to do now? Wandering back into the lounge, he stood for a moment, listening to the quite hum of the cistern, watching how the shadows of his furniture looped across the mat.

There was a faint creak from another door opening and he turned to look towards the other bedroom, on the far side of the lounge. He watched as a half-shadowed male figure stepped out then bent over the door handle, trying to close it behind him with as little noise as possible. The figure straightened up, dark hair flopping back down over one side of his face. The man caught sight of Ethan and his eyes widened, shining in the semi-darkness. “Ethan…?”

“Nick. Shh.” Ethan put a finger to his lips and the other man walked over to him, stumbling over one of the cushions and wincing as he stubbed a bare toe on someone’s discarded shoe.

“One of Micky’s,” Ethan said, keeping his voice low. “Guess he forgot to clear up his clothes before you and Jeremy got in. We were a little too… distracted tonight.”

Nick smiled, slowly. He was also dressed in nothing but boxers. “I gathered that. Your bedroom door was closed and the lights were all out, but the TV was still on and there was popcorn all over the floor one side of the couch.”

Ethan flushed, hoping the darkness hid his embarrassment. “That was me. I dropped the bowl. There was a bit in the movie that…” He searched for the word.

“- startled you?” Nick said, wryly. “Yeah, I saw the cover.”

“You saw…?”

“It didn’t read much like a horror flick, though,” Nick continued. There was mischief in his eyes. “Unless there’s something shocking about naked, well-endowed young men diving into swimming pools. Without trunks.”

Ethan flushed and frowned.

Nick shook his head. “Hey, no problem. It’s your apartment as much as mine, you can watch what porn you like. Actually, Jeremy and I were tempted to watch some of it ourselves before bed.”

“But…?”

Nick cleared his throat with some discomfort. “We got distracted, too.”

“Just from the opening credits?” Ethan stepped back with a grin when Nick threw a mock punch at his arm. He tilted his head toward the room he’d just exited. “You want the bathroom?”

Nick yawned and nodded. He didn’t move past Ethan, just stood there, scratching aimlessly at his chin. “You’re finished in there yourself?”

Ethan couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Nick was flushed, too. “Am I in the way or something?”

“Of course not,” replied Nick, but his smile definitely looked nervous. “I’ll just pop in there. In a minute. Just need… something.” His hand curled into a gentle fist and his shoulders tensed.

Ethan nodded, his grin growing. “You after something in particular? For you and Jeremy? That cute, insatiable blond in your bed?”

Nick frowned back. “Maybe. I just wanted to get… you know.”

“Not sure I do.” Ethan shrugged, affecting mock innocence. “So you’d better tell me.”

“For God’s sake.” Nick rolled his eyes. “We need some more supplies.”

Ethan grinned. Nick was flushed. “Used up your box already? And wasn’t it the special, deluxe, bumper pack on offer last month at the store? Impressive stamina, man.”

Nick ran a hand through his hair and glanced back in the direction of his bedroom as if someone might hear them. “Shit, Ethan, you’re always so…”

“Blunt?” Ethan grinned even more. “We’ve been sharing this apartment for months now, and been dating our guys for almost as long. It’s no big place at the best of times. What’s to be coy about?”

Nick sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. There has to be plenty of give and take. You and Micky can be pretty noisy sometimes.”

Ethan snorted. “And look at the places you and Jeremy leave your sex toys.”

Nick flushed even darker. “That was just the once. I was cleaning up the apartment but I had to help Jeremy inside with the week’s groceries…”

“And left the anal beads on the floor of the elevator.”

Nick closed his eyes, briefly. He looked in pain. “It would have been okay. I remembered seconds later, and went back. If the elevator hadn’t been recalled immediately back to the first floor…if they hadn’t been so obviously purple against the pale carpet…”

“… and if Mrs. Cartwright’s dog from No. 12 hadn’t taken an unhealthy shine to them,” Ethan teased.

Nick frowned at him. “You’re no Mr. Discretion yourself. Remember when you spilled chocolate body sauce on the kitchen floor, then left sticky footprints all the way down to the laundry room?”

Ethan frowned back. “So who was it had to borrow the shears from Maintenance when your ear got caught in the catch of Jeremy’s handcuffs?” That had taken some imaginative explaining.

“And when Mrs. Cartwright called the police because she couldn’t hear the TV over the sound of your orgasmic yelling?” Nick’s voice rose in volume. “You said you were practicing for Phantom of the Opera!”

“At least she could use her TV,” Ethan snapped back. “You keep borrowing the batteries from our remote and running them flat! God knows what they think in the store when you buy multi-packs alongside the flavored lube and another of those silicone flexible pancake turners you’re so fond of –”

“Shut up!”

Ethan glared at his friend, who glared back just as fiercely. Their breath was coming now in shallow bursts of resentment.

In the background, there was a soft, sleepy moan. Ethan glanced over quickly to his room, and saw Nick do the same. Then he glanced back and found Nick smiling at him. Ruefully.

“Sorry,” Ethan muttered. “I’m a bit… tense. You know? He’s been away for a few days and I’m kind of… glad he’s back. Being horny makes me cranky.”

“You and me both,” Nick replied. “Jeremy hasn’t been able to stay overnight for weeks now. It makes it kind of special when he does. You know?”

They met each other’s eyes and grinned. “Guess we both know,” Ethan said.

Nick nodded. “So…?” He gestured towards the bathroom. “I’ll just pop in there, and get…”

“Ah,” Ethan said, rather too quickly. “Maybe not.”

Nick stared at him. “What do you mean? There’s always a spare pack in there. I bought them last month, because you usually forget yours, and if either of our guys forgets as well, it’s always good to have an emergency supply…” His voice tailed off.

Ethan shifted from one foot to another and tried to think of words that wouldn’t bring him any more grief.

“You’ve taken one yourself,” Nick said. His voice was suddenly quite sharp.

Ethan fisted his right hand and tucked it surreptitiously behind his back. “Look, Nick, be reasonable. I’ll buy some more tomorrow. Micky was in a rush at the airport, he didn’t get time to buy any before we came home. Emergency supply, you said, right?”

Nick still stared. “You’ve taken the last one,” he said. He sounded breathless.

Ethan grimaced. “Sorry. You know how it is. We were back first tonight, and then we were kind of… busy.”

“What about me?” Nick sounded almost like a plaintive child. “What happened to the give and take of apartment sharing?”

Ethan bit back the response that he didn’t think it extended to condom sharing, but he judged – wisely - that Nick wasn’t in the mood for flippancy. “Can’t you…? You know. Do something else tonight?”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. “I could say the same to you. Seems you’ve already yelled away to your heart’s content tonight. Once more seems plain greedy to me.”

“And you could use some of those torture contraptions you keep in the cupboard with the spare duvet,” Ethan retorted. “That’ll keep you occupied for hours. After oiling and powering ‘em up, I’m amazed either of you has the time or energy left to screw each other.”

They glared. Nick’s eyes flashed to Ethan’s hidden hand, then back up to his face.

There was another soft moan from inside one of the bedrooms.

“I’ll pay,” Ethan blurted out. “How much do you want for it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nick snapped. His shoulders seemed to have tightened up and the cords in his neck looked more prominent.

Ethan bit his lip. “I need this, Nick. I need him. He has to go away for another week soon, they’re talking about a conference in Europe. Then you can have free access to any and every sexually-related item in this whole fucking place. I’ll buy you five more boxes, goddammit, and you can choose as many colors, flavors and exotic jungle shapes as you like.”

Nick huffed. “I haven’t had Jeremy in my bed for more than three hours at a time for weeks. He’s under a lot of pressure at work since the takeover, ever since they fired the whole senior management team. He needs to forget about it all when he’s here. We both need it.”

Ethan grimaced again. He knew only too well how pig-headed Nick could be when his mind was set on something. Well, not that he wasn’t a bit like that himself, of course. “So what do we do? Do we flip for it?”

“With your two-headed coin?” Nick growled. “I think not. You forget, I know all of those party tricks of yours.”

“Look, there must be another one somewhere.” Ethan looked around wildly, wondering if a condom might suddenly drop from the sky like manna from heaven. “Your pockets? Mine? The cookie jar?”

Nick sighed. “None.” He took a step toward Ethan. “Hand it over.” Ethan recognized his tone: it was the one he used when he watched afternoon TV and imagined he was Judge Judy. “Who actually paid the grocery bill this week? Do I have to remind you it was me? I put it to you, that makes it legally mine.”

Ethan realized how swiftly things slipped beyond friendly compromise. “Ah, but I’ve already got it,” he muttered. “Possession being nine tenths, and all that.”

Nick’s eyes darkened and he steadied his stance. Ethan wondered if Nick could recall any fighting he’d done in his youth before he reckoned on making himself some hotshot TV lawyer person. For that matter, Ethan wondered if he could.

Then the door to Ethan’s room cracked open an inch or so. “Ethan?” came a sleepy voice. “Missed you.”

Micky stood there with tousled curls and flushed cheeks, dressed in pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips and scratching gently at his bare belly. He smiled aimlessly at Ethan. Ethan gazed back into the most perfect example of fuck-me eyes he’d ever seen and forgot what day of the week it was, let alone his youthful pugilistic history.

Right on cue, the other bedroom door opened as well. “Nick? Guess I fell asleep.” Jeremy sounded puzzled. He stretched lazily, the towel around his plump waist shifting precariously. He pushed a pale silk blindfold further up on to his forehead, tangling it in the fine blond locks of his hair. “You want me to heat the massage oil up again?”

Ethan glanced at Nick. Nick’s jaw was clenched.

“Take it,” Nick muttered under his breath. “But you owe me.”

Ethan’s felt his heart skip a beat then do some fist pumping for good measure. “Thanks, man! Look, I’ll clean the apartment this weekend. Cooker, bath, you name it.”

“I will.” Nick’s tone was steely. “And?”

Ethan heard Micky’s yawn from the other side of the room. His cock started to swell. Could he help it, that he found even Micky’s yawns sexy? “Okay, so I’ll do it for a month.”

“And cook the suppers,” Nick hissed. His eyes were on Jeremy but his tenacious expression was obviously aimed at Ethan. “And take out the trash.”

Ethan fidgeted, his feet starting to shift back towards the bedroom. Goddammit, he’d never known his friend had such vindictive tendencies. “Sure. Whatever. I promise. Jeez…”

“Ethan?”

Ethan surrendered his last bargaining chip. “And I’ll get you one of those pancake turners. A large one.”

Nick nodded curtly.

The two of them glared at each other one last time, then Nick gave a grunt, and loped back across the lounge. Ethan took a deep breath and followed. They both walked past their lovers without a word and disappeared into the sanctuary of their rooms.

**

Micky looked across at Jeremy and raised his eyebrows. “Trouble?” he murmured quietly, so that only the two of them heard.

Jeremy shrugged in reply. “No, I’m sure things are fine." He was distracted, looking back over his shoulder into Nick’s room. “Just give and take. You know how it is.” He was fingering the blindfold, as if impatient to tug it back down over his eyes.

Micky nodded. He kept glancing back, too, into Ethan’s room. His breathing was quite shallow. “Guess we all know,” he said, grinning at something that only he could see. His hand tightened on the handle of the door. “See you in the morning.”

The only reply from Jeremy was the quiet click of Nick’s door closing behind him.


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A Man Lay Dead in Winter part 6

The other parts can be found via this page.

“Extraordinary. What can it mean?”

“That the man who lives here, Kenwyn’s kin, had some reason to need to know what that seal looked like. I can’t believe he kept it for decoration. Could he have some connection to the dead man’s family?”

“I do not know. Was there anything else that you sniffed out?”

Johannes shook his head. “Nothing out of the everyday. But I have thought on that picture long and hard. I wondered why I would need a copy of someone’s seal and decided it could only be to recognise the man, if I had not met him before. Or to see that his mark was genuine when witnessing the sealing of a document or the certifying of someone’s identity. I can’t imagine that Kenwyn’s cousin’s grandfather would have much occasion for being a witness, so I guess he was given this so that he would know Arthur if he met him. In which case, why?”

“There may be some simpler explanation. Perhaps he took a fancy to the pattern and wished to have a copy?”

“Perhaps. Let us be charitable and assume that is just the working out of coincidence, but I have a feeling in my bones that there is a connection to what happened today, and it unsettles me.” Johannes moved closer to his lover; the fire had been kept well banked up but he sought for comfort, not just warmth. “How well do you know Kenwyn? He had not been with you long before we met, I believe.”

“Aye. His family are simple decent folk. His father served mine and it was long agreed that the son might follow suit once he had returned from Gloucester. He spent some time with Hywel’s men and could have had a place there in the guardhouse but he prefers the country to the city. Cleaner and more honest, he says. Perhaps this violent death will make him realise that there can be evil anywhere.”

“Has he ever spoken of Arthur or his father? Were you ever aware of a special connection between the two families?”

“Not that I know of, except that all families locally seem to know each other in the common run of things. Kenwyn has been a good groom. He is reliable and fiercely loyal and cares very much for his people. He did mention how fond he was of his cousin —I suppose it is the same one that the man who lives here has been visiting, as I believe Kenwyn said she was the only girl among a half dozen boys in the family.”

“How fond is fond, Horace? The fondness for someone he might regard almost as a sister or more than that? The fondness we share?”

“Perhaps the latter. I recall he was asking about what would happen should he take a wife, whether he could stay in my service. I was more than happy to agree to the proposition as he has been a very good servant to me and I would be loathe to lose him.”

“That seems fair. I know that many a man with a household to serve him might elect to have bachelors only, but it seems unfair to expect one’s men to be celibate when the master…” Johannes’s words petered out into a smile, a kiss, and then a great yawn. “I must sleep Horace. A great tiredness has come upon me and it can’t be fought off as easily as you can when you feel amorous and I am too weary. Exercise your mind on this mystery as I sleep and we might have something to give Hywel in the morning, or whenever this snow lets him come here, apart from just a dead body.”

Johannes laid his head on the makeshift pillow, declining the opportunity to use his lover’s legs for the same purpose. It would be unfair to deprive the man of part of the cover, which is what would be entailed if they moved into such a position, and anyway those particular limbs were not a little bony and needed a good feeding up before they would make an ample cushion. Horace’s chest would have been another matter, but it would not answer in these circumstances.

~~~

When Johannes woke his face was warm, indicative of the fire still burning steadily in the hearth, but his back was cold, which meant that Horace had gone off about his business or whatever he thought his business might be this morning. As if Johannes’s thinking of him had brought forth the man, the door opened and Horace entered, carrying a load of wood.

“Good morning. Is the world smothered in its winter blanket?”

“It’s not so bad. The snow lies as thick as the breadth of my hand in places but it should be passable assuming they have not suffered worse in the valley. We should see Hywel before noon unless even more urgent business calls on him.”
“And the horses?”

“Cold and hungry but surprisingly happy considering that they did not pass the night as comfortably as we did. I found some apples and even some bran in the store. This man is well looked after, Johannes, and we must replenish all his supplies twice over. And add a flask of wine or two.” Horace smiled, something that he’d become accustomed to doing more often since his lover had entered his life the previous year. It had been the most fortuitous of circumstances and at times Horace was inappropriately grateful for the harsh times his friend had spent abroad as they’d brought him to Pain’s Wyke and to his manor.

“Shall we make a warm mash for the beasts? Your Hugon is always fond of one or so Kenwyn says.”

“Ah, Kenwyn.” Horace said no more, turning to the store and filling a bucket with bran.

Johannes considered for a moment. He knew this man extremely well and could recognise when something was exercising his mind. He also knew better than to enquire of it until he knew that Horace was ready to share all his thoughts. “I’ll get some water warming, then. Old crusaders know that it’s best to look after your horse before yourself; our bacon can wait.” He watched the pot carefully onto the hearth—no-one with any sense handled such an operation without care, risking as it did the pot tipping and the flames being put out. As it was settled safely, he felt strong arms around him and Horace’s face nuzzling into his neck. “What ails thee?” He reached his arms up to encircle his lover’s head in a halo of affection.
“I’ve been thinking all this last watch and I do not like that thoughts I have forming in my mind.”

“Will you tell me them while we wait for the pot to boil?” Johannes turned, took his friend by the hand and sat them down with the fur cloaks over their shoulders. The morning hadn’t yet shaken off night’s cold embrace and it seemed unlikely that the day should ever have any warmth in it.

The Finest Thing

Excerpt:

Aidan´s company kept him busy. In the past few weeks he´d been to Dallas, Chicago and New York, which didn't bother him because he liked traveling, but living out of a suitcase so often was starting to grate on his nerves. He was happy to be back home at last. He dropped his bags on the floor the minute he walked in the door and trudged to the couch in the living room and fell down onto the plush cushions. "Ah" he sighed as he leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes.

He didn´t know how long he´d been asleep when he felt the vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the caller ID, shocked that it was his mother calling. He was going to ignore the call then the thought that it might have been an emergency prompted him to take the call.

"Hi, Mom. Is something wrong?" He asked with dread.

"Yes, something is wrong. Why did I have to find out from Peter´s mother that you´re coming home?"

As soon as he´d gotten the invitation he knew it was only a matter of time before his mother would find out and call, but he wasn´t looking forward to it."You know how things have been between me and the family. I thought you wrote me off. So, why are you even bothering to call me, now, Mom? The last time I heard from you was an impersonal Christmas card, two years ago."

He could hear the guilty pause over the dead airwaves. "I´m sorry, Aidan. I´ve wanted to call you so many times over the past few years. I just couldn´t find the right words."

"But you are suddenly finding them now?" He practically yelled. He took a deep breath to recompose himself, and continued, "Mom, I´m only going back to Connecticut to see my friends get married. I´m glad that at least the state has seen fit to let gays get married. Not that it matters to you. I know that if I ever get married you´d never come to my wedding. You, Dad and Jason could just never stomach seeing me marry another guy, see me really be happy."

"I´ve only wanted you to be happy, Aidan, but you know how difficult your choice makes things."

"My choice? Being gay is not a choice, Mother," He said formally. "It´s who I am. And I´m not going to forget how you treated me after you found out about Kyle. I loved him, just as much as you love Dad and Jason loves Amy. There is no difference. Love is love." He could feel himself getting more and more upset as the phone conversation dragged on. "Look, Mom, I can´t talk about this right now."

"Aidan, please. I´d really like to see you, and I know Jason would like to see you too."

"Oh, really? Well, then why haven´t I heard from him at all since I came out?"He asked bitterly, holding the phone in a death grip. "I´d really like to know why I didn´t hear from any of you even once when Kyle died. Was it because he was my gay lover and you couldn´t accept that? I bet if he´d been a `her´, I´d have gotten all the support I needed."

"I´m so sorry. I wish we´d been there for you, Aidan. Really, I do. It was a mistake, a big mistake. I know being sorry isn´t enough, but I just want you to know we love you."

"We? As in Dad, too? Because I know how proud he is to have a gay son," he added sarcastically.

"There´s something I need to tell you," she said hesitantly, pausing before she continued, "Your father and I split up."

That was a punch to the gut he wasn´t expecting. "You and Dad split up, when?"

"A few months ago I found out he was cheating on me. There were a lot of unexplainable charges on the phone and credit card bills and he tried to deny it, but with the evidence I had, he couldn´t. Then he tried to say he was sorry and wanted to make amends, but I had enough of him lying through his teeth. I told him to pack his bags and go."

He didn´t say a word for a minute, trying to give himself time to absorb this new development. He knew his parents´ marriage wasn´t ideal, far from it.There had been plenty of arguments when he was growing up, but he never thought they´d ever get a divorce.

Despite everything, he loved his mother and couldn´t help but feel bad for her."I´m sorry to hear that, Mom."

"No, you´re not, but thank you anyway. I´m better off without him. Aidan,"she said, changing subjects, "I hope when you´re here that you might stop by and see me and your brother. I know you probably don´t want to after how we´ve treated you, but please, just promise me you´ll think about it?"

"Sure, Mom, I´ll think about it." He said, making no commitments. "Thanks for calling. Bye."

"Bye, Aidan." He heard the phone disconnect on her end and slowly shut his phone. He knew that going to a wedding could present some interesting social challenges, but he hadn´t expected this latest situation with his family. Truth be told, he did want to see Jason, since they had been close while growing up. They had been more than just brothers----they had been friends. When Aidan came out to his family and things had gotten ugly between him and his parents,Jason got caught up in the middle. Instead of picking sides, he shut down and just left without saying a word.

Going home again was going to be an interesting trip in more ways than one. He just couldn´t wait for it to be over so he could come back to San Diego, which felt more like home to him than Mystic had since he came out.

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Switching Gears - Book 3 of the Solitary Knights of Pelham Bay

Excerpt:

“I don’t know, Jack.” Gordon shook his head, a concerned look on his face. “The butterfly bandages should keep the wounds closed, but you should probably get this checked out by a doctor.

Jack stared down at his bandaged hand. “Looks like you’ve got it wrapped up pretty good. I’ll wait a couple of days and see how it’s healing. I bet I’ll be good as new in a week.”

Gordon grinned. “Knowing you, you probably will be. You’re made of steel. Just don’t use it for a few days, if you can avoid it. And no slamming any more walls.” He eyed Jack. “I mean, what the hell was that all about, anyway? Did the wall offend you in some way?”

Jack shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t know. I just get…edgy. You know? Savakis was in the shop and—”

“Ah, Marcos,” Gordon interrupted with a smirk. “That explains it. Every time the two of you get going at the pub, we just sit back and watch the fireworks.”

“Well, he’s annoying as hell. And who does he think he is—”

Gordon laughed, shaking his head. “Harris. You might as well just admit it. It’s obvious to anyone looking during those meetings. You are so into that guy it isn’t even funny.”

Jack frowned. He could feel his blood pressure rise, causing a sharp ache in his chest. He glared at Gordon. “Is that your idea of a joke, Flanders? You couldn’t pay me to get involved with that prick. Shit, I wouldn’t fuck him with your dick.”

“Uh huh.” Gordon continued to grin, which irritated the crap out of Jack. “Whatever you say.”

Seeking to deflect attention from himself, Jack shot back, “Yeah, what about you? Dennis sure seems to want to get into your pants. When’re you going to give it up for the guy?”

“Dennis?” Gordon looked genuinely puzzled. “Dennis Rutherford?”

“Yeah. To quote you, he’s so into you, it isn’t even funny. Why not take advantage of the situation?”

“You got that one all wrong.” Gordon shook his head. “Dennis and I are just friends. We work together. We’re both way too smart to get involved with a work partner. Kiss of death. ”

Jack couldn’t deny that was true. After a moment, Gordon added, “Back to you, Jack. I regard you as a friend, and I don’t like to see my friend hurting himself. No more of this wall bashing shit, okay? You’re really lucky you didn’t break something.”

Jack knew Gordon was right. “Hey, I really owe you one, man. Thanks for patching this up. Bring in your car next time you need work, or a tune up or whatever.”

“Yeah, sure.” Gordon laughed. “When I win the lottery and buy my Porsche, I’ll let you know.”

“Nah, don’t let the specialty sign fool you. I’ll always have time for my pals.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Gordon stood, hoisting his medical bag over his shoulder. “And Jack? Not that it’s my business, but you might want to get some help—you know, find a better way to deal with your anger. That kind of rage could end up killing someone.”

~*~

Gordon’s words kept echoing through Jack’s head that evening. That kind of rage could end up killing someone. His hand was pulsing like a beating heart, a constant, throbbing reminder of his rage.

Yeah, Savakis had pissed him off, as usual, but this wasn’t the first time he’d lost it, letting his anger get the better of him. It was almost like a physical thing—something that rose up like hot lava and burst through him, beyond his control, almost beyond his awareness.

Hitting something eased the pressure. Even when it hurt, maybe especially when it hurt, somehow it made him feel better, calmer. Lately he felt wound up all the time, full of nervous energy that had nowhere to go.

Sex was a good release, but he was forty-two—how much longer did he want to go on picking up guys at the bars, taking them home for a quickie and then sending them on their way? The morning after nearly always still found him edgy, restless, like a boxer in the ring, itching for a fight.

When was the last time he’d felt calm? At ease in his own skin? He closed his eyes, pondering. Man, was it really twenty years ago? He’d just gotten out of the service back then, still wet behind the ears when he’d discovered the scene and fallen in with Alexei. Back then, Alexei had been able to calm him, but Jack had washed his hands of the scene a long time ago.

That whole leather culture smacked too much of the military for his taste. Nobody dictated to Jack Harris who he could talk to and when, or what he should wear, and why it was significant. Alexei, one of the old guard leather daddies, used to coach him on the rules when he took him to scene events—a bottom should never initiate conversation, he should stare with respect at a Top’s boots during conversation, he should walk half a step behind his Top as a sign of respect. There were way too many damn rules—fuck that.

Jack Harris bowed down to nobody, not even Alexei Spiros. Still, he couldn’t deny Alexei had been the one person who could slow him down. When he was with Alexei, the jittery agitation that was such a constant in his life just seemed to slip away. He’d never experienced that level of peace before or since.

“I wonder how he’s doing?” Jack said aloud in the habit of people who live alone. “Maybe I should look him up.” He recalled Drew’s challenge at the last Solitary Knights meeting about looking up an old lover and seeing what had happened with them. Well, he wasn’t sure he’d categorize Alexei as a lover, not precisely. But he had been the one person who could get inside Jack’s head, and the one person who could calm him down.

Curious now if Alexei was still around, Jack went into the kitchen in search of his old address book. He hadn’t looked in the little black book for years. Maybe Alexei didn’t even live in Manhattan any more, but what the hell—it was worth a shot.

He punched the number into his cell phone. “Hello?” It was not the deep, gravelly voice of Alexei, but that of someone who sounded much younger. Shit, it was the wrong number. Jack was about to hang up when the person added, “Spiros residence.”

An employee? A sub boy? A lover?

“Hi. I was calling for Alexei. Is he around?”

“Who is this?”

Just answer the fucking question. Jack took a breath. Gordon was right. He really needed to get a grip. He let out a breath and said politely, “This is Jack Harris, an old friend of Alexei’s.”

“Hold on. I’ll see if he’s available.”

Jack waited. A few moments later the man returned to the phone. “He’s resting now. Can I take a message?”

Worry suddenly shot its way through Jack’s gut. Alexei must be nearing seventy. “Is he okay?”

“You—you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Alexei had a mild heart attack awhile back. I just brought him home from hospital a few days ago.”

Jack’s mind was whirling. Alexei Spiros was made of iron. Nothing could ever happen to him. Even though Jack had lost touch over the years, Alexei had always remained a quiet, steady constant in the back of his mind. He’d been not only Jack’s mentor and partner back when Jack had been active in the scene, he’d been a friend, and maybe the only person who could tell Jack what to do without pissing Jack off.

“I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

“He’s doing well. Full recovery expected. He just has to take it easy for a while. Did you want to leave a message for Alexei?”

“Yes. We—we haven’t been in touch in a long time.” The guy’s second sentence now penetrated Jack’s head—I just brought him home—whose home? A shared home? Curious, Jack asked, “You’re Alexei’s…friend?”

The man chuckled. “Yeah, you could say that. We’ve been together fourteen years. My name’s Rusty. Rusty Dougherty. You know Jack from where?”

“I knew him twenty years ago. Man, I can’t believe it’s been that long. He was my, uh, that is, he and I…” Jack hesitated, not sure how much this Rusty knew of Alexei’s background.

“You were his sub? One of his boys?”

So he did know. Jack snorted. “I was never anybody’s sub. But yeah, we were in the scene together, I guess you’d say. I think of him more as my mentor. But I walked away from all that years ago. Not really my thing.”

There was a brief pause, and then, “Would you like to leave your number? I’ll let Alexei know you called.”

BUY LINK

A collection of shorts -- Rowena Sudbury

I used to post quite often at a community in LiveJournal called all_unwritten. Lately I haven't had the time as much. There's a daily prompt, and people write whatever strikes their fancy. For a long time I was writing stories about a couple named David and Chris. David was coming to terms with emotional abuse he suffered at the hands of his parents, and how it stifled his relationship with Chris. What follows are a series of the daily prompts that I strung together. The prompts are in bold. If I'm not mistaken, they came one on the heels of another.

heavy eyes

The time I like him best are when his eyes are heavy with sleep, either first thing in the morning or last thing at night. That's when his barriers drop away, and I can hear him as he truly is. That's when it's the best.

David closed the journal, wondering what he meant. Was he really that hard to deal with? Did he really only show his true colors when he was at his most vulnerable...just woken from healing sleep or just about to sink into it?

That's what you get, he mused to himself, reading Chris's journal without his permission.

He fingered the worn edges of the journal, lost in thought, working out yet again in the twisted passages of his brain how best to effect a change.

caught

"David?"

With a start he tightened his hand along the spine of the journal, turned and looked over his shoulder. "I thought you were at the market."

"I was," Chris advanced into the room, stopped with a gasp as he realized David held the journal as he sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out and plucked it from David's hand, "What the hell..."

David turned to face him then, "It was on the bedside table...I thought..."

"You thought wrong then David," Chris said angrily as he tucked the journal up against his chest. "These are my private thoughts, if I wanted to share them with you I'd tell them to you. Fuck, is nothing sacred?" He spun on his heel and headed for the door.

As he disappeared out into the hallway David said, "I shouldn't have read it, that much is true," he took a deep breath, "But if you didn't want me reading it, you shouldn't have left it lying there..."

In the hallway Chris paused. David was so delicately balanced these days, but part of him was tired of walking on eggshells. True enough, he should have tucked it away under his socks where he usually kept it, but he hadn't, and a man had limits. He continued down the hallway, too proud to go back in and assuage hurt feelings.

my mistake

He sat on the edge of the bed for the longest time, until the cold began to seep back into his hand after the journal had been taken from him. This was different. This time he wasn't blamed for something he didn't do, this time he had made a deliberate decision to do something wrong.

There was no way to explain how it made him feel, this acknowledgement that he was able to differentiate between what he was used to, and what he now had. He longed to share it with Chris, the fact that he could now distinguish the difference, but it was Chris who had been hurt.

Slowly he rose, headed down the stairs, and found the rest of the house in darkness. The slider was open to the back deck. A bottle of wine sat open on the sideboard in the dining room, and the glass beside it was an invitation. He poured some, and headed out to the back deck.

Chris sat lounging in a chase, his own glass of wine balanced on the arm. He didn't turn his head as David sat in the chair beside him. "It's not going to work this time David," he said. "You saying you're sorry, and that I don't understand how difficult everything is for you, until you invading my privacy and reading my journal will be all my fault."

When he turned a frown sat between his eyebrows, his voice was hard with anger instead of lilting smooth. "I thought we had trust and respect between us." He picked up his glass and took a long swallow.

David dipped his head, and silence grew until at last he cleared his throat. "That's not what I came down here for." He raised his head, "It was my mistake to invade your privacy. We do have trust between us, and I violated that trust because I was curious."

When Chris turned his head the anger had left his eyes, leaving them a clear sky blue. Silently he reached out a hand, and when David took it he whispered, "Are you sorry?"

"I thought you didn't want to hear me say I'm sorry."

A small smile touched the edges of his lips, "But if you are, I want to hear it."

"Then I'm sorry," David whispered.

broken on the inside

After he said the words he pulled his legs up and reclined in his own chaise, watched the stars, sipped his wine. He didn't feel any different now, and he wasn't sure why.

Chris drew his knee up, rested his arm against it, and closed his eyes halfway. "So, what did you read?"

"Sorry?"

"In the journal, which part did you read?"

"I didn't read that much of it Chris," David said softly. "You said you liked me best when my eyes were heavy with sleep."

"That's it?" Chris said, he rolled his head on the chair pad, watched David through narrowed eyes.

"Chris, it wasn't my intention to read the whole thing, like I said I was curious is all. And it made me wonder when you said that...because that's when I'm the most vulnerable. Do you know ...how much you have to trust someone in order to allow them to see you when you're almost asleep?"

Chris frowned again, not in anger this time, but more in confusion, "What do you mean?"

"When you sleep you let your guard down, when you sleep someone creeps in your room and takes a piece of your soul as they stand over you, hatred oozing from their pores, and they watch you and wish you were dead."

Chris gasped, and slid from his chair. He knelt on the deck next to David...clenched and unclenched his fist, then reached out hesitantly to lay his hand over David's arm. "Baby," he whispered, "You're so broken on the inside."

David sat up, his expression fierce as he closed his hand over Chris's and squeezed tight enough to leave a bruise, and yet Chris did not flinch. "I'm not Chris. I was, but I'm not anymore. And I want you to know," his voice took on a desperate edge, "That you don't have to see my heavy eyes to see the real me...you're seeing it right now. Right now."

Easing up, crowding in beside David on the chaise, Chris molded his body alongside David's, waited until he relaxed. "I believe you."



Don't forget to visit my GLBT Bookshelf and check me out at Dreamspinner Press.

Desire Ordained, by B.K. Wright

INTRO:
“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Shakespeare’s words resonated through Curt like never before. In his first role as leading man, Curt quickly discovers that art truly does imitate life. Focused on his own glory, Curt soon realizes that through his acting he gives hope to one who has little. Victimized by organized religion, an institution which boasts as its leaders those who are ordained to satisfy their sexual urges and desires as they choose, Curt’s character quickly becomes real. It is through this leading role that Curt meets the only man who can satisfy his sexual hunger, and who loves with a selflessness that Curt has never known.
EXCERPTS:
Curt knew that he was becoming too involved with his own role, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He had always become a part of the roles that he played which did make him a good actor, but it also had its downside. Sometimes without knowing it Curt would internalize his character and actually believe that he was the character he was playing.
********
They passed many establishments as they walked in the Village. Curt loved it. This was his world. If only he had someone with whom to share it. He would love to be walking hand in hand with a special someone. It had been a long time.
********
Curt walked into a room with a very inviting whirlpool with its shooting jets of water making the water bubble. The room was very well decorated and very clean, with a sign that read, “No clothing allowed.” Curt had no problem with that. The water was warm as Curt lowered himself until he was seated in front of one of the jets. The water felt good on his stiff muscles. The roar of the jets and the bubbling water blocked out any intrusive sounds, and were lulling Curt into a very relaxing state. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the side of the pool. In his dreamlike state, Curt did not hear the door open, nor did he hear the man walk in and join him naked in the pool. The man watched Curt as the buoyancy of the water bobbed his body up and then back down in the water. The man stood in the water, watching and waiting for Curt’s erection to take shape.
********
The whirlpool would feel good tonight. He put the key in the lock and turned the knob. This was a different room with much different décor. He will be here soon, he thought. Curt closed his eyes and thought about the last time. His hands had let go of the side of the pool and his body was floating freely in the water when he felt his legs open wide and those same huge hands wrap around his upper thighs. Taken by surprise once again, Curt reached for the side of the pool to steady himself.
********
He stroked Curt’s smooth hair while he slept soundly. Curt’s arms were straight out in front of him with his head on Daniel’s abdomen. His face was turned toward Daniel. Curt looked peaceful. Daniel wanted his bed to be the place where Curt found greatest peace. Curt had kicked the sheet off of him sometime during the night and his naked form was beautiful as the rays of sun formed a spotlight on the area that formed an inverted V where his legs parted, that special place that he shared so unselfishly. Curt mumbled something and repositioned himself across Daniel so that his butt now formed an arc displaying the treasures hidden beneath.
********
The very first picture that appeared on the screen was that of Curt’s character with a very anguished look on his face. The room quieted as many of the kids saw themselves in the anguished face on the screen. The title of the film, “Desire Ordained”, filled the screen amid flames and crosses. The sound effects were fantastic and only added to the passion contained within the movie.

~B.K. Wright~
http://www.beautobeau.com

A Man Lay Dead in Winter Part 5

The other parts can be found via this page.

Horace was very quiet for a while, studying the flames as they danced in the hearth. He was aware that Johannes understood him more completely than anyone, perhaps even more than he did himself, but Johannes had no areas of character he wished to keep hidden, no unplumbed depths of which he was frightened. He had spent the last year and more teasing Horace out of himself, winkling the pearl of love and valour from the oyster of reserve and self-pity that had been created after the death of his father. The pearl had proved to be beyond price. “I do not know. I can understand the self-sacrifice, I can understand that very well. Had I gone to the crusades I might have fallen upon the sword of honour and valour, seeking to lose myself in the fight. I have wished it often enough but not had the courage to make it happen.”

“Do you wish it now?”

“You know the answer to that question. Need I repeat it?” Horace’s face softened into a smile. He appeared boyish and vulnerable by the light of the fire and Johannes knew he could never love anyone or anything as much as he loved this strange and dour fellow into whose manor he had come by accident some fifteen months back. “The part I find so hard is the idea of loving one’s neighbour as oneself. Very hard to accomplish the former when the latter is beyond one’s capabilities.” He nestled his head onto Johannes’s shoulder, finding all the comfort he needed in contact with the strong frame.

“Perhaps all the love I feel for you will kindle some dormant tinder within your heart and let you love yourself. Or at least like yourself. That would be a start.”

“Perhaps. I believe you have love enough for both of us.” Horace lifted his face and kissed his friend with as much tenderness as he could muster. “I wish we were at home in my bed.”

“Aye. But we are not and we must be aware both of not intruding on our host’s hospitality, especially when he is not aware that he gives it. And on the fact that either Kenwyn or Hywel or both might appear at any moment. A murder is scandalous enough. We do not want to risk disgrace on top.”

Horace smiled, recognising that his lover was not just a seemingly infinite fount of love but of wisdom too. “Then let us drink our wine and try to get some sleep. That snow is not likely to leave off for a while and I for one will want to have all my strength come morning.”

“Shall we take watch and watch? You should sleep first. I feel peculiarly awake and would welcome the chance to think.”

“And what will occupy your mind?”

“This scrip, Horace, and its contents. Perhaps they can tell us some more. I like a riddle; in my father’s house it was custom to entertain the assembled guests with games and word play. When I was but a boy I would sit for hours and try to join in solving the mysteries that were described.”

“What sort of mysteries? Not the sudden and unlawful death of a man on a winter’s day?”

“Sometimes. My paternal uncle had many a tale to relate of crimes that had been committed up in Shrewsbury and an exceptionally clever monk who had outwitted the culprits to bring them to justice. But often it was just silly things, puzzles to amaze and amuse. My favourite was about the man who rode into the Abbey on Lady Day, stayed the whole of two nights then rode out again on Lady Day.”

“That is not possible. Such a thing could not be.”

“Oh it could, Horace. I remember I had solved the problem long before the men of the household and whispered the answer in my father’s ear. He was so proud of me then—he always has been, bastard or not.”

“And will you tell me the solution? It must be a trick. The man stayed a year elsewhere and you did not tell me.” Horace didn’t like to be bested, especially by his lover.

“I will give you until morning then when we break our fast—it will be water from the well and any of that meat that remains—I will tell all. And perhaps I will have some ideas about our dead friend, too. Now sleep, you look done in.”

Johannes laid his lover’s head down on the makeshift pillow he’d fabricated from the saddle bags, and gently stroked his temples. Horace snuggled down like a babe with its mother and didn’t open his eyes again until he awoke with a start, convinced it was his turn to keep watch and that his lover had let him sleep over.

“Johannes, why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because you’ve only slept two hours, I would guess. The night is barely half through.”

“And you have a twinkle in your eye that I can even see by this firelight. What have you discovered, my faithful hound?”

“This.” Johannes produced a piece of parchment and laid it out where the glow of the fire might illuminate it. “I was looking to see if there was a lamp anywhere—to hope for candles would have been unrealistic—and I found a cache of things on a little shelf. Even in the dim light I could see that this meant something.” The paper carried a depiction of the seal which the dead man had carried.

“Extraordinary. What can it mean?”

Seeing You by Dakota Flint

An excerpt from a novella, Seeing You by Dakota Flint, which is now available from Samhain Publishing.

Blurb:

Love can be found among the pieces of a broken heart.

The night his brother, Simon, was killed in an accident, Dylan took on a double load of guilt. Guilt for walking away unscathed…and for secretly loving Simon’s partner, Wade. Unable to bear the pain, Dylan left the Lazy G ranch to rebuild his life elsewhere.

A year later he reluctantly responds to his sister’s plea to come home, where he finds the Lazy G falling apart. And so is Wade. Wade has stopped caring about the ranch, about everything that should matter most to him.

Though there’s more ranch work than one man can possibly handle, Dylan throws himself into the task. Wondering how he’s going to find the strength to pull Wade out of the fog of grief when his own is still as raw as a fresh wound. Wondering when Wade will finally see that his second chance for happiness is standing right in front of him.

Warning: Contains explicit, emotionally charged m/m sex. Extra box of tissues required. You could use your sleeve, of course, but we don’t recommend it.

Excerpt:

I hadn’t dreamed about the accident in weeks, hadn’t woken up sweating and crying and wondering "why me?" in months. I had recently, in fact, started dreaming of our childhood together, of Simon and Erin and our parents, Annie and Fred. I dreamed of the day I came to live with them when I was six, bewildered by the disappearance of my mother and this concept called death, when this Simon boy sat and held my hand all night when I was too scared to sleep. I dreamed of the time a pair of nine-year-old boys thought they could hitchhike to California instead of doing their chores, but wound up waiting at Miss Flossie’s house for our parents to pick us up while the town librarian fed us stale cookies and Lactaid. I dreamed of the time twelve-year-old Simon tried to convince Erinshe was adopted and was really born at a house located at 666 Damnation Drive, of the moment when she looked at Simon and said, “If you’re trying to make me cry, it won’t work. Dylan was adopted by Mom and Dad and look how lucky we all are.”

Much better dreams than nightmares of blood and death and grief.

My attention was caught by the light flashing on in the kitchen of the ranch house, and I wondered what Wade dreamed about at night. A moment later it looked like the front door had opened, and I squinted, trying to see in the darkness if Wade was outside. Then the moonlight caught him as he stood at the top of the porch steps, his face tilted up to the rain.

I watched as he made his way down the steps, over the mud and grass, to the corral fence. Puzzled, I stared. This wasn’t a drizzle. It was a storm, and even if it were almost summer, a drenching would sap body heat pretty quickly. “Christ, what the hell is he doing? Doesn’t he care if he gets pneumonia?”

Abruptly I realized, no, he didn’t care. That was the point. And just like that, once again I felt the burn of anger infusing my limbs, powering through me as I dragged my Levi’s and boots on, bubbling under the surface as I stomped down the hall and out the door. I didn’t stop until I reached Wade where he was leaning against the fence, and I grabbed his shoulder and whirled him around to face me.

“What are you doing?” I barely recognized my own voice.

He blinked water out of his eyes and stared dumbly at me before saying, “What?”

“I said, what are you doing out here? I know it might seem like a nice night for a walk to you, but I thought I might inform you that it’s fucking pouring outside.”

Wade looked away, as if he was too tired to even look me in the face, and said, “Go back to bed, Dylan.” Then he turned back around to lean on the fence, dismissing me, and my anger turned to rage.

It felt like someone else moving after that. Someone else’s hand grabbing Wade’s shoulder to turn him around again, someone else’s arm that cocked back and let fly straight into Wade’s granite jaw, someone else that watched as Wade’s head snapped back from the force and he stumbled against the fence. Because surely it couldn’t have been me that touched Wade in anger.

But it was definitely me that went down, without a fence to catch me, when Wade’s fist connected to my own jaw. I was sure that would hurt later, but at the moment I couldn’t feel anything except anger and relief that Wade was still fighting.

I scrambled back up out of the mud, and then it was happening so fast, the adrenaline moving through my veins as we both grunted and swore and swung our limbs, that I wasn’t sure who was landing punches where. We were like one beast, ugly and flailing. I hadn’t brawled like this since Johnny Baron, one of the linebackers in high school, had called Simon a faggot when we were juniors.

The rain and mud were making things slippery, and then we were on the ground wrestling like a couple kids in the mud, both of us obviously no longer going for blood. Wade managed to roll me onto my back and straddle me, and I felt mud oozing around my head. I could barely see with the rain falling into my eyes.

It felt like the mud was seeping into my ears, which was just fucking nasty, and I stopped struggling for control and reached out, grabbed a handful of mud and aimed it for Wade’s face.

It landed around his left temple and I smashed it into his hair and ear as best I could. I started laughing when Wade stopped moving and just sat back, looking down at me as if I had suddenly turned into a purple dinosaur.

I laughed and laughed until I was scared I would never stop laughing, and all the while Wade looked down at me with his mouth hanging open in shock. Which just made me bellow more as he was catching mouthfuls of rainwater like that.

Just as Wade was starting to look really concerned, the laughter just dried up, and I became aware that we were out in a thunderstorm and it was pouring, and I hadn’t bothered with a shirt. I wouldn’t be surprised if my nipples were little blue pebbles, and I grinned at the weird thought.

That must have been the final straw, because Wade grabbed my chin and forced me to meet his gaze. “Are you fucking crazy?”

I considered this. “Probably. But if I’m crazy for lying here in the mud and laughing in the rain, aren’t you crazy for watching me do it?”

Wade grinned and said, “Probably.” The grin caught me off guard. It had been so long since I had seen it, making him look unexpectedly boyish despite the years carved into his face. I looked at that grin and the momentarily happy look in his eyes, and I couldn’t breathe.

As if he was deflating, the look faded from his face and he said, “Why did you hit me?”

“Because I couldn’t stand it one more minute. Not one more fucking second.”

“Stand what?”

“Watching you give up.”

“I have not.” But he said it quietly, and I knew he didn’t even believe himself.

“You have. What do you think Simon would say?” I winced as I said this, hating myself for it, and Wade looked like I had punched him again.

“I—”

“Simon died. Not you. I want you to stop acting like it was you that died on that highway.”

“How do you know it wasn’t?”

That physically hurt. “Because that’s bullshit. I watched my brother die in my arms, okay? I watched and for a while, I wish I had, too. You’re not the only one who lost something that day, and I’m sick of watching you wish you could join him when the rest of us are doing the best we can to pick up the pieces.”

Wade snarled back at me, “Why do you care now? You just left. Just packed your bags and left like I was nothing to you. Like this place was nothing to you.”

That left me momentarily speechless. “I… Wade.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I tried again. “I just… I was trying to adjust to a world without my brother in it, and every time I looked at you I kept waiting for you to get angry that I walked away from the crash and Simon didn’t. I just couldn’t stay for that.” I told myself that the burning in my eyes was from the mud and rain.

Wade looked shocked. “You thought that? I… Never.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, not that it did any good. “Christ, I thought a million times that it shouldn’t have been Simon. But I never once thought it should have been you instead.”

I hoped Wade would think it was only rain leaking around my eyes. “I… Thank you. Didn’t want to think of you hating me.”

“No.” Wade was looking down at me, and I was about to ask him to get off me because I could feel my teeth getting ready to chatter, when he let out this weird choking sound. Then he said, “What do you want from me, Dylan?”