Jordan Castillo Price
©2010 Jordan Castillo Price
ISBN 978-1-935540-02-1
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Hue, Tint and Shade
Petit Morts #1
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Dear reader,
We are witnessing the start of a huge shift in the publishing industry.
Before 2003, if I wrote a story that wasn’t corporate America’s idea of What
Deserves to be Published, the best I could have put together was a photocopied
‘zine that I distributed at whatever comic shops could be coerced into keeping a
few copies on consignment.
The advent of epublishing and print-on-demand has changed that. Big time.
We’re on the cusp of a meritocracy of ideas, where books sink or swim based on
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Every time you choose to buy from a small, independent publisher or self-
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Jordan Castillo Price
Owner, JCP Books
-1-
-one-
Sweets to the Sweet was empty. Once the Michigan Avenue lunch crowd
left with their lattes and their fussy little truffles, it always turned into a
ghost town for at least an hour. Tommy Roth opened the front door the bare
minimum and slipped through, brushing his back against the doorjamb,
and entered the store so stealthily that the tiny bell on the closer didn’t
even jingle.
The guy at the counter glanced up. Tommy tried to recall one of the many dull
pleasantries he had stored up for use in an emergency meeting situation,
some phrase that wouldn’t sound too forced, but the clerk went back to
cleaning his espresso machine rather than trying to ply him with hellos,
and can-I-help-yous, and cold-enough-out-there-for-yous. Thank God.
Tommy’s watch read twenty past two. Early. He was chronically prompt, if
not early—and how excruciating it was to be early, to be the only one there,
alone, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb because he was painfully,
absurdly early. Yet as horrific as being early was, Tommy imagined if he was
ever late, he’d die of mortification, the ground would swallow him up, and
it would be as if he’d never existed. And so it was preferable to be early.
Awkward as that was.
“If you need help with…anything,” the guy behind the counter said, “don’t
hesitate to ask.” Tommy checked a flinch. The clerk had a velvety, soft
voice, but he seemed young. Maybe even Tommy’s age. Tommy risked a
look. Hard to tell if the clerk was aiming for a certain style or not since he
was currently wearing black and red chef’s gear—complete with a name
-2-
tag that read “Chance”—but he might have had a goth-thing going. Or he
might have been naturally pale and dark-haired. With the world’s prettiest
cheekbones.
When Chance looked up again, Tommy turned away, but not quickly enough
to help but notice the faint smile creeping over his expression.
“And take your time,” he said. “I’m in no hurry.”
“I don’t need any…I’m meeting a…I’ll just sit over here.” Belatedly, Tommy
realized he could have just said “thanks,” but now it was too late, probably,
and he’d sound even dumber if he did. He slid into a chair beside a filigreed
café table that was hardly big enough to hold the napkin dispenser and
the sugar bowl. He glanced behind the counter again. Chance was on a
stepstool, pulling a box off a high shelf. He had a cute butt, and the way his
apron strings were wrapped around his waist couldn’t have emphasized it
better. Damn. The whole stammery bashfulness thing was ten times as bad
when Tommy was in the vicinity of a hot guy.
Tommy mouthed the word “thanks” and reminded himself it would sound
completely appropriate as a reply. Or even “no, thanks” if the situation
should warrant it. Two words. He should be able to remember that much.
Right?
Luckily Chance kept himself busy cleaning up after the lunch rush and
re-stocking things, which left Tommy blessedly alone with the sigh of the
espresso machine and the waves of dark chocolate aroma that lulled him
into a heady fugue state where he could forget for a moment about how
early he was, and simply be.
Until the door jingled—ten minutes later, by Tommy’s watch—and a woman
with a graying bob bustled into the store. She was expansive, with broad
movements, and she wore a fringed purple coat that might have been a
shawl or might have been a sofa throw. “What a delightful place,” she said
to Chance, who smiled and inclined his head in return. “I can’t believe I
never noticed it before. It smells so rich I could gain ten pounds just by
-3-
breathing the air.”
“If you enjoy the smell, you should try the hot chocolate. It’s not from a
mix—I make it myself with single-origin cocoa from Bolivia. Very aromatic.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
The espresso machine let out an explosive gasp as Chance steamed the
milk. Tommy tried to imagine himself having a similar exchange with the
hot guy in the chef’s gear, and failed. Utterly. His vocabulary of multisyllabic
words was limited to terms such as “mortifying” and “excruciating.” It did
not include “delightful” and “wonderful.”
“That smells simply divine.”
“Enjoy.”
The woman hoisted the mug and made her way through the delicate café
tables carefully, as if she was worried her fringe might catch on some
filigree, pick up one of the tiny chairs and bring it along for the ride. “And
you must be Thomas Roth.”
“T-Tommy.”
So, this was Sister Norma. They’d exchanged a few e-mails, but the online
interaction hadn’t managed to prepare Thomas for her physical presence.
The act of sitting down took on the air of a ritual as she smoothed and
positioned the great wrap just so, sat on it, then tucked the ends of it
around herself so that only her hands and her round, smiling face were
exposed. She took up the cocoa and sipped it with a great, satisfied, “Ah.”
Tommy took a napkin and started twisting it. The paper grew moist from
the sweat on his palms and soon sent a small flurry of paper pills to be
lost in the folds of his jeans. He grabbed another napkin to clean up the
remains of the first napkin, and saw his own face reflected back in the
napkin holder, pale and distorted, framed by pale hair, stretched out long
like an Edvard Munch painting. He turned the dispenser so it wasn’t staring
back at him, but it was mirrored chrome all around. At least on the second
-4-
side Tommy merely looked startled.
Sister Norma didn’t seem to notice. She swallowed her cocoa and said,
“The good news is that I don’t think you’re cursed. Your aura is clean. I
could see that right away.”
“Um. Good?”
“But it’s very blue, with hints of violet, but mostly blue. And grayish. Very
introverted. Now, if you want to do better at work…”
“That’s not really the prob—”
“…then you’d want to swing around the color wheel to either red, or yellow.”
She nodded toward the counter with her chin. “That young man’s got a lot
of yellow, very bright. It’s not an aggressive color, you see. It’s happy and
vibrant. Like sunshine.”
Tommy stole a look behind the counter to see if perhaps, now that he knew
what to look for, he could perceive the yellow rays of happiness emanating
from the clerk. Instead he got an eyeful of Chance staring back at them
with a total “WTF?” expression on his face. Tommy looked away, fast.
“Now, you say you’re a used car salesman?”
“No, uh. New. Mostly new. Sales associate. And that’s fine, at the dealership
it doesn’t really bother…I mean, if someone’s there to find a car, it’s no
problem to tell them how many miles per gallon it gets and whether or not
a satellite radio comes standard.”
“People distrust used car salesmen. It’s part of our culture.”
“Th-they do?”
“Salesmen in general, but used car salesmen in particular.”
“But I sell—”
“They’re up there with lawyers in our collective consciousness. Just imagine
it, the mind power of three hundred million people, each of them thinking—
-5-
whether they realize it or not—that because you’re a used car salesman,
you have an ulterior motive. All that suspicious energy flowing toward you.
And here you are, a sensitive, quiet, artistic type. No wonder your blue is
so muddy.”
In fact, Tommy had never been artistic. He couldn’t draw so much as a
circle without it coming out like more of an egg, nor could he imagine blue
might look if it were muddy. But he didn’t care for the sound of it. Not one
bit.
“Do you meditate?” Sister Norma asked.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. I’ll e-mail you a book list—you can get them either at
the library or through Amazon—and my ‘beginner’ schedule. Five minutes
a day, working up to fifteen.” Her hand seemed to disappear for a moment
as she dug around inside her purple wrap, and came up with a bundle of
paint sample strips. She thumbed through them and came up with a strip
of four yellows: Butterscotch–Finch–SunKissed–Lemonade. “This will
work just fine until you get your books. I could e-mail you a picture, but
it would look different on your monitor than it does on mine. Start with
Lemonade, and if you feel the vibration in, oh, let’s say ten days, then you
can work up to Sun Kissed.”
“O…kay.”
“I don’t think yellow will be too difficult. Blonds like you seem to figure out
yellow pretty easily. Once you’ve got that down, we can look into adding
some red, maybe in your accessories. Red’s a good, assertive color, and it’s
important to be assertive when you’re selling used cars. Not aggressive.
Assertive. People can sense it when you’re too malleable.”
“Right.” Tommy took an instant dislike to the word malleable. It had an
unsavory feel to it.
“That’s my recommendation. Do you have any questions?”
-6-
Undoubtedly he did. He was simply too overwhelmed to think of any at the
moment. “No.”
“You’ve got my e-mail if you do. So, let’s see. Half hour minimum, plus trip
charge. That’s thirty dollars.”
Tommy pulled out a pair of crumpled twenties. “Do you have change?”
Sister Norma glanced at the register. Chance was bent forward over the
counter, watching them with both elbows on the plexiglass and his chin
resting in his upturned palms. “Be a dear and pick up the check,” Norma
suggested, “that way you’ll get change—and I’ll throw in a copy of my
e-book.”
Tommy made his way to the counter and put a twenty beside the clerk’s
elbow. Chance continued to stare as if something were simply hilarious, if
only Tommy understood the joke. He stared and stared, until Tommy nearly
had the nerve worked up to ask what was so damn funny…but before he
could, Chance straightened up, took the bill from the counter and rang up
the sale.
Once Sister Norma secreted the thirty dollars somewhere inside the sofa
throw, she took both of Tommy’s hands in both of hers, looked deeply into
his eyes, and said, “Don’t worry. You’re not alone in this…I’ll be sending
plenty of yellow energy your way.”
“Okay. Well, uh…thanks.”
Tommy began to pull on his coat once she swept out the door, and suddenly
Chance was right there in front of him, bussing the table. That secret
smile of his was back, a smile that made him look cryptic and exotic, and
completely infuriating. “Leaving so soon? Maybe you should stay awhile
and bask in the sunshine of my aura.”
“Shut up.”
Chance picked up Sister Norma’s mug, swirled the chocolate dregs, and
stared down into them as if he was reading tea leaves. “You got off easy,
-7-
you know. She actually believed everything she told you. Thirty dollars is
nothing—and while I can’t imagine meditating on a paint chip is going to
change your life for the better…I suppose it can’t hurt.”
Tommy moved to step around Chance, who sidestepped too—and suddenly
they were chest to chest and chin to chin. Chance’s eyes fluttered to half-
mast—incredibly long, black eyelashes—and he looked as if he might tilt his
head for a kiss. “What is it you’re looking for that’s got you searching for
answers in faith healers? You don’t seem to be hurting for money, and with
those big, sad eyes of yours I can’t imagine you have any trouble with the
ladies.”
“I don’t date ladies.”
Chance’s smile broadened, or maybe he was just baring his startlingly
white teeth. “Even better.”
Tommy took another sidestep, and again Chance matched it exactly. “Mind
your own busi—”
“Once you’ve decided that the color yellow’s not the answer, where will you
look for happiness next? Horoscopes? Phrenology? How about trepanation?
I hear that’s a real kick…it takes needing something like you need a hole in
your head to an entirely new level.”
Tommy steeled himself for whatever was going to happen next, whether it
be an open-mouthed kiss or a laugh in his face, and Chance wet his lips,
cocked his head, and stared so deeply into Tommy’s eyes it felt like his
aura must have started blushing. And then Chance eased back and spilled
himself into the tiny café chair that Tommy had just vacated. “Do me a
favor,” Chance said as he pulled a napkin from the dispenser and a pen
from the pocket of his black apron. A chill shot down Tommy’s spine when
Chance’s fingers brushed the chrome where Tommy’s reflection had been
staring back at him. “Before you hook up with someone who’ll do you any
permanent damage, try talking to a professional. Dr. Bauer won’t charge for
the first session if either of you decide you’re a bad fit for each other, so
-8-
you’ve got nothing to lose.”
He scrawled a number on the napkin and tucked it into Tommy’s jeans
pocket. Even through the fabric, his hands felt like ice as his fingertip
skimmed the crease of Tommy’s thigh.
-9-
-two-
Chance wielded his long, blunt, round-tipped spatula and spread a sheet of
walnut nougat onto an icy marble slab. The mindlessness of the work, the
precision and the finesse, appealed to him while he let his mind wander—
and it kept wandering back to the very same scene. Tommy was the double
boiler that melted the ganache of Chance’s jaded heart. The timid ones
always were.
He hacked the rounded edges from the nougat and sent them into the
garbage with a careless flick of the big blade, then produced a very sharp
knife and scored the rubbery candy into perfect, tiny cubes.
Why Dr. Bauer? He’d never been anything more than the man at the second
table near the window with the Sunday morning espresso, the man with a
single piece of pecan brittle and the New York Times. And yet his contact
information flowed through Chance so strongly it was as if it had written
itself.
Chance was not in the habit of recommending psychiatric help. It was his
opinion that looking into the corners of one’s own soul was an endeavor
that should never be undertaken lightly. Bauer was harmless, true, but so
was Sister Norma, in all of her rainbow-colored sincerity.
Poor Tommy. Chance cut his gaze to the napkin dispenser, which he’d
brought into the workroom for safekeeping. All big eyes and trust. Of course
he had no trouble selling cars; he didn’t look like he had a duplicitous
bone in his body. He couldn’t have had—Chance looked harder at the tiny
reflection. Honest as the day is long. A rare breed nowadays.
-10-
The bell on the front door chimed, and Chance covered the nougat, then
removed his insulated work gloves to wait on his customers. Regular people,
regular lives. A middle-aged couple on a shopping tour of the overpriced
Magnificent Mile. An art student attempting to choose the best purchase
for the single dollar she clutched. A businessman who looked as if he’d
expected a Starbucks instead, and was wondering whether a large coffee
was actually large, or if he’d need to learn yet another new nomenclature
with which to order his drink.
Chance served each of them, impassively. Few customers elicited the type
of interest that Tommy Roth had. Chance could count them on one hand,
the people who he interacted with on any but the most superficial level.
And there was no rhyme or reason to it. Almost like falling in love.
On cue, the most vibrant personality Chance had met since he’d opened his
doors in his current location rapped on the front window three times, hard.
Every customer in the store flinched and turned. Nathan stood outside in
his coveralls and artfully messy hair, looking more like a character from a
music video—an effeminate laborer who would eventually throw down his
acetylene torch and fling himself into a choreographed dance number—
than an actual worker. He ignored the customers and pretended to be
checking his hair in the plate glass, though it was more of a performance
for Chance’s benefit. He unbuttoned the top button of his coveralls, tipped
his head back and ran his fingers over his bare throat.
Chance almost smiled. He wasn’t playing hard-to-get; he had no intention
of leading Nathan on. But even Chance had to admit it was a very nice
show…though given Nathan’s persistence, if Sweets to the Sweet stayed at
that location for any length of time, things could get awkward.
Or maybe Chance would allow himself to give in to a moment of weakness.
Through the glass, Nathan caught Chance’s eye and gave him a slow,
knowing smile. Chance felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth in return,
which Nathan took as an invitation. He slung his bagful of gear over his
shoulder and sashayed into the store.
-11-
Chance tore his attention from Nathan and turned toward the businessman.
“Coffee?” he suggested, and held up the largest to-go cup for inspection
to speed things along. “Today’s roast is Sumatra.” He pointed at the
chalkboard, since Mr. Literal seemed to want everything in writing. “Very
distinctive.”
“Yes…uh…that size. You take debit cards?”
“Of course.”
Nathan made a show of browsing the lollipop tree while Chance poured
coffee and rang up the sale, then took the art student’s order and placed a
single truffle in a glossy black box and fastened it with a blood red ribbon.
The tourists sat at a table without ordering anything and unfolded a Transit
Authority map. Nathan took a red lollipop from the display, waited until
Chance looked up, unwrapped the candy as if he was doing a strip tease,
and gave it a long, slow lick.
Very persistent.
When the counter was empty, he strutted up, painting his lips red with the
lollipop as he approached. “I scored a couple of tickets to the Fall Indie Film
Fest. Wanna come watch a bunch of confusing, nihilistic movies? I’m sure
there’ll be plenty of artistic nudity.”
“I don’t think so.”
Nathan sighed, then gave the lollipop another lick. His tongue was bright
red down the center, and the scent of cherries welled around him. “Then
how about we just skip the date and get right to the sex?”
Chance rebutted with his best “nice try” look. He hoped the “yes” look
was buried deeply enough—though Nathan seemed particularly adept at
spotting those small yeses.
“So what is it?” Nathan asked, twirling the red, red lollipop over his tongue
as he considered some options. “I’m not your type? Maybe you like black
guys? Or daddy types? Is that it?”
-12-
“Remember when we used to talk about something other than the fact that
I’m not in the market for a man? I miss those days.”
“Maybe you’re one of those workaholics I’ve heard so much about, but
never taken the time to chase down. I’ve never seen anyone else working
the counter here. Are you pulling doubles all the time, or what?”
“Something like that.”
“The patented Chance non-answer.” Nathan flicked his tongue tip over the
rounded top of the sucker. “Those vagaries reveal more than you realize.”
That couldn’t be helped, could it? Chance turned away and poured a cup of
coffee. “Here, finish this. I need to make a new pot.” He slid the cup across
the counter, and Nathan stirred the coffee a few times with his lollipop,
then threw it back in a tongue-scalding gulp.
“Since you’re so married to your job,” Nathan suggested, “maybe you can
talk me out of telling my foreman what he can do with those dirty looks
he’s always giving me.”
Chance turned to get a coffee filter and caught sight of the napkin holder.
Darks and lights shifted over the chrome as his own movement reflected
back, but among that abstraction, he could pick out the impression of a
pair of huge, haunted-looking eyes. Funny how someone like Tommy Roth
would rather die than tell someone off, while Nathan Adams could barely
rein himself in.
Nathan dipped the lollipop, stirred, pulled it from the hot coffee to see if it
was any smaller, then dipped it again. “I could always work at that climbing
gym on Halsted. I’m overqualified, but it’s got to be more fun than—”
“Is that eyeliner you’re wearing?”
Nathan blinked. “Of course not. I don’t get all dolled up to come to work.”
He unbuttoned another button on his coveralls in a way that made them
look more like a wardrobe prop on a beefcake calendar. On the next page
they’d be down around his waist, and after that, bunched around his
-13-
workboots. “There was this party last night…it must be left over from that.
Or was it a couple of nights ago?” He shot Chance a wicked grin. “I forget.”
“Talk back to your foreman now and get ten minutes of satisfaction, or stay
on the job and enjoy getting under his skin every time he looks at you.”
Nathan sucked hard on the lollipop and considered. Chance watched, and
wondered what had possessed him to encourage Nathan to stay. Certainly
it didn’t matter to Chance one way or the other if Nathan wished to
experience a career stint at a gym, which might even turn out to be a more
satisfying, if less lucrative, career choice. The advice was based on an urge,
pure and simple…the type of urge he knew better than to second-guess.
-14-
-three-
The elevator rose to the thirty-second floor. Tommy’s stomach lurched. The
doors glided open, the button with the number 32 on it went dark, and
the down-arrow lit. It would be so easy, Tommy realized, to push the lobby
button and go right back out. But he had an appointment, so he should
honor it.
Still, it was tempting to bolt. So much so that actually getting out of that
elevator and walking down the hall to suite 3220 felt like wading through
quicksand. He found the correct door, entered, and was immediately spotted
by a receptionist who looked like she was nineteen if she was a day…and
then there really was no turning back, not without faking appendicitis, or
maybe amnesia, because the girl with the glasses and the bright smile was
already saying, “Mr. Roth? I have a few forms for you to fill out, and then
Dr. Bauer can see you.”
Tommy listed his allergy meds, checked the box that said he’d never been
institutionalized, and hoped the Prize Patrol might burst through the door
with some balloons, TV cameras and a big check, causing Dr. Bauer to retire
on the spot. But the room was quiet save for the subtle tick of the clock
above the magazine rack.
The inner door opened, and a man with bifocals and an alarming amount
of salt-and-pepper hair said, “Thomas? Please, come in.”
“Tommy.”
“Fred.” They shook hands. Tommy’s mind balked at the idea of calling
-15-
a mental health professional by his first name, and he wondered if that
discomfort comprised adequate grounds for leaving. “Please, sit down.
On your paperwork, you indicated that social situations make you
uncomfortable. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you tell me a little bit about that?”
“Well, it’s uh…it’s kind of like…uh….” Tommy wished he was dead. Not that
wishing for anything ever got him anywhere. “I dunno.”
“Are there any people in your life you can talk with where you don’t feel
uncomfortable?”
“Maybe.”
“Let’s elaborate on that. Who is it that does allow you feel comfortable?”
It suddenly seemed to Tommy that he hadn’t been comfortable at any
point in his adult life. Or if he had, it was ages ago, and the memories of
those instances would be less like memories and more like anecdotes he
was telling himself that might or might not be based in real life. He’d been
staring at his knees for quite a long time when Dr. Bauer prompted, “Your
family?”
Tommy shrugged. “Yeah, I guess,” he sighed. His family strategy involved
keeping his head down and showing up promptly for mandatory holidays.
“Friends?”
There were no friends. Tommy wasn’t sure when, exactly, that had
happened. Some moved away, some simply moved on, and Chuck made
off with the rest of them when they broke up—even the ones who’d been
Tommy’s to begin with.
“A significant other?”
Tommy shook his head.
-16-
“Being solitary by nature isn’t, by itself, a negative thing. But if you’re
avoiding relationships due to anxiety, then I think that’s something we can
work on. Let’s try a simple exercise. I’d like you to sit back and close your
eyes…”
Tommy pressed himself into the couch and was just about to comply with
the second part of the directive when, in the tall window that framed Dr.
Bauer, a pair of feet appeared, dangling just above his head.
“…let your mind wander…”
Another pair of legs dropped to the other side of him, and then the rest of
the bodies that the legs belonged to—a pair of window washers on either
side of the therapist.
“…hold that thought, but don’t judge it…”
Weren’t they supposed to be on a scaffolding of some sort? These guys
were just dangling there in climbing rigs. On the thirty-second floor! Tommy
felt his adrenaline spike, and it wasn’t even him dangling on the end of
those nylon ropes.
The guy on the right squirted the window with a hose. How long was that
hose? And how heavy was it once they were done working and they rolled
it up for the night? There must have been a cleaning agent in the water,
because the window went blurry, reducing the window washer to a navy
and red outline of a man. The blurry outline tossed the hose to the other
window washer, who caught it and began hosing down the second window.
And then, through a dry section of the window, he and Tommy locked
gazes, and everything else fell away. Window washer? He had smoky eyes
and perfectly wind-tousled black hair. He looked like a teen idol playing a
window washer in a movie.
“…and pay attention to where your resistance is coming from…”
The window washer smiled. Tommy’s pulse picked up even more and his
mouth went dry. Did the guy at the end of the rope know what Tommy was
-17-
there for? Did he know which office it was, that it was a therapist’s office,
or did they all look the same? He couldn’t hear what Dr. Bauer was saying
through the glass…could he?
The first window washer squeegeed the window with a rubber blade that
looked at least a yard long. He moved in a confident sweep that looked like
it had come from years of practice. Then he turned to the hunky window
washer and said something. Tommy saw his lips move, but heard nothing.
The cute window washer said something back, winked at Tommy, then
spritzed soapy water over the dry portion of glass they’d been staring
through. The first window washer wiped his blade, hooked it to his belt,
then fiddled with his descender and dropped out of sight.
“…remember a time when you felt that way? Good…”
Tommy stared at the world’s hottest window washer through a film of
grimy soap. The blurry figure moved, and pressed something into the glass.
Not the squeegee—his fingertip. A number appeared as the window washer
wrote through the film. Awkward numbers. Backward, for him. A phone
number.
Abruptly, Tommy was seized by the fear that Dr. Bauer would turn and
see what had been happening, and flip out. That he’d realize Tommy
hadn’t heard a thing he’d said, and that the guy on the other side of the
glass would get in trouble for interrupting the session. Tommy steeled his
expression and looked hard at Dr. Bauer—blah blah blah—and then glanced
over quickly and tried to sear the first three digits of the phone number
into his memory.
“…surround yourself with people you feel confident around, rather than
timid.”
“That makes sense,” Tommy said. It seemed like it did, anyway, even
though he’d missed about five minutes of the setup because he’d been so
busy checking out the window washer—who was just finishing up the last
digit. Or whatever it was. It looked like an S. He rubbed it out with the side
-18-
of his hand and drew a 2 beside the rubbed-out spot. He squeegeed the
soap off the glass directly in front of his face to resume eye contact, then
held up his thumb and forefinger to the side of his head in a “call me”
gesture, swept away all the evidence in one of those hypnotic, serpentine
squeegee moves, and dropped out of sight.
Whether or not the session would have been helpful had Tommy actually
been paying attention, he couldn’t say. He suspected psychotherapy
wouldn’t alleviate his problems by giving him a magical new way of looking
at things any more than Sister Norma could send him yellow energy through
the Internet. Not in a single session.
Tommy slipped into the hallway of the thirty-second floor, found a pen in
his jacket and jotted down the window washer’s phone number on the
back of a reading list Dr. Bauer had given him. It was the right number, he
was sure of it. He’d always had a good head for numbers. If the window
washer had written it correctly—backwards—then Tommy had it.
But would he call it?
That was the question. The invitation had been as clear as a freshly
squeegeed windowpane—and it wasn’t as if Tommy could wait around and
see if the other guy called him. (And then let it go to voice mail, which,
if he were being honest with himself, he’d have to admit was his typical
M.O.) Tommy sagged against the wall as his tentative confidence deflated.
Or maybe it had never been confidence at all, merely the possibility of
confidence. The suggestion of it. Whatever it was, the fleeting sense of
self-assurance he’d acquired by half-listening to Dr. Bauer talk at him for
the past fifty minutes had slipped away as if it had never even been there
to begin with.
Public bathrooms weren’t Tommy’s favorite places, but rush hour loomed,
and there was a good possibility he’d be stuck waiting half an hour or
more to even merge onto Lake Shore Drive, so he supposed he should
make a pit stop before he hit the road. It was a hell of a bathroom, with
creamy marble countertops, abstract prints on the walls, and subdued
-19-
lighting. There was even a small lounge just inside the door—a no-smoking
lounge, nowadays—that separated the hall from the bathroom itself. The
restrooms at the dealership, which were glaringly lit and smelled like fake
orange disinfectant, could take a few lessons from this bathroom.
Urinating was difficult, even such a luxurious restroom, even inside a stall
with no one else watching or listening, but eventually Tommy managed to
circumvent his shy bladder by running through a string of seven numbers
in his mind and pretending to dial it. And yet even in his imagination, the
point at which his thumb hit the “dial” button and he held it up to his ear
and said something—anything—never materialized. Because what would
he say that wouldn’t sound completely stupid? Pretty soon he couldn’t
get through the entire number, and finally he began to mentally rehearse
throwing away the number before he’d even keyed in a single digit.
He flushed. As he attempted to button his fly he bumped his elbows against
the sides of the stall, so he opened the door and stepped out to finish the
job.
The window washer was leaning in the door to the no-smoking lounge. A
dazzling smile spread across his face when he locked eyes with Tommy…
who found that suddenly the button on his fly was entirely too large for
the buttonhole.
“So it was the thirty-second floor,” the window washer said. “You’d be
surprised at how they all start to look the same when you’re hanging there
in your rig.”
“Uh huh.” Brilliant. Tommy felt pleased he’d at least forced out that much
of an answer. He suspected he’d only managed because he’d been so
focused on trying to button his fly that the speech part of his brain was on
autopilot.
“Got a name? Mine’s Nathan.”
“T-Tommy.”
-20-
“How’d that job interview go?”
“What?”
“That wasn’t what was going down in that office? Let’s see….” Nathan took
a few steps toward Tommy. He swung his hips in a move that could have
been stolen from the chorus line of a Broadway review, and the way his
toolbelt hung on them, low and heavy, only accentuated the grinding sway.
“You weren’t being sued, were you?”
“Huh? No.”
“Too bad. I was fully prepared to offer you comfort in the face of a disastrous
job interview, or maybe an expensive pow-wow with an attorney.”
A laugh crept up on Tommy, and rang out through the marble bathroom
before he could squelch it. Nathan joined in. His dark eyes sparkled when
he laughed. Or maybe it was the…was he really wearing eyeliner?
Nathan took a few more Broadway steps. He didn’t stop approaching until
he was close enough that an overenthusiastic flourish of his arm would
have smacked Tommy in the face. Once the horrific idea of being spied
upon in the bathroom dawned on him, Tommy wondered which side of the
building the bathroom was on, but he glanced at the far wall and saw that
not only were there no other window washers peeking in on them, there
were no windows at all. “How’d you know I’d be in here?”
“Educated guess. No one actually lives around here, and the day you’ve
gotta go is always the day the El’s running express, right past your stop.”
“I drove.”
“Suburbanite?” Nathan suggested. Tommy shook his head no. “Then you’re
either independently wealthy or completely eccentric. Both of which I
wouldn’t mind getting to know better.”
Tommy felt a hot rush of blood tint his face. It wasn’t so much embarrassment—
that was far too simple a word—but the discomfort of being held up and
-21-
scrutinized for something as minor as his choice of car versus train.
“Neither one. It’s…I’m…” he sighed. “There’s nothing special about—”
Nathan took another step forward and the toes of his workboots butted
up against Tommy’s oxfords. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
No reply occurred to Tommy. He suspected it might not have even if he’d
been a good conversationalist.
“So. You’re single?”
Tommy nodded.
“Good. You like movies? Of course you do. Everyone likes movies—
although not necessarily these movies, but we’ll gloss over that part. More
importantly, you’re free tonight?”
Tommy’s head was still nodding from the “single” question. He let it nod
a few more times.
“Then it seems to me I’ve got a ticket to the indie film fest with your name
on it. Just…one more eensy little detail….” Nathan leaned in close and
pressed his lips to Tommy’s ear to share a secret with him—even though
they were the only ones in the bathroom. His coveralls were cold and wet,
and he smelled like solvents. Tommy had no idea the scent of industrial
chemicals would be such a turn-on.
“You’re out, right?” The voice that had been so confident, so cocky even,
held a subtle sadness when he whispered. “’Cos I’m not putting myself
through the heartbreak of chasing around after someone who isn’t.”
Tommy let the question register, then added a few more nods to his growing
collection of wordless assents.
Nathan sighed. Relief? Or maybe it was a stunted laugh. Or a breath.
Whatever it was, it played over the side of Tommy’s neck like a forbidden
caress. And that was all Nathan had intended, to whisper—Tommy was sure
of it—but a shiver rocked through Tommy that made his breath catch in
-22-
return, and the sound of it, the feel of it, the mingling of their breath, their
primal essence, turned a relatively benign whisper into something much,
much more.
The kiss was upon them before Tommy even realized what was happening.
For all he knew, he’d even initiated it.
Tommy tilted his head one way, Nathan the other, and their lips brushed
with an easy certainty. No clashing teeth, no bumped noses. It was as if
whoever’d choreographed Nathan’s showgirl walk had turned his talents
toward coordinating the world’s most perfect first kiss.
Nathan might have smelled of window washing chemicals, but his mouth, his
warm, generous mouth, tasted like cherry candy. And while his personality
might have been preposterously bold, his kisses were soft, even gentle.
In Tommy’s experience, first kisses usually occurred somewhere dark and
alcohol-lubricated. Somewhere awkward, where goodbyes had turned into
a fumbling assessment of how far one should take his leave-taking—or
not. But this…this was something entirely different. Unhurried. Deliberate.
Sober—and very well-lit.
Though it wasn’t clear who’d started the kiss, it was Nathan who ended
it, with a lingering reluctance that left Tommy fantasizing about grabbing
him and pulling him close, damp coveralls and all, and convincing him
to keep on kissing. The notion remained in the realm of fantasy, though,
and Tommy’s eyes fluttered open when Nathan finally pulled away, leaving
Tommy’s mouth damp and tingly, and scented like cherry candy.
With a showman-like flick of his wrist, Nathan produced a ticket from his
breast pocket. He held it up between his first two fingers as if he might ask
Tommy if that was the card he’d picked. “All right, then. I’ll meet you at
the theater.” He pressed the ticket into Tommy’s hand. It was only slightly
damp. “Be there for the 8 o’ clock showing. My friend Tricia—she’s the one
who scored the tickets—is an extra in that film. But don’t worry. It won’t
turn into a group date or anything. Trish’ll have enough of a harem that
she won’t miss us if we decide to diverge from the flock after the initial
-23-
meet n’ greet is done.”
Long after Nathan had strode out onto the thirty-second floor hallway,
Tommy held the ticket, feeling uncannily like Charlie Bucket—especially
with his insides swirling as if he were soaring over the city in a great, glass
elevator. He then imagined Nathan dropping down outside the elevator,
naughty smile firmly in place and squeegee in hand. Because even Wonka
had discovered that a chocolate fantasy land was ultimately empty without
someone else to share it.
-24-
-four-
Another meeting, another donut. Tommy always scored the custard-
filled Bismarck, which he supposed was one positive result of his chronic
promptness. The purpose of Burr Hale Chevrolet’s semi-monthly meetings
was to “strategize,” though Tommy had stopped trying to apply any sort of
sales strategy to his own performance long ago. Instead he ate his donut,
nodded at his supervisor at all the right moments, and proceeded to sell
more unprofitable economy cars than any other sales associate at the
dealership.
If he could perform like that with even mid-level vehicles, his boss had
assured him, he’d make associate of the month more often than not. And
did he realize what that would mean, other than his awkward headshot
appearing in the associate of the month plaque by the thermostat? A gift
certificate for a medium pan pizza from Uno’s. And two liters of soda.
Did Nathan get bonuses at work? Tommy couldn’t imagine two liters of soda
would be much of an incentive to someone dangling thirty stories off the
ground in a wet nylon harness.
A harness that framed his package.
There wouldn’t be any harness at the film festival—at least, Tommy didn’t
think so. No navy coveralls, either. What would Nathan wear, then—
something flashy? Something leather? Something sequined? Tommy could
picture all that and more, even a sparkly feather boa to top the ensemble
-25-
off. Whatever Nathan wore, it would undoubtedly be colorful. And Tommy
was fairly sure there wasn’t a single thing in his closet that could hold a
candle to his mental image of Nathan in anything at all. Even the navy
coveralls.
While Tommy was more focused on what he should wear to the film festival
than he was on selling cars—after all, he didn’t want to be overdressed,
but he didn’t want to look like a dork, either—no one noticed his preoc-
cupation. He was the least aggressive sales associate at the dealership,
and flying under the radar was hardly unusual for him. And yet, when
he noticed the guy in the Carhartt boots, the guy with the massive tape
measure clipped to his belt, the memory of the smell of solvent on stiff
navy coveralls hit Tommy fast and hard. He found himself approaching the
customer—a builder, or maybe an electrician—with an assertiveness chan-
neled straight from his memory of Nathan with his showgirl-walk.
“The T-10 is a popular model,” Tommy said. He should know. He sold lots
of T-10s. Economy sedans.
The customer looked up and gave Tommy the once-over. Tommy usually
sensed a vague relief at that point, a sort of loosening of the shoulders
that conveyed, Oh, you’re so young, so non-threatening. You’re not forc-
ing yourself on me with a handshake and a big, fake smile. You’re not
even standing inside my comfort zone. At that point, he usually told the
customer to let him know if they had any questions, and moved away a
polite distance to let them bask in the new-car smell. But his newfound
stride—assertive, not aggressive—had brought him closer to the customer
than he usually got, and something in the workman’s eye contact inspired
him to add, “It gets good city mileage—about the same as the ZX. But you
get a lot more car with the ZX. That’s what I drive.”
He looked at the mid-level ZX fondly, and the guy with the tape measure
followed his gaze.
“After financing, it comes out to maybe another thirty dollars a month, de-
pending on the term of your lease and your credit score. But it’s so worth
-26-
it.” Tommy inspected the subtly tinted window. The showroom lights cast
their paintjob-enhancing beams over the freshly buffed chrome and flaw-
less red currant finish. The window reflected the customer like a mirror.
He looked intent. Thoughtful. But right beside it, where Tommy’s reflection
should have been, a trick of the lighting cast a distorted, zig-zag glare.
A chill crept over the back of Tommy’s neck, very slight, not an actual
sensation so much as the memory of the unease that had come over him
when he saw himself in the napkin dispenser at the chocolate shop, and
he shifted his stance to get a better look at the window, to see if the face
looking back would be strange and distorted. Whether he’d recognize it
in his gut, or he’d have a disconcerting “Is that really me?” moment. But
the customer shifted too, frowned, and Tommy wondered if it had been a
very good idea to change his normal tactic. After all, not caring if someone
bought a car at all, let alone if they could be persuaded to upgrade and
spend a bit more, had served him well for so many years.
Hadn’t it?
“Does it come with heated seats?” the customer asked.
“Not standard, no. But you can upgrade to them for $299.” Despite the fact
that the customer frowned harder, Tommy added, probably more wistfully
than he’d meant to, “I wish I had.”
The man with the tape measure scowled at the window—or through the
window, maybe, because he might have been standing at an angle where
he could actually see into the ZX—and finally, when Tommy was certain he’d
walk out and hit the Volkswagen dealership down the block, he nodded.
One nod. Completely decisive. “I’ll take this one for a test drive.”
• • •
Though there would be no custard-filled Bismarck waiting for him at the
historic Illinois Theatre, Tommy was, of course, early. He’d parked in a
municipal lot that probably cost more than the ticket itself, but it was a
primo spot in a lot that was usually full, only two blocks from the old movie
-27-
house.
The sun had just set, and the perpetual Chicago Loop skyscraper-alley chill
had settled into a cool harbinger of winter that made Tommy glad he’d
worn the black wool suitcoat—even though his primary reason for choosing
it had been to cover up the new yellow-patterned shirt that had looked
great at the store, but entirely too trendy and clubby in the safe familiarity
of Tommy’s apartment.
The marquee of the grand old theater glowed in the twilight, yellow-white
bulbs against yellow letters on a red field, but here and there a gap showed
where a bulb was burnt out, or missing. As Tommy approached, the closer
he got, the more apparent the theater’s age became. He stood before it,
front and center, stared up at the marquee, and saw the Fall Indie Film
Fest lettering on the Now Playing sign had been slapped up hastily, so the
words hung low and off-center. And while he’d expected people to jostle
him out of the way as he attempted to stand and center himself in the
entryway at a big event, the crowd was sparse enough to simply stream
around him.
He was just about to convince himself that the film fest had been a bad
idea, when a familiar voice, low, playful and entirely sexy, said just behind
his ear, “Gorgeous old building, isn’t she? I’m so glad no one’s homogenized
her into a Mega Cineplex.”
Tommy turned, and there he was, Nathan, decked out in a black leather
jacket, stovepipe jeans and a bright red bandanna-like scarf. Taller than
Tommy remembered. He glanced down. Beatle boots, burgundy snakeskin,
with a heel. Maybe Sister Norma had been right. Maybe there really was
something to be said for accessorizing with a bit of red.
Nathan kissed Tommy’s cheek, right out there on the sidewalk, then said,
“We might as well head in. Tricia’s always late—drives me crazy—so it
wouldn’t exactly shock me if she missed the first half of her own premiere.”
Nathan looped his arm through the crook of Tommy’s elbow to head into
-28-
the theater, and Tommy surreptitiously checked his watch. They were
fifteen minutes early.
The lobby was a study in red and gold, with garishly tinted vintage posters
from the forties and fifties adorning the walls. The fleur-de-lis patterned
carpet camouflaged many of the cigarette burns and chewing gum stains,
and though the foil wallpaper was worn at the corners, it still sparkled.
A young man in a film fest badge tore their tickets in half, stamped their
hands, and encouraged them to pick up a T-shirt or a keepsake program at
the merchandise kiosk.
A set of double doors wide enough for them to walk through side-by-side
opened into the theater itself, so there was no reason for Tommy to pull
away from Nathan. Not that he’d wanted to. His courtship with Chuck
had been very low-key, chain restaurants and antique shows. Maybe, he
thought, he was ready to experience something exciting, even if it did
make him feel light-headed and giddy. At least the giddiness crowded out
his anxiety.
“How many seats should we save?” Tommy asked.
“I have no idea whatsoever. There could be half a dozen or half a hundred
in her entourage, so I doubt we could stake a big enough claim. Unless….”
Nathan looked up, and Tommy followed his gaze to the private balconies.
They looked dark and shadowy, and structurally unsound.
“I think they’re probably roped off,” Tommy said. “We won’t be allowed
to—”
“What’s the worst thing that can happen? As far as I know, the film fest
crew hasn’t broken anyone’s kneecaps yet; they’ll just tell us to go back
downstairs.”
Possibly, Tommy would have lingered, and maybe pointed out a nice looking
pair of seats on the main floor, but Nathan still had him by the arm and had
already swung him back toward the double doors.
-29-
“I love that shirt on you,” Nathan said conversationally, as if he wasn’t
dragging Tommy along like a cat on a leash. “I’m so bored with neutrals.
The world needs more color.” They passed the merchandise kiosk and
Nathan gave the black Film Fest T-shirt a disappointed headshake, and kept
right on walking.
They found the stairs to the second floor, a majestic curved staircase with
rounded corners and great, carved banisters, but it was more than just
roped off. A pair of steel doors had been retrofit into the old architecture—a
number of years ago, by the look of them. The “No Entry” signs were faded
with age and there was a patina of wear on and around the doorhandles.
Nathan tried the doors anyway, but they were locked. “Well, that’s it,”
Tommy said, “we’d better go grab a good seat.”
“Were you always such a quitter? Come on, a place this size, there’s gonna
be at least five ways up.” And Nathan should know, Tommy thought. He got
to dangle outside buildings’ windows and peer into all their secret places.
They continued on past a refreshment counter that looked like it hadn’t
popped popcorn in over a decade, and then a pair of restroom doors with a
water fountain covered by a fine layer of dust between them. Beyond that,
a fire exit. Before Tommy could open his mouth to ask if they were at risk of
setting off an alarm, Nathan was in the stairwell and halfway up the stairs.
Tommy told himself that queasy feeling roiling around his gut was
excitement rather than fear, and he followed. He found Nathan at the door
on the second story, feet planted wide, tugging. The tight jeans over the
really, really nice butt distracted Tommy so thoroughly, he didn’t register—at
least until Nathan said it aloud—“This one’s locked. Let’s try the next one.”
Though he tried to summon some panic at the thought of being locked
in a stairwell that smelled like damp concrete and the vestige of cheap
cigars, he kept his mind on the sight of Nathan’s hind view heading up the
stairs, and he found the whole panic thing really wasn’t really amounting
to much.
-30-
Another flight of stairs, and Nathan faced a different door, an older door,
again with the wide-planted Elvis stance that made Tommy think he’d have
a microphone in his hand when he turned around. And so it was confusing
to see he had a video club membership card out instead. The door stood
open a few inches.
Tommy did a double-take at the plastic card. “Did you just unlock it with—?”
“Come on, are you gonna tell me when you were a teenager you didn’t…
oh, never mind.” He pocketed the card and held out his hand. A stack of
silver bangle bracelets slid forward from the sleeve of his leather jacket.
“Let’s go.”
If Tommy had ever rehearsed such a situation in his mind—and he couldn’t
imagine a reason why he would, but for sake of argument, if he had—he
would have imagined himself thinking, “That guy just picked a lock,” rather
than, “OMG, he’s holding my hand!”
Just goes to show, he thought, that imagination can never adequately
prepare for each and every contingency.
The hall smelled stale and unused. The only light was the dim yellow glow
cast by the exit sign above the door they’d just entered, though once
Tommy’s eyes adjusted, it was enough to reveal a long hall with only a
few widely spaced doors. The ceiling was low, the carpeting was thin, and
the paneling was dark and plain. “I think we’re not anywhere near the
balcony,” Nathan observed.
“I think you’re right.”
When neither of them moved to go back the way they’d come, Nathan
turned to Tommy and smiled. The yellowed exit sign cast a warm amber
glow over his skin. He was definitely wearing eyeliner tonight—and he
looked stunning. Simply stunning. He said, “How crushed would you be if
we missed a few minutes of Trish’s big film debut because we’re poking
around up here?”
-31-
You’ve got to be kidding, Tommy thought. But what came out was, “She’s
your friend.”
“True.” Nathan eased another step closer to Tommy and pretended to
consider it for a moment. “But I don’t think her line comes ’til halfway
through. And even if I miss it, I’m sure she’ll forgive me…eventually.” He
took Tommy’s lapels, one in each hand, and ran the wool between his
thumbs and forefingers. “When it comes out on DVD, I’ll buy an extra copy
to make it up to her.”
“That’s big of you.”
The dim light from the exit sign glinted off Nathan’s teeth when he smiled.
“I hear a lot of that,” he teased, dragging Tommy forward by the lapels.
Tommy rode up his leg and they bumped one another, groin to hipbone,
and both of them laughed, though it was more of a breath, a breath like a
sigh…a sigh like making love.
This time when they kissed, Tommy knew he’d been the one to start it.
He cupped Nathan’s face with both hands and held it as if to reassure
himself that this bizarre, whirlwind thing was actually happening to him—
the most unassuming guy at Burr Hale Chevrolet. Nathan’s lips were slick
with shimmery gloss that tasted like a plastic butterscotch wrapper, and
it occurred to Tommy that his lips would shimmer now, too—and that all
of Nathan’s friends would know exactly why they weren’t on time for the
movie.
How startlingly hot.
Tommy slid one hand around the back of Nathan’s neck and felt his blazer
drag at his shoulders as Nathan gripped his lapels. Tommy parted Nathan’s
lips with his, and before he could spin out some self-fulfilling prophecy
about how anything that could possibly go wrong would, he skimmed the
edge of Nathan’s teeth with his tongue tip.
He felt, rather than heard, the slip of a moan it elicited.
-32-
That tiny noise was the video club card in the door latch—the key to
unlocking the floodgate of Tommy’s desire. He backed Nathan into the wall
and deepened the kiss—and he had to tilt his head up with those heels
Nathan had on, and that was hot, too. So was the hint of CK One that
escaped when Nathan’s leather jacket fell open. So was the jacket itself, for
that matter. Tommy slid his hands inside, where Nathan’s body heat was
trapped against his ribs. Nathan was taut all over, and rippling with those
tiny muscles you only see in SportsIllustrated or Men’sFitness. And he
was starting to pant into Tommy’s mouth.
When Nathan draped his arms over Tommy’s shoulders like he was settling
in for a nice, long stretch of kisses, Tommy’s sense of urgency prompted
him to kick things up another notch. He stopped pushing against Nathan
and started, instead, to pull. In a tango that was only slightly awkward,
he dragged Nathan into one of the squat, low-ceilinged rooms. Massive
metal desks and chairs that predated the Second World War hulked against
the walls, and bizarre equipment, check embossers and ancient adding
machines the size of toasters, waited silently in the near-dark. Nathan
turned on the overhead light, which flickered for several seconds, then
gave up, spluttered, and died.
“We’ve got plenty of light.” Tommy maneuvered Nathan against the edge
of a desk and nuzzled the skin on his neck between scarf and jaw. He’d
never realized a bandanna could be such a turn on. Or maybe the color had
something to do with it. Red. Assertive. Passionate.
Or maybe it was because it was wrapped around Nathan’s pretty throat.
Tommy sucked gently, and Nathan’s breath caught. “Yeah. Do it hard.”
“It’ll show.”
“Good. Let it. I want it to show.” Nathan eased his butt up onto the desk,
wrapped his legs around Tommy’s, and locked their bodies together tight.
Tommy nuzzled the spot he’d just sucked, then ran his tongue over the
hot, sweet skin. Nathan shivered, then reached between them to adjust
-33-
the front of his jeans—and Tommy felt a hot, heavy rush make his balls
squirm in response. He fixed on Nathan’s neck and sucked even harder,
and Nathan dug his fingers into Tommy’s shoulders and made a noise, a
loud noise, that could’ve been pain. Except it obviously wasn’t.
Tommy was surprised his fingers made short work of the scarf’s tight knot—
then again, he was even more stunned that he was there in a forbidden
part of the building with someone like Nathan to begin with. He unfastened
the knot, yanked off the scarf, stuffed it in his pocket, and took a long,
sensual sniff of Nathan’s throat. CK One and a silky male undertone.
Nathan gasped and rubbed himself through his jeans.
Tommy slid his fingers through Nathan’s dark hair, over his cheek and
jaw, and pressed his head back so his neck formed a perfect, pale arch.
Nathan’s breathing went shallow and ragged. Then Tommy fixed on his
throat again, and sucked, hard. Nathan cried out and started butting his
crotch against Tommy’s thigh. “That’s the hottest thing in the world,” he
whispered. “Do it. Do me.”
Tommy clapped a hand over Nathan’s and felt his cock straining, perfectly
stiff and trapped down the leg of his tight jeans. And that “big” remark
he’d made earlier hadn’t been mere bragging, either. Tommy slipped his
hand under Nathan’s and explored the whole hard length of it. Not just big.
Huge.
Nathan’s scent changed noticeably as Tommy stroked his shaft through
the denim. If he’d been a strip of yellow paint samples, he would have
deepened from the bright but typical Lemonade down to the more complex
Sun Kissed. Or maybe even Finch.
While Tommy hadn’t even managed to button his own fly the first time
they’d met, his fingers had Nathan’s jeans open even faster than he’d
made the red bandanna disappear. “I had no idea you’d be such a wildcat,”
Nathan said. In the dim yellow light, Tommy searched his eyes for evidence
of mockery, but there was none. Only lust.
-34-
Nathan’s erection was so massive that the skimpy briefs he wore couldn’t
have hoped to contain it. Tommy squeezed his hand beneath the waistband
and down the left leg to coax the hard-on free. Nathan tangled arms with
him and set to work on his belt, but Tommy nudged his hands away.
“Nope. I’m doing you.”
“Mrow. You’re the boss…Tiger.” Nathan lay back on the desktop, propped
up on both elbows, and peered down at Tommy—who wondered if he might
develop stage fright standing there between Nathan’s knees, a sudden
fellatory amnesia, a wiping of the synapses that would make him feel as
if he’d never given head before. But he stood Nathan’s heavy cock in the
ring of his thumb and forefinger, felt a pulse throbbing through the great,
serpentine vein, and ran his tongue all along the curve of the velvety
crown…and there was no need to remember anything at all. Nathan’s cock
was beautiful. It inspired him, and that was all he needed.
Below them in the theater, the film played. The vibration of the soundtrack
carried through the floor and up through the soles of Tommy’s shoes. It
hummed through the steel desk like a single pure note through a tuning
fork. Too late now, Tommy figured. Even if they buttoned themselves up
and made a mad dash downstairs, they’d already missed the opening
credits. It would be dark. Chances were they wouldn’t even find Nathan’s
friends. Tommy felt vaguely guilty, but only vaguely. He teased a drop
of precome from Nathan’s perfect cock while he reveled in the sound of
breathing rising and falling over the muffled swell of the film’s score. Then
he wet the cockhead nestled in the circle of his fist and took it down deep.
Nathan moaned.
Though Tommy couldn’t force all of Nathan’s cock into his mouth, it wasn’t
for lack of trying. No matter how he dropped his jaw and relaxed his throat,
it didn’t seem humanly possible. Nathan flexed his hips gently as Tommy’s
head bobbed, more to acknowledge the rhythm and participate in the
festivities than to try to force himself in deeper. After many long minutes of
squelching sounds that threatened to turn dangerous, he ran his knuckles
-35-
down Tommy’s cheek and said, “Take it easy, baby. I don’t expect you to be
a sword swallower.” Tommy laughed around his mouthful of cock, maybe
more of a choke, and Nathan told him, “I’m clenching up all over doing my
best not to shoot right now, ’cos you’re cute, and you’re quiet, and you’re
intense. You’ve got me wrapped around your little finger, and I never want
it to end.”
Neither did Tommy—and it didn’t even matter that he wasn’t on the road
to the “Big O” himself. There’d be time for that later. At home. Or maybe in
the car (which, shockingly, he’d never had the courage to initiate, despite
his love of cars). What mattered was the feel of hard thighs straining under
his hands, and the delicate gasps that punctuated Nathan’s breathing,
the smell of him, the taste of him, everything coming together in a single
unbelievable experience that Tommy never once would have imagined for
himself.
When Nathan arched up, he went rigid and held his breath. Music welled
from the floor, and then Tommy felt it, the surge of come anointing the
back of his throat. He pulled off and opened his mouth wide to capture the
semen on his tongue where he could actually taste it, and felt a shot go
wide, hit his cheek, and then his mouth. Salty sweet. And just as perfect
as he knew it would be.
Nathan was splayed on his back, staring up at the ceiling, with his chest
rising and falling as he caught his breath. “That was….” He didn’t seem to
be able to find the word. It didn’t matter. His sated languor was more than
enough reaction for Tommy, who did his best to burn every detail into his
memory so he could savor the moment forever.
A loud blare jolted him out of his contemplation of Nathan’s perfection, an
alarm of some sort—damn it, he knew they’d get caught—and he scrambled
to get his clothes on…then discovered, to his surprise, that he’d never
taken them off.
Nathan zipped up and rolled off the desk. “Some goof must’ve pulled the
fire alarm,” he shouted over the deafening, urgent bleating. He grabbed
-36-
Tommy by the hand and hauled him towards the door. “Let’s see what’s
going on.”
They burst back onto the cement stairwell from which they’d come and
ran down the stairs, hand in hand. Tommy couldn’t help but laugh, not
because anything was particularly funny, but from the sheer exuberance of
being so fully, profoundly alive. He glanced at Nathan—who was laughing,
too.
On the final turn, Tommy headed toward the main floor hallway, but Nathan
pulled him in the opposite direction. “That’s locked,” he shouted over the
harsh acoustics of the stairwell.
Tommy gave the interior door a yank. It was indeed locked. How had Nathan
intended to…? Nathan dragged him around a corner and down another half-
flight, where a door on the exterior wall led them to an alleyway. The night
air had a cold, fresh snap to it, and steam rose from a grate in the blacktop,
lit by reflected neon like pink and blue cotton candy. On the street beyond
the multicolored steam, a crown milled.
Nathan spun Tommy against the side of the building and crushed a kiss
to his mouth. He still tasted like lip gloss. At the end of the alleyway
sirens whooped, rising and falling over the constant, rhythmic blat of the
theater’s alarm system.
“Some date,” Tommy said, when Nathan let him come up for air.
Nathan didn’t seem to hear the sarcasm. “Isn’t it?” He pressed his pelvis
into Tommy’s, and now that Tommy knew what was under those tight jeans,
his whole body clenched in delirious anticipation of having that massive
cock to do whatever he wanted with. He was just about to suggest going
back to his car, when yet another noise, a crackly voice on a loudspeaker,
joined the cacophony.
“…not a false alarm…disperse immediately…”
At least Nathan had the decency to look shocked, albeit delightedly so.
-37-
He was clearly not the type of person to be daunted by a mere disaster.
He caught Tommy’s hand, this hand-holding thing feeling as natural as if
they’d been doing it for ages, and they sprinted together toward the end of
the alley to see what could possibly happen next.
Though the theater hadn’t seemed very full, once the Film Fest attendees
had shifted to the street along with the parked cars, the curious onlookers,
and no less than four fire trucks, they’d turned into a formidable mob. An
artsy and sexually ambiguous mob dressed mainly in black, but a mob
nonetheless.
Nathan paused to take in the scene, and Tommy took that opportunity to
orient himself to the streets. “I’m parked over here.” He pulled.
But someone else pulled harder. “Why, Nathan Adams, as I live and
breathe.” A towering, rotund man plucked Nathan away from Tommy like
the proverbial candy from a baby and enfolded him in a hearty embrace.
Someone seized Tommy by the shoulders and barked in his ear. “There’s a
gas leak. Evacuate the area!” The fireman was huge and his gear made him
seem twice as wide, and even if Tommy could have found a way around
him, a stream of people pushed between him and Nathan. It felt like the
riptide drawing Tommy farther out to sea, and even though the man who’d
been hugging Nathan was nearly a head taller than everyone around him,
pretty soon Tommy lost sight of even him in the crush of the crowd.
-38-
-five-
The press of bodies carried Tommy all the way out to Michigan Avenue, and
it had carried Nathan, as far as he knew, in the opposite direction—toward
Dearborn. At that point, what then? North? South? Logically, Tommy figured,
he should loop around and attempt to find Nathan. But what if he went
the wrong way?
He patted his jacket pocket, just over his heart, and felt Dr. Bauer’s phone
list crinkle. He could call. At least now when Nathan answered, Tommy
would have something more to say than, “Hi, you don’t actually know me,
but I was the guy in the psychiatrist’s office.”
With the din of the fire trucks and the loudspeakers in the background,
Tommy tucked into the recessed entryway of an office building that was
deserted for the night, and he keyed the number into his phone. Typically,
he would have needed to rehearse what he was going to say, but any
number of things, “It’s Tommy,” or maybe even, with no preamble at all,
“Where are you?” would be perfect. But just as he was ready to launch into
a conversation with absolutely no preparation at all, a woman answered.
“Hello?”
“Uh…” a woman? Maybe it was Nathan’s friend, Trish. “I-I’m looking for
Nathan.”
“Wrong number.”
“But is this…?” Tommy fumbled for the number, and saw his phone’s
-39-
readout was dark. The woman had already disconnected.
He recalled the last number dialed and checked it against the paper. It
was the same. No sense in calling it again. All right, Tommy told himself.
Think. The man in the crowd, Nathan’s friend…he’d said Nathan’s full name.
Tommy called directory assistance. A computer voice answered. “Welcome
to directory service.” It sounded insincere, even over the noise of the traffic
and the distant sirens. “State the city, please.”
“Chicago.”
There was a pause where he wondered if he’d need to find somewhere
quiet so the computer would be able to understand him, but then the
computer said, so low Tommy could hardly hear it, “State the name, last
name first.”
“Adams, Nathan.”
“One moment, please.” Another harrowing pause. Tommy jammed his
finger in his opposite ear and listened for all he was worth. “We have…
five…listings for Nathan Adams. Please choose from the following menu.”
Tommy hit the “off” button and stuffed the phone into his pocket. He wasn’t
going to have any luck, not out there on the street where he could hardly
hear himself think. He peered out of the entryway and looked around.
To the north, department stores were still open, casting bright light onto
Michigan Avenue’s six lanes. South, it seemed quieter, mostly fast food and
newsstands that were busy during the day, but deserted once the office
crowd headed home.
Sweets to the Sweet was only another block away. At the very least, Tommy
figured, it would be quiet inside…if it was still open. He shouldered his way
into the crowd. A number of them had escaped the Film Fest, he suspected,
and were busy elbowing each other out of the way in hopes of landing a
cab. He scanned for Nathan, but no luck. Then he looked over and saw the
Art Institute across the street, and realized he’d gone too far.
-40-
Puzzled, he turned around and headed back. He crossed a side street,
walked a block, and crossed another. The chocolate shop wasn’t there.
It was closed, Tommy decided, that was all. It must look different without
its lights on. Normally he might have left it at that, but his hands were cold,
and he slipped them into his pockets where one of them brushed against
the reading list with the wrong number on it. Since he wasn’t in the habit
of calling numbers and visiting shops that didn’t exist, he wondered how it
could be possible to get so many things wrong in so short a span of time.
One by one, he looked into the dark windows of the shops. There was the
newsstand with the outrageous collection of particularly tawdry X-rated
magazines. The travel agency with the sun-faded posters. The cell phone
dealership that recycled batteries. And there, next to it…empty.
Tommy backed up to the curb and looked at the building. That was it—the
spot where he’d met Sister Norma—except the lettering on the window was
gone, and the striped awning over the doorway was gone, too. The display
boxes in the window—also gone. And inside…well, it was too dark to see
beyond the edge of the front window. Tommy approached the storefront. A
few dead flies, feet up, littered the display shelf at the base of the glass.
He cupped his eyes to the pane to block out the strobing reflection of the
passing headlights and still saw nothing, but it was a profound nothing…a
nothing that made it seem like whatever Tommy had thought was there
had never even existed.
He backed into the recessed doorway and pulled Nathan’s number from
his pocket. He checked it once more against the number he’d dialed—yes,
it was the same—but just in case he’d swapped a couple of numbers and
simply couldn’t see his mistake, he carefully dialed it again.
It picked up on the second ring. “I said this was the wrong number,
dumbass,” the woman snapped. “Stop calling me.” She hung up.
The panic that had been at bay all night long washed over Tommy in a
deep, dreadful, utterly familiar wave. There was no chocolate shop. There
-41-
was no phone number. He turned the sheet of paper over, fully expecting
the side with the reading list to be blank—but no, there it was, a simple
letterhead and a bibliography. But what did that prove, really? If Tommy
had experienced a break with reality, if he was as completely delusional as
he currently felt, he could have fished the piece of paper out of a recycling
bin, right after he dreamt up a candy store, a psychiatrist, and one hell of
a window washer. Unless he camped out at Dr. Bauer’s office building until
Monday morning, accosted the therapist and demanded to know if they’d
ever actually met, how would Tommy ever know for sure?
Maybe there actually was a Sister Norma. And maybe she’d hypnotized
him. Or maybe he’d been hit by a runaway cab on his way to meet her,
and all of this was a bizarre fabrication of his comatose brain. It wasn’t
so much the idea of himself bristling with I.V.s and tubes with a bleeping
heart monitor in the background that made him get all bleary-eyed, as the
thought that the most fabulous night in his short life had never actually
happened.
Tommy’s eyes stung. Great,I’mgonnacry.I’msuchadork. He scrubbed at
the corner of his eye with his palm, and something on his cheek brushed
the side of his hand.
He flaked a bit off with his fingernail and crumbled it between his thumb
and forefinger. If he’d concocted his encounter with Nathan that night, his
imagination was certainly providing some surprisingly earthy details. He
chafed the dried semen away and reached into his pocket to find a tissue.
He came up with Nathan’s red bandanna instead. Tommy figured he’d look
like a total stalker, and he didn’t care—he brought the scarf to his face and
inhaled. CK One and Nathan. Yes. Nathan was real.
Tommy turned toward the street, more determined than ever to find
Nathan…who had appeared right there at the other end of the block, where
he stopped a pedestrian, spoke to her for a moment, then moved on to the
next person. “Nathan?”
Nathan broke into a smile and sprinted up the block. “There you are! No
-42-
wonder nobody noticed a painfully cute blond boy in a yellow shirt if you’ve
been hiding in there the whole time. You’re not going one more step until I
get your phone number, your shoe size and your mother’s maiden name.”
Nathan took the bandanna away, then wrapped it around Tommy’s neck
and knotted it at the base of his throat. “You must’ve left me a doozy of a
love bite. Everyone I’ve talked to has had trouble looking me in the face.
Their eyes keep wandering down toward my collar.”
Tommy’s eyes obediently did the same thing. It was a hell of a hickey. “I’m
sor—”
“I can’t wait to watch my supervisor freak.” Nathan pulled Tommy against
him and ended that portion of the conversation with a wet, eager kiss, but
Tommy felt like he was still hovering somewhere between reality and the
place where men with butterfly nets would come to take him away. He
extricated Dr. Bauer’s reading list from his pocket, held it up, and said, “Is
this your phone number?”
Nathan took the flyer and frowned. “No, that’s not it. There should be a two
at the end, not a five.” He pulled a pen from his jacket and smoothed the
sheet of paper over the window to write the correction on it, then looked
over the paper’s edge, bewildered, into the storefront that was no longer
there. “That cold-hearted bitch.”
“What?”
Nathan handed the paper back to Tommy, then cupped his eyes to the
glass as Tommy had. “He didn’t tell me they were closing.”
“Sweets to the Sweet,” Tommy said, because it sounded marginally better
than, “So the candy store really did exist.”
“I’ll bet that’s why he was always so cagey. He knew they weren’t going to
last. The rents are exorbitant; it’s nearly impossible for a small business to
make it here.”
“But wasn’t it just…I mean, a couple of days ago I…it looks like it’s been
-43-
abandoned for months.”
“You’d be surprised at how fast they can strip a place down. I’m sure it’ll
be tarted up as a Starbucks or a Chili’s within a week.”
Though Nathan’s blasé attitude was somewhat reassuring, Tommy couldn’t
get the image of the dead flies with their feet in the air out of his mind.
“The windows are so dirty you can’t even see in,” he pointed out.
Nathan ran a fingertip through the grime. “This is nothing. All it takes is for
a street sweeper to drive by and you end up with spatter like this. Most
businesses have their first-floor windows done every other day.” He spun
Tommy against the shallowly recessed door and pinned him there, chest to
chest. “Funny…I had a little crush on the cashier, but now I’m glad nothing
ever came of it.” He plied Tommy with more faintly butterscotch-flavored
kisses until the film on the windows seemed much less important, and
finally when it became clear that any more kisses would lead them to an
arrest for lewd behavior in public, Nathan added, “Otherwise I wouldn’t
have met you.”
-44-
JCPBooksebooksarepricedaccordingtothewordcountofthestory
only.Anybonusendmatterandsamplesarejustthat:bonuses!
About the Author
While Jordan usually draws on odd jobs she’s held when she creates her characters
and stories, she guarantees that she’s never sold anyone a car, nor has she ever
dangled over the side of a skyscraper with a squeegee in her hand. In fact, she
has never even washed her own windows.
About this Story
The genesis of these characters was pretty roundabout. I was visiting family
members who were having their windows cleaned, and it was startling to keep
seeing these workmen. We’d be sitting there at the kitchen table, look up, and…
Yikes, there’s a guy at the French doors! Or come down the front stairs, and,
Eep, there’s someone’s face in the front door. I loved the idea that a shy guy like
Tommy could be sitting there in a seemingly private spot like a skyscraper, and
suddenly this hottie would just drop down out of nowhere.
When I researched window washing, I found it was a very dangerous and skilled
job—an extremely macho job. So I really liked the idea of putting someone who
was both queeny and macho at the same time in this role. It seemed like you
needed to be really confident to dangle off the side of a building like that—and so
Nathan took shape in my mind as someone with glam-rock type sensibilities, but
in a very traditionally masculine job—someone with such brass balls it wouldn’t
even occur to him to act like anything other than what he was.
Originally I was going to give Tommy a loner-type job, but then I challenged my
own notion of having a shy guy doing a solitary job and wondered instead how
he would be doing something that would intimidate the heck out of me—selling
cars. And the more I turned it around in my head, the more I liked the idea of him
being comfortable with the specs of the cars, the facts and figures, with actually
loving cars in a way a chick like me really can’t understand—because to me, if it
runs, it’s all good.
Enjoy a nibble of Petit Morts #2, Slings and Arrows by Josh Lanyon
-45-
A Sample of Petit Morts #2:
Slings and Arrows by Josh Lanyon
It was a cold winter’s night in Hartsburg.
A moon as dry and white as cork shone over the shadowed hills and dales
of the Napa Valley, shone like a distorted clockface in the wine dark water
of the Napa River. In the small town, shops were closing—window displays
of red and pink hearts, overweight cupids—winking out. Down wide and
shady streets, curtains and blinds were drawn across remodeled Victorian
windows to keep out the chill rustling in the eucalyptus trees.
Over at the college, students walked in pairs or singly across the well-
lit campus. The blazing buildings in Dorm Row pulsed with a variety of
musical beats: The Flaming Lips vying with Lady Gaga for air space.
Carey Gardner, twenty-three, blond, cute, and brighter than he looked,
pushed open the door to his dorm room on the third floor in Pio Pico House
to find it, as usual, crowded with his roommate Sty’s buddies watching TV.
“Yo, Bones!” Sty waved a beer in greeting.
“Yo,” Carey responded, swallowing his irritation. The “Bones” joke was
getting old. It was all getting old. For some reason Sty had taken Carey’s
change of major to anthropology personally. Sty was still clinging to his
major in management and entrepreneurship, which, granted, was better
than the physical education major of a lot of the other guys on the swim
team.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Library.”
“Dude.”
There was pity in Sty’s voice. Whatever. They’d started out friends—
technically they were still friends—and they were rooming together by
-46-
choice. Or maybe it was more habit. Either way, Carey was not being held
prisoner in Suite E (commonly known as Cell Block 8).
The problem was, Sty was the same easygoing, fun-loving goofball he’d
been as a freshman. And Carey…was not.
In order to graduate on time, Carey had to make up a couple of classes
he’d blown off the first time around. His courseload was heavy and his
sense of humor was not what it had once been.
“Make way for Dr. Leakey,” Sty ordered, and the interchangeable frat boy
sprawling on Carey’s bed, shifted to the foot of it and gave Carey a glinting
look from beneath his shaggy bangs.
Yeah. Like that was going to happen. Like Carey was going to lie down,
sheep to the slaughter, in the midst of these assholes.
“You’re blocking the TV, dude,” someone else said irritably.
Carey dropped his backpack under his desk, well out of the way of
temptation—although it was unlikely any of Sty’s pals would be tempted
by anthropology books. Or any books that didn’t have plenty of pictures of
naked girls.
“Have a beer.” Sty used the remote to turn down the sound on the TV to
the vocal disappointment of an audience that didn’t want to miss one
single second of Olympic ski jumping.
“Thanks, but I’m—” Carey hooked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate he
was on his way out again—although it was nine-thirty now and he had to
get up for swim practice at five. They both did.
“Wait, wait.” Sty actually bothered to push upright. “Something came for
you.” He jumped up and grabbed a large flat box wrapped in distinctive red
paper with a black ribbon.
“What is it?”
“It’s from that shop in the town square.”
-47-
“What shop?” Carey asked slowly.
Sty lifted the box and checked the gold label beneath. “Sweets to the
Sweet.”
“Candy? I didn’t order that.”
Five pairs of gleaming eyes zeroed on Carey. In fact, he thought he saw a
pair of yellow eyes shining beneath the bed. The promise of free chocolate
was not to be taken lightly in this jungle.
“Well, if you didn’t order it, maybe it’s a gift. Maybe your parents sent it.”
“Or your girlfriend,” another of the jerk-offs put in.
Carey ignored him. He reached for the box; Sty handed it over reluctantly.
“You’re not going to eat that whole thing yourself?” he protested, as Carey
turned to the doorway. “You’re in training.”
“So are you, dude. I’m saving you from yourself.”
“He’s headed for Little Castro,” someone cooed as Carey closed the door
behind him.
On the other side of the sound barrier Carey took a couple of steadying
breaths. Notworthit.
He knocked on the door to the left.
“Venidoadentro!” The voice behind the door was muffled.
Carey opened the door to Heath and Ben’s room.
Heath Rydell was lying on his bed in paisley boxer shorts reading the
CliffsNotes to TheMillontheFloss. He was a tall, languid-looking young
man with red hair and wide brown eyes. Ben Scully sat at his desk jotting
down notes from a book titled 501SpanishVerbs.
“Hola.” He was smiling. Ben was blond, broad-shouldered and blunt-
featured. He wore jeans and a Hartsburg College tee shirt.
-48-
“Don’t those douchebags ever shut up?” Heath inquired. It was a rhetorical
question.
Carey held up the wrapped box. “I come bearing gifts.”
At the promise of food, Heath, who looked like a consumptive and ate like
a horse, sat up. “What is it?”
“Candy, I think.”
“Where did it come from?” Ben asked, setting aside his book.
“I don’t know.” Carey flopped comfortably down on the foot of Ben’s bed
and slid the black ribbon off the box. “I guess someone sent it.”
He ripped open the blood red paper and his eyebrows shot up. He lifted out
the heart-shaped box. “Candy for sure.”
“Wow,” said Heath, scrambling over to the foot of his own bed. “Look at
that thing.”
“That thing” was an old-fashioned confection of red velvet, pink silk roses,
and a black satin ribbon.
“That must be two or three pounds of chocolate,” Ben said, impressed.
“There’s a card.” Heath got up and knelt beside the bed at Carey’s feet,
reaching beneath the blue comforter. “It fell when you lifted the box out.”
He handed the small white envelope to Carey.
Carey slid his thumb under the flap, slid the card out. He read aloud, “From
your secret admirer.”
Heath chortled as Ben inquired, “Who’s your secret admirer?”
Carey shook his head.
The three of them considered the bizarre notion of Carey having a secret
admirer.
“No offense, darling, but you’re not the type.”
-49-
Ben shot Heath an impatient look.
“It’s true,” Heath insisted. “Look at him.”
They both studied Carey, who stared uneasily back at them.
“If he was any more vanilla he’d come in a bottle.”
“Thanks!”
The other two snickered.
At last Heath said, “Are you going to open that or just fondle the ribbon
all night?”
Carey snapped out of his preoccupation and slid the ornamental lid carefully
off the heart-shaped box. The smell of chocolate—good chocolate—wafted
through the over-warm room. He closed his eyes and inhaled. It was unreal,
that scent. Like pheromones or something. Weight was not a problem for
him, but he was in training, and this was…Jesus,thatsmelledgood….
He resisted the temptation to bury his face in the box and graze; instead
he bravely settled for a single dark chocolate and almond cluster, handing
the rest of the candy around.
“Whoever he is, he has good taste,” Ben said, his mouth full of marzipan.
“He? It’s probably a chick,” Heath objected. “You know who it is? It’s
probably that Nona chick from your anthropology class. She’s got the hots
for you, dude.”
Carey shook his head. A three-pound box of fine chocolates—and these
were very fine indeed—probably cost as much as a ten meal card at the
cafeteria. Nona was always broke.
“Or what’s her name. Pronzini.”
“Kayla?” Carey said. “No way. She hates me.”
“That’s what you think. I think she’s one of those chicks who acts out her
attraction in misdirected aggression.”
-50-
“One semester of psychology and he thinks he’s an expert.” Ben reached
for the box of chocolates again. “By the way, Skeletor was looking for you
earlier.”
Carey nearly choked on his chocolate. “Walt was here? In this suite? What
did he want?”
“Walt!” hooted Heath. “I want to see you call Walter Sterne Walt to his
face.”
Carey and Ben both ignored that, Ben answering, “He didn’t say.”
“Did he leave a number?”
“No.”
“He didn’t say I should call him at Professor Bing’s office or anything?”
“No. Nothing. He was on his way out when I arrived,” Ben explained
patiently. “I happened to catch him on the stairs. He said he was looking
for you but you weren’t in. That was it. That was our entire conversation.”
“What time was this?”
Ben looked at Heath. Heath considered while he munched. “Eight? Eight-
thirty?”
Carey scowled thoughtfully.
“Are you in trouble or something?”
“Me? No. I….”
“Hey.” Heath sat bolt upright. “Maybe Skeletor left the chocolates for you!”
“Don’t call him that,” Carey said, pained.
“Why not. That’s who he looks like. That’s who he acts like.” Heath quoted
in a nasal Skeletor-like voice, “Imustpossessall,orIpossessnothing!”
“He’s been totally cool with me,” Carey said. “I never would’ve gotten into
Advanced Ethnographic Field Methods if he hadn’t talked to Professor Bing
-51-
for me.”
“Gee, that would have ruined your life.”
“It would have kept me from graduating. It’s not offered next semester and
it’s a required class.”
“He likes you,” Ben said with feeling.
“Everyone likes Carey.” There was a tinge of acid in Heath’s tone.
“Holy crap.” Ben stopped, staring down at the box of chocolates as though
he’d tasted arsenic.
“What?” Carey asked uneasily.
Ben’s bright blue eyes met his. “Nothing. I mean…I was thinking….”
“No wonder he scared himself,” Heath put in, predictably.
“You were thinking…?”
“About the Valentine’s Day Killer.”
Beautiful• Mysterious• Bizarre
www.JCPBooks.com
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