The weather outside is frightful, but the cabin is getting pretty hot.
Minnesota Christmas, Book 1
Stylist Frankie Blackburn never meant to go to Logan, Minnesota, but his
malfunctioning GPS decided otherwise, and a record-breaking snowfall ensures he won’t
be heading back to Minneapolis anytime soon. Being rescued by three sexy lumberjacks
is fine as a fantasy, but in reality the biggest of the bears is awfully cranky and seems
ready to gobble Frankie right up.
Marcus Gardner wasn’t always a lumberjack. Once a high-powered Minneapolis
lawyer, he’s burned out and back home in Logan to lick his wounds, not play with a sassy
city twink who might as well have stepped directly out of his past.
As the north winds blow and guards come down, Frankie and Marcus find they have
a lot more in common than they don’t. Making a relationship last beyond a snowstorm
could prove impossible when one man won’t live in the country and the other won’t
return to the city. Yet the longer it snows, the deeper they fall in love, and all they want
for Christmas is each other.
Warning: Contains power outages, excessive snowfall, and incredibly sexy bears.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or
have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual
events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Let it Snow
Copyright © 2013 by Heidi Cullinan
ISBN: 978-1-61921-760-7
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Angela Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First
Let it Snow
Heidi Cullinan
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Dedication
This one is for me, because I was really in the mood for a snowed-in story, and since
I couldn’t find one to read, I ended up writing one. Merry Christmas, Heidi! And to all of
you.
Chapter One
Somehow, despite a brand-new GPS and strict oral directions from his father,
Frankie Blackburn had managed to get himself lost. Because there was no way, despite
what the GPS insisted, the left turn down yet another winding, tree-lined road would get
him back to Minneapolis. The fact that he’d gotten himself lost in the middle of nowhere
as a blizzard swelled around him was simply icing on the cake.
Squinting, Frankie fussed with the view screen, but in deference to the now-steady
veil of snow coming down he looked away from the road as little as possible. The snow
had been his first clue something was wrong. He’d checked the radar before leaving his
parents’ house in Duluth. While they were due to get six to twelve inches by morning,
half an hour’s drive south should have taken Frankie out of the trouble rather than deeper
in. As the ground around him already sported well over three inches and was gaining
additional snow cover fast, clearly he’d done something wrong.
Way to go, Frankie. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and tried to ignore
the fear clawing at his stomach. It was moments like this he could see the attraction of
smoking, because if nothing else, it would force him to take deep breaths. Josh, one of his
roommates, used to smoke. He’d always said the buzz was fantastic, that it made his
mind expand and calmed him right down no matter how stressed out he got. Frankie
could totally go with some mind expansion and calm right now.
Of course, he didn’t dare take his hands off the wheel, so how he would manage a
cigarette without crashing the car or burning himself, he didn’t know.
What Frankie really needed was to stop the car, make some phone calls and ask for
directions. The trouble was he couldn’t find anywhere decent to pull over. Awhile back
there had been a roadside bar, but it all but screamed, Hey, gay boy, get over here and let
us rough you up a bit, so Frankie decided to opt for safer ground. Except this was
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northern Minnesota, the backwoods of the backwoods, and a safe haven for a guy like
Frankie was even more ephemeral than Santa Claus. Nobody had ever looked at Frankie
and thought anything but that he was gay. A few times in high school he’d wondered if
he were gay by suggestion, but then he’d had his first taste of cock and knew tits and
pussy were never going to be his thing, so he simply appreciated the heads-up.
Since it hadn’t been a very pleasant heads-up, and since he’d done his coming of age
in one of Minnesota’s southern small towns, he knew better than to try his luck in this
place. Whatever this town was, it was officially Not For Frankie. Proceed with caution.
The problem was civilization of any kind up here was hard to come by. It had been
fifteen minutes since the roadside bar, and all Frankie had passed since then had been
four unplowed driveways. At this point all he wanted to do was turn around or call his
mom and freak out, but, again, he didn’t want anything to distract him from the road
because it was starting to get bad. Turning around assumed he knew how to go back the
same way he’d come—he could just as easily end up in a different part of the backwoods.
There wasn’t anything for it. He had to stop somewhere. When he finally approached
what looked like the fringes of a town, he made his way down Main Street until he saw
the faint, faded glow of a sign that read Logan Café.
Frankie didn’t bother to scope it for redneck warning signals. He pulled straight into
the parking lot in the back and killed the engine.
Huddled over the GPS view screen a few seconds later, he started to swear. He didn’t
understand where the map said it was taking him to, just that his final destination landed
him east of International Falls. No wonder it seemed like he was driving into the back
end of nowhere. The back end of nowhere was a booming metropolis compared to his
current location. He was in the only town for fifteen miles in all directions, hell and gone
from any kind of interstate or even a decent highway. Frankie didn’t need radar to tell
him he’d driven into the heart of one mother of a blizzard instead of toward the
comforting lanes of I-35.
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8
Calling his parents was a given now, but first he thought he should use the bathroom,
splash some water on his face and get some honest-to-God human directions from one of
the patrons inside.
The Logan Café was narrow, wide and old, clearly not just modeled from the days of
diners but a direct descendant. The restaurant itself wasn’t that big, but it had plenty of
seating, from the booths around the edges to the tables in the middle and the long counter
in front of the beverage station and the window into the kitchen. The decor was mostly
industrial white, though faded to a sad cream with age, especially on the linoleum floor.
Some color could be found in the green vinyl cushions of the chairs, stools and booth
seats, but this too was worn, patched with duct tape in more than one instance. The menu
was listed in block plastic lettering on black signboards above the kitchen window, but
both the board and the letters were aged as well, the letters yellowed and the black sign
ghosted with the faint impressions of menus past.
The way everyone turned to look at Frankie as he jangled the bell above the door
made him feel like he was in a spaghetti western. Every single face in the room was
white, which when he’d grown up in Saint Peter hadn’t been unusual, but after the
cornucopia of ethnicity that was metro Minneapolis, the lack of contrasting skin tone was
the first thing Frankie noticed. The age range ran the gamut from old men and women to
a few teenagers, but every one of them eyed Frankie as if he had just escaped from the
zoo.
Cautioning himself not to court drama, Frankie ignored the stares and focused on
shaking the snow from his body and his shoes as best he could before heading to the
restroom. It was as grim and aged as everything else, the urinal and sink drains both
sporting rusted stains in the porcelain, something that had creeped Frankie out ever since
he’d been a kid. After hurrying through washing his hands, he returned to the main
restaurant area and made himself smile at the matronly woman behind the counter. Patty,
her name tag declared. Sitting in front of her, Frankie attempted to look less freaked out
than he actually was.
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“How can I help you?” she asked, her tone seeming to imply he sure needed a lot of
it.
“Hi.” Frankie did his best to keep his smile in place and free from strain. “I’m a bit
lost. I’m trying to get to I-35.”
Patty’s eyebrows reached up into her tightly permed hair, which was teased into a
careful nest of flat, box-dyed auburn in front of her diner cap. “Honey, you’re hell and
gone from Duluth.”
Don’t panic. Frankie pressed his hands against the countertop to keep them from
shaking. “I know. My GPS malfunctioned, or I entered my destination wrong, and now
I’m way, way off course. Do you have a map or something I could look at?”
Remembering his manners, he added, “And if you have a mug of hot tea and a quick
chicken or turkey sandwich, mustard, no mayo, that’d be great.”
Frankie felt her size him up, her gaze raking him, taking in his carefully styled hair,
his fussy, modish clothing, his bright red Columbia ski coat that would never see a lift
chair but sure looked fashionable—he watched her make a judgment about him, and he
had to say, it likely wasn’t far off. He waited for her disdain and hoped she’d still give
him a map along with it.
Disdain didn’t come, though she did shake her head and put an empty cup in front of
him. “Map’s in the back. I’ll get it for you while you wait for your order. Better make it
to go, though. This storm isn’t going to mess around. Cherie’s knee is acting up
something fierce, and she says we’re in for days and days of snow, by her reckoning.”
“Thank you,” Frankie replied, and tried not to panic.
The waitress put a Lipton tea bag in his cup and poured hot water from a pot over the
top of it as she spoke. “You from the Cities then?”
“Yes, though my parents live in Duluth. They just moved there from Saint Peter.”
The woman’s face brightened. “Say. That’s just south of the Cities, right? Has a
college? I think Lacey Peterson went there a few years back.”
“Gustavus Adolphus. My dad was a professor there, though he just took a position at
the University of Minnesota at Duluth.”
Heidi Cullinan
10
“Pretty place, Duluth.” The woman wiped the counter in front of Frankie. “I was all
set to get some of my Christmas shopping done there this weekend, but Cherie called in
sick with the knee, and here I am.”
“Miller Hill was really busy.” Frankie remembered his trek to the mall escorting his
mother the day before all too well. “You might be glad you waited.”
The woman smiled at Frankie. “Maybe so.” She nodded back to the kitchen. “I’ll see
to your map and put your order in.”
Well, that hadn’t gone so badly. Frankie sipped his tea, focusing on the fact that he
wasn’t driving in the wrong direction anymore and would soon have a map. He also
pretended this wasn’t the worst cup of tea he’d ever had in his life, tasting like stale
coffee and soap.
There weren’t many other customers in the café, but they all seemed to keep an eye
on Frankie. The elderly couple at a nearby table didn’t bother him half as much as the trio
of bulky, bearded men in deerstalkers in the booth near the bathrooms. They looked like
they might have literally just come off a lumberjack gig, wearing industrial overalls,
heavy plaid shirts and clunky steel-toed boots. The three bears, Frankie thought, trying to
make light of the situation. It worked better than it had a right to, mostly because, yeah,
were these guys gay, they’d be bears all right. They were even three variations on the
theme: one was sandy-haired and slight, curling hair sticking out from beneath his cap,
his beard subtler, suitable to a baby bear. The one who sat next to him had carrot-red hair
and a guffaw of a laugh that went with his stocky body. Across from them, though, was
definitely Papa Bear, a man who was big, dark and cranky.
Outside of a few suspicious glances, the three bears didn’t pay Frankie any particular
kind of mind. Even so, he didn’t see any profit in hanging around and giving them a
reason to get bored and decide to poke at the skinny guy from the city.
Patty reappeared with his map and his sandwich, and what little appetite Frankie
might have been able to muster died when Patty illustrated via Rand McNally just how
far Logan, Minnesota was from where Frankie was supposed to be. He felt stupid for not
figuring it out sooner, but he’d thought that was the whole point of following a GPS,
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11
trusting the directions it gave. His dad had explained it to him, and Frankie had tried to
program it correctly.
“They’re talking about closing roads just north of here.” Patty frowned, but the
expression seemed more about concern than dismissal. “You’d best be careful.”
“If I can just get back to Duluth, I’ll stay at my parents’ place until it blows over.
They ought to get the interstate open pretty quickly, I’d think.”
Patty nodded. “They’re supposed to get the least of it too, down in Duluth, and
everything south of there should be fine. Of course, now there’s some storm pushing
across western Iowa. If that swings north and the two meet up, things could get nasty
fast.”
Frankie’s stomach hurt thinking about that. “I should call my boss and tell him I
won’t be in tomorrow, and my mom to tell her to expect me.”
“Call your mom quick and save the boss for Duluth.” Patty nodded at the window.
“It’s really coming down now.”
It certainly was. Frankie left a ten on the counter and gathered his sandwich, but
Patty pushed the map toward him.
“Take it. And here.” She scrawled a number on the top of the legend. “That’s the
café’s phone number. You get lost or stuck, you give a holler. I’ll be here all night.
Heading for Highway 53 is your best bet—though if you get nervous, swing over to
Eveleth. They have a Super 8.”
Riding out a days-long blizzard in a small-town hotel seemed worse than facing the
drive back to Duluth, but Frankie nodded. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“I just hope you have a blanket in that tiny little car of yours.” Patty frowned at the
parking lot where Frankie’s green Festiva quietly drowned in flakes.
“I do, and a gallon of water, warm clothes, a scraper and even a shovel,” Frankie
assured her. “I may come from southern Minnesota, but it’s still Minnesota.”
Patty nodded in approval and waved him on. “You get going then. Call me when you
get wherever you land just so as I don’t dream about your dead body in a ditch
somewhere.”
Heidi Cullinan
12
Her concern for him was touching, and this time Frankie’s smile was all genuine. “I
will,” he promised and took up the map. “Thanks.”
“Get on then,” Patty said, her shooing motions getting urgent.
Sparing just a quick glance at the three bears to catch Papa Bear glaring at him,
Frankie headed out into the storm. It took him five minutes to unbury the car, and while
the engine heated, he picked at his sandwich as he studied the GPS. The food was a lot
better than the tea, though eating was mostly just something to do while he girded his
loins for his adventure. According to the map, he had to go back the way he came, take
the first right at a major intersection ten miles south, and use the county road to go back
over to the highway. That would take him straight back to Duluth and the warm comfort
of his parents’ spare bedroom. Yes, his boss would be upset at his missing work, but
better to have Robbie upset than to die in a ditch.
Giving up on his sandwich, he dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed his parents.
“Are you home already?” his mother asked. “How fast did you drive?”
“Actually, I’m not even close to home. I took a wrong turn, and I’m in Logan.”
“What? Why? Where’s Logan?”
“About an hour north of Duluth. I screwed up the GPS, and before I realized how
badly I was lost, here I was.”
“Oh, honey.”
The weariness in her voice made Frankie’s gut twist. “Sorry, Mom.”
The phone muffled as Melinda put her hand over the receiver. “It’s Frankie. He’s
lost an hour north of Duluth.” A pause, then, “What? What?” She unmuffled the phone,
and when she spoke to Frankie next, her tone made her panic clear. “Sweetheart, your
dad says there’s a terrible storm up there. Terrible.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured that one out.” Frankie glanced out the window at the snow,
which seemed to be coming faster and faster. “Mom, I better go if I’m going to have any
chance of making it back to your place tonight.”
“Sweetheart, no. Find a hotel and ride this out. I want you safe.”
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“I don’t want to be stuck up here in Podunk, Minnesota. Oh my God, you should
have seen these three crazy lumberjacks in the café where I stopped for directions.
Anyway, there isn’t a hotel close to here as far as I can tell, unless I go west.”
“Franklin Nelson Blackburn, you get lost trying to find the bathroom in the middle of
the night. I won’t have you driving in the snow.”
“Look, Mom, I gotta get going. I’ll call you once I get on the highway, okay?”
“Oh my God. Let me put your father on.”
“No. I’m hanging up. Please call the guys for me and let them know I’ll be staying
with you.”
“Frankie,” she demanded, but he didn’t hear the rest because he’d hung up. For good
measure, he turned the phone all the way off.
No way was he getting stranded here. No. Way.
The roads around Logan, Frankie discovered as he pulled out of the café parking lot,
had worsened considerably while he’d been inside. Tall, narrow trees surrounded him on
either side, a few evergreens but most of them northern hardwoods without leaves,
making it seem like Frankie drove through a tree graveyard drowning in a blizzard. He
could still see the pavement, but just barely, and several times he found he’d wandered
into the left-hand lane because the snow had drifted the right side of the road shut.
Just get to the highway, he coaxed himself, and put on the Gregorian Christmas
album his mother had given him. Get to the highway, get to your parents and never use
GPS again.
As the monks sang serenely about Ave Maria, Frankie white-knuckled the steering
wheel and tried not to get hypnotized by the falling snow. It felt very surreal, the music
drifting around him as snow and darkness threatened to engulf him should he lose control
of his car. The woods were pretty, even if they were in the middle of nowhere and full of
backwater yokels and prejudiced “Christians” who voted against marriage equality and
Heidi Cullinan
14
thought Twin City residents were yuppie snobs, so out of touch they hadn’t heard of
hipsters.
The monks shifted to “Silent Night”, and Frankie thought of the three bears,
especially surly Papa Bear. They were exactly the kind of guys that had given Frankie so
much hell growing up. Funny, he’d been in Minneapolis for almost ten years, but ten
minutes in that café had taken him right back to being fourteen and queasy while he got
ready for gym. Saint Peter was slightly refined because of its proximity to the Cities and
to Mankato, and also because of the college, but it had its share of rednecks too.
Sometimes they seemed angrier and nastier because they had to live alongside what they
considered uppity people, like Frankie and his family.
Frankie had taken piano and violin lessons, and until he’d been able to beg his
mother to let him drop out, dance. It didn’t matter that Frankie had enjoyed those
activities and that they’d been soothing and peaceful to him—Frankie never played
baseball or dreamed of buying a killer car or went hunting with cousins, and that made
him somehow a threat in the eyes of Saint Peter’s differently cultured. It didn’t matter
that Frankie had a whole circle of friends, some of them even other boys, in his family’s
social set. When it was Frankie versus the redneck boys, Frankie always lost.
Those three lumberjacks, no question, were more of the same. He bet none of them
had sported Vote No car decals during the marriage amendment fight in 2012 or urged
their representatives to help pass marriage equality. He’d put money too on them being
the guys who had threatened to hold the heads of guys like Frankie over stunk-up toilets.
They probably wrote FAG in black marker on the lockers of Frankie’s Logan, Minnesota
spiritual brothers. They had every mark of small-town bully written on them, and Frankie
was oh so glad to be leaving them behind.
Still, there wasn’t any denying that even in the snow the landscape was beautiful up
here. When Frankie had been little, he’d dreamed of running away to a cabin up north,
where everything would be quiet and quaint like Mayberry and everyone would like him
for a change. Of course, then he’d grown up and realized the farther north he went the
less it would be like Mayberry and the more it would turn into Deliverance. Still, that
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fantasy had never quite died, and especially with the lilting voices of the monks drifting
around him, the scene made Frankie nostalgic, wishing a life like that truly could happen
to a guy like him.
He stopped daydreaming and made himself focus on the road. Just a few more miles
to the turnoff, he reminded himself, not sure if it was actually a few more miles or not.
Soon, he amended. Soon you’ll be on the highway and scot-free.
That was when he saw the moose.
The animal came out of the brush just as the music swelled to a dramatic, hopeful
climax. Frankie couldn’t make it out at first, but as soon as he did, the only thought he
had time for was that he was screwed. The moose was bigger than a cow, dark and hairy
and so full of antlers it was hard not to be hypnotized by them. Frankie shouted and
braked, but he might as well have pushed on the accelerator. Turning its head to look at
Frankie’s car, the moose didn’t so much as blink, let alone move.
Shouting again, Frankie swerved around the moose, caught the edge of a snowdrift
and spun out.
Snow on snow, the monks sang as the Festiva sailed into the ditch and down into a
shallow ravine, where the engine sputtered and died but the music played on, eerily
upbeat as the snow came down faster and faster, the monks oblivious to Frankie’s doom.
Chapter Two
Marcus Gardner breathed a sigh of relief when the slicked-up pretty boy left the café,
but the memory of the man who could have been Steve’s twin lingered long after. It
stayed with him as he and his two best friends piled into Arthur’s truck, jostling against
the door as they meandered into town toward the care center.
“What’s eating you?” Arthur reached across Paul and nudged Marcus’s knee. His
cheeks were almost as red as his hair, making him look like Santa in his salad days.
Shrugging, Marcus averted his gaze to the window, where the snow came down in
sheets. “Nothing.”
“Just usual grumpiness then?” Arthur settled into his seat with a sigh. “Weather
sucks ass, that’s for sure. Don’t know where that cutie back at the café was headed, but I
hope to hell he’s got snow tires.”
“He was lost.” This came from Paul. He pulled off his cap and ruffled his curls,
altering their disarray more than putting them to order. “Patty was all mother hen over
him. Said he was going back to Duluth. He was supposed to go back to Minneapolis from
there but took a really, really wrong turn. Poor guy. I hope he makes it home.”
There wasn’t any way the “cutie” would be seeing the Cities tonight. Marcus
frowned harder. What the hell was a guy like that doing up this far anyway? And driving
a Festiva no less. How were those tin cans even legal?
“I should have told him to stop by the cabin. I could have kept him warm,” Arthur
suggested.
Paul snorted at Arthur. “He’d have taken one look at your ugly mug and run.”
Arthur leered and placed a meaty paw on the inside of Paul’s thigh. “You don’t seem
to find my mug that intolerable, babe.”
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Paul grumbled and pulled his leg away. When the truck swerved, Marcus snapped to
attention and glowered at Arthur. “Eyes on the road, Romeo.”
Arthur leaned forward and squinted into the snow. “Jesus. Was it supposed to be this
bad? I’ll have to use four-wheel drive in another half hour, at the rate it’s coming down.”
“We could skip the visit,” Marcus offered, though he didn’t really want to.
Arthur waved a dismissive hand. “It won’t take but a few minutes. Besides, you’ll be
insufferable if we don’t.”
“He’ll be insufferable anyway,” Paul muttered.
Marcus turned back to the window.
Logan Manor had its Christmas lights up already, the multicolored lights on the
roofline a beacon amidst the swirling snow. Arthur parked near the door, but even so they
were coated head to toe with flakes when they buzzed their way into the main foyer.
Kyle, the night nurse, smiled at Marcus as he traded his snow-clad boots for paper
booties at the nursing station. “She’s just had her dinner and is settling in with her TV.”
Marcus gave a curt nod while tucking his gloves inside his coat pocket. He left his
logging coveralls on mostly because it’d be more work to take them off than was worth it
for as little as he’d be staying. Of course, given the temperature they had things cranked
to in here, he’d be sweating like a pig in two minutes. “How’s she doing tonight?”
Kyle shrugged. “Middling. Not her best, but not her worst. Maybe a bit weepy and
disoriented, but she’ll know who you are and be glad to see you.”
“We’ll be out here.” Arthur leaned over the counter to toss a flirtatious smile to Kyle
as Paul glowered and the nurse blushed.
Glad to leave the eternal soap opera that was Arthur Anderson behind for a few
minutes, Marcus went down the hall to his mother.
Mimi Gardner was tucked in her recliner, a quilt over her legs and a magazine in her
lap as the TV broadcast a news program. When she saw Marcus, she frowned and
gestured helplessly to the television.
“Sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t want to watch this, and I can’t get my
clicker to work.”
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18
Fishing the remote out of her lap, Marcus aimed it at the screen and patiently
retaught his mother how to change the channel. “You want the Food Network, Mom?”
“I don’t know.” She seemed flustered and angry, but when Rachael Ray appeared,
chirpy and happy and whipping around her kitchen, Mimi relaxed. “Yes. This one.” She
smiled and patted Marcus’s hand. “Thank you, honey. Did you have a nice drive up from
the city?”
Marcus’s heart fell. He hated it when she forgot this much because the conversation
was always awkward. “I live up here in Logan now, remember?”
Mimi frowned, agitated again. “But you have that nice job at the law firm. And that
sweet boyfriend. Why would you leave?”
“Because Steve cheated on me and lied to me through his teeth, and the nice job at
the law firm was eating my soul.” He took her hand and smiled, trying to ease over the
awkwardness of her forgetting. “How was dinner? It smells like chicken out there.”
“It was fine.” Mimi touched her hair, still troubled, but not as bad as she could have
been. “Marcus, I need to get my color done. I can’t go in to work tomorrow looking like
this.”
Oh, one of these nights. “You don’t have to work anymore, Mom. You’re retired.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t want to retire. Who retires at fifty-three? Besides, that
idiot Kristen can’t get the hang of the new computer system. And she’s horrible with
story time.”
“If you’re fifty-three, Mom, you had me when you were fifteen.”
Mimi frowned at him a moment longer before her eyes filled with tears. “I’m
forgetting again, aren’t I?”
“I think you’re tired.” Marcus stroked his mother’s hair, noticing it was indeed a lot
more gray than she liked to keep it. “We’ll see about getting you to the Cut ’N’ Curl once
the storm’s over. Maybe I can even take you down to Duluth and treat you with dinner
after.”
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She seemed a little mollified, but she sank back into her chair, looking small and frail
and very old. “I am tired, you’re right. I still don’t see how that Kristen can run the
library though.”
“She isn’t. They have a young man running it now. From what I hear, story time is a
huge hit.” From what Marcus also heard, he was another friend of Dorothy. For a town of
less than a thousand, Logan sure had some weird odds on its homosexuality ratio.
Mimi squeezed Marcus’s hand. “Thanks for stopping by, Marcus.”
“Of course.” He continued stroked her hair. “There’s a blizzard, so it might be a few
days before I can check in. I’ll tell them at the front desk and have them pass the word to
the other nurses in case you forget.”
She huffed and rolled her eyes. “I think we can count that as a given.”
“Hush.” He drew her hand up and kissed it. “You can always call me, you know, and
I’ll remind them of that too.”
“I hate this,” Mimi whispered. “I’m too young to be this senile.”
She was, but there wasn’t much to be done about that. Alzheimer’s was a real bitch.
“You’re not senile. You’re my mother, and you’re wonderful. I’m looking into getting
my own place, and when I do, I’ll have you over for a nice dinner every weekend.”
“You should go back to the city. You’re never going to find anyone to date up here.”
This was most certainly true. “I don’t want to date anyone. I’m done with that
nonsense.”
“Now who’s senile?”
The brief flare of the mother he’d known made Marcus smile. He kissed her cheek.
“You rest, Mom, all right? I’ll call tomorrow and make sure you’re doing okay.”
Mimi kissed him back. “I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
When Marcus returned to the nurse’s station, Arthur had given up on Kyle and was
arguing with Paul in front of the aviary. Eager to flirt, Kyle beamed up at Marcus as he
relayed his message for his mother about the snow keeping him away, but Marcus
steadfastly ignored him.
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20
It might be funny how a town as small as Logan was chock-full of gay men, but
Marcus meant what he’d told his mother. They could march a parade of queers down
Main Street, and Marcus wouldn’t be interested.
Even so, as he climbed back into the truck beside Paul, the sleek, slim boy from the
city who looked like the kind and gentle version of Steve flashed back into Marcus’s
mind.
No, he schooled himself. He was especially not interested in that.
For several minutes Frankie sat in the heavy silence of the car, processing what in
the hell had happened to him.
He’d turned off the music, needing to get rid of the last of the sensory stimuli. He
could feel his brain actively climbing over the idea that he’d swerved to hit a moose—a
moose, for fuck’s sake—and now sat in a deep ditch, buried in snow.
Buried. In snow.
Buried in a ditch in snow. In northern Minnesota on a road where he’d been the only
car he’d seen for a long, long time.
Though his sense of shock made him want to stay still and keep processing, the
looming truth that being buried in snow would be literal snapped Frankie out of his
stupor and got him moving. Hands shaking, he climbed into the backseat and fished into
the hatchback for his boots, his blanket, his balaclava and his thick gloves—the ugly ones
he’d bought at the farm-implement store back in Saint Peter. In his pocket were his slim,
insulated touch gloves, which Josh teased him for because he had the world’s shittiest
phone that had nothing touch sensitive about it. They were stylish, though, and trendy,
like Frankie’s coat. His Columbia ski coat could keep him snug on the top of a mountain,
and for the price he’d paid, he assumed that covered a Minnesota blizzard. He had a
fleece ear band too, one that didn’t mess up his hair. With this gear, he could face the
worst of a Minneapolis storm.
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He wasn’t in the city now though. The only part of his usual menagerie of winter
wear worth anything was that coat. The rest were tossed on the seat in favor of the
balaclava and the fat, fat gloves. The ones he’d actually never worn, only kept in his
vehicle in case a moment like this ever happened. Which it had.
Buried in snow in northern Minnesota.
Need to get out. Pulling on the balaclava, he clutched the blanket and gloves tight in
his fingers. Need to get to a phone.
Wait, he had a phone. Heart lurching, Frankie fumbled in his pocket.
His phone had no service.
He turned it off and turned it on again, moved it around the car and held it up to
windows, but nothing he did got him a signal.
He was buried in snow in a ditch, it was getting dark, he’d hit a moose and he had no
phone service.
Frankie couldn’t help it: he whimpered. He didn’t cry, but he made some very non-
butch noises and shut his eyes as he wished, desperately, that he were in his mother’s
living room, or back home in Minneapolis, or even still at that damn café being harassed
by the three bears.
Get out of here. Get your blanket, your gloves, and go. Leave everything else, just
go, find shelter.
For a horrible second Frankie thought his door wouldn’t open, but with a panicked
shove and a groan, the metal gave way and let him out. Cold blasted him, but the
Columbia coat really was warm, and what it didn’t manage the blanket finished off.
Frankie clutched the old quilt tight around him as he climbed the bank and stumbled back
onto the road, where there was no longer a sign of a moose at all.
There wasn’t a sign of anything, not even tire tracks. In fact, as Frankie trudged to
the center of the road, he realized no one would ever see his car so far down in the ditch.
He saw too the jagged rocks he’d somehow dodged, rocks that could have caused a lot
worse damage, not just to the car but to him. Frankie could be bloody and broken in a
cold ditch, invisible to anyone on the road—with no cell service.
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22
Walk. Don’t stand here and think about how you could have died. Walk. Walk, walk,
walk.
Walk Frankie did, moving down the road in the eerily silent night, snow falling so
hard now he had to blink against it as it froze along his eyelashes. The boots and gloves
were thick, but his toes and fingers were starting to object to the elements all the same.
He needed to get to shelter of some kind. Any kind.
He thought about how long it had been since he’d seen a mailbox beside the road. He
wondered if he was walking toward town or away from it. He wondered just how cold he
was going to get before he found somewhere warm and safe—and how long it would take
to get there.
Frankie ended up walking for a full half hour. His phone still didn’t have reception,
but it did have a clock, and it was getting on to eight when he saw the opening of a lane
and the little red postal flag that said someone lived at the other end of that access road.
Whimpering in relief, Frankie trudged faster, spurred on by the thought of rescue. He
didn’t even care if an axe murderer lived there, so long as he killed Frankie somewhere
warm.
The cabin at the end of the drive didn’t look like much, neither ominous nor
welcoming. Someone clearly lived there, judging by the various bits of detritus on the
porch and the furniture visible through the window, but they weren’t home—either that
or they were deaf, because Frankie had put everything he had into pounding on the front
door.
What the residents of the cabin were, thank God, was trusting, because they hadn’t
locked the front door. It swung open easily when Frankie tried the handle.
“Hello?” he called out as he stuck his head inside. “Anybody home?” No one
answered, and he shut the door behind him as he stomped his boots hard on the mat in the
area that constituted a sort of foyer. “Hello?”
Warmth surrounded him—the main room wasn’t a sauna, but compared to the
outdoors it was practically balmy. Even so, Frankie kept his coat and blanket wrapped
tight around him as he stood in the entryway and surveyed the home he’d invaded. The
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cabin wasn’t big. The entire first floor was one room, except for a door by the kitchen
which looked to lead to a bathroom and another Frankie would bet was a closet. Stairs led
to a loft, but it could only be one room up there given the floor plan and slope of the roof.
It almost looked like a hunting cabin, but someone lived here full-time right now—mail
littered the table and half-finished dishes rested beside the sink. What appeared to be
oatmeal sat congealed in a pan on the stove.
Someone lived here, and they weren’t tidy.
No obvious implements of axe murder lay in plain sight, though, so Frankie shed his
blanket long enough to hang up his coat on a peg behind the door and take off his boots.
Padding in his stocking feet, balaclava and mittens resting on the bench beside the door,
Frankie wrapped back up in the blanket and made his way around the cabin, taking stock.
The power was out, because none of the switches worked, and there wasn’t a phone.
When he reached for his own to see if it had service, he couldn’t find it—he’d lost it on
the lane, he guessed, and he felt empty at the knowledge, like he’d cut off part of himself.
He didn’t know his parents’ phone number since they’d moved, and had never
memorized either of their mobiles. It was too easy to just search their name in his
contacts and let the phone do the remembering for him. Same for work, same for his
friends.
You’re safe. It’s warm in here, and you’re safe.
Exhaling, Frankie curled up on the sofa in front of a cold fireplace. Wood sat stacked
neatly beside it, as well as starter logs and a box of matches, but Frankie left that alone,
choosing to pile himself beneath the blankets folded neatly on the other end of the couch,
trading them for his damp one which he draped over a chair by the hearth. If matters
came to it, he’d start a fire, but for now he’d just stay warm. He’d stay warm and wait for
whoever lived here to come home, and then he’d see what happened.
He tried not to think about how this was the smallest of small towns, about how
poorly they welcomed someone like him. That got hard, though, because he was all too
aware there wasn’t even a whiff of a feminine touch in the room. A man alone lived here,
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one who wasn’t going to think Frankie was a real man and might have some choice ways
of pointing that out.
Stop, Frankie scolded his rabbit brain. For once in his life, it listened.
God, but it was quiet in the cabin.
And cold.
And lonely.
Frankie shut his eyes and pulled the blankets up over his nose, shutting out the cabin,
the snowstorm, the world.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he must have, and pretty hard, because the next
thing he knew firm hands shook him awake. When he blinked sleep away and looked up,
three bearded faces peered down at him in various stages of surprise, though one in
particular seemed annoyed.
Papa Bear, Frankie realized, thinking he must be dreaming, but the chill in his body
and the insistence of his bladder told him he wasn’t. He stared up at the men, disoriented,
confused and terrified. Mama and Baby Bear too, the three lumberjacks from the café.
The ones who reminded Frankie of the guys who liked to torture him in high school,
all grown up and living in the remote North Woods.
Oh. Shit.
Baby Bear leaned forward, squinting. “Say, aren’t you the guy from the café?”
“Yes.” Frankie tried to sit up straighter, but he was cold and dizzy and scared. “I
swerved to avoid a moose and ended up in a ditch. I couldn’t get cell service, so I walked
until I found somewhere safe. This was it. I’m sorry, I fell asleep waiting.”
“Jesus, I didn’t even see your car.” The other two men frowned, but the blond sat on
the end of the couch and smiled. “Glad you’re okay. Sorry we weren’t here when you
showed up.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Paul.”
Frankie threaded his right hand out from under the blankets and accepted Paul’s
greeting. “Frankie.” Please don’t eat me for your breakfast.
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“Arthur.” The red-haired one spoke gruffly, but he grinned as he did so, adding a
wink as he nudged the tall, dark one in the arm—the tall, dark one who still glowered.
“This is Marcus, whose bed you’ve been sleeping in.”
Frankie took one look at grumpy Papa Bear and wanted to crawl back under the
blankets. Instead he said, “Sorry,” and forced himself to smile.
Papa bear only grunted, turned around and walked away.
Frankie took deep breaths and pointed out to himself that so far nobody seemed
inclined to hit him and demand his lunch money.
So far.
Chapter Three
That the city boy from the café had turned up back at Arthur’s house—in Marcus’s
bed, as Arthur found so amusing—was such a cruel twist of fate Marcus half wondered if
Arthur and Paul had set this scenario up. Except they hadn’t been privy to his inner
grumblings about how much Frankie reminded him of Steve, and anyway, he couldn’t
see how they’d have managed it. Quite obviously the whole thing was stupid
coincidence. Dangerous coincidence too. The guy could have died. Had he hit his moose
much farther on, he would have had even farther to walk to find shelter. Arthur’s cabin
was the last for a long time.
Arthur’s cabin had shit electrical service too, and it had gone out again, the wire to
the house no doubt taken down by a tree limb or, hell, maybe a whole tree. The heat had
gone off, and the house was cool enough to indicate it had been so for about an hour,
probably shortly before their unexpected houseguest had arrived. The kitchen was foul,
likely because Paul was angry at having the task of cleanup always fall to him, and as
usual Arthur was oblivious. Having left for work before either of them, Marcus wasn’t
responsible for the mess, but he was pretty sure he’d be cleaning it up, and with cold
water at that.
Grumbling under his breath, he bundled up and went out to the shed to drag out the
generator to the portable overhang next to the house and hooked it up to the transfer
switch. Normally Arthur helped him with this chore, but he didn’t this time, and when
Marcus came back into the house, Paul and Arthur sat on either side of Frankie on the
couch, warming themselves in front of a glowing fire and chatting up the boy from the
city as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
“Stylist?” Paul was saying as Marcus hung his winter clothes on the pegs by the
door. “You mean you’re like one of those fancy consultants to the movie stars?”
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Frankie’s laugh was musical and soft, and it cut sideways against Marcus’s middle.
“No. Mostly that’s a fussy way of saying I cut hair, though I’ve actually done a lot of
training in how to put together certain looks. Sort of like the movie stars, I guess, but
more for business people and anchormen.”
Marcus set his teeth and went over to the kitchen, turning on the light he knew was
part of the generator’s circuit before he attacked the crusted-over dishes. Jesus, Frankie
even sounded like Steve, except their snow refugee had more of that soft-spoken, lilting-
lisp, tonal quality to his voice than Marcus’s ex had. The only difference was that Steve’s
voice always had a playful edge which in the end had become hard and biting. Frankie
seemed subdued, almost demure.
He was a hairdresser, he had a lispy voice, and a glance across the room confirmed
the effeminate hand gestures Marcus had been sure would be there. That, and Frankie had
been oh-so-carefully avoiding Marcus’s gaze. If the man wasn’t gay, Marcus would eat
that crusted-over oatmeal.
Gay and stranded with them for the duration of a storm which, according to the
radio, had promised to measure in days, and that was just the snowfall, not the cleanup.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Not that Arthur or Paul saw this as a problem. They were cozied up to Frankie like
he was their long-lost best friend, like they hadn’t gotten drunk a thousand times with
Marcus and bitched about gay stereotypes and how they were all stupid and so were the
gays who perpetuated them, the gay stereotypes Frankie was practically a poster child
for. Like they hadn’t hated Steve right along with Marcus when it all fell apart, maybe
more so. Now, however, the pair of Judases were cozying right up to the interloper,
asking about his life in the big city.
“I’m originally from a small town just north of Mankato,” Frankie explained as
Marcus used a spatula blade to chisel at the oatmeal pan. “Not quite as small as this place
seems to be, but I wasn’t born in the Cities. I think a lot of us move there from smaller
places, like migrants.”
“Marcus used to—” Arthur began, and Marcus slammed down a pan.
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“Arthur Anderson, shut the fuck up,” Marcus growled.
Arthur snorted. “Marcus used to be human, but then he turned into a big cranky
bear.”
“Yeah, right about the time I had to start cleaning up messes you couldn’t be
bothered with,” Marcus shot back.
“It wasn’t my turn to clean the kitchen,” Paul said, almost on cue.
Arthur returned his focus to Frankie, ignoring them both. “So your folks are in
Duluth. They liking it?”
“Yes, though I wonder if they’ll be able to say so after they get through a winter.”
Frankie worried his bottom lip. “Actually, speaking of my parents, I need to call them
and let them know I made it somewhere safe. Also my roommates and my boss and the
lady at the café, because I promised her. But first I couldn’t get service, and then I lost
my phone in the snow.”
It should have been funny the way Arthur and Paul fell over themselves to be the
first one to hand over their phone, how when Frankie confessed too that he couldn’t
remember the phone numbers, they fought over Paul’s smartphone to look them up. It
was a hard call whether they were just fighting like usual or if they really did want to
sleep with Frankie. That thought stilled Marcus a moment, the image of their threesome
both arousing and infuriating.
He is not Steve, Marcus reminded himself. Grow the fuck up.
The problem was, in so many ways Frankie was Steve. Marcus fought the pile of
dishes, and his recalcitrant brain ticked the similarities off like bullets from Paul’s rifle.
Same height. Same size. Same voice. Same oh gosh, I hate to be a bother mode that
made manipulating desperate men so easy. Same damsel-in-distress routine. Same
gorgeous eyes, same pretty, effeminate ways that shouldn’t be so alluring, but goddamn,
they were to Marcus.
As he finished up the kitchen, Marcus thought of what a fool he’d made of himself
with Steve, what a fool Steve had made of him. He played out all the memories where
Steve had seemed so sweet and innocent but had been fucking some of Marcus’s closest
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friends—such as they were—on the side. He replayed the batting eyelashes and the
coquettish smiles. He recalled their times in bed too, forcing himself to link those
intimate moments with betrayal. He swam in his shame until he had his stupid, self-
destructive attraction to their houseguest under control.
He’s a guy who got stuck in a snowstorm and looks like Steve. Maybe he even acts
like him, and that right there is why you’re not going to fuck him. You’re not going to
flirt. You’re not even going to care if the boys manage to take him upstairs to bed with
them. You’re not an idiot, not anymore. Be civil and humane, and soon he’ll be on his
way.
It was a good plan. Marcus grabbed a glass and filled it with water, stopping by the
freezer to grab some ice. The humane thing to do was to get their guest some
refreshment. Which he could remember to do, because he wasn’t flirting.
When he offered it, however, Frankie shook his head. “Actually, what I really need
is to use the bathroom.”
Arthur pointed across the room. “Sure. Right over there, beside the stairs. Towels in
the closet if you need them. Might even have a spare toothbrush in the cupboard.” He
winked and leered. “I’ll do you better than Marcus’s lousy glass of water once you’re
done, and we’ll see who you’re snuggling up to tonight, me or Paul.”
Marcus wanted to believe he’d decided to speak up only when the look of panic hit
Frankie’s face, but if he were honest with himself, he’d been ready to interject since
Arthur’s damn wink. “You’re not cramming three of you into your fucking double bed.”
He nodded gruffly to the couch. “The sofa bed is queen-sized. Frankie can bunk down
with me.”
It hurt more than he wanted to acknowledge that this announcement seemed to upset
Frankie even more than the prospect of sharing a bed with Paul and Arthur.
Frankie watched Marcus’s face go stormy, and his stomach clenched all over again.
He’s gay, or at least okay with two gay roommates, he told himself, but it was hard to
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feel like sleeping next to something that angry would be safe. “Nobody needs to give up a
bed for me. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Paul and Arthur spoke over the top of each other in protest, but Marcus’s quietly
angry Papa Bear undercut them all. “We only have so many blankets, and the one you
brought in is still damp from snow. The heat’s not going above fifty tonight. You’ll have
to share with one of us.” He added a glower, and Frankie couldn’t tell if that was because
he hated having to share or if he were daring Frankie to go upstairs with the other two.
Maybe it was hopelessly vanilla of him, but Frankie didn’t want to take up Arthur
and Paul on their blatant offer of a threesome. It wasn’t that he was against threesomes—
he’d had a few, and they weren’t bad—but rather that he wasn’t sure Arthur and Paul
made the best couple. They seemed angry at each other almost all the time, and there was
a level of hurt radiating silently on both parties’ sides that made Frankie unwilling to get
literally in the middle of that. Also, this was a vanilla excuse, but he was tired and
overwhelmed and not really thinking of sex just now. Which felt like he was breaking the
gay honor code or something, caught in a snowstorm with three burly bears who were
actually bears and not wanting to take them up on some amateur porn practice, but that
was the story of Frankie’s life, not even doing gay right.
Josh had been all excited when Frankie had told him where he’d ended up. Frankie
wandered over to the far corner while he and his roommate had talked, and he gave a
quick rehash of the situation, including the orientation of his rescuers.
“Score!” Josh had said. Had he known about the potential group action, he’d have
whooped.
God, but Frankie was pathetic. He glanced at the loft, letting himself have one last
chance at being anti-humdrum, but in the end he took the coward’s way out and escaped
to the bathroom.
He’d planned to take his time, but it was damn cold in there, so he rushed, peeing,
washing his face with lukewarm water and scrubbing his teeth with his finger and some
toothpaste he found in a drawer. He could hear arguing on the other side of the door,
Arthur bellowing, Marcus growling and Paul alternating between petulance and trying to
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insert reason. Huddling against the heat vent, Frankie waited them out until things
quieted. When he heard footsteps on the stairs, he opened the door.
Marcus stood on the other side, holding out a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt.
“They’re Paul’s, but they’ll still be a little big.” He ran his gaze up and down Frankie
and frowned. “May be best to toss them on over what you’re wearing. You look half-
frozen as it is.” He shoved the clothes into Frankie’s arms and turned away. “I’ll bank up
the fire.”
Though his ingrained Minnesota Nice wanted him to protest and tell Marcus not to
bother, Frankie truly was half-frozen, so he swallowed it and put on the sweats—over the
top of his jeans and shirt as ordered—before hurrying back to the fireside. The couch had
been pulled open and made into a bed piled high with several blankets. Frankie’s car quilt
was draped over two chairs near the fire, which Marcus added a generous amount of
firewood to.
Marcus nodded to the drying blanket. “If you get cold in the middle of the night, that
should be dry in a few hours, so go ahead and grab it. With two of us under the covers,
though, maybe you’ll stay warm enough.”
This observation came with a scowl, and Frankie sorely wished he could get away
with sleeping on the floor or even in the recliner. Anything but bunking down with
Captain Grumpypants. “I’m so sorry to put you out like this.”
“What, you meant to wreck?”
Why was the man so angry, and why did he get angrier the more Frankie apologized
for bothering him? “I’m just sorry, that’s all.”
Marcus shrugged, grumbled something under his breath and headed for the
bathroom.
Frankie wasn’t sure what side he was meant to sleep on, so he picked the one closest
to where he stood, lifting the covers and climbing quickly inside. The foldout couch was
bigger than most Frankie had slept in, but once he lay back he realized all foldout
couches truly were the same: no matter what the quality of the mattress, he could still feel
that bar in the middle, poking into his back. Still, it was as warm as Marcus promised,
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especially when the larger man crawled in beside him. Frankie only prayed he didn’t curl
up against his sleeping partner like a heat-seeking missile during the night.
Wind rocked the cabin, making the logs creak and sending hard pellets of snow
against the windows. In the city when it snowed, snowy nights were almost as bright as
day, the blanket of white reflecting the streetlights. Here there was no light at all, and the
cabin was pitch-black save the soft glow of the fire Marcus had banked. Frankie thought
of how dark it would have been had he been trapped in his car, and he shivered. His mind
added a sidebar of how cold it was likely to be in there now, and Frankie shivered even
harder.
The other side of the foldout bed shifted as Marcus turned over. “You okay?”
Feeling foolish, Frankie nodded. “Yes, sorry. Just thinking how cold and dark it is in
my car and how lucky I am to have found somewhere to stay for the night.”
To Frankie this was a vulnerable, confessional moment, and he expected Marcus to
soften under it, maybe giving him a gruff, “You’re safe now,” or something equally
benign but ice thawing. Instead of softening, though, Marcus put his back to Frankie
again, and when he spoke, he sounded irritated. “Be a lot longer than one night. This is a
hell of a storm.”
Hurt and confused, Frankie turned away too. “I’ll find a way to get to a hotel
tomorrow so I’m not a bother to you.”
“The closest hotel is in Eveleth. You won’t be getting there anytime soon.”
Frankie wished he were the kind of asshole who could decide to stay with Marcus as
long as possible, annoying him as some kind of payback. He wasn’t. “I’ll find somewhere
else in town then.”
“You’ll stay here. Now shut up and sleep, because I’m pretty sure tomorrow’s going
to be interesting.”
Burrowing deeper into the covers, Frankie shut his eyes tight and swallowed hard,
telling himself he wasn’t going to cry and give the big jerk on the other side of the bed
the satisfaction of seeing how easily his barbs took hold. He vowed he’d talk with Arthur
about his offer of sharing a bed with him and Paul—clearly that overture came with sex,
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but that didn’t seem like it’d be a hardship anymore, and anyway he’d fuck about
anybody to get away from Marcus and his ability to swipe the rug out from under him
every time he tried to stand.
Frankie was half-asleep, consoling himself with a soft-core porn fantasy of being
caressed by a pair of gentle lumberjacks, when he was awoken by a loud, hard crack.
He sat bolt upright, turning to the window where he fully expected to see a tree
cracked in two, but then a second sharp sound broke through the air, followed by a low,
erotic moan. The sound, Frankie realized, came from upstairs.
Arthur’s voice drifted down, muffled by wind and floorboards, but there was no
mistaking what he said. “That’s right, you hot little fucker. Lift that ass so I can smack
it.”
As a cascade of blows and moans came from the loft, Frankie lowered himself
carefully back to the bed and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, all hope of sleep gone as he
listened to the muted but graphic soundtrack to an amateur BDSM scene. Arthur rattled
off a constant stream of dirty talk, commenting on the allure of Paul’s anus—look at that
hot little hole—and the many variations of oral sex he planned to perform on it—want to
cram my tongue in there and lick out your insides, you sexy bitch.
Soon the play-by-play stopped, and Frankie could only presume Arthur was putting
his money where his mouth was, or at least giving the kind of rimming to Paul Frankie
had only seen through the curtain of his fingers when his roommate had tried to get him
to watch hardcore online porn. Paul’s cries were by turns agonized and aroused,
sometimes begging Arthur to stop, sometimes pleading with him not to. Occasionally
Arthur would growl something at Paul, making him whimper or say something angrily
back, but mostly Paul moaned, especially when the telltale banging began, indicating
Paul’s hot little hole was seeing a more significant form of activity. Hard, relentless
activity that had Paul almost sobbing.
For his part, Frankie tried not to breathe, let alone move. His cock had come to full
attention under the blanket, but he knew now he’d endure Marcus’s crankiness for the
rest of his life before he’d make himself a third participant in the kind of sex going on in
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the loft. His roommate had taught him to respect rough sex, but their one mutual,
tentative foray into the activity had made it clear Frankie was a BDSM observer only.
He’d never thought he’d be so up close and personal with it.
Especially with total strangers.
In a cabin in a snowstorm.
In a cabin in a snowstorm where he would apparently be stuck for days.
This time Frankie worked hard to control his shaking, truly not wanting to endure
Marcus’s disdain on top of his shock, but as the activity upstairs wound to a climax and
Frankie’s tremors became pronounced, the bed shifted and Marcus’s dark, bearded face
loomed over Frankie’s.
“You okay?”
Frankie nodded quickly, willing Marcus to believe him, but Paul cried out as if he’d
been gutted, and Frankie’s whole body spasmed in response.
To his surprise, Marcus’s countenance eased. “It’s all right. I know they play rough,
but Paul’s tougher than you think. He tells Arthur no when he doesn’t want it, and Arthur
listens.” Marcus grimaced, but for once the displeasure didn’t seem to be aimed at
Frankie. “They’re a fucking awful couple, and they each keep trying to find other people,
but they’ve been friends forever, and somehow fucking each other has always been a part
of their relationship.” His face smoothed out again, and for a moment Marcus became the
gentle lumberjack of Frankie’s fantasy. “They wouldn’t have played with you like that if
you’d gone to bed with them, not if you didn’t want it, but they would have tried. You
didn’t seem like the type for that, which was why I didn’t let them coerce you up there
just yet. I figured you had enough on your plate tonight without their Sid and Nancy
routine.”
“Thanks,” Frankie whispered, unable to say anything else.
With a curt nod, Marcus lay back down. Frankie remained awake for some time,
though, well past the finale of the upstairs performance. Lying on the bed, surrounded by
the warmth Marcus’s body gave off beneath their shared blanket, Frankie lay awake for a
long time, swimming in a sea of overstimulation and confusion.
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Chapter Four
Marcus woke the next morning to a deep chill in the house and the sound of wind
howling outside. He’d turned his phone off overnight to save battery, and a quick check
of the Internet told him the already significant storm front over northern Minnesota had
swelled, joining with a system coming up from the south. Now the whole thing was
stalled over them with no sign of moving anytime soon. After indexing their cupboard
and making a trek out to check wood and fuel supplies, he snuck up the stairs to wake
Arthur and Paul.
“Shit,” was all Arthur had to say when Marcus showed him the weather forecast
from his phone.
“We’d best get into town and stock up,” was Paul’s observation. “I’ll call to verify
the crew isn’t going out until this is over, but I can’t see how they could even pretend
with as bad as this is going to be. I think it’s safe to say we all have at least a half a week
off, if not longer.” He nodded to the floorboards. “Maybe we should swing by Frankie’s
car, let him get some of his things. I could take the Ski-Doo and the sled behind, get
everything we’d need and then some.”
Marcus nodded, thinking this was a good idea. “We can batten down the hatches
here, maybe chop some wood and make up a big batch of chili we can heat up.”
“Gonna want to finish cleaning the wood stove too. There’s no way we can run the
furnace on the generator that many days without running out of gas, and that fireplace
only kicks out so much heat. We may have plenty of propane, but the blower still needs
juice, and it’ll be on near to constant from the sounds of things.” Arthur shook his head at
the weather display. “Jesus, this is a real bitch, this storm.”
Heidi Cullinan
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Feeling like a plan was in motion, Marcus headed downstairs to grab some breakfast
before getting to work. Frankie was awake and standing by the bathroom door, wrapped
in one of the quilts from the bed.
Hair sticking on end, nose red with chill, he stepped up to Marcus. “I want to go with
Paul.”
The very thought of Frankie out on the Ski-Doo annoyed Marcus, but it was nothing
to how put out he was when Paul said, “Hey, that’s a good idea.”
Marcus glowered at his roommates as they came down the stairs. “The hell it is.”
Frankie clutched his blanket tighter, chin going up a little. “I know what I need out
of my car, and anyway, I’d like to see how it is. I wouldn’t mind a chance to pick up a
few things in town, either, since I’m going to be staying here for a while.”
“He might as well.” Arthur rubbed at the back of his wild hair and leaned against the
railing. “He could stand to pick up some real winter gear because we might want another
pair of hands if things get nasty.” When Marcus glared at him, Arthur rolled his eyes and
clapped Frankie on the shoulder. “Ignore Oscar the Grouch. I’ll get you tricked out in
some makeshift overalls, but you guys head into town first thing. Got that, Paul?”
“Sure thing,” Paul agreed, and just like that, it was settled.
Marcus headed to the kitchen, grumbling and slamming pans as he made oatmeal
and fried up some bacon. The others chatted at the table, and though he kept his gaze
fixed on his cooking, he blatantly eavesdropped on their conversation at the same time.
They were talking about what sort of gear Frankie should pick up in town and where
to get it, and Frankie was trying to explain to them that his coat was more than warm
enough for whatever the weather could dish out, pulling open the lining to show the high-
tech reflective fabric inside. His fluid, graceful movements snared the edges of Marcus’s
focus, and Marcus paused with his spatula over the bacon to appreciate the way the weak
light made Frankie’s blond hair glow against the window with the snowstorm raging
behind him. If Frankie was still weirded out by Paul and Arthur’s sexual antics the night
before, he hid it well.
Marcus went back to cooking.
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They all wolfed down their breakfast, and as Marcus cleaned up, Paul and Arthur
made sure Frankie was warm enough, approving of his balaclava, thick gloves, and boots
but insisting he wear a few pairs of sweatpants over his jeans. Marcus helped set up the
Ski-Doo and sled, fishing out his own helmet for Frankie and double-checking the skids
before standing beside Arthur and watching them disappear into the snow.
“Paul damn well better not get lost,” Marcus muttered as they turned onto the road
toward town.
“Paul won’t get lost.” Arthur patted Marcus on the back. “Come on, fusspot. Let’s
get this shit done.”
They started with the house, setting tarps and plastic sheeting against the windows
and anywhere that looked leaky. From there they moved onto the woodpile, splitting
wood and stacking it high on the porch and inside by the fire. Marcus put coffee on and
threw together a big pot of chili for the crock before helping Arthur with the stove.
“Make sure that vent is clear,” Marcus said as he set Arthur’s mug down and
squinted into the piping. “I don’t feel like dying of carbon monoxide poisoning just yet.”
“I had Paul pick up a new detector and batteries.” He pulled out the back of the stove
and squatted down to shine a flashlight inside. “Looks clean in here, but give me that
brush to be safe.”
They worked hard for an hour, not quite giving it the job a professional would have
and certainly making a greater mess, but they’d be able to use the stove through the storm
and would stay a hell of a lot warmer, especially on the first floor. Marcus started a few
sandwiches while Arthur showered, Arthur finishing them up and bringing them to the
table while Marcus washed off and got dressed.
“I think we’re as ready as we can be,” Arthur declared as Marcus settled in beside
him. He nudged Marcus’s plate toward him with a wink. “Got a nice distraction too,
don’t we, with our city slicker?” When Marcus frowned at him, Arthur laughed and
slapped his leg. “Jesus, you’re such a sourpuss. You really do like him, don’t you? Got
you all grumpy and flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.” Marcus took a large bite of his sandwich.
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“You’re trying so hard not to look at him, it’s fucking hilarious.” Arthur sipped his
coffee and leaned back in his chair. “There’s nothing wrong with having a flirt, Marky.
He likes you too, you know.”
For half a second, Marcus let himself enjoy the junior high flush of pleasure at
hearing that before he flipped Arthur off. “I’m not flirting with him.” He should have left
it at that, but he couldn’t help adding, “He’s way too damn much like Steve.”
This made Arthur laugh again. “Are you shitting me? Frankie’s about as far from
that snake as a body can get. Maybe they look a little alike, except Steve had dark hair,
but Frankie’s a sweet boy where Steve was just flat out a manipulative asshole.” He
nudged Marcus in the shoulder. “That what’s got you all in a knot? Honey, he ain’t a
damn thing like your ex. I think you should fuck him.”
“I’m not going to fuck him,” Marcus snapped.
“Why the hell not? The two of you are a perfect fit. He’s even all full of smarts, just
like you, but he’s not a snob. He wouldn’t mind if you really were just a lumberjack, not
a hoity-toity lawyer slumming as one.”
Marcus wiped his mouth with a napkin and reached for his coffee. “I’m not
slumming. I like working in timber. It’s very satisfying.”
“You’re slumming so hard a ghetto is forming around you. But it’s okay. Like I said,
he’d like you no matter what.”
Jesus, what was with Arthur? “He lives in goddamn Minneapolis, and I’m not
heading back there.”
Arthur looked at him like he’d grown a spare head. “I didn’t say marry him,
dumbass, I said fuck him.”
Of course he hadn’t, and now Marcus felt like an idiot. “I don’t want to fuck him. Or
marry him, or anything.”
Arthur smiled, no longer amused, only sad. “Aw, hon. You always were a big softy
under all that gruff.”
“Shut up,” Marcus grumbled.
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“Shutting up,” Arthur agreed mildly, standing up and stretching with a grunt. “All
right, lover boy. Let’s fire up this stove and take the furnace offline until the boys get
home.”
Frankie hadn’t ridden on a snowmobile before, and it quickly became clear this was
a horrible oversight. Even in the middle of a blizzard, it was thrilling to ride behind Paul,
whizzing through the snow, gliding over the top of terrain that would stop any other
motor vehicle cold. Paul seemed to enjoy it too, knowing just when and how to push the
vehicle and when to lay off.
“Gonna stick to the roads because visibility is so bad,” he called back to Frankie as
they slowed at a stop sign. “Normally I’d cut through the woods, but I don’t feel like
getting us lost.”
Frankie nodded his approval of this plan and held on tight.
Their first stop when they arrived in town was at the Fleet Farm, where Frankie
picked out warmer socks and a pair of long underwear in addition to a pair of snow pants
that fit. Even though they intended to stop at his car, most of what he had wasn’t
designed for braving the cold in a blizzard. Paul meanwhile picked up batteries,
flashlights, portable lanterns and a carbon monoxide detector. He also picked up a large
bag of mixed nuts and one of just cashews. “Marcus and I always fight over those,” Paul
explained.
After Fleet Farm they hit the grocery store, which was small and slightly grim and
emptying out fast. Frankie panicked, wanting to grab everything he saw, but Paul
shopped more casually, selecting tins of tuna and cans of beans, a big canister of oatmeal
and some eggs. “We have a freezer full of beef, and we’ve got vegetables from our
neighbor’s garden out in the root cellar. So some milk and eggs would be a nice treat, but
really, we’ve got most of what we need already. If you see anything you want, though,
toss it in the cart.”
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Frankie did see things he wanted: he added several cans of chicken to their pile in
addition to the last package of fresh boneless, skinless breasts, three different kinds of tea
and a package of licorice. He found a toothbrush too, in case they couldn’t get into his car
for some reason. Paul watched it all go into the cart, but he frowned at the chicken.
“I’m serious, we have a shit-ton of meat,” he said again.
“Yes, well…you said it was beef. I don’t eat red meat.” Feeling lousy and awkward,
he added quickly, “It makes my stomach upset. Always has. Not to put a fine point on it,
but you don’t want to live with me if I have to eat beef.”
Paul chuckled. “Fair enough then.”
“I’ll pay for my share,” Frankie assured him. He fished out several twenties from his
wallet, wondering if he could stop by an ATM somewhere to get more.
Paul waved the money off carelessly, not taking it.
They took their time in the store, Paul stopping to chat with people in every aisle,
always taking time to introduce Frankie and explain his plight. Everyone was friendly
and sympathetic, welcoming Frankie and assuring him he was in good hands to weather
the storm, though they had some reserve, like they weren’t getting too comfy until they
knew Frankie wasn’t an axe murderer. They also, he noticed, tended to cast knowing
looks between Paul and Frankie in a way that made it clear they knew both men were gay
and assumed they were getting it on. That part was a little weird.
“Oh, that’s just how they are,” Paul said when Frankie brought it up as they loaded
up the sled. “I think they figure all gay guys do is fuck. It’s all that damn Fox News and
700 Club they watch. I can only imagine what they think Marcus and Arthur and I do
together in the cabin.”
“So you’re all out, all three of you? And such a small town is okay with it?”
Paul shrugged. “Yeah, we’re out, and I guess most people have made peace with it
one way or another. Some get snippy about it, but they’re the same ones who cluck their
tongues about a boyfriend and girlfriend living together or girls getting pregnant in high
school, like we’re all still in the 1800s or something. I don’t pay it any mind.”
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Frankie was having a hard time reconciling this acceptance with what he’d
experienced in Saint Peter. “Wow. You have no idea how lucky you are.”
At this, Paul snorted. “Yeah, real lucky to be stuck in Nowhere, Minnesota. I don’t
think people are accepting half as much as they’re resigned. When you live thirty miles
away from a town only slightly less shitty than yours, you adjust your standards
accordingly. Don’t worry. We have the same idiots who hang out in bars and think the
highlight of a weekend’s entertainment is bashing some femmy guy’s head in.”
Frankie shivered, silently congratulating himself for passing up the bar that first
night. Thinking of that, though, made him wonder about Patty. “Do you think we could
swing by the café? Patty was so nice on the phone. I wouldn’t mind saying hi, if we had
time.”
“Sure thing.” Paul seemed pleased that Frankie wanted to make the stop and smiled
as he straddled the Ski-Doo. “Hop on. We’ll have lunch there too, our last hot meal that
isn’t Marcus’s chili for the next few days.”
Patty was indeed at the café, and she hugged Frankie when she saw him. “Lord, I
worried you were dead out there. As soon as you left I wished I’d gotten your phone
number. But I see this rascal has you in hand now.” She slapped Paul playfully with a
menu, smiling. “What can I get you boys?”
“Something that’s not chili.” Paul pulled off his coat and sat at the same counter
Frankie had been at the night before. He glanced at Frankie, winked and added, “And
some chicken for Mr. Fancy Minneapolis here.”
Frankie tried to complain that he wasn’t fancy, but that was when Paul started
explaining to Patty about Frankie’s fancy ski coat with the astronaut lining. Patty smiled
as she listened, pouring Paul coffee and getting Frankie a cup of bad tea without his even
asking for it, and Frankie decided not to argue, only sat back and took his ribbing with
more enjoyment than he probably should have.
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On the way back to the cabin, Frankie and Paul drove down the road where the
Festiva had gone into the ditch. It was a different road than the way Paul had taken into
town, and Frankie was impressed and more than a little intimidated by the drifts that had
already formed across the road.
“This is a real nasty stretch,” Paul called out as they slowed for a slick patch. “The
back way’s better in a storm, but you have to know the area to find your way.”
“I think I’d have been okay without the moose.” Frankie saw a familiar line of trees
and pointed. “There. I think this is where I went off the edge.”
The ravine looked more ominous in the full light of day, all the means for mangling
and death clearly visible even in the blowing snow. Paul whistled as they stood on the
edge of the road, looking down at the now completely buried hulk of Frankie’s car.
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch, you know?” Paul said. Frankie could only nod,
hugging himself against a chill that had nothing to do with the air temperature.
It took them almost half an hour to dig their way to a door, by which time they were
nearly numb with cold, and their faces were covered with frozen flakes. “Get what you
need, and we’ll head back. I hope to God they have that stove going. Place should be
toasty enough for us to run around in our skivvies if they do.”
The image of his three hosts in their underwear, especially Marcus, made Frankie
drop the duffel he’d managed to pull out of the hatchback. Paul grabbed it for him and
hauled it out of the car.
“Need anything else?” Paul asked.
Frankie scanned the interior, trying to inventory through the moderate mess he’d
made during travel and by sliding down the side of an embankment. He had his shears in
the bag, which as far as he was concerned were the only things of value to collect, car
included. A large gust of wind rocked him, and he shook his head. “No, I’m good.”
After securing the duffel in the sled with their shopping, they got back on the road
and headed for the cabin, where not only was the wood stove going, but the whole place
smelled of food and home.
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Arthur handed them each a steaming mug of coffee as they peeled out of their snowy
gear. “Welcome back.”
“He takes tea,” Paul said, nodding to Frankie. Glancing at the kitchen, he added,
“Marcus, if that’s your usual chili, we’re going to want to make another batch without
meat or with this chicken we bought. Frankie can’t eat beef.”
Frankie went redder than the coals burning through the glass door of the wood stove.
“Oh no, please don’t bother. I can pick it out.”
Paul ignored him. “Gets sick to his stomach. I can make up the other, if you remind
me what spices you put in.” He paused and turned to Frankie. “Spices okay?”
Frankie wanted the carpet to swallow him up. “Spices are fine, but seriously, I can
just pick—”
“Where’s the chicken?” Marcus demanded, looming over Frankie. Unable to meet
his gaze, Frankie held up the bag with his chicken and tea and toothbrush. Taking it
without a word, Marcus headed into the kitchen, setting the bag on the counter before
fishing cans out of a cupboard.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Frankie murmured to Paul. “Now he’s mad at me
again.”
This made Paul laugh. “He’s not mad at you. But he would have been if he’d found
out his chili made you sick and you didn’t tell him beforehand.”
The idea of Marcus being grumpier than Frankie had yet seen made him shudder.
He helped Paul put away their things and draped the sweatpants he’d worn by the
stove, which was indeed pumping out significant heat. Even so, he wrapped himself in
his quilt as he settled into a corner of the couch, whose bed had been carefully tucked
away. Paul sat in the recliner by the fire after handing Frankie a new mug, this one with
the tag to one of Frankie’s new tea bags draped over the side.
“So tell us more about yourself,” Arthur prompted as he took up the opposite side of
the couch. “Can’t spare the generator to run the TV, so we’ll have to make do with each
other.”
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“There’s not much more to tell. I’m a stylist from Minneapolis who was born in
Saint Peter.” Frankie cradled his hands around the heat of the mug. The fireplace was
going too, and between it and the wood stove, the place was very snug. “Why is there a
fireplace and a stove both? Is that usual?”
“Nah. I bought this place from a guy who used it as a hunting cabin, but he didn’t
like the fireplace so he added a wood stove. Normally you put the stove in the fireplace
when you do that, but our George, he’s an idiot, and he put it out one of the windows by
the kitchen. Which is just as well I guess, because sometimes I like a fire, sometimes I
like the stove. Comes in handy during storms like this. We don’t have to burn up the
generator as much, not just for heating but for cooking.”
“Do you get a lot of storms up here?”
Arthur shrugged. “Usually get plenty of snow, but not quite like this. Biggest
problem is we lose power a lot. This snow might keep us off the grid almost all the way
to Christmas, depending on how many homes are out. Little cabins up north tend not to
be a priority, so we make do.”
“I keep thinking we should get a wind turbine,” Paul said.
“When you win the lottery, you go right ahead.” Arthur eased deeper into the
cushions before poking Frankie’s leg with his foot. “Come on. More about you, hon. You
got a boyfriend in the city?”
Frankie grimaced. “God no. I suck at boyfriends.”
“Well, if you sucked on them, you might do better,” Arthur suggested.
“Arthur,” Marcus snapped from the kitchen, and Frankie jumped, making his tea
slosh.
“There, look what you did, you big brute. You made Frankie wet himself.” Laughing
at his joke, Arthur pulled a bandana out of his pocket and handed it over. “Sorry, couldn’t
resist. You’re not burned?”
“I’m fine.” Frankie took his time dabbing at the tea on his pants. “No boyfriend, not
looking.”
“Why not? You’re a cutie. I bet they’d line up around the block for you.”
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“Yes, well, I don’t want for drinks in a bar, I guess, but I’m not really one for tricks.
When I was younger, that was fine, but I’m not twenty-two anymore.”
Paul frowned. “How old are you, anyway? Because I thought you were twenty-two.”
“Really? No. I’m twenty-nine in February.” Frankie sipped at his tea. Raspberry
Zinger, always so good. “What about you guys?”
“We ain’t twenty-two either,” Arthur said.
Paul rolled his eyes. “Arthur and Marcus are thirty-eight. I’m thirty-seven in June. I
was two years behind them in school, watching them get into trouble.”
“And blowing me in the locker room,” Arthur added mildly around the rim of his
mug. Paul tossed a pillow at his head, and Arthur laughed.
Frankie couldn’t help laughing too. “I still can’t get over how accepting everyone is
here that you’re gay. I had a horrible time in high school. If they’d had those It Gets
Better movies back then, I’d have been watching them like a lifeline.”
Arthur grunted. “Oh, high school. No, nobody accepted shit in high school.” He
nodded at the kitchen. “Hell, Marcus didn’t even tell himself he was gay until he went to
college. Took girls to the prom and the whole thing.”
“Tell your own fucking stories, Artie,” Marcus called, his voice clipped and short. It
made Frankie’s hair stand on end, and he thought he’d gotten a window into what angry
Marcus did in fact sound like. Even so, when Arthur silently mimicked Marcus, lifting
his hands and flopping them over, and making mincing motions as he did so, Frankie had
to cover his mouth to stop his laugh.
“There’s plenty of homophobia up here, don’t get me wrong,” Paul went on, though
he was smiling at Arthur’s antics too. “I think it’d be different if we’d left. Marcus had a
hard time when he first came back, but that wasn’t because he’d come out. I think up here
it’s more an outsider thing, like if you leave, you betray your kin or some bullshit like
that.”
Frankie clutched his mug a little tighter. “If they don’t like outsiders, were they just
being nice to me today because you were along?”
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“What? Oh, no.” Paul shook his head. “No, when outsiders come here and like it,
they go crazy. Like I said, we’re all outcasts up here. Anybody who wants to come be in
the backwoods with us gets gold stars. Marcus got looks because he’d been down in the
big city and come back, like we weren’t good enough for him. Which, honestly, this
place ain’t good for much of anything.”
“Marcus, you lived in Minneapolis?” Frankie asked, turning toward the kitchen.
Marcus glared hard at Paul as he said, “I did.”
Paul’s eyebrows lifted, and some kind of silent communication seemed to pass
between the two of them. Whatever was said ended with Paul’s curt nod, and he deftly
turned the conversation away from Marcus and back to Frankie. “So, no boyfriends.
What about friend-friends? You know all about us now. Tell us about your life.”
Frankie would argue he didn’t know much at all about their lives, especially
Marcus’s mysterious and taboo time in the Twin Cities, but he indulged them all the
same. “I have two roommates, one a few years younger than me, one my same age.”
Arthur grinned and nudged Paul. “Just like us.”
Except we don’t have raunchy sex all night so loud they can probably hear it in
Canada. Frankie cleared his throat. “Josh works for Target Corporate, and Andy’s in grad
school at the U of M for his MBA. We’ve lived together for about four years now, and
they’re my best friends, I’d say.”
“Have wild parties together, do you, with all your hot young city friends?” Arthur
prompted, looking eager.
Frankie almost felt bad for disappointing him. “No, not really. We had a Halloween
thing a few years back where somebody had weed, but that’s about as wild as we get.”
He thought about Josh’s porn fetish and bit his lip. “I suspect Josh wouldn’t mind
stepping things up on occasion, but Andy would probably flip out if he did it in the
condo.”
Arthur looked devastated. “You mean you’re right there in the middle of all those
clubs and bars, surrounded by gay men, and you don’t do anything about it?”
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“Do anything?” Frankie frowned. “Well, we do go out, I guess. There’s a bar down
the street we go to every now and again and have a pitcher of Sam Adams.”
Arthur threw up his free hand and leaned back on the sofa, staring helplessly at the
ceiling.
Paul patted his roommate’s leg and winked at Frankie. “You have to forgive him. He
hates that he has to drive to Duluth or Grand Rapids to find anyone in the Scene, and
even then it’s sparse.” He stopped, considering. “Well, there is that guy over in Hibbing,
but he’s just weird.”
“Scene?” Frankie repeated, feeling lost.
“BDSM.” Arthur gave the clarification proudly, almost defiantly. Paul seemed to
watch his reaction too, and something told Frankie the grumpy gaze from the kitchen was
on him as well, judging his reaction.
Frankie took a moment to mentally double-check his response. “Sure, right. I forgot
that was the terminology. Josh took me to a BDSM club once.” He hoped he sounded
casual and accepting, no trace of the fact that he’d been in the place for all of three
minutes, legs crossed tighter than a virgin’s before Josh had relented with a sigh and
taken him home.
Apparently he’d done too good of a job because Arthur beamed and leaned forward.
“Oh yeah?”
Frankie paled, opening and shutting his mouth a few times as he tried to think of how
to deflect this, but Paul came to his rescue. “Down, boy,” he said, poking Arthur.
“You’ve been to clubs too, a lot more than this one, I’ll bet.”
Frankie gave in and nodded. “Sorry, BDSM isn’t my thing. It’s hot to watch,
sometimes, but I’m definitely not in the Scene. Josh isn’t either, but he’s fascinated with
it.”
Arthur’s eyebrows rose, and his face took on an almost predatory eagerness as he
settled back in his seat. “Next time you get stranded at our house, you bring your
roommate.”
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“Jesus, you horn dog.” Paul shook his head at Arthur with more affection than
annoyance. To Frankie he said, “You’ll have to forgive him. This is kind of his passion.”
Frankie could imagine it was hard to yearn for something but have no way to live out
that part of himself. “You should go to the Cities,” he suggested.
Arthur grunted. “No chance. I went once. Club’s are fine, but Duluth’s about as big a
city as I can take, and not for long. Minneapolis just drives me insane.”
“Really?” Frankie tilted his head to the side and tucked his knees closer to his chest,
digging his toes under the quilt. “Why’s that?”
He listened as Arthur went into a graphic rant about city living, how it was crowded
and lonely in the middle of strangers, how everyone was putting on a face and no one was
real. Some of it was overblown, but some of it was, interestingly enough, the same kind
of complaints Frankie had made to Josh. Because as much as Minneapolis had been a
refuge from Saint Peter, sometimes it made him feel lonely in a whole new way. Frankie
didn’t commiserate out loud, though, only let Arthur carry on with his soapbox, nodding
when it seemed appropriate, noting when Paul felt the need to countermand his friend or
agree with him. It was, Frankie realized, one of the most fun conversations he’d had in a
long time, and one of the most engaging. When Marcus appeared beside him with a bowl
of chili, he startled.
“Oh! Thank you.” He peered into the bowl, which was fragrant and gorgeous, a
white chili with carrots and generous hunks of browned chicken breast. Frankie blinked
at his dinner, then looked up at Marcus, impressed. “Oh my. This is amazing. Thank you
so much for taking the trouble to make it for me.”
He wasn’t even surprised this time at Marcus’s single-grunt response, but he did
notice that while Marcus had brought Frankie and himself a bowl, he only nodded at the
others and told them soup was on. The gesture might have been part of the man’s
grumbling sense of obligation, but Frankie chose to see both the meal and the delivery as
a kindness. A small one, but at this rate with Marcus he’d take what he could get.
They chatted more through dinner, though Frankie, Paul and Arthur did the talking,
Marcus listening except for very occasionally interjecting a comment or reminding the
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others not to discuss his past. Marcus’s recalcitrance made Frankie that much more
curious about why he didn’t want Frankie hearing about his time in Minneapolis, and he
wondered what it was Marcus had done there. Had he been a drug runner? Stripper? God,
if he had been the latter, Frankie was going to kill himself for not getting to see the show.
Something told him, though, that it wasn’t that exotic, only something uncomfortable that
Marcus didn’t want aired to a stranger.
Also, despite the kindness of the dinner service, Frankie still was pretty sure Marcus
didn’t like him much.
He became even more convinced of this when Paul stood to volunteer for dishes and
Marcus took his place, almost forcibly. When Frankie tried to help, to earn his keep,
Marcus shooed him away like he was a plague. So Frankie settled in for more bawdy
tales and twenty questions from Arthur and Paul, relieved when Paul started to yawn and
suggest they head to bed.
“It’s still early,” Arthur pointed out.
“Yeah, but snow makes me tired.” Except Paul had a look about him that said he
wasn’t really tired at all.
“Oh. Right,” Arthur said, clearly picking up on the same look Frankie had seen.
Frankie tried to keep his sigh of resignation internal.
It was at this point Marcus reappeared from the kitchen, more growly-looking than
ever. “I shut off the generator for the night, so we’re on the yellow/brown toilet system.”
“Yellow let it mellow, brown flush it and refill the tank with the gallon jugs lined
along the tub,” Paul clarified for Frankie’s benefit.
Marcus pointed at the bathroom. “No showers until the morning either. You can
wash your hands at the sink if you’re fast, but we’re down to what’s in the pipes for water
until we turn the pump back on with the generator in the morning. There’s wet wipes
there if you need them.”
Frankie nodded his understanding, huddling under his quilt. In the coziness of the
evening, he’d almost forgotten they were entering stage one of a blizzard. “How many
days is it supposed to go on?”
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Paul, who had done some weather intel at the café while Frankie and Patty had
chatted, shook his head. “No idea. Initially it was two days of snow and then three of
blowing, but nobody has a clue now. It all depends on when the system moves over.”
When Frankie shrank deeper into his blanket, Paul gave him a sideways smile. “No
worries. We’ll take care of you, Frankie.”
Arthur tugged on Paul’s hand. “Speaking of taking care of people, I thought you
were tired.”
“Well yeah, but not so tired I can’t talk to our guest for a second.”
“Well, I am that tired.” He swatted Paul on the ass and headed for the stairs. “Get on
up here in ten or I get out the paddle.”
“The hell you will,” Paul said, but he hurried into the bathroom all the same.
Marcus and Frankie were left alone in the common room with the awkward
aftermath of the departure.
Clearing his throat, Marcus headed for the wood stove. “I’ll bank it up good and see
to the fireplace too, and then I’ll make up the bed.”
“I can do that,” Frankie volunteered, rising, but Marcus glared at him.
“I got it.” He nodded at the bathroom, which Paul was vacating as he rounded to the
stairs. “You go brush your teeth and whatever else you have to do.”
There wasn’t any question, Frankie decided as he slammed the bathroom door shut
behind him and turned on the battery-powered lantern at the sink. Marcus didn’t like him
at all.
A sharp slap came from the loft, followed by a heavy groan. Sighing, Frankie rested
his head on the cupboard door and got himself ready for a long, long night.
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Chapter Five
Listening to Paul and Arthur’s nightly pornographic soundtrack hadn’t ever been
Marcus’s favorite thing in the world—usually he either jerked off and put in earplugs or
went right to the earplugs. Not once had playing their silent witness made him think he’d
like to go and get himself a partner to fuck too, not in the seven months he’d been
sleeping on the sofa.
Of course, not once in seven months had he been sharing the sofa with someone
who, if he were honest, he wanted to fuck very, very much.
Marcus couldn’t be anything but hyperaware of Frankie’s presence in his bed, tuned
in to the rhythm of his breathing, the heat of his body, the small and sometimes
significant spasms he made when Paul and Arthur were especially loud. They’d ended up
getting out the paddle after all, which was never an easy session because Paul truly didn’t
like it and Arthur loved it, so to the untrained listener it came off pretty bad. Jesus, but
Marcus wished they’d find different lovers and go back to being just friends. At the very
least he wished they’d chill when they were all about to be trapped in the cabin together
for days.
He wished they’d consider that fucking this vocally was rude with company, and
damn frustrating for their roommate who had a bit of a thing for their guest.
If he thought he’d have been able to sleep, Marcus would have put in the earplugs,
but he’d still feel Frankie’s jerks and gasps of surprise. He wanted to be able to reassure
his bed partner if he got too uneasy. That had seemed important the night before, though
he wasn’t sure if he should do it again.
He ended up staying quiet until the loft reached its inevitable climax, and then he lay
there until his dick went soft enough he could sleep.
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In the middle of the night he woke to find himself facing Frankie, their legs tangled
together.
The fire still had a faint glow, and Marcus indulged in a silent observation of the
younger man, vulnerable and sweet in his slumber. If he thought he could do so without
waking him up, Marcus would have stroked the stray flop of hair from Frankie’s face. He
hadn’t gotten a shower in the day before, and his gelled-up hair was especially crazy.
Probably Frankie hated it, but Marcus thought it was adorable.
He thought Frankie was adorable straight up, which was really damn dangerous.
Eventually he untangled their legs and rolled back over, but he never really slept,
only slipping in and out of a shallow stupor until at six he got up, put on his winter
clothes and fired up the generator so he could make breakfast.
When he came back in, Frankie stood in the kitchen, wrapped in his quilt and biting
his lip as he warily eyed the stove.
“I’ll make your tea in a second,” Marcus told him, washing his hands in the sink.
“I can make it. This is the kettle, right? Any particular water I should use or not
use?”
“I said I’ll make it.” Marcus nodded at the table. “You sit.”
For some stupid reason, Frankie looked hurt, but he didn’t say anything, only went to
the table as he was told. Marcus opened the cupboard where he’d stashed Frankie’s
boxes. “Which tea do you want?”
“The English breakfast, please.” He was polite when he spoke, his words soft and
precise. Marcus couldn’t explain to himself why English breakfast, please was so
arousing, but in Frankie’s mouth, it was.
“Got it.” He put the kettle on, draping the bag into a thick, clean mug. “Oatmeal
okay again?”
“Anything’s fine. I can do dry cereal too. I don’t want to be trouble.”
Wasn’t it obvious that Marcus was trying to do something for him? Why was
Frankie always undercutting that? Marcus glowered into the fridge. “Is bacon okay, or
does it upset your stomach too?”
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“I can eat a little, but too much grease makes me queasy. I’m sorry.”
Why did he have to be sorry? What had Marcus said now? God, Marcus might have
three degrees and half a doctorate, but around Frankie he couldn’t manage to feel like
anything but a clod. “I’ll just make oatmeal.”
He couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the silence he and Frankie
kept and the raucous chatter that began as soon as Arthur boomed down the stairs, like
seeing someone who wasn’t Marcus made Frankie breathe easier. He lit up, relaxed and
talked almost as much as Arthur. Apparently they were going to have a cribbage
tournament today while the snow came down.
Probably Marcus would have to do all the cleaning up while they did it. Maybe if he
was lucky, they’d let him listen to them talk.
You’re being a surly bastard, Marcus scolded himself, and focused on breakfast.
Frankie was pretty sure if it had been he and Marcus snowed in alone together, one
of them would have been dead or he’d have had to run off screaming into the snow.
Throughout the morning, Frankie made several efforts to include Marcus in
conversation, but somehow even the most benign acknowledgments seemed to be
construed by Marcus as offensive. The man was, quite simply, impossible. Nothing
Frankie did inspired Marcus to tolerate Frankie’s shared existence in his space. Yet every
time Frankie tried to get out of his way, to take a burden from Marcus’s shoulders, this
pissed Papa Bear off too.
It was good there wasn’t a loaded gun visible in the cabin. Frankie didn’t know how
to shoot one, but Marcus was certainly an inspiration to learn how.
The worst part was Frankie couldn’t figure out why the hell he cared. He wanted to
blame his confused emotions on cabin fever, but likely that was a cop-out. It wasn’t just
attraction either; yes, he found Marcus very physically attractive, but he found a lot of
men physically attractive and it didn’t impede his life.
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For all his grumpy-bear routine, Marcus had regular flashes of humanity that Frankie
desperately wanted to connect with. His explanation in bed that first night about Paul and
Arthur’s sex life had been a big one, but there were plenty of others, some of them words,
a lot of them gestures. Like bringing Frankie food and tea, which Marcus kept doing. He
wouldn’t let Frankie lift a finger for much of anything, and though there was usually a
grumpiness about those moments, there was also an odd sense of caretaking. Sometimes
it seemed like Marcus resented the caretaking, not Frankie—yet he wouldn’t stop.
There was the making of the chili too. A pot of the same stuff the other guys had
sans meat would have been fine, or even with the chicken tossed in, but no, Marcus had
whipped up a certifiable gourmet white chicken chili just for Frankie, and he wouldn’t let
anyone else eat it. He made Arthur wait to use the shower because he’d noticed Frankie
hadn’t had one the day before and worried there wouldn’t be enough hot water for more
than one person every few hours. When Frankie promised to be fast, Marcus had insisted
Frankie take his time.
Grumpily, yes. But it was weird. Take away the grumpy and Marcus was almost
doting. It made no sense.
It made Frankie crazy.
He tried not to think about it, and as they ate chili again for their lunch, he focused
his attention on Paul and Arthur, who eagerly conversed with him.
“You know what I do for a living,” Frankie said, “but I don’t know about any of
you.”
“We’re loggers.” Arthur’s tone was proud. “Take down the timber, strip the bark,
make people furniture and lumber and everything else they need.”
Frankie didn’t have to feign interest in this. They were lumberjacks. “Wow, really?
That’s so cool. I went through a big Ax Men phase a few winters ago.” He bit his lip to
stop a smile. “Okay, you can make fun if you need to, but do you ever yell timber when
the trees go down?”
Arthur belly laughed at that, easing out of his defensive posture. “No. Can’t say I
ever have.”
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“I heard a guy use it once,” Paul volunteered, “but he was pretty green. Though I’m
not out in the woods much since I work in the plant.” He leaned around Frankie to
address Marcus, who was still puttering in the kitchen. “What about you, Marcus?”
“No,” was all Marcus replied.
Paul settled back in his chair and shrugged. “Marcus hasn’t been doing this as long
as either of us, but he’s worked with a lot of green guys, so I thought maybe they were
more likely to shout stuff. Most of the guys just work close and careful, and the foreman
double-checks where everyone is. The stands we work have thin trees, so you work pretty
fast, and there are three to five guys on a team, so it’d be one timber after another.”
Frankie turned toward the kitchen. “What did you do before logging, Marcus?”
Marcus glared at Frankie and said, “Nothing.”
Even Arthur seemed to notice how grumpy Marcus was. He frowned at his friend,
then shook his head and pushed away his bowl. “Guess it’s my turn to stoke the stove.”
“Is there anything else we need to be doing?” Frankie asked as Arthur gathered some
wood and stoked first the fireplace and then the wood stove. “I’ve only ever weathered
blizzards in town.”
“Not much to do but wait it out,” Arthur replied as he worked. “Keep the cabin
warm, keep an eye on the generator. When the snow goes down a bit, we can make a run
into town, but it’s too heavy just now to do anything but sit and wait ’er out.” He arched
his back after putting the last log into the stove. “I’d say let’s start drinking the beer, but
I’m too old to get drunk this early in the day.”
A glance at the clock above the window told Frankie it was only one o’clock. It felt
like five in the afternoon, and the idea of days more of this kind of inactivity—and
Marcus’s cranky-pants attitude—made his heart heavy. “I wish we could go outside or
something.”
“We can, but we can’t go far.” Arthur considered this a moment, then shrugged.
“Sure. Why not? Hell, maybe we can make a snowman. Paul, Marcus, you in?”
Unsurprisingly, Paul agreed but Marcus only grunted and kept wiping the kitchen
counter.
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It was colder than cold outside, the snow coming down thick and fast and the wind
whipping around, but even so it was ten times better than being indoors. The snow
wouldn’t pack, but Frankie threw it at Paul and Arthur anyway, laughing and letting them
chase him. His new overalls were great, keeping him toasty especially as he kept moving.
It didn’t take long, though, for the cold to seep into his fingers and toes, and when Paul
suggested they go back inside, Frankie was ready.
It was one thirty.
“Time for coffee and cribbage,” Arthur declared. “Though I’m telling you, I’m
getting the whiskey out once the sun goes down. This is going to be one long storm.”
Marcus had already started the coffee. It was stupid, he knew, but Frankie tried to
sneak around him and prep the teakettle on his own. When Marcus caught him, he glared.
Frankie had had enough. “I’m just making tea. Is there some trick to the stove or
something, or why won’t you let me do it?”
There was no reason for Marcus to look wounded at this, but he did, and though it
shouldn’t have been possible, he got ten times surlier. “Fine. Make it yourself.”
He stormed out of the kitchen area and toward the recliner. It took everything in
Frankie not to throw the fucking kettle at the back of his head.
As the first day of their being confined together wore on, Marcus began to feel like
the fat kid at a pool party—and he had been the fat kid at a pool party, so he knew what
he was talking about. Even when people tried to include him, the overtures felt awkward
and obligatory. Part of him knew he should try to join their conversations on his own, but
he couldn’t seem to find a way in, which only served to make him feel more left out.
To make matters worse, Frankie kept looking at Marcus expectantly, though what he
thought was going to happen, Marcus couldn’t guess. He tried glancing back at him,
waiting for a cue, but all that did was make Frankie blush and turn back to the others. It
didn’t make any sense.
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When Paul finally got the cribbage board and cards out at three, Marcus decided he’d
had enough. “I’m going out to split some more wood,” he declared, and thankfully
nobody pointed out the wall by the door was stacked to the ceiling with logs and the front
porch had enough for the next day. They let him bundle up and go out into the blast of
wind and ice, probably glad to be rid of him.
Goddamn it. He didn’t know how he’d keep from going crazy if this lasted as many
days as it looked like it might.
The snow was over a foot deep now, and he had to really trudge to get through it. It
was way too windy to work outside, so Marcus took a few logs into the barn, propping
them up on an old bench before swinging the axe down. He felt better after a few rounds,
his confusion and loneliness seeping out of his body with each swing. It would be fine, he
told himself. He was just hung up on Steve still, which he’d known, and Frankie was a
walking reminder. It’d be frustrating for a while, but pretty soon he’d get used to it, and
before he knew it Frankie would go back to Minneapolis and he’d never see him again.
It wasn’t like he could really have a chance with Frankie anyway. Despite his
enthusiasm over Marcus’s current employment, guys like Frankie didn’t want to date
loggers who lived in the North Woods. There was no way, either, that Marcus was living
anywhere else, not anymore. Not with his mom sick. He wasn’t going back to the Cities,
and he wasn’t going to any other city. So at best he could have a fling with Frankie,
which had never gone well for him. Best to keep jerking off on his own and working.
He’d be fine.
Lonely, but fine.
He swung the axe down, and an image of Frankie smiling for Arthur and Paul
flashed through his mind.
It would be fine. Fine, fine, fine.
The door to the shed slammed open and shut. Marcus turned.
Frankie was there.
He looked like a fashionable mummy, trussed up in his overalls and bright red ski
coat and his balaclava, his angry blue eyes visible in the narrow slit above his nose. After
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coming all the way into the shed, he pulled off the head covering and tossed it on the
ground in front of Marcus.
“What is wrong with you?” Frankie demanded.
Too surprised to reply, Marcus put down the axe and stared.
“I’m done with this. You hear me? Done.” Frankie didn’t come closer, standing just
inside the doorway, shaking with cold or rage or both. “I’m not going to spend days and
days like this, having you snipe at me and ignore me all day and then lie next to me at
night like if you move too close to me you’ll get cooties or something. God, if you were
homophobic, I’d get it, but obviously—” He stopped, as if something was dawning on
him, and then his pretty features turned up into a sneer. “Shit. You’re one of them, aren’t
you? Think effeminate guys are the reason you get so much hell? If I weren’t so swishy,
maybe your life would be easier?”
“What the fuck? No.” Marcus shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about?”
This only seemed to fan Frankie’s fires of indignation. “What am I talking about?
I’m talking about how you won’t say more than three words to me, how you won’t let me
do anything to help in the house, but when you have to do something for me, you act like
it’s the biggest imposition in the world. If you hate me, just come out and say it. Get it
out of your system, because if you’re going to be like this, I’m stealing the Ski-Doo and
staying with Patty in town.”
“The hell you’re leaving,” Marcus shot back.
“Why do you hate me?” Frankie demanded.
Fucking hell. “I don’t hate you.”
Frankie put his hands on his hips and glared.
Marcus glared back, doing him one better and taking several steps closer to Frankie.
“I don’t hate you. You’re not an imposition. And you’re not stealing the Ski-Doo.”
“You won’t talk to me.” Frankie crossed his arms over his chest, his slick red coat
whispering shoosh at the gesture. “You always growl at me.”
“I do not.”
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“You do. You just did growl. You growl at me and you glare and you make me feel
like shit.” His eyes developed a sheen, and he pulled off his gloves, angrily wiping at
them. “If you make me cry, you asshole, I’m running you over with the Ski-Doo.”
Marcus deliberately tried to soften his countenance, despite the gesture making him
feel so naked he wanted to throw up. “I’m sorry I made you feel like shit, Frankie.”
This, however, only made Frankie wilt. “Goddamn it, stop.”
Marcus threw up his hands. “I wasn’t being grumpy, dammit!”
Frankie wiped at his eyes again, twice on each side, and when he spoke, his voice
was hurt and watery. “Why do you hate me? I keep trying, but it doesn’t matter what I
do. Just tell me why, and I’ll leave you alone.”
Marcus wanted to hand Frankie the axe to hack at him with, because he figured that
would be a lot less painful. “I don’t hate you. At all.”
In answer, Frankie glared and shoved roughly at Marcus. It budged him about a half
an inch.
“I don’t hate you,” Marcus repeated. The hell he was telling Frankie about Steve.
“I’m just a cranky old bastard. Ignore me, and I’ll go away.”
“You’re not that grumpy to Paul and Arthur,” Frankie insisted.
This was true. Marcus sighed. “I don’t hate you. I swear.” His shoulders slumped in
defeat. “You remind me of someone else is all, someone who really does make me
grumpy.” Not someone he hated, though, because even after everything he couldn’t make
himself hate Steve. “It’s not fair to you, I know, but I can’t help it.”
Frankie folded his arms again, but not as tight as when he’d first arrived. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know I came off that badly.”
“You came off horribly.” Those arms relaxed a little more, then tightened as Frankie
tilted his head to the side. “So you don’t hate that I’m kind of swishy?”
There was no kind of about Frankie’s swishy. Marcus smiled. “Not at all.”
Frankie smiled, and goddamn if he wasn’t so fucking adorable Marcus wanted to
pull him into his arms and kiss him senseless. No, he reminded himself, but that voice felt
weak and far away right now. Frankie was smiling at him, truly smiling, and it felt good.
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He looked nothing like Stevie. He looked sweet and adorable and kissable as all hell. So
cute and perfect Marcus wanted to eat him right up.
You’re not going to flirt with him, remember? Marcus reminded himself.
Right, he agreed, and bent to give Frankie a kiss.
UUL
Chapter Six
The kiss came from so far out of nowhere that for a second Frankie stood stock-still,
trying to decide if it was actually happening, though the cold, sharp spice of Marcus’s
scent and the stubble of that beard scraping against his chin was convincing evidence.
Still, the kiss was unexpected, and if not unwelcome, disconcerting. Why is this
happening? How is this happening? He lifted his gloved hands to push Marcus away.
Except as they met the front of his jacket, Marcus’s tongue swiped across the seal of
Frankie’s lips, and Frankie let him in on a sigh.
Oh God. Yes. Unexpected, weird, whatever—this was hot, it had been a long, long
time, and Frankie’s libido told him firmly, Shut up, I got this.
He pushed feebly at Marcus’s chest, then gave up and went soft, trembling as his
great big bearded lumberjack drew him in closer. The vague, distant notion that this was
probably stupid and would undoubtedly end with more grumpiness than usual tried for
purchase, but then Marcus flattened Frankie against a wall, and the idea of resisting
shattered. Frankie let his body go slack as Papa Bear shoved hard and rough against him.
Breaking the kiss, Marcus nuzzled Frankie’s neck with his beard, nudging the coat
collar down. “Didn’t mean to kiss you.”
Frankie opened his mouth to reply, but Marcus took firm hold of Frankie’s cock
through his overalls, so he moaned instead. Marcus’s grip tightened, and Frankie
whimpered, thrusting into his hand.
“So sweet.” The scruff of beard scraped him before Marcus’s mouth opened over
Frankie’s skin. He drew on the tender flesh of Frankie’s neck, hot and wet and insistent.
Frankie gasped and tried to slide his knee up the side of Marcus’s leg, but his overalls
didn’t give that much.
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It dawned on him there were severe limitations on making out in full winter gear
during a blizzard. Taking the overalls off meant taking off his coat, and his gloves, and
then he’d be way too frozen to do anything but run for the cabin. “We should— We
can’t— Oh God.”
Marcus had fumbled with the front of Frankie’s crotch, tugging his gloves off,
pulling at a zipper, and suddenly he was inside, a cool hand delving into the waistband of
his sweatpants and briefs. When Marcus took his cock in hand, Frankie gasped.
“Cold?” Marcus rubbed his thumb over the tip, and Frankie clutched at his shoulders.
Marcus chuckled into his neck. “So sweet. Are you really this sweet, Frankie? Or are you
playing me for a fool, trying to get what you want?”
Frankie didn’t know what the hell Marcus was talking about. All he knew was that
Marcus’s hand felt so good on him he could die. “Not going to make it,” he whispered,
then cried out as Marcus tugged him, tongue sliding up a cord in Frankie’s neck. “Oh
Jesus. Please—please! I don’t want to come in my—”
Marcus shoved a knee up against the underside of Frankie’s balls in time to his hand
job and assault on Frankie’s neck, and Frankie came like a geyser. The spurt of his come
arced between them, hitting Marcus’s coat, Frankie’s coat and coating Marcus’s hand. It
was the fast and desperate release of someone who hadn’t had one in some time, not with
someone else’s help, and it drained Frankie, making him dizzy and weak.
Marcus kept kissing his neck as he tucked Frankie’s cock away. “Fuck,” he
whispered, then nipped Frankie hard. “You were set tighter than I am.”
That’s what happens when you don’t have sex for four months and nothing very good
for a year before that. That’s what he wanted to say, but all he could manage was a
gurgle. He slid his hand down Marcus’s coat, fumbling at his crotch, but even if he’d still
possessed coordination in his hands, he didn’t think he could find whatever secret panel
Marcus had discovered on his own.
Still biting and licking at Frankie’s neck, Marcus guided Frankie’s hand to the side,
to a small zipper that pulled down—the intent, it dawned on Frankie, was not for getting
off but for pissing. It certainly doubled as the gateway to getting his hand on Marcus’s
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dick—a thick, heavy dick, hot and slick with precome. Slick and stuck inside Marcus’s
jeans, because Frankie couldn’t get it out.
Is this a good idea? The question nagged at the back of Frankie’s mind, no longer
drowned by the desperate need to get off. Probably not, he acknowledged, but the idea of
getting his hand on Marcus’s cock, of feeling Papa Bear come undone around him, was
too much to pass off. Besides, it’d be rude to leave him hanging.
Marcus helped him finish opening the panel, sliding his kisses over to the other side
of Frankie’s neck. He was going to have the worst beard burn in history, but he didn’t
care, just tipped his head so Marcus could assault him more easily. When Marcus put his
fat cock in Frankie’s hand, he stroked it clumsily, still not fully returned to his body after
his release. God, it was so hot. A big, fat stick of meat, hard and ready. Frankie wished
he’d been able to wait, that he could have lined his longer, slender cock along this
monster and lost his mind beside it. He wished he could get a peek. He wondered if he’d
get to see a hell of a lot more than a peek later.
Would he, or would this little interlude only make Marcus crankier?
Stop fucking thinking, Frankie’s libido answered him. Maybe he wasn’t young
enough to get hard again that fast, but he could still appreciate getting Marcus off. So
that’s what he did.
It was hotter than fuck too. Marcus leaned against Frankie, pressing him into the
wall, still making a meal of Frankie’s neck as he pumped into Frankie’s hand. He took
only slightly longer than Frankie, but without the desperate need to come, Frankie was
able to savor the thrill of making out in the cold in a blizzard, of seeing his grumpy
sleeping partner come undone by his touch. The act seemed to empty out Marcus as much
as it had Frankie, creating an even bigger mess of their coats, and when it was over,
Marcus sagged on Frankie’s shoulder, breathing hard.
Something shifted inside Frankie, a softness that ached. Shutting his eyes, he pressed
a kiss against Marcus’s hair above his ear, breathing in a long, slow draught of his lover.
When Marcus finally withdrew, Frankie was ready for Grumpy Bear to return,
telling himself a full-on scowl wasn’t out of the question and almost likely. He got one,
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yes, but he wasn’t prepared for the flash of fear and vulnerability he saw first. It made
Frankie pause, unable to guess why it had been there at all. Because it sure as hell didn’t
make any sense for Marcus to be afraid of him.
Yet when he searched Marcus’s bearded face, Frankie found he could still see the
fear. Marcus had turned away to button himself up—he’d seen to Frankie first, though,
and once he had his own overalls set to rights, he bent down to get Frankie’s balaclava
from where it had landed on the floor.
“Here.” Marcus passed it over, gruff and frowning, finishing his slide back into the
grump Frankie knew. Yet now that he’d seen that one moment, Frankie knew everything
had changed, that even at his orneriest, Marcus wouldn’t be able to upset him in the same
way anymore.
Marcus was scared. Big, cranky, intimidating Marcus was scared, and every time
Frankie thought about it, he felt himself go undone all over again.
“Thank you,” Frankie said as he took the head covering.
With a gruff nod, Marcus turned back to his woodblock. “Your cheeks are getting
too red. You should head in and warm up.”
Frankie’s cheeks weren’t anywhere close to frostbite, but he found his glove and
nodded all the same. He wasn’t stupid. Marcus wanted to be alone. Still, he couldn’t stop
himself from going up to Papa Bear’s side and leaning in to place a chaste kiss on his
cool cheek.
“Don’t stay out too long,” Frankie said, squeezed the big arm through the coveralls
and headed for the house.
Kissing Frankie had been a stupid, if not pleasant thing to do, and now that it’d
happened, Marcus wasn’t sure how to behave around their houseguest. He braced himself
for an awkward moment when he went inside, but by the time Marcus got back into the
house, Frankie had been roped into a round of cribbage against Paul, which was a relief.
Frankie didn’t make purposeful eye contact, but he didn’t avoid Marcus, either. He might
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have seemed calmer, but it was hard to read him. Marcus tried to be subtle about his
study, fussing about the kitchen and glancing over to the table, but when Arthur came
over to refill his coffee, he elbowed Marcus in the side.
“Quit staring at the kid with your grumpy moon eyes. You’d think you weren’t ever
a hotshot lawyer in Minneapolis, the way you unravel around Frankie.”
Marcus glowered at the countertop. “We made out in the barn.”
He’d expected Arthur to be surprised, but he only snorted. “No shit. Even without
the beard burn all over his neck, the fact that he looks like a cat with cream—your cream,
to be exact—is a dead giveaway. Not to mention that you seem ready to bolt back into the
snow.”
“Keep your voice down,” Marcus grumbled.
“It is down.” Arthur put his back to the dining room table and looked Marcus dead in
the eye. “This is a good thing, you and Frankie. Stop trying to say it isn’t. You gotta get
over Steve. He was a manipulative little bitch, and he played you, but that’s done now.
Quit letting him ruin your life even when he isn’t in it anymore.”
Intellectually Marcus knew Arthur was right, but he still couldn’t seem to let go of
that fear.
When the game ended, they tried to rope Marcus into the next round, but he
declined. After refilling his coffee, Marcus settled in by the fireplace and checked his
phone for the weather.
It took forever to make the most basic of sites load, but Marcus sipped his coffee, as
patient as he could be. He’d have used the laptop, but with the storm there’d be no getting
Internet off their satellite anytime soon. Eventually he was able to load a very basic
weather report page, and none of the news was good.
“Snow’s not due to stop for another twelve hours. A full day of blowing after that,
with another storm system barreling in behind.”
Arthur’s eyebrows went up. “That’s crazy. How many inches we due to get?”
“With our current totals, they’re saying close to two feet before it’s all said and done.
That’s just this storm.”
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Arthur whistled low, and Paul frowned. Frankie, however, looked a little pale. “Oh
my God. You’re telling me I’m not going to get back to Minneapolis for more than three
days?”
Paul snorted. “You’re going to be lucky to get there in five. It’s going to take some
doing to plow all this out—and let me tell you how we’re not a priority for the DOT—to
say nothing of what digging out your car is going to be like.”
Frankie sat back down, stricken. “I’m going to lose my job.”
This made Marcus frown. “Surely you told them this wasn’t your fault?”
Frankie grimaced. “Doesn’t matter. A lot of people want my chair at the salon. It’s
the busy season too. Everyone wants to look good for the holidays.” He clapped his
hands over his cheeks. “Oh God, I’m going to miss the open house.” He slumped,
looking positively ill. “I’ll lose my job. I’m not going to be able to pay my rent. I’m
going to have to move.”
Arthur and Paul launched into empathetic reassurances, telling Frankie it couldn’t be
that bad, that his boss would understand, that even if the worst happened, worrying about
moving was a bit premature. They were saying all the right things, in short, except
Marcus understood Frankie’s fear better than anyone else could.
Lower priced but still habitable housing was hard to find in the Twin Cities, and the
competition for those spaces was fierce. Frankie sounded like he was on the lower end of
the middle-income bracket, likely living near to downtown or close enough to make it
crazy expensive, even with roommates. Frankie’s car, to hear Paul describe it, was
modest at best. His clothes were fashionable and the most expensive part of him, short of
his hairstyle, but despite this his wardrobe spoke of someone riding a lifestyle they
couldn’t quite afford. To many people, that likely looked frivolous, but Marcus figured to
an up-and-coming hairdresser who called himself a stylist, such accouterments were
practically a uniform.
Marcus also suffered no illusions that Frankie exaggerated his danger of losing his
job. While Frankie’s doomsday scenario of ending up with his suitcases on his parents’
doorstep was perhaps a bit premature, Marcus knew it wasn’t as far off as Arthur and
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Paul assumed. Unless Frankie had mad skills, his absence would easily turn into a
vulnerability, one with far-reaching repercussions. Given the look of despair on Frankie’s
face, he didn’t qualify for such an exception.
When Frankie bowed out of the next tournament round and went to the kitchen to
make his tea, Marcus followed.
“You should call them and explain the situation,” Marcus told him.
Frankie nodded as he dunked his teabag, glum. “I will. It’s just that I know it won’t
be pretty. It’s such a busy time of year, and I had a full docket. Everyone will have to be
rescheduled, and I’ll probably lose some clients. It doesn’t help that this is all my fault. I
should have paid more attention to my driving. If I wasn’t such an idiot, I’d be at work
right now hearing about the big storm up north on the news, and that’d be the end of it.”
“You’re not an idiot. And unless you’re complete crap at your job, you won’t lose
anyone from one missed appointment.”
Frankie straightened a little. “I’m good at my job. I can cut any style, and I’m
amazing with color.”
“Then you don’t have anything to worry about. You only need to call your boss and
tell him you’re doing your best to get back as soon as possible. It’s better to keep him
informed of what’s going on. Always give the other party the narrative. Never let them
supply yours by your silence.”
“Hmm. That’s a good point.” He gave Marcus a sideways glance and a sly, teasing
smile. “Are you some kind of political operative or something?”
“Logger,” Marcus said, then added, “though I used to be a lawyer.”
He hadn’t meant to trot that out just yet, and he still tensed as he took in Frankie’s
reaction.
“Wow, really?” Frankie said, surprised. Marcus got ready for the usual why in the
world did you quit that to be a logger? but, Frankie, if anything, seemed as uneasy as
Marcus now. “Oh.” His smile was thin. “God, you must be crazy smart.”
That reaction was so unusual it shocked Marcus out of his defensiveness. “Not
particularly.”
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Frankie put his hand on his hip and gave Marcus a come off it look. “You went to
grad school. You passed the bar. You’re smart.”
He’d gone to grad school twice, actually, after a double major in undergrad. Which
apparently was a bad thing in Frankie’s book. Marcus raised his eyebrow. “Sorry to
disappoint you.” Part of him wondered if he shouldn’t be upset, but the idea of being
dismissed for being over-schooled was so novel he had a hard time processing it.
At this, Frankie averted his gaze, appearing embarrassed. “Not disappointed.
Only…surprised.” He grimaced. “I mean, I’m not very smart, so nobody smart ever
wants more than a quickie with me.” He stopped, not just embarrassed now but beet red.
“I mean—not that we—shit.”
This reaction was so far off Marcus’s beaten path he couldn’t help it, he grinned.
“Frankie, you’re a first. Usually when I tell a guy I’m a lawyer, he cozies right up, seeing
dollar signs in his head, and gets upset when I say I’m not planning to practice anymore.”
Even up north, his few hookups where he’d let slip what his previous profession had been
had marked a strange turning point, like they’d seen Marcus differently. Frankie wasn’t
an exception, but he was the first who seemed to see it as a negative.
Now Frankie looked almost angry. “I wouldn’t date a guy because I thought he
might be rich. That’s awful.”
The intensity with which Frankie said this made Marcus believe him. “If it helps, I’m
not. I have some money saved, but a lot of what I’d made practicing law and all of what I
make now goes to my mom’s care-center bills.”
Frankie’s anger faded away. “That’s so sweet. Is she close by? Do you get to see her
a lot?”
“She’s at the Logan Manor, right here in town.” Emboldened by Frankie’s reaction,
he added, “She has Alzheimer’s.”
Now Frankie was downright melting. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. My grandmother on my
mom’s side just passed away from that. How far is your mom into her disease?”
“Ten years. She’s only in the moderate stage, riding the line between stage five and
stage six, which they say is a miracle. She varies a lot, sometimes having really good
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days, sometimes not even knowing who I am, let alone anything else. Mostly though she
thinks I’m still living in the Cities, practicing law.” He hesitated, then went with the rest
of it. “These past few weeks she’s having a hard time keeping control of her bladder. She
has to wear a diaper, but sometimes she forgets why she has to have one and argues. A lot
of time she tries to go to work. Just the other day she wanted to have her hair done.”
That made Frankie smile. “Too bad we’re not closer to town, or I could set her up
with something sharp.”
The very idea of that made Marcus’s heart lift. “We could get you over there on the
snowmobile once things settle down. You’ll want to have your car towed and tuned up,
so we could do it then.”
“I’d love to.” All uneasiness over Marcus’s former occupation was gone now,
replaced with plotting. “Do you have a current photo of her, plus one of what she looked
like before she got sick? Maybe we could find her a few nicer outfits too, if there’s
somewhere in town we can do that. Or I could help you online.”
It’d be online, but Marcus loved this idea. He pulled out his phone and swiped
through his photos. “Here, this is one we took last week at Thanksgiving.”
Frankie smiled down at the image. “Oh, she’s beautiful. But frizzy. Who cuts her
hair now? I’m sorry, but that’s a butcher job.”
“They have somebody in the nurse’s station, I think. There’s a beauty shop on-site,
but they never use it anymore.”
Frankie didn’t like that at all, that was clear. “That’s awful. Especially for the
women, they need to look pretty. What else do they have? Their bodies and minds are
fading, but we live in a world of cosmetics and product that can work miracles. It doesn’t
even have to be expensive.”
“Well, we don’t exactly have a line of stylists beating down the door to work in a
care facility in the backwoods of Minnesota.”
Marcus could tell he’d gotten big points for using the word stylist instead of
hairdresser. “I suppose you’re right. Still, you should talk to salons in Duluth and nearby
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Cities. Get them to come up and do charity cuts. They can promote it on their websites
and write it off, or charge cost only. It’d be great PR.”
The odds of local hairstylists having websites was pretty low, Marcus wanted to say,
but then he’d never looked to find them, had he? “I’ll mention it to the director. It’s worth
doing.”
“I’d absolutely come up the next time I’m in Duluth.” He frowned. “How far north
are we from there, anyway? I mean, I wandered around getting lost, so I really can’t be
sure.”
“About an hour.”
“Oh, that’s not so bad.” He screwed up his face as he did some mental math.
“So…another two hours to Minneapolis—three hours if I brought people up from Oasis.
Well, that’d be a hard sell, but I’ll work on Robbie, the owner. This is exactly his sort of
thing.”
The idea of Frankie coming up to Logan on a regular basis was exciting and
terrifying at once. He sipped his coffee rather than commenting, but it had grown cold.
Reaching around Frankie, he refilled it again.
Frankie leaned against the counter, watching him, looking more at ease, but when he
spoke it was clear he fought off nerves. “Sorry I reacted badly about you being a lawyer,
especially since I know you didn’t want to tell me. It’s just—well, my mom’s a lawyer
too, and my dad’s a mathematics professor. My aunt is a marine biologist, and my uncle’s
a pharmacist. When I left college during my senior year to go to cosmetology school—
beauty classes as my mom called it—I got a lot of flack.” He sighed. “It’s not that I
wasn’t doing well in a Bachelor of Arts degree either. But they were already mad that I
chose English—what are you going to do with that, they always said—and really, I’d
only done it at all because they gave me so much pressure. I’d started doing hair out of
my dorm room, and I made so much money because I was so good that I could pay for
my own first semester of stylist courses. So I did it. They got over it, but I know my mom
in particular is still pissed off about it.”
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Marcus shook his head, smiling. “My parents saved every dime to get me to go to
college, and I wanted so hard to please them that I went pre-law right off the bat. My
mom’s brother left Logan to be a lawyer in the Cities, and he promised me an internship
as soon as I was out. I did English too, and added philosophy as a double major because
I’d read that looked impressive on a law-school application. When I graduated and passed
the bar, I worked at my uncle’s firm because everyone expected me to. I kept going back
for secondary ed so I could move up the ranks. Then my dad died of a heart attack and
my mom came down with Alzheimer’s.” He ran his thumb around the edge of his mug. “I
think I was moving so fast it took me four years of practicing law to realize how much I
hated it, that it was never what I’d wanted to do. So you sorted yourself out sooner than I
did. Worst part? I didn’t get the courage to quit until Dad died and Mom got really sick.
Now I only have a little time left before she doesn’t remember me at all. I could have
been here, but I wasted time doing what I thought I was supposed to do.” He grimaced
and raised his coffee to Frankie. “Here’s to cosmetology.”
Frankie’s face had gone all soft again, and his voice was gentle as he met Marcus’s
mug with his own in toast. “And to logging.”
They drank and settled back against the counter.
“So,” Frankie began after a few minutes, “is this what we’re going to do until the
storm ends? Play cribbage? Drink coffee and tea?”
“Give Arthur another half hour and he’ll have us drinking something stronger than
tea.” Give Arthur and Paul a six pack and three hours and he and Paul would be doing
Olympic fucking up in the loft as well.
It occurred to Marcus that he might be fucking this time too. A glance at Frankie
confirmed this was a thought they shared, that they were both excited and nervous about
the prospect at the same time. Marcus glanced out the window as he drank his coffee,
pondering how many days they had left to ride out.
That was sure time for a lot of fucking. For the first time in a long while, it sounded
like a damn fine idea.
Chapter Seven
Frankie didn’t understand exactly how making out in the barn had made everything
better between him and Marcus, but apparently it had, and he couldn’t say he minded in
the least. For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Marcus wasn’t cranky except
for a few times when Arthur teased him. He still kept himself at something of a distance
from the others until dinner, but after more chili, when Paul volunteered to do the dishes,
Marcus didn’t fight him and came to join Arthur and Frankie in a round of cards.
“Dare I hope we’re ready to pull out a roast and make beef stew?” Paul asked as
Arthur dealt the first hand.
“Not even close. Plenty of chili left.” Marcus picked up his cards and began to sort
them. “Figured we’d fire up the grill tomorrow for variety.” He paused, glanced at
Frankie and added, “Maybe we can do some pork chops too.”
That morning Frankie would have taken Marcus’s tone differently, but even before
Marcus quirked up the corner of his mouth, Frankie felt warm and cared for, not like he
was getting ready to be singled out. When he borrowed Paul’s phone and nipped up to the
loft to give his roommates an update on his situation, he felt light and happy and good.
Unsurprisingly, Josh loved the fact that Frankie was getting some, and Andy flipped out.
“You should be more careful. Aren’t you stranded in the middle of nowhere with
complete strangers?” he demanded.
“Give it up, Andy.” Josh’s voice echoed in the speakerphone. “So tell us all about it.
Was it epic? Once you go lumberjack, you never go back?”
“It was just a hand job,” Frankie pointed out. “But yeah. It was good.”
Josh laughed and applauded while Andy murmured, “It’s not funny.”
Frankie decided a change of subject was in order. “They’re really nice. Apparently
they’ve all been friends since high school.”
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“You said they’re all gay?” Andy asked, his voice full of suspicion.
“Yeah, they are. Two of them are sort of a couple. I think Marcus’s moving in was
supposed to be temporary, but he’s been on the couch for half a year as far as I can tell,
so who knows.”
“They’re going to date rape you, Frankie. Be careful. Watch your drinks.”
Frankie couldn’t help it, he laughed. God, they hadn’t nicknamed Andy Eeyore for
nothing. “Since I’m not dating anyone here, I think I’m safe.” Well, he hoped not
perfectly. Frankie sure hoped tonight brought more of that kissing and cock-wrestling.
“Usually you’re more cautious.” Andy believed cautious and smart were synonyms.
“Don’t be so cautious,” Josh countered from a distance, probably the kitchen.
“I am being cautious. I promise,” Frankie said.
Andy sighed. “The thing is, you said this was a small town, and you and I both had
bad experiences there. And this is up north. They’re total throwbacks up there.”
“I’m a lot safer than I was in my car.” Andy’s Eeyore, though, was getting to
Frankie, his stomach knotting as his mind refreshed its spin of bad townie scenarios.
Frankie leaned back on Arthur’s bed and stared up at the ceiling. “Look, I don’t want to
burn up their minutes. The storm is pretty bad, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting out
of here for a few days. I gave Josh their numbers since I lost my phone, so call me if you
need to, but otherwise just know everything’s okay.”
“I don’t like this,” Andy said.
“I do,” Josh called.
Frankie could almost see Andy standing in the middle of their living room, worrying
his bottom lip with his teeth and pushing his glasses higher up his nose while Josh bustled
about in the kitchen, unconcerned as usual. He smiled, missing them more than a little.
“I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“Don’t drink anything,” Andy told him, and Frankie hung up.
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Frankie did indeed drink something—shortly after he came back downstairs, Arthur
brought out a bottle of whiskey, pouring each of them a few fingers’ worth in a glass.
Frankie couldn’t stomach the stuff very well, so he only sipped politely at his while he
played cards, though he watched the others get looser as they drained their glasses and
took refills from the bottle. While they became drunk, slapping each other on the back
and guffawing, ribbing Frankie as well, it occurred to him how removed this sort of thing
was from his usual experience.
They were such men. Josh would have bristled at that comment, but it was true.
Arthur and Paul and Marcus were not the metrosexual, stylized wits of Frankie’s school,
work or social experience in the Cities. They had thick muscles and beards and knew how
to wrangle generators and drive snowmobiles. They could fix wood stoves and fell trees
and drank whiskey straight from the bottle. The three bears were gay, but they were the
manliest of men.
They were men, and they accepted Frankie. It moved him more than he could say.
He’d had enough whiskey that by the time Paul and Arthur went upstairs, Frankie
confessed his gratitude at their acceptance to Marcus, who gave him an odd, confused
look.
“What do you mean, we accept you? Why wouldn’t we?”
Frankie tried to find the words to explain, but Wild Turkey wasn’t helping his cause.
“Because you’re men. You fit in. You’re like the rest of them, except you sleep with each
other. Even with that, they accept you. I saw it myself.” He sloshed the glass he held, the
last of his whiskey watered down. “In town, they thought Paul and I were fucking
because they could tell I was gay by looking at me, and they treated me like I was the
girl. Subtly, but they did. They always do.” He waved a hand because he’d gone off
course. “My point is, I like that you don’t treat me like a girl.”
Marcus settled into the couch, which hadn’t yet been turned into their bed, and he
pulled Frankie down to sit beside him. “I take it you were bullied a lot in school.”
Frankie nodded, leaning in to Marcus’s shoulder when Marcus draped an arm around
him. “I mean, it wasn’t anything horrible. I wasn’t beat up. There was lots of little stuff
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though, and the threat of being beat up was almost worse. I mean—obviously not really,
but…well, part of me is still waiting for it to happen, I think.”
Marcus said nothing, only stroked Frankie’s arm idly, the gesture reassuring. The
buzz of alcohol and the promise of sex made Frankie’s body hum with low-grade
pleasure. From upstairs came the murmurs of Paul and Arthur talking, the sound soft and
lulling, allowing Frankie some space to think. So he and Marcus had gotten off to a rocky
start—that was over now, and they’d spend the rest of the snowstorm making out.
Sounded good to Frankie.
Except the kiss, the shift into making out, didn’t happen. After a few minutes of
waiting, Frankie lifted his head and looked up at Marcus, who was frowning into the
fireplace.
“Is something wrong?” Frankie asked.
The question startled Marcus out of his reverie, but the frown didn’t entirely go
away. “No.” He removed his arm from Frankie’s shoulders.
Frankie paused, confused. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” Marcus rubbed his beard, looking tired and a little wrung out. “Sorry. It’s just
been a long time since I did this.”
Oh, that was all? Frankie smiled. “Me too.” He touched Marcus’s leg. “I liked what
happened in the shed. More of that without sub-zero temperatures would be fine by me.”
When Marcus didn’t respond, Frankie sighed and pulled back his hand. “Or not.” He
tried to laugh it off. “Just hanging out is fine with me too. I like talking with you,
Marcus.”
Marcus sighed and sank deeper into the sofa. “When I told you my other relationship
didn’t end well, I wasn’t kidding. Arthur says I’ve let it get to me too much, and he’s
probably right.”
Frankie turned sideways and propped his head up with his hand against the back of
the couch. “This is someone from when you lived in Minneapolis?”
Marcus nodded. “His name was Steve. A woman at the firm fixed us up—he’s her
cousin or brother’s friend or something like that. For a long time it was great, or at least it
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seemed that way to me.” He grimaced. “That’s part of my problem. I can’t tell anymore
when it was good and when it was lies.”
“How long did you date?”
“Three years.”
Frankie’s eyes widened. “Wow. I haven’t dated anyone longer than a few months. I
mean, I always wanted to, but it never took. Sometimes I thought maybe if I worked at it,
things would be okay. Turned out that wasn’t the case.”
“Steve was the first guy I ever dated. The only guy I’ve dated. I’d been hooking up
since college, but a real relationship sounded so scary. Enter Steve.” Marcus reached for
his whiskey and took a healthy sip before continuing. “He was flirty and happy and open
and made me feel good. He took me to parties and flattered me and—well, it turned out I
liked being in a relationship a lot. I loved it when we moved in together. I loved having
someone to sit with in the evenings. I even loved getting stressed out about taking too
long at the office—I loved having to say I needed to get back because my boyfriend
would get mad if I didn’t get home.”
That made Frankie smile, albeit sadly. “I know exactly what you mean, because I’ve
always wanted that too.”
Marcus kept his gaze on the flames, and he kept his drink at the ready, his voice
starting out gruff and ending up sad as he told his story. “Sometimes I think I was in love
with the idea of being in a relationship more than I was in love with Steve. I think I did
love him, but given the way things ended up—” He pressed his lips together a moment
before the last of his confession spilled beyond the seal. “He cheated on me. Almost from
the beginning, it turned out. Some guys were regular, but most were simply tricks.”
Frankie put his hand back on Marcus’s leg, heart breaking. “I’m so sorry.”
“He never told me he was unhappy. That’s what I don’t get.” Marcus looked hurt,
hollowed out. “I wouldn’t have liked having an open relationship, but I’d have
considered it if he’d come to me about it. He didn’t, though. He just went out and fucked
whoever he liked. When I caught him, when I confronted him, he laughed.”
“Laughed?”
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Marcus nodded. “I can’t tell you how badly that threw me. I was ready for hysterics,
for pleas, even a list of reasons how his cheating was my fault. None of that happened.
He laughed, told me I was a fool, and left. Like none of it mattered—three years, four
vacations, endless declarations of love between us both, me staying in Minneapolis when
more than once I wanted to go back home to be with my family. I sacrificed so much for
him because I thought we were in love and it was important. Apparently that was all an
act.”
“Oh, Marcus.” Frankie leaned against him, hugging his big, burly shoulder. Then he
stopped, stiffened and lifted his head. “Wait. I reminded you of that asshole?”
Marcus waved this objection away, his gesture a bit sloppy from drink. “Not that.
How you look. The way you talk. Not just sound but the way you phrase things.”
“How do I phrase things?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. It’s like you’re his ghost, except you’re the nice
version. You’re not the same, because he was always sharper, sneakier. You’re soft,
gentle, sweet.” He set his drink aside and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “I don’t know.
Honestly, I think I’m broken for relationships. For anything. Always reading into
everyone’s motives, tearing them down before they can live up to my worst
expectations.” He winced. “Sorry. The booze is making me say more than I should.”
Frankie didn’t think so, but he figured Marcus wouldn’t appreciate hearing that. He
settled back into his corner of the sofa and offered some over-shares of his own. “I think I
do that too—assume the worst. Josh says I’m way too self-protective. Which is probably
true, but it’s like I’m a groundhog sticking my head up every so many months, letting my
guard down to try, and it never works. Josh says, and Andy agrees, that I pick a stupid
type of guy on purpose so it doesn’t work.”
“What type is that?”
“Assholes, according to my roommates.” Frankie picked invisible lint from his jeans.
“I like a guy who seems self-assured, is how I’d put it. Who has the confidence I can’t
seem to find. Smart, but not snobby. Safe, though, above all. Simple’s totally okay—in
fact, the closest I came to a relationship was with this electrician. He was so sweet, so
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tender in bed, so much fun when we were together. Totally confident when it came to the
two of us—he sort of took charge, reminding me to do things I tend to space out over,
always drove so I didn’t get lost—that kind of thing.”
“What happened?”
Frankie’s heart sank at the memory. “I was too swishy for him. Too thin, too femmy,
too ready to shriek at spiders. It’s my fault—when we met, I was in this mode where I
was trying to deliberately butch it up, or tone down the swish or whatever. I think he fell
for that, so when I relaxed and finally was myself…” He gave a chagrined smile. “Well,
it sucked, knowing he really was rejecting me for me, I have to tell you.”
Marcus frowned. “I don’t get this saying you’re not a man. I mean, so you definitely
have the John Inman thing going on—”
“John who?”
Now Marcus’s eyebrows went up. “Seriously? You never watched PBS as a kid—
Are You Being Served?” When Frankie shook his head, Marcus did too. “Shame. It was
set in a department store in London, and the show was a comedy revolving around the
different personalities in the various departments on the same floor. John Inman played
Mr. Humphries, the obviously gay guy in haberdashery. Always made jokes about his
drawers and said I’m free!” Marcus said the latter in sharp falsetto, flicking a limp wrist.
“It’s one of those things where at the time it was a real mix: BBC worried about
including someone so openly gay, gay rights people said he set them back. Mostly I think
it was the sort of thing they’ll look back at one day and call an important step of history.
John Inman as a person, though, was sort of your gay spiritual cousin. Smart, funny, a bit
of wit, but mostly a nice guy who I bet took a lot of shit behind the scenes.”
“And he was swishy?” Frankie added.
“And he was swishy. He never turned away from the camp stuff. Embraced it, made
it his own.” Marcus raised an eyebrow. “For the record, I think swishy is just fine, though
maybe calling you delicate would be more flattering.”
Frankie snorted. “In high school they liked to pretend to screw up and call me by
female pronouns: give it to Frankie, she’ll love it. That sort of thing.”
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“Yes, but those losers are all still back in Saint Peter working at the Super Walmart,
right?”
Frankie shrugged. “I guess. I never really paid attention.”
“All the more reason to tell yourself they are. Probably do you a world of good.”
They sat in silence awhile after that, sipping their whiskey and watching the fire die
down. The voices upstairs had stopped—apparently there wouldn’t be any acrobatic sex
tonight. It occurred to Frankie that perhaps that was the right approach to his relationship
with Marcus, to forgo the sex at least for now. Really, it would be an odd note after such
deep, soul-baring discussion. He wasn’t exactly in the mood anymore, and the whiskey
had him nice and relaxed. Marcus seemed to be in much the same place.
Right. No sex just yet.
Rising, Frankie set his glass on the end table. “I’m going to change into pajamas and
brush my teeth, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” Marcus stood as well. “I’ll shut down the generator for the night and make
up the bed while you do that, then take my turn.”
Frankie smiled to himself as he went through his ablutions, feeling almost glad in
that moment for the storm. It was almost like being on vacation, except for the whole
isolated-and-cut-off-from-the-grid thing. Having his three bears certainly helped, because
they knew what to do. They took him in, made him feel safe—and now Marcus was
shaping up to be a friend, someone he’d keep in touch with after he went home. Maybe
they should declare making out in the shed their gay handshake and call it good. He
couldn’t date Marcus because they lived too far away from each other, so why screw up
the friendship with sex?
Yes. Yes, this was the way to go, to leave things platonic, whiskey and all.
Frankie hummed to himself as he made his way back to the bed, which Marcus had
made up, and he’d pulled Frankie’s side back for him too. Nothing about Marcus
screamed they were about to have a boink-fest, so probably he was on the same page as
Frankie. Which was good. Great, even. Maybe Frankie was a little disappointed, hoping
Marcus would have insisted and talked him out of his plan, but that only lasted until he
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was under the covers and snuggling down. Nah, this was better. So much better. Hey,
he’d gotten off with someone that day already. He was good for another month.
After finishing up in the bathroom, Marcus turned off the last of the lights, banked
the fire and climbed in beside Frankie.
“Good night,” Marcus said.
“Good night,” Frankie replied.
The quiet of the night unfolded around them, and Frankie shut his eyes, drifting
away on the soothing sounds. Wind blowing against the cabin, fire crackling in the
hearth. Marcus breathing deep and low, springs of the sofa bed groaning gently when he
moved.
The clunk, grunt and moan as Arthur and Paul decided sex was a good idea after all.
As the now-familiar soundtrack wound itself up for the first act, Frankie opened his
eyes and stared at his half-finished whiskey and listened to the sounds of lust drifting
down the stairs. It took about forty seconds before he felt a rising tide of need inside him,
the same as had happened every night, except this time he wasn’t scared of his bed
partner. This time he’d already had sex with his bed partner.
This time he wanted to do it again.
If he rolled over, it would happen. If he so much as shifted toward the middle,
Marcus would do so too, and they’d look at each other, and they’d be off. Frankie knew
this with a deep, abiding certainty. He knew too that if he held still, Marcus would do the
same.
What he didn’t know was whether or not he wanted to shift toward the middle.
The moans became louder from the loft, and Frankie’s hands tightened on the edge
of the blanket. Should he? Well no, he shouldn’t. He’d just decided he should leave
things as they were with Marcus. He’d been logical and thoughtful and smart.
Paul cried out, then grunted, and Frankie bit his tongue as his cock swelled. Fuck, he
didn’t want to be logical and thoughtful and smart.
Frankie felt a hand on his shoulder.
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He didn’t hesitate, rolling onto his back before Marcus could say anything. The fire
cast Marcus in shadow, but Frankie could still see his expression—rough, needy.
Hungry.
Arthur murmured something wicked, and Frankie looked up at Marcus, who stared
back down at Frankie.
Frankie shoved logic out the door, reached for Marcus’s neck and pulled him down
for a kiss.
Chapter Eight
Don’t fuck this up.
Marcus was pretty sure screwing up sex with Frankie was a given, but as soon as
Frankie looked at him with that please, please fuck me expression, Marcus knew sex was
going to happen. For the few seconds he hovered there, he scrambled for last-minute self-
coaching—don’t go too fast, listen to him, nothing kinky because you saw how he reacted
to the guys upstairs—then Frankie pulled him down for a kiss, and every thought went
out of his head as his dick swelled to full mast and took control.
Even if he hadn’t lost it at simple contact, the mewls Frankie made in the back of his
throat sparked something primal Marcus hadn’t allowed himself to dip into for a long
time. Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was the sound of Paul’s tortured groans from
the loft, maybe it was the way the wind from the storm seemed to seep into Marcus’s
blood and fuse its power with him—whatever the source, Marcus was strong and sure
and ready to fuck. He pressed Frankie into the mattress with his body, grabbing his hands
and trapping them over his head.
Frankie whimpered and spread his legs, letting Marcus’s erection settle deeper
against his own.
“I want to fuck you.” Marcus broke the kiss to whisper at Frankie’s jaw, nipping at
the bare hint of stubble two days of not shaving had provided.
“Yes,” Frankie whispered back, turning his head to let Marcus have better access to
his neck. Upstairs another moan drifted down, and Frankie echoed it. “Oh God, please.
Please, Marcus.”
The rush of fire that had swept through Marcus surged, and he tightened his grip on
Frankie as he tried to rein it in. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
Frankie ground his pelvis underneath Marcus’s own. “Please don’t.”
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Okay, that he hadn’t expected. Marcus growled and kissed him again—a claiming,
hard kiss, a man’s kiss, and he moved his hands down to the hem of Frankie’s shirt.
Don’t be gentle. A lot of guys said that then meant something different. And there wasn’t
any question about how Frankie had reacted to the sex upstairs. As Marcus lifted off to
peel his lover’s clothes away, he said, “I’m feeling pretty rough. I don’t want to scare
you.”
Frankie smiled up at him, lust still banked in his eyes. “I’m not a virgin.”
“Yeah, but—” Another moan from the loft cut him off, also making his own point
for him.
Frankie wasn’t twitching at the sound of sex anymore, though. He pushed up on his
elbows and nipped at Marcus’s chin. “What kind of rough are you feeling? Tell me about
it. I’ll tell you if it’s okay.”
Marcus paused, not sure how to answer. It was hard to think with Arthur’s dirty talk
and Paul’s erotic agony interrupting every few seconds. “I don’t want to upset you. I
don’t want to get this wrong.”
Though Marcus had braced himself for this to annoy Frankie—it so would have
Steve—to his surprise, Frankie smiled. A sweet, tender smile that froze Marcus in place
and made something inside him stir, like petals of a flower yearning to bloom. “The last
thing in the world I’m thinking about right now is that anything you’re about to do to me
will be wrong.” Frankie slid his hands down Marcus’s chest, fingers tangling in the
buttons of his shirt. “Mostly I love that you want me. I love that I stopped being scared of
you, yelled at you, and that’s what made you kiss me.”
What the hell? “You were scared of me? Why?”
Frankie gave him a hard look that said, Oh, please. “Marcus, you have to outweigh
me by nearly one hundred pounds. You look, walk and talk like every guy who’s ever
bullied me. Yes, I was scared of you.”
He looked like a bully? Marcus didn’t even know what to say to that. Except, “I
would never hurt you. Not like that. I wouldn’t hurt anybody like that.”
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“I know that—now.” Frankie hadn’t stopped smoothing his hands over Marcus’s
chest, and he seemed half-distracted by his ministrations. “God, you’re just so big and
sexy. So fucking male it hurts.” His gaze flicked to Marcus’s with a wry smile. “This is
what I mean—nobody’s ever going to say that about me.”
So they were back to that again. “Will you stop? There’s plenty about you that’s
sexy. You’ve been driving me crazy since you showed up.”
“You said that’s because I remind you of your ex.”
He was never going to live that down. “Yeah, and I thought my ex was pretty
fucking sexy.” He shifted his weight to one arm so he could stroke Frankie’s cheek.
“Your skin is so soft. It looks soft too, but touching it is amazing.” He caught Frankie’s
hand and pulled it between them so he could study it. “These hands get me too. I’ve been
watching you do little things like hold a mug, touch your hair—I love your long fingers,
the gracefulness about them, and yet they’re a man’s hand.
“That’s the whole of it, for me. I spent my life until I was twenty trying to make
myself like girls because I was supposed to, but I knew it wasn’t for me. If I’d have
wanted big, hard guys and nothing else, I’d have caved sooner. I won’t lie, a slab of
beefcake has its moments. But I’ve always had a weakness for guys who rode the line.
Who smelled like men and were shaped like men but had a soft edge to them at the same
time. I don’t think it’s all looks and gestures, either. I think some of it is that I feel so
locked into what the world wants me to be—mean and hot for pussy if I’m in Logan,
smart and ruthless and made of granite if I’m being a lawyer—that maybe the John
Inmans of the world set me free. Like they can go back and forth over that hard line
between male and female so much the demarcation isn’t there anymore. That’s sexy to
me, Frankie. Really fucking sexy.”
Frankie had gone quiet as Marcus spoke, still and attentive. When Marcus finished,
Frankie stroked Marcus’s beard. “Nobody has ever said anything like that to me. Ever.”
Marcus hadn’t ever vocalized anything like that before. “Well, I meant it.” Not that
he knew what he was supposed to do now, but he did mean it. He felt a little raw and
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exposed, but oddly calm about that too. He hoped Frankie didn’t feel as undone as he did
and would know what they should do next.
Frankie slipped his other hand around the back of Marcus’s head and pulled him
closer, nuzzling his cheek and nose as he spoke. “Marcus, I want you to make love to
me.”
That tightly closed flower inside of Marcus stirred again, a few petals teasing briefly
open in their own private wind. “How? What do you want?”
Frankie’s hands were everywhere, slow and sensual and stoking Marcus’s internal
fire. “I want you to show me how much you want me—the touches, the strokes that go
with what you just said.”
Marcus nuzzled Frankie back, his hands tightening against the sheets, against
Frankie’s arm. “A hell of a lot more than touches go with how much I want you.”
Frankie’s soft laugh stirred the breeze inside Marcus’s belly. “I want a hell of a lot
more than touches, Marcus.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Marcus shut his eyes and buried his face in the dip of
Frankie’s neck, dragging in a deep draught of his scent. “I want you so much that it feels
crazy inside me.”
“Then we’ll play it by ear.” Frankie turned his head and nipped at Marcus’s ear.
“Let’s start, though, by getting us both out of these pesky clothes.”
Marcus had no problem with that idea. He sat up, quickly undoing his buttons and
pulling the panels of his shirt away, but he paused, slowing as he caught the way
Frankie’s eyes darkened at the show. Marcus smiled, his grin turning tentatively wicked
as he tossed his shirt into the darkness and tugged the waistband of his sweatpants down
to give Frankie a teasing peak of his groin.
Frankie groaned and sat up enough to place a kiss at the furry juncture of Marcus’s
hip and thigh, nuzzling over to the rising erection still hidden by fabric. “So hot. Oh my
God, Marcus, let me see it.”
Before Marcus could shift the pants out of the way, Frankie took hold of the
waistband and did the job for him, setting Marcus’s cock free with one good yank.
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Marcus watched Frankie’s face as his dick bobbed between them, and the expression he
saw there certainly went a long way toward making him harder. Especially when Frankie
stroked the length and rested his palm against Marcus’s groin before opening his mouth
and taking the tip inside.
Groaning, Marcus swelled and leaned back, thrusting his hips forward to meet
Frankie’s mouth halfway as he drank in the hotter-than-hell sight that was Frankie
blowing him. Frankie’s soft moans stirred Marcus’s balls, and when Frankie lifted his
gaze and slid back and forth on his cock, Marcus nearly buckled in half.
“Fuck.” He anchored himself against Frankie’s shoulders, watching his dick move in
and out of the hottest, prettiest mouth it had ever met. Thank God he’d come earlier in the
day, or this would already be over.
Frankie smiled around his mouthful, gaze never leaving Marcus’s own. He worked
himself along Marcus’s length, his rhythm jerky because he was only half-sitting,
propped at a funky angle. Before Marcus could work out how to help him—not many of
his brain cells were firing at the moment—Frankie solved his own problem by gripping
Marcus’s hips, pulling against them both to hold himself in place and as an
encouragement for Marcus to thrust inside.
It wasn’t a nudge Marcus needed twice.
He held back for the first few fucks, until Frankie’s insistent hands made it crystal
clear he wanted his face fucked and right now. Marcus did. He thrust his cock into
Frankie’s throat, balls tightening at the wet heat, spine curling at Frankie’s moans. It felt
good, so fucking good, that all of a sudden he found himself riding the wave, balls
tucking up in warning.
Pulling out abruptly, Marcus caught Frankie’s hair and kept him from chasing his
cock. “This is gonna be over real quick if we don’t slow down.”
“Then we’d better slow down.” Frankie smiled up at Marcus with wicked, swollen
lips. “I have big plans for that fat cock of yours.”
Marcus took said cock in hand, stroking it idly as he tried to decide just how quickly
he could get Frankie out of his clothes. “Tell me about these plans.”
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“I want to feel it against mine. I want to feel it slick and hot against me while we
jack off.” Frankie leaned forward, teasing the sensitive tip again as he spoke. “I want you
to fuck me with it, Marcus. I want it hard and deep and fast.”
Fast wasn’t going to be a problem. Marcus tightened his grip on Frankie’s hair,
mostly because he needed to stop himself from fucking back into that mouth. “Then
you’d better get the hell out of those clothes.”
Frankie did, skimming out of his sweats like they were greased while Marcus pulled
his waistband into place and hustled over to the bathroom, hoping there were condoms
and lube in the cupboard because he was so not in the mood to go get them from the loft.
He found half a box and a pump bottle of Maximus with an inch left in the bottom,
grabbed them and went back to the sofa bed.
Frankie lay naked on top of the sheets, knees bent and agape, letting Marcus get a
good, hard look at him.
Marcus drank in the sight. The flickering firelight certainly helped things along, but
in his opinion Frankie would look like a sea of sex on those sheets even under fluorescent
lamps. Long and lean, his body glowed from more than just reflected light. His skin was
smooth like cream, all except his cock, which jutted out red and hard from his dark blond
nest, curving slightly to the left.
Slicking up his hand, then his cock, Marcus knelt over Frankie, lowered himself into
place and took that pretty red cock in hand.
Feeling their cocks together was damn fine, but Marcus loved the sensation of
Frankie squirming underneath him full stop. How the hell Frankie thought he wasn’t
masculine, Marcus would never know—he’d fucked girls, and there was absolutely
nothing feminine about the way Frankie pushed at him, wiry muscle taut in his arms, hips
firm and forceful as they ground against Marcus’s. This was saying nothing about the hot,
needy cock throbbing in Marcus’s hand and driving his own dick crazy.
“Oh God.” Frankie’s fingernails cut into Marcus’s shoulders, thrusting back enough
to jar Marcus’s rhythm. “Fuck me. I want to feel that fat thing in my teeth.”
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Marcus wanted to thrust in right then, but he tucked Frankie’s leg up and snuck his
fingers down instead, teasing then working insistently at his opening. “Condoms are
beside me. Suit me up.”
Frankie did, and Marcus loved the way his lover’s whole upper body shook as he
tried, losing his grip entirely whenever Marcus pushed his fingers in a little deeper.
Frankie whimpered, but when he finally had the condom on and he looked up at Marcus,
his expression was feral. “Do it. Show me rough. Fuck me. Right now.”
Marcus moved Frankie’s thighs back, lined up and drove inside. When Frankie cried
out, he paused, but Frankie opened his eyes back up and glared, so Marcus drove in
again, and Frankie resumed moaning and begging Marcus incoherently.
It all went pretty quickly after that—any hope of drawing it out to an epic marathon
fuck was gone when Frankie grabbed his own ankles and gave Marcus a look of such
naked abandon that he literally saw red. He fucked fast and deep, all thought lost except
fucking that tight hole until he came, which in an embarrassingly short time, he did. He
didn’t even realize Frankie hadn’t until he felt a hand slip between them, jerking hard and
sharp before Frankie followed after.
They slumped together to the mattress, Marcus holding on to the condom as he slid
out. “Sorry,” he murmured, the word more of a slur.
Frankie, who looked like melted butter, rolled his head lazily toward Marcus and
regarded him as if he were crazy. “What for?” His words were even more slurred than
Marcus’s.
“Should have—” Marcus fumbled with awkward, barely responsive fingers against
Frankie’s thigh. “Should have gotten you off first.”
Snorting, Frankie shut his eyes and caught Marcus’s clumsily questing hand. “No
complaints here, Papa Bear.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow at that, but when Frankie nuzzled closer, pressing a kiss
against his lips, he forgot to ask. When the kiss deepened, drawing him into a soft, still
place, he removed the condom, dropped it on the floor and drew Frankie into his arms,
the petals on that flower inside him slowly, tenderly opening to bloom.
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Chapter Nine
Frankie woke snuggled against a broad, hairy chest. A thick beard buried into the
back of his head, and a much thicker chub of morning wood rubbed naked against his
sore but happy ass. For half a second, he felt self-conscious, wondering what turns their
relationship would take without whiskey and in the full light of day. Then Marcus’s hand
slipped around to Frankie’s cock, and all thoughts of shyness evaporated with the
promise of a morning hand job.
As he came into Marcus’s fist, Marcus following suit in the tight heat he’d made
fucking between Frankie’s thighs, footsteps on the stairs announced Arthur’s and Paul’s
arrival into the main room. Frankie stilled, the red in his face having precious little to do
with exertion, but when Arthur leaned over the back of the couch, he only laughed a deep
belly laugh and ruffled Frankie’s already untidy hair.
“Got some good lungs on you, half pint.” He slapped Frankie’s rump, making him
yelp. “Bet you got a sore butt too.”
“Arthur,” Marcus grumbled in warning. His voice against Frankie’s back felt good.
So did the hand still lingering on Frankie’s balls.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Get off. He’s not that fragile a flower, not according to what
I heard.” He whistled low. “Damn. You sure you don’t wanna come play with me and
Paul, sugar bean?”
“Fuck off, Arthur.” Marcus’s body tensed around Frankie’s. Arthur laughed and
headed to the kitchen.
Frankie nestled back, reaching for Marcus’s hand and twining their fingers together.
Marcus brushed a kiss at his nape. “You okay?”
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“Yeah.” Frankie nodded and brought their joined hands up to kiss Marcus’s
knuckles. When Marcus shifted his body, drawing Frankie in deeper, he closed his eyes,
carried away by the bliss of the moment.
“You look happy,” Marcus observed, and Frankie had enough presence of mind to
hear the current of unease underneath. Are you? went unspoken, but it was still there.
“I am. Totally.” Swallowing his self-consciousness, he turned to face Marcus. “Last
night was great. This morning too. But last night—” He shivered in memory. “Well. That
was…epic.”
The word felt silly, but Marcus beamed, and Frankie decided silly was worth it. “Oh
yeah?” Marcus said.
“Oh yeah.” Frankie sobered and traced a finger into the hairy burr of Marcus’s chin.
“Though…if it’s okay, I really don’t want to do a threesome or foursome with the
others.” Blushing, he added quickly, “I don’t mean to sound like a prude, but—”
Marcus stopped him with a deep, searing kiss, and when he lifted away, he nuzzled
against Frankie’s nose and mouth. “I don’t want to do a threesome, or a foursome, with
anybody—ever. But particularly I don’t want to share you with Arthur and Paul.”
The caveman possessiveness of Marcus’s statement thrilled Frankie, made him want
to melt into the bed. It made him want to spread his legs too, but his ass really was that
sore, and anyway, his legs were all tangled in the sheets. He gave what he hoped was a
coy smile but probably just looked like a goober face. “Okay.”
Marcus’s expression gentled a little, but he was back to grumpy, gruff Marcus as he
stroked Frankie’s face and continued. “This can be it, if you want. Because I know I’m a
headcase about relationships. I already want to nail Arthur to the shed wall for even
thinking about fucking you, and I don’t have that right.” He pursed his lips and withdrew
from Frankie.
Frankie grabbed him and pulled him back, heart pounding. God, he was going to go
back to Minneapolis, find that fucker Steve and make sure his hair fell out, every last
strand. “I want you to have that right.” He blushed, bit his lip and corrected himself. “I
mean—okay, I know this can’t work, you and me, because we live a zillion miles apart. I
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also get that you fucking my brains out isn’t a relationship. But—” He bit his lip again
but couldn’t stop his smile. “Well, maybe we could pretend, while we’re snowed in.”
Though he still frowned, Marcus sounded intrigued. “Pretend what?”
Pretend we just fell in love and everything will be happily ever after. Frankie traced
the pink of Marcus’s mouth with his fingertip. “Whatever we want. We can sleep
together at night, flirt during the day—we can decorate a tree for Christmas, maybe plan
a special meal. You know. Relationship stuff.” When Marcus’s face didn’t change, he
backpedaled. “Or not. Or we can just fuck—all I mean is that I like you, and well, we’re
here, stuck together. It’s not a bad stuck to me. It’s like a weird forced vacation.”
He reached up and teased Marcus’s hair, his gaze focusing as his mind began to
whirl with possibilities. “I’d love to do your hair, whatever else we do or don’t do. Your
mom’s hair too, but I’d love leaving you knowing for five weeks you’d think of me every
time you looked in the mirror.” Marcus’s expression was still unreadable, and Frankie
sighed and pushed playfully at his chest. “Okay, you have to say something now, even if
it’s to tell me everything about my idea is stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.” Marcus ran a thumb over Frankie’s lips. “Yeah. We can pretend.
Everything you just said is good with me.”
It was? Frankie beamed and looped his hands around Marcus’s neck. “Great. We’ll
have to get a tree, maybe make Arthur do it.” Remembering what Marcus said about
jealousy, Frankie sobered. “I won’t let Arthur flirt with me. While I’m your fake
boyfriend, nobody else gets to touch me but you. Not even for flirting.” Marcus started to
object, but Frankie stilled him with a finger against his lips. “No. This is about us having
fun and feeling good, and you just said that’s what you need. Besides, it makes me feel
like a princess, knowing I have a big scary bear keeping everybody at arm’s length from
me. And yes, I was one of those little boys who put on my mother’s shoes and asked for
dresses in my dress-up drawer.”
Marcus lifted an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth. “Oh? You still have those?
Because John Inman, he was a killer pantomime dame too. That’s basically a British drag
queen.”
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Frankie shook his head. “Left that behind at ten, I’m afraid. Being treated like a
princess, though? Yeah, I’ll admit I still want that, unmanly or not.”
“Quit calling yourself unmanly. You’re your own kind of man, princess fantasy
included.” Marcus’s smile eased into something comfortable and sure that made
Frankie’s insides flutter. “I can make you my princess for a few days. Not sure what that
makes me, though. Your prince? King? Woodsman?”
Frankie laughed. “It makes you my big grumpy Papa Bear,” he declared, and brought
Marcus’s smiling face down for another kiss.
Marcus wasn’t exactly sure about this whole pretend-relationship thing—not that he
didn’t want to do it. That was actually the problem. Were Frankie a local, he’d want to
have a relationship with him, and how. He’d be working up great date nights in his head
and shuffling his schedule to have as many of them as possible. Frankie wasn’t a local,
however, and Marcus really, really wasn’t moving back to Minneapolis. Their
relationship was a nonstarter. Logic said he shouldn’t even play with this kind of fire for
a minute.
Logic, however, didn’t take a shower with Frankie and get on its knees to kiss his
tender hole better until Frankie sobbed with need and came against the tile. Logic didn’t
get to watch Frankie turn aloof and move closer to Marcus when Arthur teased him about
letting him have a go when they emerged for breakfast. Logic didn’t get to have Frankie
smile up at him and look as if being brought tea and oatmeal was the greatest kindness
anyone could ever give him.
Logic could fuck itself, because Marcus was going to milk every second of this
pretend-boyfriend business, no matter how much it would hurt when Frankie went home.
Even Arthur thought the temporary relationship was a good idea, when Marcus told
him about it as the two of them went out to find a tree while Frankie and Paul strung
popcorn. He didn’t explain the arrangement exactly, but when he made it clear that he
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and Frankie had hooked up temporarily, Arthur clapped him on the back and gave him a
hearty grin as they got the Ski-Doos ready.
“Good for you, Marky. From the sounds of things, you’re off to a good start.”
“It’s just during the storm,” Marcus repeated, more to himself than to Arthur. “We’re
having a good time together, but it’ll have to end.”
Arthur nodded. “Sure. Though maybe you’ll surprise each other and things will work
out somehow.”
“I can’t let myself think that way.” Marcus didn’t realize he’d tensed up until Arthur
clapped him on the back.
“I know, old friend—so let me think it for you.” Arthur sighed and patted his belly as
he stared out into the storm. The snow had stopped, but the wind was still bad. “So, we
shouldn’t go far to find this tree. I figure we’re going to end up with a Charlie Brown
one, but we might as well find the best we can. Where do you suppose we should look?”
Marcus rubbed his beard. “What about the other side of the hill there? That stand of
pines before the lake—one of them has to be the right size.”
“Either that or we could pull an Emmet Otter Christmas and use a branch instead of a
whole tree.” Arthur pulled his goggles down and straddled his Ski-Doo. “Let’s go find
some Christmas cheer.”
They did end up finding a tree, a four-footer that was only slightly lopsided, and ten
minutes after its discovery it was hewn and strapped onto the sled. Back at the cabin,
Marcus brought the tree in himself, carrying it over his shoulder as he ducked it under the
porch roof toward the door. It felt good, bringing home a tree, knowing that Frankie
would be pleased to see it.
Frankie was, and then some—he praised the tree up and down, refusing to hear
anyone speak ill of the most beautiful, perfect tree anyone had ever brought into his life.
He thanked Marcus and Arthur—but mostly Marcus—for bringing it in, and as Arthur
and Paul fired up the grill on the porch to make steaks and pork chops to go with more
chili, Marcus and Frankie decorated the tree.
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“I thought you were going to string popcorn,” he remarked as Frankie handed him a
paper chain made out of magazine and newspaper clippings.
Frankie grimaced. “Yes, well—it turns out you need that puffed corn without hulls or
a lot more patience than I have, because half the time the kernel breaks or you prick your
finger. So we made paper chains instead, though I still want to make ornaments. I just
have to figure out something that’s not paper.”
“What about yarn, or cloth? We have both in that trunk on the far wall from the
winter when Paul thought we should all learn to knit.”
This made Frankie laugh, as he’d intended him to, but it also made Frankie tip his
head to the side and regard him curiously. “Wait, I thought you’d only lived with them
for seven months?”
“Yes, but I visited a lot before that, and I always took an extended vacation around
the holidays to be with my mom.” He draped a paper chain over a branch, admiring the
way even in its simplicity it dressed up the tree. “I stayed in Minneapolis for half a year
after Steve and I broke up before I came north. I don’t know if I was waiting for him or
something else, or if I was just stunned. I wish I hadn’t lingered.”
“Because of your mom.” Frankie touched his arm in gentle reassurance before
reaching for another chain. “I hope I get to meet her before I go home. I really want to do
her hair now.”
“The storm wasn’t half so bad as I’d thought when we were out getting the tree. It’s
blowing, but we could get into town tomorrow. Roads are shit, but so long as we stick to
daylight and Ski-Doos, we’re good.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Frankie smiled and leaned against him, cradling Marcus’s
arm and resting his head on Marcus’s shoulder as he admired their tree. “This is nice. We
put up a tree in our apartment back home, but Josh and Andy always end up fighting over
the decorating scheme.”
“Not you?” Marcus asked, surprised. “I would have thought you’d be the first one in
there, wanting to set things right. Even when you’re borrowing our sweats you look
color-coordinated.”
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Frankie slapped his chest playfully. “No, I don’t get in the tree fight, because what I
want is a homey tree. A lopsided, beautiful, cutesy-cheesy, mismatched thing full of
collected ornaments. I want a family where I get a new one every year, where I put the
date and the name of who gave it to me on it so I can think about the moment I got it each
year as I decorate. The rest of my house I’d have themed and tricked out à la Martha
Stewart, but my tree I’d always make homey.”
Marcus stared at the paper chains, imagining Frankie’s tree full of ornaments, and
Marcus ached to have that be his tree too. A vision flashed of him coming into a
beautifully decorated room, the tree sparkling in the background, he with a package in his
hand. Frankie would open it and smile, delighting at the ornament, then give Marcus a
kiss before hanging it on the tree. Marcus could see the scene so clearly it hurt.
Clearing his throat, he slipped out of Frankie’s hold. “Let’s get you your yarn and
cloth.”
Frankie squealed with delight when he saw Paul’s old supplies, and half an hour later
Frankie had commandeered the dining room table to cut out shapes and directed them all
to cut holes for hanging. They stopped long enough to eat their steaks and chops and
chili, and then they went back to decorating, laughing when Arthur made a penis
ornament, laughing harder when he faked sounds of pain and agony as he stabbed a
needle through its tip. They played another round of cards, and had more whiskey, and
when dusk fell and hunger began to gnaw at them, Marcus heated up more chili. At the
very end of the day, they sat together in front of the fire, Paul beside Arthur on the sofa,
Frankie curled against Marcus on his lap in the easy chair.
“So.” Paul eyed Marcus as Frankie snuggled deeper and Marcus stroked his arm.
“The two of you are an item now?”
Marcus was about to reply, “For now,” but Frankie said, “Yes,” simply and with
finality, and kissed Marcus’s cheek.
Paul grinned. “Great. God knows Grumpy needed some softening up.” He waggled
his eyebrows. “Looking forward to hearing from you tonight.”
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This part Marcus wasn’t sure how to play, not wanting to embarrass Frankie but—
well, he wanted to embarrass him later in much the same way he had the night before, or
along those same lines. He glanced at Frankie, who blushed and smiled.
“Tell me more about your childhoods,” Frankie urged. “Tell me about the three of
you growing up in Logan. Tell me about Logan.”
Paul, Arthur and Marcus glanced at each other.
“There’s not much to tell,” Paul said eventually. “It’s not a big town at all. It has the
grocery we went to, which is probably pathetic compared to everything in the Cities. We
had what everybody called the dime store until the mid-nineties, when we got a sort of
Walmart knockoff. Hardware store, library, post office, bank. There’s Logan Manor, the
care center, which is run by the county, but it’s the only nursing home so everybody goes
there who needs that kind of care. There’s the Lutheran church, of course. Used to have a
Catholic one, but they couldn’t keep a priest. Couple of bars, beauty salons—sorry, stylist
salons, or whatever—a barber shop, and an electronics repair place. There’s the café, and
we’ve had a coffee place a couple times but they never stick. Used to have a bookshop,
but that’s long gone. There’s a knitting place, but I think it’s going to go under. We have
a couple antique joints, and there’s always somebody who starts something up for tourist
season, a knickknack shop or some such, but they never last. We have a city hall with fire
and police—fire is volunteer, police is two officers. We share a school with Pine
Valley—they built a K-12 complex between the two of us, because it’s twenty minutes
either way. When we were kids, we still had a school in town, but all of us graduated
from the cornfield school, as we called it.” Paul rubbed his beard, then shook his head.
“That’s about all there is to tell.”
Frankie had settled into Marcus during the litany as if it were a bedtime story.
“Logan is so much smaller than Saint Peter, but I think the differences are even more
pronounced because of our respective locations. We’re spoiled because we’re so close to
Mankato and really, we’re not that far from the Cities.”
“There’s not much up here,” Arthur agreed. “That’s why I like it. I want my space,
my privacy, my freedom.”
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“I could use a little more excitement,” Paul argued.
Arthur poked Paul with his foot. “You say the word, and I’ll give it to you.”
Frankie lifted his head to look at Marcus. “What about you? Are you happy here?”
Marcus hesitated, not sure if this question had heavier meaning than it seemed. “I’m
happier than I was in the Cities,” he said at last. “I’m still finding my feet again, but I like
being part of the community, though it’s getting smaller every day. I like being with
people who know me, who have always known me.”
“A couple people have asked him to take up law in town,” Arthur said. Marcus
glared at him, but Arthur didn’t take the hint. “I think he should, even if just on the side.
We shouldn’t have to go into Duluth for everything, especially things like that.”
“I’m not practicing again.” Marcus sighed. “Though sometimes, honestly, I wonder
if that objection is reflexive. Let’s say I’m not ready to practice again just yet.”
“Do you like logging?” Frankie asked.
Marcus shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s good to use my body. I’ve lost weight since I came
back home, and my head feels clearer. Not half as much stress in logging.” He brushed
his hand over Frankie’s. “What about you? Do you like your salon where you work?”
Frankie considered this question a moment. “I do, but it’s not where I want to stay
forever. That’s part of my problem—I don’t want to run my own business, but I haven’t
yet found the business I want to work for.”
“What kind of business would you want, if you could pick anything?” Paul asked
him.
“It has to pay decent, because living in Minneapolis is expensive, but mostly I want
it to be flexible and interesting. I like solving problems for people. I love it when
someone comes in upset because of a cowlick or hates their color or can’t stand their
curly hair. I love styling people too, more than just hair—helping people figure out what
to wear that flatters them while still giving them functionality and comfort. It’s like doing
puzzles, but people get so much out of the end result.”
“What do you like best about Minneapolis?”
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That question came from Paul, but Marcus listened intently to the answer, which
Frankie gave slowly, leaning back against Marcus as he listed the attributes. “I like that
people can’t be small-minded in the same way they were back home. Sure, the city is
probably run by a circle of influential people the same as Saint Peter, but I don’t have to
see their smug faces every day. I can live my life in a bubble that nobody can touch. I like
that there are gay people all around me too—not just neighborhoods and bars but that
being gay in the Cities is by and large so normal nobody cares. There are places I have to
be careful, sure, and some of the immigrant communities are downright dangerous
because they brought their prejudices with them, but there are plenty of days I don’t have
even a single incident of prejudice or sense of danger because I’m gay.” He paused, then
added, “It’s not just about being homosexual, either. It’s about being an effeminate gay
man who does hair, whose voice is a little nasal.”
Arthur tapped his finger on the edge of the couch arm, looking thoughtful. “So it’s
not about opportunity or museums or the business for you? It’s about feeling safe?”
Frankie nodded. “I’d ditch the traffic in a heartbeat. I don’t like the way everyone is
snobby about the Cities being better than greater Minnesota—sometimes I miss the
simplicity of Saint Peter. Sometimes too I feel like I have a different value system than
people in the city, which is weird because I didn’t feel I shared the value system in Saint
Peter. But sometimes my friends value things I don’t, like when we go out to plays or
concerts and they act like this is what a city is, like when we go to a fancy restaurant and
I feel a little out of place, but they feel at home. I don’t know. It’s not simple, and it’s not
perfect. But nothing is, is it?”
Arthur nodded. “That’s how I feel about Duluth. I tried to live there for three
months, and I was miserable. Everything felt too big, and nobody was connected. I
thought leaving Logan would be the answer, like I’d leave all the prejudice behind, but
actually it got worse. I got looked down on for so many other reasons—being a
backwoods redneck the biggest one. And I’ll be damned if that didn’t hurt worse than
being called a faggot.”
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“I still want to get out.” This came from Paul, who was staring moodily into the fire.
“I feel trapped here, always have. Duluth would be fine for me—anywhere else would be
fine, so long as it wasn’t this small, this stupid, this dead.”
“Why don’t you go?” Frankie asked.
Paul didn’t answer, only shrugged.
They drifted into milder topics after that, but Marcus kept thinking about what
Frankie had said about why he lived in Minneapolis. He knew about the kind of
acceptance Frankie spoke of, because he’d felt it too. It hadn’t ever meant as much to him
as it did to Frankie, though. It certainly hadn’t been enough to keep him there.
More than anything else, Marcus knew that kind of acceptance wouldn’t ever happen
in Logan.
The thought made him sad, and he realized that despite what he’d told Arthur, he had
been mentally mapping out a way to date Frankie for real. The answer was still maybe in
theory, but not a chance in reality. It made him sad—and made him that much more
determined to enjoy the time he had.
Chapter Ten
When they finally went to bed, Frankie hurried through his nighttime routine. Paul
had gone up to the loft, but Arthur and Marcus stood in the kitchen, talking quietly as
Frankie padded across the room in bare feet and sweatpants. He made up the sofa
himself, got under the covers, then shimmied out of his clothes.
He was having sex tonight, again.
It was delicious, too, waiting nude while Marcus got ready to join him. Even hearing
Arthur’s voice added to the mystique. It was almost like Marcus was his pasha, and
Frankie was the harem boy to be ravished. As soon as he thought that, he felt a little bit
ridiculous, and he blushed when Marcus came over and sat beside him, pinning Frankie
down.
“You look like I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar,” he observed.
Frankie shrugged. “Thinking silly things, is all.”
“I love silly things.” Marcus ran his hand over Frankie’s hip. “Tell me what you
were thinking.”
Frankie decided to hell with it. “I was having a princess fantasy. A pasha fantasy this
time, but it’s really the same thing.” Frankie blushed. “It’s silly, I know.”
“Did I say it was silly?”
“You don’t have to.” Frankie averted his gaze. “I hadn’t meant to blurt all that out
about wanting to feel like a princess earlier. I mean, I did, but—” He bit his lip. “I know I
shouldn’t feminize myself. Josh is always getting angry about it. And I know you said to
stop calling myself unmanly. The thing is, I’ve never been able to do the boy things, to
play the boy games. Not when I was a kid, not now. I can’t do the big guffaws like Arthur
or be smooth and smart like you. I can’t even do that reserved, stalwart thing like Paul.
Or the smart, sassy thing like my boss does, and Josh—”
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He stopped, because Marcus’s hand had dug into his hip, claiming his attention.
Marcus’s eyes were dark and serious. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.” Marcus slid
his hand down Frankie’s leg as he sat back with a sigh. “You know, it’s funny—earlier
you were talking about how in Minneapolis you feel safe and okay because you can be in
a bubble. I know what you’re talking about. I’ve been in that bubble. And yeah, I was
able to pass for straight all the way up until I put a cock in my mouth. People still blink
when they realize my orientation. Do you know, sometimes I think that’s worse? Maybe
not worse, but it’s no better. So you stood in the locker room and they jeered at you—
they invited me to jeer along. All you had to do was deflect or ignore. You were made
fun of, but you got to be yourself. I had to stand there and do battle with my conscience,
and my conscience always lost, all the way up until I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“I never thought about it like that,” Frankie admitted.
Marcus kept going, like Frankie had uncorked a dam. “I had to watch myself when I
practiced law too, sometimes there the most. Those stupid little man-jokes, those subtle
putdowns of women, of gays. The worst was when it was a client talking shit. I knew
everyone expected me to let water pass under the bridge, but I’d finally gotten to the
point I could be out to myself, and they were asking me to go back into the closet. To
turn it back into that locker room when I chose to tell myself I was straight because lying
to myself was better than getting beat up with the wimpy kid on the floor.” Grimacing, he
waved his hand. “It’s stupid, because I had it easy. I know that. I saw how you were
afraid of us at the café, even here until Arthur outed us. You had it worse, I get that
intellectually. Sometimes I wish I’d had it worse too, though. Sometimes I wish it
weren’t so easy to play at being the kind of man we’re supposed to be, because I’m not
that man either. I don’t think anybody is.”
Frankie lay quiet on the bed, drinking in everything Marcus had said. He’d never
considered that perspective, and the idea of it rattled his brain something fierce. The very
idea of being able to hide in a metaphorical closet instead of getting all too familiar with
the janitor’s literal one had been what he yearned for back in the day. Yearning for being
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a part of the ribald boys’ club jokes wasn’t on his radar, because nobody looked at
Frankie and assumed anything but flaming flamer.
Marcus’s hand against his cheek made him turn, and he saw his blizzard boyfriend
looking soft and sad. “Sorry, I think I just burst a bubble in your head.”
Frankie stroked the back of his hand and gave him a wan smile. “Maybe. I think it
was one that had to go, if you did.”
Marcus’s expression remained serious. “You’re a man, Frankie. I don’t care if you
call yourself a princess or shriek like a girl—you’re a man. A better one than a lot of guys
I know.”
Frankie’s throat felt thick. “Nobody’s ever said that to me. Not even like a joke.”
“What, said you were a man?”
Frankie shook his head. “Thanks for being the first.”
Marcus brushed his thumb over Frankie’s knuckles. “Thanks for getting stranded at
Arthur’s house.”
Oh God, he was going to cry. Frankie swallowed and blinked hard. “Anytime.” He
wiped at his eyes and tried to smile. “Now stop talking and kiss me.”
He did, and it was as glorious as the kisses Frankie had woken to that morning, the
ones they’d stolen during the day, and the ones from the day before. He’s perfect, Frankie
thought, the truth filling him with joy and despair at once. He tried to tell himself he was
just infatuated, that this was cabin fever talking, that there wasn’t anything special about
Marcus except that they were moderately compatible and trapped together. His heart,
right or wrong, refused to believe that was true. Marcus was perfect for Frankie, and that
was a fact.
It was also a fact that they only had a few days left to be together.
“Tell me what you want,” Frankie whispered as Marcus shed his clothes. Frankie ran
his fingers through the thick pelt on Marcus’s chest. “I told you last night, now you tell
me.”
“Would you fuck me, if I asked?”
Frankie’s eyes went wide. “Sure—I just…sure.”
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Marcus’s smile went sideways as he pulled his belt out of its loops. He held it in his
hand a moment, and Frankie stilled, eyes trained on it. Marcus laughed and set it aside. “I
already know you don’t like that.”
Thank God. Frankie couldn’t get Marcus’s question out of his head, though. “Do you
really want that? Me to fuck you?”
“Sure.” Marcus got off the bed and stepped out of his pants before lifting the blanket
and climbing inside, wrapping his naked body around Frankie’s. “Maybe not tonight
necessarily, but it’s good to know it’s on the table.”
“The thing is, nobody’s ever asked me to fuck them,” Frankie blurted. His cheeks
colored as he added, “I worry I’d screw it up.”
That made Marcus laugh. “You can’t screw up fucking someone. Well—okay, you
can. A lot. But it’s not rocket science.”
“I don’t get how I could be good for someone like you,” Frankie confessed. “I
couldn’t ever be as strong as you are. It’d have to feel like a spastic monkey poking you
in the ass.”
Marcus laughed so hard at that he collapsed onto the bed, and when he lifted his
head, he had tears in his eyes. “Spastic monkey. No, hon, I don’t think that’s what you’d
feel like in my ass, but my God, the image.”
Frankie slapped at him playfully, unable to help smiling too. “You know what I
mean.”
“Yeah.” Marcus wiped his eyes again. “And I think now we really had better have
you fuck me, so you can see how far off base you are.”
Frankie reached up and touched Marcus’s face, loving the sight of him, but
remembering this was a temporary thing. That knowledge was starting to torture him. “I
hate that we only have so many nights left.”
Frankie didn’t mean to, but he held his breath, waiting for Marcus to say something
romantic and noble, even pasha-like, something about how it didn’t have to be that way.
He didn’t. He didn’t say anything at all, only bent down and kissed Frankie softly on the
lips.
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Opening his mouth, Frankie took him in deeper, and pretty soon he was flat on his
back, knees spread as Marcus pressed their naked bodies together. He clung to Marcus’s
chest and ground against him, loving that heavy pressure. For a minute he hesitated,
wondering if he should be doing the seducing since Marcus had asked him to fuck him,
but clearly they were saving that for later, the way Marcus kept nudging them back into
the same pattern as the night before. Marcus’s hands moved over Frankie’s body, rough
but gentle, and everything else fell away, everything that wasn’t making love with the
man in bed with him.
It truly was that too, making love. The night before and in the shed had been raw and
hard and full of need, but everything about Marcus tonight was caretaking and
tenderness. Even when he pushed Frankie’s legs over his shoulders, nudging a cool,
lubed finger against Frankie’s hole, as he sucked down Frankie’s cock then turned
Frankie over, spread him wide, and thrust into him—somehow it was different. When
Frankie gasped and shuddered around the fullness in his backside, Marcus pressed
deeper. “I got you, baby.” The words made Frankie whimper, but when Marcus kissed his
back, he melted. “I got you.” He rubbed his beard along Frankie’s back. “So tight. So
hot.” His tongue teased Frankie’s spine. “My baby.”
Frankie had to swallow hard against the lump in his throat. God, if only. Pretend.
“I’m yours, Marcus. Just yours.”
Marcus pulled out a little, then slid slowly back in. Frankie let out a sigh and tried to
spread his legs wider, and Marcus licked him with a purr of approval. “So sexy, Frankie.
So sweet and hot around my cock.”
The slide back into dirty talk jolted Frankie, but not in a bad way. He wanted to talk
back, but only stupid, sappy, gaggy stuff drifted into his head. Then Marcus pinched
Frankie’s ass lightly, and he took it as a command to speak, so it came out anyway. “It’s
just for you.” Gaggy or not, Marcus almost growled, so Frankie let it all loose.
“Everything is for you, Marcus. I want to give my whole body to you.”
It didn’t even feel scary to say that—it felt good. He put his head down on the
mattress and reveled in the feel of Marcus inside him, of Marcus’s hairy body brushing
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over his on his back, his arms, his ass. When Marcus turned him over, pushing his legs
high as he opened Frankie up, he took in the lurid sight of Frankie’s exposed cock and
anus. Frankie pulled his legs wider. “It’s all for you, Marcus. All this is for you.”
Marcus’s eyes stayed hard and possessive as he ran a finger down the crease of
Frankie’s thigh. “You shouldn’t encourage me to think that way.”
“I want to,” Frankie insisted. Marcus teased his hole, and he shivered. “I like to.”
The tip of a finger slipped inside him, nudging, not entering. “I like hearing you say
that. A lot.” The finger pressed deeper, and Marcus’s face went softer, pensive. “I went
with Arthur a few times for his scenes. I look big and tough, and plenty of guys—not all
of them John Inmans, either—wanted me to Dom them. It didn’t work. I felt awkward,
and I always went home feeling stupid.” His free hand stroked Frankie’s thigh. “I don’t
feel stupid with you.”
Frankie shut his eyes and listened, his attention split by the way Marcus’s finger
began to fuck him slowly. His lips parted on a gasp, and he licked them before he gave
his own confession. “I always wanted something like this too. Wanted to feel like I could
let go and it would be safe.” He nuzzled back against Marcus, turning his head as much
as he could toward Marcus’s body. “But I want to try—I want to fuck you too. I want
everything with you.”
“You can have it. We have a lot of days left—we’ll get there. Right now, though, I
want to keep playing this game, the one where you’re giving yourself to me.” The finger
left, and Marcus’s cock nudged against the opening. “Tell me again. Tell me who your
body belongs to. Tell me whose ass this is.”
“Yours.” Frankie lifted his backside higher so Marcus could see it better, so he could
fuck it better. “This is yours.”
Marcus held the globes of Frankie’s ass. “What should I do with it?”
A wave of deep pleasure rolled through Frankie as he whispered, “Whatever you
want.”
When Marcus pushed inside him, Frankie cried out, not so much because it hurt—
God, he’d been stretched well by the same cock not even three minutes before—but
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because it was such a surprise. The way Marcus responded to that cry made him do it
again, and again, and he wondered if Marcus liked the cries for themselves or because he
knew the others would hear. Frankie wished he knew. He wished he knew all the things
Marcus wanted most, and he wanted to be the one to give them to him.
He wanted to be the one to love Marcus that way.
This time his gasp was softer, and sadder, and something hard and tight pinched in
the middle of his chest. No. He couldn’t be in love with Marcus. That was ridiculous and
stupid, because he’d just met him and he had to go home and Marcus had to stay here and
that was stupid, stupid, stupid.
But as Marcus drew Frankie’s limp legs over his shoulders and bent him in half to
kiss his lips and brought them both to climax, Frankie knew, stupid or not, that it was
true.
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Chapter Eleven
The wind still blew the next morning, but it wasn’t half as bad as it had been the day
before, and as such Marcus agreed with Arthur that it was time to go into town, restock
some supplies and get reports from their neighbors on how people were faring. After
firing up the generator and making some breakfast, he got dressed and helped get the Ski-
Doos ready.
Frankie, meanwhile, fussed with his appearance as if he were heading for a grand
ball, not into Logan, Minnesota post-blizzard. It was more than a little ridiculous, but
when Arthur and Paul tried to give him shit over it, Marcus shut them down.
“He gets nervous about how people perceive him,” Marcus explained as they lined
up the three snowmobiles and attached the sled to Paul’s, loading the empty gas can first
thing. “Plus, looks are kind of his thing, and he wants to do my mom’s hair.”
“Yeah, but nobody’s gonna give a crap about how his hair looks, even for that,”
Arthur argued.
Marcus shrugged. “It matters to Frankie.”
When Frankie finally emerged from the house, primped and styled and carrying a
small bag of supplies over his shoulder, Marcus had to admit the fuss had been worth it to
him too. Frankie always looked good to him, but there was something about seeing him
putting on the dog that really did it for Marcus. He had every intention of staking a claim
on his temporary boyfriend as they went into town, and it definitely pleased him to know
any local closet cases would be plenty jealous Frankie had landed on his doorstep instead
of theirs.
It was thrilling too to have Frankie’s arms around his middle as they rode cross-
country toward town, wind in their faces, the roar of the snowmobile drowning out the
world. The landscape around them sparkled everywhere they turned, a beautiful
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wasteland of white. Few riders had been out yet in this area, and Marcus felt like an
explorer out conquering new lands. If it turned out they had enough fuel to warrant it, he
wanted to take Frankie out just the two of them for a ride before he left, to show him the
Logan he knew and feel those arms closed tight around him the whole time.
Once they arrived in town, of course, that sense of pure isolation altered, and the
reality of what so much snow and cold meant took away the joy and landed Marcus’s
perspective right back into grim. The streets had been plowed, though not well. The state
and county plows hadn’t reached them yet, though word was they were due by the
afternoon. Only in a few places could regular vehicles get around, and even then they’d
better have four-wheel drive. The town mayor was holed up at the café, working his cell
phone in between answering people’s questions and repeating information as he received
it. He looked harried and frustrated and overtired. The café itself was busier than it was in
the height of tourist season, excepting that one time a bus had gotten lost.
“Most folks don’t have power,” Patty told them as she placed coffee and tea before
them and pulled her pad out for their order. “The main line next to the power plant does,
but they’re running on backup. The mayor talked them into letting us keep our access,
since we can feed everyone and serve as a central location. Church is going too at the
other end, giving meals away and running a makeshift shelter for those without backup
heat.”
“When are they looking to get power back to us?” Arthur asked, not looking pleased
by the news.
Patty shrugged. “Hopefully early next week is what I’m hearing. Right now what we
need is fuel. Gas station on the north end is out, and the tanks on the south side won’t last
the day.”
Rising, Paul took a swig of coffee and nodded at them. “That’s my cue to go fill up.
Order for me, Arthur?”
“What about food?” Arthur asked Patty. “How are people doing for that?”
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“Nobody has milk. Eggs are just about spent, but somebody an hour ago said they
had hens and would get some eggs to the café by tomorrow. I’m sure hoping they make it
up here with a truck of groceries by then, though.”
Marcus decided he’d ask the question they were all trying not to ask. “What’s our
headcount?”
Patty’s grim expression told the tale. “Four dead so far. Two trapped in cars, one
heart attack shoveling snow, one drunk idiot at the bar who thought he’d sleep it out in
his vehicle and froze to death.”
Four. Marcus’s belly hollowed out as he realized that, had Frankie been knocked out
in his car or unable to get to safety, that number could have been five. He reached over
and took his lover’s hand. “Say, have they made a pass for vehicles yet?”
“Just getting started.” Patty pulled out another pad. “Why, you guys put the truck in
a ditch? Oh wait—you mean Frankie’s car.” She smiled at him and put pen to paper.
“Where’d you lose it, sweetheart?”
With the others’ help, Frankie gave her the location of his wreck on top of his
description. “I have Triple A too, for the towing.”
Patty waved this away. “We’ll settle that later.” Pulling off the paper, she nodded to
the other end of the café. “I’ll get this to Jed, and I’ll have him call you, Marcus, when
he’s got it in the shop.”
After the café, they headed to the grocery store—technically they didn’t want to stop
there until later, but given the way Patty talked, there wouldn’t be much store left by the
end of the day. Truth be told, there wasn’t a whole lot of it when they arrived as it was.
Most of the shelves were stripped, and they had to make do with weird dried things and
canned bits of God knew what.
The emptiness of the grocery store scared Frankie, who wrapped his arms around
himself and stared hollowly at the places where food should be. “I’ve never seen
anything like this. Never. Once when I was little in Saint Peter we ran out of milk for a
day. That was it. I can’t believe a whole store is empty, and that it’ll stay this way for
days.”
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“Nobody’s going to starve,” Marcus reassured him. “Certainly not us—even
discounting red meat, we could feed you for another two weeks without batting an eye.
Snow happens up here, and we get cut off, so we stock up. A lot of this”—he gestured to
the shelves—“is because people panic. There’s always somebody who doesn’t prepare, a
grasshopper to the other ants. But you heard Patty. The café has food. They’re feeding
people, and I bet you there’s a lot of credit going on, but the mayor will see to it that the
café gets paid one way or another. He’ll make sure, too, that the National Guard hears
about it if people are seriously starving. There’s the church as well. It’ll be fine. We’ve
done this before, and we’ll do it again.”
Frankie leaned into him, seeking comfort, then stopped, frozen, glancing around.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”
Marcus pulled him in close, his gesture possessive and blatantly suggestive. “Yes
you did, and it’s fine. I’m out here. I’m not hiding, so neither should you.”
Frankie relaxed, but not all the way. “Sorry. I just get…nervous.”
Yes, Marcus knew that. He wanted to march Frankie up and down the aisles and
down Main Street, hanging a sign over his head that said, I’m protecting this guy, so back
the fuck off. Instead, he kissed his cheek. “Make sure there’s nothing here you need, and
we’ll head over to the care center. You can meet my mom and see if there’s enough stuff
there to do her hair.”
Logan Manor turned out to be not quite as depressing as Frankie had been afraid it
would be, but it was close. The outside of the building was squat and brick and,
especially under the weight of several feet of snow, looked very much like a quiet place
to wait to die. Inside it was much the way all homes for the elderly managed to be: set in
the style of three decades past, alternately dim and too harshly lit, and smelling of stale
death. The residents took up various places on the spectrum between slightly fogged and
literally comatose, several reduced to sitting in dark corners of their room, moaning
quietly to themselves and whoever might care to hear them.
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The staff, however, was far brighter and kinder than Frankie had even thought to
anticipate, particularly Kyle, the male nurse who was a John Inman if Frankie had ever
seen one. They all greeted Marcus and the others with warm, friendly smiles, and when
Paul and Arthur offered to help do some shoveling of snow and double-check their
generator, they were met with enthusiastic thanks. Kyle meanwhile pulled Marcus aside,
and as Frankie drifted closer, he realized the nurse was giving an update on Marcus’s
mother.
“Today’s not the best day. Everyone has been upset by the storm, but your mother
seems especially disoriented. For a while she asked for you, thinking you were bringing
her dinner, then announcing you were late for an appointment to take her to a movie, but
now she’s gone very quiet. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s slipped into a fog where she
doesn’t know who you are at all, not right away.”
Marcus nodded through all this, clearly not liking the report but also not in the least
surprised. “Do you think I could introduce Frankie to her, or would that upset her
further?”
Kyle smiled at Frankie, giving him a wave and a soft hi before answering. “I’d say
it’s fine to try.”
“Frankie is a stylist back in Minneapolis, and he wanted to do Mom’s hair if she
were well enough for it. Is that something we could do?”
At this, Kyle’s smile became bright. “Oh, yes! She’s been going on and on about that
the past week, almost the one constant thing she talks about outside of your visits.
Sometimes she talks about needing it for work, but honestly I think she just wants to look
nice and hates how Miriam cuts hair.”
“Do you think we could do a color too?” Frankie rustled the bag at his side. “We
managed to pick up some box color at the grocery, but I didn’t know if you were
rationing water or if you didn’t want to spare the electricity and so on.”
“Oh, no—we’re on city water, which is fine as far as I’ve heard, and our generator’s
got no problems. We’re a makeshift hospital during the storm, you see, since the closest
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is in Pine Valley, and the clinic doesn’t have power. If we don’t have enough juice to let
an old lady get her hair rinsed out, we’ve a serious problem.”
Frankie smiled. “Fabulous. Could I meet her?”
Mimi Gardner sat at her window as the three of them entered, a blanket tucked
around her legs. When Kyle called out to her, she turned toward them, and Frankie’s
heart skipped a beat. She was beautiful, the image of her son in so many ways,
particularly around the eyes. Despite the fog of her disease, Frankie could see the bright
spirit that still lived within her. It took no effort to imagine her managing a small-town
library and running herd on Marcus and his friends. He did see the debilitation of her
condition, however, and it made him ache. It also made him that much more determined
to give her back some of what she had lost.
Marcus had crouched down beside his mother, who frowned and appeared confused
by Frankie’s presence. “This isn’t Steve. I know I’m sick, but this isn’t Steve.”
“I know,” Marcus said, patience thinning. “I told you, I’m not seeing Steve anymore.
This is Frankie.”
“Steve isn’t any good for you,” she told Marcus, giving him a stern look.
“I know.” Marcus took her hand. “Mom, Frankie is visiting from the Cities, and he
does hair. He’d like to do yours for you, if you’ll let him.”
Mimi blinked up at Frankie. “You’re a hairdresser?”
“Yes.” Frankie smiled and pulled up a chair in front of her, trying to meet her gaze,
but he was already distracted by the possibilities of her hair. “Mrs. Gardner, you have
lovely texture, and the gray you have coming in is a beautiful silver in places. I bought a
few boxes based on your natural color, but I have to tell you, I want to come up and see
you sometime after New Year’s with this lovely product we have back in the shop. I’d
love to do you in silver with black-and-white highlights. You’d be ravishing. They’d
probably come put you in Revlon commercials if we weren’t careful.”
Mimi looked foggy, like she was slightly drunk, but as Frankie spoke about her hair,
she beamed. “I want to look good for the Christmas party next week at the library. I look
like a tired old lady, and I hate it.”
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“You will be nothing less than the elegant grand dame that you are, Mrs. Gardner,
when I’m through with you.” He turned to Marcus. “Hon, I’m going to send you out to
the grocery and back to Patty with a list of cosmetics I want. If they don’t have any here
at the care center, I’m going to need cotton pads or balls—pads are better, but balls will
do—and some swabs. Brushes would be great, but they’re not sanitary and I don’t want
to accidentally break any codes. You said there’s a salon in here? Do you know if they
still have their Barbasol? Sterilizers?” he added when Marcus stared at him like he was
speaking in tongues.
“The salon’s just down the hall.” Kyle bounced with his effort to bank his eagerness.
“I can get it unlocked for you.”
“Great. I want to see it before I do anything else.” He took Mimi’s hand and
squeezed it. “Don’t you worry, honey. You’re going to be the most beautiful woman at
that Christmas party, and they’re going to talk about it for the rest of their lives.”
Mimi squeezed his hand back, her eyes damp as she smiled, and when Frankie
turned to Marcus, his temporary boyfriend’s eyes were misty too.
Marcus pulled Frankie close, kissed him hard on the lips, then stood. “Get me your
list so I can get started on it.”
“Take me to the salon,” Frankie told Kyle, and with a quick goodbye to a still dazed
but excited Mimi, the three of them went down the hall.
The salon had clearly once been the hub of resident activity but now languished in
dust and neglect. Kyle explained they’d lost the funding for a staffed stylist long ago,
though Marcus pointed out to Frankie that the bigger issue was no one wanted the job.
The three of them did a quick janitorial, Frankie pushing them to the standards he knew
covered Minnesota law. Once he’d taken inventory of his supplies, he made a list for
Marcus, sent him on his way and opened for business.
He’d very deliberately organized the space to feel like a real salon, an oasis of
normal in a house of creeping death, and it was with great pleasure he led Mimi into his
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temporary domain, treating her with the same care and courtesy he would the regular
patrons of his chair in Minneapolis. Kyle and Marcus had given him a crash course in
little and large things that might go wrong because of Mimi’s disease, but Frankie found
the rhythm of a lady getting her hair done was one that her debilitations could not easily
touch. Perhaps she couldn’t articulate exactly what she wanted, and perhaps her stories
were disjointed and she pointed out several times that he wasn’t Steve, but overall the
process was the same as it always was—he put her in the chair, put on the drape, chatted
about what he planned to do and got to work washing her hair.
Something about the grimness in her situation pushed him to emphasize the normal
all the more. He talked at length about the texture of her hair, giving her a mini-lecture
about product and treatments and educating her on how mature hair needed to be treated.
He knew she wouldn’t remember a word of it and that even if she did, she’d get the same
industrial-grade cleaner on her head as everyone else when the nurses washed her hair,
but it made him feel good to treat her that way, and she seemed to like being talked to
like she mattered, like she still had all her faculties and truly would be going to a
Christmas party.
Thank God his mother always wanted a trim when he visited, because he was so glad
he had his Hattori and Kamikaze shears to do Mimi’s cut. He had, literally, paid more for
the pair of them than he had his piece-of-junk car, but they were worth every penny and
then some. The Japanese steel was exquisite, and both pairs of shears fit his hands like
they were extensions of his fingers. The salon might be a dive, the chair might be
lopsided, but none of it mattered when he had his shears.
Frankie chatted to Mimi as he worked, their conversation drifting in and out of real
time, repeating itself and sometimes making angles he couldn’t even hope to process.
They spoke a great deal, of course, about Marcus.
“You’re dating my son?” she asked several times.
“I’m seeing him while I’m here in Logan,” Frankie would always reply. “I live in
Minneapolis, so anything long term won’t work out, but we’re having a lot of fun being
together right now.”
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Sometimes Mimi would frown and say, “But Marcus lives in Minneapolis. He’s a
lawyer,” and when that happened, Frankie would gasp with surprise—every time—and
sound excited and happy that she’d clarified this for him, like she’d solved all his
problems. It always made her so happy.
By the time Marcus returned, Frankie had nearly finished, and he let son and mother
take over conversing while he styled. Once that was done he worked on her makeup,
repeating the same method as he had with her hair, talking about product and skin care
and going into even greater detail about the proper maintenance of mature skin. “They
make some amazing products now that repair surface damage. The commercials make it
sound like you’ll seem twenty, which is ridiculous, but what you’ll notice right away is
that you look radiant, which is what actually matters. There’s nothing wrong with a
mature look, but we don’t want anyone thinking you’re tired or worn. Our skin has come
with us all the way through our journey, so we need to treat it right. What I love about the
product we have now is that a few swipes of cream can have the effect of what used to be
hours and hours of spa treatment.”
“I love going to the spa,” Mimi said, her voice soft and happy. “I love getting my
face and hair done and getting a massage.”
“You deserve it too,” Frankie agreed. “Now we’re going to apply foundation. Watch
in the mirror how I use this sponge to get an even texture.”
Marcus watched Frankie too, seeming to be impressed, but Frankie couldn’t be sure.
It didn’t really matter, of course, but Frankie hoped he was. He wanted Marcus to feel he
was taking good care of his mother. Though honestly, he was having more fun doing up
Mimi than he had working over the modeling team last year. Which was why, when he
took Mimi on a tour of the dining hall to show her off when she was done and every
semi-functional woman present demanded chair time, he didn’t even blink, simply told
Kyle to arrange them in half-hour appointments and send them down to the salon.
He ended up being booked so deep Marcus had to arrange with Kyle for him to come
back the next day. The care-center manager showed up too and had to instill some rules
about how many people could be in the salon at a time and personally arranged Frankie’s
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“assistants” from the care-center staff, as suddenly the defunct salon was the only place
anyone wanted to be. Frankie declined to leave for dinner, not even letting Marcus get
him something from the café, insisting he was fine with whatever they were serving on-
site so long as it wasn’t made of cow. Since the evening meal turned out to be meatloaf,
the cook whipped him up a turkey sandwich and a side salad, which honestly was such a
relief after all the chili that it tasted like it came from a gourmet chef to Frankie.
When he finally climbed on the back of Marcus’s snowmobile to ride back to the
cabin, it was after enduring a crush of goodbyes from his legion of adoring fans and
making many promises to return the next day and give everyone a turn in the chair. His
last glimpse of the care center featured Mimi Gardner sitting in a chair by the faux
fireplace, upright and prim and beaming as she preened for her envious friends.
It was one of the best days Frankie had ever had in his life.
This was all before, when they got back to the cabin, Marcus pulled him into the
corner, kissed him hard and held him in a tight embrace.
“I haven’t seen her that happy in years,” Marcus whispered after kissing him again.
“She was radiant. Absolutely radiant. You did that, Frankie—that was you.”
That had been Frankie, and he wasn’t even going to be bashful about it. “I can’t wait
to go back tomorrow. I almost hope they total my car so I have to earn enough money to
buy a new one before I go home.”
“Speaking of that.” Marcus pulled back enough that he could look at Frankie as he
spoke. “Jed got your car out of the ditch and into the shop. Needs a little bit of body work
and a new belt that he says had nothing to do with the storm, and you’ll be ready to go.
Though he did say it looked like you weren’t keeping up on your scheduled
maintenance.”
Frankie snorted. “I don’t do scheduled maintenance. I got that car for five hundred
dollars, and when it dies I’ll spend five hundred dollars on another piece of shit. Cars are
not something I waste time or money on.”
Marcus gave him a severe look. “If you’re going to be driving up here, even only
around Duluth, you need a reliable car.”
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“This is what my father keeps telling me. It’s just that I’d rather spend my money on
other things, like clothes and hair products and tools for my station at the salon.” He
realized what it meant, that his car was fixed or would be soon. The joy ricocheting inside
of Frankie leaked out like air from a balloon. “When did he say he’d be done with my
car?”
“A couple days.” Marcus’s hands slipped to Frankie’s waist. “That said, the roads
only just now got their first pass with the plow, and that second storm is heading in
tomorrow morning. We also still don’t have a fuel truck, and when we do, the mayor’s
talking about rationing that for generators. The Minnesota DOT isn’t recommending
travel on any of the northern highways, either. They’re not officially closed, but they’re
emphatic about emergency traffic only for now. Plus he has to order the belt.”
Frankie smiled, his mood lifting a bit. “In that case, I can hardly leave tomorrow.”
Thank God.
Marcus smiled back, his own crooked and shaded with wickedness. “I’d say
anything before Sunday is optimistic at best.”
Heart rushing up into his throat again, the thrill of the day and the promise of several
more just like it made Frankie giddy. “Oh, Marcus. I had so much fun today.”
“Me too,” Marcus said, and brushed their lips together.
The crackle of the fire and the murmur of Arthur’s and Paul’s voices in the kitchen
were the only connections to reality. Frankie shut his eyes and drank in the moment. He
wished he could stay. He wished it harder than he’d ever wished anything in his life.
Marcus stroked his hair. “Don’t think about leaving. Like you said, we have a few
days. Let’s enjoy them.”
“Okay,” Frankie agreed.
They went to bed early that night, and though they had sex, it wasn’t half as intense
as it had been the first few times because they were both so tired. They came together like
a sigh, reconnecting after a big day. It felt like the way sex would be if they were able to
be together long term—an extension of their relationship, a reconnection at the end of the
day before they went to sleep.
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A few days, Frankie thought as he drifted off. He vowed he’d make every minute of
every hour count.
UUL
Chapter Twelve
The next morning when Marcus woke at six thirty, Frankie was already up and
making breakfast. He’d started the generator on his own—Arthur had showed him how
the day before—and was working away at the stove. As Marcus shuffled into the kitchen,
Frankie smiled and handed him a cup of coffee.
“Good morning.” He kissed Marcus on the lips and went back to flitting about the
kitchen, looking radiant and eager. “I only need a quick shower and ten minutes to get
ready, and I can head back into town. I know they didn’t make my first appointment until
nine, but I wanted to get in there and clean up, do some sterilizing of equipment and
maybe put up the Christmas decorations Kyle told me he’d find.”
“Sure. I’ll hurry up getting ready.”
Frankie waved a hand at him. “Oh, finish your coffee. It’s early yet. I’m just being
an eager beaver.”
Yes, he was, but Marcus doubted Frankie knew how much his enthusiasm meant to
the women he was selflessly giving his time to. Though as Marcus and Frankie came
through the main doors of the care center at eight, even Marcus was surprised at the
reception waiting for them.
Marcus had anticipated the women, but some of the men had arrived too, wanting to
see what was going on. Most notable, though, were the family members from the
community who stood behind the ladies with appointments—younger men and women
clutching their mothers’ and grandmothers’ shoulders. Some of them looked eager, but a
lot of them looked slightly wary, as if they weren’t sure they should trust whatever this
was that was going on.
If Frankie was surprised by it all, he didn’t say anything. He greeted everyone
cordially, going up to women he’d seen the day before and complimenting them, telling
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them they looked even more beautiful than he remembered. There was a moment of
tension when women who’d already had their turn insisted they needed touch-ups, but
Frankie smoothed that over, promising he’d teach the staff how to replicate some of his
tricks and that, weather permitting, he’d be back the next day as well. Waving, he
disappeared down the hall, turning down everyone’s help, even Marcus’s, promising he’d
be ready at nine.
Not sure what else there was to do, Marcus went into the dining hall to have
breakfast with his mother.
She did look lovely, and she smiled right away when she saw him, touching her hair
and blatantly fishing for compliments. While she had to ask several times what Frankie’s
name was, she remembered his service to her with a clarity that made Marcus feel warm
and relieved. She seemed aware too that she had been the first of the women to receive
Frankie’s highly prized services, and she enjoyed this fact immensely. In fact, she was so
caught up in her hair and makeup experience from the day before that she had to be
reminded, repeatedly, to eat.
By the time Mimi went back to her room, the salon had opened, and when Marcus
checked in on him, Frankie was in full swing. He spared Marcus a bright smile and wave,
but he didn’t miss a beat as he carried on his conversation with an almost miniature
woman suffering severe osteoporosis who sat in his chair, communication hampered
significantly by the fact that she could do little more than mumble. Frankie somehow
managed to make the incomprehensible sounds into conversation, and the woman’s eyes
shone with a light that grabbed at Marcus’s soul.
“Feel free to leave me here,” Frankie called to Marcus after apologizing to his client
as he turned away from her. “I have everything I need for the day, and they promised me
lunch. I mean, you can stay, but I figure this has to be pretty boring for you.”
Watching Frankie turn one of the most depressing places on Earth into a whirlwind
of joy was about as far from boring as Marcus could imagine, but he knew there was
likely plenty of work to be done in the rest of the town, so he nodded to Frankie and said
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he’d see him at noon. Maybe the care center had offered lunch, but Marcus intended to
bring him something far superior from the café.
That was where he headed after the care center, and he didn’t get to sit down before
he was given a job. The mayor looked like he’d had about three hours of sleep at best,
and he had a whiteboard propped up in the corner booth with a list of jobs for volunteers.
A lot of it was shoveling drives and sidewalks for the elderly and single mothers, so that
became Marcus’s morning, helping out with a few other guys, though he also sent a quick
text to Arthur and Paul, letting them know there was plenty in town to do for able hands.
One of the places Marcus ended up unburying was what he and Arthur and Paul
loosely referred to as the Logan Projects: the old brick schoolhouse some do-gooder had
converted into apartments twenty years before with a grant for historical buildings.
Dependent on the city for upkeep, it rarely received any, and it had become the lowest
rent place in town. As a result, it was a hotbed for meth labs, theft and domestic violence.
Its residents were among the most downtrodden in the county, and even when they
weren’t drug addicts and thieves, they tended to be angry, judgmental and eager for easy
targets. Marcus assumed he was going to be called faggot before the job was done and
had resigned himself to the fact.
He did think he heard a few catcalls out of one of the windows, but to his surprise
one of the residents, a weary young man Marcus thought he’d seen on a mill job once,
came out with a chipped plastic shovel to help. The man ended up working alongside
Marcus, and after half an hour’s quiet, he spoke.
“So,” the man began when they took a break for water. He leaned on the handle of
his shovel as he squinted at Marcus through the now-only-faintly-blowing snow. “Hear
that next storm is due tomorrow afternoon. Could be twice as bad as this one was.”
Marcus nodded, having seen the same forecast on his phone that morning. No way
the town was getting its power back by then, meaning a lot more people were going to
suffer, and all he could think about was how glad he was that Frankie would be staying
longer. “Figure that’s why the mayor’s in such a panic.”
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“State’s due to send the Guard up with two tankers and a shit ton of food. Should be
here by the afternoon.” He pushed back the rolled brim of his stocking cap. It was one of
the church ladies’ hand-knit ones, and it was well-worn, sporting a few holes. “Word is
you have some fancy Minnesota hairdresser stuck at your place.”
Marcus nodded, remembering exactly now who this guy was. His working partner
was Carl Felderman, one of the loggers like he’d thought. Carl was about ten years
Marcus’s junior, another local who had left and come back, though there was a lot of
mystery around the reasons for his return. He had a new wife and a little boy and another
kid on the way and no money at all. Some people speculated if they were both his kids.
None of that mattered, not really, but when the guy was asking about Frankie, everything
seemed to.
“Heard he’s been at the care center the last few days, doing all the old ladies up
fancy. Not taking any money, even when people try to pay him. Everybody’s talking
about it.”
Marcus met Carl’s gaze. “That’s true.”
“Thing is, my wife—” Carl shifted his feet in the snow, then grimaced and shook his
head. “Nah. Forget I said anything.”
Something at the edge of Carl’s tone melted Marcus, and he eased his posture. “Go
ahead.”
Carl looked trapped and miserable. “She’s been real down. Baby’s due any day, and
she’s big as a house and real unhappy. She’s always carrying on about how ugly she is,
and she isn’t, but—” He cut himself off and almost glowered. “No. Just forget it, really.”
When Marcus started to protest, he held up a hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m not thinking,
because of course he don’t have time, and I don’t got any money extra for that. Not with
what somebody from Minneapolis would charge, and not with Christmas and the baby
coming. And don’t say he would do it for nothing, because Cindy ain’t no old lady in the
home, so it’s not the same. I don’t even know why I said anything.”
Marcus did. Frankie was spinning miracles, and Carl wanted to give a little of that
sparkle to his wife. Empathy tugged at him, but a full comprehension of North Woods
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pride, not to mention his own prejudice given what he knew or suspected about Carl, kept
him in check. The awkward silence between them now was heavy, though, so Marcus
decided to diffuse it sideways. “He really is something to see. I half-wished I needed
coloring and makeup so I could sit in the chair.”
Carl laughed and shook his head. “Cindy’s pretty with no makeup and a T-shirt. She
never thinks so though, and she’s never happier than when she comes home from the Cut
’N’ Curl. She pours over all them pictures too before she goes, talking about highlights
and such.”
Marcus could relate. “This all started because my mom wanted her hair colored. I
feel bad, because she’s been saying that for months, but I figured she’s in the nursing
home, why bother? If I’d known how much happier it was going to make her, I’d have
done it before she said anything.”
“It’s just hard, you know? It’s all so expensive, and up here, we don’t make shit for
pay.” Carl grimaced and started shoveling again. “I’d send Cindy to a spa every day if I
could, but I can’t afford that. Shit, not like we even have one. That Cut ’N’ Curl is such a
damn dive.” He aimed the shovel at the stairs, where broken toys lay as half-covered
lumps under the ice and snow. “Suppose we should clear those next, huh?”
The conversation drifted off hair after that, but Marcus kept thinking about Carl’s
wife and how much Carl wanted to give her something special. Yes, maybe Carl was
from the place in town most likely to house the kind of people Frankie feared, but every
instinct Marcus had told him Carl and Cindy weren’t those kinds of people. Or maybe
he’d been sucked up in the nostalgia too. He felt torn wanting to do something to help a
miserable young man and protecting his lover. After a lot of mental wrestling, though,
Marcus gave in. When they headed back to their snowmobiles to return to the café,
Marcus said, “You know, it wouldn’t hurt for me to ask him.”
Carl considered this a moment, then nodded curtly. “I’ll give you my cell number.
Just don’t worry if he says no. I won’t tell her anything unless it works out.”
Feeling like he’d done his duty, Marcus left it at that.
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The café was bustling as they returned, and it took him half an hour to get his order
for himself and Frankie to go. Arthur and Paul were there, on their own break from
delivering meals from the church to shut-ins. They were eager to hear all about Frankie’s
exploits and were almost annoyed that gossip in the café had more intel than Marcus did.
Frankie wasn’t all anyone was talking about, but he was a hot topic. Certainly a big-
city hairdresser donating charitable services to the town’s elderly population was a heart-
tugger, but that he did his task with such enthusiasm and care had everyone abuzz as
well. One emotional woman who’d just come from Logan Manor and seen Frankie at
work kept wiping her eyes and calling him a Christmas miracle. On December sixth that
felt like a bit of a stretch, but it was a good story and one Logan as a whole seemed to be
very attached to.
Not once, not a single time, did anyone mention that Frankie was probably the most
obviously gay man outside of a sitcom cliché.
All this swam inside Marcus’s head as he headed back to the center with their lunch,
where at first he worried Frankie had already eaten, but he needn’t have worried, as
Frankie’s lineup was even deeper now than it had been upon his arrival. His plate of food
from the cafeteria was untouched after an hour’s wait, and while Frankie still looked
buoyant, he also looked wilted.
Marcus spoke—somewhat harshly—to the manager, and shortly thereafter the doors
of the salon were closed and he and Frankie sat together inside, Marcus nudging him to
eat in between his rapid-fire recitation of the morning’s report.
“They’re all so sweet, Marcus. So sweet. Nobody’s ever appreciated what I do quite
so much and I hate to stop, even for a minute.” He bit into his chicken BLT and groaned.
“Oh my God, this is amazing.”
The food was cold from the ride over and slightly squashed, but Marcus had a
feeling a half-rotten baloney sandwich would taste good to Frankie right now, he was
flying so high. Marcus smiled and nudged the thermos between them. “This is tea. Not
your fancy stuff from the cabin, but it’s hot and fresh.”
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Frankie nodded absently, staring at the salon mirror as he chewed. “I don’t know if
it’s the storm or the weirdness of being so out of my element or what, but—” He shook
his head. “I feel popular, that’s what it is. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before.”
“You’re giving something special to a lot of people no one usually cares too much
about. That makes you pretty sought-after in a small town like this.”
“I’m just doing hair.”
“You’re smiling and treating old women kindly and not acting like they’re in death’s
waiting room. Hell, Frankie, I watch you working with them, I see how little kindness it
costs to make them happy, and I feel guilty I haven’t taken more time to visit residents
other than my mother. You’re doing a good thing. A really good thing.” He twined their
fingers together. “I’m going to be the big asshole that takes you away at six, but I can live
with that. You’re going to be dead on your feet tonight.”
Frankie’s smile turned wicked. “Oh, not that dead.” Laughing, he bussed a kiss
against Marcus’s lips. “I’m having so much fun. Is it okay if I come back tomorrow?”
Some of his smile died. “I don’t want to take time away from us, but…”
Every time Marcus thought about Frankie leaving, his gut knotted. He stroked his
lover’s cheek. “Storm’s supposed to blow through again in the afternoon, so we’ll
probably have Sunday and Monday to ourselves again.”
Frankie leaned into Marcus’s touch. “I suppose I should call work and update them.
God, but Robbie is going to be pissed.” Marcus’s hand slipped down to Frankie’s neck,
massaging a tight line of muscle with his thumb. Frankie melted on contact, making a
soft moan. “That feels so good.”
Rising, Marcus moved behind Frankie’s chair and took up his massage in earnest.
“Are you going to be in trouble?” Tightness in his chest tried to keep the next words
down, but he pushed past them. “Because the roads are supposed to be plowed tonight. If
you wanted—” He swallowed hard. “I could get you back.”
In the mirror, Marcus could see all the joy leaving Frankie’s face. “Leave? Tonight?”
That despair fueled Marcus’s already eager need to backpedal. “It’d be rough going,
and we might have to turn back around, but we could try.”
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Frankie met Marcus’s gaze in the glass, his eyes haunted and sad. “I don’t want to
leave tonight. I’m not ready.”
“Okay. We’ll stay then.” Marcus resumed his massage. “It’s likely safer that way.”
Frankie didn’t relax, though, and after a few minutes of silence he whispered, “I
don’t want to go at all.”
Marcus stopped moving.
Frankie tensed back up and shook his head. “Silly, isn’t it? I keep telling myself
that.”
If it was silly, then color Marcus a fool, because he wanted that too. He opened his
mouth a few times to try and speak, but fear got the better of him, and he didn’t. He just
kept up his massage, loving the excuse to touch.
Frankie relaxed back into his hands. “This next storm—will it be the same as the
first?”
“This one’s Canadian through and through. Sharp winds, four to five inches of new
accumulation tops, but the blizzard conditions will be back as strong as ever. Mostly it’s
slowing down recovery time. Without the first storm, it’d be a blip, but it’s kicking us
when we’re down.” He shifted his hands to Frankie’s shoulder blades. “Last I heard when
I left the café, the tanker was headed into town, right behind the first pass of the plow.”
“How’s my car?” Frankie asked, his voice a little slurred from the massage.
“Still waiting for the belt. Though it’s only coming from Eveleth, so it might make it
here tomorrow morning.”
Frankie leaned his head back, looking upside down at Marcus with soft, vulnerable
eyes. “I don’t want to go,” he whispered.
Marcus couldn’t speak. He lifted a hand to stroke Frankie’s face.
“Tell me I’m being ridiculous.” Frankie swallowed hard and reached up too, his
fingers tangling in Marcus’s beard. “Tell me I’m silly, that this wouldn’t ever work. Tell
me I have a good job in the Cities, that I’m afraid of small towns and there’s no way this
kind of reception can last, not here. Tell me I should enjoy the time I have and stop trying
to make an aberration into reality.”
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Marcus would do no such thing. He couldn’t say that, but neither could he say what
kept banging at the back of his lips. Stay, he wanted to tell Frankie. Stay in Logan. Live in
the cabin with me. Run your own salon. Work at the care center. Do anything you want,
just do it here. He couldn’t say any of that, because Frankie was right. This was an
aberration. No way someone like Frankie could stay happy in Logan.
He couldn’t say anything, so Marcus bent over and brushed a kiss across Frankie’s
lips. Then another, and another, until finally he stood, trailed his hand along Frankie’s
nape and cleared his throat. “If we don’t let them back in soon, there’ll likely be a riot,
and in a nursing home, I can’t imagine that stays pretty very long.”
Frankie laughed, but there was a sadness about him now, and it cut at Marcus all the
way back to the café.
The afternoon went by fast, not leaving him a lot of mental room to wish he’d dared
to say what he felt. A pipe had burst in the same apartment building he’d been shoveling
out, and all the residents had to be moved to the church, which was getting full fast. The
mayor looked more haggard than ever when the other volunteers came back to the café,
but when he spied Marcus, he crossed the room and pulled him aside.
“I heard about your friend, the hairstylist. Very kind of him.”
Marcus nodded. “Sure. He seems to be having a great time too.”
“He’s not planning on heading out with the plow, is he?” The mayor shifted on his
feet and averted his gaze. “Hate to ask for a favor, but my mother lives with me, you
know. By rights she should be in the home, but my wife says she doesn’t mind caring for
her.”
Marcus smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He went to pick up Frankie after that, heading over a little early, but he was glad he
had because Frankie looked tired, so much so that he texted Arthur and Paul and told
them they were headed home instead of back to the café. Maybe Frankie would have
enjoyed the attention, but he needed to put his feet up more. In fact, once the wood stove
was stoked and the chili heating on top of it, Marcus tucked Frankie into one corner of
the couch and put himself on the other end so he could give him a foot rub.
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“I called my boss,” Frankie said as he snuggled under the blanket and flexed his toes
against Marcus’s fingers.
“What did he say?”
Frankie sighed. “Not much. He’s pissed, like I thought.”
Marcus said nothing, only kept up the massage.
“I called my roommates too. After talking to Robbie, I felt like I should ask you to
take me back tonight after all, but Josh read me the riot act and told me not to leave until
it was daylight and the roads were one hundred percent clean. I guess there was a horrible
accident north of Duluth the night I got lost and ended up here, with a semi and three
cars, and seven people died. He said the pictures in the paper showed blood all over the
road, like when someone hits a deer except you knew it was people.” He shifted so that
he lay in Marcus’s arms. “That could have been me. If I hadn’t gone in the ditch, if I’d
have tried to get to my parents’ place, I’d have been in that mess, maybe.”
Marcus pulled him closer and kissed his jaw.
Frankie turned into the kiss and found his mouth.
It didn’t take much for their hands to brush against each other, and soon they were
pushing at clothes, seeking skin. “Dinner’ll be ready soon,” Marcus murmured, slipping
his hands under Frankie’s waistband.
Frankie slid to the floor and parted Marcus’s knees. “Food can wait,” he said, and
undid the zipper to Marcus’s jeans.
When Frankie took him in his mouth, Marcus tipped his head back and let go,
surrendering not just to the erotic attentions but to the feeling that had been trying to
explode out of his chest all day. He acknowledged it, held it back, but as he looked down
and saw Frankie smiling up at him around his cock, bright-eyed, beautiful and sexy as
hell, Marcus gave in completely.
I love you, he cried inside his head as he came in Frankie’s mouth. I love you, I’m so
glad you crashed your car, and I want you to stay.
UUL
Chapter Thirteen
On Saturday morning as the four of them had their breakfast and planned out their
day, Marcus told Frankie about the mayor’s mother and the pregnant woman who wanted
her hair done. Frankie said absolutely, but when he caught Marcus’s frown, he paused.
“Is there a catch here or something? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Marcus rubbed at his jaw. “Carl and his wife live over at the old schoolhouse.”
Arthur put down his spoon and grimaced. “Oh hell, Marcus. No.”
Frankie glanced back and forth between them. “What? Why is the schoolhouse bad?”
“Because it’s one big fucking meth lab, that’s why.” Paul set down his coffee and
fixed his gaze on Marcus. “You can’t take him there.”
Marcus knew that, yet he couldn’t get the sad young man out of his mind. “Thing is,
Carl’s a good guy.”
Arthur grunted. “I’ve heard plenty of rumors about his wife, though.”
Marcus began to wish he’d brought this up with the boys in private first. “Well, if
it’s a bad idea, then forget it. He just seemed like a nice kid.”
“He is.” Arthur poked at his oatmeal again. “What kind of mess he has himself in
exactly, I don’t know. But this is a viper’s nest best left alone.”
“Wait a minute,” Frankie said, his own breakfast abandoned now. He seemed
troubled. “So why is it I can’t do this woman’s hair? I’m not following you. Because you
think she’s sleeping around?”
Marcus sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “No. It’s— Well, it’s complicated.”
“Well, how is it complicated?” Frankie demanded.
“Because the old schoolhouse apartments don’t have anybody decent in them, that’s
why.” Arthur’s voice was sharp.
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“Except for this Carl.” Frankie turned to Marcus. “Why can’t his wife come to the
care center?”
That was a good thought, actually, except that now Marcus worried about what this
Cindy was like. “I don’t know if it’s legal.”
Frankie gave him a look. “It’s hair, not open-heart surgery. Come on, Marcus. You
brought this up for a reason. Why don’t you at least let me call the guy? See what he
says?”
In the end that’s what happened, because Frankie was insistent. He wouldn’t let
Marcus or anyone else listen in, either, and so while Frankie was up in the loft making his
call, Arthur gave Marcus hell.
“What the fuck were you thinking? You want him to stay, this ain’t the way to go
about it.”
Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know. The kid got to me, is all.”
“Leave it to you to go from grumpy bastard to big softy just from getting laid a few
times.”
“I know.” Marcus’s stomach knotted. Why hadn’t he thought about this? Because
Arthur was right, Marcus had been hoping Frankie would stay. Somehow this had been
part of his bright idea, having him do Cindy’s hair, and now it was all backfiring on him.
“Fucking hell. You’re in love with him.” Arthur gripped Marcus’s shoulder. “Don’t
act like your dog died. We’ll watch him, all right? We’ll make this work.”
Marcus nodded, though he still felt grim. “What’s the status on the storm?”
“Due to hit tonight, shortly after dark.”
Frankie appeared on the stairs, face flushed, looking defiant. His gaze met Marcus’s.
“I’m doing Cindy’s hair,” he declared.
“Okay,” Marcus agreed, waiting for the rest.
“I’m going over to her apartment,” Frankie finished, color rising, but his chin too.
“Apparently she’s nervous, and I’m going to convince her it’s okay.”
Marcus simply nodded as Arthur swore. He hoped like hell this wasn’t the biggest
mistake he’d ever made.
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Frankie couldn’t explain why he wanted to cut Cindy’s hair. Probably he should
have had Carl bring her over to Logan Manor, but the thing was, Frankie could tell it
would be better for Cindy to get her cut at home, between the other child and the
pregnancy.
The biggest reason Frankie wanted to go over to the apartment, though, was that he
wanted—maybe needed—to see this horrible apartment building for himself.
He wasn’t an idiot. He could tell the others were trying to keep him away because
going there was like painting FAG on his forehead and going into a gay-basher’s club
meeting. The apartment building would be everything he feared about small towns
concentrated, distilled and made volatile by a snowstorm. It was reality in a way that
everything about Logan so far hadn’t been. Which was exactly why Frankie wanted to go
there.
The apartment building was the element which, if Frankie followed through on his
secret desire to live in Logan, he would ultimately have to face. He wanted to face it now
while he was flying high from the care center, when he wanted to stay so much he was
ready to go to the Cut ’N’ Curl owner and see if she had a chair available for him to rent.
He needed some reality fast, and if there was a way to double-check his Christmas
miracle, Cindy Felderman was it.
Logan was starting to feel like a fairy tale, and it was making Frankie want things he
knew he shouldn’t even dream about. He wanted an old-timey Hollywood orchestra and
choir to sing “O Holy Night” in the background while Marcus got down on one knee,
declared his undying devotion and determination to carry Frankie off to a log cabin in the
clouds, and the more things went well, the more part of him expected that to happen.
He’d lain awake the night before, sated from sex with Marcus’s big arms around him,
fantasizing variations on his own personal Christmas movie where everything worked out
and everyone lived happily ever after. He wanted to call Robbie and tell him he wasn’t
coming back. Everything felt so good, and he never wanted it to stop.
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He’d told this to Andy, whom he’d called from the privacy of the loft before calling
Carl, and Andy had injected cold reality like none other.
“You’re crazy. You can’t stay up there just because you’ve had some great
backwoods bear sex,” Andy had argued. “They’re being nice to you because you’re an
aberration. You try becoming a local, you and your everyday gay-pride parade, and
they’ll turn on you so fast you won’t see the baseball bat coming before it hits the back of
your head.”
“They don’t seem like that,” Frankie had argued back. “They seem different. They
seem nice.”
“Right, which is why this is so serious. I say go over to this apartment from hell and
see Logan, Minnesota’s true colors. Frankie, nobody is more paranoid and freaked out
about Small Town USA than you, and your small town wasn’t even that small. Your love
hangover is affecting your common sense.”
That was how, for better or for worse, Frankie had ended up on the back of Marcus’s
snowmobile, heading into the bad part of town with his shears in his bag and butterflies
in his stomach.
The old schoolhouse apartments turned out to be just as grim and depressing as
advertised. It was the same kind of turn-of-the-century brick building Frankie had
attended elementary in, except his building had been regularly maintained, and this one
looked like it was held together by dumb luck and duct tape. Half the stairs had fallen
away, though the front entrance was boarded up so it hardly mattered. Residents came
and went via a side door, also with stairs, these one of those concrete pre-fab things
Frankie had seen at Home Depot when he and the guys had been on a budget decorating
spree after too much HGTV. The parking lot sported very old, very rusty cars and trucks,
several up on blocks instead of tires. The windows were the kind that used to be big and
bright but had long ago been mostly boarded up and replaced with tiny windows that
resulted in the building looking half-lidded and sad.
Arthur and Paul had insisted on coming too, and they worried over some exposed
piping they found under the stairs once they’d all piled into the hallway. The hallway that
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stank of dog shit, sweat and something unnamable and sad, though at the moment it was
all dulled by the freezing temperatures. Which was, apparently, the concern for the pipes.
Left uninsulated, they were in danger of freezing and shutting the whole building down.
As he and Marcus climbed the stairs to 3B, Carl and Cindy’s apartment, Frankie
wondered if letting the place get condemned wouldn’t be a blessing.
“Marcus?” Arthur called up to them. “You got a second?”
“Let me get Frankie settled, and I’ll be right down,” he called back.
Frankie had to admit he was glad Marcus didn’t abandon him. Someone was yelling
in the apartment across the hall from Carl’s, so Frankie knocked timidly, not wanting
them to mistake which door had a visitor. Carl answered on the second knock, looking
weary and cold but grateful.
“You must be Frankie.” Extending his hand, he nodded hello to Marcus. “Hey.”
Marcus nodded back then gestured at the stairs. “The guys and I are going to check
on the pipes.” He turned to Frankie. “You okay?”
No, Frankie wasn’t, but he lied and forced a smile. “No problem. You go on, I’ll be
right here.”
Marcus headed back down the stairs, and Carl smiled wearily at Frankie. “Come on
in. I can’t offer you coffee because the power’s still off, but we have water.”
“Thank you, I’m fine.” Frankie stepped out of his boots and left them in the hall, not
wanting to track snow inside, but as soon as the door closed behind him, he wondered
why he’d bothered. Something brushed Frankie’s ankles, and he looked down to see a
young boy with only four visible teeth beaming up at him, wrapped in his snowsuit and
holding up a broken plastic truck.
Carl picked up the child, ignoring his son’s complaints and attempts to wiggle free.
“This is Jimmy. Don’t mind him—I’ll keep him occupied and out of your way. Cindy’s
back in the bedroom. We tried to set up a work area for you.”
It was cold in the apartment—incredibly so, and Frankie wondered how in the hell
he’d cut hair with his hands as numb as they were likely to be as soon as he took them out
of his gloves. The whole adventure seemed like it would be a mistake, and as he rounded
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the corner to the bedroom as directed, he tried to figure out a way to extricate himself
from the situation.
Then he saw Cindy Felderman, and all his thoughts of leaving fled.
She was so small. Carl wasn’t exactly Marcus-sized, but he was a mountain next to
little Cindy, who even with her belly swollen enough to hide three watermelons wasn’t
big enough to be medium-sized. Frail, swathed in blankets, her red cheeks sunken—well,
she might as well have been in an ad out of those gut-wrenching Save the Children!
mailers. Her hair was matted, greasy and plastered to her head. She looked at Frankie,
unsure, tense, embarrassed—defeated. She was a perfect picture of misery.
Frankie tried not to let his nerves show. “Hi there. I’m Frankie.”
He failed, clearly, given the way she averted her eyes and further stiffened her
posture. “I know I look awful. I told Carl this was a stupid idea.”
Frankie came closer to the bed—carefully, as the floor was strewn with dirty
laundry. “It’s a fantastic idea, I thought. The only trouble I just realized is we can’t wash
your hair without hot water, and I can’t cut your hair without it.” He glanced around the
room, then gave up and shook his head. “Honestly, Cindy, I think you need to go to the
church shelter until you get your power back. It’s freezing in here.”
“I don’t want them damn bitches judging me. They’re all so high and mighty, think
they know everything about me.” She snorted and wrapped her blanket tighter around
herself.
Having grown up going to one of those churches, Frankie knew exactly what she
meant. Still, she looked so miserable he felt like he should keep pushing. “You’re right,
they might judge you. Wouldn’t it be worth it, though, to swallow a little of their gossip
to be warm?”
Cindy’s expression only hardened. “They think I’m some whore. Maybe I wasn’t
great when I was younger, but they don’t know. They don’t know.” Cindy kept crying,
wiping her eyes on the blanket. “I’m so tired, and so cold.”
Frankie ached for her. He put down his bag and reached out for her. “I’m so sorry—”
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She slapped his hand away with enough force that the contact stung even through his
glove. “Go on, get out. Forget this.”
“Cindy—” he began, but she only slapped him again, and this time he drew back.
“Go,” she repeated, her voice unyielding. She waved her hand at the door. “This was
a stupid idea. Get out. I don’t want my hair done by no faggot.”
The slur caught Frankie up short, and for a moment he stood there, stunned,
uncertain, hurt.
“Get out,” she said again, and threw a pillow at him.
Frankie went. Grabbing his duffel, he stumbled over the pile of clothes and to the
door, where a red-faced Carl could not meet his gaze.
“Sorry,” Carl said, gruff and embarrassed, a whimpering toddler clinging to his leg.
“It’s okay,” Frankie lied, adding a smile in case his faking it was that obvious, but
when Carl still couldn’t look at him, Frankie gave up and wove his way back to the door.
His chest hurt, and his shoulders were tight, and he wanted out, out of the stinking,
freezing apartment, out of the building. This had been a stupid idea, just like Arthur had
said. He wanted out of there now.
In the hallway, he searched for his boots, ready to put them on and run like hell, but
he couldn’t find them. He knocked on the door to ask Carl if he’d pulled them inside, but
Carl shook his head and said no, he hadn’t. He also blushed and averted his gaze, and that
was when Frankie realized his boots hadn’t been moved. They’d been stolen.
True colors, Andy had said. If these were Logan’s, they certainly weren’t rainbow-
hued.
And why, exactly, had you thought they would be?
Faking one last smile, Frankie padded stocking-footed down the stairs, wincing as
his socks soaked through within seven steps. He could hear Marcus and the others
speaking on the first floor, and Frankie realized he’d have to confess that a pathetic
pregnant lady had called him a fag and turned him out, and that someone had stolen his
boots because he’d been polite and left them outside the door.
No. He didn’t belong in Logan at all.
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When Marcus found out someone had stolen Frankie’s shoes, he’d been shocked,
then embarrassed, then furious, and he’d wanted to go door-to-door, ready to smash
heads until the boots showed up. Frankie wouldn’t let him.
“I just want to leave.” He looked small and miserable and mortified, and Marcus
nodded, changing his mind and wanting to simply get Frankie out of there.
“I’ll carry you to the car,” he offered, gesturing to Frankie’s stocking feet. “We can
swing by Fleet Farm and get you some new boots.”
Hollering at Arthur and Paul, telling them to let the fucking pipes burst for all he
cared, Marcus swooped Frankie into his arms as he took him back to the truck.
“I shouldn’t have suggested this,” he said, grimacing as he trudged through the snow.
“This is all my fault.”
Frankie shook his head, leaning into Marcus’s shoulder. He hadn’t put on his
balaclava, so Frankie’s gently spiked hair nestled into Marcus’s neck. “No, I should have
had Carl bring her into the care center, or better yet listened when she said she didn’t
want my help. I was riding high and not thinking. I should have known better.”
Marcus hated the resignation in Frankie’s tone. “You still have the mayor’s mother
this afternoon. And as many old ladies as you want to see.”
Frankie nodded, but the light had left his mood.
At Fleet Farm, they picked out new boots for Frankie—sturdy ones that were truly
warm, not just the slight nod to snow cover that Frankie’s old ones had been. Frankie got
new socks as well, since his were soaked, and afterward Arthur drove them all to the café
for lunch.
“Don’t let them get to you,” Paul said as they waited for their order in a booth.
Frankie shrugged, keeping his gaze on his hands. “I’m used to it.”
Something about the resignation in Frankie made Marcus nervous. “That place isn’t
Logan. Nobody thinks that place is anything but full of trash.” I am so sorry I took you
there.
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“Cindy’s a miserable woman, and probably so is the jerk who stole my boots.”
Frankie looked out the window, his expression sad. “It’s the same in Saint Peter—we
have a lower income area too, and I should have known better. I just forgot is all.”
Marcus wanted Frankie to remember the good parts of Logan, but then their food
came, so he stopped trying to figure out how to cheer Frankie up. He’d work on him later,
he vowed.
The afternoon at Logan Manor helped a little, he was pretty sure, and the mayor’s
mother was as effusive as Mimi had been over Frankie’s styling job. The mayor thanked
Frankie with tears in his eyes and pressed, with great insistence, a hundred dollar bill into
Frankie’s hand. Frankie accepted it and smiled graciously, but Marcus couldn’t help but
notice the cloud that hung over his lover.
He made love to Frankie with a tenderness he didn’t know he had in him, trying to
soothe the injury of the schoolhouse apartments, trying to rekindle the magic that had
carried them this far. Maybe he managed to erase some of it, but the truth was that even
as they spooned together after, Marcus knew something fundamental had changed. He
didn’t like it, and he didn’t know how to change it. He told himself he’d start again
tomorrow, grateful for the first time in his life for the promise of a blizzard.
Except when he woke in the morning and went to the window, he found fate had
another blow in store for him. It hadn’t snowed. At all. And as he watched out the
window, staring in disbelief, he saw a county plow go by on the road, an electrical truck
behind it.
There was no blizzard. There was no more time to make up for the disaster at the
apartments.
There was no reason for Frankie not to go home.
Chapter Fourteen
“It doesn’t gotta be the end of the world,” Arthur said to Marcus when Frankie had
disappeared into the shower. “Maybe he’s leaving, but it doesn’t have to mean things are
over.”
Marcus failed to see how it meant anything but that. Frankie was leaving—first thing
Monday morning. Jed had called, letting them know Frankie’s Festiva was ready to roll.
Marcus grimaced and shook his head. “How’s that supposed to work? We talk on the
phone? See each other on the weekends?”
“Maybe to start. You try it out, see how it goes.”
“And then what? I go back to the city? I don’t want to. And he doesn’t want to come
here.” Marcus ran his hand over his beard, pulling on it and feeling lost and sad. “I
shouldn’t have taken him to Cindy. That’s where it went bad.”
“If he’s scared of one bad apartment building, you were never going to make it
anyway.”
“We were never going to make it, period.”
Arthur slugged Marcus lightly—but meaningfully—on the arm. “Stop it. We just got
you out of your Oscar the Grouch routine. Don’t slip back in yet.”
Marcus knew when Frankie left he was going to explore whole new levels of misery.
“It was only the snow. It was the snow and the blizzard and the way everything was out
of its usual time. It was never going to work.”
“Bullshit.” Arthur put himself squarely in front of Marcus, making their eyes meet.
“If that’s true, then what the fuck are you doing here? You have a goddamned law
degree. You have several degrees. You’re smarter than shit, you could do about anything
you want, but you’re dragging logs. You want to talk about aberrations? You, Marcus,
you back in Logan? That’s an aberration.”
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“I’m here for my mom.”
“Bull. Shit. You’re here to hide. To hide from your life, to feel bad that you aren’t
happy and to say goodbye.” Arthur pointed at the bathroom. “That. That boy right in
there—he’s life again for you. And if you don’t grab him with both hands and hold on,
I’m going to kick your ass so hard you’ll have to shit my boot out.”
Marcus felt the insulation peeling off the surface of his life. “What if it doesn’t
work? What if I do this, Arthur, and I just end up alone and fucked over again?”
“No way Frankie’s gonna fuck you over. Not like Steve—not a chance in hell.”
“But it might not work.”
“That’s true. It might not work. But it might work too.” Arthur put a hand on
Marcus’s shoulder. “And if it doesn’t, I’ll be right here for you, buddy, just like always,
and so will Paul.”
Marcus couldn’t say anything, so he reached up and squeezed Arthur’s hand.
Now that Marcus knew it was the last day with Frankie, he didn’t want to share him,
but he could hardly complain when Frankie asked to stop by the care center. The four of
them went into town together, and Marcus watched patiently as Frankie accepted love
and affection from his many admirers, but he felt a tug at his heart as Frankie had to
firmly turn down requests for any new appointments.
They spent a good half hour with Mimi, and her hair Frankie did touch up, though it
was bittersweet because she was having a bad morning and could barely remember
Marcus, let alone Frankie. While this clearly upset Frankie a little, he took it in stride,
reintroducing himself and focusing on “doing her up pretty” as he put it. She enjoyed
that, but Marcus could tell it made Frankie sad to realize Mimi wouldn’t remember him
stopping by, and in a few days she wouldn’t know she’d met him at all.
“There isn’t much she holds on to now,” Marcus explained as Arthur drove them
back to the cabin. They sat together in the backseat, even though it meant he was
squashed and turned sideways. He held Frankie’s hand, gently stroking the back of his
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knuckles with his thumb. “She’s actually doing remarkably well given how far the
disease has progressed. They tell me in a few months it’s going to be a struggle for her to
remember me at all. If it doesn’t take her completely by next Christmas, this will still be
the last one when she’ll be able to remember anything.”
“That’s so sad.” Frankie turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together. “How do
you stand it? I’d be a hot mess every day.”
Marcus shrugged. “I muddle through, mostly. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve gone
through my share and then some of angry. I hated that I wasted so much time away from
her. So now I visit her every day as much as that’s possible, and I take what I can get.”
Frankie splayed his fingers inside of Marcus’s grip, his gaze focused on their joined
hands.
They stopped at the gas station that doubled as a mini general store on the south side
of town before heading home, because Arthur declared Frankie wasn’t going anywhere
without a cell phone. Marcus agreed, and he went one step further and bought the phone
himself. It was a no-contract, pay-by-the-minutes phone, but he got one that had web
capability and added a generous number of calling minutes and texting. It was the same
one he had, so he knew it would get signal coverage in the North Woods as well as in the
city. Before he handed it over, he programmed in his number, Arthur’s, Paul’s, the café’s,
and even the logging company’s and the care center’s.
“You didn’t have to buy that,” Frankie said, but Marcus could tell the gesture had
touched him.
It felt like a good start.
After that, they headed back to the cabin, where a quick test showed the power was
back. The wood stove was retired and the furnace turned on, and Paul declared he was
making calzones and a big fat salad in honor of having full access to his usual stove
again. Frankie and Marcus helped him while Arthur went back into town for the greens,
and when Arthur returned, he had news of the logging mill.
“Opening back up tomorrow,” he declared. “Which is good, because I sure as hell
could use a paycheck before Christmas.”
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“So.” Paul nudged Frankie with his elbow as they worked together at the counter,
filling the rolled-out dough. “You coming back up to see us for the holidays?”
Frankie blushed and glanced at Marcus. His face was a riot of emotions, hope, nerves
and caution all trying to hide behind a rather thin mask of coolness. “Sure. I have to
check what being gone did to the schedule. Originally I had vacation booked, but I might
have to give it up now.” He frowned as he folded up the calzone dough and pressed the
edges together. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I had a few days with my family planned.
Hmm. I might only have Christmas Day off now.”
“You’re welcome here for the holiday,” Paul said.
Frankie faltered, and Marcus realized the problem. “He’ll want to go to his parents’
on Christmas Day.”
Paul shrugged. “Weekend before then.”
Frankie smiled, the gesture a little strained, and Marcus’s gut started to knot.
Coming up on the weekend before meant driving up to northern Minnesota twice.
That was gas money Frankie didn’t have, and this said nothing about the weather. He
could go down and pick up Frankie, or better yet just be the one to do the visiting. But
they were talking a day or two here and there at best. A visit a month, and then only when
the weather held.
Still, Marcus couldn’t help but wonder where it all was headed. Would he really go
back to the Cities? Could he do that? Even if he didn’t practice law, what would he do?
Take some other white-collar job? The whole point of leaving the business world was to
get out of that rat race. He’d open up a law practice here first, or take the logging
company up on the managerial position it had offered him more than once. Hell, he’d do
PR work or sales for the logging company before he’d go back to the city.
Was it shitty of him that he’d give up a potential relationship to stay out of the city?
Awful as that would be, the idea of going back into that headache seemed worse. Living
in a small town, putting up with the shit people would flip at him, was the same kind of
deal-breaker for Frankie.
Why were they even bothering to try?
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He felt Frankie’s eyes on him all through dinner, and when Arthur volunteered to
help Paul with the dishes, Frankie caught Marcus and pulled him aside.
“Something’s wrong. You’ve been upset all afternoon, and I can tell it has something
to do with me.” When Marcus started to deny this, Frankie poked him in the belly.
“Don’t tell me it isn’t. You’ve been running your grouch routine hard ever since Paul
asked me about coming up for Christmas. The thing is, I hadn’t even said I wasn’t
coming, so I don’t understand why that made you upset.”
Marcus grimaced and looked away. “Frankie, I can tell this is no good. It’s never
going to work.”
Frankie drew back, surprised. “What won’t work? Us? Why?”
Marcus gestured at the cabin. “You don’t want this, living up north, and I can’t
imagine living back in the city.”
“Yes, but that’s what we think now. Maybe things will change.”
Marcus’s gut twisted. “I know I won’t. I can’t. And if I won’t change, I can’t ask you
to either.”
He kept waiting for Frankie to get it, to maybe become sad and resigned, but all he
did was get mad. “Why can’t you? That doesn’t make any sense. Anyway, I’d think that’s
my decision.”
“You can’t move up here. You’d never be happy.”
Forget mad. Frankie was pissed. “Oh, now I can’t move up here. I see.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Marcus said, trying to backpedal.
“It’s what you said.” Frankie put his hands on his hips and leaned in to Marcus. “If
you don’t want to try, come out and say it. Don’t hide behind this faux nobility where
you’re cutting us off now because it’s the right thing to do. Either you don’t want me, or
you’re a big fat chicken, which if that’s the case, it’s the height of irony because being a
big fat chicken is my job.”
“I do want you.” How the hell had this gone so badly?
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“So it’s fear then.” Frankie crossed his arms over his chest, but his hard tone began
to crack. “I suppose you’re right. If I’m the brave one in this relationship, we’re totally
fucked.”
Shit. Marcus reached for him, and when Frankie pulled his shoulder away from the
touch, Marcus’s heart broke. Aching, panicked and confused, Marcus grabbed his coat
and headed outside so he could think.
Even the fresh air didn’t clear him, though, and eventually he went back inside.
“Don’t,” Marcus said before Arthur could start on his lecture. “I don’t need you
yelling at me on top of everything else.”
Arthur didn’t so much as bat an eye. “You’re fucking this up, buddy. You’ve got a
good thing here, best I’ve ever seen you with, and you’re fucking it up on purpose.”
“It’s not going to work,” Marcus insisted.
Arthur snorted. “Not with that attitude, it won’t.”
He turned away. Paul glared at him from the couch, and Frankie wouldn’t look at
him.
Hell. Marcus wished he’d have just stayed the fuck outside.
Chapter Fifteen
When Marcus had gone outside instead of staying and fighting for them, Frankie
knew it was over. He’d cried, let Paul and Arthur comfort him and done his best to start
moving on. He wished he’d gone home when he’d had the chance, and he vowed it was
the first thing he was doing in the morning. To that end, he got himself packed and ready
to go. At first light, he’d put Logan, Minnesota and everything here behind him for good.
He was staying the night, and he’d be sleeping next to Marcus, but under no
circumstances was he having goodbye sex. He told himself this over and over and over.
He got into bed before Marcus even came over from the kitchen, pulled the blanket up
high and shut his eyes. He tried really hard to go to sleep.
He felt Marcus’s hand on his shoulder, his heart lurched, and he rolled onto his back,
ready to be firm.
Frankie took one look at Marcus’s sad eyes, his beautiful face, the face he was about
to never see again, and Frankie caved in so fast there was nothing left of his resolve but
fine dust.
Their kiss was hard, their hands insistent as they pushed away bedding and clothes in
their desperate need to come together one last time. Frankie trailed his mouth across
Marcus’s jaw, nuzzling into his beard, inhaling the scent of him and burning it into his
memory. Marcus bent to kiss Frankie’s belly, and Frankie arched into him, sliding so
easily into the space Marcus always made for him when they made love.
Made love—it truly was love, Frankie realized, his last rational thought before
Marcus’s mouth closed over his cock. He was in love with Marcus, and leaving him was
going to kill him.
Would it kill Marcus too?
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He drew Marcus’s mouth back up to his and kissed him, pouring himself into his
lover. He ached to feel Marcus yield to him, to feel those weather-worn hands clutch so
desperately at him. The last hours of their time together slipped away like grains of sand,
and he cursed himself for not locking them up in the cabin and doing nothing but
drinking each other in, making the most of what little time they had.
Except deep down he knew that even if they’d spent the entire week making love, it
wouldn’t have been enough. There was no way he could get enough of Marcus.
Frankie tugged and pulled at Marcus’s clothes until he was naked, then made quick
work of his own. He stroked Marcus’s back, his hip, the curve of his buttock, his fingers
grazing the furry line of his cleft. Marcus shook in Frankie’s embrace, his thighs parting
to silently encourage Frankie’s touch lower.
Shutting his eyes, Frankie slid his fingers lower, seeking. Testing. Teasing against
Marcus’s hole.
With a soft groan, Marcus shifted so he could open himself more, his anus flexing in
silent, desperate invitation.
It felt like a dream to Frankie—reaching for the lube, slicking his fingers and
working them inside Marcus’s eager opening. The tight heat thrilled him, the thought of
pressing his cock inside that close, intimate space erasing his self-consciousness of never
having done this before. By the time he had two fingers thrusting deep, his whole body
was taut and ready to follow them inside.
“I want you.” He caught Marcus’s mouth in a sensual kiss and pushed his fingers in
to the last knuckle. “I want to be inside you.”
Marcus gripped Frankie’s shoulders, strong and yielding all at once. It was amazing.
“I want you there. So much.”
They kissed a little longer, but then Frankie had Marcus get on his knees and hold
the back of the couch. He knelt behind and admired the view: Marcus spread open,
waiting, almost shaking with his need. The sight undid Frankie, filling him with lust and
love and sorrow.
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I can’t leave this. I can’t leave him. Yet he knew Marcus was right. How could he
stay?
Frankie kissed Marcus’s cheeks, first one and then the other. He slipped on a
condom, worked Marcus wider with his fingers, then lined himself up. He stared at the
sight of his cock ready to spear the finest, most sensual ass he’d ever known. Marcus
quivered, and he stroked his spine in reassurance.
He pushed inside, and he knew he was home.
Frankie went as slow as he could, but Marcus felt so good, so amazing, so hot and
tight and right that he couldn’t contain himself, could only pump and thrust and claim
him, wishing it were Marcus’s skin his come sprayed against, not a sheath of latex. He
kept his cock inside as he helped Marcus over the edge too, wanting to fuck Marcus
every day for the rest of their lives. They were so right together. Better than any fantasy
Frankie had ever had, and when he was with Marcus, especially like this, he didn’t have
any doubt that they were meant for each other.
Why wasn’t it enough?
He lay awake a long time after Marcus fell asleep, wrapped in the circle of his
lover’s arms, the question echoing over and over in his head. Why wasn’t love enough?
Why couldn’t the feelings they had for each other in a blizzard make things last? Should
he stay? Should he fight for Marcus? How did he do that? Did he quit his job? Did he
hedge his bets, visiting as much as he could? Did he try to convince Marcus to move back
to the city?
What did he want, outside of Marcus? Would loving Marcus mean wherever he lived
wouldn’t matter?
Could he even truly be in love in just one week?
Frankie didn’t know the answer to any of these questions. He didn’t know, and he
didn’t know how to find out.
Frankie slept fitfully, waking almost every hour, and at five he gave up and got out
of bed. He got dressed and made tea. He stood at the window a long time, staring out into
the darkness. He thought about Marcus’s doubts, about his own. He thought about the
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schoolhouse apartments, the care center, the café. He thought about his job at Oasis. He
thought about Josh and Andy. He thought about Arthur and Paul.
He thought about what the odds were that a week-long blizzard-based relationship
would last. He made himself look at it, really look at it, in the hard light of day, and he
peeled all his romantic notions away. The truth stared him cold in the face, worse than
anything the blizzard had dished out.
There wasn’t any logical way they could work. Even if there was, Frankie certainly
wasn’t the man to beat those odds.
Heart aching, he found some paper, sat at the table and wrote a note.
At six Arthur’s alarm went off in the loft, but Frankie was already halfway out the
door. His sleeve damp from brushing away tears, Frankie quietly shut it behind him and
hurried to his car.
Chapter Sixteen
Everything fell apart for Marcus after Frankie left.
To start, it had hurt him far more to wake and find Frankie gone without so much as
a goodbye than it had to find out Steve was cheating on him. But the brief thank you for
everything note and the abrupt departure were nothing next to the express package he got
the Wednesday after, a package which contained the phone he’d bought for Frankie. No
note this time. No nothing, just the last link they had to each other returned. Now Marcus
had no number, no address, not even the name of the salon where Frankie worked. They
were over in every way possible.
It was what he’d told himself was best. Somehow, though, it felt like the worst, and
he kept finding new versions of rock-bottom with every day that went by.
“Go after him,” Arthur insisted a week after Frankie had left as they worked on a
stand of trees. “Take some time off, drive down to Minneapolis and go after him.”
“I don’t know where he is,” Marcus argued, and Arthur tossed a glove at his head.
“He’s in a fucking hair salon. A high-end one in downtown Minneapolis. Book a
hotel, visit each one and ask for Frankie Blackburn until you find him. Shouldn’t even
take you a full day.”
“Then what do I do? Take him out for lunch?” Marcus picked up his chainsaw and
headed for another stand of trees. “It’s never going to work.”
Arthur followed him. “It’s not working now, you idiot. You’re more miserable than
I’ve ever seen you, worse than when Steve fucked you over. You’re not just grouchy,
you’re lost. Pretty soon you’re going to lose your mom, and you’ll have nothing left but
Paul and me, and at the rate you’re going you’ll fuck that up on purpose just to make a
nice hat trick out of the deal.”
Marcus stopped walking. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
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“It means what I said. You’re fucking your life over before it can fuck you, Marcus,
which might sound smart in theory, but in real life it’s fucking stupid.” He gripped
Marcus’s arm through his coveralls. “So maybe you go after him and it doesn’t work.
How is that worse than this?”
Marcus set his jaw and tightened his grip on the chainsaw. “I got work to do.”
Arthur didn’t bring up Frankie again, but a wall had risen between them, and by the
end of that second week of December, they hardly spoke at all. Paul wasn’t angry, but he
seemed disappointed. Paul fought more with Arthur too, and Marcus wondered if he was
the source of their fighting. He should move out, give them some space. He was overdue,
really, to strike out on his own.
He checked out at a few places the realtor in town found for him: an apartment over
a store on Main Street, a cabin not far from Paul and Arthur. The realtor pointed out the
office would be a great place to open a law practice.
Marcus couldn’t help thinking it was big enough to split in half, one side a law
office, one side a hair salon.
Because that was the horrible truth underneath it all—he did want Frankie back. He
wanted Frankie to come here. He wanted Frankie to move to Logan, to move into his life,
not the other way around. Even scouring hair salons in Minneapolis was more than
Marcus had left in him, because Marcus wasn’t the brave one, just like Frankie had said.
The truth was Marcus was tired and scared and more vulnerable than he’d ever thought
he could be. He’d spent all the bravado he had fighting being gay and trying to be a
hotshot city lawyer and being the big strong boyfriend, and in the end he’d lost
everything, including the ability to pretend anymore. All he had left now was being in
love with Frankie, wishing he’d come home.
He wanted to be the princess this time, but there was no way it was going to happen.
Frankie’s return to Minneapolis wasn’t exactly smooth sailing.
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He missed Marcus, and Arthur and Paul and even the care center. With every day
that passed, he realized he felt more at home in Logan than anywhere he’d ever been. He
confessed this to Josh and Andy, bawling because he was sure he’d fucked things up by
leaving the way he had, how he’d made it worse by mailing back the phone. He told them
how desperately he wanted to go back and fight for Marcus whether he growled or not
but that he was afraid he didn’t have it in him to try. They were no help at all.
“You probably did the right thing,” Andy insisted. “It wouldn’t ever work unless you
moved up there, which you shouldn’t do because God, the North Woods. If he came here
instead, he’d resent you. It’s sad, but it is what it is.”
“Bullshit,” Josh fired back. “Frankie, you gotta go. You should drive right back up
there and duke this out. You’re miserable, and you’re not going to feel better until at least
you give it a shot. Don’t be so afraid. Just do it.”
Frankie’s mother was even more of a mixed message. The first week after he’d come
back, Marcus hadn’t brought up the topic because she was so fixated on worrying about
him, fussing over his health, obsessing over long-range weather forecasts and promising
him up and down he wasn’t traveling at Christmas if there was so much as a chance of
flurries. One night as she started on the panic run again, he cut her off, redirecting her,
and that’s how he ended up confessing about Marcus.
He’d been talking about Josh dragging him out to a bear contest at a local bar, and
he’d said it made him homesick for Logan, which had him explaining he didn’t miss
literal bears but big hairy gay men. That had made her laugh, so he’d told her all about
his own personal three bears, leaning heavily on Arthur and Paul, sliding into the story of
how he ended up playing stylist to the care center.
“Oh, Frankie,” his mom said when he wound down from talking about Mimi’s pride
over her hairdo. “You miss it. And you’re in love with the grumpy one.”
Frankie slouched under his covers. His gaze fell on his window, out of which he
could see the lights of their neighborhood blinking in the cold blue night. “Maybe a little.
But it wouldn’t work.”
“Living in a small town, or dating that man?”
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Frankie smoothed his free hand over the surface of his comforter. It was soft and
downy and purchased as his splurge from Pottery Barn, but he missed the ragged,
homemade thing he’d nestled beneath with Marcus. “I live in Minneapolis, Mom. I have
my dream job. I have good roommates and a good life.”
“Yes, sweetheart, but are you happy?”
Frankie didn’t know how to answer that question anymore. It was like falling for
Marcus had doomed him, and now happiness was beyond his reach for good. “Are you
suggesting I move to Backwoods, Minnesota, Mom? Because he made it plain he wasn’t
moving here.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” His mom sounded as torn as he felt. “I can’t say I wouldn’t love
having you closer. And your dad and I worry about you. If anyone ever needed a partner,
it’s you.”
What? Frankie sat up straight. “You and Dad talk about how I need a keeper? Mom.”
“Not a keeper, sweetheart. A partner. Some people simply do better with a rudder,
with someone to play off of, someone to shore them up after a hard day. A partner. A
husband. A helpmeet, if you want to go completely Biblical.”
Frankie didn’t. “You don’t think I’m strong enough to face life on my own?”
His mother sighed. “Never mind. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
She shifted the conversation to some drama within a women’s circle at church, and
Frankie let her, but her comment about his needing a partner—helpmeet, Jesus Christ—
rang in his head for days. On the one hand it felt spot-on, because nothing had ever
sounded better than Marcus picking him up at the end of a long day at the care center,
making Frankie some tea when they got home. Frankie loved the idea of that big, warm
body sliding over his every night in bed. On the other hand, that yearning annoyed
Frankie, because he wasn’t that weak that he couldn’t function without a guide dog. He
was doing fine at life, thank you very much. He had a good job. Good roommates.
Everything was just fucking fine, damn it, and as soon as he was over Marcus, he’d be
happy again, and life would go on.
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One night when Josh took him out for drinks, he had a few too many, and he started
declaring how fine he was out loud, and Josh laughed.
“You so aren’t fine,” Josh said, refilling Frankie’s beer from their shared pitcher.
Frankie clutched at the glass and frowned at Josh. “I am too.”
“Are not,” Josh called back in singsong, winking as he sipped at his own. “You miss
your lumberjack. Worse, you miss the life you made for yourself up there, which for the
first time in probably ever was a real life.”
What. The. Fuck. Frankie slammed his hand on the table between them, which in his
drunken state turned out to be more of a very rough pat. “I do too have a real life. What
do you call what we’re doing right now?”
Josh snorted. “This? This is me canceling a date to take you out because I couldn’t
bear you watching the Hallmark channel until you go into a sugar coma anymore. I mean,
how many episodes of The Golden Girls can you take before you age prematurely?”
This wasn’t them hanging out? This was a pity gesture? “Damn it, Josh, I didn’t ask
you to cancel your date.”
“No, but I care about you, and I hate seeing you so unhappy.” Josh reached over and
took his hand. “Hon, you don’t have a life. You never really have. You go to work. You
come home and watch TV or sometimes do something with us. Your phone calls to your
mother before bed are your only regular socialization. You have a narrow pattern to your
life, and you never break from it, not even to try a different branch of Whole Foods. The
worst part is I know you don’t live life because you’re scared of it.”
“I’m not scared of life,” Frankie insisted, trying to glower.
“You’re terrified of living. I don’t think you know what you’re really afraid of
anymore, like it’s just a habit. It kills me, sweetheart. You’re gorgeous and wonderful and
the whole world should see how fabulous you are.”
Frankie blinked as he considered what Josh said, trying to push aside enough alcohol
to come up with a counterargument, but the more he tried to disprove what Josh said, the
more he realized it was true. He went to the same shopping centers because they were
familiar—and safe. He never went out unless Josh or Andy was with him, but never close
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to a bad neighborhood. He didn’t date, no, and it wasn’t because he preferred sex with his
left hand. He’d been that way before Marcus too.
Was he really that scared? Was he really not living his life?
“You were happy whenever you called me from Logan,” Josh said. “That first day
you were a little nervous, but even then there was an excitement in your voice, like you
were well and truly alive. After that it was only ever good. You always had a story of
something that had happened. You worried about missing work, but that was almost like
a gnat in your hair. You love Marcus. You love him and you miss him, and I don’t know
why the hell you aren’t going back to him.”
Right then, full of Sam Adams and Josh’s astute observations, Frankie didn’t know
why either. “It was just a fluke thing because of the storm. Life wouldn’t be like that if I
always lived up there.”
“You’ll never know that’s true until you try to prove otherwise.”
Frankie gave Josh a withering look. “Seriously? You’re telling me based on one
week during a snowstorm I should quit the job it took me years to get, give up the chair I
rent that has a waitlist four miles long, and go live in the middle of nowhere because I
had sex with a hot guy and played with old ladies’ hair?”
Josh looked Frankie dead in the eye and said, “Yeah. I do. I really do.”
It was crazy. Josh was crazy, and Frankie knew it, and there was no way he could or
should ever do something as insane as what he’d suggested. Yet the rest of the night,
through the rest of the pitcher and all the way along their drunken stumble back to the
apartment, Josh’s idea gnawed at Frankie’s brain like a fast-moving cancer. Quit his job
and move to Logan? With no job lined up? Without even knowing if Marcus was still
mad at him? Madness. It was nothing but madness, and yet the more Frankie let the
thought live inside his head, the deeper it rooted itself into his psyche.
He could see it. He could more than see it, he could taste the possibility of life back
in Logan: the cold air and snow, the smell of a wood fire as he knocked on the cabin
door. He saw himself knocking on that door, saw Marcus answer, saw him pull Frankie
tight into his arms. He could imagine the bright smiles of the women at the care center as
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he walked through the door to do their hair, Patty’s warm hug as he came into the café,
Arthur and Paul grinning and winking at him and teasing him about how loud he was
during sex.
Life. His life, the one he’d stumbled into in a small town in the middle of a
snowstorm, the place that had made him feel good and right and centered for no reason
except that somehow it simply had.
“You’re thinking about it.” Josh grinned and poked Frankie drunkenly in the arm.
“You’re totally thinking about it. God, Frankie, you gotta do it.”
“I can’t,” Frankie said, but it was a reflexive response. He couldn’t, no. But he
wanted to.
“You can. You will.” Josh grinned harder and walked backward on the sidewalk so
he could point his swaying finger at Frankie. “Oh, it’s so on, baby. We’re going to get
you back to your lumberjack. We’re going to stay up late tonight and figure it out. We’re
going to give you back your life, honey, and it’s going to be—”
Frankie’s only warning was Josh’s abrupt halt and the expression of shock, then cold
fear on his face, and then the hard butt of something pushed insistently into Frankie’s
side.
“Don’t move,” a rough male voice growled in his ear. “Just reach back nice and
slow, fag-boy, and give me your wallet.”
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Chapter Seventeen
Frankie moved as if in a dream. He put up his hands, then at a nudge and another
prompt from the thief reached into his front jeans pocket for his wallet, then his coat for
his phone. When his attacker saw that it wasn’t a smartphone but a cheap pay-as-you-go,
he tossed it into the gutter and jerked his head at Josh. Josh repeated Frankie’s
performance in the same careful but hurried gestures, his eyes never leaving the gun
poking into Frankie’s side.
Frankie’s attention was fixated on that too. Death, his brain kept whispering, part
reminder, part attempt to process. He holds your death in his index finger. One movement
and you’re gone. He pulls that trigger, and you can’t quit your job and move to Logan.
You can’t keep your job and mope around the apartment. You can’t call your mother ever
again. You can’t do anything, anything at all, because you’ll be dead, and whether or not
Josh is right, you’ll never know, because you won’t be having any kind of life anymore,
any at all.
Frankie wept, a silent trail of tears that slid down his cheeks and onto his lips, his
chin, splattering against his red coat. His mind began to race, trying to find a way out,
briefly considering trying to run, or striking out, or even bargaining, but that was just a
blip before he routed all his focus on being still and quiet and obedient, which he
managed except that he could not stop crying. Not for fear of what would happen but
because he wanted, more than he ever had, to live.
As Josh handed his phone and wallet over, as the thief pocketed their belongings and
ordered them both to their bellies, Frankie’s yearning for life swelled inside him until he
thought he’d burst with it. Live. Yes, Frankie wanted to live. Not just to keep breathing
and eating and farting and sleeping and occasionally having sex. He wanted to live. He
wanted to shop in seven new stores and try that spicy Indian dish Josh was always trying
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to get him to order at Delhi Palace. He wanted to get in his car and drive all over
Minneapolis, even if he got hopelessly lost. He wanted to go to the stupid Mall of
America and IKEA and hate on the crowds and lose Josh and Andy and find them again
at the food court. He wanted to get a smartphone. He wanted to get a credit card. He
wanted to get a ridiculously expensive car for no real reason except that he could. He
wanted to buy that overpriced pomade he’d been telling himself he couldn’t afford. He
wanted to take a vacation to Key West and San Francisco and see if the gay meccas really
were all that. He wanted to go back to the BDSM club Josh had taken him to before, to
see what it was like without a veil of fear.
He wanted to call Marcus. He wanted to demand Robbie let him keep his vacation
time at Christmas, and he wanted to go back to Logan and see if he could make life there
work, if Marcus could forgive him for running away, if the care center salon truly was a
job he could do day after day.
Frankie Nelson Blackburn wanted to live. He didn’t care if he got his head smashed
in or gang raped or run over by a car—he was going to cling to life until they tore it out
of his hands, and he was going to recover and get back out there and never, ever, ever let
fear keep him from missing a moment of life again.
He didn’t get his head smashed in, or raped—as soon as he and Josh kissed the icy
sidewalk, their attacker tore off into the night without another word. Outside of some
paperwork, phone calls and a visit to the DMV, Frankie’s life remained his own.
Thank you, he telegraphed silently to his attacker, his relief deeper than simply being
spared. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
“Frankie?” Josh’s hand closed over Frankie’s wrist. His voice was tight and shaking.
“Frankie, are you okay?”
“Yes.” Frankie turned his wrist so he could squeeze back, and he let out a deep
breath, surprised to find it wasn’t unsteady at all. “Yes. I’m fine.”
“We need to call the police.” Josh pushed to his knees, but his whole body was
shaking, and he stumbled twice as he tried to right himself. “Oh God. Oh God, Frankie,
we were mugged. He had a gun, and he held it against you, and you could have died.”
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“I’m okay.” Frankie climbed to his feet, helped Josh the rest of the way up, then
went to the gutter to find his phone. It still worked, so he dialed 911 and listened to
himself as he calmly reported to the woman who answered that they’d been mugged. She
kept him on the line until the squad car arrived, and after that he took Josh’s hand,
holding it tight as a team of officers came closer to them, flashlights bright and cutting
through the cold night air.
Frankie kept hold of Josh’s hand all the way into the back of the squad car, and he
kept telling his roommate they were okay as the policemen drove them back to the
station. Josh gave a description of their attacker. Frankie nodded when the man explained
it was unlikely they’d find their attacker or that they’d ever see any of their possessions
again. Frankie didn’t care. He was still alive. He was safe. Nothing really mattered
beyond that.
When the officers dropped them off at their apartment building a few hours later,
Andy was waiting for them at the door, white-faced and even more terrified than Josh,
who as they entered the apartment burst into tears and sat on the couch with Andy,
collapsing against him and spilling the whole story rapid-fire. Frankie listened, but he put
a kettle on for tea while he did so, and when it was done he brought a tray of three
steaming mugs over and set it on the table between them.
Andy shook his head and looked at Frankie as if he’d lost his mind. “Are you in
shock or something? How are you so calm?”
At that, Frankie laughed. “I’m not calm.” He sipped at his tea, feeling the truth of
that statement, the way his blood seemed to be made of fire inside his veins, the way his
brain kept ping-ponging around inside his skull. “It was scary. It was awful. It’s not
something I’m ever going to forget.”
“But you’re the scared one,” Andy said. “You’re the one always worried about this
sort of thing, and now it’s actually happened to you.”
“Yes,” Frankie agreed, the memory of that moment when he knew he could die
ringing like a bell inside him. “It did. And I made it through.” He sipped at his tea again,
but his hand shook.
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Josh left Andy and climbed onto the loveseat beside Frankie, taking his tea away and
hugging him tight, so tight that it hurt. “I thought you were dead. I thought I was going to
watch him kill you, I knew he was going to kill you and I had to watch, and it was the
most horrible, awful thing that has ever happened to me and I don’t ever, ever want to
feel that way again.”
Frankie hugged him back, drew a deep breath and said, “I’m going to do it.”
“Do what?” Josh asked.
The certainty of his decision pounded inside Frankie, giving him new terror, but it
was a delicious fear, full of life and light and possibility. “I’m going to quit my job. Or at
least talk to Robbie about an extended leave around Christmas to go explore employment
in Logan. Or maybe in Duluth, if it doesn’t work out there, if Marcus really is pissed and
doesn’t want to talk to me.” He considered that a moment and shook his head. “No. I’m
going to go back to Logan, and I’m going to find a job, and I’m going to move there and
live there, and I’m going to work like hell to make things right.”
Josh looked at him like he’d grown an extra head. “I can’t believe you’re thinking
about that at a time like this.”
Funny, because Frankie didn’t see how he could think of anything else. He slipped
out of Josh’s hold and picked up his tea, but he didn’t drink it, just held the mug in his
hands, absorbing the heat, letting it fuel him as his determination turned into a plan that
unfurled slowly inside his mind.
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Chapter Eighteen
On Christmas Eve, the Pine Valley-Logan elementary choir had a concert at the
Lutheran church, and since it was a good day for his mom, Marcus went, taking Mimi
with him.
It started to snow as he drove across town, which annoyed him because they’d
already had seven more inches on top of the post-Thanksgiving storm, and Marcus was
sick to death of it. The snow delighted Mimi though, and she smiled and watched it fall
as they made their way down the road to the church.
“It’s always nice to have snow on Christmas,” she said.
“We have enough snow for ten Christmases,” Marcus replied, but without heat
because he couldn’t stop the soft burn of pleasure at the knowledge that she was here,
truly here with him on this their last Christmas. He reached across the seat and took her
hand. “It’s nice to have you for Christmas, Mom.”
She squeezed his hand back and drew it to her mouth for a quick kiss. “It’s sad Steve
couldn’t make it though. I would have liked to have him do my hair before the pageant.”
She sighed and patted Marcus’s hand. “I daresay you’d like to have him around for you.”
Marcus said nothing to that, only kept his focus on the road. This had become
Mimi’s new thing, merging Steve and Frankie and wishing, almost constantly, that he
were there. Often it was for her own selfish beauty purposes, but sometimes, like tonight,
she yearned for him for Marcus’s sake. When she wanted her hair done, Marcus usually
said he’d find a nurse to help her out, but when she was sad for him, he never knew what
to say, so he didn’t say anything at all.
Mimi settled deeper into her seat. “Now, remind me, Marcus. You live here in Logan
now? You aren’t just visiting?”
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“I live on Main Street, in the apartment above what was the florist shop. I bought the
building last week.”
She nodded, looking chagrined. “That’s right. I forgot, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind reminding you.” He turned on the wipers because the snow was
starting to come down fast. “I’m going to start practicing law again. I’m still doing some
logging until I get things squared away, but I’ll probably be pretty busy during tax
season. There isn’t even an accountant in town anymore.”
His mother clucked her tongue. “You’re more than an accountant.”
“True, but tax law has always been my thing. Tax and real estate. Good money in
that work.” He smiled. “It was always my favorite part of law.”
“As long as you’re happy,” Mimi said. “I don’t care what you do, so long as you’re
happy.”
Happy. Marcus smiled sadly to himself as he turned into the church parking lot. No,
he wasn’t happy, not yet. He still missed Frankie. It was a dull ache now, a soft sorrow he
was learning to live with. Maybe he’d do something about it someday, maybe he
wouldn’t. Maybe someone else would wander into his life, or maybe he’d be the weird
gay bachelor on Main Street who did taxes and title opinions. From now on, whatever
happened, he was taking it one day at a time, so long as those steps were toward
happiness. He’d been in the new apartment for a week now, and it wasn’t quite so lonely
anymore, especially because Arthur and Paul stopped over almost every night before they
headed home after work. Even when he was alone, though, it felt good. It felt like moving
forward. It felt like he wasn’t doing what other people wanted or spinning his wheels or
hiding or just getting by.
He was living his life, maybe for the first time. Alone, under those circumstances,
was okay.
They’d arrived at the church, so he helped his mother out of the car, lending his arm
as he led her across the parking lot to the front door. They’d arrived just as the bell
started ringing to alert everyone the service was about to start—that had always been his
favorite part of church as a boy, hearing the great iron bell as it rang, feeling it
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reverberate in his chest. He’d beg his dad or his uncle to let him help pull the big cord
that hung in the vestibule by the sixty-year-old cubbyholes that held bulletins. Their
family slot, V GARDNER, had never changed after his father’s death nor been updated
since Marcus had returned, and tonight the narrow space held the half-folded green page,
featuring a child’s illustration of a Christmas tree with a manger underneath it.
Clutching the bulletin in his hand, Marcus led his mother down the aisle to their pew.
The church was full, overflowing with young families and children, many of them
noisy and rambunctious, all of them dressed up in their holiday finest. Everyone was here
with someone, and the few people who had come in alone were snuggled up against
families, so alone was a very relative term. There was an air of excitement, a feeling of
family and faith and hope that stirred something deep in Marcus’s heart, carrying him
home.
As they sat down, Marcus took in the wafts of cologne and perfume, the perfectly
done hair and makeup on the women. It made him think of Frankie, and it made Marcus
miss him.
The service started shortly after they were seated. The children sang and put on full
nativity-scene gear for “Away in a Manger”. The audience stood and joined in on “Joy to
the World”, and Marcus sang with feeling, his lungs buzzing when the verses were
finished. He tuned out the sermon, floating on good feelings all the way to the final
hymn. It was, of course, “Silent Night”, complete with the return of the nativity cast and
the obligatory passing out of short white candles with cardboard drip guards. They lit
each other’s candles, the chain begun by an acolyte up front and brought to each pew by
an usher. When all the candles were lit, the organist left her station, turned down the
lights and conducted them through an a cappella round for the final verse.
The service was sentimental and traditional and small town, and it filled Marcus’s
heart with hope and light and love. He smiled as he helped his mother back down the
aisle, as he handed his extinguished candle to an usher and wished him a merry
Christmas.
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He still smiled when he led his mother around a cluster of gossiping women, heading
back toward the coatroom, where Frankie stood waiting.
There he was, tall and slight and blond and absolutely beautiful, his hair slicked and
styled, his red coat undone to reveal a smart sweater with a collared shirt underneath. He
wore his Fleet Farm boots. He clutched his gloves tight in hand, and he looked right at
Marcus, his eyes bright and hopeful, but hesitant too.
He was here. He was truly here, Marcus realized, and the sheer joy and shock held
him firmly in place, lest he move and make this magic moment go away.
Mimi had no such compulsion. “Steve!” she cried, and opened her arms as she let go
of Marcus and shuffled forward to envelop Frankie in a hug. She laughed, and she
hugged him, and then she pulled back to swat him playfully on the shoulder. “You should
have been here earlier. I would have made you do my hair.”
Frankie smiled at her. “I wanted to, but I got lost. Twice.” His gaze shifted back to
Marcus, but some of his smile faded. “I hope it’s okay that I came.”
Marcus had to swallow a few times before he could make his voice work, and when
he did speak, it cracked. “Of course.”
Frankie took a step forward. “I wanted to surprise you. I couldn’t get away sooner,
but I talked to Patty, and we had this plan, and—” He cut himself off, the last of his smile
dying as he paled. “Except now I’m not sure you really want to see me.”
“Oh hush. He wants to see you.” Patty appeared from the coatroom, dressed up and
pretty and incredibly pleased with herself. She took Mimi’s arm and made shooing
motions at Marcus. “You go on, Romeo. Say good night to your mother, because I’m
taking her back to the care center.” She smiled at Mimi brightly. “We’ll go have some hot
cocoa and sing Christmas carols, what do you say to that?”
Mimi waved goodbye to Marcus and Frankie, wishing them a merry Christmas.
Marcus waved back as Patty pulled her into the coatroom. Then they were gone, and it
was just him and Frankie, standing together awkwardly as the press of Christmas
worshippers weaved around them. Frankie looked nervous, yet at the same time he had a
confidence Marcus wasn’t sure had been there before.
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“Would you like to go outside?” Frankie bit his bottom lip and added, “I made Patty
promise I could crash at her place if you were mad, so you can say no.”
What? No. The hell Frankie was staying anywhere but with him tonight. Because he
was here. He was really, actually here.
Marcus shook his head and nodded to the doors. “Outside.”
Frankie is here. The thought kept ringing inside of Marcus, louder than the church
bell. He drank in the sight of the back of Frankie’s head as they made their way to the
door, taking in the close cut of his hair, the bright halo of gloss on blond, just as he
remembered. That red coat, the one he’d worn in the shed when he’d taken Marcus to
task and they’d had their first kiss.
Frankie. It was Frankie, here, in Logan on Christmas Eve, and he would be staying
with Marcus tonight.
The only thing better would be if it were forever.
It was snowing hard now, big fat flakes of white that stuck to their coats and hair,
making them blink as Frankie took Marcus’s hand and led him off toward the Sunday-
school doors. He stopped them under a lamppost, keeping tight hold of Marcus’s hand as
he turned around and faced him, paler than ever even with his reddening nose, clearly
terrified of whatever it was he was about to do. Still, Frankie pressed on, taking a deep
breath and looking Marcus dead in the eye as he began.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I left without saying goodbye. I’m sorry I mailed back the
phone you gave me. I’m sorry I didn’t fight for you, that I didn’t give us a chance.”
Marcus squeezed Frankie’s hand. “I wasn’t exactly making things easy.”
Frankie shook his head. “I didn’t try. I was afraid of failing, so I didn’t try, and I ran
off like a rabbit, and I’m sorry.”
He picked up Marcus’s other hand and held it too. They both had bare hands, and the
snow was cold as it fell upon their skin, but Marcus loved the touch, the warm feel of
Frankie, and he was glad there were no gloves in the way.
Then Frankie said, “I quit my job,” and Marcus froze, unable to believe what he’d
just heard.
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Frankie nodded. “I did. I quit. I gave Josh and Andy January’s rent, but I’m moving
out as soon as I figure out where I’m living. Which, by the way, will be up here. The Cut
’N’ Curl has an extra chair, and Patty says the owner is a bitch, but it’s a start. I have a
lead on an apartment too, the one over the salon.” He took a shaky breath and pressed on.
“Because it’s here in Logan, and here in Logan is where I want to be. Even if you don’t
want me anymore.” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat and kept going. “If you
don’t, I’m going to make you want me. I don’t care how big a growly bear you are,
Marcus, I’m going to keep coming until you take me back even if only because it’s less
annoying than trying to keep me away.”
Marcus wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t because his throat was too thick. He
squeezed Frankie’s hands tight instead, reminding himself it was still real, that Frankie
was truly here standing with him in the snow.
Frankie was here, and Frankie was going to stay.
“I love you,” Frankie said, his voice breaking again, but he was less nervous now,
like he’d cracked a seal on something and a tide was coming out. “I’ve been sad and
miserable and so lonely I thought I’d die, and I realized I never really liked my life in
Minneapolis, that the one week I had with you was the best in my life and that I never
wanted it to end.” He swallowed, his eyes damp. “Then I was mugged, and the guy had a
gun, and I thought I was going to die, and the only thing I could think of was that I’d
never have a chance to make it right, to come back and tell you I was sorry, to tell you
that I love you and to beg for you to give us another chance.”
At I love you Marcus’s head started spinning, but he came right to attention when
Frankie said the guy had a gun. “You were what?”
“Mugged.” Frankie slid a hand up Marcus’s arm, and he sort of laughed, except he
didn’t smile, just kind of burbled. “I can still feel the gun sometimes, and it makes me
scared, but you know, this is crazy, but I’m almost glad. He woke me up. I’m alive. I’m
alive, and I know it, and now I’m here.” He touched Marcus’s cheek, his cold fingers so
sweet against Marcus’s skin. “Please, please tell me that you’re glad.”
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Marcus did laugh, and he gave up and let himself cry, because fuck if he could stop
the tears now. “Yes, I’m glad. I’m so fucking glad I could blow up.”
“Please don’t.” Frankie brushed a kiss across Marcus’s lips, then brushed another
one. “So is Patty right that I don’t need to worry about staying the night with her?”
Marcus kissed him again in answer, harder this time, his free hand traveling over
Frankie’s face and neck. “You aren’t going to work in the Cut ’N’ Curl.” Marcus kissed
Frankie’s hairline, shutting his eyes and drinking in the scent of his hair product. Here.
Really, really here. “I bought the building I’m living in on Main Street. I have to use part
of the first floor as a law office, but you can use the other side as a salon.”
Frankie lifted his head, eyes wide. “My own shop? But—Marcus, I’m a horrible
business person. I’d never get a loan, and I’d need one to buy all the equipment and
things I need.”
“I’m not a horrible business person, and I can get a loan.” Marcus pressed his thumb
over Frankie’s lips and winked when he tried to argue. “We can fight about it later. Right
now I’m getting you back to my place and getting you naked.”
Frankie grinned. “There’s another blizzard, they’re saying. We might be holed up in
your apartment, all by ourselves, for days.”
“Let it snow,” Marcus declared, and tipped Frankie’s face up for another kiss.
About the Author
Heidi Cullinan has always loved a good love story, provided it has a happy ending.
She enjoys writing across many genres but loves above all to write happy, romantic
endings for LGBT characters because there just aren’t enough of those stories out there.
When Heidi isn’t writing, she enjoys cooking, reading, knitting, listening to music, and
watching television with her husband and ten-year-old daughter. Heidi also volunteers
frequently for her state’s LGBT rights group, One Iowa, and is proud to be from the first
midwestern state to legalize same-sex marriage. Find out more about Heidi, including her
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Look for these titles by Heidi Cullinan
Now Available:
A Private Gentleman
Family Man (with Marie Sexton)
Love Lessons
Coming Soon:
Special Delivery
Special Delivery
Double Blind
Tough Love
Love doesn’t come with a syllabus.
Love Lessons
© 2013 Heidi Cullinan
Kelly Davidson has waited what seems like forever to graduate high school and get
out of his small-minded, small town. But when he arrives at Hope University, he quickly
realizes finding his Prince Charming isn’t so easy. Everyone here is already out. In fact,
Kelly could be the only virgin on campus.
Worst of all, he’s landed the charming, handsome, gay campus Casanova as a
roommate, whose bed might as well be equipped with a revolving door.
Walter Lucas doesn’t believe in storybook love. Everyone is better off having as
much fun as possible with as many people as possible…except his shy, sad little sack of a
roommate is seriously screwing up his world view.
As Walter sets out to lure Kelly out of his shell, staying just friends is harder than he
anticipated. He discovers love is a crash course in determination. To make the grade,
he’ll have to finally show up for class…and overcome his own private fear that love was
never meant to last.
Warning: This story contains lingering glances, milder than usual sexual content for
this author, and a steamy dance-floor kiss. Story has no dairy or egg content, but may
contain almonds.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Love Lessons:
Walter filled a glass and handed it to Kelly. “Drink this and stop looking so
nervous.”
“It’s just weird. We’re the only guys here.”
“Oh, more will show up. Trust me. Not our kind, though.” He linked Kelly’s arm
through his. “Let’s go find the music. I like dancing with lesbians.”
Kelly thought at first that was either a joke or a euphemism for something, but it
turned out Walter meant that comment literally. No sooner did he have Kelly set up with
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a trio of not-that-drunk (and not making out, thank God) girls on a sofa, he disappeared
into the middle of the room, where he began dancing with an abandon Kelly hadn’t ever
seen him exhibit, not at Moe’s, not anywhere. Kelly watched Walter move, transfixed.
“He’s so cute.” The girl next to Kelly—Tricia, Kelly thought her name was—leaned
her head on Kelly’s shoulder and smiled as Walter shimmied behind a laughing girl who
moved in sync with him. “Except he’s gay, dammit.”
“And you’re a lesbian,” the girl on her other side said, and they all laughed.
Kelly felt dazed. God, Walter just…moved. For a long time Walter danced and Kelly
watched him, sometimes talking to the girls who sat next to him—they kept getting up
and new ones sat in their places—and then after about a half hour, as a song ended,
Walter came over, sweat-soaked, and collapsed next to Kelly.
“Shit.” He laughed, relaxed and happy, and he glanced at Kelly’s glass. “You need
another?”
Kelly peered into his cup. It was empty. Huh. That would explain why he felt buzzy.
Walter popped back to his feet with a wink. “Be right back,” he said, and he was,
with a new glass for Kelly and another bottle of water for himself. He was about to sit
down when a girl grabbed him and hauled him back onto the floor.
Kelly had half a minute to observe them, that odd feeling of longing stirring in him
again, and then someone grabbed his arm too.
He danced stiffly at first, but soon the wine and the gentle teasing of his partner
relaxed him, and he began to loosen up. It was fun to dance with a bunch of lesbians or
nearly lesbians, because yeah, nobody gave a shit about what he looked like or how badly
he danced. Even when a girl with shock-red hair plastered herself tight against him, her
tits mashed to his chest and his—limp—cock squashed along her thigh, it was so clear
neither of them were turned on at all, and as such they could both let go and act like total
sluts. Laughing, he tossed up his hands and danced. Someone handed him another drink,
this one smelling tart and intense, but he drank it anyway.
He was having fun. So much fucking fun.
When he heard the familiar thumping beats of “Wild Ones” begin to play—they’d
finally picked his iPod, apparently—he gave a hearty woot and threw himself into his
boogie with an abandon he didn’t know he had in him. Somehow he’d become the center
of a circle—he could see the straight boys now, mingled in amidst the girls, all of them
looking slightly lost and out of place, and it was funny so he laughed. Hands slid down
his arms, making him shiver, and as someone pressed against his back, he caught the
familiar scent of cologne.
Walter’s thumb brushed Kelly’s wrist. “You’re having a good time.”
“Yeah.” Kelly tried to smile over his shoulder, but Walter’s hand skimmed his hip,
and he jerked, glad Walter couldn’t feel the sudden erection that sprang up at the contact.
Walter gripped Kelly’s hip more firmly, holding him in place. “Hey—it’s just me,
goofball. What, you can’t dance with me the way you were dancing with Sally?”
No, Kelly couldn’t. Except as Sia’s voice boomed out over the room and Walter led
him into a sway, Kelly started to wonder if maybe he could. It’s just dancing, he told
himself. Because the truth was, he did want to dance with his roommate. He wanted
Walter to dance with him the way he’d been dancing with the girls, and Kelly wanted to
let go enough to be the way he’d been with his own partners. He wanted to be able to feel
that relaxed with Walter.
He couldn’t do that, though, because then Walter would know. Hell, he’d feel,
because even this subtle contact had Kelly hard as a rock.
“Hush.” Walter’s lips grazed his ear, making Kelly shiver. That made Walter laugh,
though not unkindly. “Is that it? You’re being self-conscious because I’m turning you
on?” When Kelly said nothing, Walter snorted and pulled Kelly against his body.
Kelly shuddered. Hard—Walter was as hard as Kelly was. “Walter,” he croaked, his
entire body turning to jelly. Except his screaming dick.
Walter kept them moving, his touches gentling, soothing, even as they kept in time to
the beat. “Babe, it’s fine. We’re both guys. We both like guys. We’re both hot, so we get
turned on by each other. Big deal. You don’t have to be embarrassed about it.”
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He turned Walter on? He was a hot guy? Kelly angled his head around, needing to
see Walter’s face.
Walter looped his arms around Kelly’s neck and shook his head. “Oh, Red. You’re
precious, you know that?”
No, Kelly didn’t. “You confuse me,” he confessed, because he’d had too much to
drink.
Walter laughed, but it wasn’t a mean laugh, not at all. “You confuse you, Red. Turn
your head off for ten minutes and dance with me. I don’t care if you come in your pants.
Just let go for ten fucking minutes.”
Kelly’s whole body felt hot. “I can’t do that. Not with you.”
“You can’t flirt with me?” Walter gave him a come on look. “Red. You can totally
flirt with me.”
Wait, what? Kelly shook his head, trying to clear it.
Walter sighed and began to speak in the tone of someone teaching a child something
simple that they’d made complicated. “Walk it through, babe. You’re tipsy. You’re
turned on. You’re having a good time, and it feels good to be turned on. You’re at a party
full of lesbians, and me. Is there anyone here you’re going to let take you to bed tonight?”
“What? No.” It came out so automatically he couldn’t stop it, but rather than be
upset, Walter seemed to be waiting patiently for Kelly to figure something out. Kelly
frowned, still not getting it.
Walter rolled his eyes, but he laughed too. “Jesus. Red—you can flirt with me, you
can do whatever you want, because we’re not sleeping together. So stop worrying about
it. Just have a good time.”
The music slipped into the chorus, and Walter dragged Kelly bodily back into the
dance. He forgot to be upset or confused or anything else, and within a few bars he was
moving in time to the beat with his roommate, brazenly sliding his arms around Walter’s
body. He tried to stay loose, to not think about how hot Walter made him, how bad that
was. We’re not going to sleep together kept ringing in his head, though, annoying him.
The music shifted to Pink’s “Raise Your Glass”, and the room erupted in drunk,
enthusiastic people singing and dancing along.
Most of the girls jumped up and down and did some drunken version of headbanging
while they belted out the chorus, but Walter kept tight hold of Kelly and pulled him close,
alternating between sensual thrusts with his thigh into Kelly’s groin and shimmying them
in deep dips that nearly ran them into their neighbors. Kelly could feel Walter’s hard cock
against his hip, and he knew Walter could feel his erection too. He could smell Walter’s
sweat, could sometimes taste it on his tongue. The wine and whatever else he’d been
drinking filled his head, heightening his senses, making him think he could feel Walter on
his tongue.
Suddenly he wanted to. He really, really wanted to.
Raise your glass, the room shouted as one, Walter too, his shout reverberating in his
chest beneath Kelly’s hands.
Kelly shut his eyes, drew in a sharp breath through his nostrils and buried his face in
Walter’s neck.
He thrilled when Walter stilled, and he laughed, the sound rolling in his belly before
he opened his lips over the throbbing pulse and sucked. Walter gasped, his knees
wobbling, and his hands tightened against Kelly’s hair and waist.
Running his tongue along Walter’s skin, Kelly felt his cock pulse inside his jeans at
the sharp, salty taste of his roommate’s skin.
Walter jerked and tried to pull away. Fuck no, Kelly thought, and turned his grip into
a vise. He stopped kissing Walter’s neck, but he nipped at his jaw, heady at the thrill of
making Walter the awkward one for once.
“Stop thinking,” he murmured, and ran his tongue along Walter’s stubble.
“Jesus.” Walter sounded shattered. He turned his head, and for a second their mouths
almost brushed together. Walter kept that from happening, pulling Kelly’s head away
from his own mouth. “Kelly, don’t.”
UUL
The refusal shafted Kelly, and all the self-consciousness alcohol had kept at bay
returned in a tidal wave. “You drive me crazy,” he said to Walter’s chest, because he
couldn’t look him in the eye.
“Sweetheart, you’re drunk. Like, really drunk. If I let you do what you’re doing,
you’ll hate me tomorrow, and I’m not going there.”
Some distant, wine-slogged part of Kelly acknowledged Walter was right, but that
didn’t mean Kelly liked hearing it. “You think I’m a stupid dumb kid.” He just wanted
Walter to kiss him, to push him onto the couch and…do stuff.
Walter drew Kelly in close and kissed his hair. “I don’t think you’re stupid. Or
dumb. Or a kid.”
Could he stop being so reasonable and nice for a second? Kelly sank against his
shoulder defeated. “I’m so confused.”
“I know, baby.”
Walter was stroking Kelly’s back, and his butt, and it felt so fucking good. “I want
you to fuck me,” he whispered.
Though Walter stilled, he didn’t let Kelly go. “I want to fuck you too, baby,” he said
at last. “But we can’t.”
There’s more than one way to guard a body.
Burden
© 2013 Annmarie McKenna
In the year since his car flew off a cliff, Detective Brennan McGuire has struggled to
relearn the simplest tasks—like speaking without a stutter—and even more with trying to
fill the gaping holes in his memory.
But when his daily visit to a local coffee shop turns into a melee of flying bullets,
Brennan’s instincts take control.
So much for Keegan Monroe’s first day off after a long undercover assignment. One
minute he’s relaxing over coffee, the next his cheek is kissing concrete. Question is, is the
gorgeous man on top of him his savior, or the one who took a potshot at his head?
As Keegan shepherds the too-quiet, too-skinny Brennan through the investigation,
attraction flares into nights of white-hot passion. But with each scorching encounter,
more and more of Brennan’s memories shake loose…and it becomes clear someone
doesn’t want him putting those pieces together.
With Keegan’s oath to protect and serve putting him squarely in the crosshairs of a
murderer, now the question is, who is protecting whom?
Warning: This book contains a good amount of stuttering, forgetting, remembering,
danger, hot man love (cop style), and hordes of cuddly kittens.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Burden:
Brennan’s heart raced. Things would have been much simpler if Keegan had stayed
in the car. Then the other man wouldn’t see how simply Brennan lived. Or worse, feel
sorry for him. The pity sucked more than anything.
He climbed the stairs at the side of the two-story garage to his apartment and sensed
Keegan behind him every step. What would the undercover cop think of his sparse place?
Would it make Brennan seem even more the loser?
Keegan’s hand covered Brennan’s when he tried to unlock the door.
UUL
“Let me.”
Brennan searched Keegan’s face. “Why?”
“Just humor me. Please?” There was a seriousness in Keegan’s features, something
that told Brennan Keegan was in cop mode. He wasn’t sure why. They hadn’t been
followed home, and surely there was no way in hell anyone could know who he was.
“Whatever.”
Keegan smiled, and Brennan came damn close to leaning in and kissing one of the
hot dimples that appeared on Keegan’s cheeks.
He backed off to avoid making more of a fool of himself than he already had
throughout the day. Jesus, he was losing what was left of his warped mind. Kissing
Keegan would likely end in a black eye and a trip end over end down the stairs behind
him.
“After all that’s happened today, I just want to make sure.” Keegan pushed the door
open and disappeared inside the dark confines before Brennan could say another word.
Which sort of made Brennan feel, once again, stupid. In his past life he knew for a
fact there’d be no way he would have stood outside while someone else searched his
apartment. Yet another reason for him to hate the fucking accident that had ruined the
very fiber of his being.
“Hey. Hey! Get off, you little rat. Shit.” A loud crash followed Keegan’s curses,
along with a chorus of meows.
Brennan chuckled. Oops. He’d forgotten to warn macho man in cop mode about his
pet project.
“Oooowww. Get ’em off me, Brennan.”
Brennan stuck his head in the door. Across the space of the living room, Keegan
danced through the kitchen, his gun raised to the ceiling, an all-brown kitten attached to
his jeans-covered leg, the cream-colored one attacking the shoelaces of the opposite foot,
and the other two, both brown and white, pawing at him as he tried not to step on them.
“Is it s-safe for me to come in?”
“Quit laughing, and get your sorry ass over here.” Keegan slammed into the table
with his hip as he kicked gently to dislodge the shoelace eater. Another one immediately
took its place with an eager leap.
“Damn it. What the fuck are these things?”
Brennan laughed out loud and corralled the nearest two. He scooped them up and put
them back in the cardboard box they had somehow managed to dump over. Time to get
something sturdier, he guessed.
“Jesus Christ, I’m bleeding to death here. It’s cutting my damn leg off.”
“Don’t be such a pussy.” Brennan pried the ankle biter from Keegan’s pant leg and
pulled at the one eating the shoelace, untying the lace as he lifted the tan-and-white fur
ball.
“That’s the second time you’ve called me that.”
Brennan dropped the two in the box with their siblings and stood, bumping into
Keegan, who’d stepped up directly behind him.
“Maybe I ought to show you just how un-pussy-like I can be.” With a hand on
Brennan’s upper arm, Keegan spun him around and plastered him against the wall.
Before he could take a breath, Keegan’s lips were on his, his tongue pushing in to
tangle with Brennan’s tongue. The brief second of shock disintegrated into complete
acceptance. Brennan put his hands on Keegan’s waist and held him loosely, afraid
Keegan would realize what he’d done and break off. The man tasted so good. Brennan’s
mind wandered. He hadn’t remembered Keegan eating a mint.
What did it matter? The man kissed like nobody’s business, and how the hell long
had it been since Brennan had been kissed? He angled his head for better access and
trailed his fingers up Keegan’s spine. Keegan cupped the back of Brennan’s head to keep
him still while he plundered Brennan’s mouth.
Many, many heartbeats passed with only the ragged sound of their breaths and
moans and the whining mewls of his little shitheads filling the apartment. Keegan slowly
retreated, resting his forehead on Brennan’s. His eyes closed, he swallowed audibly, and
Brennan saw the regret written on Keegan’s face.
UUL
“I’m s-sorry,” Brennan muttered, trying to squirm his way from between Keegan’s
heated body and the cool wall.
“Just stand still, will you?” Keegan held him in place, his teeth ground together.
It was only then Brennan noticed the hard bulge against his. He’d been so caught up
in the kiss he hadn’t even felt Keegan’s obvious arousal. Or the fact that the cop had put
his gun back in its holster.
“I swear to God if you don’t stop moving, this is going to go way beyond a kiss,
Bren.”
“Sorry.”
Keegan groaned and nuzzled Brennan’s throat. “No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done
that.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“I know you’re not, that’s why it’s going to be very hard for me to move away.”
Keegan stroked the back of Brennan’s neck. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. Not saying
I’m sorry it did, but…”
“I get it.” Brennan sighed and pushed Keegan away. He would never again stack up
to someone of Keegan’s caliber.
Keegan let him go and wiped a hand down his face. “No. You don’t. Jesus. You’re
part of an investigation, Bren, a witness. I shouldn’t have touched you.”
Brennan shrugged and went about dishing up the kitties’ food from a sack in the
cupboard. He stuck the bowl in the corner of the box where he was immediately attacked
by the hungry felines. Several scratches marred his forearm and hand for his effort.
“Look at me, Brennan.”
Brennan sucked in a breath and did as Keegan asked, afraid to see the rejection he
knew he’d find.
“Man, I was right.”
“About what?” Brennan narrowed his eyes. Rejection was the furthest thing he found
in Keegan’s gaze. Lust, want, need…those were more apt words.
“You do need a keeper.” Keegan was staring at Brennan’s arm and the tiny bits of
blood pooling to the surface. “What in the shit are those things? Lions?”
Brennan snorted and wiped at the scratches with a napkin. “Michael’s idea of
therapy. M-meet Bob, Bobby, Robert and Roberta. And I do not n-need a keeper, thank
you.”
“Bob, Bobby, Robert and Roberta?” One of Keegan’s eyebrows rose high.
“I c-can’t remember names very well. They were easy.” He shrugged again and
looked down at the shitheads devouring their food. He’d have to change the litter in the
box too since they’d knocked it all over the place making their grand escape.
“Should be more like Cujo, King Kong, Godzilla and Jaws.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“My leg says differently.” Keegan glanced around the open kitchen and living area,
his lips puffy from their kiss. “Anyway, the place is clean.”
“I could have told you that.”
“Are you up for more mug shots tomorrow? I can pick you up in the morning.”
Brennan shook his head.
“Why not? Someone tried to kill me today, Bren, or have you forgotten?” He waved
his hand in the air. “There won’t be any more kissing if you don’t help me put this
bastard away.”
Brennan’s gaze shot up to meet Keegan’s. “I m-meant I can’t come in the morning.”
Keegan cocked his head to the side. “Ever?”
“What?”
“Not coming in the morning. Personal problem, or have you not been with the right
guy to do the job?”
Brennan’s eyes widened.
“Give me a chance, and I can make certain you come in the morning.”
“You don’t m-m…fuck around, do you?” Had Brennan ever met anyone so forward?
“No. Not when I’m with someone. And neither will you.”
“N-not what I meant.”
UUL
“I know, but it is what I meant. Afternoon then? I can swing by after lunch and pick
you up. Be ready.”
Brennan didn’t have the chance to even collect his thoughts and respond before
Keegan had gotten to the door and gone out, leaving Brennan standing dumbfounded in
the kitchen being serenaded by the purring shitheads.
Letting go is the first step to healing…or bringing it all crashing down.
Junk
© 2013 Josephine Myles
When an avalanche of books cuts off access to his living room, university librarian
Jasper Richardson can no longer ignore the truth. His ever-growing piles of books,
magazines and newspapers can no longer be classified as a “collection”. It’s a hoard, and
he needs professional help.
Professional clutter clearer and counselor Lewis Miller thinks he’s seen it all, but
even he has to admit he’s shocked. Not so much by the state of Jasper’s house, but by the
level of attraction he still feels for the sexy bookworm he remembers from school.
What a shame that Lewis’s ethical code forbids relationships with clients. As Jasper
makes slow but steady progress, though, the magnetic pull between them is so strong
even Lewis is having trouble convincing himself it’s a temporary emotional attachment
arising from the therapeutic process.
Jasper longs to prove to Lewis that this is the real deal. But first he’ll have to lay bare
the root of his hoarding problem…and reveal the dark secret hidden behind his walls of
books.
Warning: Contains a level-headed counselor with a secret addiction, a bespectacled
geek with a sweet tooth, a killer “to-be-read” pile, embarrassing parents, a van called
Alice, and deliciously British slang.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Junk:
Okay, so he hadn’t been strictly honest about the hypnotism thing. There was
definitely an element of that involved in helping Jasper to relax, but this was therapy, not
stage magic, and Jasper so urgently needed to unwind.
Lewis continued in the same soft monotone. “And as your eyelids grow heavy and
you listen to my voice and feel the sunshine warming your skin, I want you to picture
your house in the future, after we’ve finished all our sessions and you’ve moved things
UUL
on to new homes. Everything is going to be just how you’ve always dreamed about it.
The perfect house for you, and you’re about to walk me through it, proud to show me
everything you’ve achieved. We’re going to start at the front gate, and you’re meeting me
there. Now you’re going to take me to the front door and describe what you’re seeing on
the way.”
The silence stretched out for what felt like minutes, but Lewis didn’t mind when he
was sitting in the drowsy July sunshine, watching Jasper concentrate. With Jasper’s eyes
closed, it was impossible not to notice how lusciously thick his eyelashes were, and how
strong the lines of his face were in repose.
Eventually Lewis had to nudge. “You’re walking me down the front path, and I need
you to tell me what you’re seeing.”
“Oh. Right. Of course. Sorry, I got lost in there.” Jasper’s body tensed again, and his
left eye twitched.
Lewis instinctively reached out to take his hands. Damn. Hadn’t meant to do that.
Still, Jasper’s breathing slowed again, so maybe this was just the way it needed to be.
Some people relaxed best when in physical contact with someone else. Lewis worked on
keeping his arms and hands supple and limber, so as not to transmit any of his misgivings
to Jasper.
“That’s fine. Just talk me through what you’re seeing in your front garden now.”
“The garden? Oh, it’s nice. Erm, pretty. Lighter. I’ve pruned the trees, and the
ground underneath them is covered in soft moss, with daffodils bobbing around in the
breeze. It’s how it used to be. When I was little.”
“And the front of the house?” Lewis prompted when Jasper fell silent again.
“It looks good. The curtains are all open. The windows gleam. All those green stains
are gone. You can see into the rooms. You can actually see inside.”
“You’re going to walk me up to the front door now. What colour is it?”
“Red,” Jasper said, decisively. “A rich, warm burgundy kind of red.”
“Sounds cheerful.” And worlds away from the scuffed and peeling navy it was at the
moment. “How do you feel, waiting by the door to show me inside?”
“I’m… I’m nervous. But just a little. Happy nervous. Not like I was the first time
you came inside. I think I must be… Yes, I’m excited.” Jasper’s words came in a
breathless rush, like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling. “I’m going to open the door
now. The lock turns easily, and the door opens all the way inside.”
“What can we see now? What furniture is inside your hallway?”
“A hat stand. Somewhere for you to put your coat, and the table by the door’s still
there, but it’s just got a bowl on it for my keys and wallet. Nothing else. I’ve got one of
those wire baskets on the back of the door to catch all the letters and junk mail. But I
don’t get much of that anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
“I filled in a form and took it to the post office.” Jasper’s eyes sprang open. “I did
that. I really did it. Last week. I meant to tell you when you got here, but I forgot.”
“That’s great.” So they were making some progress after all, at least in terms of
stopping new paper coming into the house, anyway. “That’s a really good step to take.
Now, I want you to tell me what you see on the floors and the walls.”
“The floor is polished marble. It really is, you know? It’s under there somewhere.
Kind of cold, but there’s a colourful carpet to soften it. One of those Persian rugs, all
warm colours and patterns.”
“And the walls?”
“Covered in books.”
“In books?”
Jasper smiled then. A cheeky little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It suited
him. “Books. Everywhere. But they’re on shelves now. And I know where they all are.
They’re all ones I’m looking forward to reading. Fiction. I’ve moved unread fiction down
to the hallway.”
“Okay, so you’re starting to decide where you want things to end up. That’s great.
What about the lounge? What’s it like in there?”
“There’s a sofa and a couple of armchairs. Brown leather. And the fireplace is
working again. I’ve got logs burning in there. It’s cosy. Other than that…it’s bookshelves
UUL
again. Floor to ceiling on every wall but the outside one. I’ve got the old books in here.
Leather-bound ones. Looks really classy with all those rich colours and the gilt on the
spines. You can smell them. That sweet, old-paper fragrance.” Jasper opened his eyes
again and gave Lewis a fiercely defiant look. “I’m still going to need lots of books
around me.”
“That’s fine. No one’s saying you shouldn’t have your favourite things around you. I
like the idea of bookshelves. What kind are they? Built in or freestanding?” The more
detail in which Jasper could picture this, the better he’d be motivated to work towards it.
That was the theory, anyway. If Lewis were being brutally honest with himself, though,
he was just enjoying listening to him talk. The way Jasper’s face lit up when he pictured
his house in working order again—that was magical.
“The shelves are wooden. Built in. I must have hired a carpenter, because I don’t
know how to do all that kind of thing. Can barely rewire a plug. Should have learned,
really, but by the time I was old enough, Dad had died.”
Lewis’s heart melted at the plaintive tone in Jasper’s voice, but it was time to steer
him away from negative thinking. “Okay, it’s fine to get help with the things we can’t
manage ourselves yet. Carpenters need customers too. But tell me more about the room.
When do you use it? What do you like to do in here?”
“I come in here every morning after breakfast to drink my coffee and read a book. I
like to sit in the armchair by the window. There’s good light there. And in the evening…
In the evening, I spend time in here with my…my…”
“Your friends?” Lewis prompted. Jasper needed a social life.
“With my boyfriend,” Jasper said, his eyes springing open. “With you.”
Lewis stared, his heart hammering wildly, as Jasper leaned forward and cupped his
jaw. He should move. Back away. Laugh it off.
He should do something sensible and act like the therapist he was.
But he was flesh-and-blood too, and he wanted this. God, how he wanted it.
Lewis’s id told his superego to go take a long walk off a short pier.
Jasper’s lips touched his. Tentative. Soft and searching.
Lewis moaned and opened his lips to deepen the kiss.
UUL
Document Outline
- Let it Snow
- Heidi Cullinan
- Dedication
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- About the Author
- Look for these titles by Heidi Cullinan
- Now Available:
- A Private Gentleman
- Family Man (with Marie Sexton)
- Love Lessons
- Coming Soon:
- Special Delivery
- Special Delivery
- Double Blind
- Tough Love
- Love doesn’t come with a syllabus.
- Love Lessons
- © 2013 Heidi Cullinan
- There’s more than one way to guard a body.
- Burden
- © 2013 Annmarie McKenna
- Letting go is the first step to healing…or bringing it all crashing down.
- Junk
- © 2013 Josephine Myles
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