Table of Contents

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
Also by K.Z. Snow
Steampunk Romance by K.Z. Snow
Copyright

Chapter One

When

I realized I was alone in bed, I

stumbled into the hallway instead of the
bathroom, where I really needed to be. That’s
when I saw the light and heard the tapping. If
I’d lived in an antebellum mansion, I might’ve
peed right there.

A ghost!

No, just a trick. I yawned, stretched my

eyelids, and tried to remember his name.
Shane? Blaine? Giving up, I shambled into the
guest bathroom and took care of more pressing
business. By the time my bladder was empty, I
was irked.

I didn’t like

anybody using my computer,

much less some NSA fuck-buddy about whom I
knew next to nothing. My ass was sore too,
which didn’t improve my mood. I hadn’t
bottomed in a while, and Shane-Blaine hardly
exemplified poetry in motion.

A towel around the waist seemed like a

good idea.

Once I’d secured one, I crossed the hall to

the doorway of my office and stood there. It
was still dark outside, which obviously put the
time between bar-close and dawn. I focused on
the flat-panel and tried to figure out what
Shane-Blaine was up to.

How predictable. My new playmate was

cruising porn sites.

He was staring so intently, it seemed the

light from the screen had hypnotized him and
was luring him into the monitor. His spiked
reddish hair effectively blocked whatever scene
had him so mesmerized. The site was called
Guyuyuy, which made no sense until my mind
woke up a little more and I realized how the
w o r d

guy was pronounced. When I noticed

Shane-Blaine’s lowered left arm, I supposed
Gooey-ooey-ooey would’ve been even more
appropriate.

“Don’t you

dare spunk near my desk!”

Shane-Blaine jerked in surprise, but I’d

spoken too late. His body stiffened as the
movement of his arm faltered. Soft little gasps
came from the chair.

“Goddamnit.” I charged forward and

stopped at his back. “What the hell do you think
you’re doing?” I immediately shook my head
and rolled up my eyes, because, really, I
couldn’t have asked a stupider question if I were
Paris and Perez Hilton rolled into a single,
boneheaded hermaphrodite.

“You wouldn’t wake up,” he said a bit

breathlessly. A fter clicking back to the home
page, he lifted his left hand, spread fingers
slightly bent, and gave it a cursory look.

“Shane—”

“Who?”

“Blaine—”

He pushed back from the desk and got up,

still holding his fingers in that clawlike semicurl.
Maybe his cum was like epoxy. Nah, it couldn’t
have been. He’d earlier pulled off a condom; his
dickhead hadn’t come with it.

He flipped me a sullen glance. “Dane,” he

said before heading for the bathroom.

I watched him walk away, then scrubbed

both hands through my hair and looked at the
monitor. Curiosity started gnawing at me. I was
about to sit down but, thank goodness, glanced
at the desk chair first.

“Fuck,” I whispered, and irritably called

over my shoulder, “Bring a damp washcloth in
here, would you?”

I perused the Guyuyuy home page. Little

windows lined up in rows showed men in
provocative poses. Singles, couples, groups of
three or four. Beneath each window was a brief
caption that contained the men’s first names
along with some titillating descriptive line:

Joey

gets stretched! Clicking on a window obviously
took the viewer to some short amateur video.

I’d seen this stuff before. The short videos

were teasers. It you wanted to watch a longer,
more explicit vid, you had to pull out the
plastic.

Dane returned. He immediately went about

swabbing the desk chair, probably because he
was sick of hearing me bitch.

I started feeling bad about having so

rudely interrupted him. I stopped feeling bad

when I realized my ire had been justified. “You
really can’t help yourself to someone else’s
computer until you ask first,” I said. “Don’t you
get it? There’s personal stuff on there.”

“I didn’t care about your personal stuff. I

was horny.” Dane lifted the washcloth. “Where
do you want this?”

I grabbed it out of his hand and pitched it

through the bathroom door, just across the hall.
It fell with a soggy

plop on the tiled floor. “A nd

you don’t just blow a wad while you’re in
someone else’s desk chair.” I took a seat,
hoping the towel around my hips would absorb
any leftover moisture. Of any kind. “So, what
tickled your fancy?”

Perusing the offerings, I waited for Dane’s

answer. He seemed reluctant to show me the
source of his late-night thrill. Just as my gaze
stalled at one of the windows, Dane pointed to
it.

“That one. Kid’s fuckin’

hot.”

Kid’s also a kid, I thought, ashamed he’d

drawn my attention.

He was a willowy youth, his body bowed

backward to rest against the older man who
stood behind him, grasping his slender hips.
Slender, that is, except for a prominently,
exquisitely rounded ass.

Justin does what Roman says, read the

caption. I assumed Roman was on the verge of
fucking Justin, and viewers should click to see

more. Of course, the moneymaker would be a
subsequent click to the longer video.

“Go ahead; check him out,” Dane said at

my back. “Dare ya.”

I admit my finger was itchy. The boy’s

head sort of rested against the man’s chest, his
face half-turned toward the camera. He was
enticingly sensuous. Even though I was only
twenty-eight, I felt like a pervy old man as my
sleep-sandy eyes focused on his mouth.

If ever I’d had an invitation to sin, there it

was. Plush lips, parted, oh-so-soft. A dip in the
upper, like an inverted caret. Damn.

That cap of blond hair, subtly streaked

with different shades, emphasized the boy’s
youth. Its edges swept raggedly from eyebrows
to earlobes to nape. I thought of the Beatles in
their early days, although Justin’s fringe was
less even. A nd Justin was a whole lot prettier.

“No, that’s jailbait,” I said, more to caution

myself than to castigate him of the rampaging
hormones.

“They’re all supposed to be at least

eighteen.” Dane leaned over my shoulder and
pointed at some meaningless message in a box:
This site only features men 18 or older.

“Oh, okay,” I said. “Then it must be so.”

My glance at him underscored my sarcasm.
How gullible are you? Don’t you recognize a
cover-our-asses statement when you see one?

I looked back at Justin. His limbs were

long and lean, but his muscles had enough
definition to make him masculine and graceful
instead of girlish and gangly. He might’ve been
of age. It was hard to tell.

“I know damned well you’re imagining

those lips around your dick,” Dane said in a
distasteful

voice,

a

look-what’s-under-my-

trench-coat voice.

The sound of it conjured images of stony

cops at my door, not a succulent mouth at my
crotch. More to the point, I didn’t want to be the
kind of gay man who gave all gay men a bad
name. Lusting after a kid skeeved me out.
There were plenty of grown-up men to lust
after.

I turned off the computer. “I’m going back

to bed,” I said… but didn’t get off the chair.

“Mind if I grab something to eat? Or do

you have ‘personal stuff’ in the fridge too?”

“Dane, don’t make me want to forget your

name again. I don’t care if you graze until
sunrise. Just stay out of my office.”

Chuckling, he headed for the kitchen.

Now I got off the chair. I hadn’t wanted

Dane the Profane to see the small tent that
towel had made at my crotch.

Sunday

got off to a fairly good start. A fter

Dane and I had breakfast at a nearby country

café, I rather gladly bid him farewell and went
home to read the paper and drink more coffee.
Sundays weren’t much different from other days
for me except for my breakfast-and-newspaper
ritual, because I rarely

had to be anywhere. I

wrote my syndicated book reviews at home
and, of course, my Wrighteous blog. I also did
my editing projects at the computer. E-mail was
my primary link to the workaday world.

Today I’d be reading.

A s a reviewer, I’d been trying to avoid

“list” books—the chick lit, crime, and espionage
offerings, the authors who kept reappearing like
a rash. I was sick to death of them. So I
decided to tackle an intriguing, ambitious
psychological thriller/paranormal hybrid that
had neither a warm fuzzy nor a drop of gore
within its 300-plus pages.

When I broke for a modest lunch, my train

of thought also came apart. My mind wandered
in another direction: to the look of decadent
torpor on the face of a boy named Justin, to the
deep restlessness that look had planted in my
groin.

I got online and found Guyuyuy. The

Justin-and-Roman photo was still on the home
page, and I clicked on it. A s I’d expected, a
video pane came up, its centered black arrow
daring me to “play.” There were three clickable
boxes below it—See More, Chat With Me, and
Time Out—and an area for comments below
that.

My throat felt parched. I delayed the

inevitable by scrolling through the comments.
They came from men with screen names like
nutbutter, woolybull, and ass-I-like-it. They
were banal and often full of grammatical errors
and misspellings. I could just about see the
drool between the words.

U need me bhind u with 10 inches.

So fine and WA NTING IT!!!!

Go to chat, if we get together i will rim u

allover all day!!!

I started snickering, trying to imagine it. A

person only had so many orifices. Having one’s
tear ducts rimmed couldn’t have been too
pleasant.

There appeared to be responses, but only

to the comments that were phrased as
invitations. They were always the same, and
always posted by “precious_boy.”

Click on the

Time Out button to learn more about Justin
Time Services.

My grin shrank to a smile. Justin Time?

That’s really what he called himself?

I found

you, Justin Time. Even more intrigued, I clicked
on the Services link.

It took me to another website that

provided “The Bare Essentials of JTS.” There
was a vague reference to the nature of the
services, which consisted of “private parties,”
“formal escort,” and “casual escort.” With, of
course, various rates. The kid must’ve been in
the Chicago area, because the ad mentioned a

“surcharge” for travel to places like Rockford,
Milwaukee, and South Bend. He wouldn’t go
beyond what looked to be a ninety-mile radius.
Clients who were farther away were instructed
to “contact JTS for details.” I assumed that
meant if some rich guy in Denver or Düsseldorf
wanted Justin, said rich guy would have to
make special arrangements and then foot the
bill for all expenses. Prospective clients had to
make their inquiries via a message box.

Was the website merely wishful thinking, I

wondered, or were there men actually willing to
hire this kid?

With my curiosity piqued beyond the point

of control, I played the video.

Roman was in a hot tub. Justin, standing

at its edge, held a small tray bearing a single
chimney glass. It was obviously supposed to be
a summery drink, because the video seemed to
be aiming for a cabana-boy vibe. Justin, who
wore only snug, powder-blue swim shorts, bent
over to hand the drink to Roman. He stood in
profile to the camera, certainly to let viewers
appreciate the delectable curvature of his ass
and the hint of a bulge at his crotch.

Roman took a sip then set the glass on the

tub’s deck. He made an exaggerated motion
with both his head and hand for Justin to join
him. The boy pretended to hesitate before he
stepped down into the water and sat beside his
demanding customer.

Within seconds, Roman roughly urged

Justin’s head to his chest. The boy began
fondling and kissing it, tonguing the small
hoops in the pierced nipples. Judging by the
movement of Roman’s right arm, his hand was
feeling up Justin’s crotch.

Roman hand. Russian fingers.

The boy began to squirm. His face took on

that look, the one that had captured my
attention on the main page. He might’ve been
dramatizing his ecstasy, but not by much. He
was getting turned on.

My breath began to shallow.

Then the big man, roughly again, grabbed

Justin’s arm and made another gesture. He
wanted Justin to get out of the tub, and of
course the agreeable cabana boy did.

Water trickled down the smooth slopes of

Justin’s body. He had a noticeable hard-on, its
rigid roll angled up toward his hipbone and
straining against the drenched cloth of his
swimwear. A s he looked down at his crotch, his
gleaming curtain of blond hair fell forward. His
lips were parted and all the fuller for being
slack.

The boy’s arousal seemed to thrum against

my balls, against the root of my dick. When
Justin began pushing his palm and running his
fingers along his covered erection, my
excitement sharpened. A ll the starch seeped out
of my sense of decency. Suddenly I was nothing
more than a twenty-eight-year-old man with a
boner, and not even a call from the pope

would’ve made me soft.

Justin walked out of frame for a moment.

Scowling, Roman mouthed words to make it
look like he was shouting. He waved his arms,
summoning Justin back.

The boy appeared again, much closer to

the camera, still petting and pulling at his cock.
His eyes were beautiful—large and limpid and a
few shades darker than his sopping-wet shorts.

Then he signaled my doom. He yanked up

one leg of his swimwear, shoved his hard-on
free, and stroked it. A nd kept stroking it.

He had a truly lovely cock, firm and

straight and smooth, with just the right degree
of blush and a perfectly proportioned head.
Even as my swelling lust pushed all other
thoughts aside, my aesthetic appreciation
surprised me. I’d never before given a rat’s turd
what a woody looked like. A ll I’d ever cared
about was its cleanliness and how well the
owner used it, which was kind of how I felt
about a dentist’s instruments. Yeah, I was
definitely exploring new territory, in more ways
than one.

Tearing my gaze away from the scene was

impossible. This was the real thing, a gorgeous
young man in the throes of masturbatory
pleasure. I watched, spellbound, as his ribcage
expanded and contracted more rapidly and his
fist pumped more vigorously, watched him as
my own cock twitched and stiffened in
response. Watched… until dollops of cum shot

out of Justin’s cock in thick, lazy arcs and
dribbled down the taut length of his thigh.

I imagined his damp, warm prick pulsing

within my own hand, imagined feeling the
contractions of his climax against my palm.

“Shit,” I whispered, my heart thumping. I

didn’t want to be turned on. I didn’t want

not to

be turned on. I didn’t know what I wanted at
that point, but I tried to suppress my clamoring
need.

Roman then appeared beside his naughty

servant boy and pulled down those powder-blue
briefs. It was obvious why: to give the hungry
viewer yet another appetizer, a quick eyeful of
picture-perfect ass to go along with that picture-
perfect cock. The implication was clear. More
was yet to come, so to speak. But the viewer
had to pay to see it.

My guilt-ridden restraint might’ve spared

me the humiliation of turning into another
Dane, but it carried its own punishment. A
knotted, aching fullness had settled into my
nuts.

Right before the video ended, Justin

smiled into the camera. Dimples appeared. So
did a narrow gap between his upper front teeth.
It was the most disarming smile I’d ever seen…
and I was forcefully struck by the impression I’d
seen it before.

Chapter Two

I gingerly

touched my balls and wondered if

I should try beating off, but that sense of
recognition kept dogging me. Who

was this kid?

How could I possibly know him? He didn’t seem
old enough to get into bars. I’d certainly never
dated anybody that young. I had no long-lost
teenage relatives, no acquaintances with little
brothers.

I clicked on the Chat button but had to

detour to register. My screen name was
“wondering.”

I despised chat rooms. They made me feel

as if handfuls of crap were being flung my way
at a blinding pace. This was the first time I’d
been in one in years.

Thank goodness Justin Time’s chat room

wasn’t busy. Only two other visitors were there,
gabbing with each other.

Justin, are you on any other sites? I typed.

Do you have any DVDs available? I figured I
might’ve glimpsed him in another piece of porn.

No response, except from one of the other

chatters. He acknowledged me with

hi mr

wonderfull. I didn’t respond.

“This is insane,” I muttered, pissed off at

myself. Yeah, I’d probably seen the kid before
on another porn site. That’s why he looked
familiar. No mystery.

I got up and went to the bathroom. Taking

a leak helped the ache in my balls subside a
little. I strolled into the kitchen for a glass of
lemonade. A s I drank, I checked my phone for
messages because I had it set to silent. There
were three calls I needed to return—from my
mother, my friend Vic, and a guy I’d dated
named Tomas. So maybe I only needed to
return two calls, since I was ambivalent about
seeing Tomas again.

When I got back to my computer, I

lackadaisically scrolled through the banter that
had taken place while I was gone. A nd there
was the answer to my question.

precious_boy:

not yet but soon

If that was Justin, and it must’ve been,

he’d eliminated Reason Number One for my
sense of recognition. Perplexed, I hurriedly
began typing.

Justin, is that you? Is precious_boy your

screen name?

precious_boy:

yes

I think I’ve seen you before, but not here.

precious_boy:

maybe on the street or in a

store or restaurant or at a concert

Chicago?

precious_boy:

prolly but I’ve been to more

places

The other two visitors, and then a third,

started firing off sleazy propositions and
remarks as soon as they saw Justin’s screen

name. I knew if I asked to see the star of the
show in person, he’d either ignore me or direct
me to the Services page. Of course he wouldn’t
agree to meet with one of his many oglers—not
without being compensated.

I signed off by typing

Thank you. Still

wondering.

precious_boy:

you’re welcome. plz come

back.

Sighing, I flopped against the back of my

chair. Well, the kid was no dope. He had a basic
grasp of spelling, punctuation, and grammar,
which put him light years ahead of the vast
majority of his peers. So maybe he

was older

than he looked.

Chicago. Yeah, I might’ve seen him in

Chicago. I went there often, since I lived only
an hour’s drive to the north. A really good-
looking young man would’ve stuck in my mind,
even if I weren’t conscious of his image lodging
there.

I left the office, grabbed my phone off the

kitchen table, and called Vic as I sauntered into
the living room and dropped onto the couch.

“It’s me,” I said when he answered. “Did

you call for a reason?”

“Yeah, because it’s Sunday and I’m bored.

You obviously survived the weekend.”

“Don’t

make

assumptions

until

the

weekend is over.” I sat forward and rested my
arms on my thighs. “Hey, I need your input on

something. What would you do if you saw
someone you thought you recognized on a porn
site? Would you try to get in touch with him?”

Vic’s answer was an immediate and

unconditional “No.”

“Why?”

“First,

because

thinking I recognize

someone isn’t the same as

knowing I know him.

Second, because even if I was sure I knew him,
I wouldn’t see the point of getting in touch.
Unless he once meant something to me.”

“Okay, why don’t you see the point of

getting in touch with him?”

“Because guys who do porn or dance in

strip clubs—any of that kind of stuff—are really
into themselves. A nd probably into drugs too.
A lmost five years ago I had a chance to hook
up with a man who showed off his body for a
living. But I’d heard he was seriously
promiscuous and put a lot of shit up his nose.
Those were the deal-breakers. Didn’t matter
that he was gorgeous. I walked away from it.”

Vic made sense. That’s why I always

sought his advice. Since we told each other just
about everything, I broke down and explained
the events that had led up to my question,
although I left out the blue-balls part.

“Weird,” Vic said. “How old is he?”

“Damned if I know. He’s no dummy,

though. He knows how to use apostrophes.”

“Oh. Well shit, Jon, that means he’s at

least forty. You’re safe.”

We both got a laugh out of that.

“Of course,” I said, “the guys featured on

the site are all supposed to be at least
eighteen.”

Vic snorted. “Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, that was my reaction.”

“So just let it go. Some vague feeling that

you’ve seen him before doesn’t justify stalking
an underage piece.”

“I’d never intended to ‘stalk’ him. I was

just curious. A nd yes, I’m letting it go.”

We talked about having dinner sometime

during the week, maybe with a couple of other
friends, but I told Vic I had to see what kind of
progress I made on my various projects.

“Shit, I still have to call my mother,” I said.

“What’s wrong with that? She’s a cool

lady.”

“A ll she can talk about since the divorce is

her social life. She’s turned into a freakin’
cougar.”

“So? Now you’ve got something in

common with her.”

“Shut up, Vic.”

He chuckled. “Just kidding. I hope.”

The

epiphany struck as I sat on my deck that

evening, having a drink and letting my mind
drift. That happened to me a lot when I loosed
the reins on my thoughts. A question would
suddenly have an answer; some dilemma, a
solution. They were products of the mysterious
churning of the subconscious, the alchemy of
relaxed, associative thinking.

What Vic had said led to memories of the

men I’d known. The reverie had its own arcane
logic, I suppose, although I wasn’t aware of it.
My attention was focused outside myself.

Light seeped perceptibly from the sky. I

watched clouds shred as they scudded from
northwest to southeast. They were like the
spirits of majestic galleons, fading before my
eyes. The disc of a full moon, cradled by one of
those ghostly hulls, rose above the treetops, its
glow smudged by the air’s humidity.

I was vaguely wondering at that moment

how Donald Collier was doing. We still kept in
touch, but I hadn’t heard from him in a while.

We’d had an affair that began the second

semester of my sophomore year in college,
when I was nineteen. Donald, an associate
professor in the English department, was eleven
years my senior. He was a good-looking and
certainly intelligent man but a little on the
snooty, condescending side. Before he was
granted tenure, he got a more appealing offer
from a large university and accepted it. Right
after I graduated, he broke my tender, twenty-
one-year-old heart with the news.

Donald was unaffected by the prospect of

leaving me. The siren song of career
advancement had made our affair insignificant
to him, if it had ever

h a d any significance. I

think it was the first time in my life I had to face
the fact I was disposable and replaceable. He’d
surely find other undergrads to seduce. But ours
wouldn’t be the only relationship he sacrificed.
Donald had decided to leave his son behind
with Mom and her female partner.

His soft-spoken, sensitive, ten-year-old

son.

Towheaded

and

dimpled.

With

a

beguilingly imperfect smile.

Oh… shit.

Chapter Three

Even

after I’d arranged to spend part of an

evening with Justin Time—who, by my
calculations, was seventeen—and even though I
had no intention of coming within six feet of
him, I didn’t know what to do. Paying for his
services was the only surefire way to see him.
I’d even rented a hotel room on the northern
edge of metro Chicago. But what the hell was I
going to

do with this pricey opportunity?

Setting up the tryst that wasn’t a tryst had

been a bizarre exercise. A fter again following
the link to JTS, I first had to send an e-mail
message explaining which of the three services I
wanted, where it would take place, and for what
amount of time. I quickly received some
cobbled-together contract that detailed terms of
service. I had to append an electronic signature
and send the contract back before remitting my
fee via credit or debit card. Or I could cloak
myself in anonymity by agreeing to pay COD. I
chose the last option and signed the contract
with a pseudonym.

The details of the JTS contract were the

strangest I’d ever seen. Condom use was
mandatory. Dental-dam use was strongly
recommended.

The

“Service

Provider,”

obviously Justin, had to have access to a
“private, reasonably clean, full bathroom.”
There was to be no mouth kissing and “no

domination/submission or fetish play unless
expressly agreed to by the Service Provider.”
Refusal to abide by these terms would result in
“immediate termination of services.” A nd, of
course, all fees were nonrefundable.

A t least the kid took every imaginable

precaution short of having a bodyguard, but I
still couldn’t help wondering how often he
skirted the terms of his own contract just for the
sake of profit.

I was jittery that Thursday evening we

were to meet. Rather than pace around the
hotel room, I tried to get some work done on
my laptop. It was hopeless; I couldn’t
concentrate. A nalyzing the strengths and
weaknesses of a work of fiction meant nothing
compared with analyzing an actual life that had
taken wrong turns.

I glanced at my small overnight bag,

sitting unopened on the queen-size bed. I’d be
spending the night at the hotel—hell, I’d paid
for it—but what would I do once my visitor left?
I had a feeling that sleep wouldn’t come any
more easily than work, so I’d probably go down
to the bar and get drunk.

When I heard two soft knocks on the door,

I thought I’d vomit up my entire digestive tract.
Why am I doing this? What do I hope to
accomplish? I’m not a damned counselor. A nd
what if he doesn’t even remember me? Worse
yet, what if he isn’t Donald Collier’s son?

He remembered me, all right. I saw the

shock of recognition on his face as soon as I
opened the door. His eyes widened and his
mouth opened… and then he blinked and tried
to recover. Insouciance eluded him. His gaze
jumped around, and he couldn’t seem to find
that seductive smile he probably wore whenever
he greeted a client.

That’s when I knew too. Until I saw his

reaction, I hadn’t been completely sure. There
were a lot of blond kids with dimples in the
world.

“You don’t have to pretend, Ethan.” I tried

to keep my voice reassuring without sounding
patronizing.

“I guess that

would be stupid.” He shoved

his hands in the pockets of his skinny black
jeans. “How’ve you been, Jonathan? Or should
we just bypass the chitchat and get down to
business?”

“Come on in. Let’s talk.”

He blew out a breath and looked around

the room. “I’m here to talk?”

“A nd listen, maybe.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. I’m not going to fuck an ex-

lover’s kid.”

“Not even if that kid is all grown up?” He

swaggered into the room.

“A ll grown up.” No shit . I closed the door.

A s I trailed behind him, I had to force myself
not to cop a look at his ass. I took a seat at the

small dining table in front of the balcony doors,
pulled the envelope containing my payment out
of my shirt pocket, and slapped it on the table.

Ethan was taller than I’d expected—

probably six feet, give or take—and looked
more mature than he did in that video. Maybe it
was his bearing; maybe it was his voice, a
smooth low-tenor. His beauty still blew me
away, though, and his aura of sensuality was
even stronger in person.

“Fuck,” he exhaled.

He didn’t sit at the table with me. Instead,

he sank into one of two upholstered chairs
flanking the desk. I angled to face him. When
he jacked his right ankle onto his left knee, I
noticed how long his long legs were. A nd, in
my mind’s eye, I couldn’t help seeing him shoot
onto his bare thigh. Damn me.

This wasn’t going to be easy. I hoped like

hell Ethan had left Justin Time in the corridor,
that he wouldn’t try to prove something by
putting a move on me. I knew I’d rebuff him,
but any advance whatsoever would make for a
really unpleasant scene.

“So,” he said, turning those large, Han-

blue eyes to my face, “talk.”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you

selling yourself?”

“Why do you care? We haven’t seen each

other in over seven years, Jon.”

“I remember what a sweet kid you were.

That’s why I care. I liked you. I was impressed
by you. A nd now you’re making porn videos
and hiring yourself out as a boy-toy. Why?”

Laconically, Ethan shrugged. “Easy money.

Plus, I really enjoy sex. A lot.” He paused—for
effect, no doubt. “I’m very good at what I do.”

“You’ve got a mind too, you know. Don’t

you want to use it?”

His face tightened, just a little. “What

makes you think I’m

not using it?”

“Oh come on, Ethan. You’re a goddamned

hustler. It doesn’t require a whole lot of brain
power to bend over.”

“But it does when you have to use your

imagination to sell it. A nd I mean sell it to
yourself and whoever is with you, or just
watching you.” He’d leaned forward and raised
his voice.

He was right, of course. He was a peddler

of sexual arousal, a uniquely potent snake oil,
and to “sell it” effectively, he had to be a
convincing actor. He had to weave believable
illusions. That did require an active imagination,
as well as enough smarts to channel it properly.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll grant you that much.

But you could be doing so much more with
your life.”

In spite of my small concession, tension

still wound through the air. I’d come too close
to hectoring Ethan. A lthough he couldn’t fully
lay claim to manhood yet, he was certainly

experienced enough to have a hefty dose of
masculine pride.

“You know, I really liked you too, Jon.” He

smiled… a little too suggestively. I sensed a
diversionary tactic. “I might like you even more
now. You’re pretty fuckin’ hot.” His gaze skated
down my body. “In fact, you’re

really hot.”

“Don’t even go there,” I said stiffly.

“Why? Don’t you like guys finding you

attractive?”

“Stop it, Ethan.”

“You obviously like porn. How many of my

performances have you watched? Did they turn
you on?”

“T hat’s

enough!” I yelled, slamming the

side of my fist on the tabletop. I lifted my other
hand and pointed at him. “Listen, fuckboy.
Don’t try to manipulate me into legitimatizing
what you do. I came here because I give a shit.
What are you trying to prove? Huh? That I’m a
hypocrite? That you can make me cave in and
beg for a blowjob? I’m sure you draw gobs of
cum and compliments from plenty of other men
who only think of one thing when they look at
you. A nd if that’s what you’re trying to get out
of me, just more of the same so you can make
me look like a chump, you can leave right now.”
I lifted the envelope and added with a bite,
“Here’s your fee, by the way.”

Both sides of Ethan’s face were aflame.

There might’ve even been tears in his eyes. He
was making his way across that teeter-totter

that stretched from late childhood to adulthood,
and for a moment it had tipped back to the
little-boy side.

For several seconds, the hum of the air

conditioner was the only sound in the room.

“See?” Ethan said quietly. “That’s why I

liked you. You didn’t talk to me like I was a
three-year-old. But you were nicer then. Funny
too.”

“I’m still nice,” I murmured. “A nd

occasionally funny.”

We caught each other’s gaze and

exchanged self-conscious smiles. It seemed
we’d cleared the first and biggest hurdle.

“What else are you?” he asked. The snide

edge was gone from his voice. His interest was
tentative but genuine.

I thought a minute, although I didn’t really

need

to.

“A

book

reviewer.

Single.

Disillusioned.”

“Why disillusioned? Did some guy screw

you over?”

“Nah, that’s not it. I never got close

enough to anybody to give him that kind of
power.”

“Not even my father?”

Hm. Funny I hadn’t allowed his father

access to my mind since that evening on the
deck. “I guess it was possible,” I said, trying to
keep those old, faded scars covered. “I was
young and impressionable, so yeah, maybe I

did give him too much power. But it wasn’t as
much as he thought. Like all self-absorbed
people, he took a lot of things for granted.”

“Sounds like him,” Ethan said. “He always

has to be in control. Or believe he is. I think
that’s one of the reasons he dumped me on my
mother and took off. He couldn’t control his life
as much as he wanted to with me around.”

I wasn’t the biggest fan of Donald Collier,

but I wanted to set the record straight. This was
his son I was talking to. “He didn’t ‘dump’ you.
He didn’t just take off. He moved because of his
job, and he didn’t want to uproot you.”

Looking hesitant, Ethan pulled his lower lip

between his teeth before he spoke. “I wanted to
go live with

you. Do you remember me

asking?” There was the faintest shade of
resentment in his voice.

I either didn’t remember or didn’t want to,

but I couldn’t tell him that. “For shit’s sake,
Ethan, I was only twenty-one at the time. I
wasn’t father material. I was still pretty much a
kid myself.”

He looked down at his hands, now loosely

linked on his lap, and I noticed the poignant
sweep of his eyelashes, each hair delicate and
distinct against the rose-tinted ridges of his
cheekbones.

“I guess you seemed older,” he said.

“Well… yeah, of course I did. I was dating

your dad. You probably figured we were the
same age. I mean, you were only eight when

we hooked up. Children don’t distinguish
between adults, except in a very rudimentary
way. Like, ‘as old as my parents’ or ‘as old as
my grandparents’.”

He nodded. “That’s true, now that I think

about it.”

“Besides, you had your mother and her

partner to live with.” I wished I could’ve
remembered them more clearly, but I’d only
met them once. The most I could conjure was a
vague impression: a lesbian couple, smiling
kindly, one with high cheekbones like Ethan’s. I
couldn’t recall other physical attributes because
I never looked as closely at women as I did at
men. “They seemed like a very secure, loving
couple who doted on you.” I think I came up
with that last bit just to assuage my conscience,
although I had no reason to feel guilty. Ethan
had never been my responsibility.

“I didn’t want to live with them,” he said.

“I love my mom, and I like Pat a lot, but I didn’t
want to be with them full-time.”

“Why?”

A line appeared between his brows. “Fuck,

Jon, I was a gay kid. Maybe I didn’t grasp what
that meant at the time, but I knew I liked boys
more than girls. I was more comfortable
hanging out with you and my dad than with two
women. A nd when I got older and

really

became an outcast for being gay, the last thing
I needed was being known as ‘the fag with two
mothers.’ We weren’t living in a real enlightened

area, y’know.”

“I guess you weren’t,” I said, conceding

another point to him. A lthough his mother and
father didn’t live together, they had to reside in
the same school district in order to maintain
joint custody of Ethan. It was a sprawling rural
area, for the most part. Donald lived in one of
its few upscale subdivisions, but Ethan’s mother
and her partner were right in the middle of farm
country. “Believe me, I’d never intended to let
you down. But you had a good life with your
mom and Pat, didn’t you?”

Shit, I could’ve kicked myself. Logic

dictated that if he’d had a good life, he wouldn’t
be here.

Ethan surprised me by saying, “Yeah, it

was good. Most of the time. But I never really
settled into it.”

“So… how

did you get to this point?”

“You mean being a ‘fuckboy’?” he said

tartly.

“I’m really sorry for calling you that. I was

out of line.”

Ethan’s restless hands returned to the chair

arms. He idly picked at the fabric. “I asked for
it. I know you’re not a mean person.” He let out
a big, weary sigh. “I was in high school and
working at a great little restaurant that was
getting

more

and

more

popular

with

weekenders. I did prep in the kitchen, bussed
tables.” Smiling wistfully, he glanced up at me.
“Believe it or not, I loved that job. Especially the

kitchen work. Even though the sous chef kept
‘accidentally’ bumping up against my ass.”

“What respectable sous chef wouldn’t?” I

said with a smile.

Ethan returned my smile. “I didn’t take the

bait, even though I was tempted to. Not
because I liked the guy—he was married and a
real sleazebag—but I wanted to learn his job. I
did fool around with another busser though.
We’d go behind the restaurant and jerk each
other off and then have a cigarette.” He
laughed, as I did. “Just like you’re supposed to
do after sex.”

“How old were you at the time?”

“Fifteen.”

“Was he your first lover?”

Ethan shook his head. The room’s soft

light shimmered on his hair. “No. I had my first
experience when I was fourteen.”

When he looked at me, I noticed how his

attitude had changed since he’d walked into the
room. The phony hauteur was gone, and the
carefully cultivated allure. He’d stopped being
defensive too.

I kind of wished he’d continued to be

obnoxious. Now, as his normal, everyday self,
Ethan Benz-Collier was far more appealing than
Justin Time.

“What about you?” he asked. “You’re a

great-looking guy. I’m not saying that just to
flatter you. I’ll bet

you didn’t hold out ’til you

were eighteen.”

“Same as you,” I said, feeling swallowed

up by his gaze. “Fourteen.”

“It’s so arbitrary, isn’t it? That age-of-

consent thing. It’s bullshit. I don’t know
anybody who lost his virginity after eighteen.
Do you?”

“I’d have to think about it.”

His little rant, which was perfectly justified,

made me uneasy. I didn’t need to feel the way I
was feeling in his company and then hear a
spiel about how every person matured at a
different age.

“So anyway,” Ethan said, rechanneling the

conversation, “management wanted me to work
the front of the house after I turned sixteen. So
I became a server. Did really well, too. Made
great tips. That’s where I met Marcus.”

“Who?” I was so relieved to be off the sex

talk, I almost didn’t catch this obviously
important tidbit.

“Marcus. Marc A ntonucci. The guy I’m with

in the videos.”

My stomach fluttered at the mention of it.

“Oh, him. Yeah, I was wondering who he was.”
Other unwelcome images surfaced—Justin’s
mouth on Roman’s chest; Roman’s hand
massaging Justin into hardness. I cleared my
throat and tried to clear my mind. “So… he’s the
one who got you into this line of work?”

“Pretty much. He convinced me to move to

Chicago and live with him. Now he’s sort of my
manager… and boyfriend.”

That sure as hell got my attention. “Your

boyfriend? How old is he?”

Ethan started to look dodgy. He hesitated

before answering. “Thirty-seven.”

My brows shot up. “Fuckin’ A , Ethan, he’s

your father’s age!”

“Two years younger, actually.”

“Oh, excuse me. That makes all the

difference.”

“It shouldn’t make

any difference how old

he is. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a kid
anymore.”

Yeah, I’d noticed. I’d noticed enough to

turn my dick

and my balls to stone. But at least

I wasn’t old enough to be Ethan’s father. A t
least I wasn’t making a concentrated effort to
exploit him for profit.

“Marc wants us to move to LA ,” Ethan said.

I couldn’t tell if the excitement in his voice was
spontaneous or forced. “He thinks I can get into
the industry. Two producers are already
interested. Marc thinks they’re on the verge of
snapping me up.”

“The industry.”

“Yeah. Gay porn. Internet distribution,

DVDs. I could make a lot of money. I could
expand my escort gig too. West Coast queers
are willing to pay a hell of a lot more than
Midwestern queers.”

I felt queasy. “It’s all

his idea? That Marcus

dude?”

“Pretty much. He’s only doing what a

manager is supposed to do—develop my
career.”

Incredulous, I looked directly into Ethan’s

eyes. “You consider sex your

career?”

His gaze fell away. “A t the moment.”

“Did you ever graduate from high school?”

“Not the one I was at. I mean, I left

everything behind to live with Marc. But I did
get my GED two months ago.”

I rested an elbow on the table and rubbed

my forehead.

Why am I getting involved in this?

Why? “I can’t believe your mother approved of
you dropping out of school and moving in with
this… man.” I’d almost said “lecher.”

“She

didn’t approve,” Ethan admitted. “But

she didn’t have much choice, either. I wanted to
do it, so I did it. A nd she doesn’t know about
Marc. She just thinks I moved to Chicago to
work.”

“Does she know what

kind of work you’re

doing? Does your father know?”

“They don’t need to. Besides, Dad probably

couldn’t care less, and Mom and Pat are living in
A laska now. When I turn eighteen next month,
it won’t matter anyway.”

My forehead was still resting on my hand,

and I briefly closed my eyes against his words.
Couldn’t care less… won’t matter anyway. He

didn’t get it. “Parents don’t stop caring once
their kids are grown up,” I said, thinking of my
own mother. “A nd what you’re doing with your
life

always matters.” Christ, my head hurt.

I lowered my hand to the table,

inadvertently resting it on that dreadful
envelope, and looked up. Ethan was watching
me. A drizzle of feeling went through me, but
exactly what kind of feeling, I couldn’t quite tell.

“Don’t you realize what a risk you’re

taking, having sex with all those strangers?” It
was my last-ditch attempt to get through to
him, but I didn’t have much faith it would work.
A s savvy as guys in the porn industry might be,
many of them still took risks. Health-teacher
pontifications about STDs and HIV wouldn’t
change that.

“Of course I realize it,” Ethan said. “I’d be

a fool not to.”

He sounded quite sophisticated, even sage,

and it gave me a glimmer of hope. “You’re
always protected?”

“Every time, as much as I can be. You read

the contract, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. But a lot of people think rules were

made to be broken. I didn’t know how flexible
you might be with your terms.”

“I’ll tell you how flexible—not at all. A nd I

go for check-ups every three months. So far, so
good.” A corner of his mouth hitched up.
“Except for a case of crabs. I’d rather swallow
an antibiotic than deal with

those fuckers

again.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t even think of

compromising your standards.” I don’t know
what expression was on my face, but I sounded
stern. It wasn’t like me to sound stern.

A faint wash of pink tinctured Ethan’s

cheeks, and he made a sound similar to a
laugh, although it was more like a terse,
disbelieving

huh. His gaze slanted away from

my face.

“What?” I said.

“You don’t want to hear it.”

“How do you know, until I hear what ‘it’

is?”

He was really fidgety now. “A side from my

tricks, I don’t get to hook up with many guys.
A ny guys. Of my own choosing, I mean.”

“Why would you want to? I thought

whatshisname was your boyfriend.” Funny how
I had a tendency to conveniently forget names
when I didn’t like the people attached to them.
Weird psychological glitch, that.

“Never mind. I shouldn’t have brought it

up.” Ethan seemed flustered, even a little angry
with himself.

A s intrigued as I was, I didn’t press him to

explain. “You don’t seem completely satisfied
with your situation.”

He lifted one shoulder. “Marc’s crazy about

me. The money’s great too, like I said. A nd it’s
kind of cool being a power bottom. Some actors

got famous that way.”

“Yeah, and partied hard and got plenty of

attention and completely lost sight of who they
were. A nd then died young.” That course wasn’t
inevitable, but the slightest chance Ethan might
follow it was something I couldn’t bear to
contemplate.

He was staring at the carpeting and

nibbling on his lower lip.

“Jesus, Ethan, is that all you want to be?

Some short-term hot commodity? You want to
flare and sputter in the space of a few years and
never find love or stability, never accomplish
anything?”

“Don’t be a drama queen, Jon.” He

wouldn’t look at me. I could hardly blame him.
In spite of my intention not to lecture him,
that’s what I was doing. But I couldn’t seem to
stop.

“Please,” I said, leaning forward, “don’t go

that route.

Don’t make sex your career. You’re

still young enough to work toward something
finer, more fulfilling. A nd Christ knows you’re
smart enough. Don’t shortchange yourself,
Ethan.”

The ardor in my voice surprised me, and I

think it surprised him too. I doubt anybody had
taken this kind of interest in him since he’d left
his mother’s house.

“Well, I’m only thinking about it,” he said

with a hint of petulance.

“I mean, shit, if you thought your dad was

a control freak, how do you see this guy
Marcus? It sounds like he’s got you on a pretty
short leash. Is that the arrangement? He makes
all the decisions and you just follow along?”

That was it. I’d pushed my luck with him,

and it finally broke. Ethan rose from the chair.

My first impulse was to lurch over to him

and gather him into my arms. I didn’t want him
to disappear back into that go-nowhere suck-
and-fuck routine dictated by some greedy,
Machiavellian creep.

Instead all I said was, “I don’t suppose you

wanted to hear any of that.”

Ethan’s

hands

went

back

to

the

comfortable confines of his pockets. He kept his
head down. “It was just another way of calling
me a fuckboy.”

“No, it wasn’t.” I rose from the chair but

didn’t approach him. “It was another way of
saying I care about what happens to you.”

Ethan remained silent for almost a minute.

He was thinking. Thinking hard. I could tell
from the slight pucker of his face, the shifting of
his lowered eyes. “Would you, uh… mind if I
had your e-mail address and phone number?”
Finally, he lifted his gaze. The glance was
almost reluctant, but I read it as a
breakthrough. “Maybe we could get together
again. I mean, just to hang out or have lunch or
something. I’d like to hear how

your life has

gone.”

No. You’ve given him enough to think

about. Don’t give in; don’t-don’t-don’t. “Yeah,
okay.”

Idiot!

“I’ll give you mine too.” Ethan went to the

desk and pulled out a piece of hotel stationery
and a pen. “This is my private contact
information.” He smiled as he handed it to me.
“You won’t have to go through Justin Time
Services anymore.”

“Thanks.” I stepped past him and also

grabbed a sheet of stationery. “I didn’t bring
any business cards.” I wrote down my name,
street address, landline number, cell number,
and e-mail address. Overkill. When I noticed
how much information I’d given him, I hoped
like hell I didn’t harbor some ulterior motive I
was hiding from myself.

“Oh, you’re right outside of Kenosha,”

Ethan said with surprise. “Didn’t move far from
Beloit, huh?”

“A ctually I did, for a while. I lived in

Nevada. But after my parents got divorced, I
figured I should be closer to my mother.” I
laughed. “A s it turned out, she didn’t need any
babysitting. I underestimated her resilience.”

“Maybe she was relieved,” Ethan said. His

expression sobered a little. “Relationships can
be suffocating sometimes.”

I nodded, wondering if he was simply

making an observation or trying to tell me
som ething.

Fuck it, I thought. I’ll probably

never hear from him again. A nd I’m sure as shit

not going to pursue him.

I walked back to the table, lifted the

envelope, and handed it to Ethan. “Here. You
have to keep your books balanced.”

He hesitated before taking it. “I’m sorry

you didn’t get your money’s worth.” His tone
was both droll and shaded with embarrassment.

The apology made my face warm. “

I think

I did. The way I see it, I rented a soapbox for
an hour.”

Ethan laughed and lightly laid a hand on

my upper arm. He walked to the door but
turned just before he opened it. “Jon?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a chef.” His

mouth ticked into a sweet, sad, thoroughly
ingenuous smile, and he walked out.

Chapter Four

Vic Breitenbach

had been my friend since

I’d moved back to Wisconsin. There wasn’t a
lick of attraction between us, aside from the
kind born of natural compatibility, and that was
one of the reasons we could talk so openly with
each other. He mostly bitched about his job as
the assistant manager of a resort in Lake
Geneva. I mostly bitched about the books and
manuscripts I had to read and my mother’s new
seductress persona. She was fifty-two, which
certainly wasn’t old, but hearing about her
escapades with thirty-something men made me
squirm.

We both bitched about the guys we dated.

It was a hot, lazy Sunday afternoon, three

days after my talk with Ethan. I’d picked up
some guy on Saturday night, but our get-
together had only lasted long enough for us to
get off. A ll I remembered, aside from the
getting-off part, was that he owned some kind
of parrot that kept squawking while we got
busy, and I recoiled from his armpits because
the deodorant he’d smeared there seemed to
mutate my taste buds with every inhalation.

A fter that experience, it was a blessing to

hang out with odorless Vic in a clean, quiet bar.

He took a sip of something in a tall glass

overhung with a sprig of mint. I frowned at it.

When his lips released the straw, I asked, “Now
what the hell is

that?” Every summer he ordered

trendy tiki drinks. I nearly gagged at the
thought of all the crap in them.

“Spinnaker Swizzle.” He sipped again and

gave me one of his innocent smiles. “What can I
say? I’m a slave to fashion.”

I swallowed some of my double Tom

Collins. Vic thought I was a slave to convention.
“Did you check out that website?”

He rolled his eyes and nodded. “It’s pure

twinkapalooza. Goldilocks

is mighty delectable,

though. I watched part of the video.”

“His name is Ethan,” I said rather curtly.

A fter our meeting, I was touchy about him
being objectified or ridiculed. In fact, I hadn’t
gone back to Guyuyuy. I didn’t have the
stomach for it.

“You’re really taking this personally,” Vic

said, which meant he was finally taking my
concerns seriously.

“I can’t help it. Put yourself in

my shoes.”

I’d told him about my history with Donald and
my visit with Ethan. He’d thought I was nuts for
forking out that kind of money just to play big
brother for an hour.

“A ll I can see from your shoes,” Vic said,

“is that boys do grow up. Sorry. Maybe you
need to shake off those old images of Ethan
sucking lollipops.”

There weren’t any lollipops in my file of

mental images, thank God, but plenty of other
memories had surfaced. Being at the state fair
with Ethan and seeing him pet and talk to the
animals; noticing the obvious affection he felt
for them, the connection that was devoid of any
fear or fussy distaste or restraint. Hearing him
haltingly read to me from the books he liked,
because he knew I liked books too. Putting an
arm around his narrow shoulders when we
crossed a busy street, and how that seemed to
please him—because, I supposed, an adult he
admired was looking out for him. A nd, yes,
enjoying what an earnest and careful helper he
was in the kitchen whenever his father and I
cooked together.

Precious boy indeed.

This whole business was really fucking

with me.

“I have to get in touch with Donald.” I

stared into my drink as I swirled its flotilla of ice
cubes.

“Why not Ethan’s mother?”

“I don’t know where she is, except that

she’s in A laska. I only know where Donald is
because ever since he discovered I’m a book
reviewer, he’s made a point of e-mailing me
every six months or so. He moonlights as a
fiction writer.”

Vic barked out a laugh. “Jesus, how

transparent is

that?”

I slid him a wry smile. “No kidding.”

Now it was Vic’s turn to study his drink. “I

don’t know, man. You might be stirring the shit
pot for nothing. The kid’s going to be a legal
adult soon. There’s nothing Mommy or Daddy
can do about getting him away from the skin
scene. Or that pimp he’s been living with.”

The word

pimp jolted me. I hadn’t thought

of Marc A ntonucci as anything but a dirty older
man taking advantage of sexy younger man.
But, yeah, “pimp” would work. A nd it was all
the more reason for me to get Ethan’s parents
involved.

“Maybe Donald will contact Lorelei and

Pat,” I said. “Maybe they’ll triple-team Ethan,
talk some sense into him.”

“Maybe he wants

you to talk some sense

into him.” Eyebrows raised, Vic drew on his
designer drink.

He could’ve been right. I still found it odd

and a bit unsettling that Ethan had wanted my
contact information. “I’m afraid it would take
too long. It’s not like I can devote scads of time
to turning his life around. A nd the longer it
takes, the more likely that Marcus character will
know something’s up and hustle Ethan off to
California.”

Vic sank deeper into thought. I could tell

by the way he played plunkety-plunk with his
straw. “A nd what else are you afraid of, Jon?”

For the first time since we’d known each

other, I didn’t answer one of his questions. I
wouldn’t let myself think about an answer.

Late

Monday morning, the urban fantasy I’d

been trying to read took a quick flight halfway
across the room. Christ, I was sick of sluts-and-
mutts. One more tattooed sex-goddess who
bedded a tattooed shifter would send me right
over the edge. I was already teetering there,
thinking about the phone call I kept putting off.

Just do it. Get it over with. Then you can

walk away from this.

A fter I found Donald Collier’s phone

number in a neglected file full of seldom-dialed
phone numbers, I picked up my cell. He could
be anywhere—on campus, if he was teaching a
summer school class; holed up in a library, if he
was on sabbatical; on the other side of the
world, if he was taking a vacation.

I had myself so convinced he was

unavailable, I was startled to hear his voice.

“Donald, hi. It’s Jon. Wright.”

“Jonathan! What a nice surprise. I’ve been

thinking of shooting you an e-mail.”

He must’ve had another novel coming out,

one of his cynical observations of modern life
that screamed

Look at how smart and urbane I

am! I’m another John Updike… without the
awards!

“I’m

calling

about

Ethan,”

I

said

straightaway, because I really didn’t want to
hear about whatever was going on in his life.

“You mean my son?”

“Yes, your son. Do you stay in touch with

him?”

“Somewhat… when he deigns to answer

my calls or e-mails. Why?”

A t least I had Donald’s attention. He

sounded genuinely curious. “I saw him just
recently. It took me a while to recognize him.”

“That’s understandable. He’s practically an

adult now.”

“ H e ’ s

very much an adult now,” I

mumbled.

“Pardon me? I didn’t catch that, Jon.”

I cleared my throat. “Has he told you what

he’s been doing?”

“Last I heard, he was working at Portia’s

Ring and trying to save enough money for
some culinary college. Lorelei was concerned
when he left school and went to live in Chicago,
but he claims he did get a GED.”

“That’s… not quite true.” God, I felt like a

heel. Whatever I was doing, and I wasn’t sure
anymore, it seemed like I was ratting Ethan out.
“I mean, I think the GED part is true, but he’s
not exactly cooking or waiting tables. What I
mean is….”

He’s cooking, all right—hell, he’s

smokin’

—but he ain’t doing it in a restaurant.

“Jonathan, I don’t have a clue what you’re

babbling about.”

“Porn.” The word just popped out of me

like a burp.

“Porn?”

I nodded… then realized he couldn’t see

me. “Yeah. On the Internet. With an escort gig
on the side.”

“You mean you actually—”

“No!”

“No what?”

“I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

A brupt, flushing heat made me pull the

neckline of T-shirt away from my throat. Why
did I feel like a criminal? Why was I acting like
one?

“Jon, did you actually

see him on the

Internet?”

“Yes.” There. A succinct answer.

“But how could you be sure it was Ethan?”

“I

wasn’t sure. Not at first. I only suspected

it. So I set up a meeting with him.”

“What kind of meeting?”

The question prompted another upsurge of

groundless guilt. “Just a meeting. To talk.”

“A nd it was Ethan who showed up.”

“Yes. He’s been living with some thirty-

seven-year-old puppet master who’s trying to
fashion a career for him in hardcore porn and
callboy prostitution. They’re planning on
moving to Los A ngeles. It could happen any
time.” I stretched out on the couch, threw an
arm over my forehead, and wished I’d never

brought Dane into my house.

Donald was silent for a moment. “So what

am

I supposed to do about it?”

The blasé question came as such a shock,

it nearly pitched me off the couch. I sprang to a
sit. “Try to stop him, for godssake!”

“How?”

“Talk to him. Better yet, try to see him.

Contact Lorelei and have her talk to him too.
Maybe you can get him away from that
goddamned parasite he’s living with and set him
on the right track. Jesus, Donald, be a

father.”

A sigh came through the phone. “Jon, he’s

about to turn eighteen. If he wants to be a
professional bottom, there isn’t much anybody
can do about it. Christ knows he doesn’t have a
degree to fall back on. A GED is laughable.
Nowadays, considering the state of our
education system, even a legitimate high school
diploma is laughable.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “You can’t do

this. You can’t just throw him to the wolves.
He’s your son.”

“I’m not throwing him anywhere. He’s

throwing himself. Parents can’t make decisions
for their adult children.”

My head was throbbing. “I just lost

whatever respect I had for you.” I disconnected.

The cell rang almost immediately. Donald’s

voice sounded grudging. “Okay, listen. I’ll take
some time off for Ethan’s birthday. Where’s he

living?”

“I don’t know. Get in touch with him and

ask.” I suspected Donald wanted more to
placate me than to see his kid, but progress was
progress. I wasn’t about to take issue with his
motives.

“I told you earlier, he acknowledges me

when he feels like it, which hasn’t been too
often lately. The only chance I have of seeing
him is if I just show up. I swear I’m not
bullshitting you, Jon.”

I knew he wasn’t. Ethan had little regard

for his father. “Do you think he’d give his
address to Lorelei?”

“No, considering his lifestyle. Besides, I

don’t want to drag her into this. She’s got
enough to worry about with Pat battling cancer.
The last thing Lori needs right now is finding
out her kid’s a whore.”

“I’m really sorry to hear about Pat.” That

bit of news made me even sicker. She and
Lorelei were one of the most devoted couples
I’d ever met, of

any orientation.

My options had dwindled down to one.

“Maybe I can set something up.”

“You don’t sound too eager.”

“I’m not. But Ethan seems to trust me.”

“He always did,” Donald said. “Liked you

too. Even Pat and Lori could tell Ethan had a
crush on you.” He chuckled—an unnerving
sound, given the conversation’s current thread.

“Unless you’ve turned into a toad, I’m surprised
he didn’t come on to you.” Donald paused,
obviously waiting for my reaction. When I didn’t
give him one, he added, “Or did he?”

“No,” I said flatly. “A nd I don’t appreciate

the implication.”

“Don’t take umbrage, Jon. Lori’s sent me

pictures of our boy. Ethan could be a model. I’d
think any man, especially an older one, would
be flattered as hell to be hit on by him.”

“That depends on one’s notion of flattery.”

Oh Christ, I thought, can’t we get off this

subject? I was sounding more and more like
some high-toned, dour old fuckwit. But I
couldn’t exactly tell Donald, after browbeating
him about Ethan’s activities, that his son turned
me on more than any of my peers, and I was
devilishly tempted to find out if the embers of
that boyhood crush still glowed.

“You might want to rework your opinion of

him,” I said, just to steer the conversation as
well as my thoughts in another direction. “He’s
not some airheaded pretty-boy with all the
depth of a piece of toilet paper.” I got off the
couch and ambled into the kitchen, where I
pulled a bottle of ginger ale from the fridge. I
took a long swallow.

“I never thought he was,” Donald said. “A t

least, not until you called with your news alert.
Now I don’t know

what to think of him.”

I sat at the kitchen table, my hand curled

around the bottle’s shoulders. Tension always

made me thirsty. “By the way, what makes you
so sure he’s a bottom?”

The question drew another snicker.

“Jonathan, surely you know that any guy with a
mouth and rear end and hair like that can’t be
anything

but. So more power to him. I’ve no

doubt he’s made a lot of men happy.”

Why did I have to ask?

We

made

arrangements

to

make

arrangements. I’d invite Ethan over to my place
on or around his birthday and let Donald know
how the overture went. If Ethan agreed to stop
by, Donald would book a flight into Chicago or
Milwaukee and drive to my place, although he’d
be staying (I’d made sure to tell him) at a hotel.
He’d be waiting at my house, birthday gift in
hand, when Ethan arrived. I told him to work
on his glad-to-see-you smile. A nd his tact.

Now I had to figure out how honest I’d be

with the guest of honor.

Chapter Five

Everybody

in my family had a name that

made him or her sound like minor British
royalty. Worse yet, too many of them tried to
act the part. That’s why walking into my
mother’s house and seeing all the reminders of
her bohemian bent was pretty damned
refreshing. She’d had to squelch her love of
flamboyant décor when my father was still
around; he was a bland son of a bitch. No
squelching anymore, though. A s soon as she’d
realized Harold Morgan Wright had unleashed
his inner ho-dog, Marti Wright had unleashed
her eccentric.

I did think of her as Marti now. She’d

earned the image that went with the nickname,
and she treasured that image. Of course, I
didn’t address her as Marti. It would’ve seemed
disrespectful. But she was Marti in my mind.

When I kissed her on the cheek and caught

a whiff of rosemary, drew back and saw the thin
crescents of dirt beneath her fingernails, I knew
she’d been in the potting shed working on
another topiary. It reminded me she was an
earthy wench, in more ways than one. I guess
that was why I decided to tell her about Ethan.

A nd decided to be honest. More honest

than I’d so far been with myself.

“Grab a beer,” she said, waving a lightly

soiled hand toward the refrigerator. Her hastily
clipped-up hair had begun to defy its barrettes
and bobby pins and fall in manic blond-gray-
silver loops around her nape. “Dieter brought
over a twelve-pack of some European stuff.
Czech, I think. I’ll just keep sucking coffee. If I
start drinking now, I’ll fall asleep.”

“Let me guess.” I grabbed a bottle,

bumped the fridge door closed with my hip,
and popped off the cap with a mandolin-shaped
opener sitting on the windowsill above the sink.
“Dieter is fortyish, tall, blue-eyed, muscular, and
German.”

“Close. Dieter is also history.”

“Why?” I took a seat at the table. It wasn’t

too cluttered. Ma usually socialized at the
kitchen table, so she generally kept it free of
books and tools and yard sale finds.

“He was too much like your father.” A fter

pouring coffee into a large stoneware mug with
a ragged drip-line around the rim, she sat kitty-
corner from me. Smiling, she leaned forward
and tenderly pushed a lock of hair from my
forehead. “I’m so glad you only

look like Harry.”

“Maybe the similarity goes deeper. Vic

thinks I’m a slave to convention.”

“Jonathan, you’re gay. Remember?”

“There are plenty of stuffy queers,” I said.

Her affectionate gaze read whatever was

written on my face, all those messages most
people either couldn’t see or didn’t want to

bother interpreting.

“Something going on in your life?” she

asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah. I met a guy who’s sort of… getting

to me.” Okay, I’d finally admitted it. I was
drawn to Ethan. I’d been thinking about him a
lot more than I wanted to. He’d infiltrated my
psyche and was creeping toward my center, and
I wasn’t sure why.

“Hm.” Marti rested her chin in her hand

and continued to study me. “That’s unusual for
you, isn’t it?”

I breathed out a laugh. “More unusual than

you think.”

“Why?”

“He’s young. I mean… younger.”

“How much younger can he be? You’re

only twenty-eight.”

“He’s on the verge of turning eighteen.”

The white appeared around Marti’s brown

irises. “Ooolala!”

My face warmed with a blush. I picked at

the Czech beer bottle’s label.

“Oh, stop with the embarrassment,” she

said, grabbing my wrist. “From what I’ve seen—
and I’ve only been an observer, mind you—
you’re not going to find a much finer tush than
the tush on an eighteen-year-old man. A s long
as he hasn’t eaten like an elephant all his life.
Even the ones who look like Tony Ramposa still
have nice butts.”

“That’s supposed to make it all right? A nd

who’s Tony Ramposa?”

“The guy I probably should’ve married

instead of your father. Except if I had, you
wouldn’t look as good as you do. You would’ve
had runaway acne until you were thirty.”

I thanked her for her bad judgment. My

father was the quintessential tall, dark,
handsome man. Unfortunately, that was one of
the reasons he and my mother weren’t together
anymore.

“There’s more to it than age, though,” I

said.

“A nd that is…?”

“He—his name is Ethan—is Donald Collier’s

son. Remember Donald? No, wait, you wouldn’t
remember him; you never met him. A nyway….”
I gave her the rundown.

Marti lifted her eyebrows in recognition.

“Oh yeah, you used to talk about a Professor
Collier. That means there’s what, ten-some
years between you and his boy who’s no longer
a boy?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“So… what’s the problem?”

She’d asked so offhandedly, with such real

puzzlement, I was stumped for an answer. “I
suppose it hangs me up that he’s still
seventeen.”

“Why does it hang you up? Is he

developmentally

disabled—like,

seventeen

chronologically but seven psychologically? Did
you take advantage of him?”

“No! A ctually, he’s pretty damned mature.”

I hadn’t told my mother about the porn. She
probably would’ve gotten off on that, which
would’ve sent her on a whole new tangent.

“Then why?”

“Because he isn’t legal.”

“What isn’t legal about him? Doesn’t he

have a Green Card?”

“Ma, please.”

She started laughing. “I’m sorry. I’m just

having some fun with you. But seriously, do
you really think that because the almighty U.S.
government says something is illegal, it’s evil?
Is that what you think? Do you think other
countries are evil because adults can actually
say dirty words on TV, and citizens can boink
and even get married under the age of
eighteen?”

“No, of course not.” Oh Christ, she was

getting wound up now. Good thing I

hadn’t

brought up the Justin Time business.

“What’s so damned special to A mericans

about the age of eighteen, anyway? It’s not like
that’s the age your testicles descend. Was
eighteen a mystical number to the Founding
Fathers? Does it have something to do with the
freemasons?”

I’d hung my head and begun chuckling.

“What

does it take to squick you out, Ma?”

“I’ll tell you what. Hugh Hefner being sixty

freaking years older than his current girlfriend.
N o w

that’s some sick shit. That’s Harold and

Maude without the humor. A nd you’re guilt-
tripping about a guy who’s ten and a half years
younger than you?”

“Ten and three-quarters.”

By the time I left her house, my guilt had

switched tracks and I was tripping out a whole
lot more over my neurotic hand-wringing. I
really did need to put this situation in
perspective. A t the very least, I had to allow
myself to be attracted to Ethan. It didn’t make
me a pedophile.

I called him when I got home. It was late

afternoon on a Tuesday, so I figured he
shouldn’t be

too busy.

But he didn’t answer.

I sent him a text message:

Pls call me. Jon

Wright.

Ethan obliged a couple of hours later.

“Jon, hi!” he said buoyantly. “I’m sorry I didn’t
get back to you sooner, but I was busy. It was
really nice to see your message.”

“Maybe not.” I felt kind of bad about my

reason for contacting him, given how glad he
was to hear from me.

“What do you mean?”

“Your dad would like to come for a visit.”

“Oh?” There was definitely a change in

Ethan’s tone. He sounded wary now.

“Because of your birthday,” I hastened to

add. “I’m sort of acting as the go-between. He
claims you don’t return his calls or e-mails very
often.”

“He can’t come

here, Jon, if that’s what

you wanted to ask me.”

“No, that’s not it. I realize he can’t go to

your place. So I figured we could have a get-
together at my house.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t mind at all if you don’t.” I

tried some self-directed humor to coax Ethan
into relaxing his attitude. “I’m not some
antisocial old recluse, you know. I

do like

having friends over.”

“That… actually sounds kind of nice.”

“Great!”

My

response

carried

more

enthusiasm than I felt, but I wanted to put
Ethan’s mind at ease.

We settled on the middle of the following

week, which would give Donald some time to
make preparations as well as let him avoid
weekend travel. Then I had to break the final bit
of news.

“Ethan, don’t bring Marcus. Okay?”

“I didn’t intend to. He wouldn’t want to

come anyway. He couldn’t care less about my
family.”

“Sorry to hear that. But in this case, it’s a

good thing.”

“Did you, uh… clue Dad in about… what

I’ve been doing for a living?”

Thank God he’d brought it up so I didn’t

have to. “Yeah, I told him.”

“How’d he react?”

“He didn’t freak out or anything, but I’m

sure he’d like to talk to you about it.”

“

That’s surprising,” Ethan muttered.

“What, that he didn’t freak out?”

“No. That he’d want to talk to me about it.

I didn’t think he’d give a shit.”

I felt a little pang of sorrow for Ethan. How

pathetic that he’d read his father right.

Chapter Six

Eight

days later, on an unremarkable

Wednesday, the big father-son meeting was
about to kick off at my modest one-story,
prefab log home.

It wasn’t exactly a showplace, but it wasn’t

a hovel either. A s I did one last walk-through to
check for dirty socks or coffee-grimed mugs, I
decided it was comfortably spacious with a cozy
feel.

I had hors d’oeuvres and beer and plenty

of booze and mixers. I’d even bought a birthday
present for Ethan but still hadn’t decided
whether I’d give it to him. This wasn’t supposed
to be a party, and trying to turn it into one if
the reunion went badly would’ve been painfully
awkward. So there was no cake, either, and
certainly no decorations.

The lack of anything festive seemed wrong

somehow, as if Donald and I were refusing to
celebrate this milestone in Ethan’s life. Still,
under the circumstances, a festive atmosphere
would’ve struck a dissonant chord.

There was simply no appropriate way of

dealing with the situation, aside from trying to
make my guests comfortable and bowing out of
the scene once they’d reintroduced themselves
to each other. I let it go at that.

The prospect of seeing Donald again didn’t

exactly thrill me. I studied myself in the
bathroom mirror after I showered, wondering
how much he would think I’d changed. The
only differences I could perceive were slightly
shorter but not short hair, still with a natural
curl and still the same loamy color as my eyes,
and that trace of scruff I left on my jawline and
upper lip. I was definitely more muscular—I
hadn’t worked out when I was a student—but
hardly a hunk.

I decided I’d matured quite nicely.

Then I realized I didn’t much give a shit

what Donald thought of me.

The doorbell’s ring seemed to open an

adrenaline faucet in my body. I’d soon be with
both Collier boys for the first time in over seven
years. A s I strode from the kitchen to the front
door, I had a sudden, taunting memory of sex
with Donald—how methodical he’d been about
it, yet how privileged I’d always felt to be the
recipient of his methods. My silly ass….

I swung the door open.

“Jon, it’s so good to see you again.”

“Hi, Donald. Welcome.”

A lthough he was balancing a tissue-

wrapped something in the crook of his right
arm, he leaned forward and put his left hand on
my shoulder. A t first I couldn’t determine what
he was doing. He didn’t kiss me. Instead, his
cheek briefly sanded mine. I heard a faint
mouth-sound.

A pparently he’d just given me one of those

incomprehensible air-kisses.

What

the

fuck?

I’d

thought

only

pretentious East and West Coast women greeted
each other that way. Maybe pretentious East
and West Coast queers did too. What did I
know? I lived outside of Kenosha.

Smiling, he eyed me up when he pulled

back. “Damn, you look good.

Really good.”

Knew it! “Thank you. You’re looking well

too, Donald.”

Big difference between his choice of

good

and mine of

well.

I ushered him inside and began playing

the perfect host, although I was only going
through the motions. The way Donald had
checked me out and kept checking me out made
it clear I’d tripped his sexual trigger again—a
very distracting realization. It wasn’t that he’d
significantly aged or let his body go to seed. He
was still a damned desirable man. If we hadn’t
had a history, I would’ve been more than
willing to get tight with him. But… we had a
history. Donald’s all-too-keen attention made
me uneasy.

A fter I fetched drinks for both of us, we

grabbed some food and went to the living
room. I sat in an easy chair because I didn’t
want to risk sitting next to him.

We made small talk. My mind wasn’t on it.

Donald’s smiles were pointedly suggestive.
What was worse, I kept looking for physical

similarities between him and Ethan. Their
height was roughly the same, although Dad had
an edge. Donald’s hair was a darker version of
his son’s; his eyes, a lighter version. Their
eyebrows and chins might’ve had the same
shape.

That was it. I was strangely relieved.

“May I take you out to dinner tomorrow?”

Donald asked, reeling my attention back to our
meaningless conversation. “There’s supposed to
be a good Italian restaurant near my hotel.
Once this business with Ethan is out of the way,
I think we’ll both be more relaxed. We’ve barely
scratched the surface of the past nine years.”

“Seven,” I said.

His smile actually turned rueful. “Maybe we

need to go back a little further. I’m afraid I left
too much unsaid when I moved away.”

Oh, man. “Donald, it’s water under the

bridge. You don’t need to pan through it.

I

don’t need you to. We’ve both moved on.”

“Have we?”

I frowned in bewilderment as he rose from

the loveseat.

“Where’s your bathroom?” he asked.

I pointed toward the hallway. “First door

on the right.”

There was no denying I still found him

attractive and no denying I needed a release. I
hadn’t had a genuinely satisfying encounter in
weeks, maybe months. A whopping orgasm

was the best stress reliever in the world. But
rehashing our old relationship?

Why? To what end?

A couple of knocks echoed from the front

door as I considered accepting Donald’s
invitation. My heart skipped. I lurched off the
chair and jogged into the foyer.

When I opened the door and saw Ethan

standing on my porch, a sultry breeze ruffling
his hair, a blue Tee hugging his torso, my
stomach seemed to quiver against my
diaphragm. No skinny black jeans today.
Instead, faded and haphazardly patched blue
denim, tight around his hips and thighs. The
lightly tanned skin of his arms, stretched taut
over his long muscles, looked water-smooth.
Rays from the sinking sun glimmered off fine,
golden hairs.

He was purely and simply beautiful. A s I

drank in the sight of him, Donald abruptly
disappeared from the face of the earth.

A mazing. Not my physical response to

Ethan’s presence —I’d resigned myself to how
utterly normal it was—but the elusive feeling
that accompanied the response.

“I guess I’m at the right place,” he said

with a shy smile.

I beamed back. Couldn’t have stopped it if

there’d been duct tape over my mouth. “Happy
birthday, Ethan.”

“Thanks, but it’s still four days away.”

“I’m glad you came, regardless.”

He tried surreptitiously to peer over my

shoulder, then he whispered, “Is he here yet?
Or is that your car in the driveway?”

“Yeah, he’s here, but he’s in the bathroom

right now.”

Ethan cupped my upper arm and urged me

outside. He stepped away from the door. His
face had that pinched look I’d first noticed in the
hotel room. I didn’t think too much of it—hell,
this was the first time in seven years that he’d
be face-to-face with his father—but I wasn’t
expecting him to say what he said.

“I have a favor to ask.”

“What is it?”

He nervously swept his hair away from his

face with both hands. “Where, uh… where’s the
old man staying?”

“Some hotel in Kenosha. I don’t know

which.”

A fter a glance at the door, he asked in a

lowered voice, “Would it be all right if I crashed
here until tomorrow?”

I’m sure I looked astonished, because

Ethan seemed even more uncomfortable after
he saw my reaction. I couldn’t really refuse,
considering I had no idea how long this reunion
would last or how upset he’d be afterward.
Making him drive back to Chicago would’ve
been unforgivably callous of me.

“Sure, no problem. The guestroom’s kind

of a mess. I’ve more or less been using it for
storage, but I could—”

“I don’t need a room. The couch is good

enough. Just don’t say anything about it to

him.

Okay?”

Donald called my name from inside the

house.

Ethan’s gaze shot to the door. “Thanks,

Jon.” He gave me a weak smile and quickly
swiped a hand down the side of my face.

His touch sent a tingle all the way to my

toes. “Come on. It’s time you saw your dad
again.”

I held the door open. The front portion of

the house had an open floor plan, so the living
room, to the left of the entry hall, and the
dining area and kitchen, to the right, were all
more or less visible from the doorway. Ethan
strolled in and abruptly stopped. Donald stood
at the edge of the living area, as if he’d been
heading outside to find me.

They simply stared at each other like

gunslingers, although neither one scowled.
Donald looked bemused; Ethan, guarded.

“Hello, Ethan.” Donald walked forward and

extended his hand. No air-kiss this time.

“Hello.” Ethan grasped his father’s hand

but almost immediately released it.

I thought of A merican and Soviet

diplomats meeting during the Cold War—the
mutual distrust that underlay their frigid

cordiality. Donald, suave and self-contained,
likely assumed he had the upper hand. He’d
been making that assumption as long as I’d
known him. Ethan, quietly defiant, was
probably determined to prove Donald wrong.

“It’s nice to see you again,” said father to

son. “Happy eighteenth. You’ve really… grown
up.”

There was the slightest tic at one corner of

Ethan’s mouth. “I couldn’t avoid it.”

Donald smiled and chuffed. “You might’ve

been better off if you

could have.”

Okay, that was it. I didn’t need to be hit

over the head to realize this exchange could
turn nasty real fast. “Let’s go get comfortable,” I
said, paving their way to the living room with a
forced smile.

I told Ethan about the food set out on the

dining table and asked if he’d like a drink. He
followed me instead of sitting in the living room
with his father.

“Did you prepare all this?” he asked,

scanning my modest buffet with a critical eye.
He picked up a plate and napkin.

“Some of it. The rest is from a caterer

who’s a friend of a friend.” A s I detoured into
the kitchen, I called over my shoulder, “He’s
just getting started, so I thought I’d throw some
business his way.”

“That was nice of you.”

When I brought him the gin and tonic he’d

requested, he had the tip of his index finger
between his lips. He’d apparently just sampled
one of the hors d’oeuvres. I stalled out for a
couple of seconds, spellbound by the sight.
Christ, he had an inviting mouth.

He chewed a few times, swallowed, and

asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No.” I handed him his drink.

“Thanks.” Ethan tormented me further by

slipping two more fingers, one after another,
into his mouth. “The artichoke and goat cheese
bruschetta is excellent.” He reached for a
mushroom croustade and smoked salmon
canapé. “What did

you make?”

I laughed self-consciously, realizing his

knowledge of cooking must’ve far outstripped
mine. “Well, let’s see. I crushed the bedding of
ice for the shrimp and arranged the fruit. Oh,
and I did construct those pinwheels.”

I’d made him grin, and that made me

happy. “Cheeses?” he asked.

“Gruyere and prosciutto.”

“Mm.” He wiped his mouth. “I’ll try those

next.”

I laughed again and shook my head.

“Sorry, Ethan, but I’m a lot more familiar with
keyboards than cutting boards. I enjoy
puttering in the kitchen, but—”

“I know,” he said softly, capturing my

gaze. “I remember.”

“So do I.”

Not very smoothly, we both turned our

attention back to the table. Ethan sipped his
drink and grabbed a couple of my messy
pinwheels. Maybe, I thought, I

should give him

that birthday present.

“We could get together sometime and

cook,” Ethan said offhandedly. “You once taught
me; now I can teach you.”

A ll I could manage was a nod.

Shit, Donald’s in the living room . “We

really should join your father. He traveled an
awfully long way to see you.”

“You mean, to pretend he gives a crap.”

Ethan set down his plate, dabbed at his mouth,
and carefully laid the napkin aside. Just as I was
about to respond, he said, “The pinwheels are
good, Jon. You just need to work on your
technique.”

Let it go. Just let it go. Not everything he

says has a hidden meaning.

A s we entered the living room, I clapped

and

rubbed

my

hands

together—an

encouraging gesture reminiscent of my junior
high school band director, Mr. Grabowski.
“Come on, people,” he’d say, “let’s rock and
roll.” A nd of course we’d proceed to do just the
opposite by turning a tight, sprightly march into
a stuttering dirge.

I cringed inside and reassumed my own

identity, hoping I hadn’t jinxed Donald’s and
Ethan’s reunion. “I’ll leave you two alone now
so you can talk,” I said. “If you need me, I’ll be

in my office. It’s across from the bathroom, first
door on the left as you go down the hallway.
Oh, and feel free to help yourselves to more
food and drinks.”

They watched me walk away. I could feel

their gazes on my back. They didn’t seem any
more prepared to rock and roll than I’d been in
junior high with my clarinet.

No raised voices came from the living

room as I sat at my computer, so I actually
managed to get some work done. Donald
wasn’t a shouter, and Ethan was inclined to
become withdrawn when he was upset. But it
was still a little disconcerting not to hear any
signs of their presence. A fter an hour had gone
by, I began to wonder if they were both still
around.

A s the two-hour mark approached, I got

up from my desk and went to the closet. The
birthday present I’d bought for Ethan sat on a
side shelf. I still didn’t know whether to bring it
out.

Somebody knocked tentatively on the

door.

“Come on in.”

Donald slipped into the office and closed

the door at his back. “You can join us if you’d
like. I’m going to give Ethan his present. Then
I’ll probably go back to the hotel.”

“Oh, so soon?” I was relieved, not

disappointed, as I grabbed Ethan’s gift from the
shelf.

“I’m bushed,” Donald said. “It’s been a

long day.”

“Yeah, I imagine it has.” I approached him

but didn’t ask him how their talk had gone. Our
voices might’ve carried through the wall.
Besides, it was rude to leave Ethan sitting out
there alone.

“So, is dinner on for tomorrow? This little

soiree is hardly conducive to a private
conversation.”

Shit. I’d forgotten about his invitation.

“Yes, all right. Where are you staying?”

“The Harborside. You know where it is?”

“I assume it’s on the lake,” I said with a

smile. “Don’t worry; I’ll find it.”

“Call me from the lobby when you get

there. I’ll make reservations for seven.”

“Sounds good.” I reached for the

doorknob.

Donald grabbed my wrist. Reflexively, I

looked at him. He laid his other hand on the
side of my face and kissed me on the mouth,
even slipped me a little tongue. I felt a shivery
response low in my abdomen. I didn’t want to
feel anything, but a man’s body was a willful
creature that often detached itself from his
brain.

If Donald pulled another move like that

tomorrow, and he likely would, my goose was
cooked.

I opened the door and left the office.

Smiling, Donald followed.

Ethan sat low in the recliner, his legs

stretched out and his hands curled around the
glass resting on his belly. He seemed to be
brooding. When I walked into the living room
and smiled at him, he immediately smiled back
and boosted himself back to a normal sitting
position.

Donald lifted his tissue-wrapped something

from the floor beside the couch and set it near
Ethan’s feet. “Now that we can speak to each
other without snarling,” he said, “happy
birthday.”

“Oh, thanks.” Ethan managed a smile for

his father too.

“I know I haven’t given you a proper,

wrapped present in a while,” Donald said as he
retreated back to the couch.

“That’s okay. I’ve appreciated getting the

savings bonds.” Ethan set his drink on the
upended antique barrel that served as a side
table and lifted the package onto his lap. “In
case you’re wondering,” he added, “I still have
them. They’re in my safe deposit box. I’m not a
totally irresponsible twit.”

I got up from the easy chair and put my

gift on the floor where Donald’s had been.
“Here’s something from me.”

Surprised, he looked up at me. “God, Jon,

you didn’t have to do that. We’re only just
getting to know each other again.”

“It’s for old times’ sake,” I said, an odd

tenderness infusing my voice.

“A nd new times’ too?” The words seemed

freighted with meaning. Ethan hadn’t stopped
looking at me.

“Yes. That too.”

A ware of Donald’s honed attention, I went

back to the easy chair and sat down. He was
assessing this development, this new phase of
my acquaintance with his son. His interest
annoyed me the way a neighbor’s nosiness
might annoy me. It felt like an unwelcome
intrusion.

I watched Ethan unwrap his first gift. Fuck

it. I wasn’t going to monitor every movement of
my eyes, every shift in my vocal tone or facial
expression. Donald hadn’t shown a shit’s worth
of genuine interest in me

or his son since

moving halfway across the continent, so I
wasn’t going to worry about his opinion.

Purple tissue and gold cord fell to the floor

beside the recliner like an emperor’s discarded
robe. My brows shot up just as Ethan said,
“Wow. Thank you.”

He held a Louis Vuitton canvas travel bag

that must’ve set Donald back a full grand… or
close to.

“I hope nobody knocks me over the head

and tries to boost this from me,” Ethan
murmured, maybe thinking of his johns. He
caressed the leather trim, fiddled with the
closures.

The remark was troubling. He did put

himself in danger every time he went out to
meet somebody, and that unavoidable fact of
his profession had recently been eating at me.
I’d been trying not to wonder about Donald’s
conversation with Ethan, about whether or not
the father had been able to get through to his
prodigal son, but now I couldn’t help it.

Ethan gave me an exaggerated look of

anticipation—raised eyebrows, teasing smile—as
he lifted my present from the floor.

“Rainbow paper,” he said with amusement.

“

That’s appropriate.”

“Hey,” I replied, “at least it doesn’t have

unicorns on it.”

Ethan laughed. I watched apprehensively

as the paper came off. Within the longish, flat
box lay a seven-piece Forschner Fibrox knife set
by Victorinox. It came in a cutlery roll with both
long and short handles.

Ethan stared at it.

“I know it’s not top-of-the-line,” I said,

“but I did some research and talked to my
caterer friend—”

“Stop,” Ethan whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

He pulled his lips between his teeth and

didn’t look up. A silvery line appeared along the
seam of his lashes. Without a word, he set the
box on the floor, bolted up from the recliner,
and headed for the bathroom.

“Nice move, Jon,” Donald said dryly. “Very

subtle. Taunt him with what he

could’ve been.”

The comment stunned me. “That wasn’t

my intention. I’d never try to hurt him.”

“No? Then why give him a culinary set of

cutlery?”

“Jesus, Donald, he’s only eighteen. There’s

no ‘could’ve been’ in his life. There’s only ‘could
become.’ Don’t you get it?”

“I don’t know if

he sees it that way.”

“Then maybe he sees it this way: he loves

to cook. Even if it never becomes his career, it’s
still his favorite hobby.”

Sardonically, Donald snickered. “You sure

about that?”

I continued to gape at him in disbelief.

“Why are you trying to make me feel bad?”

Donald’s mocking gaze finally fell away.

“I’m not. I just don’t want you to be
disappointed. He’s not going to change, Jon.
He’s—”

The bathroom door opened, and Donald

had enough sense to shut his trap. He rose
from the couch and met Ethan in the middle of
the room.

“I’m going back to my hotel,” he said,

briefly cupping Ethan’s upper arm. “I hope you
like your gift.”

Ethan nodded. “I do. Thanks again.” He

wouldn’t let his gaze meet Donald’s. The rims of
his eyes were pink and the edges of his hair

were damp, as if he’d splashed cold water on
his face. It seemed he’d been crying, and that
possibility tied a string of knots from my throat
down to my stomach. I truly

hadn’t intended to

wound him.

“Please take care of yourself,” Donald said.

“I will.”

Donald gave his son a quick, one-armed

hug then pulled a small remote from his pants
pocket.

“I’ll see you out.” I rose from the easy

chair and walked Donald to the front door.

He opened it and went outside, apparently

expecting me to follow him. I had no choice if I
wanted to say good-bye. We stood beside his
rental car.

“Thanks for coming,” I said. “I hope like

hell it made a difference.”

Donald unlocked the driver’s door with a

click of the remote. “I doubt it made a
difference to Ethan. That’s what I was trying to
tell you earlier.” He gave me a pointed glance as
he got behind the wheel. “But maybe it will to
you. See you tomorrow, Jon.”

I lifted a hand in farewell. Shit. Something

was up. A s soon as he began backing out of the
driveway, I fled back into the house.

Ethan had the cutlery roll open on his lap.

A lmost reverently, he ran his fingertips over the
pieces, lifted each one out, studied it, and put it
back.

He looked up at me. The redness was

gone from his eyes. “You like me, don’t you?”
His expression was unreadable.

I resumed my former seat. “I’ve always

liked you. You know that.”

It was obvious from his gaze that he was

more hopeful than certain. “No, I mean… not as
Donald Collier’s cute, attention-starved kid, but
as a man.”

Beautiful, attention-glutted…. “Yes. I don’t

like what you’re doing with your life, but I like
you as a person.”

“That’s not….” He carefully rolled up the

knife set and secured it. “Never mind.”

Currents wound through the air. Not

crackling, supercharged fingers of electricity,
but more like the stealthy layers of water that
cause an undertow. I tried to tread carefully.

“How did things go with your dad?”

Ethan kept running a hand over the cutlery

set. “He told me I needed to start dating guys
my own age, provided they weren’t ‘losers,’ and
once I fell for someone who truly appreciated
me, I’d stop ‘cheapening’ myself.”

That drew a smile from me. “It isn’t the

worst advice. But I would’ve been tempted to
ask what made him an expert on the benefits of
love.”

Mirth resurfaced in Ethan’s eyes. They

always had more sparkle when something
amused him. It was like giving a little shake to a

glass of champagne.

“Were you eavesdropping?” he asked. “Or

are you psychic?”

My smile broadened for an instant—the

cheeky bugger had actually challenged his old
man on a point that begged to be challenged—
and I couldn’t help admiring him for it.

“I’d better put the food away and

straighten up the kitchen,” I said.

Ethan got up. “I’ll help.”

“You don’t have to. You’re a guest.”

“I want to, Jon.”

A nd off we went to tackle some very

ordinary chores. We weren’t engaged in a
courtship ritual; we were two people cleaning
dishes off a dining table, finding storage
containers for the food and space in the fridge,
arranging plates and glasses and silverware in
the dishwasher. Ethan softly sang a tune I
wasn’t familiar with. He seemed content.
Whenever I glanced at him, I realized I was too.

When the cleanup was finished, we retired

to the rear deck, fresh drinks in hand, and
talked about fond memories and favorite things.
Ethan called this “fuzzy talk.” In spite of his
gentle disparagement, he seemed not only to
enjoy it but to crave it. We moved from there to
books and cooking, our respective passions.

He was by turns an attentive and

inquisitive listener and animated talker, but
there were brief periods when he became

pensive. I loved watching the changes in his
face, hearing him laugh, even hearing him
groan in exaggerated dismay whenever I made
a bad joke.

The subject of sex didn’t come up. Justin

Time and Marcus A ntonucci didn’t come up. Not
until I asked Ethan, “Why exactly did you want
to stay here tonight?”

He’d been leaning back in the padded patio

chair, scanning whatever stars had the strength
to outshine Kenosha’s fourteen-mile-distant
lights. When I asked my question, his whole
demeanor changed… as if he were a student
whose recess was over.

He sat up straight. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell

you sooner, but I didn’t have a chance.”

“I know. Your dad was waiting for us. So

tell me now.”

Ethan sighed and took a drink. “I had an

all-nighter scheduled with a rich client in the
city. For tonight, I mean. I was supposed to
meet him at ten. He’s top-tier. A lways pays
three or four times my normal fee.”

“So you’ve been with him before.”

“I’ve been with him before. But I don’t

want to be with him again.”

“You’re playing hooky.”

The phrase prompted a wan smile. “Yeah,

something like that.”

“Can’t you just scratch this guy off your

client list?”

Ethan shook his head. Patches of

moongleam slid over his hair. “Marc said the
money’s too good. He’s gonna be pissed. I’ll
just have to tell him I decided to spend more
time with my father, since he knows that’s who
I came to see.”

“Wait a minute.” Frowning, I leaned

toward him. “You can’t pick and choose your
own clients?”

Ethan was silent.

“What the fuck? It isn’t Marc who has to be

with these men!” God, I was so sick of hearing
about that controlling bastard, I wanted to tip
the table over.

“But he’s my manager,” Ethan murmured.

“Cut the crap, Ethan. He’s your pimp. Stop

glamorizing it.” I got up, let out a weary breath,
and hung my head. “I hope I didn’t hurt your
feelings. I certainly didn’t mean to. That’s the
last thing I want to do. I’m only being blunt
because—”

“You’re sick of the bullshit,” Ethan said.

We didn’t look at each other.

“Yes.”

“So you’re telling it like it is.”

“Yes.”

“A nd you’re doing it because….”

I didn’t want to say it again. I’d already

said it in that hotel room. “We’ve already
established the reason.” I turned toward the

sliding patio doors that led directly to my
bedroom. “I’ll get the couch ready for you. You
can stay up as late as you want, of course, but I
think I’ll call it a night.”

Ethan didn’t come in right away. When he

did, it was through the front door. A n
oversized, scuffed leather bag hung from his
shoulder. He helped me finish making up the
couch. A fter he thanked me again, we said
good night.

No fireworks of passion. No explosions of

anger. If anything, introspection.

I went to my room, closed the door, and

turned out the light, but I didn’t go to bed.
Instead I slipped back out to the deck, where I
again cut my mind’s moorings.

“Marc wants us to move to LA . He thinks I

can get into the industry. Two producers are
already interested.”

“I’m not throwing him anywhere. He’s

throwing himself. Parents can’t make decisions
for their adult children.”

“Marc said the money’s too good.”

“I’ll bet the bastard wears a toupee,” I

whispered to the crickets.

I looked at the sky and focused on the

most prominent disc of light I could find, its
frayed edges shimmering with delicate color.

Star light, star bright,

Biggest star I see tonight,

I wish I may, I wish I might

Not get my ass into a fight.

I chuckled, realizing I’d probably just

wished on a goddamned planet.

When I finally went back into the house, I

walked through my bedroom and stood in the
hallway. Not a speck of light or ripple of sound
came through the darkness. Worried Ethan
might’ve left, I catpawed to the living room and
peered at the moonlit couch.

He lay on his side in a loose tuck, one

hand under the pillow and one on top of it. His
profile against the white case—the feathery
edge of his eyelashes; the short, straight line of
his nose; the soft curve of his closed lips—was
so angelic it made me ache. In turning onto his
side, he’d pulled the blanket forward. I
glimpsed the smooth curvature of his butt,
sheathed in tight, pastel fabric.

I could’ve fallen to my knees and simply

stared at him. In fact I could’ve stared, enrapt
and awestruck, all night long. A nd I could’ve
cried from wanting him.

Instead, I hung my head and laughed

inaudibly. Come on, I told myself, get a fucking
grip. This is pedestrian stuff. It happens all the
time. You’re Jonathan Wright, a conventional
man

pushing

thirty,

enchanted

by

an

unconventional youth who hasn’t yet seen the
backside of his teens. There’s nothing romantic
or tragic and even unique about this scene. It’s
played out every day, all over the world. What’s

more, whatever he does with his life isn’t any of
your business.

I headed toward the hallway.

“Jon?” Ethan said in a groggy voice.

I turned to face the couch. “Hm? What?”

“Were you watching me sleep?”

I didn’t answer at first. Then, abashed, I

fessed up. “Yes.”

Ethan’s eyes were still closed. A whisper of

a smile touched his lips. “I thought so.”

I resumed my short, lonely trip to the

master bedroom.

“You

do like me.”

This time, I kept going. I went through my

usual bedtime routine. Then I did something
extra, but just as mundane as being smitten by
a breathtaking young man.

I masturbated into a plush, Martha Stewart

Collection towel.

Chapter Seven

The

next day, Friday, Ethan made omelets for

breakfast. Delicious omelets, at once fluffy and
succulent, with flavor layers I didn’t think were
possible in a breakfast staple.

“You don’t seem in a hurry to get out of

here,” I noted as we again cleaned up together.

“Do you mind?”

“Not as long as you keep feeding me like

that.” I was kidding, of course. I didn’t expect
any compensation for my minimal hospitality,
and I told him so.

“But I

want to keep feeding you,” he said.

“I love to cook. I hardly ever get to do it
anymore.”

“Don’t you cook at home?”

“Why bother?”

“Because you and Marcus have to eat.”

Ethan blew air through his lips, a

dismissive sound. “It wouldn’t be appreciated.
Marc likes to spend his time drinking, fucking,
and sleeping. He cares about my mouth skills,
not my knife skills.”

Whoa. What could I say?

It both pleased and troubled me that Ethan

didn’t rush back to Chicago. Pleased me,
because when he was at my house he was safe,
and I truly enjoyed his company. Troubled me,

because I had the feeling he was afraid to go
back.

We took turns putting on music as we

cleaned the guestroom together. Whether or not
Ethan stayed, it needed to be done.
Occasionally, we danced to the music and made
fun of each other’s dancing. My laughter was
always coupled with surreptitious glances at
certain parts of his body. Even if he’d been the
biggest clod on the continent, watching him
move would’ve brought me joy.

“We should go to a club together

sometime,” Ethan said as we made the bed.
“We’d bust a gut laughing. It would be fun.”

“You can’t get into clubs.”

“Yes I can. I’ve had a fake ID for two

years.”

I was far more tempted by

that proposition

than I’d been by Donald’s invitation to dinner.
With each passing hour, it became increasingly
clear I liked being with Ethan much more than I
liked being with his father.

A nd so the day went. We glided happily

through ordinary activities. Ethan showered, I
worked, I showered, we cooked lunch together.
Ethan even used some pieces from his new
cutlery set to prepare the meal. A fterward he
washed each one by hand, as lovingly as if it
were a newborn baby. The fact he so treasured
my gift nearly moved me to tears. I was more
flattered than if I’d won a presidential medal.

I spent the afternoon in my office while

Ethan watched a movie. His cell phone rang at
least a half-dozen times, but it wasn’t until late
in the afternoon, as I was about to get ready for
my date with Donald, that I heard him answer
it. The TV’s volume was already low, because
Ethan was, I’m sure, being considerate of the
fact I was working. I’d begun to realize such
thoughtfulness was typical of him.

I got up from my desk and quietly cracked

open the office door. A ll I could pick up, of
course, was Ethan’s half of the conversation.

“I told you, my father flew in for my

birthday. Cut me some slack. I haven’t seen the
dude in seven years.” … “I texted you.” …
“Because I didn’t want to talk with him around.”
… “Still in Beloit.” … “You know what? I don’t
give a shit. I told you I don’t want him on my
client list anymore, and you just keep—” …
“Yes, but it doesn’t do any good!” … “I don’t
mind it to a point, but he takes it too far.” … “I
don’t know.” … “I said I don’t know, Marc!
When I get there. God, it’s barely been twenty-
four hours.” … “That’s taken care of. I
cancelled.” … “Yes I can.” … “The whole thing
isn’t going to fucking fall apart because I took a
few days off! Now just—”

A fter that aborted statement, Ethan

muttered something I couldn’t make out. He
sounded irked. I waited a few minutes then
strolled casually into the living room. Ethan was
staring vacantly at the TV set.

He looked up and smiled, but he seemed

troubled. “Did you get a lot done?” he asked.

“Enough.” I sat beside him on the couch.

“Is something wrong? You seem preoccupied.”

“No, not really. I mean, it’s no big deal.”

“I’m, uh… going to meet your father for

dinner in a little while.”

Ethan’s gaze flew to my face. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. He asked me yesterday evening.”

“Dinner,” Ethan repeated.

I nodded. “So I’m going into Kenosha. I

guess he wants to talk, do some catching up.”

“Without me around.”

He was right, of course, but I didn’t

confirm his assumption. “Donald didn’t know
you’d

be around. I didn’t tell him you were

staying here. You asked me not to.”

A corner of Ethan’s mouth hitched up.

“Come on, Jonathan. You know he wouldn’t
want me there even if I were sitting right
outside the restaurant and a tornado was
heading my way.”

“Stop it.” I got up.

“Would you… would you mind if I stayed a

little while longer? I promise I won’t poke
through your stuff or get in your way. It’s just
that”—he shrugged—“this is kind of a nice
vacation for me. I can relax here.”

How could I object? His half of that phone

conversation was still fresh in my mind. “No, go
ahead.”

“Thanks, Jon.”

A s I walked to my room, I decided to

make this dinner a damned short one.

The

Gondolier offered standard Italian fare

with a couple of generic Mediterranean dishes
thrown in. Pasta, sauces, and breads were
homemade, spices were fresh, and most
everything else was locally produced, as the
season allowed. Not that it made any difference
to me. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I’d
been served SpaghettiOs. I didn’t have much of
an appetite.

Donald and I sat across from each other in

a booth, its wood table and benches polished by
countless arms, hands, butts, and thighs to a
natural, warm sheen. The air smelled of garlic
and oregano. Muted light from a wrought-iron
sconce made the scene more intimate than it
was. I drew on wine as if it were nitrous oxide
while Donald talked about his academic and
creative life. Both sounded sublimely boring. I
was tempted to ask how many students he was
fucking, just to add a little kick to the
conversation, but I really couldn’t have cared
less.

A s our server came and went, I pretended

to listen to Donald and sipped more wine until
my head began to feel pleasantly airy. Donald
started looking better. He started engaging my

attention. I checked the inside pocket of my
jacket for the usual dinner-date accoutrements
—comb, condoms, toothbrush. Yup, all there.

Getting laid would at least compensate me

for my expenditure of patience and courtesy.
A nd my hangover.

“So, how did things go with Ethan last

night?” I asked as our first course arrived.

“The way I’d expected things to go.”

Donald had mastered dining etiquette. He
placed the red linen napkin just so on his lap,
lifted the soup spoon in exactly the right way to
his mouth.

“A nd what had you expected?”

“He was taciturn, although he did thaw a

little the more we talked. But his attitude was
essentially,

I’m going to do what I want to do,

and whatever that is, it’s none of your
business.”

A fter I swallowed the bread I’d been

chewing, I washed it down with more wine.
“You can hardly blame him for that attitude.
Christ, I practically had to twist your arm to get
you here. Ethan isn’t stupid. I’m sure he’s well
aware of your indifference.”

“I’m not indifferent. I just know a losing

battle when I see one.” Donald cocked his head.
Indifferently. “Well, I fought the good fight. Or
tried to. But it might be another five years
before he sees the light and starts taking my
advice.”

“Why do you give him so little credit? He’s

a vibrant young man. He has a lot going for
him.”

“Oh, yes. Ethan does indeed have a lot

going for him. A nd he knows it.” Donald
touched the napkin to his mouth. It didn’t wipe
away his smirk. “He’s turned into a flirty little
twink, hasn’t he?”

I could feel my face gather into a scowl.

“What makes you say that? You haven’t seen
him interact with people since he was ten.”

“I’ve seen him interact with

you.”

“He’s not ‘flirty’ with me. He’s actually very

polite and considerate.”

Donald had veered onto a new track now,

and nothing I said was going to alter his course.
I saw and felt a cartload of snideness coming
my way. I could also tell Donald was worried
about pushing it too far—a tightly controlled
tension

showed

in

his

expression

and

movements—but he felt driven to indulge
himself.

Suddenly hyperalert, I watched him.

“So,” he said in a tone I knew well, “have

you been playing Professor Humbert to his
Lolita? Or Philip Carey to his Mildred? A re you
the poor sod enamored of a vapid child or the
poor sod enamored of a self-centered whore?”

A nd there it was. When his snottiness

finally rammed me, I wanted to throw my soup
in his face.

“You’re making me regret my decision to

have dinner with you,” I said in a low voice.

Ever so slightly, Donald began to fidget.

Our server came back to carry away the empty
soup bowls and inquire about our satisfaction. I
was tempted to tell her to take Donald back to
the kitchen too.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “My sense of

humor is sometimes misguided.”

I tried to look impassive. I also tried not to

give his analogies any credence and keep
Ethan’s image out of my mind.

Donald grew more humble. “Jon, I know I

didn’t handle our breakup very well. That’s
really what I wanted to talk about.”

“A re you sure?” My voice sounded as stony

as my face felt.

“Yes. Why do you question that?”

His confusion didn’t

seem disingenuous,

but how could he not know why I questioned
his motives? Ethan’s reappearance in our lives
seemed to be the catalyst for Donald’s need to
explain and repent, not his conscience. A fter so
many years of dormancy, why would it
suddenly awaken?

“Donald, can’t we just spend an evening

together without rehashing the past?” I drank
more wine. Soon, going back to his hotel room
would be more a matter of necessity than of
choice. “I don’t need to know why you treated
me the way you did. Certainly not at

this stage.

The whole issue has been irrelevant for years.
Let it go.”

“I was trying to protect myself,” he blurted

out.

Our entrees arrived. I stared at him over

the arms of Sonja, our server, and the plates of
herb-fragrant food that steamed beneath our
faces. He’d piqued my interest, no doubt about
it. Those thin remnants of our old attraction had
been the lure that got me to the restaurant, my
own horniness had set the hook, and now
Donald was reeling me in before I had a chance
to wriggle free.

“Maybe we

shouldn’t talk about it here,” he

said quietly as I began to eat. “This isn’t the
stuff of idle chitchat over dinner.”

Cunning bastard.

Lake Michigan

spread cold and black as an

asphalt parking lot beyond the clustered lights
of the harbor. A s I looked out the hotel room’s
window, I felt Donald’s hands glide up my back
and come to rest on my shoulders. His neatly
trimmed, beach-colored hair poked lightly at my
ear.

“We could make it right again,” he

murmured. “Starting tonight.”

His breath smelled of mouthwash. Mine

likely smelled of toothpaste.

How genteel we were.

Regardless of the insistently minty, out-of-

place odors, I shivered beneath his touch. The
mere prospect of feeling warm flesh and hard
muscle against my body overrode all other
concerns. A t that moment, all I wanted to make
right was the discomfort centered at the apex of
my thighs.

“We have so much more in common now,”

Donald said in his most persuasive voice, while
his persuasive hands glided forward and
unbuttoned my shirt. “We’re equals now.”

I closed my eyes, probably because I

couldn’t close my ears. A nything he said was
irrelevant and distracting. I wanted to get lost in
touch.

“We’ve laid a foundation. I think we’re both

mature enough to start building on it.”

What are you talking about? my mind

shouted.

I didn’t come here to plan a future

with you.

Donald parted my shirt and eased it off my

shoulders. The rise and fall of my chest
betrayed my excitement. I loved feeling a man’s
hands on me. Donald’s stole down to my
waistline and began undoing my pants.

“I’m tired of games,” he said against my

sweat-misted back. “I’m bored with boys. You
were the only one who ever truly interested me,
because you were exceptional. You weren’t just
another shallow, nineteen- or twenty-year-old
player.” His fingers slid into my briefs just as his
hardening cock butted up against my ass.

“That’s why my good-bye was so perfunctory.
You’d gotten to me, Jon. You’d made me
vulnerable. It spooked me, and I resented you
for it.”

I didn’t know whether to believe him or

not. Donald had never acted like this before,
had never admitted to relinquishing control to
anybody.

When I didn’t answer, he concentrated

once more on readying my body. Donald had
always orchestrated our sexual encounters to
perfection. That realization shimmered through
the haze of my arousal. A s he caressed my
chest and abdomen with one hand, he curled
the fingers of the other around the base of my
dick and urged our hips into tighter contact. I
couldn’t stand it. I turned toward him.

The Symphony of Seduction began to

unravel as I pushed Donald toward the bed.
He’d always massaged my psyche to perfection,
too, but that wasn’t happening now. I had
indeed become my own man. I knew what I
wanted, and it wasn’t all this angsty dissection
of the past.

“Donald, for once just shut up and fuck,” I

said as we feverishly peeled off our own and
each other’s clothing.

Keys and coins jingled as pants hit the

floor. Shoes thudded. Donald still had a
damned fine body. I could tell he hadn’t
neglected it as I ran my hands over his hairless
chest, clutched at his back, wrapped my legs

around his sturdy thighs and cabled calves.

“Damn, Jon, you’ve really filled out nicely,”

he said in a breathless growl. He mouthed my
shoulder, dug his nails into every muscle
between my neck and lower ribs, jammed his
erection against my dick and pubic bone and
belly. I didn’t even realize we hadn’t kissed
until, after more crazed pawing and a few
intertwined rolls over the comforter, I was
sitting against the headboard and Donald was
crouched between my splayed legs.

I gripped his head. Mine rolled back as he

buried half my dick in his mouth. For a few
minutes it was all that mattered, the tugging
that seemed to extend clear up to the backside
of my navel.

Donald pumped the lower part of my hard-

on, the part he couldn’t take in. Fine with me.
A t least he was coordinated. A t least the
sucking and jerking were synchronized.

Maestro

Collier, I thought with an inner smile. I couldn’t
manage an outer smile; my face was slack
beyond mobility.

The fullness in my groin alternately

contracted and expanded until it broke into a
spangling orgasm. That exquisite ride was all I
needed. “Don’t,” I whispered, or tried to, when
I felt Donald’s head begin to lift. I wanted to
extract all the pleasure I could from the
snugness of his lips and tongue. I wanted him
to coax every last drop of cum from my body,
every valiant, thrashing sperm cell.

A s the pulsing of my release weakened, I

trembled and panted and loosened my clutch on
Donald’s head.

“Now show me that ass,” he said from far

away.

Not very romantic, but there was just

enough of an aftershock running through my
blood to make me willing. I lay on my side
because I was too weak and sleepy either to
kneel or engage in any acrobatics. Besides, he
just didn’t inspire me enough.

The whole fuck scene was by-the-book.

Donald lubed and fingered me—he never did
like rimming—but I was relaxed enough not to
need much preparation. I heard him tear open a
condom packet.

“Christ, you’re a sexy man,” he said thickly.

I could tell he was rolling the rubber on.

With a series of jerky, jouncing movements, he
shifted lower on the bed. Suddenly, he bit my
left butt cheek.

I cried out “Ow!” and twisted to glare at

Donald over my shoulder, but he ignored me. I
pulled a pillow under my head as he slid back
up to align his body with mine. His stiff cock
abruptly began to sink into my backside.

“Slower. Please.” I was an easygoing

switcher,

but

Shane-Blaine-Dane’s

clumsy

aggression had made me cautious about just
lying there and taking whatever I got.

Donald slid one arm over my hips and the

other beneath my ribcage as he tried to rein in
his eagerness. Or his need to dominate me. Or
his desire to prove something I still hadn’t
grasped. I dimly perceived a hidden agenda in
this encounter, perhaps one even Donald wasn’t
aware of. It made our coupling feel imbalanced.
It made us seem disconnected from one
another.

I let the side of my face sink into the pillow

as I rode out the storm. A t least it was brief. In
rapid succession, Donald pinched my left nipple
and squeezed the base of my dick. When I
jerked in response and made a sound of painful
surprise, he came, grunting softly against my
back. His pubic hair bearded my tailbone. I
should’ve felt

some ripples of pleasure—even

sated, I loved that interplay between dense,
resistant cock and throttling muscle—but I
didn’t feel much of anything.

“Did I hit it?” Donald asked, still catching

his breath. “I’m sorry for not taking my time,
but I was really excited.”

I assumed “it” was my prostate. “I don’t

think so, but that’s all right. I doubt I could’ve
come anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You probably don’t

recycle as fast as you used to.”

“How would

you know?”

“It stands to reason. You’re close to thirty

now.” He pulled out and sat up.

“I’m also tired and tipsy.”

Donald patted my ass. “You don’t have to

make excuses. I still care.”

My whole forehead seemed to pull

between my eyebrows as I watched him get off
the bed and saunter toward the bathroom. What
the

hell was going on? Now that my hunger had

been satisfied, I began thinking about all the
strange things he’d said tonight, from those
petty remarks about Ethan to the assertion I’d
always had some kind of power over him to the
most bizarre implication of all—that he wanted
us to be a couple again. A nd

remain a couple.

A fter nearly a decade of sporadic, lukewarm
interaction, where did that stuff all come from?

I did a fast scuttle up to the nightstand,

turned off the lamp, and crawled under the
covers. If I pretended to be asleep when Donald
got out of the bathroom, I wouldn’t have to
listen to him talk anymore. A nd I did need to
sleep, at least for a few hours. Then I needed to
get the hell away from him and think.

Chapter Eight

It was

nearly three o’clock in the morning

when I pulled up to my house. Darkness packed
the interior, but the porch light welcomed me
and drew a smile. Ethan must have turned it on.

I still felt a little bad about leaving the

hotel while Donald slept, but I’d never said I
would spend the night, and I did dash off a
note for him.

Have to get an early start this

a.m. Thanks for a wonderful evening. Call
before you leave. I’d wanted to be courteous
but noncommittal. Our get-together had left me
confused and uneasy.

Ethan’s car was still in the driveway. Relief

flooded through me as I parked beside it. A ll
the way home I’d been nettled by the fear he’d
decided to go back to Chicago, or that damned
Svengali had convinced him to return. The
more I thought about his life there—
continuously bending to the will of a man intent
on using him, dealing with shady “clients” who
sometimes mistreated him, making videos that
did nothing but pollute his sense of self-worth
and his plans for the future—the more
distressing and depressing I found that life. A
young man’s vitality and desire for betterment
were all being sacrificed for a quick buck. I
couldn’t stand it. What was worse, I didn’t know
what to do about it.

Creeping inside, I peered toward the living

room but could only make out the shadowy
shapes of furniture. I heard a soft rustle, then
“Jon?”

“Yes.” I made my way to the couch. “Did I

wake you?”

“No.”

Ethan didn’t sound right. His voice was flat

and dull.

Light bloomed from an end-table lamp.

Squinting against the sudden brightness, I

sat beside him. “Why are you sitting here in the
dark?”

Ethan was hunched over, and his face

looked the way his voice sounded. My skin
prickled. Something was wrong.

“I wanted to say good night to you. When

you didn’t come home, I got worried.” Scraping
his teeth over his lower lip, Ethan looked at the
afghan covering his lap. A fter a few seconds, he
began slowly to fold it. “I thought you just went
out to dinner.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, you know, one

thing led to another….”

Ethan nodded. His eyes remained lowered.

“Why didn’t you stay the whole night?”

“I didn’t want to.”

Finally, he glanced at me. The skin

beneath his eyes was pale gray and slightly
pouchy. “Why?”

“It’s kind of complicated.” I took the

afghan from beneath his hands and laid it aside.

“I was really glad to see your car here when I
pulled in. I was afraid you might’ve gone back
to Chicago.”

“It’s where I live, Jon. I have to go back

sooner or later. Why would you be afraid of
that?”

A s my gaze moved over his lovely face, I

thought of William Blake’s

Songs of Innocence

and Experience, how they were all written there.
“You mean something to me, Ethan. I just can’t
stand the thought of you wading back into
that….” I wanted to say

cesspool, but it was

both melodramatic and insulting. “Lifestyle,” I
said instead.

“It’s not so bad. There are good parts. I

can handle it.” He rose from the couch and
stood in front of me. It suddenly seemed I was
on a witness stand. “Why are you so concerned
about me?”

I actually felt a little cowed by Ethan’s

composure. Helplessly, I shrugged and shook
my head. There I was, Mr. Man of the World,
befuddled and tongue-tied because I couldn’t
define my feelings for a man ten years younger
and a lot less educated than I.

Donald’s insinuations taunted me.

“Have

you been playing Professor Humbert to his
Lolita? Or Philip Carey to his Mildred?”

“I don’t want to see you used.” I said. “Or

harmed. Or lost.”

“You think I need to be protected?”

“Something like that.” Now my thoughts

were really floundering around. A nd the more
they did, the cooler Ethan seemed to get.

“You’re the one who needs protecting,” he

said. It was a pronouncement, firm and
irrefutable. “I can walk away from Marcus and
stay away. But you’re being threatened by
something

inside

yourself.

You’re

being

threatened by your own bad judgment.” He
strode toward the foyer.

Startled back to my senses, I bolted up

from the couch. My shock soon gave way to
indignation. “

My bad judgment? I’m not the one

who’s a sex puppet in the hands of a thirty-
seven-year-old douchebag!”

“No, you’re a sex puppet in the hands of a

thirty-nine-year-old douchebag.”

“

What? Look at me, Ethan.”

He stopped short and wheeled around.

“I’m talking about my father,” he said with cold
ferocity, hacking each word from the one before
it.

I gaped at him as this indictment sank in.

“Okay, so you’re still pissed off at him for
walking out of your life. I can understand that.
A nd I completely agree that Donald’s a better
sperm donor than he is a father. But for you to
put him on a par with that disgusting prick who
—”

“He is on a par! A nd I don’t want to hear

about him being a sperm donor!” Ethan’s chin
quivered for a moment, but he quickly pulled
himself together. “He jerked you around before,

and he’ll jerk you around again if you let him.
A nd you sure as hell seem willing to let him.”

“For God’s sake, Ethan, we only spent

like”—I did a quick mental calculation—“seven
hours together!”

“Yeah, while he gave you more hungry

looks than he gave his goddamned dinner, and
you hoovered them up right along with his
compliments.”

I was going to protest, to say that I hadn’t

hoovered up anything. But, in a passive way, I
had. Ethan called it right.

When he spoke again, his voice was

hollow, empty of inflection. “The reason I know
you fell for his bullshit is that you went back to
his room with him. You had sex with him.”

“I have sex with a lot of men. You have

sex with even

more men.”

“It isn’t the same. You have a past with my

father. So playing around with him is like
encouraging him. It’s like giving him an
opening to the future.” Ethan’s eyes crimped at
the corners, and his brows drew together. A s
that beautiful, tired gaze fixed on me, I felt
something from him I hadn’t felt from anybody
except my parents—a deep, desperate worry.
“Don’t you get it? He’ll work you and work you
and pretty soon you’ll be wrapped around his
little finger again.”

“Ethan, why would he bother?” I couldn’t

ignore the realization that we were trading
roles. I’d voiced my concern for him; now he

was expressing his for me. Back and forth we
went, exchanging our indefinable caring.

“He’s almost forty,” Ethan said. “I

guarantee hookups aren’t that easy for him
anymore, at least not with the kind of men he
likes. A nd he’s had you before, really

had you,

so he probably figures he can have you again.
A nd….” Ethan faltered. His throat bobbed as he
swallowed. “You’re so worth having.”

My mouth moved but no sound came out.

I was dumbfounded. It was then I saw Ethan’s
scuffed leather bag, the one he’d brought with
him, sitting beside the front door. The one
Donald had given him for his birthday, the
Louis Vuitton, wasn’t sitting beside it.

“Why are you making an issue of this?” I

asked quietly, even though I was starting to
know the answer, even though the answer
nearly made me queasy with excitement and
confusion, hope and dread.

Ethan’s answer wasn’t any more committal

than my note to Donald had been, but certainly
for a different reason. He handed my own
words back to me. “Because you deserve
better.” He lifted his bag from the floor and
slipped the strap over his shoulder. “You have a
mind, Jon. Why don’t you use it?”

I didn’t

try to get Ethan to stay. We both

seemed to need time away from each other and
whatever

formless,

straining

need

kept

thickening the air around us. I didn’t go to bed,
though. Heeding Ethan’s admonition, I sat on
the deck until four thirty in the morning and
exercised my mind.

I’d been a real slouch in that restaurant

and hotel room. I hadn’t paid close enough
attention to everything Donald had said.
Horniness always made me an inattentive
listener. That, and the assumption Donald had
nothing to say of any interest.

But he’d had plenty to say. Of

great

interest. He’d inadvertently laid bare all his
motives, and I hadn’t even noticed. He’d
manipulated me eighty different ways, and I
hadn’t called him out.

I should’ve parted company with him right

after he’d branded Ethan a “flirty little twink”
and made those offensive literary analogies. I
should’ve said

Cut the shit when he’d handed

me that line about protecting himself when he’d
blown me off seven years ago.

How transparent, trying to gain the upper

hand by playing emotionally fragile. It was as if
he’d

said

You were the one who actually

controlled m e, Jon. I was at your mercy. So I
had no choice but to be a callous dick. It was
my armor. Uh-huh. A nd his “confession” was
supposed to make me mushy inside, make me
turn into putty in his hands.

A fter all these years, he couldn’t come up

with a better angle than

that?

It was just another power play. Like all his

below-the-belt jibes at his son were power
plays. Like his references to my nearing thirty
were power plays. But why?

“He’s almost forty. I guarantee hookups

aren’t that easy for him anymore, at least not
with the kind of men he likes. A nd he’s had you
before, really had you, so he probably figures
he can have you again.”

But there was yet another driving force

behind Donald’s strategy. Ethan, who surely
recognized it, had been too discreet to point it
out.

The aging, egotistical, controlling father

felt threatened by his own son, was maybe even
jealous of his own son. In fact, it was entirely
possible Donald didn’t want me back so much
as he didn’t want Ethan to have me.

Precious boy versus insecure man.

I started feeling sorry for Donald as I

gazed at the ragged silhouettes of the trees that
ringed my property and the slice of moon that
hung above them. He was used to pretty boys
bending to his will, not being his competition.
But there was nothing he could do about his
loss of power. He couldn’t control the march of
time that had become his greatest enemy.

Whatever scorn I’d felt for him melted

away, exposing a residue of those old, soft
feelings. We’d once been lovers. My life had
centered on him, and I’d learned from him. I
went to bed wondering what I would say to
Donald, because he’d definitely call me when he

got up.

I didn’t let myself wonder about Ethan.

That train of thought would’ve kept me up for
the next three weeks.

“

Did

you really have to rush off in the middle

of the night?”

Lord, I wasn’t ready for this. A t least I’d

been able to get more sleep than I’d anticipated,
but I still wasn’t prepared for another go-round
with Donald. “Yes,” I said as I picked through
the refrigerator. “I’ve got a ton of work to catch
up on. I was afraid if I stayed any longer, I
would’ve ended up losing the whole weekend.”
I pulled out a carton of orange juice and took a
seat at the table. “When are you leaving,
anyway?”

“Monday morning. I really

did hope we

could spend the weekend together, Jon.”

I rolled my eyes as I drank. My mouth and

throat were getting dry, which meant tension
was wrapping around me again. “This wasn’t
supposed to be a reunion between

us. It was

supposed to be—”

“I know what it was supposed to be. A nd I

fulfilled my obligation.” Heavily, Donald sighed.
“You need to understand something. I never
wanted to be a father. Lori and I were just
friends who happened to share an apartment.
We had a commiseration fuck one night and

Ethan was the result. She was thrilled; I wasn’t.
But I tried to do the right thing. You have no
idea what a bitch it was getting through grad
school and then pursuing my profession while
helping raise a kid.”

I knew the story. Donald had earned his

doctorate by the time he was twenty-five. He’d
really pushed himself. When he accepted a
teaching position in Wisconsin, Lorelei relocated
along with him, just so their son would grow up
with a dad in his life. Only, that paternal
presence disappeared a mere five years later.

There was just no point in continually

nagging him about being a traditional papa.
He’d never been a traditional papa and never
would be.

“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you,” he

said.

“This isn’t about disappointing me. It’s

about disappointing Ethan. You let me down
seven years ago. I got over it.”

“Got over it to the point where there’s

hope for us again? Or got over it to the point
where there’s no hope?”

The time had come. I wasn’t about to let it

pass the way I’d done yesterday evening and
the day before. “The latter,” I said gently,
because I truly didn’t want to wound him.

Donald was quiet—a poignant stillness. I

felt a resurgence of that peculiar, wistful
sadness I’d felt last night on the deck. Maybe it
was my final bit of mourning for the faith and

hope that had died seven years ago. My faith in
him, in the depth and sincerity of his feelings
for me. A nd the hope that we’d always love and
stand by each other and build a life together.

When he finally spoke, it was as if he’d

been reading my mind. “I did care for you, you
know. A nd still do. In my own way.”

“Your own way isn’t good enough, Donald.

Maybe you need to rethink your way.”

A single, sorry laugh came through the

phone. “I’m probably too old to change. We’ll
see. Maybe somebody will come along and
sweep me off my feet.”

“I think it’s when love becomes more

humbling than exhilarating that you know
you’ve found the real thing.”

A nother pause, but this one felt different.

“Jon, are you attracted to Ethan? A nd please
don’t get defensive. I’m just curious.”

I smiled wanly and took a smaller sip of

juice. The tension was ebbing. “Yeah,
somewhat. But I’m attracted to a lot of guys.”

“He doesn’t seem to be your type.”

“I don’t have a ‘type.’ Different men appeal

to me for different reasons.” Before Donald had
a chance to grill me further and ask more
questions I didn’t feel like answering, I said, “I
really do have to get to work now. I’m sorry we
can’t spend the weekend together.”

“Well, it might be for the best.”

A fter I wished him a safe trip home and

we exchanged the usual parting words about
remaining friends and staying in touch, he
inserted a footnote. “By the way, if you want to
assume the role of father figure and try to steer
Ethan onto the right track, you have my
blessing. You seem to have more faith in him
than I do.”

Donald was only half right. “I have no

desire to be a father figure,” I said.

True

to my word, I spent the weekend

working—updating my blog, writing a couple of
reviews, knocking out some editing. I talked to
my webmaster and my agent and Vic. I ignored
calls from Dane and Tomas and a man named
Colin whom I’d met weeks earlier and pretty
much forgotten about.

I was tempted to call Ethan, even found

myself on the verge of it several times, but I
resisted the urge. Late Saturday night, though, I
did cave in to an impulse to revisit the Guyuyuy
site.

“Justin” was on the main page again but in

a different video. This time, a Hispanic youth
with buzz-cut black hair and a tattoo on his left
shoulder was in the photo with Ethan and
Marcus. The two young men stood with their
backs to the camera and their heads turned to
face one another. Each wore briefs that had
been pulled down just far enough to show the
top curve of his ass. Marcus stood beside them

holding a switch. The caption read,

When

Justin’s bad, he’s very bad.

A sick feeling trembled through my

stomach.

I was angry and disillusioned.

Worse, I was jealous.

Wishing I could scour the image from my

brain, I abruptly clicked off the site. Only the
lump in my throat kept me from calling Donald
and both saying and doing things I knew I’d
regret.

Chapter Nine

I was

better by Sunday, even though sleep

hadn’t come easily. You have to let this go, I
told myself. You’ve tried and Donald has tried,
and if Ethan wants to keep this crap up, there’s
nothing you can do about it. Put Justin Time
behind you and move on.

Maybe

I

would give Colin a call. I

remembered him being a promising prospect, a
British man in his early thirties whose employer
had relocated him to the States. The only
reason I’d shied away from him was that he
traveled a lot. But I could handle business trips
better than I could handle all this bullshit with
Ethan.

Donald phoned that evening. He sounded

a little drunk. “I wish I could see you again
before I leave,” he said. His regret bordered on
maudlin, so I knew it was mostly the alcohol
talking.

I told him to go to bed so he’d be in good

shape for his flight in the morning. We could
touch base again after he got home.

Maybe an hour later, as I was getting

ready to go to bed, I heard a knock at my front
door.

“Oh Christ,” I groaned. A t first I wasn’t

going to answer. I didn’t want to let him in. But
if Donald was even drunker than before, I

couldn’t in all good conscience let him drive
back to the hotel. “What am I? The world’s
babysitter?” I muttered as I threw on a
bathrobe.

Trying not to act as pissed off as I felt, I

swung open the door. A nd nearly fell over.

“Hi,” said Ethan. “I’m really sorry to bother

you, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

He sounded terrible, as if his voice had

been wrung out then haphazardly shoved back
into his throat.

Everything else faded away—Donald and

Colin, all my anger and hurt, all my tough
resolve.

“Oh Jesus, Ethan, are you all right?”

“I’m okay. I managed to drive here, didn’t

I?”

“What happened?” I quickly led him inside.

He was carrying the same scarred leather

bag he’d brought with him last week, and he
simply let it fall to the floor. I couldn’t see him
very well because I hadn’t bothered turning on
any lights.

When we got into the living room, I

switched on an end-table lamp. Ethan didn’t
take a seat, so I stood with him in the middle of
the room.

“Marcus… um… wasn’t real happy about

my blowing off Phil the way I did—you know,
that rich client I told you about.”

“What did he do to you? What did that

prick do to you?” Before I knew it, I was
caressing his hair, examining his face for
injuries, for signs of distress.

My touch seemed to comfort him. The

lines in his face relaxed. “He just yelled a lot.
Shoved me around a little.”

“

Shoved you around?”

“I was okay. It’s happened before. He’s

never actually hurt me.”

My hand flew to my forehead. “What the

fuck,

Ethan?

Don’t

be

so

goddamned

lackadaisical about it! A buse is

not acceptable!

Don’t you know that?”

Obviously ashamed, he looked down. I

had to force myself to stop ranting. Ethan
certainly felt bad enough the way it was.
Flustered and distracted, I again touched his
hair.

“Did anything else happen?” I asked in a

gentler voice.

Timorously, Ethan’s gaze flickered to and

from my face. “Today he had these two guys
come over, Luis and Brady, because he wanted
to do some orgy thing for my birthday.”

“Damn, that’s right. It’s your birthday.” I’d

forgotten. I felt like shit, even though I’d
already given him a gift, and I felt like worse
and even crazier shit because of his revelations
about his pimp’s behavior.

Ethan tried to smile. “Not that it’s a big

deal, but I kind of hoped Marc would do

something a little special, like dinner and a
movie, or dancing. Just something nice, ’cause I
haven’t been….” His brows dipped. What he was
saying seemed to pain him. “I haven’t been very
happy with him for a while. Still, I’ve pretty
much been doing everything he’s wanted me to
do, so I thought he’d make some kind of
effort.” More steadily now, his gaze met mine.
“You know?”

“Yes, baby,” I whispered. “I know.”

The look in his eyes tore me up. Beneath

the simple, passing sorrow of disappointment
was a much deeper disillusionment. He’d come
to a realization, the kind that wrenches one’s
world out of alignment.

I’d been there, with his father, so I knew

Ethan could go one of two ways with this. He’d
either try to reclaim the old sense of order in his
life, or he’d work on building a new one. Seven
years ago, I’d almost followed Donald to Rhode
Island in the hope of retaining

my life’s

structure, since I’d had myself convinced it was
grounded in him. But time and a little help from
my friends had brought me to my senses.

“So what happened with this orgy?” I

asked… then braced myself.

“I told Marc I wasn’t interested, that it

wasn’t what I wanted. I’ve worked with Luis
before, but he doesn’t do much for me, and I
didn’t know that Brady dude at all. It’s hard for
me to be with guys I don’t like. I can’t, you
know, get into it.”

I nodded. I sure as hell knew.

“Then I told Marc an orgy seemed like

something more for his birthday than mine,
even though his is three months away. So I
went into the bedroom and closed the door, but
he followed me and….” Ethan looked down,
balking at saying more.

I held his face. My heart thudded. “A nd

what? A nd

what, Ethan?”

“He kind of… grabbed me and threw me

against the wall. A nd I said, ‘You better get the
fuck out of here and leave me alone before I
call the cops.’ He just glared at me and said,
‘You worthless pussy’ and walked out. That’s
when I threw some stuff together and decided
to leave.”

Oh God. That had been his birthday? “Did

the asshole try to stop you?” I half-expected
A ntonucci to show up at my door. I wished he
would. I wanted to pound the fuck out of him.

“No,” Ethan said, shaking his head. “When

I walked out, he was on the couch with Luis and
Brady. They were crawling all over him.”

“Take off your jacket,” I said.

Ethan did so. He wore a tour T-shirt

featuring a band I’d never heard of. I gently
lifted each short sleeve and studied his upper
arms. Marcus had grabbed him hard enough to
leave dotted lines of bruises.

I impulsively took him in my arms and

held him, just held him, as if

I were the kid, a

boy clutching a beloved teddy bear that had
been damaged. With one hand, I kept stroking
the silken fall of his hair. I turned my head and
kissed his cheek.

Precious boy. The phrase kept

running through my head.

Precious boy.

He held me too, held me tightly, his

fingers alternately gathering the fabric of my
bathrobe and tracing the muscles of my back.

The next time I turned my face to plant

another fatherly kiss on him—his hair or temple
or forehead; wherever I could manage, I guess
—he turned his head. His expression had
changed. We were staring into each other’s
eyes, and I felt his breath gently fanning my
mouth.

A couple of inches of air. That’s all that

stood between us. Then one of us glided
forward, or both us did, and the small distance
melted away. Our lips touched. In a second
they flexed into a soft press. I’d never felt such
a heavenly mouth. A nd I’d never wanted to
make love to a man as much as I did at that
moment.

He was still precious, but he sure wasn’t a

boy anymore. My lifting cock was partial proof.

Self-consciously, we eased apart.

“The guestroom is ready,” I said.

“Obviously.”

“Jon, can’t we sleep together? I just need

to be near someone tonight. Someone I trust.”

My tongue went dead in my mouth.

His

expression

wasn’t

imploring—I

doubted Ethan ever begged anybody for
anything—but he looked so innocently needful,
I didn’t know what to say.

“Jon? It’ll help me sleep, that’s all.”

A gain, how could I deny him? He’d just

gone through an ugly scene with that overlord
of his in Chicago and driven up here in the dead
of night to find refuge.

I wondered if I had a pair of pajamas

stuffed in the back of a drawer, a pair handed
down from my father, maybe, or received as a
Christmas gift from some clueless relative. But I
knew I didn’t. I’d been sleeping in the nude
since I was sixteen. Besides, it was summer.
The air was like a sauna. Only masochists and
clergymen wore pajamas in this kind of
weather.

“Ethan, I don’t think—”

“I’m a quiet sleeper. I don’t bounce around

all night.” He smiled. In spite of his obvious
weariness, a hint of those dimples showed. “I’m
wearing clean undershorts, if that’s what you’re
worried about.”

I wasn’t worried about his shorts; I was

worried about what was

in his shorts. “Okay, if

it’ll make you feel better.”

“Would you, uh, would you mind if I

turned in now?” he asked. “I’m really tired.”

“No. No, go ahead.”

Ethan walked back to the entry hall to grab

his shapeless piece of luggage. I turned off the
light, ambled into the bedroom, turned on a
lamp. I just stood there staring at the bed. It
was a queen, which didn’t allow for a whole lot
of space between two adult male bodies. I
began to argue with myself as Ethan walked
into the guest bathroom, the one in the hallway.
I heard the door close.

You can always sneak out to the couch

once he’s fallen asleep. But maybe the issue is
moot. If he’s dead tired, he could be
unconscious in a matter of seconds. A nd the
issue is even mooter if he’s not particularly
attracted to you, because he said he “can’t get
into it” with just anybody. Still, there was that
kiss. It wasn’t exactly a passionate kiss, though,
so maybe it didn’t mean anything. Then, of
course, there’s the distinct possibility you’re
overthinking this whole damned setup and—

Ethan strolled into the room wearing only

pale yellow boxer briefs and a demure smile. A ll
good intentions aside, I couldn’t take my eyes
off him. I tried my damnedest not to glance
below his slender waist, but peripheral vision
was a funny thing. It forced you to see things
you maybe didn’t want to see. Or did want to
see, but didn’t want to look at directly. So I
noticed, couldn’t help but notice, that his penis
didn’t exactly look flaccid.

Oh come on, Jon. His penis?

I

felt

lightheaded.

My

breathing

accelerated.

“A re you going to sleep in your robe?”

Ethan asked, walking up to me. He stopped
mere inches away.

There was no doubt about it. I was

not

one of those guys to whom he had an aversion.

“Ethan, let’s get something straight. I don’t

want to take part in a revenge game. If you
think you can use me to get back at Marcus—”

“I’d never do that.” He was far more

composed than I was. “Never.”

“I’m not so sure. Maybe you’re not aware

of your motives.”

“Oh yes I am,” he said in a silken voice

tempered with confidence. “When we kissed
before, it had nothing to do with Marc. It was
about us.” He slipped his hands inside my
bathrobe and, very slowly, ran them over my
chest. A s soon as he touched me, he let out a
soft, serrated breath.

My cock hardened as fast as my legs began

to liquefy.

“You excite me, Jon.”

With those whispered words, everything

was decided. I wasn’t made of ice.

Ethan lowered his head to my chest. My

mouth fell open. Thin, weak sounds came out,
sounds of helplessness. Ethan parted my robe
wider as his lips touched my skin. The feel of
them sent heat billowing through me.

The tip of his tongue skated through my

chest hair. When, suddenly, he flicked his

peaked tongue over my right nipple, my
stuttering sounds gave way to a clipped

uh as a

current shot down to my balls. He plucked once
with his lips, nipped once with his teeth, then
closed his mouth over that suddenly sensitive
bud and gave it two firm sucks.

“Oh Christ,” I groaned, clutching at him,

feeling the fondling movement of his long, cool
fingers up my back.

He kissed his way to my left nipple and

worked more magic there.

I finally lifted his head, maybe even fisted

my hands in his fragrant hair, because I needed
to kiss him, needed to feel his lips and tongue
with my lips and tongue. He must’ve known it,
because he immediately crushed his mouth
against mine.

We kissed wet and hard, that succulent

mouth of his moving over mine with such
mastery, I would’ve given him anything just to
keep the kiss going. It felt better than my first
orgasm. Because, God knew, I’d wanted to
share this kind of fevered touch with him since
I’d first seen him, head lolling provocatively, in
that accursed video.

Ethan shoved off my robe. That’s when

he

began to make sounds, eager and throaty. He
reached down, lifted a crystalline bead of
precum from my dick with his fingertip, and
brushed it over his full lower lip. In what
seemed like slow motion, his tongue and then
upper lip curled over the line of moisture. He

kissed me again; clutching each other, we
tumbled onto the bed.

For endless, ecstatic minutes, we just

rolled in a tangle, gripping and kissing,
exchanging spit and sweat and groans. We
pushed our rigid cocks together, heedless of the
chafing layers of cloth between them. Within
seconds, Ethan had me on my back. He
stretched out on top of me, his arms braced on
either side of my torso, his hands clenched
around my biceps, and kissed me with
passionate languor while he slowly rocked his
hard-on against mine.

“I didn’t know you topped,” I said,

panting. I darted out my tongue, swiped it
against his damp mouth. Fuck, his lips were
supple.

“I don’t because I’m not allowed to,” he

said in a voice as breathless as mine. He gently
caught my tongue between his teeth and kissed
me again. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want
to.”

He slid off me, lay on his belly, and eased

down his underwear to expose his rear. I sat
up. My gaze inched down the terrain of his
long, lithe, sun-bronzed body, from the knolls
of his lightly freckled shoulders to the smooth,
divided slope of his back. His ass rose, as round
and white as nestled pearls, from the jumbled
bedding. I’d never, ever seen such a beautiful
bottom. Small wonder Marcus clung to Justin
Time. I sure as shit didn’t approve, but I was

obviously staring at a goldmine. Or a shrine.

“Jesus,” I whispered. “You’re perfection.”

“Go ahead,” Ethan said softly. “I want you

more than anything, Jon. I’ve wanted you for as
long as I can remember. Don’t you know that?”

I did now. A nd there was no turning back.

I knelt over him on my hands and knees,

caging his still body—now my very own jewel
box. Leaning forward and dipping down, I
brushed the hair away from his neck with my
nose and mouth. I swirled the tip of my tongue
through the short, ultrafine hair at his nape
before pushing my lips down to his damp skin.

Ethan whimpered as I kept stamping slow

kisses onto his neck, the buckled span of his
shoulders, the furred depressions of his
armpits. Everywhere on his firm body, his scent
was drugging to me. I felt his heat and tasted
his sweet salt and heard my own breath
rebounding from his skin. My senses swam
through his loveliness. Getting enough of this
man didn’t seem remotely possible. I began
licking him, pausing only to tongue a small
mole and trace the dainty low arches of his
vertebrae. He kept whimpering and lifting his
butt toward my crotch. I peeled off his bunched
underwear.

“Put your weight on me,” he said half into

the pillow. “I want to feel your body against
mine. I want to feel your cock against my ass.”

I was so, so tempted to bareback with

him, but I knew it wouldn’t be wise. “Let me get

ready,” I said, and scrambled toward a
nightstand drawer. I tossed lube and a condom
packet onto the bed.

“Cover me, Jon.”

“Oh, I will.” Bracing myself on my

forearms, I settled onto him, even fitted myself
into him—chest between shoulder blades, bow
of ribs into gully of spine, belly into small of
back. A nd stiff prick between the most flawless
cheeks that had ever graced a man’s backside.

Subtly, Ethan rocked along my length.

“Don’t. I’ll come.” I sounded curt. Hadn’t

meant to, but a big, shimmering bubble was
expanding in my groin and threatening to burst.
I was so dizzy with excitement, it seemed the
inside of my skull must’ve been iridescent.

Ethan stilled his movements, and I eased

back. A fter I groped around for the condom
packet, tore it open, and rolled one on, I
lowered my face to his satiny butt and made
love to it. Caressed and squeezed, kissed and
sucked, followed the tight crevice with eager
tongue and fingers. There seemed to be a trace
of oil on his skin, maybe powder between his
legs. Both tasted faintly like sweetened
cinnamon.

Ethan gripped the pillow. His whimpers

became fluttery. He pushed toward my mouth
and hands.

With my thumbs, I massaged the silky,

rippled entrance to his body as I parted those
close-pressed cheeks. I licked around the ring,

sealed my lips to it, drove my tongue inside it.
My arousal felt like something hard and sharp, a
chunk of amber. “You’re driving me crazy,” I
mumbled against his skin. There was an insect
embedded in that amber, struggling to come
alive. “Please let me fuck you.”

“Please let me

be fucked. I need it.” Ethan

pushed his hips against the mattress. He stuck a
hand beneath his belly. “I need

you, Jon.” His

breathless voice quavered with more than
sexual hunger.

Too much. There was no clambering

around to find just the right position. I couldn’t
wait. I began to slide my cock into his waiting
ass, and the tightness of him sent tremors of
pleasure throughout my muscles and nerves.

My eyes rolled up behind closed lids. I

concentrated on doing it right, on not letting
go. Ethan deserved some rightness. But he
made restraint nearly impossible. He rose up to
meet my careful thrusts, and his low cries made
me plunge deeper, faster, until we were
pushing

together

in

concert,

making

uncontrollable, eager sounds, and my tense
muscles quivered from the pressure building
throughout my abdomen. I couldn’t hold out
once I felt his body begin to convulse beneath
mine. A bruptly, I pulled back to his entrance, so
invitingly snug, and it cinched my dick just
below the head as the pressure broke. I came in
dense, deep, spangled waves.

Even after I’d filled the condom’s well, I

didn’t want to pull out.

Ethan twisted to look over his shoulder. I

was lying on top of him now, occasionally
kissing his head and neck as my hips kept up
their spasmodic, futile sway.

“Uh, Jon….”

“Hm?” I felt all floaty.

“I think we’re finished.”

“Damn it.” Grudgingly, I pulled out my

dick, sat back, and peeled off the condom.

“I made a real mess,” Ethan said, lifting his

hips and glancing at the bedspread beneath
him.

“Don’t worry about it. That’s why God

created washing machines.” I bumbled off the
bed, my legs quivering. “In the meantime, I’ll
get some washcloths.”

Ethan rolled onto his side and watched me

with a musing smile.

My heart did little flips at the sight of him.

I leaned down, kissed his temple, and petted
the damp hair away from his face. “Just stay
here and relax.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You gonna miss

me while you’re gone?”

I chuckled.

For two minutes? Probably. It

wasn’t a laughing matter, though. I was sinking
in deeper. No man had made me feel this way
in longer than I could remember. It wasn’t just
that matchless face and superlative ass that had
lowered my resistance; it was the whole

intriguing, delightful, contradictory package that
Ethan Benz-Collier was. A nd how perfectly we’d
melded. A nd how enraptured I’d been by our
closeness.

If I’d been thinking clearly, I would’ve

been scared shitless. But I wasn’t thinking at all.

A fter cleaning each other with slow relish

and swabbing Ethan’s impressive deposit from
the comforter, we lay in the dark and drifted
through our afterglow. I had an arm around
Ethan, who rested his head on my chest while
he lazily felt me up from pubic bone to
collarbone.

“Happy birthday,” I said. “Not that I think

having sex with me is a celebration.”

“To me it is.” Ethan kissed my right nipple,

the one closest to his mouth. “You’ve made this
the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

“You don’t need to flatter me, Ethan.”

“I’m not. I’m just telling the truth.”

I tightened my hold on him. Without

moving a muscle, he tightened his hold on me.

“Hey,” I said, “I think I have some

champagne in the refrigerator. Would you like
to share a toast?”

Ethan’s head moved to reply in the

negative. I loved the feel of his hair on my skin
and the feel of it catching on my chest hair.
“Thanks but no,” he said. “I’m happy right here,
doing this.”

I kept glancing down at his face. His

beauty was still startling, from every angle.
Each time I looked at him seemed like the first
time. His eyes were closed, and soon his
smooth chest rose and fell with a peaceful
rhythm. He’d fallen asleep.

My smile broadened for an instant.

Eighteen… going on forty-eight.

“Precious man,” I whispered, then kissed

the top of his forehead. I let my lips linger on
his humid skin.

Ethan murmured unintelligibly.

Still smiling with contentment, I finally let

my own eyelids lower.

Chapter Ten

Monday

morning began as an extension of

Sunday night’s dream-come-true. Ethan woke
me with an exquisite blowjob, and I returned
the favor in the shower. He came quickly and
forcefully, the contractions of his perfect pink
cock in my mouth stimulating me toward
stiffness.

I chuckled as I left the stall and looked

down at myself. “I didn’t know my tongue and
both palates were connected to my crotch.”

Ethan gave my prick a playful squeeze. “A s

long as you don’t get a boner every time you
eat bratwurst.”

“Only if it’s attached to you.” I took him in

my arms for a steamy, naked hug.

Ethan looked a little sheepish when we

parted. “I’m sorry I came so fast. I’m used to
giving head, not getting it.”

“Does it seem like I mind?” I nudged him

with my happy, half-hard cock. “There are a lot
of things you need to get unused to.”

My satisfaction made him smile. Or maybe

my suggestion did. He dropped to his knees,
carefully licked the glaze of water from my dick,
coaxed my legs apart and licked the moisture
from my sac. For good measure, he gently
plucked at my balls with his marvelous lips.
When he was through, I was just getting

started. I was erect again. He sucked me to the
root, no hands necessary, and I thanked the
patron saint of male genitalia for sending such a
sumptuous, talented mouth my way.

“Last one back in bed has to cook

breakfast,” Ethan said.

A s I dashed for the foam mattress, its

chaotic covers redolent of sex, Ethan stood in
the doorway of the master bath and beamed at
me.

“That was hardly a competition.” I

stretched out and linked my hands behind my
head, keenly aware of Ethan’s gaze sliding over
my body. We’d started to enjoy teasing one
another, being shamelessly seductive.

“Of course not. You know I want to cook

breakfast. But I also wanted to see you run
across the room naked and dive onto the bed.”
His dimples reached their full glory just as his
cell phone trilled from the nightstand.

“Shit,” I whispered, throwing an arm over

my face.

Ethan lay down beside me. I don’t know if

he intended for me to hear the caller’s voice,
but I heard it. Quite clearly.

“Finished pouting?” asked a man.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Shit!

Ethan said nothing.

“So where are you now? Sandwiched

between Cziemelewski’s legs with a Benjamin
clutched in each fist and a few short-’n’-curlies

stuck between your teeth?”

“No.”

I shifted my eyes in Ethan’s direction. Not

that I could see him, but his voice was
unrecognizable to me. I’d never heard it like
that—as hard and lusterless as lead shot.

“Well listen up, birthday boy, I have a nice

surprise for you. I would’ve told you last night if
you hadn’t been such a goddamned party
pooper.”

“Get to the point.”

“Okay, the point is this. Krutch and Molina

want to look you over. In the flesh. They like
what they’ve seen so far. Now they want to see
it in 3-D. California, here we come.”

“For what exactly?” Ethan sat up and

turned his back to me. But I could still hear
A ntonucci. He had a loud, blustery voice.

“A screen test, sweetcheeks. It’s pretty

much just a formality at this point. They’re hot
to have you. I guarantee you’ll be signing on
the dotted line before the week is out.”

I got off the bed, snatched my robe off the

floor, and glanced at Ethan as I slipped it on.
He watched me with large, apprehensive eyes.
Sick and seething, I strode out of the bedroom.

What I wouldn’t have given for a

soundproof room with a toilet and punching
bag. I wanted to rage and throw up and then
knock the stuffing out of something.

Ethan appeared maybe five minutes later.

A ll I’d allowed myself to do was drop onto the
couch. I didn’t look at him when he sat beside
me. I couldn’t.

“I guess you heard,” he said.

I really had to dig around to find my voice.

“So what are you going to do?”

His fingers moved restlessly over his

thighs. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” I echoed, skepticism

starching the words.

“I do have go back to the city, though….”

The couch cushion seemed to become an

ejector seat, the way I flew off of it. I strode
back toward the bedroom.

“Jon!”

I didn’t trust myself to turn around. Either

tears would spill from my eyes or something
would get broken. My stomach cramped.

“What else am I supposed to do?” Ethan

hollered.

I pulled up short in the hallway, just

outside the bedroom door. “Get away from that
scumbag and enter culinary school!” I hollered
back. “How’s that for starters?” I dimly realized
I wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. Ethan
lived in Chicago. His life and nearly everything
he owned was there. His “boyfriend” of two
years was there. Of course he had to go back.

But I knew damned well if he went back,

he’d end up taking that flight to Los A ngeles.

Ethan appeared at my side and moderated

his voice, but it was still strung as tight and
sharp as razor ribbon. “You don’t just waltz off
the street and into Le Cordon Bleu, Jon. You
have to pass muster and you have to have
money. A certificate alone will set you back
twenty grand. A n associate degree is over forty.
A nd that’s just tuition,

if you’re accepted. Then

add in the cost of living in Chicago or whatever
city—”

“Don’t try to justify what you’re doing by

throwing figures at me,” I grated.

“I’m throwing reality at you!” Ethan’s arm

shot out as he pointed down the hallway. “What
I have in Chicago is

all I have right now. A nd

it’s… it’s a sure thing. Marcus, our flat, my
career.”

His defensiveness had begun to crumble.

Emotion rippled through his words. But my
mind was too clouded by my own churning
feelings to discern what Ethan’s were. What’s
more, I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the
face.

“Sex pays,” he said. “That’s one of the sure

things. Marc knows people willing to shell out
big bucks just to film me getting naked and
taking dick—”

I spun toward him. “Shut up! I don’t want

to hear it!”

When Ethan recoiled, I felt like a rabid

animal. Worse, I reminded myself of that filthy
bastard he lived with. Buried under an
avalanche of shame and pain—a kind of pain I’d

never felt before, startling in its depth and
breadth—I helplessly lifted and dropped my
arms and wagged my head. “Why?” I
whispered.

“Why not? It seems all I have to offer, all

anybody wants from me, is this goddamned
body.”

“That’s not all you have to offer,” I said as

the pain pierced deeper. “A nd it’s not a
goddamned body. It’s a body to be cherished.”
Limply, I raised a hand and skimmed my
fingers over his shoulder. “A nd he shoves you
around and bruises you. He treats you like
chattel, a

thing. This man you think is so

fucking

irreplaceable

you’ll

follow

him

anywhere. You’re just getting pulled in deeper
and deeper, Ethan. Pretty soon you won’t see
anything beyond the toilet you inhabit.”

His face stiffened a little. “I don’t plan on

—”

Bitterly, I cut him off. “I’m surprised you’re

not wearing a collar.” I wouldn’t let Ethan
defend himself. The whole situation was
indefensible. A nd even though I was skidding
off the road now, I didn’t try to stop. “Or do
you only wear one when you’re at his place,
while you’re fawning over him?”

“I don’t wear one at all.” That lead-shot

tone had returned.

“You sure as shit act like his pet. Hell, you

might as well kiss your dreams goodbye.”

Ethan’s

face

began

that

aspen-leaf

quivering I’d seen before. “That’s all you have
to say?”

I shrugged. I felt shorn of hope. “What’s

left?”

“Then go to hell,” he said, as if it were the

hardest thing he’d ever said in his life. He sidled
past me into the bedroom.

I slumped against the hallway wall and

then doubled over for a few seconds, my arms
wrapped

around

my

middle.

When

I

straightened, I said through the doorway, “Do
you love him?”

“What does it matter?” came the mumbled

reply.

“Does he love

you?”

There was pause before the answer came.

“Maybe. In his own way.”

I rolled my head back and barked out a

bitter laugh.

“I did care for you, you know. A nd

still do. In my own way.”

“FYI,” I said, “I shut your father down

once and for all.”

Ethan came to the bedroom doorway, a

hairbrush in his hand and a furrow between his
brows. “What?”

“You thought I couldn’t protect myself, but

I did. Donald tried winning me back. He wanted
us to be together again. I nixed it. Easy peasy.”

Ethan lowered his eyes and withdrew back

into the bedroom. I slid down the wall and sat
on the floor, my knees drawn up to my chest. I

started tittering. Ethan’s cell rang again. My
manic tittering continued.

“A re you the poor

sod enamored of a vapid child or the poor sod
enamored of a self-centered whore?”

I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “Take your

pick,” I murmured.

Ethan

left. Just breezed out of my life,

although not as cavalierly as he’d breezed back
into it. I got a “Thanks, Jon” and not much
more. He seemed to want to hug me—kind of
dawdled indecisively in the front hall—but the
only move I made was to open the door for
him. Before he walked out, he said, “I didn’t
mean it when I told you to go to hell. I hope
you know that. I’m sorry.” I merely nodded and
wished him a safe trip, just as I’d twice wished
his father.

Phone off, I fell into a dead sleep on the

couch. When I awoke, the brassy gleam of the
lowering sun was cutting across my face. The
first thing I did after peeing was strip the bed,
gather up the used towels and face cloths, and
start the washing machine.

Gonna wash that

man right out of my sheets.

I didn’t see what was written on the

nightstand notepad until I started remaking the
bed.

O’Hare. Beneath that, United followed by a

number I couldn’t quite make out. Beneath that,

nonstop to LA X. Beneath that, date and time,
then terminal and concourse and gate.

Must be

there 90 min to 2 hrs before boarding.

My numbed mind came alive again. I

grinned.

“Ma, I

have a big favor to ask. It’s really

important to me. Critically important.”

“Let me guess. You want me to start

picking out dates for you.”

“Not at the moment. I need you to come

to O’Hare with me tomorrow.”

“The airport?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are we going?”

“The United departures terminal.”

“A nd then where?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it? What’s the point of going to a

departure terminal if we’re not departing for
anywhere?”

“Someone else is. I have to stop him.”

“Wouldn’t a phone call be a lot easier?”

I’d considered that option but quickly

rejected it. “Yeah, it would be, but that’s the
point. A call is just a call. Showing up at the
airport is a statement.”

Marti was quiet for a moment. “It sounds

like this person actually means something to
you.” The drollery was gone from her voice.

“He does. He means a lot to me.”

“Is he that young guy you told me about?”

“Yes.”

“Well… why do

I have to be there? Won’t

Mommy’s presence sort of lessen the impact of
your ‘statement’?”

“You have to be there because, for just a

little while, you’re going to be someone else’s
mother.”

“Jon, I don’t want any more kids.”

“You’ll probably like this one a lot more

than you like me.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s got an eighteen-year-old

ass.”

“Oh, that’s right. Count me in.”

God

, I hated O’Hare International. It made me

feel like a gnat crawling through a game of Pick
Up Sticks to find a particular sliver to perch on.

A ctually, I hated most large airports. Since

9/11 they’d taken on a nightmarish,

1984 aura.

Public areas had been whittled down to barren
little patches of real estate where only ticket
counters and refreshment kiosks stood—in this
case, Starbucks. Visitors were treated like
second-class citizens. Only ticketed passengers

had access to amenities. A nything that might’ve
taken the edge off, like food and booze, lay
beyond the security checkpoints.

A fter parking my car, which was itself an

exercise

in

this-ain’t-no-fun-without-Xanax,

Marti and I took the ATS or A irport Transit
System to Terminal 1. The ride seemed to go
on so long, I could’ve sworn we’d end up in
Peoria. I’d dressed in light, casual clothing,
because I knew what an ordeal this would be,
but I was still sweating by the time we’d made it
to the upper level of the terminal.

Marti was in good spirits. She was meeting

some Internet hookup at the airport’s Hilton
Hotel once her task for me was completed. She
claimed they’d really hit it off through their e-
mail exchanges and phone calls, so she was
confident the guy would show.

“Would you mind having a black man as a

stepfather?” she asked me as we ambled around
within our boundaries.

“Of course not, as long as he’s a decent

guy. Would a black man mind having a gay
stepson?”

“Huh. I’d never thought to tell him you

were gay. Well, if it’s a problem, he can kiss my
sweet ass goodbye and move on.”

I wasn’t sure what we should do once we

were on Concourse B, except keep our eyes
peeled. I paced around, tapping a rolled-up
newspaper

against

my

thigh.

Check-in

procedures had become so varied, and my

knowledge of Ethan’s plans so limited, I didn’t
know whether to bother watching the ticket
counters or not. The security portals were
probably my best bet. Even if Ethan and
whatshisname had gotten their boarding passes
online and had only carryon luggage, they’d still
have to go through security before proceeding
to their gate.

“Try to relax,” Marti kept telling me.

It wasn’t possible to relax. I kept rereading

Ethan’s neatly written note to make certain we
were in the right place. Even after I’d reassured
myself a dozen times, I feared I’d miss him.
There were people everywhere. They moved in
streams and eddies, flowed up and down
escalators, pulled luggage and pushed baby
strollers. Sometimes they clotted in lines or
groups. Trying to look past the milling crowd
brought no relief. So much crap hung from the
ceilings and stuck out from the walls—signage,
cameras, speakers—it was like going from the
inside of Bedlam to the inside a robot’s brain.
The constant drone of noise only enhanced the
illusion.

I’d clearly been spoiled by living and

working in a rural area. I felt overwhelmed, a
total hick.

“Jon….”

“Hm?” I turned toward Marti but kept

darting glances around the concourse.

“What exactly am I to do again?”

“Just get Ethan’s attention. I’ll point him

out to you. Call to him, wave him over. I’ll
stand nearby so he’s sure to see me. You’ll be a
good excuse for him to get away from Marcus.

I

sure as hell can’t approach him. That
Neanderthal would get suspicious.”

“Why don’t you just go for it and say to

hell with the Neanderthal?”

I’d thought of that—it was the ballsy thing

to do—but it carried too much risk. A ntonucci
seemed like a volatile son of a bitch, and I could
go off myself if pushed hard enough. “Because,”
I told my mother, “the last place a person wants
to kick up a ruckus is near an international
airport’s boarding area. A nd I guarantee there’d
be

some kind of scene.”

“What’s Ethan supposed to tell the

Neanderthal after I get his attention?”

“He’s smart enough to figure it out. If he

wants to, that is.”

I swiveled this way and that, scanning the

concourse.

If he wants to. Marti had grilled me

about Ethan’s cooperation on the drive down
here.

“So you’re pretty sure he left that note in

your bedroom on purpose?”

“Yes. Why else would he bother writing

that stuff down? It was completely unnecessary.
His traveling companion—Marcus, the guy he’s
been living with—would’ve had all the flight
information.”

Marti had massaged my neck as I drove.

“God, honey, I hope you’re right about this.”

“I do too.”

“You’re a courageous man.”

“No I’m not. I’m shaking from the inside

out. This could be the dumbest stunt I’ve ever
pulled.”

“What do think Ethan expects you to do?

Rescue him?”

“No, that’s not it. He’s fully capable of

rescuing himself. I think he needs to know if I
really give a shit about him, if he’s more than
just another good-looking score to me. I don’t
blame him for wanting me to prove myself. A
lot of people pay lip service to caring but never
come through in a pinch.”

Now, as I looked at my watch and craned

my neck and switched the newspaper from one
hand to the other, as I tried to ignore a
headache and sour stomach and one of the
worst cases of nerves I’d ever had, I told myself
this effort wasn’t wasted… no matter

what the

outcome. Even if Ethan snubbed me, I’d at least
have closure. I’d know I’d made my statement,
and he’d made his choice. It would help me get
over him.

Marti nudged me. “Bearish man, check.

Cute golden-haired youth with a great ass,
check. I think we’re on, honey.”

Chapter Eleven

They stood in a fairly short line at one of the
security checkpoints.

“Yeah, that’s him,” I said as my salivary

glands stopped functioning.

A ll the glare and noise and hustle of the

concourse faded to a gray blur at the periphery
of my senses. I’d read about that in books, seen
depictions of it in movies, but I’d never
experienced it myself. In fact, I’d scoffed at the
notion of one person, the mere sight of one
person, making the world go away.

Holy damn shit, my heart was knocking at

my breastbone and my gut wasn’t far behind it.
I’d never expected to react this strongly to the
sight of

any man, much less one I’d known

since he was a kid, but my reaction was beyond
the reach of any reasoning.

I wanted to rush over to him, fly away

with him.

Marti strolled toward the checkpoint but

didn’t get too close. I waited a few seconds and
sauntered in the same direction without looking
at her, as if I were just another restless person
killing time at a busy airport. I flipped open the
newspaper and held it near my face as I stood
behind and at an angle to my mother. By
shifting my eyes up and to the left a bit, I could
kind of see the people in the security queue.

“Ethan!” Marti called out, just loudly

enough to get his attention.

My nerves bunched together and vibrated.

I lifted my head and hazarded a look, tried

to make it the impassive glance of a stranger
whose attention had been caught by something
of no interest to him. Both men were staring at
Marti. Ethan looked perplexed. Marcus scowled.

“Who the hell is that?” he asked irritably.

I looked straight at Ethan for a couple of

seconds. It was as if I’d poked him in the ribs.
His gaze suddenly jumped over to me, and his
eyes widened. I kind of surreptitiously pointed
at Marti, then at myself, then cocked my head to
indicate he should join us. Then I smiled.

“That’s, uh… Christ, that’s my mother,”

Ethan said to Marcus.

Marcus bent toward him. “

What? What the

hell is your mother doing here?”

“She, uh, she’s in town for a few days. I

told her I wouldn’t have a chance to visit with
her, but she could, um, see me off at the
airport. Just go on through. I only need fifteen,
twenty minutes. Departure isn’t for nearly an
hour yet. I’ll find you.”

Before my connection to Ethan became

obvious, I lifted the paper. “

Yes!” I whispered to

the newsprint.

“You better not lose track of the

goddamned time,” Marcus growled.

“I won’t,” Ethan replied. “I’ll just talk to her

for a little bit, and then I’ll come find you.”

He jogged over to Marti and led her farther

away from the checkpoint. I stayed put for a
moment, making certain A ntonucci didn’t leave
the queue. When, still looking surly, he turned
back toward the checkpoint, I hurried over to
my mother and her temporary new son.

“Pleased to meet you,” Marti said to Ethan,

cupping his forearm and grasping his hand.
“I’m

Martha

Wright,

Jon’s

mother

and

coconspirator. Please listen to whatever he has
to say, even if it doesn’t make much sense.”

Ethan’s color was high. “Nice to meet you

too.” He looked anxious when he turned to me,
but I got the impression his anxiety had little to
do with A ntonucci.

“Don’t go,” I said fervently. “Stay with me.

Please, baby. Give this shit up, all of it, and
become a chef and stay with me.”

His eyes shone. “Why?”

“Huh?”

“I know why I should go to culinary

school, but why should I stay with you?”

“Because….” What the fuck? Wasn’t it

obvious why?

Ethan darted a glance over his shoulder

then made a rolling motion with his hand.

My forehead creased until it hurt. Were we

playing charades? I couldn’t think.

Marti suddenly appeared at my shoulder. “I

love you,” she murmured.

“Ma, this isn’t the time,” I said impatiently.

She stood on her tiptoes and whispered,

“Jon, pull your head out of your ass before the
organ grinder comes to fetch his monkey. I’m
going to meet Ike now. You’re on your own.”

Ike. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

Dazed, I watched Marti adroitly thread her way
down the concourse.

“My flight’s departing soon,” Ethan said.

There was just a hint of urgency in his voice.

The reminder ramped up my own anxiety;

along with it, my stupidity. “Don’t get on that
plane. Please come home with me. I have…
feelings for you. Strong ones. They’re not…
fraternal or paternal or platonic or even lustful—
well, not

entirely lustful—and they’ve really

been messing me up. I want you in my life.”
That made no sense. My hand seemed to thrust
itself, of its own accord, into my hair. It just
stuck there. I must’ve looked like a contestant
on “Fear Factor.”

Ethan kept staring at my face, his eyes

large and luminous. He looked expectant, but
he said nothing. He was waiting. A nd my
vocabulary had deserted me.

“I don’t, um….” Fuck, and now my voice

was quavering. “I don’t know how to—”

Ethan’s expression finally relaxed. He gave

me a pleased, tender smile. “I love you, Jon. So
much I can hardly stand it. So much I was
ready to run away from it.”

“Huh?”

“I love you. That’s how I explain

mine.”

“Your what?”

“Feelings. For you. You’re probably the

only man I’ve

ever loved. I just didn’t think…

you’d ever feel the same way about me.”

I grabbed Ethan’s arm and hustled him to

a restroom entrance that wasn’t visible from the
checkpoint. There, I brushed a hand down the
side of his face and gazed into his eyes and
nodded. “I guess that’s the word. Yeah. A nd the
reason. I’m falling in love with you. So will you
come with me right now? Walk away without
explaining a goddamned thing to that dickhead
and come home with me and live with me and
get a fresh start?”

He threw his arms around my neck.

“Finally.”

I was too stunned to react at first. It wasn’t

until we were running through the airport and
toward freedom that I let myself believe it was
really happening. I was with Ethan Benz-Collier,
a man who’d be changing my world as much as
I’d just changed his.

Fuck, I was ecstatic.

Only… it didn’t last.

We managed to retrieve most of Ethan’s

personal possessions from the flat he’d been
sharing with Marcus. We raced there from the
airport. Ethan grabbed up everything of any
importance to him, threw it in his car, and off

we went to begin our new life.

I started getting hinky on the drive back to

my place. A s the emotional rush subsided,
questions began to plague me. Would Ethan
have second thoughts, especially after he heard
from Marcus again? What if he couldn’t get into
a decent culinary school? Would he be enticed
to resume his old ways? He was awfully young,
after all, and my lifestyle was awfully humdrum.

The

doubts

kept

slithering

around,

insinuating I’d been too rash. Warm memories
and boiling physical attraction could not a
sound relationship make, much less a domestic
partnership. I worried Ethan and I might be too
different after all, that our life experiences had
carried us in such divergent directions, our
paths to fulfillment stood little chance of
converging.

My desire and concern for Ethan had

morphed into misguided idealism. What the hell
had I been thinking? By the time I pulled into
my driveway, I was all but convinced we’d be
breaking up before we’d even settled in
together.

Ethan arrived at the house about ten

minutes later. “Well, Marc called,” he announced
when he walked in.

I hurried into the entry hall. Every fear that

had been churning through my mind coalesced
around that bulletin. “A nd?”

“Let’s sit down,” he said somberly. “We

need to talk. It can’t wait.”

Woodenly, I walked to the living room.

Ethan detoured to the kitchen for a drink of
water. When he returned, we sat beside each
other on the couch.

Ethan deeply inhaled, exhaled. I held my

breath. He didn’t look at me until he started to
speak, but my gaze was welded to him.

“You’re the most incredible man I’ve ever

know,” he said, “but—”

“But?” That one little conjunction had

made me go cold all over. I probably looked it
too. Frosty the Snowman, icy and white.

“

But… I don’t think you have a whole lot of

faith in me yet.”

I blinked at him. “That’s it? That’s all that

comes after ‘but’?”

“It’s a huge issue, Jon. A big ‘it’. So I want

to clear up some things right now.”

Déjà vu. There was that startling maturity

again, as if we’d magically exchanged ages and
outlooks. Ethan was the self-possessed elder. I
was the insecure youth.

“A ll right,” I said, deferring to him.

“I told Marc I didn’t want to have anything

more to do with him

or Justin Time. I told him

I’d saved enough money to at least get an
associate degree in culinary arts from a
technical college, and that’s what I wanted to
do.”

“Didn’t he question you? Didn’t he wonder

why you’d agreed to take this trip with him if it

wasn’t what you wanted?”

“Of course he did… after he stopped

cussing me out and calling me names. That’s
when I mentioned you. I didn’t tell him you
showed up at the airport. That would’ve
complicated matters way too much. I just said
that talking to my ‘mother’ made me realize
how screwed-up my priorities had been. I told
Marcus he didn’t get it and never would, that we
were on different pages in different books, and
I’d fallen in love with a man who was on the
same page in the same book. I said I’d decided
not to leave that man behind or let him down.
No matter what. A nd I’d decided to stop letting
myself down.”

It was hard for me to speak. I swallowed

to get my voice going. “What if… what if I
hadn’t come for you? What would you have
done then?”

“I’m not sure,” Ethan said thoughtfully.

“Gone through with the trip, yeah, just to get
my mind off you, ’cause I know I would’ve been
devastated. Hell, I’ve been feeling like the
walking dead since I left your house. But after
that, I don’t know. I would’ve split up with
Marc, though. Definitely. I’d already decided
that no matter what happened, I wanted him
out of my life.”

“I’m glad we read each other right,” I said.

But it only figured that we had. We were on the
same page in the same book.

Ethan took my hand and smiled. The

dimples sank in. I thought, at that moment, I’d
shrivel up and blow away like a leaf in autumn
if he walked out on me again. I had to remind
myself that wasn’t his intention. He’d just said
so.

“You need to start believing in me, Jon.

I’ve believed in you all along. Every time I
agreed to something you wanted or asked a
favor of you, it was because I believed in you. I
left that note on your nightstand because I
believed in you. I even stopped doing videos
after I spent my first night here.”

“But… I saw a new one on the website.”

“The one with Luis? That wasn’t new. We

made that two months ago.”

It was finally starting to sink in. Ethan

wasn’t some silly creature of impulse, spurred
on by a childhood crush. He wasn’t ignorant or
fickle or shallow. He just needed to know his
faith in me, all nine years’ worth, had been
justified. A nd he needed to know that faith was
now reciprocal.

My eyes filled as I looked at him. My vision

began to blur. When the pooled tears began
silently to course down my face, Ethan pulled
me toward him and held me. I cried quietly
against his shirt, leaving a spreading patch of
dampness. He stroked my hair.

“You never hurt me,” he murmured. “Not

intentionally. A nd I’ll never hurt you if I can
help it. I love you, Jon. With all my heart.
Please believe in us.”

Everything

got better after that. There was

no more regression into doubt. Ethan had
healed all the nicks and scratches my own
cowardice had inflicted on me, and we began
our slow, steady, uphill climb toward stability.

Our first two weeks together were

saturated with sex and sighs. We couldn’t seem
to walk past each other without falling into a
clutch and making out. Fully or partially clothed
or stripped naked, we sucked and fucked and
frotted

and

even

watched

each

other

masturbate. It was exhilarating and exhausting.
A nd addicting. We couldn’t seem to stop. I
thought for sure I’d end up with some kind of
disorder; that I’d either go mad or all the strain
on my pituitary and adrenal glands and testes
would dry up my supply of testosterone. But my
mind remained intact and the hormones kept
flowing.

The feelings kept flowing too. Both ways.

They didn’t have to be forced any more than
our sexual response to one another. I let myself
adore Ethan without reservation.

So the belief came—and with it, a

conviction of our rightness together—more
quickly and naturally than I’d anticipated. It
came and it stayed, and we fed it until it grew
too strong to be destroyed.

Marti was thrilled for us. Vic quickly went

from being dubious to envious, but the envy
faded when he found his own boyfriend. Donald
scoffed, of course, but Ethan and I ignored his
reaction. Donald would either get used to us
being a couple or he wouldn’t, and if he didn’t,
it wasn’t our problem.

Ethan got a new cell phone and number,

so he never heard from Marcus again. He
figured his former taskmaster had moved to
California, the land of his porny dreams. Ethan
in turn pursued his own dream. He squeaked
into a culinary arts program shortly before the
college’s fall semester began. It wasn’t a
glamorous school—he couldn’t afford the tuition
at Le Cordon Bleu in Chicago and, besides,
didn’t want to live in the city again—but it was
the first step up the chef ladder, and he was
jubilant.

Lorelei and Pat visited for Thanksgiving,

partaking of a huge Ethan-and-Jon-made
dinner. Vic and his new beau, Rudy, were there,
too, and so were my mother and Ike. Pat’s
cancer was in remission. Donald wasn’t around.
It was a joyful gathering.

A fter everyone had either departed or

turned in for the night, Lori and I sat at the
dining table. It was spotless now, thanks to a
communal cleanup effort, and my mother’s
handmade centerpiece stood alone and proud,
glowing with autumnal color.

Ethan had indeed inherited most of his

attributes from his mom—the fair hair and blue

eyes and dimples, the outer breeziness and
inner fortitude and capacity for caring. Lorelei
Benz was a lovely woman.

“So,” she said, covering my hand with

hers, “you got over the villainous father and fell
for his pure-of-heart son.”

I chuckled. “

That’s putting it in a fairy-tale

nutshell.”

“Pat said we should’ve known it would

happen if the two of you ever met up again.
Donald treated you like crap, and Ethan’s been
crazy about you since he was eight. But eight-
year-olds grow up.”

“They sure do,” I said with a blush.

Lori kept studying me, her admiring smile

still in place. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am
that you managed to get Ethan out of the
situation he was in. When he finally told me
about his former enterprise, I wanted to reach
through the phone and box his ears.”

Ethan had finally come clean with his

mother just two months ago. Lori had cried,
which had made Ethan feel like shit, although
her delight over our relationship had helped
alleviate his guilt.

“Don’t give me

all the credit,” I said. “It

wouldn’t have happened if Ethan hadn’t wanted
to change. He must’ve seen something in
himself worth redeeming.”

“True. That reminds me of the day Pat and

I met you.” Lori gave my hand a little shake.

“Remember?”

“Vaguely. Weren’t we at a cookout at

Donald’s place?”

“Yeah. On a Sunday. We’d brought Ethan

back for his week with Dad, because we had
that joint-placement thing going. He was pretty
glum. Some kids down the road had made fun
of him and pushed him down. We didn’t find
out until later, when Donald relinquished
custody, that they’d called him ‘the little fag with
two mothers’.”

I squeezed my eyes closed against the

reminder, pinched my thumb and forefinger
over them.

“Jon? You all right?”

“Yes.” I lowered my hand. “Ethan… sort of

mentioned that during one of our early
conversations. It’s still difficult to hear.”

“Well, you made it better. Don’t you

recall?”

I frowned and shook my head.

“You took him aside and told him not to

pay any attention to kids who said or did bad
things; that they were like bugs with
microscopic brains. You told him he was a
precious boy—to me and Pat and Donald and
his grandma Sally, and to you—and as he grew
up, as long as he always tried to better himself
and be kind to others, other people would also
think he was precious.”

I stared at her. “I don’t remember that.”

“Well, I do. Ethan wasn’t quite certain what

precious meant, so he asked me and Pat before
we left. I told him it meant he was very special,
and we all loved him. He said, ‘I kinda thought
so, but I wasn’t for sure.’ Then I asked him if he
believed you, and he said he always believed
you.”

Lorelei excused herself and went to bed

shortly after that. I sat at the table a while
longer, since it was too cold to sit outside. Her
recounting of that episode had stunned me.

So… it appeared I’d inadvertently given

Ethan his old screen name. I had a feeling it
was the identity he’d secretly embraced, that the
name and all it signified to him served as a
counterbalance to Justin Time. Donald might’ve
explained it by saying precious_boy was Ethan’s
Mr. Hyde and Justin Time, his Dr. Jekyll.

The comparison wouldn’t have been

too

far off, except for erring on the melodramatic
side, but I thought of precious_boy in simpler
terms: that it was Ethan’s link to childhood
innocence and familial warmth, to hope and
self-acceptance and love. A nd I felt moved and
honored that he’d cherished it so.

I went to the bedroom and knelt beside

him, as I’d once done when he’d slept on the
couch. A trace of roasted-turkey aroma still
clung to his hair. Smiling fondly, I gazed at his
sleeping face again—maybe not in awe, but
with equally potent feelings—then moved a
strand from his temple with one fingertip. He

stirred but didn’t awaken. Rising, I kissed the
pale patch of skin I’d exposed.

“I meant it,” I whispered. “Thanks for

believing.”

About the Author

If there’s one thing

K.Z. Snow

loves more

than indulging her wayward imagination, it’s the
natural world and, especially, animals. She’s
been a companion to most domesticated
creatures and a good number of the feral ones
commonly known as men. A fter too many
turbulent years, her life in the upper Midwest is
finally boring as hell—an achievement as well as
a blessing.

She’s overeducated, underskilled, and has
written a lot of stuff. Her only awards are two
medals

she

received,

obviously

out

of

sympathy, for playing the bassoon and making
it sound like a malfunctioning chainsaw.

Visit K.Z.’s blog at

http://kzsnow.blogspot.com

.

Also by K.Z. Snow

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Also by K.Z. Snow

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Steampunk Romance by K.Z.

Snow

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

precious_boy ©Copyright K.Z. Snow , 2011

Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Prest on Road
Suit e 244-149
Frisco, T X 75034
ht t p://w w w .dreamspinnerpress.com/

T his is a w ork of fict ion. Names, charact ers, places, and
incident s eit her are t he product of t he aut hors’ imaginat ion or
are used fict it iously, and any resemblance t o act ual persons,
living or dead, business est ablishment s, event s, or locales is
ent irely coincident al.

Cover Art by Anne Cain [e-mail]
Cover Design by Mara McKennen

T his book is licensed t o t he original purchaser only. Duplicat ion
or dist ribut ion via any means is illegal and a violat ion of
Int ernat ional Copyright Law , subject t o criminal prosecut ion
and upon convict ion, fines, and/or imprisonment . T his eBook
cannot be legally loaned or given t o ot hers. No part of t his
eBook can be shared or reproduced w it hout t he express
permission of t he Publisher. To request permission and all
ot her inquiries, cont act Dreamspinner Press at : 4760 Prest on
Road,

Suit e

244-149,

Frisco,

T X

75034

ht t p://w w w .dreamspinnerpress.com/

Released in t he Unit ed St at es of America
January 2011

eBook Edit ion

eBook Edit ion
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-723-8