Feet of Clay - 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the
publisher.
Feet of Clay
HIGH BALLS
An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers
PO Box 2545
Round Rock, TX 78680
Copyright © 2011 by
Amanda Steiger
Cover illustration by Alessia Brio
Published with permission
ISBN:
978-1-61040-225-5
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except
as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information
address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX
78680.
First Torquere Press Printing: May 2011
Printed in the USA
Feet of Clay - 2
Chapter One
When Galvin arrived in Dr. Stein's office, she was
sitting at her desk, writing in a small, leather-bound
book. He poked his head in through the half-open door.
She looked up, adjusted her glasses, and said, "Hello,
Galvin. Come in."
Dr. Stein was a calm, silver-haired woman, prone to
wearing knitted sweaters and very large earrings. Today,
a pair of gold cats dangled from her ears. "How has the
new medication been working out for you?"
He shifted in his chair. "Okay, I guess."
She peered at him over the top rims of her glasses.
"Any side effects?"
"The nausea is worse than usual." He'd eaten a piece
of toast that morning and kept it down, but he hadn't
dared try anything more substantial.
"That should subside, but if necessary I can prescribe
some anti-nausea medication. And how has your mental
state been, overall?"
He hesitated. "Not great, honestly. But it's that time
of year again. I mean…it's getting close to November
13
th
." He gave a strained smile. "After ten years, you
wouldn't think it would still affect me like this."
"I'd be surprised if it didn't, actually." She tilted her
head. "Do you want to talk about it?" The tone was one
of concerned, polite interest, as if she was asking an
acquaintance about some minor mishap.
"Not really."
Dr. Stein was a nice woman, but officially, she wasn't
his counselor. He couldn't afford a counselor on top of
his medications, and if it had to be one or the
other…well, the pills were a necessity. She just wrote
out his prescriptions. Even when she invited him to talk
Feet of Clay - 3
about his problems, he always felt in some vague way
that he was bothering her.
"You're sure?" she asked, in that same polite, neutral
tone.
He forced a smile. "I'm all right. I can't stay long,
anyway."
"Work?"
He nodded.
"I'll just get you set up with a refill, then. Give it
some time. Another week, and you'll start to feel a
difference." She wrote out a prescription with quick,
practiced ease.
***
Galvin couldn't sleep, but that was nothing new.
These days, the pills did little more than blur his
thoughts. He'd spent far too many nights in that foggy,
half-dreaming state, eyes still open, staring at the
vaguely dragon-shaped water stain on his ceiling.
Rain trickled down the window, a steady drone
mingled with the occasional rumble of thunder that his
mp3 player couldn't quite drown out.
It had been raining that night, too. His gaze strayed to
the calendar on his wall. November 13
th
was just a few
weeks away. Just a day, he thought. But somehow, it
never got any easier.
He pulled out his earbuds and sighed. He had work
tomorrow. He needed sleep. But reminding himself of
all the reasons he should be asleep inevitably just made
it harder…and when he closed his eyes, memories
flickered through the darkness behind his lids. A
motionless form on the bathroom tiles, glassy eyes
seeming to stare at him…
Feet of Clay - 4
Finally, he rolled onto his side and reached for the
book on his nightstand. Its edges were worn, its spine
was faded and creased from being read and reread
countless times.
Smoke. Spike Radcliff's first novel.
On nights like this, when the hours stretched into a
lifetime and the loneliness became unbearable, he often
found himself reaching for that tattered paperback, the
same copy he'd found in a used bookstore five years
ago. By now, reading it was like slipping into an old,
comfy sweater. Kind of a strange way to think about a
book that dealt with such dark subject matter, but then,
all Spike's books were like that. They were harsh. Ugly,
sometimes. But despite all the blood and mud and dirty
needles, there was always a shining thread of hope
running through them, the promise that someone could
go through hell and come out again, wounded but alive.
Galvin stretched out on his bed and opened the book.
The opening lines were already branded into his
memory, but he read them anyway: Sammy stepped off
the bus and breathed in the hot, moist night air. In his
pocket, he had two hundred dollars and an address
scribbled on a folded piece of paper, worn and damp
from the caresses of his sweaty fingers. It had been
almost a full day since he'd eaten or slept, but he was
filled with a crazy, burning excitement. He had escaped.
Galvin had always identified with Sammy -- with his
desperate hunger for a place to belong, for the arms of
someone who would make him feel safe and wanted.
When the story started, he'd just fled his abusive home
to live with a friend in New Orleans, but the address
turned out to be an empty building. And then he was
alone, nearly penniless, and stranded in a place he knew
Feet of Clay - 5
nothing about. Before long, he was sleeping in alleys
and doorways.
Galvin felt a pang of recognition at the stark
descriptions of loneliness, of being the outsider -- doors
slamming, people turning away and hurrying past -- and
the longing for someone, anyone, to stretch out a hand
and offer some simple kindness. When someone finally
did, Sammy was too relieved to feel the jaws of a trap
closing around him. His new friends had pills and
needles filled with sweet poison that kept him coming
back again and again, even after he realized they weren't
his friends, even after they started renting him out.
Galvin found himself skimming ahead to his favorite
scene, the one where Sammy finally found a true friend:
a quiet, stammering, tender-hearted poet who literally
found him in the gutter and took him in.
The idea of rescue had always been seductive to
Galvin. His first shrink had recommended that he write
the words No one is coming to save you on a piece of
poster board and hang it on his wall.
He hadn't.
He knew she was right. Waiting for a rescuer was
counter-productive and childish. But even so, he
couldn't help clinging to the hope that someday, when he
most needed them, there would be a pair of strong and
loving arms waiting to enfold him. And then, finally, he
could relax, he could surrender to this soul-deep
exhaustion and just breathe.
Galvin kept reading.
Sammy fell in love with his rescuer, of course. But
happy endings were never that easy. There followed a
cycle of rehab, relapses, grim, determined struggles, and
finally light at the end of the tunnel. Sammy got clean
Feet of Clay - 6
and stayed with the man who, by that point, had become
his lover and his best friend.
It was like a fucked up fairy tale, complete with
happily ever after. Or at least, as close to happily ever
after as real life ever got.
Galvin closed his eyes and held the book against his
chest.
The first time he'd read it, he'd stayed up all night,
too -- dry-mouthed, gulping, turning pages, almost
wanting to stop reading because he was certain it would
end in despair and darkness. The next day, he'd gone out
and bought the sequels, Dust and Blur.
He turned the book over and stared at the black and
white author's photo on the back cover. Spike was
standing outside, clad in a long, black coat, his dark hair
windblown, a cigarette between two fingers. He was
looking off to the side, as if unaware of the cameraman.
The picture was small and grainy, but still, something
about it always made Galvin stare. From reading articles
about Spike Radcliff, he knew that Spike had an almost
superstitious aversion to cameras. This was probably
one of the few photos of him in existence.
And Galvin liked looking at it…probably more than
he should. He reached out and lightly ran a fingertip
over it.
Spike was handsome, but it was more than that.
There was some indefinable quality about him that held
Galvin's gaze, like a light shining from deep within him.
Galvin didn't need his psychiatrist to tell him that this
wasn't normal, that forming such a powerful fixation on
someone he had never met and would likely never meet
was unhealthy. But knowing that did nothing to dim the
intensity of his feelings.
Galvin closed his eyes.
Feet of Clay - 7
His fantasies about Spike had started when he was
fifteen, soon after he first read Smoke. They were just a
way to pass the time when he couldn't sleep, to stave off
the ache of loneliness. But those imaginary
conversations had done what no sleeping pill had yet
accomplished; they had calmed him enough to let him
drift off.
The details of how he and Spike "met" were hazy, but
the scenario always ended the same: with Spike sitting
next to him on a bench or the edge of his bed as Galvin
talked about his problems. And Spike would understand,
would hold him and stroke his hair and talk to him.
In his fantasies, Spike was always calm, gentle, wise
and loving. And it was so easy to just melt into his arms
and…
He'd told himself he would stop doing this. An
obsession with an actor or a famous singer would have
at least been understandable. But a writer? It was just
weird…especially when he had nothing to base it on
except Spike's books and one grainy photo.
He glanced at the window. Pale sunlight trickled in
through the blinds and fell across the floor in narrow,
slanting beams. The clock told him it was past 7:30.
He gently set the book on the nightstand, slid out of
bed, and headed into the bathroom to shower.
***
Later, he sat on the El, watching the buildings of
Chicago blur past through the window. His hand was in
one pocket of his jacket, fingers curled around the
smooth contours of a pill bottle. He'd picked up his refill
on the way to the El stop. Now, he pulled the bottle out
and tilted it back and forth, watching the pills roll
around inside. They were pretty. Round and red, like
little drops of blood.
Feet of Clay - 8
In the past two years, since moving out of his mom's
house, he'd managed to scrape together a passably
normal life for himself. Every morning, he woke up and
showered and had coffee and toast. He rode the El to
work. He paid rent, though he usually had to dip into the
money his father had left him, and that would probably
run out within the year. After that, he wasn't sure what
he'd do. He didn't make nearly enough at his job. But
still, he was functioning…even if it all felt fragile, like a
dandelion puff that could be blown away by the first
strong gust of wind.
The last line of Smoke echoed in his mind: He awoke,
safe in his own skin.
Safe in his own skin.
It wasn't real; he knew that. Just words on a page.
But he needed those words.
Feet of Clay - 9
Chapter Two
The Underground's readership consisted largely of
academic circles and beatnik, coffee house crowds. Its
pages were usually filled with short stories, poems, and
reviews of arty films and obscure theatrical productions.
Its office was a single large room on the top floor of a
dilapidated brick building. Galvin walked up the cement
stairs and opened the door.
Shelly, his boss, was leaning back in her chair, heels
propped up on her desk and a cup of coffee in one hand.
A fringe of sapphire blue hair hung over her left eye.
"Hey." She glanced up at him. "'Nother sleepless night?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, self-conscious.
Though Shelly knew about his sleeping troubles, she
didn't know what caused them. Didn't know about the
nightmares. He didn't want anyone to know about those.
"Is it that obvious?"
She blew steam from her coffee. "Those dark circles
under your eyes are starting to seem like a permanent
fixture. Tried valerian root? My cousin says it works for
him."
Galvin shrugged out of his jacket. "I've tried just
about everything." He forced a slight smile. "Well,
except knocking myself out with a sledgehammer."
Shelly chuckled.
"So, what's on the schedule today?" he asked,
hanging his jacket up.
"An interview." She sipped her coffee. Her eyes
twinkled at him, a strange, knowing expression. "I've
been wanting to interview a Chicago author. Guess who
I found?"
Galvin sucked in his breath swiftly. "You mean -- "
"Yup. Spike Radcliff. I finally got a hold of him."
Feet of Clay - 10
He realized his jaw was hanging and snapped it shut.
Spike had never done a real interview, never talked
about his work. Or himself. Galvin knew, since he'd
scoured the internet for information about him. "He said
yes?"
"Surprisingly."
He took a deep breath, trying to bring his racing
heartbeat under control. "Who'll be interviewing him?"
"You, of course."
Galvin felt dizzy. "Me?"
"I figured you'd be the best person to do it. You'll
know the right questions to ask."
"Oh." It was the only word his brain would produce.
His thoughts were stuck in a loop. Spike Radcliff. An
interview. And he, Galvin Cloud, was going to conduct
it. "I, uh -- so what time do I call him?"
"You don't. It's at his place."
"Wait -- he agreed to be interviewed in person?"
She shrugged. "Said he doesn't like talking on the
phone." She plucked a sheet of paper off the desk and
held it out to him. "Here's his address, along with
directions."
Galvin stared, mouth dry, palms moist with sweat. He
took the paper with a hand that wanted to tremble and
looked at the directions. It was a printout from an online
map site. "What should I ask him?"
"Well, that's up to you." Her brow furrowed. She slid
her feet off the desk and sat up straighter. "Hey, you
okay? You're pale."
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He gulped. "I just…didn't
expect this."
"Well, you've still got four hours to write up some
questions. But if you're not up to it…"
"I can do it." How could he possibly refuse?
Feet of Clay - 11
She relaxed into her chair and smiled. "Great." She
handed him a small, black tape recorder. "You'll need
this. And be prepared."
"For what?"
"I did some research on him. His people skills are
awful, to put it mildly. The last time someone tried to
interview him, they say it ended with him throwing a
half-eaten bagel at the guy and storming out of the
restaurant. Apparently, he thought the questions were
too personal." She rolled her eyes. "What did he
expect?"
Galvin said nothing. He'd heard about the bagel-
throwing incident. It had achieved urban legend status
among Spike's tiny fan following, but Galvin wasn't sure
whether to believe it.
"Anyway, I just wanted to give you an idea of what
to expect," Shelly said. She drained her coffee cup with
a gulp. "If he rips you a new one, don't take it
personally."
***
Galvin spent the next four hours sitting at his desk,
typing questions on his computer, his mind still floating
in a haze of shock. He stared at the rows of questions,
deleted them all, and started over again. But everything
he came up with sounded trite.
How old were you when you started writing? Where
do you get your inspiration? What are some of your
favorite books and movies?
They were the sort of questions you might ask any
writer in any interview. Spike Radcliff wasn't any writer.
Galvin highlighted everything and hit the delete key
again.
Feet of Clay - 12
Galvin leaned back in his chair and stared at the
blank screen. Panic fluttered in his chest. He needed to
stop worrying and just come up with something.
Anything. But he couldn't think. His head was buzzing
with a sensation that might have been elation or terror,
and there seemed to be a gaping emptiness where his
stomach usually was.
He had never expected to meet Spike Radcliff face to
face. Even if Spike had ever done a book signing --
which he hadn't -- Galvin probably wouldn't have had
the courage to go. Fantasies were safe. If he actually met
Spike…
When he tried to think about it seriously, his mind
played out all kinds of humiliating scenarios.
The clock's second hand ticked around and around,
each tick reverberating through his skull. The minutes
and hours slipped away.
He glanced at the clock again and flinched. The
interview was in just twenty minutes, and it would take
him that long to get there if he took the El and walked
the few remaining blocks to Spike's apartment. "Fuck,"
he muttered, and grabbed a pen from the desk. He kept a
tiny notebook in his pocket for jotting down ideas,
though the pages were mostly empty. He'd just have to
write down some questions on the way there.
He grabbed his jacket and dashed out of the office.
***
Sitting on the El, his insides in knots, he stared at the
notebook page, which was covered with scribbled out
sentences. He groaned, shoulders slumping. This was
hopeless.
Feet of Clay - 13
He wished he had at least some idea of what to
expect. But no one really knew what Spike had been
doing since Blur, his last novel, had been published.
There'd been that aborted attempt at an interview, then
nothing, as if he'd vanished off the face of the earth.
Among his handful of remaining fans, there'd been
whispers that he'd had some kind of mental breakdown
immediately following the publication of his last novel,
but the people who said that had nothing to back it up;
Galvin had always dismissed it as baseless speculation.
Breathing had become a battle against the invisible
iron bands around his chest. Don't think. The more he
thought about what was about to happen, the more the
bands tightened. His breath whistled in his throat.
The man sitting next to him shifted and asked
uneasily, "Hey, you okay?"
He mumbled something about an allergic reaction,
slipped a hand into his pocket and discreetly thumbed
open the breath mint tin where he kept his Xanax. He
placed one under his tongue and let it dissolve. Four
sounded better, but showing up to the interview stoned
off his ass on sedatives seemed like a bad idea.
When the train stopped, he got off and walked up the
stairs out of the underground subway tunnel into the dim
grayish sunlight of a cloudy afternoon. He walked down
the sidewalk, squinting at the page of directions. His
hands refused to stop shaking.
At last, he spotted the place, a rundown, brick
apartment building standing between a deserted
playground and a pawn shop. That's where he lives. It
looked…desolate.
He looked at the row of numbered buttons outside the
door to the lobby, took a deep breath, and pushed the
buzzer labeled 514 RADCLIFF. There was a pause. The
Feet of Clay - 14
speaker crackled, and he heard something that might
have been muttering. He opened his mouth to introduce
himself, but before he could, there was a buzz and a
click as the main door unlocked. He entered the small,
shabby lobby and took the elevator to the fifth floor.
The doors opened on a narrow hallway with patchy,
threadbare carpet and mysterious stains on the walls. He
found door number 514 and stood stiffly, mouth dry.
Steeling himself, he raised a trembling fist and knocked.
Feet of Clay - 15
Chapter Three
Seconds ticked by. A minute passed, and no one
answered. He gulped and tried again.
Another fifteen seconds, then he heard the rustle of
movement behind the door. A lock clicked, and the door
opened.
Spike Radcliff stood there in a black robe, squinting.
His dark hair was mussed and disheveled, his jaw
shadowed with stubble. He scratched his head. "You
aren't the pizza delivery guy," he muttered in a deep,
gravel-filled voice.
Galvin stared.
Spike blinked at him. "Did I even order a pizza?"
Galvin didn't reply. What could he say to that, really?
Dimly, he was aware of himself trembling. His thoughts
skipped like a broken record. This -- this -- this is --
"Who are you?" Spike asked.
Galvin opened his mouth, but only a tiny squeak
emerged.
He had always imagined Spike as cool and slightly
aloof. Spike's single photo conveyed a sort of careless
elegance which, he'd thought, suggested a man who was
always in control without even really trying.
This Spike stared at him with unfocused, bloodshot,
dark eyes. He was gaunter than he'd been in his photo,
sharper, as if time had whittled him down to his bones.
He looked like a man who'd been shipwrecked on a
deserted island and had been living alone for the past ten
years, hunting monkeys for food and talking to trees and
coconuts. And he looked at Galvin with bewildered
suspicion, as if unsure whether his visitor was real or an
apparition produced by his fractured mind.
Feet of Clay - 16
Finally, Galvin found his voice. "My name is Galvin
Cloud. I -- I came here for…" He swallowed, his mind
fumbling. "Interview. For The Underground."
Spike palmed his face. "Fuck," he muttered. "Forgot
about that."
Galvin stood frozen, sweat trickling down his sides.
His heartbeat filled his ears like thunder. "Is it a bad
time?"
He sighed. "No. Just give me a minute." He turned
away from the door, giving Galvin a view into his living
room. The floor was strewn with clothes, takeout
containers, and empty beer bottles. Heavy, black
curtains covered the picture window, allowing only thin
trickles of light through, and the ceiling lamp was
dimmed. "Make yourself at home." Spike waved
vaguely toward the few pieces of furniture; a couch and
armchair, both upholstered in black faux-leather.
Between them stood a scarred wooden coffee table
covered with overflowing ashtrays.
Galvin hesitated outside the door. He could turn
around if he wanted. Just go back to The Underground
headquarters. Say that Spike hadn't been home. It
seemed safer. Nothing would have to change. He could
keep his fantasies intact, keep clinging to them, safe in
his own apartment…
Alone.
No. He wasn't going to flee for the sake of some
imaginary construct of Spike inside his own head. He
was here to do an interview.
He stepped in, clutching his tiny notebook to his
chest like a shield. Spike turned toward him again.
"Sorry about the mess." The top half of his robe had
slipped open, and Galvin glimpsed a V-shaped wedge of
Feet of Clay - 17
chest, a sprinkling of dark hair. "I don't have guests very
often."
Receding footsteps echoed through the apartment as
Spike walked out of the living room, disappearing down
a hallway.
Galvin stood stiffly, looking around at the scratched
wood floor, the faintly yellowish walls. An antique
typewriter sat on a rickety table in a corner, and a pile of
messy papers lay on the floor, some covered with
typing, others with longhand. Many words, sometimes
entire lines, had been violently scribbled out with black
ink. Some of the pages were crumpled. Before he even
realized what he was doing, he found himself trying to
read the words, but he couldn't make out enough of them
to string together anything coherent.
He was still standing there, clutching his notebook,
when Spike returned several minutes later wearing a pair
of faded jeans and a rumpled, long-sleeved, gray shirt.
Spike ran a hand through his messy hair, making it
stand up even more, and glanced at Galvin. "Well? Sit
down."
Galvin looked at the couch, walked over and slowly
sat. The faux-leather creaked.
Spike vanished into the adjoining kitchen. There was
the snap of a bottle being opened, followed by the fizz
of carbonation. He reappeared with a beer in hand.
"Want one?"
"N-no thank you." Galvin's voice emerged
abnormally high-pitched. He considered pointing out
that he wasn't twenty-one yet, then decided not to.
Spike flopped into the armchair and leaned back. He
peered at Galvin through his bloodshot, shipwreck
survivor eyes and swigged beer. "So. You work for the
magazine."
Feet of Clay - 18
"Yes." His hands were fisted in his lap. His notebook,
filled with scribbled out questions, rested between them.
And he remembered, with a flash of panic, that he didn't
actually have any questions. He'd rejected everything
he'd come up with. He was sitting here in Spike
Radcliff's apartment, about to do an interview, and he
had absolutely nothing to say.
Galvin fished his little black tape recorder from his
jacket pocket. He didn't know what he was planning to
do, but maybe if he just went through the motions,
something would come to him. He hesitated. "Is it okay
if I tape this?" There was that squeaky voice again.
Damn it, he sounded like a cartoon mouse. He cleared
his throat. "I mean, so I can transcribe the interview
later."
Spike looked at the tape recorder with a frown, as if it
was some bizarre alien artifact. But he shrugged and
said, "Sure."
Galvin's hand trembled as he thumbed the RECORD
button and set the device on the coffee table between
them. "So…" He lapsed into silence, his mind a blank.
Spike stared at him with inscrutable, black eyes, waiting.
Think. He opened his notebook and leafed through it.
There had to be something here he could use. The
silence stretched on, and his cheeks blazed. He could
feel Spike's gaze on him like a physical weight.
Just say something. Anything. "Um, I notice you've
got some -- " He waved an arm toward the pile of papers
in the corner. "Is that the rough draft of a new book?"
Spike gulped more beer. His shoulders slumped, as if
someone had just dropped an enormous weight on his
back. "Yeah."
Galvin waited, but he didn't seem inclined to say
anything else. "What's it about?"
Feet of Clay - 19
Spike turned his head to stare at the window -- or
rather, at the curtains blocking the window. The
movement drew attention to his neck, which was just as
long and pale and elegant as it had appeared in his
photo. Galvin swallowed, fiddling with his notebook. "I
don't talk about my books before they're finished."
"Never?" Galvin's own voice seemed to be coming
from the end of a long tunnel, and all his sensory
impressions seemed slightly off, as if they were filtering
in through a wall of fog. "You don't go to writer's groups
or have someone critique it for you or anything like
that?"
"No." He pulled a package of cigarettes and a lighter
from his jean pocket, lit one of the slender, white
cylinders, and took a slow drag. He exhaled a cloud of
smoke into the air.
His fingers were very long. Galvin stared at them,
then averted his gaze. "So, um…" Sweat dampened his
palms, and a cold lancet of fear slipped through the gray
haze in his brain. "What's your process? I mean, how do
you go about writing?"
Spike shrugged, looking off at a point somewhere
above Galvin's left shoulder. "I just sit down and write."
"You don't -- you don't have any special routines,
or…"
"No."
Galvin's hands curled into fists, nails digging into his
palms. He scraped around in his brain for another
question. "Your books…" He hesitated, staring at the
notebook in his lap. Maybe if he asked something more
specific, something which proved he'd actually read
Spike's work -- that he wasn't just going through the
motions -- he'd get an actual response. But he was afraid
of revealing how much those books meant to him, afraid
Feet of Clay - 20
that Spike would think he was some kind of creepy,
obsessive fan. Which, he supposed, was exactly what he
was.
"Why do you write?" he finally asked. "I mean, what
drives you to do it?"
He voiced a hoarse chuckle. His smile was a thin,
bitter line. "Why? It's my bread." He shook his cigarette,
and a bit of ash fell off into the tray. "Or was, anyway.
Stale bread now."
Wires tightened in Galvin's chest. Breathe. "There
must be some other reason."
"That's all there is." He rested his elbows on his
knees, cigarette dangling between two fingers of his left
hand, right hand buried in his hair. "Everyone's got to
make a living. Whether it's selling hot dogs or selling
words."
Galvin's mouth had gone dry. His lips worked
soundlessly for a moment. "But people find meaning in
your books."
"People find meaning in sidewalk cracks. People see
the face of God on tortillas." He stared at the floor,
ground out his cigarette in the ash tray, and folded his
arms across his knees. When he spoke again, his voice
was so soft that Galvin had to strain to hear it. "I'm full
of shit."
Galvin couldn't move. Couldn't think. The man
whose books had been his lifeline to sanity had just told
him that those books didn't mean anything. That it was
all empty. All lies. "Why?" he whispered.
Spike looked up, blinking. "What?"
"Why would you say something like that?"
He shrugged. "Just the truth. You asked me why I
write. Well, there you go."
Feet of Clay - 21
Galvin stared down at his hands. He wanted to be
angry. He wanted to feel hot rage swelling in his chest,
to stand up and say, You asshole, you played with my
heart. You dangled hope in front of me and then ripped
it away. He reached for that anger, but there was none;
his chest was numb and empty. He felt small and foolish
and childish for believing the lies, for being so desperate
that he'd cling to an empty shell for comfort. His vision
blurred. A drop of water fell onto his notebook. Then
another, and another.
"Hey." Faux-leather creaked as Spike shifted. "What
-- "
"How could you be so cruel?" His voice emerged
small and pleading and confused, the voice of a child
who'd been slapped for no reason. He hated how weak it
sounded. More tears spilled down his cheeks. "I believed
in you."
"Jesus," Spike whispered. He sounded stunned.
Galvin couldn't stay there. Didn't want to look at
Spike's face, didn't want to see his reaction. Galvin's
throat swelled, and a line of ripping pain blazed down
the center of his chest. Blinded by tears, he lurched to
his feet, turned, and walked stiffly toward the door.
There was nothing in his head but the need to get away.
Footsteps sounded behind Galvin. Spike grabbed his
wrist, and he froze, not breathing. Spike's fingers were
warm and hard against his skin. "Let me go." His voice
trembled.
"Wait, I…"
Breathing raggedly, Galvin clawed at the hand on his
wrist. His nails raked down the back of Spike's hand,
leaving four long scratch marks.
Spike's breath hissed between his teeth. The fog
cleared from his wide, stunned eyes as blood welled up
Feet of Clay - 22
in beads from the scratches. And still, his hand remained
wrapped around Galvin's wrist, an unrelenting pressure.
"Oh, God," Galvin whispered. What had he done? He
raised a trembling hand to his mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't
mean -- please, I just -- please let me go, I'll go away if
you want, I just -- "
Spike wrapped warm, lanky arms around Galvin,
dragging him into a rough embrace. His muscles
stiffened in shock.
"I didn't know," Spike whispered hoarsely. "I didn't
know it was like that." His arms tightened around
Galvin.
Galvin couldn't move, couldn't breathe. His mind
whirled in confusion. Spike Radcliff was holding him,
and he didn't know what to do, what to think.
He lay a hand on Galvin's hair, holding Galvin's head
gently against his shoulder. Spike's clothes smelled like
cigarette smoke. And faintly of cinnamon and cloves.
"You poor kid," he whispered.
Galvin remained tense, afraid to trust this. "I don't
understand." His voice wavered. He didn't dare relax
into the embrace, but he couldn't bring himself to pull
away.
"I didn't see…didn't realize. Couldn't see you. Not
‘til now."
Galvin drew in a slow, shaky breath. "You said…"
He swallowed, his throat tight. "You said your books
didn't mean anything. That you just wrote them for
money. Was that a lie?"
At first, Spike didn't reply, and Galvin's unsteady
breathing echoed through the silence. "Yes," Spike said
at last, softly. "That was a lie."
"I just…I don't understand. Why?"
Feet of Clay - 23
Another silence followed, and Galvin wondered if
asking had been a mistake. Spike sighed softly, arms
slipping away, and a part of Galvin wanted to cry out in
protest, but he didn't.
"I had a rough night," Spike said. "That's all." He
stood awkwardly, one hand in his pocket, the other
rubbing the back of his neck. Then he raised his gaze
and studied Galvin's face. "You okay?"
Galvin noticed a damp spot where his tears had
soaked through Spike's shirt, and his cheeks burned.
"Yeah." He wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry, I -- "
"Don't worry about it." He glanced at the couch and
cleared his throat. "You, uh…you want to sit down?"
Galvin cautiously obeyed.
Spike sat in his armchair and laced his fingers
together, studying Galvin's face. "What did you say your
name was, kid?"
"Galvin. Galvin Cloud." After a brief pause, he
added, "I'm twenty."
"Don't take offense." He smiled with one corner of
his mouth. Something had changed; he seemed calmer,
more centered. More like Galvin had always imagined
him being. "To an old geezer like me, you twenty-
somethings all look like kids."
"Thirty-eight isn't old."
Spike quirked an eyebrow. "How'd you know how
old I am?"
Galvin hesitated. "Well, it says on your Wikipedia
entry."
"Wiki-what?"
Galvin scanned Spike's expression for a hint that he
was joking. He found none. "Um…you know.
Wikipedia. The website."
Feet of Clay - 24
Spike's expression was somewhere between puzzled
and uneasy. "I never use computers. Wouldn't know."
He cleared his throat, and his gaze focused on Galvin,
his dark eyes suddenly inscrutable. "So, you've read my
work."
He nodded, feeling suddenly, painfully shy. It was
disconcerting, being the object of that gaze. Like having
a bright light shone on him. "That's why I wanted to do
the interview."
"I see."
Galvin wondered how much he should say. A part of
him wanted to retreat behind his shields, to cover up his
feelings. He still felt raw and shaky. But then, his
reactions had already revealed how much the books
meant to him. What good would it do to hide it now? "I
read Smoke for the first time when I was fifteen." He
stared at the floor, his face warm. "Of all your books,
that one is still my favorite."
Spike scratched his dark hair again. He crossed his
legs, then uncrossed them, fidgeted, slumped, as if he
didn't quite know what to do with his long, lanky body.
"Thanks," he said at last.
Galvin didn't know what to make of Spike’s
discomfort. And again, he found himself wondering if
he'd done or said something wrong. He had the urge to
apologize -- though for what, he wasn't sure.
"I've been having trouble with my latest book. As you
might've guessed." Spike waved at the pile of papers in
the corner, lit another cigarette, and placed it between
his lips. "Been working on it for about six years now.
Not much progress. Doubt I'll ever finish it."
"You will," Galvin said.
Spike's dark gaze focused on him. Again, Galvin had
that feeling of being pinned by a spotlight. His heartbeat
Feet of Clay - 25
quickened. That look made him aware that in spite of
everything -- the messy apartment, the disheveled hair
and rumpled clothes, the beer bottles and disorientation -
- this was Spike Radcliff. Behind those dark eyes lay the
same fierce intelligence that had created Smoke.
"What makes you so sure?" Spike asked.
"I believe in you."
Spike's eyes drilled into Galvin's. Then he dropped
his gaze, studying his sock clad feet. "Never expected to
meet someone like you," he murmured, so softly the
words were almost inaudible. He took another drag on
his cigarette. "You smoke?" Before Galvin could reply,
he continued, "Don't pick it up. Ugly habit." He
regarded the cigarette dangling between his first two
fingers. "So, you going to school?"
He shifted. "No. I, um. I'm still sort of figuring out
what I want to do with my life." Hell, just staying sane
was a full-time job for him. But he couldn't tell Spike
about that -- about the nightmares, the pills, the black
clouds of despair that left him paralyzed for weeks on
end. A part of him wanted to. A part of him wanted to
spill it all out, to bare his soul, as he had in countless
fantasies. But that would be crazy. "I guess someone my
age should be in college, shouldn't he?"
"Nah." Spike raised the beer bottle to his lips and
drank. "Never went, myself. Never much liked school.
In fact, I'm pretty sure high school is that circle of
Dante's Inferno between the people buried in feces and
the river of boiling blood."
"Yeah, it was kind of like that for me, too." Galvin
cracked a weak smile. "To be honest, I'm not doing
much with myself right now. I mean, The Underground
is just a part-time job."
Feet of Clay - 26
Galvin's gaze strayed to the scratches on Spike's
hand, then darted away. And suddenly, he had no idea
what to say. Should he try to continue the interview as if
nothing had happened? No, he couldn't, not after that
breakdown. He didn't know what he'd turn in tomorrow,
but at the moment, that was the least of his concerns.
This was all too much. In the space of a single
afternoon, he'd met the object of his fantasies, had his
expectations shattered, his heart ripped open and then
clumsily mended. But something inside him was still
sore and cautious. He needed time to think, to sort
through the confused tangle of his emotions. "I, um. I
should go. I've already taken up too much of your time."
Spike shrugged. "Not like I'm doing anything else."
His expression had gone blank. "You need to get back to
work?"
Galvin hesitated. He wasn't expected back in until
tomorrow. He could lie, he supposed. A part of him
wanted nothing more than to flee back to the safety of
his apartment -- the safety of solitude -- and curl up
under the covers for awhile. But another part of him
desperately wanted to stay, to ask Spike all the questions
he'd always wanted to ask, to reach out and touch him,
just to make sure he was real.
"I don't -- I mean, not really," he murmured. "I just
thought…you know. You must have things you need to
do."
Spike was silent a moment, tilting the beer bottle
back and forth, staring into space. "This job of yours.
They paying you enough?"
Galvin blinked. It was the last question he'd expected.
"Not a lot. It's barely more than minimum wage, but the
work suits me."
"Money's not an issue, then?"
Feet of Clay - 27
Galvin winced. "I wouldn't say that." Rent was due
soon. And he hadn't bought groceries for that week yet,
either. Then again, with how little he ate these days, he
wondered if he should bother.
"None of my business, I guess."
"It's okay." He lowered his gaze, feeling a twinge of
embarrassment. "To be honest, money's been tight for
awhile. But I'm surviving."
"You feel like earning a little on the side?"
Galvin blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing weird." He stared at the wall, scratching his
stubble-shadowed cheek with a finger. "Can you use
computers?"
"Well, sure." Apart from books, computers had
always been Galvin's primary haven from the world, a
place he felt safe. Back in high school, before his stint in
the institution, he'd taken an extracurricular class on
video editing at the local community college. Those
afternoons spent in the computer room after all the other
students had gone home, wearing a pair of headphones
and bathed in the glow of the screen, had been the
closest to content he'd felt since before the incident. "I'm
pretty good with them."
"That's all I need." Spike shrugged. "Like I said, I
never touch the things myself. I use that." He pointed a
thumb at the typewriter on the rickety table, a huge,
black metal antique. "But these days, everything's
electronic. So I need someone who knows that stuff."
"For what?"
"Typing. Keeping things organized. You know. Just
odd jobs."
"Like a secretary?"
"Yeah, kind of. You interested?"
Feet of Clay - 28
Galvin felt his lips moving without his mind's
permission: "Sure." His heart was beating too quickly.
Sure, sure, sure. That seemed to be all he could say. He
still wasn't clear on what he was supposed to do, but
there was nothing he wouldn't do if Spike asked it of
him. He wondered if that realization should scare him.
Spike rolled a cigarette between two fingers. "Okay,
then." He cleared his throat. "When can you start?"
"Today." The word fell automatically from his
mouth. "Now, if you want."
"You sure?"
Galvin nodded and swallowed, his tongue sticking to
the roof of his dry mouth. "So, um…you have a
computer?"
"Yeah, bought one a few weeks ago. The guy tried to
show me how to use it, but it all went right over my
head. Not a gadget person. I used to work on cars, but
that's different, you know? You can see all the parts and
what they do. You look inside one of those gadgets, and
you don't know what the hell you're looking at."
"They're actually kind of fun," Galvin said shyly. "If
you like, I can teach you..."
"No thanks. You know what they say about old
dogs."
Galvin resisted the urge to tell him, again, that he
wasn't that old. He was barely even middle-aged. And
Galvin was still trying to wrap his head around the idea
that Spike had never heard of Wikipedia. Just how
isolated was he? "Then what should I do?"
"To start, just type up my latest manuscript. Or what I
have of it, anyway." He dropped his half-finished
cigarette into the ashtray and stood. "It's set up in my
bedroom. This way."
Feet of Clay - 29
Galvin's mind barely had time to digest the notion
that he was about to enter Spike Radcliff's bedroom
before Spike began walking, and he followed, feet
sweeping him numbly down the hall and into a spacious
but mostly bare room. The curtains were drawn, letting
only a hint of sunlight in. A bed stood in the corner,
covers and sheets so dark a blue they were almost black.
In the opposite corner stood a desk and a black office
chair, the only other furniture, with a sleek, brand new,
black PC sitting on the desktop. The monitor was a huge
LCD screen with a curved, ergonomic keyboard.
Galvin's own cheap Netbook paled in comparison.
He sat at the desk, ran his fingertips over the
keyboard, and looked up at Spike uncertainly.
"Go ahead."
Galvin booted up the computer and lay a hand over
the mouse. There was something comforting about the
cool, smooth plastic. He opened a new Word document.
"Anything else I need to know first, or should I just get
started?"
Spike grunted. "Let me get my manuscript. It's sort of
all over the place." He left the room. For a few minutes,
rustling and shuffling echoed through the silence, then
he returned carrying a thick stack of papers. He dropped
it on the desk. "That's the first part." He dusted off his
hands. "It's going to be a long book."
Galvin looked down at the first page, which was
covered with cramped, densely packed handwriting.
Lightly, almost reverently, he touched the edge of the
paper with his fingertips.
Spike had said earlier that he never showed anyone
his work before it was done. What did it mean, then, that
he'd handed over his manuscript to Galvin?
Feet of Clay - 30
The thought made his pulse quicken. "Thank you," he
said quietly.
"You don't need to thank me." He looked down at the
floor for a moment, hands in his pockets. Then he
reached out and lay a hand on Galvin's shoulder. "You
sure you're okay?"
The unexpected warmth of that hand on Galvin's
shoulder made his breath catch. He looked at it resting
there and found himself noticing, again, how long and
graceful the fingers were. Warmth rose into his cheeks.
"Yeah," he said breathlessly. "Fine. Sorry about earlier. I
just -- lost it a little. But I'm fine now."
Spike's hand lingered there a moment longer, and the
skin beneath it began to tingle. Galvin was mortified to
feel his cock stiffening. He gulped and hunched over,
trying to curl into himself.
Abruptly, Spike let go and averted his gaze. He
opened his mouth, as if he was about to apologize, then
closed it. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything.
I'm going to do some writing." He turned and walked
out.
For a few minutes, Galvin just sat there, staring
blankly at the screen. He could still feel the warmth of
Spike's hand on his shoulder. His mouth had gone dry,
and his pulse drummed below his jaw.
He shook his head, trying to clear it. Focus.
He picked up the first page. A tingle raced down his
spine as his gaze glided over the first line. I couldn't see
through the blood in my eyes. Spike's novels weren't
usually in first person.
Galvin lay his fingertips against the keyboard and
began.
Feet of Clay - 31
Chapter Four
I couldn't figure out why I was still alive. There was
too much blood. It was on the tiles, in my hair, all over
my hands, warm and sticky. I didn't feel pain; I just felt
cold, and I knew I was slipping away. But the fear had
gone, replaced by the most incredible sense of relief.
The farce was over.
Death, after all, is the most natural state of being. It
is coming home, embracing that great big nothing
beneath the flimsy paper screen of reality. And just
letting go felt better than I ever expected.
Galvin finished the first few pages and stopped,
staring at the screen. He wasn't sure what to think, or
what he was supposed to think. The narrative was
rambling and disjointed…like jagged, bloody shards of
glass scattered on the floor. Nothing like Spike's other
work.
He shook his head and took a deep breath. He was
just here to type. If he started getting distracted,
wondering what it meant, he'd never finish.
Galvin quickly fell into a rhythm, reading a few lines,
then typing them, double checking to make sure he'd
gotten it right before setting the page aside. Soon he'd
accumulated a stack of finished pages, and several hours
had slipped by. The novel had shifted into what seemed
to be a flashback, in which the narrator -- Jack, he was
called -- was expelled from high school. After that, he
bounced from menial job to menial job, drifting through
life. Galvin couldn't tell where the story was going, but
there was something addictive about it, anyway.
He could hear Spike in the other room, pacing and
muttering to himself. Every so often, the pacing and
muttering would stop, and Galvin tried to visualize what
Feet of Clay - 32
he might be doing. Sitting at his desk, maybe, filling
more pages with that cramped, sharply slanting cursive.
Or just staring into space.
And Galvin couldn't help wondering…what had
Spike been doing in the years since Blur was published?
Surely, he'd done more than just sit in his apartment
working on his next book.
Sometime in the afternoon, Galvin's stomach began
to growl, but he kept working. A few minutes later, he
heard the creak of footsteps, and cigarette smoke tickled
his nose. He stopped, turning.
Spike entered the room, a cigarette hanging from his
mouth. In one hand, he held a plate with two
sandwiches, in the other, a glass of milk. He set them on
the desk, and Galvin looked at him in surprise. "For
me?"
He nodded. "Ham and cheese. Nothing fancy. If you
want anything else, you can help yourself to whatever's
in the kitchen."
"Thank you," Galvin said, surprised.
"No problem." He stared at Galvin for a moment
longer, then left the room.
Galvin picked up a sandwich and cautiously nibbled
the crust.
He'd made it about halfway through the sandwich
when the nausea started. These days, just about anything
irritated his stomach. But he hadn't eaten anything since
the toast this morning. If he didn't have something
substantial now, he wouldn't have the strength to make it
through the evening. He kept eating, grimly ignoring the
way his stomach churned and clenched. He'd managed
to finish an entire sandwich before a spasm of nausea
seized him. He pressed a hand to his stomach, shaking.
Feet of Clay - 33
Then he bolted for the bathroom, dropped to his knees
and retched.
After a few heaves, he lifted his head, panting, and
flushed. The remains of his dinner vanished down the
toilet. When he looked up, Spike was peering in through
the half open bathroom door, brow furrowed. "You all
right?"
Galvin winced and lowered his gaze, embarrassed.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Just got a little sick."
Spike opened the door fully, staring at Galvin with
puzzled concern. His thick, dark brows knitted together.
"Was there something in those sandwiches you're
allergic to?"
"No, it's not like that." He stared at the bathroom
tiles. "I take some medication that makes me nauseous.
That's all." He stood, knees wobbling. They
buckled…and Spike was there by his side in an instant,
one arm around his waist, supporting him.
He led Galvin into the living room, and Galvin
leaned against him, dizzy -- too dizzy even to think
much about the fact that he was leaning against Spike
Radcliff. Carefully, Spike lowered him to the couch.
"Let me get you some water." He studied Galvin's face.
"When's the last time you ate anything?"
"I had some toast this morning," he murmured.
"No wonder you can barely stand." His hand lingered
a moment on Galvin's brow. "Would you have an easier
time keeping down soup?"
"Probably, but -- " He realized what Spike was
offering and shook his head. "I'll be fine. I'll try having
that other sandwich in a little while. I just have to eat
slowly."
"I'll make you some chicken noodle soup."
"Oh no. I couldn't ask -- "
Feet of Clay - 34
"You don't have to ask." He walked out of the room.
Galvin heard Spike moving in the kitchen, heard
water running, pots clanking. The idea that Spike was in
there making him soup was so strange that Galvin
wondered, for a moment, if this was an exceptionally
long and vivid dream. This situation was like something
out of his fantasies. Well, except that the floor wasn't
usually this messy in his fantasies. And maybe Spike
wasn't exactly like he'd always imagined. Okay,
definitely not like he'd imagined. Still, it was Spike, and
just knowing that made him dizzy.
But beneath it all was a cold, hard knot of fear, a
feeling that something had to go wrong, that any
moment now some metaphysical debt collector would
arrive and demand payment.
Spike entered the living room carrying a bowl of
steaming soup, which he offered to Galvin. "Careful. It's
hot."
Galvin took it, blew steam from a spoonful of soup,
and sipped. Spike sat in his chair, hands on his knees,
watching while Galvin ate in silence. Once he'd scraped
the bowl clean, he set it down. His insides shifted
uneasily, but the soup remained in his stomach. It was a
remarkably satisfying feeling just to have food in his
belly again. "That was good. Thank you."
"No problem. Oh, and here. Before I forget." He
pulled a checkbook and pen from his pocket. "How
much strikes you as a fair amount for today?"
Galvin blinked. "You're asking me?"
He shrugged. "I'm a little out of touch with things."
"Um…really, I don't know, either. Anything is fine.
It's easy work."
Feet of Clay - 35
"Yeah, but you have to put up with me while you're
here." His lips quirked in a smile. "That's a job in and of
itself." He wrote out a check and held it out to Galvin.
Galvin stared at the check and felt his eyes growing
wider and wider. "I can't take this much! I've hardly
done anything."
"People get paid more for doing less. Take it."
Galvin stared at the rumpled slip of paper. He
moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. It was more
than he deserved. He knew that. He shouldn't accept
this.
But the truth was, he needed the money. He was
scraping the bottom of his inheritance. The combined
expenses of rent and psychiatric treatment far
outweighed the pittance he made working for The
Underground. If his savings ran out, he'd have to move
back in with his mom, and that would be disastrous.
Galvin pocketed the check, unable to meet Spike's
gaze. "Thanks."
"No problem." He studied Galvin's face. "You look a
little peaked. Maybe you should go home and rest."
He wanted to deny it, but by now his exhaustion was
glaringly obvious. "Maybe. When should I come in
next?" He'd have to work his schedule for The
Underground around this, but Shelly was pretty flexible
about hours.
"Tomorrow at, uh -- around three in the afternoon.
That's about when I usually wake up."
Galvin wondered what sort of life this man was
living, but all he said was, "Three is fine." He hesitated,
looking up at Spike. He wanted to ask about the new
book, wanted to ask what had been going through
Spike's head when he wrote it, wanted to know if it
Feet of Clay - 36
ended in death and nothingness or if there was hope. But
he said nothing.
***
That night, in his own apartment, he replayed the
tape, intending to transcribe whatever he could of the
interview. He'd been so overwhelmed with everything
that had happened, he'd almost forgotten about it.
As he listened to his own voice break and quiver, he
squirmed with embarrassment. He remembered the
warm pressure of Spike's arms around him, and heat
rose into his cheeks.
There probably wasn't much here that he could
actually use, but he typed up the first part of the
interview, complete with Spike's brusque responses,
ending with, I'm full of shit.
He paused, his fingers resting lightly against the keys
as he stared at the words on the screen. Spike had said
he hadn't meant it, but it still bothered Galvin. Why
would he say that about his own work? About himself?
***
"This is it?" Shelly sat at her desk, staring at the few
typed lines on the page that Galvin had handed her.
"This is the whole interview?"
Galvin studied the scuffed tips of his shoes. "That
was all I could get out of him." He hoped she wouldn't
ask what had happened after that.
She sighed. "What a mess. We can't use this."
He wondered if he should have tried harder, should
have kept asking questions, even after his embarrassing
breakdown. Of course, at the time he'd been too
Feet of Clay - 37
overcome with confusing emotions to even think about
issues like what he was going to turn in at work the next
day. He felt like a kid who'd blown off his homework.
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. I kind of expected it, given his
reputation. Honestly, I think he only agreed to the
interview because he was half-asleep when I called him.
Or possibly drunk." She shrugged. "Don't worry about
it. We'll just pick a few more poems out of the slush pile
and run those instead."
He cleared his throat. "I can try again, if you like. I'm
going back there anyway. Later today."
She blinked. "What?"
Galvin smiled self-consciously. "He offered me a
job." Somehow, he felt awkward admitting this to her, as
if he'd just been given a promotion that she'd wanted.
"Well, not really a job. I'd just be typing some stuff for
him. He doesn't use computers, so -- "
"Wait. You mean he has a new manuscript?"
"Yeah. I don't think it has a title yet."
"I didn't think he'd ever write anything again." She
leaned forward slightly. "What's it about?"
Galvin shifted his weight. "I don't think I'm supposed
to talk about it."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No. But if he hasn't told anyone else about it, there's
probably a reason. He probably doesn't want anyone to
know until it's ready."
She waved a hand. "He just hates talking to people. I
mean, look at this interview." She laid it on the desk
between them -- a few lonely lines floating in a vast sea
of white. "What does he have to gain by keeping it all
secret until the last minute?"
Feet of Clay - 38
"I'll ask him if I can talk about it," Galvin said, "but if
he says no, I won't." He was surprised at the firmness in
his own tone, but he couldn't compromise on this. Spike
had entrusted him with something, and he wasn't about
to betray that trust.
Shelly stared at him for a long moment, a cool,
assessing look in her eyes. Then she nodded. "Fair
enough." She folded her hands. "Out of curiosity, what's
he like?"
Galvin thought for a moment. About the bitterness in
Spike's voice when he said, I'm full of shit. About his
whispered apology afterward, the gentleness of his
fingers running through Galvin's hair, the warmth of his
embrace. "He's…complicated."
Feet of Clay - 39
Chapter Five
At three o'clock sharp, Galvin arrived at the door to
Spike's apartment and knocked. He stood, mouth dry,
pulse drumming in his throat.
Yesterday felt like a half-remembered dream. All
morning, fragments of his conversation with Spike had
been replaying in his head. A part of him still had
trouble believing that it was all happening.
He waited, counting his heartbeats. He was just about
to knock again when the door opened.
Spike wore a rumpled, navy blue jacket over a black,
button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone, the rest
done unevenly. Galvin's gaze moved over his
collarbones, pale against the dark shirt, and the bit of
exposed chest -- then lower, over dark jeans that
accentuated his long, lean legs. He had a cup of coffee in
one hand, and he leaned an elbow against the doorframe
as he studied Galvin's face. "Hey." He stepped back and
beckoned Galvin in.
Galvin entered and moistened dry lips with the tip of
his tongue. "Hey."
"You had breakfast yet?"
"Um…I had some cereal this morning."
Spike shoved his hands in his jean pockets and
looked away. "I was gonna order a pizza, but I figured
the grease might be hard on your stomach, so I started
making oatmeal instead. If you want to get to work, I'll
bring some to you when it's done."
Galvin blinked in surprise. "You don't have to -- "
"Don't worry about it."
So Galvin went into the bedroom, sat down in front
of the computer, and began typing. He heard Spike
puttering around in the kitchen. His mind kept drifting
Feet of Clay - 40
back to that glimpse of Spike's chest, the curls of dark
hair, the sharply defined collarbones…and those long
fingers, the tips stained with ink and graphite, shiny with
calluses…
Galvin took a deep breath, pushing the images aside,
and tried to focus on his work.
He was on chapter four. Jack had gotten a job as a
mortician's assistant and was currently having a one-
sided conversation with a dead body as he pumped its
veins full of embalming fluid.
Jack was different from Sammy -- harder, sharper --
but he was just as much an outsider. That seemed to be
the running theme in all of Spike's books.
Galvin's awareness of the world slowly faded as he
slipped deeper into the story.
***
Over the next few days, Galvin fell into a routine.
Weekday mornings, he worked at The Underground.
Then, every afternoon at 3:00, he'd go to Spike's and
type while Spike, in the living room, tried to write. The
new book was ridiculously long, but Galvin was making
rapid progress, and Spike wasn't making any progress on
his rough draft, if the mountains of crumpled up papers
around his writing table were anything to judge by.
After another few sessions, he'd probably be done. And
then what?
Already, he'd come to look forward to these hours in
Spike's apartment. There was something calming about
hearing him in the other room…even though he was
usually pacing around, muttering to himself like a
madman. The periods of silence, Galvin had figured,
Feet of Clay - 41
were bursts of writing -- often followed by a crackle as
he crumpled yet another sheet of paper.
On his third day there, he tried to stall by showing
Spike how to set up a blog. "These days most authors
have one," he said. "And it's really easy. Here, watch, I'll
create an account."
Spike squinted at the screen with a baffled
expression. Galvin kept trying to explain, but after
awhile it became clear from Spike's expression that he
wasn't actually listening, just watching the cursor move
around on the screen as if it was a fascinating insect.
Galvin had once owned a cat who did the same thing.
He couldn't help smiling.
Later, when Galvin was shrugging into his jacket,
getting ready to leave, Spike remarked, "Yesterday I
picked up a copy of that magazine you work for. I saw
one of your articles. The one about cross-genre fiction."
Galvin tensed. "Oh." He wondered what Spike had
thought of it, but he didn't quite dare to ask.
"You've got a lot to say," Spike said. "And you're
passionate about your subject. I can tell."
Galvin looked down, fiddling with a button of his
jacket. "Thank you."
"You ever tried your hand at fiction?"
"Well, I -- " Galvin stopped, biting his lip. "Nothing
publishable. I mean, it's just a hobby."
Spike crossed his arms over his chest and leaned
against the wall, his gaze suddenly sharp and
penetrating. "What have you written?"
Galvin swallowed, his mouth dry. "A few short
stories. And I'm working on something longer. It's sort
of…well, not really a memoir, but not really a novel,
either. A lot of it is fictionalized, but it's based on real
Feet of Clay - 42
experiences." The words tumbled out of his mouth too
fast, and immediately he wished he hadn't said so much.
"You mind if I take a look?"
Galvin's heart jumped into his throat. "You'd do
that?"
"I would."
Elation and terror shot through him like a bolt of
electricity. For a moment he wanted to say no. Just
meeting Spike and being here was more than he'd ever
expected. Almost too much. The idea of showing him
that…
Spike's brow furrowed. "You okay? You look a little
pale."
"I just…" He swallowed, his throat dry. "I never
show people my work. I even feel self-conscious about
the articles I write. I thought about using a pen name
when I started working for the magazine, but Shelly
encouraged me to use my real one."
"Why's that?"
"She said that I shouldn't be afraid of recognition.
That if I'm proud of my work, I shouldn't mind having
my real name attached to it." He looked down at his
shoes. "It probably doesn't matter. I mean, the
magazine's readership is so small, it's not like anyone I
know is likely to see my articles. But I guess the idea of
exposure makes me nervous."
"Of course it does." Spike smiled without showing
teeth. "A writer has to stand naked before the world. If
you're writing anything that means anything to you,
that's what you do -- you strip yourself naked again and
again, down to your soul. And it's fucking terrifying."
Galvin bit his lower lip. Was that what it was like for
Spike? "Then why do you do it?"
Feet of Clay - 43
"Why do we do it, you mean? Because we have to.
It's what we are. We write because we have a truth
inside us that needs to be told."
Galvin shifted his weight. "I don't know if it's like
that for me. I mean, I don't know if my reasons are that
noble."
Spike chuckled. "Well, if you're in it for money
you're in the wrong business."
"It's not for money, either."
"Then what?"
"I guess I just…I need to do something, and writing's
one of the only things I've ever been any good at.
Without it, what's left?"
No response. He could feel Spike's gaze on him.
His hands curled into fists, thumbs hiding in his
palms. "Are you disappointed in me?" he asked, unable
to bear the silence anymore.
"Why would I be?" Spike's tone was unreadable.
Galvin's fists curled tighter, nails digging into the
meat of his palms. "Well, it's a pretty pathetic reason,
isn't it? If that's how you feel, I couldn't blame you."
"And why do you care what I think?" Still, his tone
revealed nothing.
"Because I love your work. Because I -- " He fell
silent, biting his tongue.
Spike smiled again, a bitter twist of his lips. "Look
around you, Galvin. Look at this place. Look at me. Do
you really think I'm the sort of person you should be
listening to? Do you really think my opinion is worth a
shit?"
"It is to me."
For a long moment, Spike just stared into Galvin’s
eyes. Then he gave a small nod. "Bring some of your
work in tomorrow."
Feet of Clay - 44
Galvin hesitated. But Spike hadn't offered a choice --
he'd given a flat out order. Somehow, that made it
easier. He didn't have to make the decision, because it
had been made. Still, his insides clenched with anxiety.
What if Spike didn't like it?
What if he did like it? And why was that thought
almost as intimidating? Heart pounding, he turned away.
"Galvin."
He hesitated, looking over one shoulder. When he
met Spike's gaze, he was struck all at once by the
overwhelming sense of being seen. Spike was looking
straight into his eyes, consciousness focused on him like
a beam. He stared back, unable to breathe.
Galvin drifted through his day to day life trying not
to attract attention. He was the sort of person that other
people instantly forgot, a small, pale blur of humanity
who slipped through others' awareness without leaving a
mark. Yet Spike looked at him as if seeing and
understanding every particle of his soul. As if
memorizing him.
"I'm not disappointed in you," Spike said.
Galvin's breath caught. He stared a moment longer,
then gave a tiny nod and whispered, "Okay."
***
The next day, Galvin arrived at the usual time with a
bundle of pages clutched in one sweat-damp hand. He
didn't have a printer; he'd had to use one of machines at
work. Luckily, Shelly hadn't asked him about it.
Spike met him at the door and glanced at the bundle
of pages. "That one of your short stories?"
"My novel. Well, what I have of it so far. You don't
have to read all of it, of course, I just thought -- "
Feet of Clay - 45
Spike sat on the couch and held out a hand. "Let's
have a look."
Galvin sat across from him and handed him the
pages.
He waited, gripping his knees, heart thumping as
Spike removed the rubber bands and began reading.
Spike’s gaze moving back and forth. He turned one
page, then another
Galvin swallowed, fingers tightening on his knees.
His throat felt as if it was full of grit. He'd expected
Spike to read five or ten pages at most. He wouldn't
have asked for more than that. But Spike kept turning
page after page.
Galvin's hand strayed to the tin of Xanax in his
pocket and thumbed at it absently. He considered
slipping one under his tongue. Would Spike notice? His
pulse thundered in his ears as the minutes stretched on,
and he wondered if he should just be sitting here or if he
should be using this time to type up more of the
manuscript. That would probably be less stressful than
waiting and wondering what Spike was thinking. But he
couldn't move. He trembled, frozen to the spot. Paper
rustled as Spike turned another page.
Galvin wanted to break the silence. To ask Spike to
say something. Somehow, he held his tongue.
After more than an hour of reading, Spike finished
the last page, set the whole stack down and met Galvin's
gaze. For a long moment, he just studied Galvin’s face,
his fingers laced together.
Unable to bear it anymore, Galvin asked, "What do
you think?"
"You want my honest opinion?"
Feet of Clay - 46
Dread coiled in his stomach. When people said that,
it usually wasn't a good sign. But he needed to know.
"Tell me."
"When I read this, I see you bound and gagged."
Galvin stared, mouth open slightly, not sure how to
respond. His first panicked thought was that somehow
Spike knew. But of course he couldn't. That was
impossible. Galvin had never told a soul about those
dreams, not even his counselor. "You -- what?"
"You're holding back," Spike said. "You're
restraining yourself with every word, silencing yourself,
censoring your own thoughts. This isn't your voice; it's
some amalgam of teachers and critics and editors in your
head. They're binding you, controlling you with guilt
and fear, and you're letting them do it."
Galvin stared down at his hands. He wanted to
protest that Spike couldn't know that, couldn't possibly
know what had been going on in Galvin's head when he
wrote this. But at the same time, he knew Spike was
right. He felt vaguely ashamed, as if he'd been caught in
a lie.
Of course, he thought. What had he expected? "I'm
sorry."
"What are you apologizing for?"
"I don't know."
"Look." Spike sounded impatient now, and a little
uneasy. "You obviously know how to write. I'm not
going to waste time telling you things you already know.
But you're doing this all by the rules. You need to dig
deeper." He leaned forward, still looking straight at
Galvin. "You've got to stop listening to that little voice
that tells you to hold back and hide because other people
won't understand."
Galvin's breath caught in his throat.
Feet of Clay - 47
How could Spike know that? How could he say it
with such certainty, so casually, as if it was as plain as
the color of Galvin's eyes? "I want other people to like
it," Galvin said quietly. "I want them to understand."
"Everyone wants that. But if you write something
dishonest, it'll torment you for the rest of your
life…even if it becomes a bestseller, even if critics
salivate over it and call it a masterpiece, if you know it's
fake, all that is worthless."
Galvin couldn't meet Spike's gaze. This had been a
mistake. He shouldn't have --
Springs creaked as Spike rose from his chair. Warm,
gentle fingertips touched Galvin's chin. His breath
caught, and his heartbeat quickened as Spike's thumb
brushed the corner of his eye, sweeping away the
moisture that had gathered there. The touch was so light,
so soft, that he could almost believe he'd imagined it. "I
wanted you to like it," Galvin whispered.
Callus-roughened hands framed his face and lifted it
until Spike met his gaze. "Galvin. Look at me." Dark
eyes blazed with a strange intensity.
Galvin stared, wide-eyed. He felt suddenly, terribly
exposed. His lashes swept downward, hiding his eyes.
Spike's grip on Galvin's face tightened, thumbs
pressing into his cheeks. "Look at me."
Galvin raised his gaze to Spike's, and Spike leaned
closer, until their faces were barely an inch apart…like a
lover coming in for a kiss. Those dark eyes drilled into
his. "What are you afraid of?" Spike asked.
"I'm afraid I'm not good enough," Galvin said quietly.
"That I'm just…not enough. It's why I never showed
anyone this. I was afraid they'd say that I don't have
what it takes and that I should give it up."
Feet of Clay - 48
"And you'd believe them? You'd believe any random
asshole who wanted to stomp on your soul and leave his
boot prints all over it? God damn it. Can't you see
yourself?"
Galvin gulped, staring into Spike's eyes. Their
foreheads were almost touching. "I…"
"You need me to tell you? Fine. You're good. You're
too damn good to not know how good you are, and
you're too good to give a damn what a washed-up, old
bastard thinks about your work. Let go of your fear. Rip
yourself open and let it all pour out. Show me your
guts." He squeezed Galvin's face between his hands,
almost hard enough to hurt…then released it.
Galvin blinked, dizzy. There were two tingling spots
on his cheeks where the pads of Spike's thumbs had
pressed against his skin. His heart had jumped into his
throat. He tried to swallow it, but it wouldn't go down.
Spike picked up the pages and handed them back to
him. Galvin took them numbly. "Write that again,"
Spike said. "And this time, don't think about what
anyone else will think of it. Even me."
He stared at Spike, his mouth dry, then looked down
at the packet in his sweat-dampened hands. He drew in a
deep, shaky breath and whispered, "Okay." His heart
was beating far too fast, and his mind reeled.
A long, awkward silence stretched between them.
Spike shifted, rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze
darting back and forth. He opened his mouth, then
closed it and cleared his throat. He seemed suddenly
fascinated with the pattern of wood grain on the coffee
table. "Look -- " he began.
At the same instant, Galvin said, "I -- "
They both fell silent. Galvin waited. "You first,"
Spike said.
Feet of Clay - 49
"I, um -- I should probably get started," Galvin said.
"On my work."
Spike studied his face for a long moment, then
nodded once, averting his gaze. "Sure."
Feet of Clay - 50
Chapter Six
Galvin sat in front of the computer in Spike's
bedroom, his thoughts still spinning. He glanced at the
stack of handwritten pages next to the computer --
Spike's unfinished, untitled novel -- picked up the top
page, and attached it to the clipboard he'd propped up
next to the monitor. He tried to work, but his thoughts
kept drifting back to the pressure of Spike's hands
against his cheeks, the intensity in Spike's voice, the
way Spike had leaned in. So close.
Spike had said that he knew how to write. That he
was good.
He shook his head, trying to clear it. Had to
concentrate.
He started typing and soon lost himself in the dance
of his fingers over the keys. For once, he couldn't focus
on the words themselves, but it didn't matter. His hands
moved automatically. He worked for hours, blazing
through page after page.
He paused and listened for the now familiar sound of
Spike pacing in the other room, but there was only
silence. When he finally glanced at the clock, it was
almost ten. Far later than he usually stayed.
He thought of his small, cold, lonely apartment. He
didn't want to go back, but he was lucky just to be here,
to have Spike as a part of his life. He shouldn't push his
luck.
Galvin rose and walked into the living room, where
Spike was standing, arms crossed over his chest, staring
out the window.
Galvin cleared his throat, and Spike looked at him.
"Um -- I should probably get going. It's late."
Feet of Clay - 51
Spike nodded. "It is." He sounded strangely
preoccupied.
"When should I come in tomorrow?"
"Same time."
He fetched his jacket from the wall hook, shrugged
into it, and looked at Spike. "Are you okay?"
"Fine."
Galvin toyed with a button on his sleeve and studied
the scuffed tips of his sneakers.
"What about you?" Spike asked. His voice sounded
uncharacteristically uncertain, almost nervous.
"Everything okay?"
I don't want to go home. I don't want to leave. "Fine,"
he muttered. He stood awkwardly, knowing he should
probably leave, but unable to take the final steps toward
the door. "Can I -- " He stopped himself, biting his
tongue.
"What's that?"
"Nothing." How could he even think of asking for
that? His cheeks blazed. He could feel Spike's gaze on
him, studying him. After a moment, he forced himself to
look up. "Really, it's nothing."
Spike cleared his throat and slipped his hands into his
pocket. "I have somewhere I need to go now. But you
can stay the night if you want."
Galvin's eyes widened. Had Spike known what he
was about to ask? "Y-you'd be okay with that?"
"Well, I kept you pretty late. Being out this late isn't
safe. And I won't be back ‘til dawn anyway, so you
could just use my bed."
A night in Spike's apartment, thought Galvin. Spike
wouldn't be there, but still…there was something both
thrilling and intimidating about the thought. He bit his
lower lip.
Feet of Clay - 52
"Stay," Spike said.
"Okay." He hesitated. "Spike?"
"Hmm?"
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere. Just out."
"But you will come back, won't you?" It was a silly
question, but he couldn't help it.
Spike’s gaze softened. "Yeah." He laid a gentle hand
on Galvin's shoulder and squeezed. "I promise." His
thumb brushed against the side of Galvin's neck -- a
touch so light, so brief, Galvin almost wondered if it was
real.
Galvin's skin tingled, and heat coiled low in his belly.
He swallowed, mouth dry, still looking into those dark
eyes. They were warm, gentle and knowing. Then a
shadow of pain passed across those eyes -- a mixture of
guilt and regret and other things too complex to name --
and the hand slipped from his shoulder.
"There's a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. And
some extra t-shirts and boxers in the top drawer of my
dresser, if you need something to wear." He turned and
walked out. The door closed, leaving Galvin alone in the
apartment, which suddenly seemed very big and empty.
Galvin stood awkwardly for a moment. Then, not
knowing what else to do, he went into the bathroom and
brushed his teeth.
In the bedroom, he opened the top drawer of Spike's
dresser -- it felt presumptuous, even though Spike had
given him permission -- and looked at the mass of
clothes stuffed inside. After a moment of staring, he
changed into a black t-shirt and black cotton boxers and
slid beneath the covers.
He was in Spike's bed, wearing Spike’s clothes.
Feet of Clay - 53
He closed his eyes, heart thumping, trying not to
think about the fact that these same covers had touched
Spike's skin. He rolled onto his side and buried his face
against the pillow. When he breathed in, a scent of
smoke and light sweat filled his nostrils, mingled with a
hint of something else. Something spicy, like cloves and
cinnamon. Spike's scent.
A blush rose into his cheeks. He closed his eyes and
tried to just focus on breathing, but his mind kept filling
with thoughts of Spike in this same bed, maybe naked,
skin against sheets.
His hands drifted to his cheeks, fingertips brushing
against them. He remembered the heat of Spike's hands
against his skin, the burning intensity in those eyes. He
lay his hands over his own cheeks, trying to recreate the
feeling, but it wasn't the same.
Spike had said he was good.
He knew he wasn't supposed to care what Spike
thought. He was supposed to be writing for himself, but
he couldn't help cherishing those words. He closed his
eyes and replayed the memory. It was embarrassing, to
feel so much relief and gratitude over being called good.
Only when he tasted the salt of tears on his lips did he
realize he was crying.
He shouldn't need someone else to tell him he was
worth something, but Galvin knew from long experience
that should and shouldn't didn't help anything; they just
made him feel guilty on top of everything else. He could
fill a book with a list of the things he should be but
wasn't.
Galvin's gaze strayed to the stack of pages -- the
opening chapter of his own novel -- which he'd left on
the desk, next to the computer. He walked over, picked
it up, and skimmed through the opening paragraph,
Feet of Clay - 54
which he had edited and rewritten and polished and
tightened more times than he could count. He'd chosen
each word with painstaking care, all with an invisible
critic watching over his shoulder.
You need to dig deeper, Spike had said. Show me
your guts.
Easier said than done, but he supposed there was no
harm in trying. He wasn't nearly exhausted enough to
sleep yet.
He sat down at the computer and brought up a new
Word document. For a long moment, he just stared at
the blank field of white. Then he began to type. At first
the words trickled out slowly, interspersed with long
pauses.
Then something broke, and words poured out of him.
He filled page after page.
When he finally stopped and read back over what
he'd written, bands of panic tightened around his chest
and stomach.
Ropes pressed into his skin. His heartbeat quickened
at the realization that he couldn't move, that he was
helpless, at the mercy of the man who now stood before
him, staring at him with calm, dark eyes. His head
buzzed as if he'd downed a glass of wine on an empty
stomach as the man reached out to caress his leg, one
rough palm sliding along his thigh, over his knee and
calf, until the fingertips came to rest against the sole of
his foot.
Galvin gulped, his eyes devouring paragraph after
paragraph of his most intimate fantasies. And of course,
the man in his imagination looked like Spike. The
descriptions – shaggy, black hair, dark eyes, long, lanky
build -- made it obvious.
Feet of Clay - 55
He couldn't show this to anyone. The idea of
someone else reading this -- of Spike reading this --
He deleted it all, closed Word, shut down the
computer, slipped into bed, and curled up beneath the
covers.
But he couldn't sleep. Spike's scent clung to the
covers and the pillow, intoxicating and distracting. He
kept remembering those hands on his face, the warmth
of Spike's breath on his lips…
He pulled the sheets aside and stared at the hard on
tenting his boxers. With a groan, he let his head fall to
the pillow.
Galvin stared at the ceiling. His eyes slipped shut,
and he imagined Spike's lean, lanky body curled up in
bed next to his, long fingers smoothing his hair, warm
arms enfolding him and holding him close. He wrapped
his arms around himself, trying to simulate the
sensation, but it wasn't the same.
He remembered the pressure and heat of those hands
against his skin, the way that heat seemed to linger
afterward, as if Spike had branded Galvin with just the
touch of his fingertips…
Galvin gulped. He couldn't resist any longer. The
harder he tried not to think about it, the more he thought
about it.
His heartbeat drummed in his throat as he reached
down, into his boxers, and curled his fingers around his
cock. His teeth pressed into his lower lip as he began to
stroke himself. He tried to imagine Spike's fingers in
place of his own. His breath came in little huffing pants
as he thought about the strength of those hands, the
intensity in those dark eyes…
He came with a small, choked gasp and went limp,
chest heaving. He pulled his hand out of his boxers and
Feet of Clay - 56
watched the come sliding down his palm. His cheeks
burned.
He'd just masturbated. In Spike's bed. And he'd
gotten some of his come on Spike's boxers.
What would Spike think if he knew? Would he be
creeped out? Repulsed?
Galvin's heart rate began to climb. Shit. He did the
breathing exercises that Dr. Stein had taught him, but it
was no good. He couldn't focus. He picked up his
clothes off the floor and rummaged through the pockets
for his Xanax until his fingers finally closed around the
mint tin. He placed one beneath his tongue, letting it
dissolve, and curled up on the bed. After a few minutes,
the tightness in his chest loosened, allowing him to
breathe again.
God, this was ridiculous. Here he was, having a panic
attack because his fantasy had come true; he was
working for his idol, the man he'd always dreamed of
meeting. But a fantasy was safe. In his imagination, he
was in control.
But then, maybe that was why those fantasies had
never quite satisfied him.
Galvin pulled off the sullied boxers, took them into
the bathroom, and did his best to rinse off the stain.
Then he opened the doors to Spike's closet and found the
laundry basket. He deposited the now soaked boxers in
them, changed into a fresh pair from the drawer, and slid
back into bed. He knew he couldn't fall back asleep,
though. Not like this.
He tossed and turned for awhile. His mind churned,
restless, and he wished he could hear another human
voice, if just for a few minutes. He'd brought his cell
phone -- it was still in his coat pocket -- but who could
he call, really? His mom?
Feet of Clay - 57
Even if she was awake, talks with his mom never
seemed to end well. They always started pleasantly
enough, then at some point -- for no reason he could pin
down -- things always took a bad turn. Sometimes she
would make accusations, sometimes she would say
things like, it's all my fault, everything is my fault, and
sooner or later, one or both of them would start crying.
He and his mother should have been a source of
comfort to each other. After all, they had only each other
to rely on. But it seemed that their pain only worsened
when they were together.
After a few minutes, he walked into the living room
and turned on the lights. He surveyed the messy papers
and overflowing ashtrays, then turned his attention to
the mountain of dishes in the kitchen sink. The Xanax
had started to kick in, and his thoughts felt soft and
foggy…but he knew that it wasn't enough. If he lay
down, the nervousness would start to close in on him
again.
While living at home, Galvin had done most of the
cooking and cleaning, since his mother worked full-
time. He'd never minded. Something about cleaning
soothed his restless insides. Maybe it just made him feel
useful.
He went into the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and
turned on the water. He found a bottle of dish soap and
squirted some onto the sauce-encrusted plates. He
scrubbed, drifting through the familiar task, his mind
still floating on a cushion of drugs.
An hour later, the dishes were drying in the rack, the
ashtrays in the living room had been emptied and the
papers had been gathered into stacks. Exhausted, he
returned to the bedroom, collapsed into bed and fell into
a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.
Feet of Clay - 58
***
Galvin woke to soft morning light creeping in
through the curtains. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his
eyes, and glanced at the window. Faint, gray dawn light
bled through the blinds.
The creak of a door opening reached his ears. A
moment later, it closed with a click. Someone had just
entered the apartment.
"Spike?" he called. No response. He slid out of bed,
eased the door open, and crept down the hall, into the
living room.
Spike sat on the couch, shoulders slumped, head
bowed, face buried in his hands.
Galvin's breath caught. He had the clear sense that he
wasn't supposed to be seeing this. Heart pounding, he
started to back away -- but Spike called out in a thick,
slurred voice, "Galvin? ‘Zat you?"
He froze…then crept forward, into the living room.
"Hi."
"I didn't expect you up this early." His brow
furrowed. His eyes were cloudy, unfocused, and his
voice sounded distant, as if a part of his mind wasn't
there. "Couldn't you sleep?"
"I got about six hours." Which, for Galvin, was a lot.
"Oh." Spike looked around the apartment. The furrow
in his brow deepened. "Did you…clean?"
Galvin shifted his weight. "I woke up during the
night and couldn't fall back asleep, so I figured I might
as well get something done."
Spike scratched his head. "You didn't have to do
that."
Feet of Clay - 59
"It relaxes me." He hesitated. "Sorry. I should have
asked you first."
"No, it's fine." His expression was faintly bewildered.
"I mean -- you didn't have to. But it's fine. Thanks." His
eyes, Galvin noticed, were raw and red. As if he'd been
crying.
"Spike?"
"Hmm?"
"Where were you?"
He shrugged. "Nowhere. Just walking." He stood. His
movements were slow, sluggish, like someone in a
trance. "I'm going to get some sleep. Can you get home
all right?"
"Sure. I'll take the El, like always."
Spike nodded without looking at him. "See you
later."
***
"So," Shelly said, her boots propped up on the desk,
"how are things going with Spike?"
Galvin looked up from the article he'd been typing.
He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the
question. He hadn't slept well last night, and there was a
dense wall of fog wrapped around his brain. It took a
few seconds for the meaning of words to filter through.
"Huh?"
"I mean your work with him. His new book."
"Oh," he said. "It's going okay."
She rolled her eyes. "That's all you ever say."
He shrugged, staring at the screen. The words
blurred, doubled.
"Hey." Fingers snapped in front of his eyes.
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He blinked and looked up. Shelly was standing over
him. He didn't recall hearing her move. "Huh?"
"You need to see a doctor about this insomnia of
yours. You've been really out of it lately."
"I know." He lowered his gaze. His throat knotted,
and he swallowed. "Sorry."
"Hey…you all right? You, um…" She sounded
suddenly uncertain. "You want to talk about anything?"
"It's nothing, really."
"You sure?"
The concern in her voice was genuine, and for a
moment, he almost broke. Almost told her his actual
thoughts. I can't sleep, and I've stopped writing
completely because when I don't filter, I'm scared by
what comes out. And I think I'm in love, but it's not that
happy fuzzy warm feeling that everyone talks about. It's
more like obsession and need mixed with terror. I'm
terrified that it's going to go wrong and that I won't
survive his rejection. Yes, I'm that fucked up.
But that would be a disaster. People who invited him
to talk about his problems had no idea what they were
getting into, because they assumed his problems were
normal and solvable. And in the end, Shelly was just a
coworker. Subjecting her to the unfiltered contents of
his brain would be cruel. "I'm okay," he said, forcing a
smile. "Really."
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Chapter Seven
Spike sat at the bar, staring down at the sweating
glass of whiskey in his hand. Ice cubes clinked against
the sides of the glass. He took another swig, feeling the
burn as it slid down his throat. A vision of Galvin’s face
flashed through his mind.
Let him go. You know you have to.
But he couldn’t. His fingers tightened on the glass. A
TV blared in the corner of the bar. Sometimes it was
easier when he came here; the noise blotted out his
thoughts, but suddenly he couldn’t stand to be seen by
anyone. He slid off the stool and walked to the door,
wobbly-legged, leaving the last few swallows of
whiskey in the glass on the bar.
Outside, it was raining, and gray morning light shone
through gaps in the clouds. He’d stayed out all night
again.
He’d heard somewhere that every drink killed a
thousand brain cells. If that was true, he should have
drowned a few memories by now. Yet night after night
of pouring drink after drink down his throat hadn’t done
shit. He still remembered every. Fucking. Thing. The
creak of the stairs as he walked up them. The threadbare
carpet in the hallway. The pattern of ugly yellow flowers
on the peeling wallpaper. The moment when he opened
the door and saw the limp form sprawled on the bed,
those brown eyes staring at him, empty as a doll’s.
Sammy had still been warm when Spike found him.
***
Spike slept through the morning and woke in the
afternoon, head throbbing dully. He stood out on the
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balcony of his apartment, looking out over the city and
smoking a cigarette.
It was almost 3:00. Galvin was supposed to be here
soon. He'd been coming to Spike's apartment every day
for almost two weeks now, staying a few hours each
afternoon, typing up the pages of Spike's manuscript,
making changes or corrections when Spike requested
them…though he hadn't brought in any of his own
writing since that first time. And yesterday, he hadn't
showed up, calling at the last minute to say he was sick.
Spike snuffed out the cigarette, folded his arms on
the railing and rested his chin atop them, staring out over
the city. After a few minutes, he retreated back into his
apartment, sliding the balcony door shut.
He shouldn't be doing this. It was dangerous, getting
this close to someone. Especially someone as vulnerable
as Galvin. He needed to end this soon, before it went
any further.
Someone knocked on the door. He answered -- and
froze.
Galvin was even paler than usual. His cheeks were
more hollow, his eyes sunken a little deeper in their
bruised sockets, wide and glazed, pupils huge. He had
the look of someone who'd been roughly lobotomized,
enough to fuck him up, not quite enough to turn him into
a zombie.
"Hey, kid…Galvin…you okay?"
"Fine." Galvin smiled in Spike's direction, just a
tightening of his lips. "May I come in?"
"Sure." Spike stood aside, and Galvin entered. He
wore the same oversized, gray camouflage jacket as
usual. Spike wasn't sure he ever wore anything else. "Let
me take your coat."
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"Thanks." Galvin shrugged out of it, revealing a
black, zip-up hoodie beneath. He moved like a
sleepwalker. While Spike hung up his coat, Galvin
drifted into the next room and sat down in front of the
computer.
Spike followed. He stood in the doorway, leaning
against the frame, and crossed his arms over his chest.
"You want to tell me what's wrong?"
"I'm fine." He sat, hunched over the keyboard. His
fingers trembled on the keys. "Just haven't slept well
these past few nights."
"Maybe you should lie down."
Galvin shook his head. "I'm fine." He forced another
smile, but Spike could see his shoulders shaking.
He approached in slow steps. "Galvin?" He kept his
voice low and gentle. "Look at me."
The muscles of his throat worked as he swallowed. "I
-- I'm really -- "
He gently placed a finger beneath Galvin's chin,
lifting it. Galvin went stone-still, looking up at him with
those wide, bruised eyes. "You don't have to pretend,"
he said quietly. "And I don't want you forcing yourself
to work if you're not well."
His gaze strayed toward the computer screen. "I
already feel like I'm stealing from you," he whispered. "I
mean, you're paying me so much for such an easy job. If
I can't even do that -- "
"The job can wait. I'm not in a rush. Tell me what's
wrong."
Galvin stared down at his hands, still resting on the
keyboard. "I've been thinking about what you told me.
About how I hold back…how I'm afraid to write
anything that means anything to me. And you're right.
It's not just my writing, either. I've always hidden my
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real feelings from other people, because I'm afraid of
how they'd react if they knew what I'm really like. I keep
trying to rewrite that first chapter, to force myself to
stop filtering, but whenever I do, I -- I just -- " His lower
lip trembled, and he bit it. "It's gotten to the point where
I can't even look at my computer without breaking into a
sweat."
Spike stared at Galvin, his eyes widening. "I didn't
mean to make you feel that way."
"It isn't your fault. It's me." He gave another strained
smile. "Forget I said anything."
For a long moment, Spike was silent, wrestling with
himself. If he pushed too hard, there was a risk that
Galvin would clamp shut. But Galvin was plainly
desperate. This was eating him up inside.
And it was Spike's fault. "You want to talk?"
Galvin tensed. "About what?" he asked, avoiding
Spike's gaze.
"About this."
His breathing quickened. "I can't -- I shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because. I just can't." He gripped his knees,
knuckles white, and hunched his shoulders.
Spike's gaze focused on Galvin's lips. There was a
thin line of blood on his lower lip where he had bitten it,
rust-red against the pale shell pink. Spike pulled his gaze
away.
He'd been looking at those lips more than he should.
He'd been noticing other things, too -- like the fringe of
soft, brown lashes around those eyes, the faint dusting of
freckles on the bridge of that nose, or how smooth and
soft that skin appeared. He'd been insisting loudly to
himself that he wasn't attracted to Galvin, that Galvin
was too young for him, just a kid for God's sake. And
Feet of Clay - 65
anyway, Galvin was working for him and obviously
needed the money. It would be wrong to take advantage
of that dependence. Not to mention the fact that the kid
obviously worshipped him. Too much power imbalance.
Too much potential for hurt.
But even now, exhausted and pale and shaking,
Galvin was beautiful. And Spike wanted him. Trying to
deny and repress that desire was becoming exhausting.
Spike should pull away now, while he still could, but
he couldn't just leave Galvin alone in obvious pain.
"Please talk to me."
Galvin was silent, staring at the floor. His Adam's
apple bobbed as he swallowed. "I should get to work,"
he whispered.
Spike stared, feeling helpless. A part of him wanted
to probe harder, but he had no right. He knew that.
Galvin was working for him, and prying into Galvin’s
personal problems would be crossing a dangerous
boundary.
He turned and left the room.
***
The clack of keys echoed from the bedroom while
Spike, in the living room, sat at his writing desk and
stared at a blank sheet of paper.
Galvin had been making rapid progress through his
latest manuscript, and Spike had failed to write anything
worth a damn since Galvin's arrival here. Once Galvin
finished typing up what he'd written, Spike had no
excuse to keep him here. He'd hoped that once Galvin
started rewriting his own work, it would give him
another reason to come back, but that hadn't gone
anywhere. And the more time went by, the more Spike
Feet of Clay - 66
realized just how personal and invasive his critique had
been. No wonder it had made Galvin uncomfortable. No
wonder he was eager to finish his work and be gone.
And maybe that would be for the best.
Spike bowed his head and buried his hands in his
hair.
He heard the creak of footsteps and looked up to see
Galvin standing in the entrance to the living room, biting
his lower lip. "I'm finished."
"You mean…"
"I finished typing up your manuscript."
"Oh." Spike cleared his throat. "Well…that's good.
I'll write you a check for today." He paused. Should he
tell Galvin to come in again the same time tomorrow,
even though he had no more tasks to offer?
But that would be selfish, and he knew it.
Spike wrote out a check and handed it to Galvin.
Awkwardly, he slipped his hands into his pockets.
"Thanks for all your help. I appreciate it."
Galvin stood staring at the slip of paper in his hand as
if it was a warrant for his execution. The tip of a pink
tongue crept out to moisten his lips. "I…" His lips
quivered, and he pressed them together.
Spike stared, uncertain. "Galvin?"
Galvin took a deep, shaky breath and met Spike's
gaze. "If I write something tonight, can I come back here
tomorrow and show it to you?"
"I -- sure," Spike said, surprised. "Of course."
His fingers clenched on the check. "I won't
disappoint you. Not this time." And before Spike could
respond, he turned and walked out.
***
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He woke in darkness, naked. He could feel soft cotton
sheets beneath his back. When he shifted, they rubbed
against his skin, sending pleasant shivers through him.
His whole body felt strangely sensitive, every nerve-
ending tingling. He shifted again, and velvet rubbed at
his wrists.
He was bound. And the darkness filling his eyes was
a blindfold. When he blinked, his lashes brushed against
cloth. Wires tightened in his chest. His breathing
quickened, and he began to struggle.
Warm hands, the palms rough with calluses, framed
his face. The scent of cloves filled his nostrils.
He strained to control his breathing, to keep the
panic at bay. He recognized the scent. A tremor ran
through him. "Why -- " He gulped. "Why are you doing
this?"
The hands slid down, over his chest, thumbs brushing
lightly over his nipples. Warm lips grazed his ear.
"Because this is what you need," whispered a deep,
rough voice. Those hands were touching him, stroking
him everywhere, running along his sides, his waist, over
his thighs.
His tongue crept out to moisten dry lips. He tugged,
but the ropes held. He was helpless. He couldn't stop
trembling, and his breath came in little panicky gasps.
"You've been aching for this," said that deep, rough
voice. "Haven't you." It wasn't a question so much as an
order.
A low, helpless moan escaped his throat. "Yes," he
whispered.
"Then just relax." A thumb brushed against his inner
thigh, and his hips twitched. "You're all sealed up inside.
So tense. So guarded. It's exhausting, isn't it? Holding
everything in. Your heart is about to crack open from
Feet of Clay - 68
the strain of holding in all those feelings." The thumb
slid lower, along the crease of his buttocks, and brushed
against his rim -- the lightest ghost of a touch. The ring
of muscle contracted and pulled inward
reflexively…then slowly relaxed. "Good," the voice
rasped.
Dizziness washed over him. It was too much. Unable
to move, unable to see, he was reduced to his senses of
hearing and touch, and that made everything all the
more potent.
Warm lips pressed against his in a soft, gentle kiss. A
hot tongue touched his lips, teased them, parted them,
and dipped into his mouth. He panted as long fingers
curled around hard, throbbing flesh. His hips twitched
upward, pushing into the touch. Warm hands settled on
his thighs, pushing them down.
A little sound, half a moan and half a whimper,
escaped his throat. He squirmed in frustration.
A low, rough chuckle reverberated in his ears,
sending shivers through him. "You're beautiful when
you're desperate." Those long, graceful hands slid up
the length of his body, over his chest. They left his body
for a moment, and he cried out in protest. A moment ago
he'd been shaking with terror at being touched like this -
- now, he was terrified that it would stop.
"Shh." Firm lips silenced him with another kiss.
Spike looked up from the pages. Galvin sat on the
couch, his hands balled into fists in his lap, his breathing
unsteady. His face was pale, but there was a glint of
determination in his eyes.
Spike swallowed, his mouth dry. His gaze returned to
the page, skimming over some of the lines. The smell of
cloves. Deep voice. Rough, callused hands.
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This couldn't possibly be what it seemed like, could
it?
He looked up again, meeting Galvin's gaze. "This
is…" Spike cleared his throat, his cheeks growing
warmer.
"You told me to stop filtering." Galvin's voice was
very soft, but it carried. "To write what I really wanted.
What was inside me." He stared straight at Spike. "What
do you think?"
Spike looked down at the words, and his heartbeat
quickened. He tried to tell himself he was reading too
much into it, that this was just a scene from Galvin's
story, that these were just two fictional characters.
But he couldn't believe that. Looking into Galvin's
eyes, seeing the complex tangle of emotions there, he
couldn't believe that this meant nothing.
Was this what Galvin wanted? To be restrained,
overpowered? To have control taken away from him?
And what did it mean, that he was showing this to Spike
now?
A vision flashed through his mind: Galvin stretched
out on the bed, wrists bound to the posts, a ball gag in
his mouth.
Spike swallowed again, palms damp with sweat. You
know he's too good for you, whispered a voice in his
mind. And he doesn't know what you're really like. If he
did, he wouldn't want this. And after what had happened
to the last person Spike had loved…
Galvin was still looking at him, not moving, not
breathing.
To acknowledge what this was really about would be
dangerous. He knew that. Officially, Galvin had come to
him for critique on a piece of writing. So that was what
he'd give.
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Spike set the pages down and laced his fingers
together. "It's an improvement. I think you could bring
in a few more sensory details…but there's not enough
context for me to really give you a proper critique. I
mean, a big part of what makes a scene like this work is
what leads up to it. You need to flesh out the characters,
make them your own -- " He stopped.
Galvin's expression had shifted from confusion to
dismay. The look in his wide eyes was one of utter
devastation. Utter rejection. "Oh," he whispered. Slowly,
he lowered his gaze.
Spike's chest constricted. "Galvin?"
Galvin gave him a strained smile, eyes glazed and
unfocused. Panic-stricken. "I'm fine."
Spike stared. He'd promised himself from the
beginning that he wouldn't let this get out of hand, that
he wouldn't take advantage of Galvin. So why did he
suddenly feel like a piece of shit? "Galvin -- listen, I -- "
"I'm fine," Galvin said again. His breathing had
quickened. "I -- I need to go." He lurched to his feet,
turned and walked toward the door.
Spike should just let Galvin go. He knew that.
Hell, Spike should have let him go the first time he'd
tried to walk away, the first time Spike had hurt him. In
the end, it seemed, Spike couldn't do anything but hurt
him. It would be better to do nothing.
But he couldn't.
Spike rose after him and caught his arm. "Galvin,
wait -- "
"No!" Galvin pulled and twisted his arm, breathing
hard, trying to free himself from Spike's grip. "Do you
just feel sorry for me? If that's what this is about, I don't
want it."
"That's not what this is about."
Feet of Clay - 71
"Then what?" He stared at the floor, his shoulders
trembling. "I can't do this," he whispered. A tear dripped
to the floor. "You keep pushing me away and pulling me
back. Stop playing with me." He raised his gaze to
Spike's and glared, tear tracks shining on his cheeks. "If
you don't want me, let me go."
Spike looked down at his hand, still wrapped around
Galvin's wrist. If he let go now, he knew, Galvin would
disappear and wouldn't come back. His grip tightened as
he stared into those pain-filled, gray eyes.
He'd be better off if you let go, whispered the voice in
the back of his head. Was that true? Or was it just the
voice of his own guilt and self-pity?
Galvin gripped Spike's hand, breathing hard.
"Please."
Let him go.
If you do, he's gone.
If you don't, you can't hide anymore.
If you do, you'll destroy him.
If you don't, you'll destroy him.
Spike couldn't take it anymore.
He pulled Galvin closer, wrapped his arms around
him, and kissed him. Hard. Their teeth clanked together,
and Galvin's breath caught. His muscles stiffened…then
all at once, the tension ran out of him. He went limp in
Spike's arms, boneless, a string-cut marionette. Spike
clutched him tight, lips pressing fiercely against
Galvin's. He raised his head, breathing raggedly, and
stared into dazed, half-focused eyes. "Don't go." His
voice emerged deep and rough, ragged. Pained.
Galvin stared up at him with wide eyes.
Spike hugged him close, eyes closed, face buried in
Galvin's soft, brown hair.
"Stay," he whispered.
Feet of Clay - 72
Galvin's breath caught. Spike felt more than saw him
nod.
Feet of Clay - 73
Chapter Eight
For a long time Spike just held him, one hand
smoothing his hair. Spike could feel the rapid thump of
Galvin's heartbeat, the way he trembled.
Guilt twisted inside his chest. Ever since they’d met,
it seemed, he couldn't do anything but hurt Galvin.
Galvin leaned his head against Spike's shoulder.
"You want me to stay?" he whispered.
"Yes." He held Galvin tighter.
Galvin's arms slowly slipped around Spike's waist,
hugging him.
Eventually, Galvin pulled back, wiping his eyes with
his sleeve. His gaze darted up, meeting Spike's briefly,
then lowered, as if he was embarrassed. They stood in
awkward silence for another moment. Spike wasn't sure
what to say. At last, he cleared his throat and said, "You
want to sit down?" Standing so near the door made him
nervous -- as if Galvin might suddenly decide to bolt
again.
Galvin nodded.
They sat side by side on the couch. Spike fumbled for
something to say, some way to break the silence. He
rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Galvin asked quietly.
"Hurting you."
"It's okay." Galvin sat with his fingers tangled
together, his gaze still downcast. "I mean…I came in
asking for feedback, didn't I?"
"But it wasn't about that. Was it?"
His breath caught. "No," he murmured. With the tip
of his tongue, he moistened his lips. "Would you believe
that's the first time I've ever been kissed? I had a couple
of dates in high school, but they didn't go anywhere. It
Feet of Clay - 74
was never right. And after that…" He stared down at his
hands. "I was always afraid."
"Of what?"
"I don't know. Of rejection, I guess. Of not being
good enough. And it seemed unfair to other people. I
mean…" The muscles of his throat worked as he
swallowed. "My head is a mess. You've probably
figured that out by now." He knuckled tears from the
corner of one eye. "I guess that's why I always identified
so much with Sammy. Why that book meant so much to
me. I still remember the day I found it. It was in the back
of an old used bookstore, in the bargain bin. And when I
touched the cover, I felt something. Like it was calling
me. Reading it made me feel, for the first time, that there
was hope…that someone like me could still…"
Spike gently touched Galvin's cheek, turning his face,
and looked into his eyes.
His thumb traced the curve of that soft lower lip.
Galvin's breath hitched softly. "You don't know, do
you?" Spike asked. "You have no idea how beautiful
you are."
"I'm not," he whispered.
Spike framed Galvin's face between his hands,
holding it firmly. "You are."
Galvin's eyes were wide, shiny with tears, the whites
tinged pink. Spike's thumbs stroked his cheeks. Never
been kissed. He'd gotten the feeling Galvin didn't have
much experience, but he'd never imagined he was that
innocent. Completely untouched -- which meant he had
nothing to go on, no normal experiences to compare this
to.
If he'd known, he would have done it differently,
chosen a better moment, been slow and gentle. You only
got one chance for a first kiss. It was supposed to be
Feet of Clay - 75
special. Spike had just grabbed him and rammed his face
against Galvin's. He hadn't even shaved that morning,
and he'd probably tasted like beer and coffee and smoke.
"I want to try that again," he said, still holding Galvin's
face between his hands.
Galvin blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean…can I give you another first kiss? A better
one?"
A flush rose into Galvin's cheeks. He nodded.
Spike leaned down and softly, very softly, pressed his
lips against Galvin's. They trembled slightly, then parted
under the gentle pressure. He moved his own lips
against them, wondering if the scrape of his stubble
against that soft skin was uncomfortable. Galvin tasted
clean and fresh as rain, with a faint hint of spearmint
toothpaste.
No one else had ever done this, Spike thought. And
Galvin's lack of experience was plain; he didn't seem to
know what to do with his lips. At first they remained
motionless, passive, and accepting. Then they began to
move slowly, clumsily copying Spike.
Spike touched the very tip of his tongue to those
parted lips. A part of him wanted to deepen the kiss, to
see if Galvin's mouth was as hot and silky and wet as
Spike imagined. A vision flashed through his mind
before he could stop it; Galvin's lips wrapped around his
cock in a moist circle, those cheeks drawn inward,
sucking…
He withdrew, heart pounding. Galvin's eyes opened
slowly. They were unfocused, heavy-lidded. He looked
drunk -- or maybe drugged. Languid. As if he'd agree to
anything Spike suggested. God, if he reacted that way to
just a kiss, what would he do if…
Feet of Clay - 76
Spike derailed that train of thought before it could go
any further. He licked his lips. He could still taste that
warm, sweet mouth on his.
"I don't understand," Galvin murmured. "If you feel
like this, why did you push me away?"
Spike felt a bitter pang somewhere inside his chest.
He still wondered if that would have been better for
Galvin, in the long run. "I was trying to protect you."
"From what?"
His lips tightened in a mirthless smile. "From a dirty,
corrupt old man."
Galvin's brows knitted together. "But you're not. Why
would you think that?"
"I was ready to give up on that manuscript. Was
thinking about burning it. I'd bought the computer
hoping it might push me to start working on the thing
again, but I gave up on that idea fast. Then you came
along." His hands balled into fists. "I knew I should just
let you go. That getting involved with me would be bad
for you. But I couldn't bear to let you slip away. I told
myself that I just needed to be close to you a little
longer, just to hear your voice and look at your face and
remind myself that there was still light in the world. But
I kept thinking about…and I wanted." His throat
tightened. "You've got this idealized picture of me in
your head. You don't know what I'm really like."
Spike averted his gaze. "I'm not a good person."
For a long moment, Galvin didn't move, didn't speak.
His soft breathing filled Spike's ears. Then gentle, warm
hands touched Spike's face, lifting it. "You're wrong,"
Galvin whispered.
A tremor ran through him.
Galvin trailed his fingertips over Spike's stubble
shadowed jaw. Spike’s pulse thundered in his ears. He'd
Feet of Clay - 77
told himself that he could resist, but now, staring into
those wide, gray eyes, he ached for it with every particle
of his being; ached to feel Galvin's warmth beside him,
to feel that soft breath against his neck.
Again, he imagined soft lips wrapped around him, the
wet heat of Galvin's mouth. A soft groan escaped him as
his dick stiffened, straining against jeans that suddenly
seemed a size too small. He would let you, whispered a
voice in his mind. He would welcome it. "If you stay
with me, I'll end up hurting you," he murmured.
"I don't understand why you think that. You saved
me, Spike. If not for you, I would have given up by now.
You showed me that happiness was possible. If I can't
trust in that…"
Spike curled his fingers around one thin wrist. He
could feel the blood drumming hot and fast below the
surface. "I'm the wrong person to put your trust in." His
voice emerged rough and hoarse, and Galvin tensed.
"Why?"
"Because I…" He looked away and raked a hand
through his hair. "Damn it, it's just…complicated."
"Help me understand. Please."
"I have a bad track record of taking care of the people
I care about."
Galvin touched the back of his hand. "I don't know
what you've been through, but whatever it was, it doesn't
have to happen again."
"What else can I do?" He voiced a hoarse, broken
chuckle. "I'm nothing. I'm a bad joke. A writer who can't
write."
"But you can," Galvin said. "Just because you're not
writing now, that doesn't mean you never will again. I
mean, there must be some reason why you're having
trouble. If you can just find out why -- "
Feet of Clay - 78
"You want to know the reason?" He smiled, a hard,
tight expression. "I'm a hypocrite. I told you to stop
filtering, to write what's inside you, but I'm scared
shitless of what will happen if I open myself up again.
I'm a coward."
"I don't believe that. A coward couldn't have written
something like Smoke."
He averted his gaze. "It's just a book."
"Why do you do this? Why do you trivialize
everything about yourself?" His jaw tightened as he
stared at Spike. "No matter what you say, I won't stop
believing in you. I can't. Because I need you. If you
don't want me around, then just tell me, and I'll leave,
but please stop saying those things about yourself."
Wires tightened in Spike's chest. "People close to me
die, damn it. When Sammy -- " He fell silent.
"Sammy?" Galvin whispered.
A long silence.
Spike curled one hand into a fist. "I could've saved
him," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "If I'd gotten
there sooner, I could've saved him."
Galvin stared at Spike, wide-eyed and open mouthed,
as the blood drained slowly from his face. "He was
real?"
Spike's chest ached; his whole being ached. He'd
never meant to reveal this much, but it was too late to go
back now. "Yeah. The details were different…the
places, the names. But he was real."
"But in the book, he…"
Spike closed his eyes. "In the book, after he
overdoses, his lover finds him and takes him to the
hospital. Except that's not how it happened." He ground
the heel of one hand against his forehead. "After he died,
I relived that night over and over in my head, thinking of
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all the things I could have done differently. Thinking
that if I'd gotten there even ten minutes sooner,
everything would have been different."
"Spike…" Galvin's voice was soft, broken.
He ground his palms against his eyelids. "Do you
understand now? How contemptible I am? I was lying to
myself, creating this fantasy world where everything
worked out, and I never meant to show anyone, but
things happened, and… and even then I never expected
it to be accepted, and making money off it felt so filthy,
like selling pieces of his memory. Selling my own pain
and self-delusion." He stared at the floor dully. "It was
fake."
Galvin gripped his hands. "That isn't true," he said.
"Even if it was just your fantasy when you wrote it, it
became real when it reached other people."
Spike shook his head. "I lied to you. To everyone. I
wrote a story where everything turned out okay at the
end, but everything isn't okay. There no such thing as
happily ever after. There's just death. Sammy's gone."
"No." Galvin's voice trembled, and his hands
tightened on Spike's. "If you still love him, he's not
gone."
"I tried believing that for awhile, but in the end that's
just another lie I told myself. I have memories. Pictures.
Old letters. Those things aren't him. They're just his
ashes, just his shadows." He stared at Galvin's hands,
still fiercely clutching his. "My love couldn't save him,
and it can't bring him back. What good is love if it can't
even save one life? It's nothing."
Galvin stared at him, eyes wide and stricken. "Do you
really believe that?"
Spike's throat constricted. "I don't know," he said, his
voice choked. "I don't know what I believe anymore. I
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just miss him so damn much." A tear dripped onto their
joined hands. "We were supposed to live together. I
promised him I'd take him to the ocean. We were
supposed to have so many memories, we were supposed
to live, but now he's just gone and there's nothing I can
do."
"You saved me!" Galvin cried. His chest hitched as
he clutched at Spike's hands. "Isn't that worth anything?"
Spike stared into his tear-filled eyes. "Why aren't you
disgusted with me?" he whispered.
"What happened to Sammy wasn't your fault. And
your book isn't a lie. Your words kept me alive even
when I wanted to die. How can you say that's not real?"
"That was you. You kept yourself alive." He looked
away. "You're strong enough, even if you don't know it.
You don't need me."
"How can you say that? How can you know that?"
"In the end, we're all on our own."
"If that's true, then I don't want this world or anything
to do with it," he whispered. "It's too painful."
"Galvin…"
"I just don't understand." He swallowed. "Why is it a
bad thing to need? I need lots of things. I need food and
water and a place to live, and I need to go for walks and
watch the sunset over the lake, and sometimes I need to
cry. I need books and I need my computer and I need to
write and feel like it means something. I need three
different kinds of pills a day just to keep me sane. Why
am I not allowed to need your words?"
"Because I'm not…" His throat knotted. "I don't trust
myself not to fuck this up."
"You don't have to be perfect. I'm not asking you to
do anything for me. I just need you to be you."
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Spike met Galvin’s gaze. His hand drifted to Galvin's
face, and his knuckles grazed one soft cheek. He
wondered who'd sent this angel to him and what he'd
done to deserve it. "I'm scared. I'm scared that I'll hurt
you, that I'll lose you. I can't go through it again. Even
after all this time, I…I still can't…" His voice broke.
"I've been wasting my life, hiding away in this
apartment. So many years…and even if you say it's not
my fault, I know he'd be alive if I'd just done things
differently." His hand dropped to his side, and he looked
away, chest constricting. "Do you know what that feels
like?"
Silence.
"Galvin?"
Galvin stared into space, hands resting on his knees.
His fingers tightened. "Do you know what today is?"
"What…"
"It's November thirteenth."
Spike's brow furrowed. "What about November
thirteenth?"
Galvin drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his
arms around them. "It's the anniversary of the day…" He
rested his chin on his knees, curling in on himself. "The
day my dad killed himself."
Spike drew in his breath swiftly.
He'd known -- maybe from the first day they met --
that there was some wound deep in Galvin's being, some
reason behind the dark circles under those eyes, the
tremor in those hands, the pain behind that smile. "I'm
sorry." The words felt hollow, but he didn't know what
else to say.
Galvin turned his head and stared at the wall. He
wiped the back of one hand across his eyes. "It was a
long time ago. Ten years. You'd think after all this time,
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I'd have gotten over it or at least learned how to start
living again."
"You don't get over something like that."
Galvin's unsteady breathing echoed through the
silence. Spike laid a hand over his and gently squeezed.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
Galvin curled in on himself, resting his chin on his
knees. "We -- our family never had much money. And
as a kid I was sick a lot. My parents were always
arguing about what doctors to take me to and how much
money to spend and whose fault it was that I was so sick
in the first place. And I knew that I was the reason they
were fighting, the reason they were so miserable and
angry all the time. I started to think their lives would've
been better if I'd never been born. But I was there, and --
" He drew in a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly.
"By the time I was ten, my dad was working three jobs
to pay my medical bills. He couldn't handle it. He started
drinking more and more, and then…" He trailed off,
clutching Spike's hand. "I found him." A tear slid down
his cheek. "He tried to make it look like an accident, but
everyone knew what had happened."
Spike just held Galvin’s hand. He didn't know what
to say. There was nothing to say, no words that would
lessen the pain.
"My mom never blamed me for it. Not out loud. But
she changed. She wouldn't look me in the eye. In my
junior year of high school, I had a breakdown, and she
sent me away to an institution for a few months." He
wiped his cheeks with the back of one hand. "It was
easier for her, I think…being apart from me. When I
finally came home, she seemed better, calmer, but after
a few weeks of us living together, she was back to
pulling her hair out and drinking too much. She tries.
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But dealing with my pain on top of her own is too much
for her. And…" The muscles of his throat worked as he
swallowed. "And I remind her of what happened. Of
him. So I moved out as soon as I could. I started living
off the money from the insurance. It wasn't a lot, but it
was enough for rent and groceries and medicine. But
now it's almost gone, and when it runs out, I don't know
what I'm going to do. I can't go back. I can't."
Spike wrapped his arms around Galvin. "You poor
kid," he whispered. His arms tightened around him.
Galvin hid his face against Spike's shoulder. He
quivered, tense as a bowstring.
"You don't have to keep holding it in," Spike
whispered.
Galvin's breath hitched. He shuddered…then a soft,
choked sob slipped from his throat. Spike stroked his
hair as he cried -- softly at first, then louder, sobs
pouring out of him as if they'd been stored up in his
chest for years. The sounds were raw, jagged and
broken, as if they hurt coming out. When at last they
trailed off, he lay in Spike's arms, limp with exhaustion,
and Spike cuddled him close, chin resting atop Galvin's
hair.
"It's okay?" Galvin whispered. "That I told you all
that?"
"Yes." Gently, he cupped one cheek and turned
Galvin's face to look into those eyes. "It's okay."
Galvin turned his face to nuzzle into Spike's palm.
"Before I met you…I used to think about this sort of
thing," he whispered. "I used to have fantasies that we'd
meet and I'd tell you everything, and you'd hold me.
And somehow, you'd make it better. Like once I was in
your arms, all I had to do was let go. Like you could
reach inside me and take out the pain."
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"I wish I could."
"In my fantasies, you were always perfect."
Spike voiced a hoarse, rusty sound that wasn't quite a
chuckle. "Sorry I'm not."
Galvin laid a hand over Spike's and held it against his
cheek. "I like this better."
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Chapter Nine
Warm, gold sunlight slanted in through the window,
catching Galvin's eyes and bringing out faint undertones
of green in the gray. Judging from the angle of the light,
it was late afternoon, inching toward evening. Spike had
been sitting here on the couch, cuddling Galvin, for
hours…though until now he hadn't noticed the stiffness
in his shoulders and back.
He smoothed Galvin's hair. "How do you feel?"
Galvin leaned his head against Spike's shoulder and
murmured, "Self-conscious."
"About what?"
"Well…everything. I don't really talk about that kind
of stuff with anyone. It's a lot to suddenly unload on
you."
"It's a lot to keep locked up inside," Spike replied
quietly. "And I don't mind listening."
"I feel weird about what I showed you, too. I
mean…" Galvin's gaze darted to the stack of pages still
on the coffee table, and a pink flush rose into his cheeks.
Spike cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his
neck. "It's okay."
It must have taken a lot of courage for Galvin to bare
his private desires like that, not knowing how Spike felt
about him. And Spike wondered why he'd chosen to
reveal those desires as a story -- if it had even been a
choice, or if it was just the only way Galvin knew how
to do it.
For a moment, Spike wasn't sure what to say. The
silence stood between them like a wall. "Mind if I take
another look?" he asked at last.
Galvin's blush brightened, but he nodded.
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Spike picked up the stapled bundle. The edges were
still crinkled from where he'd gripped them earlier.
The first time, he'd been distracted, wondering what
this meant and if this could really be what it seemed.
Now, he focused his whole mind on the words
themselves.
The character in the pages were Spike and Galvin,
that much was obvious. But even so, the Spike in
Galvin's fantasy seemed much more confident and in
control than Spike himself would be in this situation. He
had only a passing familiarity with BDSM. He'd never
tried it.
But now, as he read, he imagined himself doing those
things -- binding Galvin's wrists, touching that smooth
skin, taking gentle control. He swallowed, trying to
banish the dryness in his mouth, and raised his gaze to
Galvin's. "You think about this sort of thing?" He knew
the answer, but he needed to hear it anyway. "You think
about me doing this to you?"
Galvin's teeth caught on his lower lip. "Yes," he
murmured.
Spike's heartbeat quickened. He gently laid the pages
on the coffee table and reached out to touch Galvin's
face. His palm slid down Galvin's cheek and neck. His
thumb brushed the soft skin, lingering over the place
where the pulse drummed hot and fast beneath the
surface.
Galvin stared at him with wide eyes, not breathing,
lips parted slightly.
Spike had spent so long chasing after the ghosts of
his past, obsessing over what he couldn't change. Hell,
he hadn't had a real lover since Sammy's death over ten
years ago, just a couple of desperate, drunken one night
stands that had left him with nothing but a hangover and
Feet of Clay - 87
a lot of self-hatred the next morning. Despite all his talk
about Sammy being dead and gone, Spike had been
clinging tight to those memories, unable to let go,
unable to accept it on some deep gut level.
Galvin was here now, alive. His heart was beating.
And he wanted this. Needed it.
Spike wondered why he'd hesitated for so long. He'd
known -- maybe from the very first day. He'd seen the
way Galvin looked at him, hope and hero-worship and
uncertain, shy desire all mixed together.
Spike leaned toward Galvin, hands coming up to
frame his face, and kissed him. A shiver ran through
Galvin. He relaxed into the kiss, letting Spike take
control as if it was the most natural thing to do.
Velvet lips parted, and Spike slid his tongue inside.
He kissed Galvin deeply, thoroughly, his tongue
exploring the slick heat of Galvin's mouth. A small,
hungry moan escaped Galvin’s throat.
Need slammed into Spike, hot and violent. Every
nerve in his body was suddenly on fire.
He pulled back, gulping air. Galvin's tongue crept out
to wet those plump lips, making them glisten, and
another hot jolt of lust shot through Spike. All that pent-
up desire welled up, seething under the surface, eager to
burst free. And knowing Galvin would let him just made
it harder to hold back. To feel his control slipping, after
so long, was both heady and frightening.
He kissed Galvin again, fiercely. He devoured those
lips, sucking and nibbling the lower, then the upper.
When Spike finally pulled back, they were both panting,
and Galvin's eyes were wide and dazed.
He wanted this. God, how he wanted it. But he had to
be careful. It would be too easy to hurt Galvin without
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meaning to. "Tell me what you want," Spike said, his
voice low and hoarse.
Galvin's breathing grew heavier. "What I want?"
"I need to know how far you're ready to go. I need to
know when I should stop." Spike's hands slid down
Galvin's sides to rest against his slim hips. Spike could
feel him trembling. "We can take this slow, if you like.
If you need some time to get used to…"
"I want everything."
At those words, Spike's breath caught. "You sure?"
He stared up at Spike, his eyes hungry. "I need this."
His voice was soft, pleading.
Spike's pulse raced as he touched a thumb to Galvin's
lips -- lips still wet and swollen with kisses -- and they
parted under the gentle pressure. He rubbed his thumb
back and forth across them.
A small moan escaped Galvin's throat. His eyes went
soft and unfocused, and his tongue pushed forward to
lick the pad of Spike's thumb.
Spike gulped, trying to swallow his heart, which had
climbed up into his throat.
Galvin seemed to notice his reaction. He licked
again, soft and slow, and looked up uncertainly, as if
asking whether he'd done it right. "Feels good," Spike
whispered hoarsely.
Galvin's lips parted wider, and Spike's thumb slipped
between them to trace their inner surfaces in a slow
circle…then moved deeper, found the wet velvet of his
tongue and rubbed against it. A shiver ran through
Galvin, and his eyes slipped shut. His lips closed around
the knuckle, and he sucked, flushed cheeks pulling
inward.
Spike stared stupidly, hypnotized by the movement
of Galvin's mouth, the wetness, the heat, the tugging.
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And his lips were so soft. An expression of relaxed bliss
had slipped over his face, as if there was nothing he'd
rather be doing more in that moment, as if he'd sit there
happily sucking for the next hour if Spike let him.
Spike’s dick twitched…and again, his mind filled
with an image of Galvin's lips stretched around that hot,
hungry flesh. With Galvin sucking his thumb like that, it
was all too easy to imagine.
Spike gulped. His thumb slipped out of Galvin's
mouth, over that full lower lip. Galvin's eyes opened
slowly, hazy trance-eyes.
Mouth dry, Spike slid a hand slowly beneath Galvin's
t-shirt -- it was loose, slightly oversized -- and ran his
palm over the inward curve of Galvin's waist. He let his
fingertips skim along Galvin’s ribs and over his chest,
until he encountered one tiny, flat nipple. Gently, he
brushed a finger over it, and the nipple stiffened,
pushing upward into his touch. Spike traced a tiny circle
around it, then slid his hand out from under the t-shirt.
Spike's lips grazed the side of Galvin's neck as one
finger traced his shirt collar. "May I take this off?"
Galvin hesitated, and something tightened inside Spike's
chest. "Is this too much? Do you want to stop?"
"It's not that," he murmured. "It's just…I'm too pale,
and I don't have any muscle definition, and…it's just
embarrassing."
The tightness in Spike's chest relaxed. "It still
boggles my mind that you can't see yourself." He lifted
Galvin's shirt off, baring his slim upper body, and placed
a gentle kiss against his chest. He could feel Galvin’s
heart racing. "You're perfect," he murmured, lips
moving against his smooth skin.
Galvin's breath caught. Spike kissed one pale
shoulder, kissed the delicate hollow between his
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collarbones. Spike’s palms slid down Galvin's sides,
then up over his chest, along his back, following the
curve of his spine. Galvin's breathing quickened, and his
arms slipped around Spike.
Spike nuzzled into the hollow between his neck and
shoulder, then paused, lips resting against his ear. "You
want to go into the bedroom?"
A soft intake of breath. "Yes."
He took Galvin's hand.
Spike's dick was pulsing urgently, clamoring for him
to take advantage of the moment before it slipped away.
He ignored it. He couldn't afford to lose control, not for
an instant.
Galvin was inexperienced -- but more than that, he
was incredibly vulnerable, his self-esteem shaky, his
heart filled with wounds that had never properly
healed…and even now, with all Spike's flaws and ugly
scars exposed, Galvin still plainly idolized Spike. A
harsh word, a disappointed look, would crush him -- and
Galvin himself knew it. He wouldn't say no to anything,
even if he was uncertain. Even if he was scared.
They sat together on the edge of the bed. For a
moment, Spike didn't move, didn't speak -- just sat,
holding Galvin's hand.
"Spike?"
Spike took a deep breath and reached up to frame
Galvin's face between his hands. "If I do anything that
makes you uncomfortable, I want you to let me know. I
only want to go as far as you're ready to go."
"Okay," Galvin said, but his gaze was downcast, his
eyes hiding from Spike's.
"Galvin? Look at me."
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Slowly, the veil of his lashes lifted, and Spike looked
deep into his eyes. "If you want it to stop, you'll say so,"
he ordered. "Promise me."
Galvin's teeth caught at his lower lip, but he nodded
and said, "I promise."
"Good." The tension eased out of Spike’s shoulders.
He pulled Galvin into his arms, and they lay down
together. He could feel Galvin's erection pressing hard
and hot against his hip. His own cock was flush up
against Galvin's stomach. He suppressed the urge to rub
against it and just waited as Galvin's arms slipped
around him, hugging him close.
Then Galvin's hand came up to rest against his chest.
Galvin fiddled with the first button of Spike's shirt --
then froze, looking up at him.
Spike gave him a nod.
Galvin undid the button, then another, exposing pale
skin and dark curls of chest hair. Once the last button
was undone, Galvin gently tugged the shirt off and
placed his hands against Spike's chest. His thumb
rubbed over one nipple, and a low groan escaped Spike's
throat.
Galvin froze again. "Is this all right?"
"Yes," he whispered hoarsely. He trembled,
struggling for control as Galvin traced circles around his
nipple. It was amazing, he thought, how such a soft
touch could feel so intense. He bit his lower lip, his
body shuddering under Galvin's cautious explorations as
he struggled to control himself.
Feather-light fingertips drifted over his stomach, and
the muscles contracted. The fingers strayed lower…then
stopped just short of the hard bulge in his jeans.
"Go on." His voice was tight, strained.
Galvin touched it. His breath hitched.
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Galvin's tongue crept out, pale pink and catlike, to
wet his lips. He cupped the bulge in Spike's pants and
rubbed it in slow circles. Spike's hips pushed forward
into the touch.
Another rub, and Spike's already frayed control
snapped. He gripped Galvin's wrists and pushed them to
the mattress, breathing raggedly. Galvin looked up at
him with wide eyes. "You keep that up, I'm gonna
come," Spike whispered, his voice rough and raw.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize." His hands lingered on Galvin's
wrists. Galvin didn't move, didn't try to pull free, just lay
there looking up at him with those big, gray eyes, cheeks
flushed pink, kiss-swollen lips parted.
Spike's thumb brushed over the soft skin of his inner
wrist and felt the pulse drumming hot and fast. Was this
what Galvin wanted? What he craved?
Spike's heartbeat thundered in his ears. There was
something thrilling about the feeling of power -- of
knowing that Galvin was his, that this beautiful boy
would give him anything, anything at all. Slowly, he
straddled Galvin, fingers still curled around those thin
wrists, and pinned them to the bed over Galvin's head.
"You like this?"
"Yes." The word escaped as a tiny, breathless
whisper.
He leaned down, and his lips brushed against Galvin's
neck. Galvin let out a soft gasp and gave a start. Spike's
lips grazed his ear. "Tell me what you like about it." He
spoke firmly, leaving no doubt that it was an order.
The muscles of Galvin's throat constricted as he
swallowed. "I like feeling your strength. It makes me
feel…safe."
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He searched Galvin's eyes with his. "Having your
wrists bound, being blindfolded and helpless, unable to
see or move…that would make you feel safe, too?"
"Yes." He shifted. "I know it doesn't make sense. I
don't know if I can explain -- "
"Try."
Galvin's breath hitched. "I trust you," he whispered.
"I trust you enough to give you that power."
Spike stared into his eyes a moment longer. His
fingers tightened on Galvin's wrists. He guided them to
the bed's headboard, wrapped Galvin's fingers around
the curling metal bars, and released them. "Keep your
hands there. Don't move them unless I tell you to."
Galvin's eyes widened, and his pupils dilated.
"Okay." His fingers clenched on the headboard.
Spike kissed one nipple, then the other, and trailed
kisses down Galvin's smooth stomach. Spike’s hands
slid down Galvin's sides, coming to rest on his hips as
Spike trailed kisses back up his chest, over his clavicles
and neck. He drew one nipple into his mouth and gently
sucked, and Galvin let out a little moan. His fingers
twitched and clenched harder, knuckles whitening, but
his hands remained where they were.
Spike paused, staring. Galvin's arms were stretched
over his head, fingers gripping the metal bar of the
headboard, head tipped back, throat bared. The pose was
so submissive, so open, and something about the glassy,
drugged look in Galvin's half-open eyes made Spike
realize that this wasn't a game; this was about trust and
power and need. Galvin was offering himself
completely. The knowledge made Spike dizzy, sent
thrills tingling through his nerves, but there was
something unnerving and oddly humbling about it, as
well -- like being handed some priceless, incredibly
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fragile work of art, something that would break if he
gripped it too hard.
Spike leaned down and kissed Galvin's exposed
throat, marveling at the softness of that smooth skin
against his lips. His hands slid over Galvin's chest,
palms brushing his nipples, then down along his narrow
hips, until his hand hovered over the bulge in Galvin's
jeans. He paused, checking the emotional weather in
Galvin's eyes. Then he laid his hand over it and rubbed.
Galvin gasped, and his hips arched upward into the
touch.
Slowly, Spike undid the buttons and tugged Galvin's
jeans down, along with his boxers. His cock was
flushed, straining upward, a bead of precome glistening
at the tip. Lightly, Spike stroked one finger along the
shaft. It twitched under his touch. He paused, checking
Galvin's expression again, but he couldn't read it. When
he laid a hand against Galvin's hip, however, he felt
trembling.
And still, Galvin's hands remained where they were,
fingers threaded through the metal headboard. "Can I --
" Spike stopped, then started over, keeping his voice
firm and gentle. "Tell me what you need."
Galvin's eyelids flickered. "Please…" His voice was
soft and breathless. His chest heaved. "Touch me."
Spike's fingers curled slowly around him, and Galvin
moaned again, his body arching off the bed.
"Relax." Spike dropped another kiss on Galvin’s
stomach, curled his hand more firmly around the hard,
hot column of flesh and slid up and down its length,
stroking it from base to tip. His other hand settled on
Galvin's thigh, and his thumb ran gently along the edge
of Galvin’s balls. He massaged them in slow circles,
feeling Galvin's cock jerk in his grip.
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Spike hesitated. "Tell me how you want this."
Galvin blushed brighter, but held his gaze. "I want
you in me."
Vertigo swept through Spike. He closed his eyes,
collecting himself, and took a deep breath. "Okay."
One finger slipped further back, between the smooth
cheeks of Galvin's buttocks, to brush against the tight
ripple of flesh concealed there. He pressed lightly. If
Galvin hadn't already confirmed his own lack of
experience, the amount of tightness and resistance
would have given it away.
Lube. They needed lube. Did he still have any? In the
past, he'd always kept a bottle in the top drawer of his
nightstand, but it had been so long. Biting his lower lip,
he opened the drawer and rummaged until his fingers
closed around smooth plastic. He pulled out a clear
bottle of massage oil. That should work.
He flipped open the cap. "You ready?"
"Yes."
Spike curled his fingers around the hard, hot shaft,
feeling Galvin's pulse inside. More precome oozed up
from the tip. His thumb caressed the head, smearing the
clear fluid over it. With his other hand, he stroked
Galvin's hip; a steady, calming, repetitive motion, like
petting a cat.
Spike slid his fingers up and down the length of that
stiff cock. All the while, he kept his gaze on Galvin's
face. He listened to the soft hitch of his breath, watched
those kiss-swollen lips part.
Galvin's fingers clutched the metal bars on the
headboard as his teeth pressed into his lower lip. And
still, he hadn't once moved his hands -- as if he couldn't
let go, couldn't disobey -- as if something within his
mind had switched off and something else had switched
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on and his will was no longer his own. Even without
rope, Spike had bound him.
Spike wondered, again, what he had done to deserve
this perfect trust -- what it meant that Galvin was willing
to let go so completely, to make himself this vulnerable.
Spike's hands trembled slightly as he squeezed the
cool, slippery oil onto his fingers, then gently pushed
them between Galvin's buttocks. He ran his fingertip
over the puckered flesh, coating it with oil…then
pressed, testing the resistance. His gaze locked onto
Galvin's. "I'll start with just one finger."
"Okay," Galvin whispered.
"And you'll tell me if it hurts."
"Yes."
Slowly, he worked his fingertip inside. He paused,
letting Galvin adjust to the feeling. Then he pushed, and
his finger slid in up to the knuckle.
Galvin's parted lips drew into a tiny o of surprise. The
ring of muscle contracted around Spike's knuckle,
gripping him. God, Galvin was so tight. Just the thought
of what that heat would feel like around his cock…
Not yet.
Galvin's breathing quickened, and his eyes closed.
"Keep them open," Spike said.
Gray eyes snapped open wide. He stared, unblinking,
his hands still fisted on the sheets.
"You're allowed to blink," Spike said, giving him a
tiny smile. "I just need to see you." He stroked Galvin's
hip again.
Galvin exhaled softly. His eyelids fluttered, and his
death-grip on the sheets relaxed. "Sorry. I'm a little
tense. I just -- I've never -- "
"It's okay." Spike kissed his forehead. "How does it
feel?"
Feet of Clay - 97
He hesitated, fidgeting. "It's…different," he
murmured. "It feels funny, but not in a bad way."
"Remember what I said. This can stop anytime you
want."
"Okay," came the soft, breathless response.
Spike kissed his forehead again and shifted, curling
an arm around him, pulling him closer and holding his
gaze as Spike moved the finger inside his body.
It had been awhile since he'd done this. He felt
painfully awkward and out of practice, poking around
blindly inside of Galvin, searching --
And there it was. Deeper than he remembered, just
barely reachable with the tip of his finger, smooth and
round and slightly yielding to pressure.
Something shifted in Galvin's eyes; a flicker, a slight
widening. They started to close…then snapped wide
open again.
A little more pressure. Carefully, carefully, he
massaged the smooth node. A tiny sound escaped
Galvin's throat, and his eyes rolled up and back -- his
lids quivered, closed briefly, then flew open again. He
panted, fingers twisting in the sheets as he stared up at
Spike through pupils grown huge and fragile.
Spike kissed the curve of Galvin's jaw, the corner of
his mouth, tasting the salt of his sweat. Spike’s tongue
traced the delicate curve of Galvin's ear and dipped
briefly inside. Then he placed his lips against it and
whispered, "Are you ready for another?"
"Y-yes."
Carefully, he worked his middle finger past that oil-
slicked rim, into Galvin's body. Galvin's breath hissed
softly between his teeth, and Spike froze. "You're really
tight," he murmured. He moved his fingers, and Galvin
tensed as if in pain. Shit. He was fucking this up already.
Feet of Clay - 98
Though it might be easier if he could see what he was
doing. Carefully, he withdrew his fingers. "Can you roll
onto your stomach for a minute?"
Galvin froze. His brows knitted in confusion, and
distress flickered in his eyes. At first, Spike didn't
understand the reaction. Then realization hit; Galvin's
hands were still locked in place, gripping the headboard
as if glued there.
Spike touched his wrists lightly and said, "You can
move again."
Galvin exhaled a soft breath of relief. His hands
slipped off of the metal bars, and he rolled onto his
stomach.
He took those orders so seriously, Spike thought. It
would be so easy to abuse that power without even
meaning to.
And God, why did it excite him so much?
With his thumbs, Spike separated Galvin’s buttocks,
exposing the puckered dimple of flesh between them.
He slid his finger in again -- the sight of it
disappearing into Galvin's body sent a ripple of lust
through him -- inserted another, and opened them in a
scissoring motion, stretching the tight ring of muscle,
slowly loosening it.
Galvin panted, and his hips moved, grinding against
the sheets. His skin glistened, damp with sweat.
After a little while, Spike slid his fingers out. Unable
to resist, he placed his hands on Galvin's buttocks and
squeezed them, enjoying the way the smooth flesh
bulged between his fingers. Then he separated them
again and lowered his head.
When the tip of his tongue touched Galvin's rim,
Galvin gasped, body jerking in surprise.
Feet of Clay - 99
Spike froze. Sammy had always liked this sort of
thing…but then, even when Spike had first met him,
Sammy had been more experienced than Galvin. It
occurred to him that someone who wasn't familiar with
it might find it really weird, even repulsive. He cleared
his throat. "Sorry."
"No, I just -- what was that?"
"My tongue."
"You licked me?" His voice squeaked a bit on the
word licked.
"Um. Yes. But I won't do it again if you don't want
me to."
Galvin looked over one shoulder. Spike couldn't quite
read his expression, but it wasn't disgust. "Doesn't it
taste bad?"
"Not really."
"Oh." He hesitated. "I don't mind. It just surprised
me."
"You don't mind?"
He shook his head.
Spike looked down at his hands, still resting on
Galvin's cheeks, holding them open. He lowered his
head and licked the pink ring again, adding the slickness
of saliva to the lubricant already coating it. By now, it
had loosened enough that he could slip his tongue inside
just a bit. The taste was faintly bitter, faintly salty,
mixed with the oily but not unpleasant taste of lube, and
he could feel the muscles clenching and relaxing against
his tongue.
Galvin shifted, hips twitching and shivering and
pushing back and forth, grinding his cock into the
sheets. Soft, hungry little sounds escaped his throat; he
didn't seem to be conscious that he was making them.
Feet of Clay - 100
Spike licked him again, long and slow and wet, then
withdrew his tongue and inserted his fingers once more.
Galvin's breathing echoed through the room, heavy and
ragged, and he wanted so much, wanted to hold Galvin
down and just take him…but still, he continued, coating
his fingers with more lube and sliding them back inside,
stretching them open, giving himself a brief glimpse of
the dark, reddish flesh inside Galvin.
At last, he withdrew. Kneeling on the bed, trembling
with the effort of controlling himself, he began to
unbutton his jeans. His cock felt like it was about to
burst as he tugged his jeans and boxers down.
He wanted to see Galvin's eyes while he did this,
wanted to be looking right into them when Galvin came.
"Roll on your back."
Galvin obeyed. He stretched out, propped up on his
elbows, his cock sticking straight up. Then his gaze
locked on Spike's erection. The tip of his tongue crept
out to moisten his lips, and the sight sent a wave of
weakness through Spike.
Galvin started to reach out, hesitated, and looked up
uncertainly at Spike, silently asking permission -- as if
Spike wouldn't have let him do anything, anything at all.
"Go ahead," he whispered hoarsely. He could hold
out a little longer, he thought. Just a little longer.
Slim fingers lightly, tentatively touched his cock and
slid along its length. Spike's jaw clenched, and the cords
in his neck stood out. His balls throbbed, tightening as
come pooled inside them. He bit his tongue and focused
on the pain. Not yet.
Galvin's fingers curled around him. He sat up and
leaned forward, lips parted, his breathing soft and
unsteady. His gaze lifted. "I want to."
Feet of Clay - 101
Spike's heart slammed against the wall of his chest.
Breathless, he nodded.
They shifted around on the bed until Spike was
sitting with his back against the headboard and Galvin
was stretched out on his stomach, his lips -- still red and
swollen and wet from kisses -- hovering over the tip of
Spike's erection. They touched the head of Spike's cock,
then parted and engulfed him, and oh God that mouth
was so soft, so wet, so hot.
A low groan rose up from Spike's throat. His hips
pushed forward, deeper into that inviting wetness, and
he watched hungrily as those moist lips stretched around
the girth of his cock and Galvin sucked, those smooth
flushed cheeks pulling inward.
Galvin pulled back, licking his lips. "Does this feel
good?" His voice was soft, uncertain.
"Yes," Spike whispered back roughly.
Then his lips were around Spike's cock again, sliding
up and down its length, his eyes lust-glazed and heavy-
lidded, his mouth tugging and sucking. His teeth grazed
too-sensitive flesh, and Spike bit his lower lip to hide
the pain, afraid that if he showed it, Galvin would stop.
His fingers twined into Galvin's hair, gripping, and he
looked down into those dazed eyes -- the eyes of
someone lost in a deep trance.
Spike had done that somehow -- had switched off the
outer layers of his consciousness, leaving the raw
architecture of his id exposed. And apparently Galvin's
id wanted to suck and suck and suck him like a giant
piece of candy.
Spike's hands fisted in silky, brown hair, gripping
tighter as Galvin's tongue swirled over the head of his
cock. This had to be wrong somehow, he thought. It
Feet of Clay - 102
--
couldn't be allowed. It felt too good. He didn't deserve it
Then Galvin's tongue rubbed against the underside of
his cock, scattering his thoughts, and he groaned,
trembling. He was seconds away from coming, despite
all his efforts to hold back. But he didn't have the
recovery time of a younger man, and he wasn't ready for
this to be over yet. He pulled back, panting, and Galvin
looked up at him with enormous eyes, his expression
stricken, as if asking silently what he'd done wrong to
make it stop. Spike managed a reassuring smile. "You
said you wanted me inside you."
Galvin's breath caught, and something flickered
across his expression. Excitement or fear -- Spike
couldn't tell. "How should I -- "
"Hang on." Condoms, he thought. He'd been tested
awhile back and was clean, as far as he knew, but he
kept a box in the nightstand anyway. He yanked the
drawer open, rummaged through, and fished out one of
the foil-covered packets.
Galvin waited, watching uncertainly as Spike
fumbled and finally rolled it on. "Okay," he said,
panting.
Galvin's gaze darted to the bottle of massage oil.
"Can I…?"
"Yes." Spike's heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Galvin drizzled oil into his palm. He spread it over
Spike's erection, coating it from base to tip. Spike's hips
twitched, pushing forward into Galvin’s hand. He
planted both hands on the bed, bracing himself, his arms
trembling. He couldn't hold out much longer; the frayed
remnants of his control were stretched thin, ready to
snap.
Feet of Clay - 103
Spike gripped Galvin's thighs, hoisting them slightly
off the bed, and looked down into his eyes. "Are you
ready?" Please say yes, please.
"Yes," Galvin whispered.
Spike inched his hips forward until the round, blunt
head of his cock was pressed between Galvin's cheeks,
against the puckered opening. He pushed.
Galvin's slicked hole blossomed open, stretching as
the first few inches of Spike's cock entered him. Galvin
tensed, and Spike stopped, panting, engulfed by a wave
of vertigo. Galvin was so incredibly tight, so hot and
slick, and all of Spike's instincts demanded that he thrust
forward into that welcoming heat…but he held himself
motionless, giving Galvin time to get used to the feeling.
Galvin remained tense, trembling slightly, and Spike
whispered into one ear, "It's okay." His hand smoothed
soft, brown hair, tucking errant strands gently behind
Galvin's ears, and cupped one soft cheek. "I won't hurt
you."
"I know," came the soft reply.
Slowly, the tight muscles loosened around him,
enough for him to slide his cock forward another inch,
then another, until he was fully sheathed within that
tight body.
Galvin stared up at Spike. That look -- the look that
was both rapt and dazed, entranced -- hadn't left his
eyes. "You're in me," he whispered.
"Yes."
Slowly, Spike began to move inside him.
Galvin clutched Spike’s shoulders. A tiny sound
escaped his throat. Spike kissed his neck, his cheek.
Spike hesitated over Galvin's lips, remembering where
his own mouth had been a moment ago.
Feet of Clay - 104
Galvin pressed his lips firmly to Spike's. If he minded
the taste of himself at all, he didn't show it.
Spike felt his control slipping. He couldn't stop it --
with a groan, he bowed his head and let instinct take
over, thrusting harder, deeper. Galvin's head fell back
against the pillow, mouth open in a gasp.
Spike reached down to curl his oil-slicked fingers
around Galvin's cock, and Galvin's fingers tightened on
his shoulders, digging into his skin.
Galvin’s hips arched off the bed. Come spurted from
the tip of his cock, splashing across his stomach and
chest, and his walls clenched tight around Spike.
He'd been just barely holding onto himself, and the
pressure tipped him over the edge. With a choked gasp,
he came…then went limp, panting, his face pressed
against Galvin's chest. Slowly, he raised his head and
met Galvin's wide, unfocused eyes. One hand cupped his
face. "Are you okay?"
Galvin didn't reply, just stared at him with wide,
dazed eyes. His lips moved, as if he was trying to speak,
but no sound emerged.
"Galvin?"
He blinked. Slowly, his eyes focused. "Spike?"
"I'm here. Are you okay?"
"I…yes," he whispered. The muscles of his throat
worked as he swallowed. "Everything's spinning."
Spike pulled out and tugged off the condom. His
insides went cold when he saw the thread of blood, red
against the white latex. Galvin's blood. Just a little, but
still -- it had been too much, too fast. He stretched out
beside Galvin and wrapped him in a tight embrace. "I'm
sorry," he whispered.
"Why?" Galvin whispered back.
"I was too rough with you."
Feet of Clay - 105
Galvin shook his head slowly. He gazed up at Spike,
his expression drowsy and open. One hand wandered up
to play with Spike's hair, winding the dark strands
around his fingers. "You weren't." He smiled, his eyes
soft and heavy-lidded. He looked drugged, out of it…but
perfectly relaxed, languid, at peace. His head came to
rest against Spike's shoulder, and he curled against him,
nestling into his chest. "I love you."
Spike's breath caught at those words. His arms
tightened around Galvin…then he kissed Galvin's
forehead softly. "I love you, too."
Feet of Clay - 106
Chapter Ten
When Spike finally looked up, it was dark outside the
window, and his right arm -- now pinned under Galvin -
- was numb. Galvin had drifted off, and his soft
breathing echoed through the room.
Spike stared at Galvin's sleeping face, and a knot in
his chest tightened.
He'd promised himself he wouldn't let this happen.
Throughout the days he'd spent with Galvin, he'd
reminded himself over and over that Galvin was too
young for him. Too innocent, too trusting, too good.
But in spite of that, he hadn't been able to let go. He'd
kept Galvin with him, telling himself that Galvin needed
the work, telling himself it was okay just to look, that
just having this beautiful, sweet young man around a
little longer wouldn't hurt anything…like an addict
telling himself that just one more pill or one more drink
wouldn't hurt.
And of course, in the end, he hadn't been able to
control himself.
He'd do anything for you, whispered a dark voice in
his head. And you knew it from the beginning. That's
why you offered him the job, isn't it? Sure, you told
yourself you were just helping him out, but all along you
were thinking about it. Even if you wouldn't admit it to
yourself, somewhere deep down in your id, you were
thinking about his lips wrapped around your dick. You
wanted to fuck him. And you got what you wanted, didn't
you? All you had to do was snap your fingers and he fell
into your bed.
But then, didn't Spike always fall for the vulnerable
ones? Sammy had been the same way -- a lost, lonely
soul without a penny or a friend in the world. Maybe
Feet of Clay - 107
that was what he craved. Someone to need him,
someone who would look to him as a savior. But in the
end, he always failed. Everything always went sour.
Spike eased his arm out from under Galvin and sat
up. For a moment, the arm remained limp and numb,
then began to tingle with pins and needles.
Galvin stirred, awakened by the movement. His eyes
flickered open, soft and drowsy. When they focused on
Spike, he smiled…but the smile faded almost
immediately. "Spike?"
He drew in a slow, shaky breath. "Listen, Galvin,
I…" He stopped, biting his tongue.
Fear flickered in Galvin's expression. He sat up, the
sheets gathered against his chest, and stared at Spike
with wide eyes. "What's wrong?"
He could hide behind a smile. Could try to swallow
the lump burning in his throat and pretend that it was all
okay. But what then? How long could he keep doing it?
Someday, Galvin would realize that he'd put all his
eggs in the wrong basket, and the basket was rotting and
falling apart -- that Spike was a broken, pathetic wreck
of a man -- and what then? What happened when that
trust was ripped out from under Galvin's feet?
"Nothing is wrong," he said, and the words sounded
unconvincing even to his ears.
Galvin bit his lower lip. "Are you sure?"
He swallowed, his fingers clenching on the sheets.
And he knew he couldn't pretend, couldn't hide it. "I
took advantage of you."
Galvin stared, mouth open. "What are you talking
about?"
The hurt in those eyes burned him. Spike looked
away. "I pushed you into this. I took advantage of your
trust."
Feet of Clay - 108
"No, it -- it wasn't like that." His breathing
quickened. "I wanted it. I wanted you."
Spike stared down at his hands and said nothing.
"I don't understand." Even now, he didn't sound
angry; just bewildered and hurt. "Why does it have to be
wrong?"
"I'm poisonous. I keep hurting you." He buried his
fingers in his hair, head bowed. "I keep telling myself
I'll stop. That I won't let it happen again. But I keep
doing it. Like a record skipping. I can't stop."
The look on Galvin's face went through Spike's chest
like a sharpened icicle: pale, wide-eyed, brows pinched
together, lips trembling. And he wanted to take it back.
He wanted to rewind time and just keep his mouth shut,
swallow the poison in his throat before it could come
out, but it was too late now. He'd already fucked this up
too badly.
His fingertips dug into his scalp.
"Is it something I did?" Galvin asked softly. "Is that
why you're -- "
"No. It isn't you."
Galvin looked away. His eyes had glazed over, as if
he wasn't quite there. "Do you want me to go?" he
asked, his voice soft and subdued.
Spike's chest tightened. He knew he should say yes.
He should let Galvin go now, before Spike could make
this any worse…but he couldn't bear the thought, and
the word burst out before he could stop it. "No!"
"Then what? Tell me."
Spike took a deep, shaky breath and ground the heels
of his hands against his forehead, trying to focus, to
think, but it was no good. His thoughts were a chaotic
mess.
Feet of Clay - 109
"Tell me what to do," Galvin whispered forlornly. He
looked small and lost, huddled in a ball on the bed.
"I…" Spike's mouth worked, but nothing came out.
His throat had closed up. And he realized it was fear; he
was afraid to speak, afraid of what might happen, what
might come out.
Words were funny things. They could heal someone
or destroy someone. Spike had made his living with
words -- he should know what to say in a moment like
this, shouldn't he? -- yet at the worst possible moments
his own words seemed to turn into nets that entangled
him, or jumble together in his throat until they choked
him, or sharpen into jagged shards that cut someone
else's heart.
And Galvin believed everything he said. That made it
all the more dangerous.
In his mind, Spike saw the empty whiteness of a
blank page, and himself groping for words that wouldn't
come. But it wasn't merely a lack of inspiration; he
knew that now. It was terror of the unpredictable power
and danger of words -- the power that had drawn this
young man to him, which had sunk deep inside Galvin
and blinded him to Spike's failings. And now a single
sentence -- I took advantage of you -- had crushed him.
Used carelessly, words were more dangerous than
knives.
He hid his face in trembling hands. Paralysis crept
over him, numbing him. He was falling into himself, his
thoughts crumbling and collapsing.
"Spike?" Galvin's voice was soft, uncertain -- but
something in it had changed.
Say something. Anything.
Feet of Clay - 110
The silence stretched on, the seconds swelling. He
wanted to say, I need you. He wanted to say, Help me.
But the words wouldn't come.
Galvin's hands touched his -- warm, gentle -- and
pulled them away from his face. Spike's breath caught,
and his hands trembled. Galvin squeezed them, and he
looked up.
Galvin was still pale, but when he spoke, his voice
was strangely calm. "After my dad died…everyone told
me that it wasn't my fault, but I didn't believe them. I
kept thinking that I could have stopped it. That if I had
just been a little stronger, a little better, he'd still be
alive. I thought I must be a terrible person. That I didn't
deserve anyone's love. And no matter how many
counselors I go to or how many pills I take, a part of me
still believes that I killed him." His fingers curled slowly
around Spike's. "I know what it's like. That feeling.
Sometimes it comes suddenly, and I can't move.
Because I'm afraid that whatever I do, whatever I say, it
will be wrong, and everything will come crashing
down."
Spike swallowed, his throat tight, watching through
tear-blurred eyes as Galvin's thumbs stroked his palms.
"I -- I don't -- I didn't mean -- "
"It's okay," Galvin whispered. He reached up to touch
Spike's cheek, fingertips sliding over the rough stubble.
"You don't have to say anything."
He closed his eyes, a wave of gratitude washing over
him, so sudden and strong it made him dizzy. Galvin
had seen. He didn't know how, exactly, but it had
happened. He laid his hand over Galvin's, holding it to
his cheek, savoring the coolness of smooth skin against
his own.
Feet of Clay - 111
"You don't have to keep punishing yourself," Galvin
said. "I know you're not perfect. I'm not perfect, either.
I'm broken and fucked up and scared. I'm scared that this
will go wrong, that I'll do something to ruin it. But I
want to try. I want to do everything I can to try to make
it work."
Spike nodded. The lump was still lodged in his
throat, cutting off air and voice, but the tears prickling at
the corners of his eyes were tears of relief. He hadn't
realized, until that moment, how much he'd needed to
hear those words.
End this now, the darkness inside him suddenly
hissed. He flinched. You'll only hurt him. People close to
you die, remember?
But Galvin wasn't Sammy. And Spike's life, until
now, had been one long penitence for Sammy's
death…because he couldn't let go, couldn't stop loving
Sammy, and if he continued to hate and punish himself
for Sammy's death, it meant there was still a connection
between them, however dark and perverted it might be.
But he couldn't. He couldn't keep doing it.
I'm sorry, Sammy. I've been doing this for so long.
But I have to let you go.
He wrapped his arms around Galvin and hugged him
close.
And he knew -- he knew this was right. Inside him,
something uncoiled and relaxed.
For so long he had been clinging to the shame and the
self-hatred, feeding it, nursing it, needing it. Self-hatred
was an addiction -- he knew that all too well -- and
trying to break the addiction became a self-feeding loop,
because everything he did to escape that feeling made
him hate himself more. Maybe Galvin knew that, too.
Feet of Clay - 112
The darkness would come back. It wouldn't be
vanquished that easily. It would return with more
seductive whispers and lies. But he couldn't afford to
keep punishing himself, not when those punishments
hurt Galvin. He would fight. Fight for himself, for both
of them.
"We'll make it work," Spike said softly, hoarsely.
Galvin leaned his head against Spike's shoulder. He
closed his eyes and turned his head, his lips brushing
against Spike's ear. "Tell me to stay," he whispered.
Spike rested his chin on Galvin's hair and held him
tighter. "Stay."
Galvin melted into Spike’s embrace. His fingers
twined into Spike's hair, and Spike felt the wetness of
tears as Galvin pressed his face against Spike's neck.
"Okay," he whispered.
The End
Feet of Clay - 113
If you enjoyed this, try these other stories by Amanda
Steiger from Torquere Press!
Flight
Kell is nineteen, becoming a man. His best friend,
Ash, has already grown his wings and crossed the
threshold into adulthood. The Change is a time of rapid,
violent transformation, both physical and emotional, and
with these changes come mysterious new desires,
culminating in the ritual of the mating flight.
Too bad Kell isn't ready to grow his wings and leave
the simple pleasures of youth behind. Despite Ash's
encouragement, he fears the unknown and the loss of his
old life. But the Change comes to all, whether they want
it or not... and when Kell finally grows his wings, he
finds himself flooded with powerful and confusing new
feelings for his friend.
Virgil Unplugs
Shy, reclusive Virgil spends most of his time in a
virtual fantasy world known only as “the game.” When
he meets Kiren there, a playful, kind-hearted elf with
entrancing golden eyes, he remembers what it feels like
to truly connect with another human being. He wants to
meet Kiren in real life.
But for some reason, Kiren insists that they can’t
meet, that a relationship between them would be
impossible outside of the virtual world of the game.
Determined to find out why, Virgil searches for Kiren
himself. Can a virtual love survive reality?
Feet of Clay - 114
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