by Kelly Jensen
“What is the purpose of this interview?” Lang asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Your questions so far have been widely spaced. Will that not make writing a cohesive article difficult?”
“You have an interesting accent,” Kohen observed. “You were born in Norway, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You sound American, but not New York.”
“We have perhaps fifteen minutes left. Would you care for some coffee?”
Kohen’s gaze alighted on the coffee service and pastries before bouncing back to Lang. “Better not, but thank you for the offer.” He tapped his pen against the now half-filled page of his notebook. When had he made all those notes? “What I’d really like to know is why you value your privacy so much. Actually, I want to know how you’ve managed to stay so private, especially in this day and age.”
Lang said nothing.
“Did your father know you were gay?” Kohen asked.
Dillon recoiled a little, the movement matching the reflexive bounce of thought and emotion in Lang’s brain. Was Kohen trying to unsettle him? The answer was probably yes, making it doubly important that Lang remain focused. He drew in a calm and measured breath and answered the question. “He did.”
“So your sexuality isn’t—”
“Something we need to discuss.”
Kohen lifted his chin in Dillon’s direction. “You make no attempt to hide that you are in a relationship with a man.”
“Actually, he makes every attempt to hide it,” Dillon put in.
Hurt poked a hole in Lang’s chest. “What? No, I—”
“Because he values his privacy,” Dillon continued, “As do I. Who Lang sleeps with is no one’s business but his own.”
“And yours, presumably,” Kohen said with a grin.
Huffing quietly, Dillon subsided into his seat.
“Mr. Kohen—”
“Wes, or Wesley if you prefer.”
“I do not prefer. Mr. Kohen, you have about five minutes remaining. Is there anything you’d like to ask that does not revolve around my wealth or personal relationships?”
“Yeah. Why did you agree to this interview?”
Lang let out a long and heavy sigh. “I suspected that if I did not, you would keep calling. I hoped to satisfy a few questions and send you on your way.”
“That’s… refreshingly honest.”
Lang gave a shrug.
Kohen reclined in his chair, the picture of a relaxation, and rolled his pen through the fingers of his left hand. “Okay, I’ll share something in return. I’ve got about five years’ worth of research on you.” What sort of research? “So I only needed to confirm a couple of things, get a feel for the man behind the mystery.”
“I’m really not that interesting, Mr. Kohen.”
Kohen’s face broke into another of his broad grins. “Oh, but you are, and you know you are. That’s why you don’t like to talk about yourself.” He turned to Dillon. “I bet he knows exactly what he’s doing in bed, huh?”
Lang smacked his hands against edge of the table. “That’s quite enough.”
Dillon stood, drawing Kohen’s gaze from Lang’s fingers. “I don’t know what that’s got to do with anything.” Dillon’s face was more flushed than it had been before, and his unusual eyes blazed with anger.
Kohen stood and patted the air. “Okay, my bad. We can simmer down.” The edge of his mouth quirked into smile as he leaned forward to draw a large checkmark in the center of his notepad.
Stars, what did that mean?
“I have one last question.”
Resisting the urge to check his watch, Lang dipped his head to indicate Kohen should proceed.
“Your holdings are in three key areas, which on the surface, don’t seem all that related. Is there a driving purpose behind each acquisition, or are you simply trying to make more money?”
Lang opened and closed his mouth, flummoxed by the question. He cast a wary eye over the notebook in front of Kohen and then glanced up. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.”
“What’s it all for, Lang?”
Steilang.
Lang spread his hands. “I’m simply running a business. Thankfully, a successful business. I have a board to report to, after all.”
Kohen did not seem satisfied by the answer.
“When will we be able to see the article?” Dillon asked.
“When it’s in print,” Kohen answered with a smug smile.
Dillon turned to Lang. “Isn’t there some sort of vetting process?”
“Only if agreed upon beforehand, but I think you’ll agree my questions were few and your answers fewer,” Kohen said.
Lang nodded toward the door. “Now we are done. Please do not call again.”
“Did you know you forget to use contractions when you’re upset?” Kohen was grinning openly now.
“What?”
“I got under your skin, didn’t I?”
Lang narrowed his eyes and settled a long, penetrating look in Kohen’s direction. “Perhaps it would be best if you left.”
With a thoughtful expression, Kohen gathered up his notebook, shouldered his bag, and did just that.
Chapter Seven
Dillon leaned against the column separating the kitchen from the dining alcove and watched as Lang fed potatoes into his spiralizer. The process was mesmerizing, and Dillon could see how the production of every long, curly string of potato reduced the tension in Lang’s shoulders. Dillon and Upero often teased Lang about his collection of kitchen appliances—Dillon because it was a funny and unexpected hobby, Upero because of the excuses Lang made for purchasing each one. Only two out of the nearly fifty he owned had any real practical application when it came to Lang’s original reason for being on Earth: gathering wealth, resources, and land, and waiting for his Clan to join him in starting a new life.
The arriving Skov (Lang’s clan) might find a use for the preserving kits out on the lonely stretches of prairie he’d acquired for them in Montana. If they planted potatoes, they’d be able to make French fries in all shapes. Everything could be cooked in its own specialty pan. The Supa-Kwik Flash Rotisserie should come in handy—and Dillon wanted to see how a cake was made in it—but none of the sometimes brightly colored gadgets were necessary. People had been turning chickens over open fires with pretty good results for millennia. A modern oven made a tasty roast. Besides, surely people who’d invented stasis pods and interstellar travel had more advanced ways to prepare and store food?
Dillon blinked as Lang held up a curl of potato.
“What I really like about the spiralizer is how even the results are,” Lang said. “The gadget I used before produced curls of varying thickness, which made frying them to an uniform crispness quite difficult.”
Dillon touched his fingers to the side of Lang’s face.
Lang returned his smile. “What?”
“I love it when you talk appliances to me.”
“You’re strange.”
“Mm-hmm.” Dillon tilted forward on his toes to brush a kiss to Lang’s cheek. “So, even potato curls.”
“Yes.”
A weird silence bloomed between them, and Dillon had the feeling they were thinking about different things—him the potatoes, Lang something else entirely.
“Do you want to talk about the interview this afternoon?” Dillon asked.
Sighing, Lang dropped his potato curl. “Not really. But we can if you want to.”
“That guy, Kohen? He was an asshole.”
Lang shuddered as though forming a very literal mental image of Dillon’s words. Then he sighed again. “I didn’t care for his attitude, but I think we managed to redirect him.”
“How do you mean?”
“I would rather not talk about my ‘father’”—who, technically, did not exist—“or where I came from, so I let myself overreact to his questions about our relationship.”
“Ah! Tricky. His q
uestions were kind of intrusive, though.” Dillon had always been open about his sexuality, but what he enjoyed in bed was another matter. An extremely private matter, known only to him and his current lover. He glanced up to meet Lang’s steady brown gaze and smiled. “He was right about what we like. I wonder how he did that?”
Lang shrugged. “It matters not. Will your family be scandalized by an examination of our sex lives?”
Dillon made an expression of distaste. “Ugh. I don’t think so. They’ll probably start texting me with unwarranted advice. They’re way too interested for their own good.”
“It’s nice that they’re invested in your happiness and well-being.”
Answering with a smirk, Dillon turned to fiddle with the pile of potato curls. “So what are we doing with these?”
“I think we’ll fry them and eat them with ketchup. In front of the television.”
Lang’s idea of a perfect night in.
“Do we have to watch the Home Shopping Network? Because I gotta say, your kitchen is full, and I am not renting you the basement at Park Arts.”
Lang laughed. “We can watch whatever you want. Now, tell me about your day.”
Dillon expanded on the brief précis he’d shared earlier. “I’m not sure if I liked the toddler or the senior class more, to be honest. If you’d asked me this afternoon, I’d have said the seniors. They were so damned restful after the crayon-munchers. But the kids were cute.” An uncomfortable prickle stalked the back of his neck as he thought back over the odd episode between himself and a certain parent. His embarrassment was quickly overshadowed by what had happened with Josh later, though.
“The seniors will be fun to watch in development, too. Their talent levels varied, but there were some truly gifted sketch artists in the group.”
“Did everyone enjoy the class?”
“Definitely, and you know what? I don’t care if anyone ever learns how to draw more than a square or a circle.” He shrugged. “As long as they’re having a good time. Art isn’t all about producing something that’s pleasing to look at. It’s the process. The headspace you go into when you create.”
Lang was smiling.
“What?”
“I love it when you talk art to me,” Lang said.
Dillon dipped his head, pleased by Lang’s choice of words.
“You look quite worn out, though. Are you feeling well?”
“Yes and no.”
Lang’s brow wrinkled with concern.
“I already told you I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m wondering if I should try staying awake for two days at a time like you do. I dunno.” Dillon lifted his shoulders in a half shrug. “It’s been months. I’d have thought my body would have figured out a schedule by now.”
“It took me a while to acclimatize myself to the day-night cycle of Earth, even though I had been bred for it. Some habits are more genetic than others, I think. The repair cells can add difficulties, though. They are not adapted to a twenty-four hour clock.”
They’d had this discussion before, several times, but Lang never seemed to tire of it. Dillon suspected he was glad to have someone to talk to about all the otherness in their lives. He’d been so alone and lonely when they’d found each other.
Dillon chewed on his lip for a second or two before broaching the other subject he wanted to talk about, something they discussed a lot less frequently that had plagued him since the afternoon. “Have you felt any different since your infusion of Wren repair cells?”
There were five clans. Lang belonged to the Skov clan, and Dillon’s father had been Wren. In the strict hierarchy of their homeworld, the Wren were the top layer of the cake—and the frosting, if you counted the frosting to be extra. In other words, they had talents the rest of the clan did not. Arayu, the elder who had landed in the middle of Dillon and Lang’s skirmish with the Nay clan last summer, had been able to detect the presence of other people—human and clan. She’d never divulged the full extent of her “extra,” but Dillon had always assumed it stopped just short of mind reading.
Man, he hoped that wasn’t an extra he was developing. The unsettling depth of his emotions lately was troubling enough.
“What do you mean?” Lang asked.
Dillon sucked in a breath. “Like, the Wren talents. Do you feel… extra?”
Rather than scoff, Lang furrowed his brow in concentration for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No, though I will admit I felt so well during the few weeks after my infusion that I might have mistaken the return of my heightened senses for such. Why do you ask?”
“Let me ask you something else, first.”
“Okay.”
“This heightened senses thing, do you ever get a feeling or feel connected to people? Like, not knowing what they’re thinking, but almost. I mean… damn. I’m not explaining this well.”
“You mean, does the increase in our sensitivity heighten our intuition?”
“Yes. That. Except maybe more?”
Lang pushed aside his pile of potato curls and leaned against the counter. “Are you feeling more?”
Dillon bit his lip. Lang was the only person he could have this discussion with, and the only person who wouldn’t laugh if he said yes. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve felt off ever since New Year’s Eve. The lights on the dance floor were already giving me sort of a headache? As if I had an extra head hovering right over my actual one.”
Dillon patted the air around his head, demonstrating the boundaries of his extra head. Lang nodded, either in understanding or urging him to continue.
“Then, in the lounge, afterward, it was like I could feel everyone’s New Year’s Eve vibe, which isn’t weird, right? Everyone was ready for midnight. I didn’t really think about it until I, um, touched someone at the school today.” Dillon sucked on the stud through his tongue.
“What happened?” Lang prompted.
“I… saw something. Felt something.” Rather than relate what he’d seen when he touched Keenan, Dillon moved on to Josh. “Josh and I were talking about kids and whether we wanted them and who would be the fun parent. Before you panic, we were talking about him and Micah.” Mostly. “Josh is starting to think about it, you know? Then we hugged and… He definitely wants kids, Lang. I think a part of the reason he’s been so excited about Park Arts is getting to interact with the toddlers. But there was more. This stream of consciousness.”
Lang returned a blank look.
“Up until he started thinking about his cat, I figured I was projecting my own thoughts on to him.”
“What happened when he started thinking about his cat?”
“You’re really asking me that?”
“It seemed a logical question.”
“No, I mean, you’re following this? You don’t think I’m nuts? Because when I think back, this has been happening for days. On Sunday, at lunch with Mom and my grandmother, I could feel how much they loved me and you, and the idea of us together. And you… Jesus, I do sound insane. Because this is just me being happy, right? Knowing that Josh loves Micah and loves his work, and wants kids someday, is all stuff I already knew about. Like it was obvious that all of my students today were so damned glad to be there. That’s all normal, isn’t it?”
Lang wasn’t nodding. “You’ve only felt this way since New Year’s Eve?”
Dillon shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe? It could be that I’m exhausted.”
Extending a hand, Lang said, “Touch me.”
Dillon eyed Lang’s hand, the three fingers he knew almost as well as his own. The hand that fit easily inside his. The fingers that knew exactly where to touch him, and how. He breathed out. “This is—”
“Not stupid.”
Gazing into Lang’s eyes, Dillon touched his fingers. Worry, concern, hunger, fatigue, and a thousand smaller thoughts similar to the mishmash of daily life lurking in the back of Dillon’s mind. Beneath all of that, he sensed Lang’s focus—his trueness to self. The certainty that his lif
e had meaning. Surrounding his focus, though, was a thread of something Dillon couldn’t identify… and that was when Dillon decided enough was enough. He withdrew his hand and hugged his fingers to his chest.
“What did you feel?” Lang asked.
“You.”
“What else?”
“How do I know if what I felt isn’t stuff I already know? Or how I feel. I’m tired, I’m worried, I’m hungry, and I’m certain of my purpose.”
“Your what?”
“I’m meant to teach art.”
“What am I meant to do?”
Dillon turned his gaze away from the questions in Lang’s dark brown eyes and answered the floor. “You are your purpose.”
“Were you able to read individual thoughts or only gain an impression of them?”
“It’s… I keep wanting to say it’s the feeling of them. Not specifics, but how things make you feel. Certainties are clearer.” Oh, fuck. Dillon’s stomach folded in half as he replayed those last two sentences. He didn’t want this. Not now—not ever.
Lang rubbed his forehead, fingers pushing at his eyebrows before settling over the bridge of his nose. “I think we should consult Upero. Run some tests.”
“Can Upero test for… whatever this is?”
“He can scan for genetic markers. Who we are is coded into our DNA. Which clan.”
“What happens in intermarriage?” Or inter-bonding.
“We do not conceive children the same way you do.”
“I know.” Children were always made out of one strain of DNA or the other. Never both combined. Dillon hadn’t bothered asking why. He didn’t know much about genetics, and while Lang loved a good debate, not one about the rigid societal structure of his people. “I meant how do you choose whose DNA to use?”
“We choose the superior strain.” Lang tapped his smartwatch. “Upero.”
“I am here.”
“Do you have a list of unique genetic markers for the Wren in your database?”
“I do not. I have been monitoring your conversation, however, and believe I may offer an alternative.”
“What do you suggest?” Lang directed the question toward his watch, even though Upero had pickups in the apartment.