“What do you mean you told your mamaw about what he did to me?”
Arthur unbuckles his seat belt and takes the keys out of the ignition, then stops moving. “I simply told her that I loved you,” he says. “And that Dad yanked you off my bed. And how I was this close”—he makes a gesture with his thumb and pointer finger—”to putting my own father in the hospital.” As Arthur says this, he keeps his eyes on the steering wheel. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so angry in all my life, Lance. I’ve never put my hands on another human being, but if Gary hadn’t come into the room, I’m not sure what I would have done to my dad.”
Arthur has every right to be pissed off, to be angry at his dad, but I’m not sure it’s good for him to hang on to spite like this. I reach for his hand and caress it with mine.
“It was either me or him,” he says. “If I had stayed in that house for a minute longer, I would have ended up killing that man, or myself. I thought if I moved out, I could smooth things over with you, make them better somehow, and you would come back. Living on my own has been weird, you know? My mamaw is the only one who has come over, besides you and Gwen, of course. It’s one of the reasons why I brought Yin and Yang home.”
I smile. “A wise choice.”
“I agree. Let’s go inside. These clothes are hotter ‘n hell.”
“Arthur.” I tug on his hand. “I love you. And I’m here now. So you don’t have to think about that stuff with your dad anymore. He can’t do anything to me. He can’t keep us apart.”
His chest heaves, and he exhales deeply when his back hits the leather interior. “I thought he ruined everything. That you didn’t want anything to do with me because my dad’s an asshole and a homophobe.”
Gwen was right. He did move out because of me. I let go of his hand and reach for the car door. I hope I’m worth it.
The inside of the trailer isn’t as hot as it has been these past few weeks. Arthur has installed an AC unit in the kitchen above the sink, and while we can’t run it all the time, because it freezes, it does help a little. I plop my side bag down onto the counter and go in search of some cold water. Arthur joins me in the kitchen, checking his phone, his backside leaned up against the counter.
Now, I’ve seen him dressed up for church before, but it’s been a while. I’ve never seen him in a tie, though, and my hungry gaze consumes every bit, every crumb of his being, as though he’ll disappear if I blink. Seeing him like this has left me spellbound, for some bizarre reason. He looks so good, his aura so white. The blue shirt brings out his brown eyes, and he’s wearing my favorite cologne.
I reach for his phone—he looks down at me, caught off guard—and place it on the counter. Then I slide my hands up the cotton shirt, my fingers tracing the contours of his body, and undo his tie, his chest quivering underneath my touch. I know he’s fixated on my every movement right now, because his muscles tense every time I fidget with a button, but I don’t dare look at him.
A brief moment later, he bends forward, his lips finding mine, and he kisses me softly. When I lean into the kiss, he grabs at the back of my shirt, knotting it in his hands, his restraint clearly waning. The urgency in his kisses tells me that he needs—no, wants—this as much as I do. Arthur’s guarded exploration of my body begins once he finds the hem of my shirt and forces it out of the way. I relish the sensation of skin against skin as he cautiously navigates his way across my stomach and over the scars on my chest.
When he finally removes my T-shirt, it’s as much of a shock to me as it is him, like I’m just now seeing my chest for the first time. We stare at each other, trying to figure out what we should do next, where we should go.
So I lead him over to the futon and sit next to him, my mind unbuttoning his shirt faster than my fingers are capable of doing. I never once thought we’d make it this far. I push his shirt off his shoulders and crawl onto his lap, mounting him between my thighs.
“Lance,” he murmurs in between moans.
My body is screaming for his, but I’m not sure if it’s the right time to be heard. If I remove his undershirt, I know I won’t be able to stop myself, and I’m not sure I want to anymore. Confusion is bleeding into my wanting. I have no idea what I’m doing.
Then suddenly, his heavy frame is on top of me, his hands everywhere, leaving no spot untouched, like he’s feeling around in the darkness. When he traces the waistline of my pants with trembling fingers, I gasp, my breath caught somewhere in between denial and desire. Are we really doing this?
“Are we really doing this?” he whispers, as if he’s just read my mind, his lips grazing my neck. “Because it doesn’t feel real.”
‘It doesn’t feel real.’ He removes my pants and presses his knee between my legs, never taking his eyes off mine, my own desire reflected in big brown irises. His hands clamp onto my hips and he pushes himself into me, grinding his cock into my swollen labia, all traces of sweetness gone, replaced by a vicious hunger.
“Arthur,” I finally say, somewhat disoriented from the last several minutes of rubbing and prodding and kissing.
“Right,” he says shakily, suddenly withdrawing from my arms. “I’m sorry. I’m gonna go take a shower.”
“No.” I reach for his hand. “Don’t go.”
“Look, you have to let me walk away if we’re going to do this, because I want you so bad right now that I can’t see straight.”
“Okay,” I whimper. He gets up from the futon then heads toward the bathroom. I flop my head back into the cushion, my skin still ablaze from his scorching touch. He acts like I don’t want him as badly as he wants me. If only he knew how many times I’ve touched myself thinking about his lips, his chest, the body underneath those jeans.
“Will you bring me a towel?” he calls from the shower. “Lance?”
When I walk into the hot, steam-filled room, I notice a folded towel sitting on the edge of the sink, and he opens the sliding door, giving me a look that nearly brings me to my knees.
“Why don’t you get in here with me?” he asks, then closes the glass door. “You don’t have to take your boxers off.”
I turn around, hang the towel on the back of the door and lay my hand against the warm glass. I want this. I deserve this. I deserve to be happy.
As soon as my foot hits the shower floor, Arthur’s body presses against mine and our desire springs to life again, blooming open like a garden under the sun. His mouth is a cyclone, spiraling kisses landing haphazardly across my neck and chest. I can’t tell if I’m breathing anymore because I’m getting so caught up in his body, in his movements, in our shared desire.
When I curl my fingers around his erection, Arthur places his palms on the wall above my head, this time allowing me to do what I want with his body. I get on my knees and fill my mouth with the length of his cock, his hips thrusting into my face with so much force I have to brace myself, using his thighs to steady my balance. When I finally feel the backs of his legs become taut, I look up at him expectantly through the falling water, and his hands gently lift me from the floor of the tub, seconds before his jism spills onto my thigh.
One minute he’s standing next to me, the next he’s on his knees, splashing handfuls of water on my leg. He stops once it’s clean and kisses my calves, his mouth eventually moving upward along my inner thigh, stopping at the hem of my shorts. I dig my hands into his hair, now thinking I should have taken them off.
“I would never ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable doing, I hope you know that.”
I nod, almost too enraptured to speak. “I know.”
“But I want to make love to you.” I don’t say anything, too stunned by his words, by the dizzying effect they have over me. “You can follow me into the bedroom if you want, but I’ll understand if you don’t, and I won’t ask you again.”
Arthur leaves the bathroom and I stay in the shower until the water runs cold. When I get out, I see a pair of dry shorts resting on the sink, next to the towel. I remove my wet shorts and
wrap the towel sitting on the sink around my waist. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, or what the hell I should do. But I leave the bathroom anyway.
I rest my hand on the bedroom door and pause briefly, trying to think of a single reason why I shouldn’t do this.
But I can’t.
When I open the door, Arthur turns around, still wearing a towel.
Without thinking I chuck mine out of the way, onto the floor, and say, “I’ll get that later.”
Arthur is by my side in a matter of seconds, dropping to his knees immediately.
“Wait, what?” I ask.
He positions himself in front of me, grabbing my ass for balance, and shoves his mouth into my bush, his tongue lapping at my clit slowly and deliberately. I’m already past the point of being overripe, moist and ready to rupture at any moment—it won’t take much for me to climax if he keeps doing this. He sucks the soft flesh between my legs, and I can’t help but rock back and forth against his chin. My nails dig into his shoulders, and the insides of my body explode, a mixture of spit and cum running down my thighs.
When I extract his mouth from my cunt, his lips are red and puckered and he’s flushed with desire. I help him to his feet and lure him toward the bed. He props himself up against a pillow and I run my hands across his stomach, absorbing all of the splendor of the moment. His cock is ready for me again, and I go to put it in my mouth, but he stops me before I reach him.
“I don’t want to make things awkward or ruin the mood,” he says, his voice husky. “But would you put this on me?”
Morgan’s vision at the lake house, the one about babies and Gwen being an aunt, pops into my head, and I greedily accept the circular piece of latex.
“You’re not making things awkward. Safe sex is hot sex, dude.”
This isn’t the first condom I’ve put on someone, either—or the second, or the third—so I unroll it with ease, pinch it and slide it down his shaft. His breathing has gotten haggard, and I know by the way he’s shivering that he wants me as much as I want him. When that’s done, I spit in my hand, even though I’m plenty wet down there, and make my way toward him.
“Wait, are you sure? Do you need me to—”
I shake my head. “No, I’ve been practicing with…something. It should be fine.”
“You mean a vibrator, or something like that?” he asks, his eyes now brimming with curiosity.
“Yes,” I say, sliding closer to him. “Something like that.”
“God, that’s so fuckin’ hot. Is it here?” Arthur is really interested in my dildo all of a sudden. “You have it here, somewhere?”
“In a makeup bag, under the futon,” I answer him. “But I’m more interested in you at the moment.”
Arthur nods. “I don’t know how big your toy is, but this might hurt a little. I’ll be gentle.”
“This isn’t my first time being with a man,” I reply. “But it has been a few years, so slow at first is probably best.”
I didn’t tell Gwen everything that happened with Todd. She’s my sister, for God’s sake.
Arthur stops talking after that, kissing me instead, and I climb on top of him, inserting his cock into my front hole. Going slow isn’t even an option, I decide a few seconds in, because it doesn’t hurt at all. All pleasure, no pain. I kiss his half-open mouth and grab his shoulders. His moans and the way he keeps his eyes glued to me heighten my arousal, and I come within minutes of riding him. He must have been really pent-up, too, because shortly after my second orgasm he arches his back, and I slide up and down his cock until it’s too sensitive to touch. We roll over, lying on our backs for a moment, and I get up to use the bathroom.
Making love to Arthur was everything I’d dreamed it would be, and then some. I feel like I’m walking on clouds.
When I return to his room, Arthur’s pulling on a pair of jeans, and this makes me very aware that I’m walking around the house naked. I look down at my body and cross my arms, then turn to leave his room. He gets up suddenly and rushes to block the only way out.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Move.”
His eyes wander up and down my body. “Just looking at my insanely sexy boyfriend.”
“Shut up,” I mumble, now feeling thoroughly self-conscious. “Move.”
“I’m being serious, Lance. That was the best sex I’ve ever had. I’m just sorry it didn’t last that long.”
“Me too.” I sigh. “But I came like three times, so it didn’t bother me.”
His eyes widen. “Jesus. Three times?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Three.”
He wraps his arms around my neck and kisses the side of my head. “God, your body is incredible.”
* * * *
A couple of hours later, Arthur and I make supper together.
As weird as it sounds, we haven’t really discussed the sword that’s now propped up against a bookshelf in the living room. My hope is that during our meal I can broach the topic with caution. Gwen and I were supposed to do it yesterday, but she’d gotten called into work for a double, and it hadn’t happened.
“So,” I say. Arthur turns around, hands full of bits of tomato and lettuce. “I’ve been meaning to ask. When did you get that tattoo?”
Arthur’s gaze shifts from mine toward the ink on his arm. “Oh, this? A few months ago, I guess. Right after my last fencing tournament. A few of us went out one night, and everyone was supposed to get one, but only Tiffany and I actually went through with it. Fuckin’ hurt like hell.”
Right after moving here from Indiana, his freshman year of high school, Arthur had joined the fencing team and had begun making a name for himself almost immediately. The coaches had seemed annoyed by this at times, but everyone else on the team had admired his ability to fly and lunge at the same time. Now that he has a magickal sword sitting in his trailer, it all makes perfect sense—his talent is another piece to this cosmic puzzle.
“Why?” he asks, setting a plate down on the coffee table. “Is it because you think it’s a sick tat?”
“Don’t call your tattoos ‘tats’, please. You sound like a frat boy. And I’m asking because we need to talk about something. Here, let me get that for you.” I take the pitcher of iced tea from his hands. “But we can talk about it after we eat.”
“Okay. Do you want the rest of this arugula? I think it probably needs to get eaten, and you know how I feel about wasting food.”
“Absolutely not. It tastes straight up like grass. You should just pitch it. Why do you have so much weird food in the fridge anyway? Are you on a diet or something?”
Arthur huffs. “Why? Do I need to lose weight?” he asks. “Are you calling me fat?”
“No,” I reply, wounded. “You know I would never say that. But you have soy milk in there and veggie dogs.”
Arthur hands me a plate and takes a seat next to me. “Yeah, because I don’t eat real hot dogs anymore. Can you scoot over a little? I don’t want to spill this on your lap.” He then reaches across the table for a bottle of ranch. “I don’t eat pork or beef, man. I don’t eat any of it anymore, not since you posted that goddamn video of those pigs in that crate thing.”
I stare at him. “How long?”
“I dunno. Eight, nine months? The boys at work used to give me shit about it at first.” He laughs. “But now when we go out they won’t eat anywhere that doesn’t serve at least a grilled cheese sandwich or a salad.” My eyes don’t leave his. “What? I like pigs.” I don’t ask him if he’s doing this for me or for himself, and take a bite of my taco instead. “But I’ll tell you…I fuckin’ hate arugula, and I had to learn how to cook tofu real fast.”
After dinner Arthur washes the dishes and I read through my notebook. Gwen and I have made a list of things that I could say to open the conversation, things that might make it less awkward, but at this point, I think I’m just going to take the plunge. He found a fucking sword in a flaming body of water, for God’s sake.
I walk over to the boo
kshelf and take the sword into my hands. Nausea hits my stomach as soon as the hilt touches my palm, forcing me to stumble backward into the wooden shelves, knocking an entire row of books onto the floor. When my eyes return to the sword that didn’t just slip out of my hand, but struggled to get away from me, it’s standing upright as if being held by an invisible hand, and the tip of the sword is pointing toward the old Celtic cross on the wall. The one that had freaked out when I said I didn’t need to protect myself.
“Lance!” Arthur shouts. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “But look.” I gesture at the dangling sword and that cross that’s now swinging with abandon, and by the look on Arthur’s face, I’m guessing I won’t need a list after all.
Chapter Thirteen
The Holy Sites
Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi. Gram. Durendal. Hauteclere. Thuận Thiên. Excalibur.
Swords have been on my mind ever since the incident at the lake house, and I’ve spent most of my free time lately researching them, so much that it’s become a slight obsession.
Thanks to the Internet and role-playing games such as Dungeons & Dragons, most folks interested in legends and mythology are aware of magical weapons and the implications of their lore. Not to mention, mythical swords containing great power have been sung about in ballads and honored in epic poems throughout the ages, from Japan to France to Vietnam. Finding information on this stuff has been easy—processing it, not so much. These swords capable of leveling entire cities, swords that liberated the oppressed, swords that drew their power from thunder and lightning, the heavens themselves—all were awesome weapons that supposedly brought the person wielding them valor and victory. Invincibility and notoriety. How my best friend fits into any of this, I still don’t know.
Among the many magickal swords that I’ve researched over these past few days, one stands out as being the sword that brought both light and damnation into the world—Excalibur. The very sword sitting in Arthur’s trailer, the very sword that he drew from a goddamn lake. While there are numerous tales out there regarding this specific sword, they all end with Arthur Pendragon, King of the Britons, dying. The bards of old left us with one ultimate, unmistakable message—once discovered, there’s little hope of keeping Arthur alive.
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