Grand Adventures

by Dawn Kimberly Johnson

  Partway through, Seth disappeared, though James heard his voice occasionally wafting through the din. As the small crowd began to dissipate, Dane came over and squatted down. “Mr. Bryant?”

  “James, please.”

  “James. I wanted to ask about one of the paintings, though it wasn’t part of the presentation.”

  James tilted his head, confused. “Which painting?”

  “The one Seth showed Kenneth and me on his cell. He said you meant it as the final piece, but”—he lowered his voice and leaned in—“I want to purchase it for Kenneth instead.”

  “But you’re a priest!” James squeaked.

  “True, but I wouldn’t hang it in here,” Dane said, gesturing around the small chapel. “It would be a private piece only. Maybe in our bedroom,” he mused, his eyes distant for a moment.

  James opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. He closed it, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Seth and Britt usually manage all my sales, but I suppose I could work on another one. I have a few other ideas I could add to the donation, I suppose, instead of that one as my final piece.”

  Dane clapped his hands together and grinned wide. “Wonderful! I’ll speak to your partner—”

  A loud bang and the angry-sounding squawk of a bird cut him off. James jumped, startled, but Dane simply rolled his eyes and glanced over to the old wood-burning stove in the corner.

  James watched as Dane’s eyes grew huge and round. “No!” he yelled. When James turned to see what was going on, they were graced with a loud bird dive-bombing them, flapping its wings, and scratching at anyone stupid enough not to run. Everyone scattered, yelling and waving their arms in the air. He saw Kenneth sprint to the doors and fling them wide open before dropping to the floor as the bird dived straight at him.

  Moments later, the bird was gone, but some of the pews had been toppled. Instead of the anger, or at least irritation, he expected, Kenneth and Dane burst out laughing.

  “You forgot to have the chimney cap installed again, didn’t ya?” Kenneth asked.

  Dane nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks as he observed the mess his chapel was in now.

  Without meaning to, James joined in, knowing that there would be one more painting to add to the auction. Coach and the bird needed their time in the sun, after all.

  What You Will

  TINNEAN

  To Eric and TJ, who inspire not only with their writing, but with their steadfast love for one another.

  I’D ALWAYS wanted children. As an extremely wealthy man, I knew all I had to do was snap my fingers, and within nine months—or nine months after the surrogate I selected became pregnant—I’d have a son or a daughter.

  But I wanted a partner to help me raise that child, especially since 2015 had seen the nationwide legalization of same-sex marriage. I was forty years old and gay, and while I’d had affairs, they had never been with anyone I could see a future with.

  I wasn’t certain I’d ever find him, but then, as I was leaving Georg’s, my friend Hunter’s interior design studio, there he was. Kipp Llewellyn. He was blue-eyed and blond, in contrast to my brown eyes and caramel-colored skin, and twenty years younger. In addition, it turned out he was the son of a business rival.

  I had no intention of letting any of that stop me. Over the course of a year and a half, I wooed him, and when I was certain he’d accept an invitation from me, I asked him out. Within two weeks of that, we were engaged, and a week later, I slipped a ring on his finger.

  OUR SURROGATE became pregnant almost as soon as Kipp and I returned from our honeymoon. We wanted to be in Martinsburg, where Kipp had grown up, for the procedure. It was thanks to Bradley Martin, scion of the founding family and Kipp’s grandfather, that such a state-of-the-art facility was available in such a little city.

  At twenty weeks, the ultrasound showed we were going to have a little girl.

  We went to Chantilly Lace, the restaurant owned and run by my good friend Tony White—Antoine. Kipp and I were able to get a table at such short notice because I happened to be Tony’s silent partner. We had champagne and filet mignon, but no lobster, since we’d learned the hard way that Kipp had a severe allergy to shellfish.

  “Since we’re going to be tied up with being dads pretty soon, how would you like to go to Biru Atimu?” I’d bought the island for us when we were there on our honeymoon.

  “I’d love it!”

  It was a glorious four weeks. I had to be careful I didn’t burn, but Kipp, oddly enough considering his coloring, developed a warm, all-over tan that matched my skin coloring. Because, yes, he persisted in spending all his time outdoors naked.

  And I spent all my time following him, my tongue hanging out at the sight of his tight butt and the sleek lines of his back. And when he would turn around, giving me a view of his cock, I’d drop to my knees and worship it.

  But eventually we had to go home. Our Cessna Mustang was fueled, a flight plan was filed, and we took off.

  KIPP WAS exhausted by the time we disembarked from the private jet in San Francisco. Even though the Cessna was mine, that didn’t make the trip from our private island in the Fijis pass any more quickly, especially considering the refueling stops we’d been required to make.

  “Armitage said she’d have a car waiting for us,” I murmured in his ear. My personal assistant was a jewel beyond price.

  “I’m glad.” He sighed. “We don’t have to do anything tonight, do we?”

  “I thought we’d have dinner in our hotel room, then perhaps shower and go to bed.”

  “Sounds good. I’m sorry to be such a wet blanket.”

  “Never that.”

  “But I know you wanted to go to that photo exhibition.”

  “That’s tomorrow evening.” An up-and-coming photographer, Peabody Grant, was making a name for himself, and if I liked what I saw, I planned to commission him to do a formal photograph of me and my young husband. Our eight-month anniversary was coming up, and I wanted something to commemorate it.

  “Okay.”

  We stepped out of the Jetway and faced an army of reporters. “Mr. Wyndham, would you care to comment on the Richardsons’ divorce?”

  “No.” Aaron Richardson was a poor businessman at best, and the choices he’d made, including this divorce, were sending this company down the tubes.

  “Mr. Llewellyn-Wyndham, do you have any comment? After all, your husband and Mr. Richardson were very… close… at one time.”

  I wasn’t surprised the members of the fourth estate had somehow managed to discover Aaron had been my lover when we were teenagers. As one of the wealthiest men in America, whatever I did was news, even if it had happened more than twenty years before.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Those vultures were almost salivating to hear what he had to say. If it came to that, I was interested too. Although I’d told Kipp a bit about what had happened with Aaron all those years ago, he had never asked about him, and I hadn’t been sure if I should be relieved or concerned.

  Kipp looped his arm through mine, and in spite of how tired he was, he gave me the most adoring smile. “Hyde Wyndham is married to me, and what Aaron Richardson does, whether that’s divorcing his wife—a lovely woman, by the way, who’s always been kind to me—or putting his company on the market—”

  “Wait, wait! His business is going under?”

  “—has nothing to do with us,” he concluded smoothly. He might only be twenty-one, but he was all Llewellyn.

  “One more question! Is it true that you and Mr. Wyndham are planning on starting a family within the next four months?”

  Shit! We’d been trying to keep that under wraps. “We have no comment about that,” I said. “Now, if you gentlemen and ladies will excuse us, we’ve had a long flight.”

  I led Kipp away, the reporters continuing to shout questions after us in spite of their assurances that each one was the last one.

  Kipp leaned into me. “Maybe I should have told them I’m ch
anging my name to my grandfather’s.”

  “It’s as well you didn’t. It’s none of the public’s business.”

  On the concourse, a man stepped forward. “Mr. Wyndham? I’m Graham. I’ll be your driver while you’re in San Francisco.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Do we need to wait for your luggage?”

  “No, it’s been sent on ahead.”

  “Very good, sir. If you’ll follow me?”

  “What hotel will we be staying at, Hyde?” Kipp smothered another yawn.

  “The Deseo del Corazón in Mission Valley.”

  He gave me the sleepy smile that always drove me wild, and I hustled him into the waiting limousine. “Hyde?”

  Graham closed the door, and I drew Kipp against me. “My heart’s desire,” I whispered against his lips, and then I kissed him.

  THE NEXT evening we were late arriving at the gallery. We would have been on time, but Kipp had gone down on me in the shower.

  “I love that you’re not cut,” he murmured before he teased my foreskin. And then he deep throated me, a recent accomplishment of which he was inordinately proud. For a young man who’d been a virgin when we met, he’d taken to gay sex like the proverbial duck to water.

  Afterward, when I was sure I wouldn’t collapse in a heap, I’d asked him what brought that on, and he’d grinned and brushed wet hair out of his eyes. “You were breathing.”

  And I fell more deeply in love with him than ever.

  ONCE WE arrived at the gallery, we accepted flutes of champagne.

  Kipp took a sip, and his face smoothed of all expression—something he’d learned living with Marcus Llewellyn. He looked around for someone to take his flute. “I know you’ve been looking forward to this, Hyde, but if the photos aren’t any better than this champagne….”

  “Mr. Wyndham!” Julian Paget, the owner of the gallery, came bustling up to us. “I’m so glad you’re here!” He looked around, excitement lighting his face as he spotted a couple of men standing before a monochromatic photograph. “Let me introduce you to my best photographer.”

  We strolled over to join them in time to hear the taller of the two snarl, “That isn’t for sale, Henry. I don’t know what you were thinking to even assume—”

  “Maybe because you hide it in the back of the closet? It’s a good photo, and it deserves to be seen!”

  “How good it is isn’t relevant.” He dropped his voice. “It’s not for fucking sale!”

  Paget cleared his throat. “Peabody Grant, this is Hyde Wyndham. He’s interested in commissioning a formal photograph, and I told him you’d be ideal.”

  “I’ll leave you to talk business, Porridge.” Henry stalked off.

  “Mr. Wyndham.” Grant nodded curtly and turned to glare at Paget. “I want this picture taken down now. It never should have been included in this show.”

  “Now, now, Porridge, there’s no need to be hasty. I’ve already had a number of offers for it. I think Henry was right to bring it to me. It’s one of the best things you’ve done.”

  Grant flushed, but it was obvious to me it wasn’t at the compliment.

  “It’s an excellent composition,” I told him. It was of a young man making his way through the storm-tossed surf, a pensive expression on his face. It reminded me strongly of the work done by Gustave Le Gray in the mid-nineteenth century, although Le Gray was more inclined to do seascapes.

  “I took it a few years ago,” Grant said shortly, not giving any further details.

  “I like what you’ve done, and I want you to photograph me and my husband.” I could see he was hesitating. “Cost is no object, and you’d have free artistic rein.”

  “That’s an offer you can’t refuse, Porridge!” Paget enthused.

  It looked like Grant was going to refuse anyway—I would, if people kept referring to me by such a ridiculous nickname—and I turned to Paget. “If you’ll excuse us, Julian?”

  “Oh, but….”

  “Kipp?” The glance I sent him signaled I wanted Paget out of there. All he was doing was interfering with my negotiations.

  “Why don’t I keep you company, Mr. Paget?” He was all innocence. “I’m studying to be an interior designer, you know.”

  “Really? Excellent! I’ll have to see if I can interest you in something!” He gripped Kipp’s arm and hustled him off.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Grant muttered.

  “I always do.” I’d seen the wheels turning. Hyde Wyndham’s husband would have access to unlimited funds, and what kind of taste could such a young man have developed? Paget probably anticipated getting rid of any number of paintings as mediocre as his champagne.

  Kipp wouldn’t mind—he was hardly the sacrificial lamb—and Paget was in for a surprise. Not only did my blue-eyed boy have innate good taste, but before we married, he’d been trained by the owner of Georg’s, who was a master in his own right.

  “Now, Mr. Grant—”

  “You may as well call me Porridge.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and he smiled wryly.

  “As you know, my first name is Peabody. When my younger brother was a toddler, he misunderstood what our nanny read him—‘pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold….’ He thought she was talking about me, and so for him, the leap from Peabody to pease porridge was a simple matter, and the nickname just stuck.”

  “I understand.” I remembered my friends calling me Ham because of my last name.

  “Sorry. That has to be the last thing you want to hear about.”

  “Actually, it’s quite fascinating.”

  “That’s kind of you to say….” But he wasn’t comfortable talking about it. “Why don’t we get down to brass tacks? You say you want me to do a photo shoot of you and your husband?”

  “Yes. Our eight-month anniversary is coming up.”

  “I can do a series of formal photos, but….” He gazed off in the direction Kipp had gone with the gallery owner. “What would you think of something more playful as well? I see your husband as a cowboy, and you as either the professor in a bawdy house or a gambler in a saloon. They would be in sepia tones….”

  I understood why this photographer was on the fast track to fame and fortune. Either scenario pleased me. I could picture Kipp sauntering into the saloon, a six-shooter strapped down to his thigh, approaching me as I sat at a felt-covered table, shuffling cards. Just as easily, I saw him leaning against the piano in the bawdy house, drawn there because of me and not because of any of the ladies.

  I smiled at Porridge. “How much do you want, and how soon will you be available?”

  “INTERESTING NAME—Porridge.” Kipp took off his suit jacket and hung it from the valet.

  “Yes. His younger brother gave him the nickname.”

  “Hmm. I wonder if there’s more there.” He removed his tie and began unbuttoning the white linen shirt he’d chosen to wear with the midnight blue suit.

  “What do you mean?”

  “His boyfriend really wants that photo gone.” He unfastened his belt, then undid his zipper and eased his trousers down over his long legs.

  “Oh?” I admired the scenery as each bit of flesh was revealed.

  “Henry thinks there are some unresolved issues there.”

  “And how did you manage to learn this?”

  “I’ve got a very understanding face. Plus Henry doesn’t have a head for champagne.” Kipp came to me, totally naked. “You’re overdressed.”

  “I am, aren’t I?”

  AFTERWARD, HE nestled his head on my chest. “Will Porridge do our photo?”

  “Yes.” I told him about the cowboy and the gambler/piano-player options as well.

  “Oh, I like that idea! Pardner!”

  I dropped a kiss onto his hair. “Next year I’d like him to do another photo, with the baby.”

  “Our baby!” He leaned up to stare into my eyes, looking dazzled. “Yes!”

  I pulled him down into my arms, pleased he was as happ
y about the baby as I was.

  As for Porridge, I’d gathered he was unhappy with his situation in San Francisco.

  Maybe this would give him the impetus to go home and take care of whatever needed taking care of.

  Air

  (Roads #1.75 million)

  GARRETT LEIGH

  A few months ago, a Facebook post Eric Arvin was tagged in caught my eye. I’d been (Facebook) friends with Eric for a while. Got to know his smile and bizarre taste in music. Clapped my hands for him when the sweetest guy in the world proposed to him.

  TJ’s post and the ones that followed horrified me. Terrified me. Even now I can’t think of Eric and TJ without a burn in my belly. A burn of helplessness. There was/is nothing we can do to make this go away.

  Then Dreamspinner issued a call to arms. Do you have time? Words to spare? Hell yeah. I had the time, I had the words. And I was so fucking in. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.

  I WRENCHED open the apartment door and looked back at Ash. I held out my hand, beckoned him, but he didn’t move.

  “I don’t want to go outside.”

  His voice was hoarse and cracked, like he hadn’t used it for a while. I did a quick calculation in my head. Pete, Ash’s best friend, roommate, and lover, and the only one who could ever get through to him, had been gone since dawn. It was long past noon now. Seven hours of mutinous silence. Yeah, that would do it.

  I tried another tack. I was fast coming to realize that Ash was a stubborn motherfucker and blunt wasn’t cutting it. “Come on. It’s a nice day, all sunny and shit. We could take a walk to the lake. Get some ice cream.”

  “I’m crazy, not six years old, Joe.”

  Joe. He said my name. A giddy rush of relief and achievement passed through me. For the first time in days—no, weeks—I felt certain he knew I was there. “You’re not crazy, Ash. You’re ill.” Ill, not sick. Calling him sick seemed to amuse him in the worst possible way, vindicate whatever horrible shit he was thinking. I tried again. “Come on. What have you got to lose?”