by Xavier Mayne
“All she did,” Brandt added, “was whip Mrs. Hendricks into a frenzy of homophobic ranting. Which the Swiss take a pretty dim view of.” He smiled at Kerry. “She knew just where to stick the knife.”
She laughed modestly. “I may have idly mentioned that I imagined Trevor’s legs were probably getting more action than they’d seen in a long while, seeing as they were probably writhing against Sandler’s shoulders.”
“Wooo!” Sandler hooted. “That probably put her right over the edge.”
“It probably would have,” Brandt said, “but just to be sure, our demure Ms. Mercer drove the point home with a pantomime of frenzied pelvic thrusting.”
“Sexy,” growled Trevor. Then he dissolved into laughter with the rest of the group.
“Thank you, sir,” Kerry replied, with a delicate curtsey. “Your mom launched into a five-minute highlight reel of every batshit conservative Internet rant about the homosexual agenda you’ve ever seen. It was epic. And by the end of it, the chief inspector was wiping Mama Hendricks’s spittle off her uniform and backing away slowly. Her credibility was gone, and so was any chance that the police would start chasing y’all down for the abduction of someone who was clearly better off on his own.”
“I hinted I might be able to find you two,” Brandt continued, “and the chief inspector agreed not to start a manhunt if you contact her office in the morning. She gave me a hell of a look—like she figured if she searched the trunk of my car she’d probably find you hiding there—but there was no way she wanted to get Mrs. Hendricks any more wound up. So she let us slide.”
“The fact that you flashed her your badge didn’t hurt,” Kerry added.
“Well played, both of you,” called Sandler, clapping joyfully.
“You guys are awesome,” Donnelly chimed in, kissed Brandt again and even laid one on each of Kerry’s cheeks.
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Brandt warned. “We still have that hearing tomorrow. We’ll need to prepare for that.”
“You mean we”—Sandler pointed to himself and Trevor—“will have to prepare for it. You three need to get to a little castle in Devon for someone’s wedding.”
“There’s no way we’re leaving you until we’re sure you’re safe,” Donnelly said without hesitation. “Right, Ethan?”
“As I always say, the right thing and the legal thing are almost always the same. And that’s the case here, since the chief inspector asked us not to leave Geneva until the hearing is concluded. She felt the judge might have some questions for us. So I gave her my word as a fellow officer. Plus,” Brandt said, pulling Donnelly close to him again, “we won’t leave until you’re safe, Trevor.”
“But you’re getting married in two days!” Sandler objected.
“Plenty of time,” Donnelly said. “I’ll call the travel agent in the morning, and we’ll work it out. We’ll do the hearing, hop on a plane or train or whatever, and get married the next day. Easy.”
Brandt slapped his palm to his forehead and closed his eyes. “You know better than to say that, Gabriel.”
“C’mon, where’s your spirit? Eventually something has to go as planned, right?”
Whitford Castle, Devon, England
“BUT THERE’S no one here,” Bryce repeated for the third time, his voice rising to a register normally reserved for the bleachers of a wrestling tourney when a singlet malfunction exposes something unexpected.
“Well, you’re here,” the general manager of the property replied. “As if you’d let any of us forget it,” she added under her breath.
“But the wedding is the day after tomorrow,” Bryce continued, his panic unabated.
“Which you have pointed out every hour since the sun came up.”
“But where are the grooms?”
“When they called, they said they were needed in Geneva for a day or two, and then they would come right here.”
“But the rehearsal is tonight. Where are the guests?”
“As I believe I’ve explained twice already today, there’s a volcano in Iceland that—”
“We are quite aware that some pile of rocks and lava in Iceland does not want our dear troopers to be wed,” Bryce growled. “But I have never been one to let reality get in the way of the way things should be.” He took a deep breath and patted his already perfect coiffure. “Now, I have no doubt that the grooms are making their way here as we speak, very likely fighting crime and saving puppies from burning buildings along the way. But in case they are delayed, we must make alternative plans for the rehearsal.”
She looked up from her paperwork with a sigh. “What do you suggest?” There was a distinct lack of curiosity in her voice.
“I was thinking that we might recruit a couple of the locals to stand in for the happy couple. That way everyone else will be able to know their parts.”
She drooped as if exhausted. “It’s a wedding, love. The grooms will stand at the front. No one else has a part.”
Bryce gasped as if he’d been cut from the cast in a last-minute rewrite before opening night. “I must ask to speak with the director.”
The general manager’s face lit up. “That’s a terrific idea. Let me call the chapel director, and you can tell him all about your concerns, and your plans, and your hopes and dreams. Tell him all of that.” She grabbed up the phone and stabbed at the buttons. “Arthur, I have some people here who absolutely need to see you. Yes, right away. It’s urgent.”
“There we are,” Bryce sighed, satisfied. “I told you we’d get this all taken care of. Our distress will finally be lifted.”
Nestor, who did not seem to have been laboring under anything like distress, smiled and patted Bryce’s hand lovingly.
“NO. NO, no, no!” Bryce cried. “Cut! Cut!”
Arthur sighed deeply and rubbed his brow, as he had repeatedly over the last two hours. “We don’t say ‘cut’ during a wedding rehearsal,” he said. Again.
“But it’s all wrong,” Bryce protested.
“What, exactly, is all wrong?” Arthur asked, gesturing at the head of the aisle, where stood the two farm laborers Bryce had recruited to stand in for Brandt and Donnelly.
“They’re not standing correctly.”
Arthur threw his hands up and sat with a plop into a pew at the back of the chapel.
“Excuse me, sir,” the farmhand playing Brandt said softly. “What’s wrong with the way we’re standing?”
“You don’t look…,” Bryce said, struggling to find words that these simple folk would understand. “You’re not standing like you’re in love.”
The farmhands exchanged a look.
“That’s it,” Bryce cried. “That’s what’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” the one playing Donnelly asked.
“The kilts. They’re all wrong.”
Both farmhands looked down at their legs. They shrugged.
“Don’t move,” Bryce ordered, marching down the aisle. When he reached the dais at the front, he stood between the grooms, glanced from one to the other several times, then tipped his head to one side, then the other. “Yes, that’s the problem.” He fell to his knees. “Now, I’m a professional, so please don’t move.” Without warning, he thrust his hands up under the kilt of the Brandt stand-in and grasped the young man’s underwear. With a quick flick of his limber wrists, he sent them flying down to his ankles. He turned and did the same to the other groom.
They stood at the front of the chapel with their boxers pooled around their ankles, unable to speak. Bryce stepped back and appraised their new look.
“Yes, that’s much better,” he said, nodding. “Now, if you would kick your knickers over to Nestor for safekeeping, we can get on with the show.”
The grooms obediently stepped out of their underwear and handed them to Nestor, who spirited them away. They wouldn’t be getting those back.
“Excellent,” Bryce said. “That’s the authentic look we were lacking. Oh, and one more thing. I happened to notice,
during my momentary explorations a moment ago, that you”—he pointed to the Brandt stand-in—“were already getting into the spirit of true love. Now, if I know anything about wedding-induced boners—and I know a lot—I think that you are practicing something more than method acting when you look at your friend here.”
The poor boy flushed bright red and studied the floor.
“Ah, yes.” Bryce turned to the other farmhand. “Now you, were you aware that he felt this way? About you?”
The startled young man shook his head, the blood draining from his face.
“And yet earlier this evening, when I required you to put the kilts on, I noticed that once his pants came off, you couldn’t tear your eyes away.”
It was his turn to blush. They were now a matched set.
“Perfect,” Bryce hooted, bouncing up and down, clapping. “Now, let’s begin again.”
Bryce took the position of the wedding officiant and began the vows once more. This time there were two blushing grooms shifting nervously in their kilts, the outline of something more sometimes visible as they did.
“Now, you may kiss,” Bryce concluded happily, and watched as the two farmhands regarded each other warily, no more than a foot of distance between them.
“I said now.”
They drew near one another, in kilts and in front of God and Bryce himself, they shared their first kiss.
Applause, from Bryce and Nestor and even Arthur, echoed through the chapel. It lasted almost as long as the kiss.
“If you two boys would like to further explore what you’ve begun here,” Bryce said lightly, as if suggesting a glass of lemonade, “Nestor and I would be happy to host you. In our room.”
The farmhands looked shyly at each other. “I think we’d like that,” the Brandt stand-in murmured.
“Perhaps we would,” the Donnelly stand-in agreed.
“Arthur, do you have plans for the evening?” Bryce called up the aisle.
Arthur laughed. “My days of breaking in farm labor are well behind me, Bryce. But you enjoy yourselves.”
“We shall,” Bryce assured him. “We shall.”
Hôtel Genève
“I LOVE you more at this moment than I ever have before,” Donnelly said, gazing over the coffee table in the sitting room, the light of the dawning sun warm on his face.
“You’re just high on endorphins and caffeine,” Brandt replied.
“For the caffeine I thank the good people of Guatemala,” Donnelly said, holding his cup high. “And for the endorphins I thank you. You really ripped me up this morning.”
“Ew, guys,” Kerry said, sitting up in the fold-out bed where she’d spent the night. “I’m as big a fag hag as the next girl, but even I have limits.”
“While you were busy holding down that pillow and snoring, we were down in the gym lifting. Some of us care how we look,” Brandt replied, then took a sip of coffee. “Girl, please.”
Donnelly’s mouth dropped open. “Did my butch fiancé just throw shade?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Brandt said coolly. He turned back to looking out the window.
Donnelly thought he saw a flash of a smile, but it disappeared so quickly he couldn’t be sure. He wondered when Brandt would cease to surprise him—he hoped that day would never come.
“Just so you know, he wasn’t like this when you weren’t around,” Kerry said to Donnelly.
“Like what?”
“You know, fun.” Kerry burst out laughing.
“Shut up about my fiancé,” cried Donnelly, who picked up a throw pillow and threw it at Kerry’s head. Several other pillows followed in kind, and the melee only wound down when an errant pillow threatened to upend the coffee tray.
Brandt seemed ready to scold them when the phone rang. “Yes?” he said into the receiver, then fell silent for a moment.
Donnelly watched his expression cloud as he listened. Whatever he was hearing through the phone had him concerned.
“Please, send him up.” Brandt replaced the receiver, then looked over at Donnelly. “We have a visitor.”
“Who?” Donnelly replied. “The only people we know in Geneva are chief inspectors, doctors of questionable ethics, and homophobic psychopaths.”
“And, apparently, someone from the embassy.”
“The US Embassy sent someone? Holy shit, what for?”
“Not the US Embassy. The British.”
“The British Embassy? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either, and the front desk seemed just as confused. She said a man got out of a diplomatic car with union jacks waving on the fenders and asked for our room. Actually, he asked for Sandler’s room. And… yours.”
Donnelly was trying to figure out how to respond when there was a knock at the door.
“Since he asked for you, it’s probably most appropriate for you to answer,” Brandt said.
“Can you hang on a sec, chief?” Kerry asked, leaping up from the fold-out sofa. In a ninja-like blur of motion, she tied a robe around her waist, threw the bed linens into rough order, folded the bed back into the sofa, and arranged the pillows on top. It took her no more than twelve seconds. “I call first shower,” she said lightly as she walked past them and into their bedroom.
“If I’m perfectly honest, she terrifies me,” Donnelly said as she closed the bedroom door behind her.
“Me too,” Brandt said with a good-natured shudder.
Donnelly went to the door and laid his hand on the knob. He paused and looked back at Brandt.
“Well, open it,” Brandt said. “That could be Prince Charming on the other side!”
Donnelly rolled his eyes and pulled the door open.
It was Imre.
“Gabriel,” he cried, his refined diplomatic accent paired with a delighted inflection.
“Imre?” Donnelly replied, staggered. “Imre, come in, come in.” He held the door open for the diplomat to enter.
“Thank you.” Imre strode elegantly into the room, embraced Donnelly, and planted a kiss on each cheek. “It’s only been a couple of days—how can you possibly have gotten younger and better looking?”
“Stop it, you,” Donnelly said, blushing.
“Ah, unless I miss my guess, this is how,” Imre said, walking over to Brandt. “You must be Gabriel’s fiancé.” He extended his hand, which Brandt took—but not before shooting Donnelly a look that asked some uncomfortable questions. “I am sorry to call so early, but although Birkin’s message afforded me precious little in the way of detail, it did ask me to make all possible haste. I came right from the train station. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, not at all,” Donnelly replied, trying to regain his balance. “Imre Romanov, this is Ethan Brandt. Ethan, I met Imre on the ship when Sandler’s diplomatic pouch went missing. Imre’s the one who found it.”
“I’m the one who stole it, he means,” Imre told Brandt.
Brandt’s raised eyebrows conveyed that the questions in his head had multiplied.
“Well, technically, because Imre is officially attached to the mission originating the pouch, it wasn’t a violation of the Vienna Convention,” Donnelly said helpfully. “Plus it was sort of meant for him anyway, so all he really did was receive it early. Technically.”
“Thanks for that… clarification,” Brandt said slowly, still taking the measure of the diplomat who had burst into their midst.
“Imre, can I pour you some coffee?” Donnelly offered.
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
“Here you go,” Donnelly said, handing Imre a cup. “Now, I’ll go let Sandler know you’re here. I’m sure he’ll want to untangle himself and come right in to see you.”
“Oh, is he still carrying on with that waiter?” Imre asked with a laugh. “That’s a level of service the cruise line should include in their advertising.”
“Actually, Ankur’s probably on his way home to India right now, so he can marry the nice girl his parents
have chosen for him. He was quite looking forward to that.”
“Well, how… versatile he turned out to be,” Imre replied with a smile.
“There seems to have been quite a cast of characters on this ship,” Brandt observed blandly. “I wonder if I’ve heard about all of them now.”
“I don’t know… have I mentioned Fabienne?” Donnelly asked as he bustled past on his way to roust Sandler.
“I don’t think so,” Brandt said.
“Oh, you would remember Fabienne,” Imre added, laughing.
This did not seem to reassure Brandt.
Donnelly knocked on the door to the smaller bedroom. “Sandler?” There was no response. He knocked more firmly. “Sandler? Trevor?”
There was inchoate mumbling from within. Donnelly looked back at Imre and Brandt. “I’m going in,” he said bravely. He pushed open the door and slipped into the dark room. “Sandler? Imre’s here.”
In the light filtering through the drawn curtains Donnelly could see Sandler sit up in bed.
“He’s here? Already?”
“He said he came straight from the train station.”
“I only called him last night when Brandt told us about the hearing tomorrow. He must have dashed out the door as soon as we hung up.”
“It seems like he really wants to help.”
“It seems like we could really use the help,” Sandler said, throwing back the covers.
“Hey” came a plaintive voice from the other side of the bed. “It’s cold.”
“Sorry, love,” Sandler said, leaning over to kiss Trevor. “Do you want me to tuck you in nice and tight?”
“That I can do. Getting you to take your loud conversation outside so I can get back to sleep? Now that’s something I need help with.” He grabbed the covers and rolled over, cocooning himself in the downy duvet.
“Sorry, I guess he’s a little crabby in the mornings,” Sandler said with a chuckle. “His mom used to get him up every morning before dawn for a nice cold enema.”
“And thank you for sharing that with everyone,” Trevor said from under the covers.