by J. M. Snyder
“Tell him!” she insisted.
Remy frowned into the phone. “Kate, we’ll be gone two whole weeks. I’ve already paid in advance. I can’t just drive him home when you return—”
“So you get him for two weeks,” Kate said. “Big deal. I have him the other fifty out of the year. Just bring him back before school starts up again after New Year’s. Tell Lane I love him.”
“Kate—”
Raising her voice, she hollered, “Lane, I love you!”
Remy held the phone away from his ear and winced. With a laugh, Lane said, “Love you, too! Can’t wait to meet your son!” To Remy, he asked, “When do we pick him up?”
Through the phone, Kate’s tinny voice replied, “Tonight’s good. We’re home. Just come on by whenever and I’ll have him ready.”
As Remy hung up the phone, he felt his hands begin to shake. He folded them together in an effort to keep them still. What had happened to his plans for a lovers’ getaway in the woods? To introducing his lover to his son in a few months? To relaxing for the next two weeks instead of babysitting?
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to watch his son—any other time, he would take Braden in a heart beat. And Kate needed a break, he knew she did. But what about him? What about Lane? This Christmas was supposed to be just the two of them, together. How could they be intimate with an eight-year-old boy underfoot?
He had been planning this for months and now, suddenly, everything he had hoped for or dreamed of was gone. Up in smoke. How had he lost control without even putting up a fight?
Chapter 2
Until Lane Anders met Remy, he had never been lucky in love. He could count the number of “real” relationships he’d had on one hand, with a finger left over. He always knew he was gay, but he didn’t actually admit it to anyone until college. So all through middle and high school, he didn’t date.
It wasn’t until his senior year, when he started working nights at Wal-Mart in the stock room, that he even let himself be attracted to another guy. There it was relatively safe—Jamie had gone to a different school, and had graduated the year before, so no one Lane knew outside of work knew Jamie. Their relationship blossomed during breaks and after their shifts ended, when the two of them would sit in the front seat of Jamie’s battered old Toyota Corolla, the windows up and the radio loud, smoking cigarettes and the occasional reefer and shooting the shit. At some point, Jamie’s hand found its way onto Lane’s knee, and their time together progressed to a make-out session in the deserted parking lot after hours. One time Jamie unzipped Lane’s jeans and gave him a sloppy blowjob—Lane came from the excitement and not from any real skill on Jamie’s part—but that climax was the only one. Soon after, Jamie was fired for stealing and, when the store pressed charges, he spent a couple years in jail. Lane saved up his money and graduated to go to a college out of state. He never heard from or saw Jamie again.
In college, Lane embraced his sexuality, but he was still awkward and gawkish around sexy guys. There was one in particular, a year or two older than he was, who caught his eye. Tommy Mason had casually mussed hair and soulful eyes, and once Lane noticed him, he seemed to be everywhere on campus. Partying in the freshman dorm where Lane stayed, hanging out in the cafeteria between classes, browsing the bookstore and library. Wherever Lane went, Tommy seemed to follow. It wasn’t until he came back from winter break his first year that Lane realized why Tommy seemed to be everywhere. Because he had a twin, just as heart-breakingly gorgeous, named Timmy.
Sophomore year, Lane wound up on a dormitory floor with the twins just down the hall. Things moved quickly after that—at a party on their floor, Tommy came onto Lane and the two ended up in Lane’s narrow bed, fumbling beneath disheveled clothing in the dark. Or had it been Timmy? Lane wasn’t sure, and soon both brothers took turns vying for his affection. Lane didn’t know who he liked better—and, since they both liked him, he didn’t much care which one he was with. As long as he wasn’t alone, and the Mason boys saw to that.
Eventually, though, Lane knew he would have to choose. Unfortunately, the Masons transferred or graduated or dropped out, he never really could figure out exactly which, but they left the campus and made the choice for him. He never saw either twin again. He knew sometimes he’d strike out on his quest for true love, but two at one go? It was crushing.
After college, he stayed in Virginia. His parents wanted him to move back to New Jersey, but he liked Richmond and especially liked the fact that it didn’t snow nearly as much as it did back home. He liked snow just fine, but only when it was falling. When it accumulated on the ground and piled up into dirty drifts, he was ready to be done with it. The Virginia summers were a bit warmer than he liked, but he could always go back home to visit when he wanted.
His first job after getting his degree was as a draftsman for a local planning firm. There he met Reggie—and really fell in love for the first time. Reggie was as tall as Lane, with large hands and large feet, and a large, booming laugh that seemed infectious. He wore his dark, kinked hair cropped close to his scalp, and his eyes were the same rich color of Hershey’s kisses. He was Lane’s first lover—no more frantic handjobs or half-hearted blows, but fully nude, wrapped together in bed, pinned to the sheets lover. Reggie was the first guy Lane ever let in, all the way, and when Reggie was above him, filling him, loving him, Lane felt the rest of the world disappear.
In the mornings, he would lay quietly and watch Reggie sleep. The early light cast an ashiness over Reggie’s warm, mocha skin, making him look frail and small. But when Lane reached beneath the covers and stroked his lover’s limp penis, teasing it erect, the illusion shattered. Reggie would barely crack open his eyelids, just enough to see Lane watching him, and a slow, languid smile would slide across his face. “Someone wants some loving this morning,” he’d murmur, his voice gravelly with sleep.
Lane would tug on Reggie’s dick, tweaking it awake. “Only if you’re up for it.”
“Boy, with you, I’m always up.” And Reggie would pounce, tackling Lane to the bed, holding him there with hungry kisses as their hips ground together deliciously.
* * * *
At first, Lane thought what he had with Reggie was it. Real, everlasting, forever. They even talked of moving in together—it wouldn’t be much of a stretch, since they shared a bed as often as possible. But one evening Reggie said he had to head back to the office for some last-minute work on a grant application due the next day, and in his haste, he left his cell phone behind. Lane didn’t even notice it, tucked between the cushions of the couch, until it beeped a few minutes after Reggie was gone. Lane heard the sound and dug out the phone. He glanced at the screen and read, Where R U baby? M horny 4 U.
The name displayed was Shanice, a woman their firm contracted with to do labor compliance paperwork on federally funded projects. Lane had met her a few times. What was she doing texting Reggie?
Maybe she had the wrong number. It was a stretch, but Lane could think of a scenario where she might have Reggie’s cell saved in her phone—compliance-related questions when Reggie was in the field, perhaps. And she was waiting for a friend or lover to show up, so she sent the text without even realizing she’d sent it to the wrong contact…
The phone beeped again, this time in his hand. Lane glanced down and read, Reg babe U cuming or whut? My pussy’s hot.
He threw the phone on the couch, his face burning with embarrassment and shame. No, she had the right number. How long had Reggie been playing him? How long had he hoped to carry on without Lane finding out?
That was the end of their relationship. At work the next day, Reggie was already at his desk when Lane came in. He went straight to Reggie’s office and, dropping the phone into Reggie’s lap, said simply, “We’re through.”
The look of shock on Reggie’s face was genuine. “Laney, baby, what—”
“Ask Shanice,” Lane said simply.
Reggie paled, if that were possible, his face turning a sickly gray. T
oo late, he stammered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then check your messages,” Lane told him. “And don’t bother trying to hide it.”
“Lane,” Reggie tried again.
“Fuck you.”
He kept it short and sweet and civil, and ignored Reggie whenever his ex-lover tried to talk to him about getting back together. He found a position in another company, and within a few years, had saved up enough money and contacts to start his own small firm. Eventually time dulled the ache in his heart, but not his resolve. No more dating bisexual men. It was bad enough to be left behind when someone he liked moved on. Worse when they cheated on him, and he no longer trusted anyone who straddled the fence.
* * * *
Then he met Remy.
Later, Remy admitted that a spark seemed to pass between them when they first shook hands, but if it did, Lane didn’t feel it. He was too distracted by Remy’s rugged good looks—dark blonde hair beginning to streak with gray, sharp cheekbones and a proud nose, and a sly, almost shy smile that seemed rare and almost precious. His hazel eyes were blue one minute, green the next, and flecked through with streaks of gold like a gemstone. Remy was broad-shouldered, built much like Reggie had been, and Lane would be lying if he said that wasn’t the type of guy who turned him on.
Throughout their meeting, Lane was all too aware of Remy staring at him. He accidentally “on purpose” brushed his foot against Remy’s under the table, and was treated to seeing those chameleon eyes widen. Though the two barely spoke—the bulk of the meeting was run by one of Remy’s associates, who was going to take the lead position on the project—Lane felt the air around them crackling with sexual tension. It had to be, because he himself was already hard as steel, and he couldn’t imagine Remy was not.
The first chance they had alone, he took the plunge. His own associates went back to their desks, and the men in Remy’s group were already out the door when Remy approached the threshold. Lane half-closed the door, blocking the rest of the opening with his body. If there were something between them, he had to know.
To his delight, Remy accepted his offer of getting together after work. Ostensibly, it was for drinks only, but Lane knew how quickly things could move between two like-minded men. He already had visions of waking up beside Remy, and was wondering just what to say or do to make that vision come true, when Remy blindsided him. “Look,” he said, wiping the condensation off his bottle of beer, then meeting Lane’s steady gaze across the small table in the back room of O’Malley’s bar, “before things go any further between us, you should know I have a son.”
A son. Which, by necessity, meant that, at least somewhere in his past, Remy had been with a woman.
Which meant Lane couldn’t trust him to be faithful. Or could he?
“A son,” Lane said, his voice even. He laughed and shook his head. “And here I thought maybe you might be interested in me.”
“I am,” Remy assured him.
Lane pressed his lips together in an annoyed smirk. “Yeah, right. You’re interested in the project we’re on together. I was thinking along the lines of something completely different.”
Reaching across the table, Remy covered Lane’s hand with his. “Oh, I know exactly what you’re thinking about, because I’m pretty sure I’m thinking the same thing.” His fingers rubbed Lane’s knuckles gently, a tender touch. “It involves condoms and lots of lube and the two of us in your bed or mine, doesn’t matter which. I’m totally there, dude. Same wavelength and everything.”
“But you have a son,” Lane pointed out. “And—let me guess—a wife at home who thinks you’re working late.”
“An ex-wife,” Remy corrected, “who doesn’t care what I’m doing or where I am as long as I show up on time every other Saturday to take Braden off her hands for the weekend.”
Lane rolled his eyes. “Yeah, the last guy I was with liked women, too. Only I didn’t realize it until I caught him cheating—”
“No, listen,” Remy said, his hand tightening around Lane’s.
His touch was warm and heavy, and only spurred on Lane’s interest. What would that hand feel like on his chest, his belly, lower? His dick and balls and ass? God, I want to find out, I do, he thought, but he wouldn’t let himself be played for a fool again. Not after Reggie.
Still, he surprised himself by not pulling away, and was even more surprised to hear himself say, “Listen to what?”
Remy sighed. “Kate was a mistake. We were friends, we were young, we were both fooling around with anyone interested and, one night, we both got a little too drunk for our own good. We slept together once, thought hey, that wasn’t bad, so whenever we didn’t have anyone else lined up to party with, we called each other. It wasn’t even booty calls, really. Just two friends hanging out, having fun, and getting too shit-faced to realize what we were doing. It wasn’t love, that’s for sure.”
“You called her your ex-wife,” Lane pointed out.
With a nod, Remy admitted, “When she got pregnant, I stepped up. Got married, had the baby, the whole nine yards. Too late, we realized that while we might be really good friends drunk off our asses, we had squat in common when we were sober. I don’t even think we waited for Braden to come along before we were at each other’s throats. I put up with it for six years, for his sake.”
Lane couldn’t help himself—he was interested to find out more. Remy’s thumb rubbed a circular pattern onto a tender spot on the back of Lane’s hand. It was hypnotizing, that motion, and soothing, as well. Tender. It hinted at what might come of a night spent together. Despite his own self-imposed moratorium on dating bisexual men, he couldn’t deny the feelings he was developing for Remy. Could he?
“And then what?” Lane asked. “You just called it quits?”
“We were older, more mature,” Remy said, then one of his slow grins crept across his face, belying his words. “We went at it like a pair of wildcats. I don’t even really remember what started it. I came in late from work and she was at the stove, and she made some comment about me sleeping around. And, out of nowhere, I told her if I did sleep around, it’d be with men and not women because she ruined my taste for them.”
Lane smirked. “How’d she take that?”
“Turned and threw a pot of hot pasta at me,” Remy said with a chuckle. “I can laugh now, but only because most of the water and noodles missed me. Otherwise I’d have spent the night in the ER with third-degree burns.”
Lane laughed. “Yeah, I can see how she’d turn you off from women.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Remy told him. “Kate’s a really nice girl. A wonderful mother. But we were like oil and water. We just didn’t mix. It took me a while to figure it out, but once I did, I was out of there. I didn’t contest the divorce, just signed the papers where they told me to and pay her each month for Braden. I get him every other weekend, and both Kate and I have agreed not to bitch about each other in his presence.”
“And she’s okay with you being gay?” Lane asked.
Remy drank down a hearty swig of his beer. “Hell, one of the things she liked most about me was that I’d been with guys before. She’s one of those women who gets off on gay porn. When we moved in together, I was almost ashamed that her collection was larger than mine.”
After a few more drinks, Lane confided in Remy about his last lover, and the way he had found out about Reggie’s indiscretions. By the end of the evening, they had moved their chairs around to the same side of the small table they shared, and Remy’s hot hand rested high up on Lane’s thigh. With the baggage Remy was carrying, Lane knew if they just rolled into bed together so soon, anything building between them would be over before it even really got a chance to get started. So when Lane drove Remy back to the garage at his office building to get his car, they settled for heavy petting and lingering kisses, and the whispered promise of more.
“When we’re both a bit more sober,” Lane said, only half-joking. “I don’t want to m
ake the same mistake with you that Kate did.”
Remy pressed his lips to Lane’s, tasting vaguely of beer and pretzels. “Can we do this again tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Lane murmured into Remy’s mouth.
“And the next night?” Remy persisted. “And again after that?”
Lane snickered and sat back in the driver’s seat. “If you aren’t careful, one of those nights I’m going to wind up taking you home with me.”
Remy opened the passenger side door, and in the light cast by the overhead lamp, his lips looked swollen and damp. “I’m holding you to that,” he promised. “Tomorrow, then?”
With one final kiss before Remy exited the car, Lane said, “I can’t wait.”
* * * *
In the two years they had been together, Lane had not yet had a chance to meet Braden. Remy talked about his son often, and there were plenty of photographs in his office and home—candid shots of playful rough housing between father and son, posed pictures of Braden in his baseball uniform or a Halloween costume, the obligatory school portrait taken every year. But whenever Remy had Braden for a weekend, Lane wouldn’t see him until after his son had returned home to Kate.
“Why is that?” Lane asked at one point over the summer. They’d been together a little more than a year and a half by that point; he thought it high time he met the other man in Remy’s life. Over glasses of wine on Lane’s balcony, which overlooked the rapids on the James River, Lane wanted to know, “Is it that you’re ashamed of me, or something? Of us?”
Remy had reached across the span between their Adirondack chairs and rubbed Lane’s bare forearm. “Laney, no. It isn’t that at all and you know it.”
“So, well, what then?” Lane wanted to meet Braden, and felt as if a part of Remy was closed to him until he did.
Remy stared out over the river and didn’t answer immediately. Then he sighed, a lonesome sound, and downed the rest of his wine in one swallow. “I remember being his age,” he said softly. “I remember how cruel other kids can be. The word gay was something derogatory, something bad. I don’t want Braden to think that about us. About me.”