Words

by John Inman

  That long-ago morning was the last time Logan had touched another man in lust. He had lived his life like a monk ever since. Yet somehow, he didn’t regret his year of abstinence. Jerry deserved that much, at least. But now things were beginning to change. Logan could feel the change inside himself, rising up, floating to the surface. The hungers. The needs. The breathless longings.

  It was time for Logan to rejoin the human race, and he damn well knew it.

  THE BUZZ of a honey bee flying close to Logan’s ear jarred him back to the present. He glanced at his watch, bemused. Good grief. He’d been walking for twenty minutes and didn’t remember a thing. Chuckling at his own absentmindedness, he glanced around as if expecting all the other pedestrians to be looking at him like he was crazy. But of course no one had taken notice of him at all.

  He wondered what Milo was doing. It was still early; he was probably writing. Logan should be working too, he suddenly realized. He might have relocated to the other side of the country, but his commitments were still the same. In fact, with the move and getting settled and all, he was a week behind on everything. He had ad work to finish, a blog to update, two book reviews to write, people to notify with his new address so they could get in touch with him if they needed to. He had Jerry’s family in Chicago and his own family back in New York to reassure, because both clans had clearly thought he was nuts when he told them he was moving almost three thousand miles away.

  Basically, Logan had a whole new life to set into motion.

  He gazed around, still getting his bearings in this unfamiliar sun-drenched city of San Diego he now called home. Casting a last amazed glance at the smoldering California sky arching high above his head, he executed a jaunty about-face and headed back the way he came. Back to his new apartment. Back to his brand-new life.

  And maybe, just maybe, back to all the other things a new life might one day conceivably entail.

  Chapter Four

  MILO HAD been up since 4:00 a.m., tippy-tappy-typing away at his new book. When writing, Milo was at his happiest. And most miserable. He had a love/hate relationship with the creative process. Some days his exact words would survive from the moment of creation all the way through endless rounds of his own personal edits, then after the story was contracted out (if he was lucky), they might even survive an endless string of his publisher’s edits. Hell, they might remain unchanged from the moment a spark of imagination brought them to life, all the way to release day, when his book, polished to within an inch of its life, was delivered to a hopefully adoring public.

  At other times, of course, his words didn’t last five minutes. In fact, sometimes his words barely survived the process of being dribbled across the computer screen like so many bird droppings (an apt simile if there ever was one) before Milo turned right around and deleted the fuckers from the face of the earth.

  Such was the case today. Every word that spilled onto the screen from Milo’s head by way of his fingertips on the keyboard left a crappy taste in his mouth. Some days his words soared. Other days, they were stillborn. Today was a stillborn sort of day.

  So it was with infinite relief that he was distracted from his incessant pounding of the Delete key by a beep on the computer heralding an incoming message on Facebook.

  “Thank you, God,” Milo mumbled, docking the page he was working on and logging on to Facebook, as grateful for the interruption as if the governor’s reprieve had come through just before the warden pulled the switch and fried his sorry ass.

  When he saw who the message came from he was even happier.

  Yo! Good morning. I forgot to get your phone number. Assuming it’s still available.

  Milo grinned. It was Logan. He obediently typed his phone number into the message box and sent it on its way. A moment later the phone on his desk rang.

  Milo answered in a horribly snooty English lord impersonation a la Terry-Thomas, right down to the impossibly soft a’s, an aristocratic lisp, and a condescending sniff, now and then, as if letting the caller know his tea and crumpets were being ruined, thank you very much for interrupting brekkie. “You have reached the home of Sir Milo Cook, internationally renowned master of the written word. If you are a doting reader, your call will be answered in the order it was received, probably sometime next week. Yes, he really is that popular. If you’re a publisher and wish to offer a record-breaking advance for his next literary masterpiece, which isn’t written yet and doesn’t look like it ever will be, please enunciate clearly, stating the number of zeros you’re willing to stick on the check.”

  Milo was rewarded with a wry chuckle on the other end of the line. “Jesus, you really are an ass. Funny, I didn’t pick up on that the other day at lunch.”

  “It was closer to dinner than lunch. You said so yourself. And besides, you were paying,” Milo haughtily explained. “I’m never an ass when somebody else is paying.” He laughed at himself and dropped the ridiculous accent. Excitedly, and with the first hint of true sincerity in his voice, he asked, “So you said you got the apartment?”

  “Got it. Signed a lease. Already moved in.”

  “Wow. That was fast.”

  “Depending on my motivations and how badly I want something, I can move like a wabbit when the need arises.”

  Milo sat speechless for a moment, wondering if Logan’s persistence in getting back in touch was an example of his wanting something badly enough to “move like a wabbit.” God, he sure hoped so.

  After filling the lull in the conversation with lots of interesting thoughts, some of them pretty darn sexy and far more creative than anything he had typed into his manuscript that morning, Milo finally recovered his manners. “I’d love to see it.”

  “Then you shall,” Logan said, sounding pleased.

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Milo thought he heard a smile in the voice, but he wasn’t sure. When he glanced at his reflection on the computer screen in front of him, he wasn’t surprised at all to see his own smile. He had known it was there since the moment his phone rang.

  “I’ll bring you a housewarming gift,” Milo said.

  “Just bring yourself,” Logan answered. “That’s gift enough.”

  This time the silence lasted even longer.

  “All right,” Milo finally said, speaking softly into the phone and holding it closer to his ear so he could hear Logan breathing on the other end. For some reason he liked that sound. He liked it a lot.

  Logan eventually cleared his throat, as if even he thought the conversation was getting a little out of hand and a change of subject was needed. “There must be a lot of writers living in San Diego. Maybe you can help me connect with a few of them.”

  “Sure. I’d love to. We’re like a big family. Everybody knows everybody. Plus there are reading clubs you might like to visit, book signings around town almost daily where you can meet a few writers and bookstore owners, coffee klatches where writers and readers get together and bitch about reviews. Well, no, you might want to skip those. We haven’t hung any reviewers in effigy yet, but there could always be a first time. I’d hate to see you strung up from a palm tree, crisping in the California sun.”

  Logan laughed. “Creatively phrased, but yes, that would be a bummer.”

  Their conversation flagged, and before Milo could stop himself, he said, “It’s good to hear your voice. I’ve been hoping you’d call.”

  Milo caught the teeniest intake of breath before Logan said, “Have you?”

  “Yes. I really enjoyed the time we spent together the other day.”

  “Thanks, Milo. So did I. It’ll be nice to have one friend in town at least.”

  “Do you mean to say you don’t know anyone here?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “You must miss New York, then.”

  “You mean do I miss the snow, the ice, the frozen boogers? No. But the city? Maybe a little. I’d kill for a Gray’s Papaya kraut dog. Or a slice of pizza from that little walk-in j
oint on Fifth Avenue next to Bergdorf’s. Or a quiet drink at the Stonewall, where even the barstools are steeped in history.”

  “Ah, a junk-food and gay-movement devotee with alcoholic tendencies to boot. I knew I’d find something we have in common. What other passions do you have?”

  A lingering silence on the line indicated Logan was considering his answer very carefully. Finally he said, as if ticking them off on his fingers, “Junk food, movies, books. The holy trinity. Those are pretty much my interests. How about you, Milo? What floats your boat?”

  Milo wanted to say, “You and your sexyass voice and long fuzzy legs, which I’d really like to feel wrapped around my head,” but didn’t. He wasn’t a complete jerk. Usually. “Junk food, movies, books, and booze basically covers it for me too. Of course, no one can reach their full potential without the love of a good pet to come home to every night. Dog, cat, aardvark, hellbender salamander, whatever. The love of a good man would be nice too, but those are harder to come by.”

  Logan laughed. “Don’t hold back. Tell me exactly how you feel.”

  “I am. Oh, and long walks. I really love long walks. Around the city, out in the high country, on the beach traipsing barefoot through the surf, off in the desert somewhere exploring the dunes and dodging rattlesnakes. Any and all locations acceptable. And surfing. And writing. No, I hate writing. Forget that one. And naps in the afternoon. And Spanky when he smiles. That’s about it.”

  “Dogs smile?”

  Milo sighed. “Boy, you really don’t know anything about pets, do you?”

  “One of my many flaws,” Logan said, the unseen smile in his voice back again in full force. “And by the way, I like naps too.”

  “Well, that’s a start.” It was indeed, offering Milo a whole new range of fantasies to choose from. Morning snuggles, afternoon cuddles, snoring in each other’s arms on the couch while the six o’clock news played unheeded on the TV and fingers began wandering over toasty soft skin.

  A joking growl rumbled in Logan’s throat, wresting Milo from his merry reveries. “Maybe someday you’ll tutor me in correcting all my shortcomings. Show me everything I’m missing in life. I mean, within limits.”

  “Sorry,” Milo teased, thinking he had never in his life heard anything as sexy as Logan’s playful growl stuttering through the phone. “I don’t do anything within limits. It’s far too constricting.”

  “Wow. You really are an ass.”

  “Why thank you,” Milo sweetly cooed, and they both laughed.

  A comfortable silence settled in. After a few seconds, Logan said, “I’m probably interrupting your writing.”

  “Or maybe I’m interrupting your reviewing,” Milo countered.

  After a couple of heartbeats, they both said, “No, you’re not,” in perfect unison.

  The extra few seconds of silence that followed those comments were even more comfortable. Milo found himself smiling again. He wondered if Logan was.

  “I’d like to show you the city if you’ll let me, Logan. After I see your new apartment and after I’ve rearranged all your furniture, because I’m just that kind of guy and because for some reason you impress me as being far too butch to be a disciple of feng shui and probably parked your TV in front of the toilet stool…. Wait, what was I saying? Oh yes. After all that we could walk straight down the hill from your place to the bay. Have a bite to eat by the water, or maybe a couple of drinks. Or both. You really must be exhausted after your move. A relaxing night off will do you good.”

  “I’m not even going to mention your lack of faith in my ability to arrange furniture.”

  “Probably for the best.”

  “Appreciate the ‘butch’ remark, though.”

  “Anytime.”

  “And what about your writing?”

  “A night off will do me good too. Today I advanced my Work in Progress by a grand total of three words. That’s right, three. And tomorrow I’ll probably delete them.”

  Milo listened intently to dead silence on the line. Logan was hesitating. Or maybe he was just thinking things through. Milo had no way of knowing. He waited for what was probably six or seven seconds—in his head it was an hour and a half—and was about to start chewing on his bottom lip and go dig out his worry beads from the hall closet when Logan said, “Great!”

  Milo breathed a happy sigh. “Great you’ll let me rearrange your furniture? Or great you’ll let me show you the bay?”

  “Both,” Logan said.

  “And when would you like me to come by?” Milo asked, more than aware that his heart had started doing an excited little cha-cha underneath his pajama pocket.

  “How about this evening? Around five? Would that work?” Logan asked. He sounded shy again, and for some reason Milo thought that was the sweetest thing he had ever heard.

  “This evening at five is perfect. I’ll look forward to it.”

  After jotting down Logan’s address, Milo said a polite goodbye and ended the call. He stared down at Spanky, who was standing at the side of his chair looking up as if wondering what all the hubbub was about.

  Being the loving mutt he was, Spanky rested his chin on Milo’s leg and squinted his face into an obsequious grin.

  Wow, you really do smile.

  Spanky’s big, soulful eyes burrowed straight into Milo’s, shining with devotion. Broadening his doggy smile, he showed a few more teeth in a friendly manner, probably waiting for either an explanation or a butt rub. His long fluffy tail whapped back and forth in perfect unison to Milo’s banging heart, and he cocked his head so far to the side that one ear flopped over his forehead and stayed there.

  Finally Milo offered up an astounded laugh. “Holy shit, boy! I’ve got a date!”

  “HOLY SHIT!” Logan sputtered, suddenly filled with terror. “I’ve got a date!”

  He turned doubtful eyes onto his newly arranged apartment. Milo was probably right. Logan knew as much about feng shui as he knew about quantum physics. And he knew dick about quantum physics. Consequently, he probably did have all the furniture in the wrong place. This was California, after all. People worried about stuff like that.

  He stood there with his hands on his hips, picking apart everything he had already done to make the place feel like home. He tried to imagine how the apartment would look if he moved his sofa there and turned his end tables around that way. And how the dining area might look kind of cool if he pulled the table a little closer to the window and stuck a potted plant on it. And how his overflowing bookcases might go better in the second bedroom, which he had turned into an office, than they did in the hallway, where they sort of blocked traffic.

  The mere thought of going through all that work again made him want to crawl back into bed and cry himself to sleep. Besides, he had a sneaky suspicion that nothing would make Milo happier than to roll up his sleeves and set about redecorating Logan’s apartment, with or without Logan’s permission. Like he’d said, he was that kind of guy. And frankly, Logan didn’t mind at all. The apartment probably would look better after Milo finished with it.

  Logan heaved a sigh and, hating himself for it, started rearranging the furniture anyway.

  Two hours later, sweating bullets, he yanked a beer from the fridge and dropped flat on his back on the couch. The couch was still sitting catty-corner in the middle of the living room because after moving everything else around six times, he couldn’t find a place for the sofa that didn’t block either the entrance to the kitchen or the front fucking door.

  He lay there dabbing the sweat from his face with his shirttail and gulping down a beer, with his feet hanging over the end of the couch because it was only a six-footer and he was longer than that. It was during that miserable moment when he was draining the last refreshing drops from the bottle that he came to the soul-crushing realization he would have to put all the furniture back where it was when he started.

  Jesus.

  AT FIVE o’clock on the button, Logan’s doorbell chimed. He hastily kicked a pair
of dirty socks under the bed—where the hell had those come from?—before running to answer the door. Yanking the door open and finding Milo on his doorstep as he’d hoped he would, he offered a shy, “Hello, it’s good to see you again.”

  “Is it?” Milo asked, catching Logan off guard.

  “Y-yes,” he said. “Why? Do I look like it’s not?”

  Milo laughed. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He offered his hand. “It’s good to see you again too, Logan. Thanks for asking me over.”

  Logan took the hand and simply held it, not bothering to shake, while Milo tipped his head back and stared up at the facade of the forties-era apartment complex. It was a rambling three-story jumble of offset bricks and leaded windows, most of it painted bloodred, with a slew of crooked chimneys poking up here and there across the roofline, along with winding masonry staircases shooting off in a dozen different directions. In Logan’s opinion, the whole building, with its cupolas and spires and keystones over every aperture and funny little cast-iron balustrades, looked like it would have been perfectly at home on Diagon Alley, with witches and wizards popping in and out at all hours of the day and night. The building was tucked neatly among overgrown bowers of bougainvillea and a spray of towering palm trees, the fronds of which were creaking in the wind high above their heads. Logan’s unit was on the ground floor, set well back off the street. It was almost hidden in a shadowy alcove beneath a sprawling jacaranda tree.

  “I’ve always loved this old building,” Milo said. “I’ve never been in it before. It’s great that all the units open to the outside. I also love the fact that no two apartment entrances are in sight of each other. I have a thing about communal entrances. Hate ’em with a passion.”

  “Actually, so do I,” Logan said, and since Milo’s hand was in his already and he didn’t know what else to do with it, he gently tugged Milo through the front door. “Come on in.”