by John Inman
Milo noticed Bryce had not arrived on his doorstep empty-handed. He carried a white manuscript box tucked casually under his arm. Just looking at that manuscript box gave Milo a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut.
While their breakup hadn’t been anything like World War III, it hadn’t been particularly cordial either. Between Bryce’s jealousy of Milo’s writing successes and Milo’s jealousy of Bryce’s tricks and how toward the end Bryce hardly even bothered lying about his infidelities, Milo had always been amazed they had parted as amicably as they had. Well, perhaps not amicably, but at least no shots had been fired and no SWAT teams called in.
There was something about Bryce that always reminded Milo of thinly plated brass—glittery and polished at first glance, but weak and easily tarnished underneath. Even with the brash and arrogant facade he presented to the world, there was an undefined facet of melancholy indolence that followed Bryce around like a little dark cloud. Since Milo was always known to root for the underdog, perhaps that was what drew him to Bryce in the beginning. In the end, of course, it had been far from enough to keep them together.
Today Bryce wore a white knitted sweater over brown chinos. Green canvas shoes graced his sockless feet. As he squatted in front of Spanky, Milo could see the beginning brush of dark hair above Bryce’s tanned ankles, which carried Milo’s memories onward to how Bryce used to roam around the house naked.
There was no two ways around it, Bryce was hot—what with his long, lean hairy legs, hairy chest, hairy ass, and a dick that went on for days. Milo hadn’t lied to Logan when he told him Bryce was impressive in bed. And why the hell shouldn’t he be? God knows he had racked up enough hours of on-the-job training by jumping into other people’s beds. Looking back at the time they had spent together, over a year of Milo’s life wasted on a cheater, Milo felt some of the old resentment flooding back. He wasn’t proud of it, but there was no denying it was still there.
“Got any coffee?” Bryce asked, clearly oblivious to what Milo was thinking, or not caring.
“No,” Milo said. “I haven’t made any.” It was a lie, of course. The whole house reeked of the Hawaiian Gold Kona blend Milo enjoyed so much and brewed endless pots of every single day he was working. But if Bryce took notice of the smell, or the fact that Milo was lying through his teeth, he at least had the good grace not to call Milo on it.
“Seeing anybody?” Bryce asked. There was a hint of a smirk on his face when he asked it, which Milo didn’t like. He also didn’t like the fact that it sent his thoughts straight to Logan. Not that there was anything wrong with that. But for some reason, thinking about the perfection of Logan while Bryce was standing in the room was a lot like eating an ice cream cone while sitting in a dirty toilet stall at the bus station with your pants down around your ankles. In other words, it was totally unacceptable, with a sleaze factor of ten. Maybe eleven.
“Yes” was all Milo said. And after saying it, he immediately wondered if Logan was of the opinion he was seeing someone as well. Namely Milo. God, Milo certainly hoped so.
Before Bryce had a chance to press him for more information, Milo asked point-blank and none too graciously, “Why are you here?”
Bryce gave one of his patent pouts. Phony, but handsome as hell. At least it used to be. With a final pat to Spanky’s head, Bryce unfurled his long body—he was almost as tall as Logan—and stood up. Straightening his back, he swept a thick bank of black hair out of his eyes and flashed a few more teeth. “I have news,” he said. “I wanted to share it with you, since I know it’s something you’ve always wanted for me.”
“You mean your dick fell off?”
Bryce laughed, but there wasn’t a lot of humor in it. “Funny. You always were a chuckle a minute.”
“I’m charming. What can I say?” It took all Milo’s willpower not to glance at the box under Bryce’s arm. “So what’s your news?”
Just as Milo suspected he would, Bryce held the box out at arm’s length. Since he really had no choice, Milo took it and asked, “What’s this, then?”
“My second book,” Bryce said proudly.
“Your second book? What was the first?”
Milo knew in an instant he had finally struck a nerve. A furrow appeared between Bryce’s eyebrows. His eyes darkened. “I thought you would have known.”
Milo stared down at the box in his hands, then back to Bryce’s face. “Known what?”
“About my book. It was published last year.”
And for the first time since this unwanted reunion began, Milo felt an honest-to-God smile blossoming across his face. He gazed down at the box again and slipped the cover open. Inside lay a hardback novel written by someone named Thomas Giles, and beneath that, a typed manuscript with a title page declaring it also to be the work of one Thomas Giles.
Milo lifted his gaze to Bryce. “I don’t understand. Who’s Thomas Giles?”
“Pen name,” Bryce said with a mysterious glint in his eyes.
“My God,” Milo breathed, setting the box with the typed-up manuscript on the coffee table and taking up the book to open the flyleaf. “Horizon Home Press,” he said, glancing at the spine. “Very respectable house.” He ruffled through the pages and then flipped the book closed again to study the cover. “Bryce, it’s beautiful.”
Bryce stood beaming. “Thank you. The manuscript is my second offering. I haven’t submitted it yet.”
“Why not? If they loved the first book enough to publish it, they must be receptive to a second. Or is the first book not doing too well? If so, you have to understand sometimes that happens. It doesn’t mean the book’s bad. It just means….”
Bryce’s eyes narrowed again. “I know what it means, Milo. I lived with a writer once. Remember? And I’ve had my own experiences since we parted. So please don’t lecture me. I just want….” Bryce’s words trailed away. For the first time, maybe ever, he looked uncertain, even a little bit uneasy.
“You just want what?” Milo asked. But he already knew. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt.
“I want you to proof the second book. Tell me if you think it’s ready.”
Milo hated reading other writers’ Works in Progress. It never ended well. If you hated it, the writer was crushed. If you liked it, you never liked it enough. He fumbled for a way out. “Bryce, you’re published now. You don’t need me to okay your words. Have faith in yourself. If you think the book’s ready, then mail the fucker off.”
Without being asked, Bryce stared around the room and finally chose a wing chair in the corner. He strode over and dropped himself into it. His eyes never left Milo’s face. “You’re right. The first book isn’t doing that well.”
“I’m sorry,” Milo said, and he was instantly surprised to realize he meant it. He knew what it was like to put your heart and soul into a book and then watch it languish after being released—unbought, unheralded, maybe even unreviewed, and usually ending up in a dollar book bin somewhere, if it even got that far.
He stared down at the book again and back to Bryce. To stall his answer more than anything else, he asked, “Why the pen name? I would have thought—”
“I know what you would have thought. Of course, I’d rather have published under my own name, but one of the publishers I sent the first book to told me I was getting a reputation among certain of her colleagues. I may have sent off a couple of pissed-off responses to rejection letters. Apparently with publishers, word gets around.”
Milo frowned. So like it always had, Bryce’s big mouth and bigger ego had gotten him in trouble again. “That publisher was right, Bryce. You can’t do that. This business has a long memory and a short fuse.”
Bryce’s jaws clenched. “So I learned. But anyway, now I want your help with the new manuscript. Please, Milo. I value your opinion. I care what you think.”
It took most of Milo’s willpower not to laugh. He would have given his next royalty check to say, If you cared what I think, you wouldn’t have cheated on me with every swin
ging dick that crossed your path. But he didn’t. Because frankly, Milo knew, and he knew it immediately after they had broken up, that losing Bryce was the best thing that could have happened to him.
Bryce wasn’t finished asking favors yet. “If you like it, and if it’s published, I’d also like you to write a blurb, a testimonial for the cover, recommending it. You have a big following, Milo. Your support for this book could mean a lot to the sales. Horizon Home is already probably regretting they put their trust in the first book. You could help me get over the hump with the second.”
Milo looked down at the cover again. “How were the reviews?”
Bryce’s eyes darkened. “Some of them were pretty good.”
Milo offered a heartening smile. “Then you don’t need me. Word-of-mouth will carry you through. I don’t usually put my name on other people’s works, Bryce. I think you probably already know that.”
“I thought for me you might make an exception.”
Milo heaved a sigh as he gazed down at the manuscript box on the table. He knew his decision had been made the moment he opened his door and saw that box tucked under Bryce’s arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t do it.”
Bryce scowled. His usually lush mouth became an angry slit in his face. “Why not? It’s not like I’m a stranger. We have a past. We’re friends.”
It tore at Milo’s heart to say the words, but he said them anyway. “We’re not friends, Bryce. We’re ex-lovers. And everything that made us ex-lovers left me not caring for you very much. You need to follow the same path all other writers follow. Produce the best manuscript you can produce, and by all means find some beta readers, if you think it will help. Just don’t expect me to be one. You’re already a step up from the poor guy on the corner who’s never been published at all. You got your foot in the door with the first book. Take advantage of what you have, what you’ve learned, and apply it to the second. I’m sorry, but my decision is final. And frankly, Bryce, the advice I’ve just given you is probably worth more than any technical help I can give you with your manuscript. Hell, I barely know how I write my own books, let alone have the skills to tell anyone else how to write theirs. Writing a book is like masturbation. It’s an enterprise best practiced alone.”
Bryce flicked a speck of lint from his pant leg. His hand was trembling, and his eyes were as cold as Milo remembered them ever being, even after a few of their knock-down, drag-out fights. “So that’s it, then,” he said. “That’s your answer.”
Milo nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
A nasty smile flicked at the corners of Bryce’s mouth as he eyed Milo up and down. “Fancy a fuck for old time’s sake? I could have those pajamas off you in no time at all.”
Milo offered a cool grin and shook his head with disbelief. “You never change.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You want an answer, Bryce? Well, here it is. I’d rather fuck a rhino.”
Bryce threw his head back and laughed, yet somehow Milo knew there was a great deal of anger hidden in the middle of it. Bryce had never liked being turned down for anything. Especially sex.
As Milo watched, Bryce unfolded himself from the chair, strode casually across the room, and plucked the book from Milo’s hands. He tossed it into the box atop the unpublished manuscript and closed the lid. Tucking the box under his arm, as it had been when he’d arrived, he doffed an imaginary hat in Milo’s direction and headed toward the door.
“Good luck with your books,” Milo said, and he actually meant it.
But perhaps Bryce didn’t see it that way. “Fuck you, Milo,” he said and, gazing down at Spanky, added, “You too, mutt.”
When Milo moved to get the door, Bryce held up his hand. “Don’t bother. I’ll see myself out.”
After a mumbled curse, which Milo didn’t quite catch, Bryce did exactly that, not quite slamming the door shut behind him as he left.
Milo stared at the closed door for perhaps five seconds, grateful as hell to be alone again. Turning to Spanky, he casually asked, “Ready for breakfast, you traitorous little shit?”
And as he and the pooch headed back to the den and his industrial-sized bag of potato chips, he found his mind already returning to Logan and the night they had shared together.
Then he thought back to the visitor who’d just left.
“Fancy a fuck?” he mumbled to himself, chuckling. “Did he really say, ‘Fancy a fuck’?”
What a putz.
LOGAN DIDN’T see the car parked at the curb or the handsome dude with the scowl on his face sitting inside. He was so caught up in what he was about to do, he walked right past without turning his head at all.
He had parked around the corner because he needed a few minutes to build up his nerve. Having accomplished that to a degree, he now strode up Milo’s front walk on wobbly legs puffing nervously on the cigarette he held in his hand. The cigarette tasted like crap. It also tasted like failure and broken promises to himself, especially since he had worked so hard to quit smoking four years earlier at Jerry’s insistence and had stoically not lit one up from that day to this. At least until he stopped at the liquor store on the way over to Milo’s house and bought a pack.
A million things were going through Logan’s head. Some of them not so good, such as being mad at himself for smoking again. Some of the other things whirling around inside his noggin were scary as hell, such as his reason for walking up Milo’s sidewalk not more than eight hours after climbing out of the guy’s bed and sneaking off in the middle of the night.
He gave his head a shake, thinking that might calm his thoughts and lower his blood pressure a little, not to mention quiet the strange pounding in his chest, which didn’t seem to want to go away no matter how much he tried to ignore it.
All those pureed feelings and doubts and worries whirling in his brain had everything in the world to do with Milo, of course. Logan knew he hadn’t felt like this since he met Jerry, all those many years ago. He hadn’t fallen in love with Jerry on the spot back then, and he hadn’t fallen in love with Milo last night either. But he was hooked. That much he knew. Hooked, fascinated, lost in lust. Just as Jerry had nailed him four years back, Milo had nailed him last night.
The plain and simple fact was that Logan wanted to see Milo again. He wanted to see him a lot. And the only way he knew to go about it was to just come right out and tell him. That’s why he was here.
It occurred to Logan that perhaps he was a little too much of a romantic. I mean, why else would he let himself get into this situation? Twice. Of course, what was happening to him now was Jerry’s fault too. If he hadn’t died, Logan wouldn’t be here standing on Milo’s sidewalk sweating and smoking. But then, he couldn’t really blame Jerry for dying, could he? After all, it was an accident.
Logan stopped dead in his tracks. What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t making any sense at all, and he knew it. He ground the cigarette butt out under the toe of his shoe and immediately lit up another one, even though the first one was making him want to puke.
With a satisfying and somehow comforting cloud of carcinogens hovering once again around his head, he took a deep breath, which damn near gagged him. Girding his loins, as the ancients used to say, he climbed Milo’s front steps as quickly as he could so he wouldn’t have time to think about what he was doing.
With the reeking cigarette dangling from his lips and almost blinding him with the smoke, he tapped on Milo’s door. It opened so quickly, and Milo looked so mad and impatient when he yanked it open, that Logan almost fell backward off the porch. Still, seeing Milo for the first time since he held him in his arms the night before sent a jolt of affection through Logan that was so sharp it almost hurt.
Logan watched Milo take soundings and realize it wasn’t who he had expected to be knocking on his door, and Logan had to admit Milo looked considerably relieved when the truth dawned on him. So Logan was relieved too.
“It’s you!” Milo sang
out as a welcoming smile crept across his face.
Logan just stood there. He tried nodding, but it made the smoke from the cigarette in his mouth drift straight into his eyes, so he merely squinted a returning smile and tried not to look like an idiot.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Milo said.
Logan peeled the cigarette off his lower lip and tossed it into the grass. “Up until last night,” he said, “I didn’t.”
Milo squinted in mock belligerence. “Really? Am I supposed to take that as a compliment? Or does it mean you woke up in the middle of the night thinking you’d had your fun so you thought you’d sneak out of the house like some lameass burglar and run out and buy a pack of cigarettes because that’s what guys do after they get their rocks off. On the other hand, maybe you were feeling trapped thinking you had let me weasel my way into your life, so you snuck out of the house because you didn’t know how the hell else to get away from me.” Milo stomped his foot. “So which was it?”
Logan grinned even though he wasn’t entirely sure if Milo was kidding or not. “The second one. The weaseling thing. Only without the feeling trapped part.”
“You don’t feel trapped?”
Logan’s grin broadened. “Far from it.”
“In that case, I’m tempted to kiss you,” Milo said, returning a smile as he stepped out onto the porch.
“When will you be tempted enough to know whether you’re going to actually do it or not?”
“Now, I think.” And taking that final step forward, he walked into Logan’s arms. Rising up on tiptoe, he laid his lips to Logan’s mouth.
Logan hoisted him a little higher while holding him in his arms. “Hmm,” he moaned, savoring the kiss. “What about your neighbors?”
Still holding the kiss, Milo mumbled, “Fuck ’em.” Then he pulled back. “Yuck. Blech. Gag. You taste like an ashtray. And not just any old ashtray either. A really stinky disgusting ashtray.”
“Enough with the sound effects and the adjectives.”