by M. L. Rhodes
That only reminded him of his financial woes and just how tenuous his future was.
With his heart so heavy it felt like it might be hanging somewhere down around his feet, he dragged himself from bed and shuffled into the bathroom to take a quick hot shower. But as he soaped up and washed, the powerful erotic images wouldn't leave him. And he discovered that not only was his dick sensitive this morning, so was his ass. Like it had been stretched and well-used in all the right ways.
He had to be imagining the ache--wishful thinking or it was psychological or something--because even if, by some slim chance in hell, he'd let in, say, a gorgeous pizza delivery guy or a... a sexy burglar, he would never, ever have let someone he just met fuck him. Blow jobs, mutual masturbation... okay if it was someone he dated casually. But he didn't feel comfortable about anal with anyone unless it was a damned serious relationship. It was too intimate. He'd only ever shared that with two partners. One had been his first real boyfriend--they'd explored and learned together most of the ins and outs of what it meant to be sexually active young gay men. The other had been a relationship in his early twenties. They'd been together three years. Had lived together two of those. The break-up had been tough and Logan had ended up betrayed and hurt. Which was maybe why he'd been cautious since then about opening himself up to just anyone. So he would never let a stranger in real life do to him the things this dream guy had done. No, if anything, he'd probably masturbated while he was dreaming and penetrated himself with his fingers.
And then another thought hit him, another flash of latent memory. He remembered brushing his hands along the curve of an ear...a pointed ear.
"Oh, no way! No fricking way!"
He shook his head and thrust his face under the spray. Now he knew for sure it was a dream. An elf? Good God. How had he managed to conjure up that fantasy? It must have been all Mrs. Khovansky's talk of strange voices in the dark. Oh! And he'd also been thinking about that old fairy tale with the shoemaker. So somehow, in his drunken stupor, his mind had twisted those things into a big ol' erotic dream.
Then why does it feel so real? Why can you still feel him thrusting into you, kissing you, holding you?
"Oh...God! Stop already! Stop it right now!"
Logan rested his forehead against the tile wall and fought back his frustration. He didn't know what the hell was real and what wasn't, and hated feeling so confused.
In that moment, he vowed never to drink again. Alcohol had never been his friend, and last night, apparently, it had screwed him over once again.
"Get a grip. Let it go. You have other problems to worry about," he admonished himself. "Like how to pay the damn bills. So get your head and your...your horny thoughts out of the clouds and get downstairs and find a way to fix these problems!"
When he entered the kitchen, however...a whole new batch of questions and confusion hit him.
On his table sat four small clear bottles filled with golden oil.
The problem was, Logan had no memory whatsoever of making them.
Each had a neat little purple tag tied around its neck. He'd bought the purple tags years ago thinking they might be cool for specialty items but had never used them, and definitely never for oils. In fact, until this moment, he'd forgotten he even had them. He'd always found it easier to simply print up white labels on the computer and stick them to the sides of the bottles themselves. Yet each bottle bore a purple tag instead, and written on each tag in gold ink in a flourishing script was the word: PASSION
Passion. He'd intended last night to create an oil blend to inspire passion. But again, no matter how he strained his brain, he couldn't remember ever doing it. And the fancy script? It looked nothing like his compact half-printing half-cursive chicken scratch. And why would he have used clear bottles? He always kept some clear bottles on hand, but usually preferred brown or blue bottles to protect the oils from UV rays.
Even more fascinating than the tags and bottles, however, was the color of the oil itself. He picked up a bottle and held it up into the pale, wintery sunlight shining through the kitchen window. He'd never seen such a remarkable gold color before. In fact, the bottle almost glowed from it. But, no, that had to just be a trick of light.
He couldn't tell from looking at it what herbs and oils he'd used--damn, still absolutely a mind blank about this stuff--so he carefully twisted open the top and took a sniff.
A zing of sensation coursed through him, starting in his nose but quickly zipping into his head, out into his limbs, causing his fingers and toes to tingle, and then making a beeline straight to his groin where his balls tightened and his cock twitched to life like it had a hot firecracker inside it.
Holy mother!
Logan capped the bottle and set it on the table, then took a step back, still fighting a growing hard-on and the urge to take it in hand and help it along to its natural conclusion.
But then little by little, over the next minute or so, the sensation dissipated.
Curious, (Didn't curiosity kill the cat?) he picked up a different bottle, opened it, and much more cautiously this time, lifted it to his nose and breathed in.
All the same sensations as before hit him again with a sizzling, blatantly sexual, whip-cracking wallop.
"Whoa!"
Breathing hard, his pulse racing, his nipples standing at attention beneath his sweater, and his groin throbbing, Logan closed the bottle.
As before, the sexual jolt began to fade a few seconds later and was mostly gone in a minute or so.
What in God's name was in these bottles? And if it was this powerful just from taking a quick whiff, what on earth would it be like if someone dabbed a bit on their skin in critical places?
He tried to remember what herbs and oils he'd pulled from the supply cabinet last night, but wasn't sure. And leave it to him to have cleaned up so thoroughly after himself that he'd left himself no clues, no notes with ingredients and proportions.
Why, why, why couldn't he remember anything about making this brew? "How could I possibly have come up with it?"
Although, it could explain a lot. If he'd created this oil while he was drunk and maybe tried some of it on himself...if he'd been high on this stuff, that could be why he'd had such erotic dreams.
Something about that scenario felt wrong to him, though, and he didn't know why.
The problem was, he had all kinds of memories from last night...memories that made him ache from both remembered desire and from loss because he wanted it all back. And yet, he had no memories of basic things he should...like how in bloody hell he'd concocted an oil blend like nothing he'd ever heard of before, bottled it, labeled it, cleaned up after himself, then toddled off to bed, all while he'd been three sheets to the wind.
He dragged his hands through his hair, more confused than ever.
Zeus poked his head out of his bungalow, his nose twitching.
Logan sighed. "Morning, little guy. So give me the scoop, Zeus. Did I make out bigtime with a hunky pizza guy last night?"
Zeus blinked at him.
"Okay...what about a hunky elf with a sexy voice and a body to die for?" God, he couldn't believe he'd just said that out loud. An elf...
The hamster scampered across the cage and into his wheel where he began to run like a speed demon.
"Not real forthcoming on the details this morning, are you, Zeus? Fine, keep your secrets."
Logan checked the wall clock over the sink and saw it was just a few minutes before ten. He cranked up the thermostat so his customers wouldn't freeze, and though he knew he should go on into the store and get the lights on, was pretty sure he wasn't going to make it through the morning without a good jolt of caffeine. It wasn't like customers had been beating down the door to get in lately anyway.
He measured out coffee, filled the well with water, and started the coffeemaker. After last night, he was surprised coffee, some aspirin, and a big glass of water weren't the first things he'd thought of when he woke up. In fact, he should have a
mother of a hangover right now, but he didn't. A faint twinge in his head, a bit of queasiness when he looked at the empty wine bottle at the end of the table, and a craving for coffee just for the sake of warming up and getting a caffeine boost, but otherwise he didn't feel bad at all.
"Drink this. It'll help you sleep and take away much of the suffering in the morning."
The voice...that warm, sexy voice. Logan remembered hearing those words last night. Remembered his head being gently lifted, and several drops of a strange-tasting liquid easing over his tongue.
"Damn it, I know I remember that," he muttered. "I know it. And I do feel decent, just like he said, when by rights I shouldn't."
A thought occurred to him and he bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. In his bedroom he crossed to the window and opened the curtains to let in the sunlight, then took a good look around for the first time this morning. The bedcovers were rumpled and hanging half on, half off the bed because he hadn't bothered to make it yet. But what struck him immediately was that his clothes from yesterday were folded on the ladder-back chair near the dresser. When was the last time he'd folded his clothes when he took them off? Like...never. He usually tossed them toward the laundry hamper in the closet, where they sometimes hit their mark and sometimes didn't and he didn't bother to pick them up until laundry day. For him to have suddenly gotten a neat streak and folded them when he was drunk? No way.
But that wasn't actually why he'd come up here. He had another memory, of reaching into the nightstand for lube...
His body gave a longing shudder as he remembered lube-slicked hands pulling sensual strokes at his dick and playing masterfully in his ass.
Oh, man.
Logan shook his head to bring himself back to the present. What had he been thinking about? Oh, yeah...the nightstand. He'd reached into it for the lube and had a vague recollection of bumping or knocking off with his hand something small and made of glass.
Aside from a lamp, the top of the nightstand was empty, but then he caught a glint of something in the sunlight. He squatted down, and next to one of the legs of the old wooden stand found a glass vial half the size of the ones filled with oil in the kitchen. He picked it up and sniffed it...a pungent herbal scent still clung to it. He touched the tip of his pinky finger against the inside of the glass and brought it to his lips.
It was the faintly bittersweet tang he remembered from last night. His tongue automatically tried to dissect and label the ingredients--willow bark, a hint of peppermint, maybe evening primrose oil, and something else he couldn't quite define.
The ones he could name were all herbs that could be helpful for hangover symptoms.
Logan's pulse thrummed in a rapid, heavy beat.
He rose and, a man on a mission, returned to the kitchen. He crossed to the table and picked up one of the bottles of oil again.
PASSION
The fancy, scripted gold lettering leapt off the purple background like a miniature beacon. Logan turned the little tag over to see if it had been marked on the back.
It had. With a price that almost made him choke. It was far higher than any blends he'd ever sold. Higher even than the rarest essential oils he carried.
And, in tiny letters, so small it almost seemed impossible someone could have written them by hand, was a word. Greystone.
Logan let out a shaking breath and leaned against the table as he remembered...
"I don't even know your name. I know I'm just dreaming but...but I should at least know your name."
"It's Hallan."
"Hallan."
"Yes. Hallan Greystone. But, Logan...this isn't a dream."
Logan closed his eyes and tried to keep the world from spinning around him. A next to impossible feat as everything rushed back to him, and warm, erotic memories ribboned through him, tightening his chest with surprising emotion.
"Hallan..." It was a plea almost, as if somehow saying his name aloud might bring him back right there before Logan's eyes. "Is it possible?" he breathed.
But how could he even begin to believe such a thing? Yet when he looked again at the bottle of oil and the flowing tiny name in gold, and then at the empty clear vial clutched in his other hand that he'd brought from upstairs...how could he not? He had not created these things. He knew in his gut he hadn't. And if he hadn't, then who had?
He gaze lifted to the mirror hanging on the wall, seeking...he didn't know what. Comfort maybe. Answers. But for some reason the mirror made him think of how Aunt Lillian had always believed in mystical, fantastic beings. Was it such a long shot to think she might have been right?
Logan's eyes squeezed closed as he remembered the man's...elf's...touch. Remembered it, and missed it. Missed him.
"Are you real?" he whispered.
The chugging of the coffeemaker as it finished its cycle pulled Logan back to the here and now and the fact it was quarter after ten. Moving in what felt like slow motion, he poured himself a mug of coffee and went through the house to the front door where he unlocked it, turned on the lights, and flipped the sign in the window from Closed to Open.
Since, as he'd predicted, no one breathlessly waited on the steps for the shop to open, he set his mug down on the corner of the register counter and returned to the kitchen. Where he stood staring at the bottles of oil on the table.
Should he try to sell them?
They'd been labeled to sell, with a price and everything. The price was exorbitant, though, especially in this financial climate. On the other hand, the oil was like nothing Logan had ever seen or heard of before.
Elf made.
He winced, still not certain how to wrap his mind around that fact, if it was even a fact.
An elf. Came into my house somehow. And he not only brewed up some special elf aphrodisiac for me to sell, he found his way into my bed and... He swallowed hard. ...and I think maybe into my heart as well.
"I might really be losing my mind," he murmured.
He scooped up the bottles of oil and carried them out front. But he paused on his way around the checkout counter to where the rest of the oils he sold were displayed on wall shelving nearby. This oil was hardly ordinary. So rather than placing it with the common stuff, instead he arranged the little bottles on the checkout counter itself, right next to the register. Maybe, when the occasional customer wandered in, they'd be more likely to see them there.
And he felt oddly protective about them as well, so he wanted them where he could keep an eye on them, keep them close. He didn't have too much of a problem with shoplifting, but small, high-priced items were favorites for people with sticky fingers. He did not want to lose the PASSION oil.
Because Hallan made it? Because you want him to be real?
"Yes, damn it," he admitted with a whisper and a squeezing chest. "Because I want him to be real."
He circled around behind the counter, picking up his coffee mug on the way, to turn on the register and begin the long day, as too many of them had become lately. There was only so much shelf dusting and rearranging one could do when there were no customers, and then time dragged until six o'clock.
But when he started to roll the tall drafting chair he often sat in behind the register out of the way, he stopped dead still.
On the seat of the chair lay a piece of white notepaper from the pad under the register. Written on it in the same beautiful script as the bottles were the words:
It wasn't a dream. I promise.
H.
Logan stared at the note for so long, shock rippling through him, that it was several seconds before he noticed the ring.
On top of the note lay a silver ring with the most unusual stone he'd ever seen. With a shaking hand, he reached for it. The silver was like nothing he'd ever seen either. It had an almost bluish glint to it, and was strangely warm to the touch. The wide band was covered in decorative flourishes. The stone was oval-shaped, a cabochon cut, and though it had a purplish tinge to it, what was most striking about it was its iridesce
nce, changing colors in the light as he turned it. It wasn't an opal and it wasn't a moonstone...he had no idea what it might be.
Nothing from this world.
His pulse tripped. Was that why Hallan had left it? So Logan would have something tangible that he couldn't refute? Just hours ago had it been on Hallan's finger? Something deep inside him gave a warm tremble at the thought.
He held it up so he could see inside the band and discovered two, fanciful, elaborately etched initials. H.G.
Hallan Greystone.
Logan's hand curled around the ring, then he opened it again and stared at it. He looked at the note, at the swirling handwriting.
It wasn't a dream. I promise.
Swallowing hard against a thick, emotional lump that suddenly filled his throat, Logan slid the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand. For a second it felt like it might be a bit too big going over his knuckle, but then it encircled his finger like it had been custom sized for him. That was odd. He pulled it off and moved it to his ring finger. It fit that finger also, perfectly.
The bell over the door jingled and Logan looked up.
Two thirty-something women came in, talking to one another. Out of habit he smiled and told them good morning, but the moment they began looking at dragon and fairy statues, his interest returned to the ring on his hand. As wide as the band was, it ought to feel heavy, yet it didn't.
Had Hallan meant for him to wear it or just hang onto it? He looked again at the note, which he lifted from the chair, and brushed his thumb over the beautifully written H.
Another memory came to him...
"I'll tell you a secret." Hallan's voice was low, spoken close against his ear, intimate. "You already had me. You've had me for a long time."
"What does that mean?" Logan murmured. "It's as if...as if he's known me for far longer than one night."
The women shoppers didn't hear him or pay him any attention as they moved to the next display.
The memory continued, gauzy now, like a fine sheen of silk lay between it and Logan's mind.
"Sleep well." A kiss brushed over his lips. And then a soft whisper...