by B. G. Thomas
“For a second there I thought you were going to kiss me,” Shane said and laughed, and the sound made the butterflies in Adam’s stomach begin to shift their wings.
“You want me to?”
Shane gulped again. “Not yet.” And the only reason Adam heard him was that the drag queen’s song had come to an end.
The butterflies were aswirl.
And then they went away. Shane pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Fuck.
“Mind?” Shane asked.
And what was he supposed to say? Not only no, but fuck no?
Hardly.
He shook his head. All thoughts of kissing were gone.
Shane surprised him then. He lit the cigarette, took a deep draw, and then held it out to the side, making sure the smoke didn’t blow in Adam’s direction on the breeze—such as it was. He blew the smoke carefully as well. He didn’t even finish it but stabbed it out in the grass when it was only about half done. And that was when he pulled out the little metal bottle from the same pocket the pack of Wildhorse 100s had come from—Adam had never heard of that brand of cigarettes before—and, pushing a little button on top, shot two mists of mint into his mouth. Breath spritz. Adam smiled.
“Sorry. I’m just so damned nervous.” He bit his lower lip.
Adam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Well, well. A courteous smoker.
And when Shane released his lip… it looked so kissable.
They locked eyes.
The butterflies were back.
“I love your beard,” Shane said.
Beard, Adam thought. It was only a few days growth.
“It looks soft. Is it? I can’t grow a beard. Not for anything. Can I tou—”
“You boys thirsty?”
They both jumped and looked up and saw Daphne standing over them, holding three cups of beer in translucent cups.
Adam grabbed the cup he’d been drinking from before, swallowed the little that was left inside, and reached for one of the new beers, sliding the new cup inside the empty one.
“Shane? Do you drink?”
“I do. Especially now!”
Shane took one of the proffered cups and swallowed deep. Wiped at his mouth with his arm. The wet matted down the soft hair that grew there.
It was hard not to reach out and gently wipe it off.
“So what about those Royals?” Daphne said, breaking in on the moment, and then folded herself down magically onto the picnic blanket yoga style.
Shane perked up and grinned. Full smile and not his cute little half one.
“Oh my God, did you see Sunday’s game?” he cried. He looked back eagerly between Adam and Daphne. He was actually wiggling with excitement.
“Of course,” Daphne exclaimed. “Could you believe that infield homer that Eskie hit?”
“And Wade Davis? That guy’s ERA is 1.11! He’s practically unhittable!”
“Yes! And how about Salvy’s great snag at home? Kept them Sox in check!”
“Hell yeah! Our boy saved the game.”
It degenerated after that.
Sports. Good God. He likes sports.
And Daphne Brookhart, family detective extraordinaire, didn’t notice a single one of the looks that Adam was directing at her, not one gesture.
But then Shane managed to do something that Daphne couldn’t.
Notice.
“Hey,” Shane said quite suddenly, turning from Daphne and looking at Adam with those sparkling eyes. “I just realized something. I haven’t seen anything around here yet. You want to show me?”
Then that quirky half smile.
“Sure. I’d like that.”
“It looks like there are some booths. What kind of stuff do they sell here?”
Adam laughed. “Oh…. Stuff.”
Some of it I don’t think you’ll believe.
“And funnel cake,” Shane said with a grin. “I’m sure I smell funnel cake.”
Adam nodded.
“But it’s so sweet I can never eat it all. Want to split one?”
“Sounds delightful.” Now Adam couldn’t help but smile. Shane was utterly charming.
The butterflies were back.
8
SHANE CAME to Kansas City that weekend.
It was a good thing. Because after Adam’s strange trip home, he knew he wasn’t driving to Buckman. Not for love nor money.
Or even one of Shane’s sexy smiles.
Adam had been having dreams.
He was driving. There were long dark night roads. Roads that went on and on and on and never seemed to stop. And then blue light.
He’d woken up at least one night shouting.
Despite that, they had sex about three minutes after Shane walked in the door of Adam’s apartment.
They didn’t fuck. They hadn’t yet. Which Adam thought was a little weird—all these weeks and no fucking? Adam couldn’t even figure out why. He liked to fuck. Sometimes he liked to be fucked.
(rarely)
But with Shane?
Shane just couldn’t. And the one time they had almost tried—that had been a few weeks before—with Adam climbing on top of that beautiful ass, carefully and slowly working his way inside of him, Shane couldn’t go through with it. Shane had never been topped. He’d said he thought he could do it with Adam, but it had all fallen apart.
He’d actually been crying. “I can’t. I. Can’t. I just can’t let anything…. I can’t.”
It had been their worst moment.
A total disaster.
“It’s okay, Shane,” Adam had told him and moved so they were face-to-face and held him close.
Disaster had been averted, and after some quiet cuddling and a little kissing, the lovemaking had resumed.
Lovemaking.
Whoa.
And today, when Adam had opened the door and saw Shane standing there, he felt a rush like he couldn’t ever remember feeling before. And whether it was lust or hormones or something he’d never expected to experience, he quite desperately needed Shane. He’d kissed him right there on the threshold, and this time witnesses be damned. This was Kansas City, not Buckman, and the apartment building was called the Oscar Wilde, and nearly all its residents were gay, lesbian, transgender, or queer identified, so who was going to care?
Shane had almost resisted there for a second or two and then—perhaps realizing just where he was—accepted and returned the kiss and then practically melted against Adam. He had an erection. Adam could feel it (against his own). And God. An erection was a terrible thing to waste.
Besides, the lasagna was in the oven, and it still had almost an hour to cook. There was time.
It wasn’t like they took long. The lust was way too much a part of it. They did manage to get over to the couch. In no time they were both face to crotch and urgently making love to each other with their mouths, and Shane smelled so damned good—that combination of clean road sweat and lavender soap—and they came at almost the same moment. Adam swallowed hungrily. Shane did too, and that was nice because it was some small-town taboo Shane had been trying to overcome for a while.
When they switched over so they could cuddle close, Shane said, “Nice appetizer,” and Adam couldn’t help but laugh. Couldn’t help but feel the delightful flutters in his stomach once again—and maybe even a few of those butterflies had risen to swirl around and light on his heart.
It should have terrified him.
It didn’t.
He had to bite his lip (like Shane was always doing, but much harder) to keep himself from saying it right then. From using the L-word.
And it wasn’t “lesbian.”
Oh my God. Is it happening? Am I falling for this guy?
The timer went off in the kitchen, surprising Adam. Had it been an hour? How could it have been an hour? Had they been cuddling that long? It didn’t seem possible.
He disentangled himself, despite Shane’s grumblings, and went to the kitchen still naked. Shane whistled
after him.
He wiggled his ass.
Shane gave him a catcall.
It was nice. Adam went into the kitchen grinning.
He opened the oven and the aroma of the lasagna, which had been wafting out to them already, hit him full force, along with the roll of heat. It smelled wonderful. He actually started salivating. Carefully he pulled the tented foil cover off the store-bought container—the cheese was bubbling beautifully—closed the door, and then set the timer once more. This is where everything browned.
Then Adam felt something against his ass, and he jumped and turned and was pulled into Shane’s arms. The “something” was Shane’s newly revived cock.
“Dinner,” Adam managed to say, feeling himself growing hard. God, he gets me hard again that fast….
“You just shut the oven door.”
“Only ten more minutes.”
“We could do a lot in ten minutes,” Shane said. He had come so far from the blushing guy at Gay Pride. The one who had only had sex with a few men in his whole life. Not a virgin. But close.
“I want to take my time this time,” Adam whispered and kissed his lover.
My lover. Wow.
Shane sighed. “Okay.”
“Want to help me with the garlic bread?”
“You know I can barely boil water.”
“You grill like a chef.”
Shane gave him that half smile.
“All you have to do is pop it in the oven. It’s in the freezer.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
“I’ll finish the salads,” Adam said and opened a cabinet, got on his toes to grab the bowls.
Shane grabbed his ass. “I can’t wait for dessert.”
Adam looked over his shoulder and saw the hunger in Shane’s eyes.
He thought he might just let Shane have some.
I must be in love.
9
ADAM WASN’T expecting what he found the next morning.
Shane had gotten up first, although that wasn’t abnormal. Shane was a “morning person.” Another big difference between them. Shane had been working a shift that started early for ten years. He couldn’t sleep in even when he didn’t have to work.
What was unexpected was the books on the table. The books and the journals. Shane with books? So many of them? Shane had one open and was writing in it when Adam walked in. He looked up, a funny expression on his face.
Even from where he stood halfway across the room, Adam saw the word UFOs in stark white on the dark cover of one of the books. UFOs?
Adam shivered. He didn’t know why.
He laughed. It was an uncomfortable laugh. “What… what are you doing?” he asked.
Another shiver.
Shane looked up at him and instead of laughing and saying something like, “Ah, damn! You caught me! I’m a bigger geek than you ever knew—”
(And he should have known because Shane liked all those shows about Bigfoot and the Bermuda Triangle and the shooting of President Kennedy.)
—he said, “You know what I’m doing, don’t you?”
Adam didn’t know. He shrugged.
Shane let his head fall to the side and sighed. He looked down at the coffee table and the books and removed his splayed fingers from the journal he’d been writing in. It slipped closed. Shane had been writing on one of the early pages. But there were at least a half dozen more.
Adam took another step. He could see some of the book titles clearly now. One of them had a mostly white cover with the title Captured! in blood red. There was one he’d seen already—the cover was a darkened sky and the title was UFOs Caught on Film. Then one he’d seen at a hundred garage sales—Communion. Oh, fuck me…. Another said The Alien—something something. He couldn’t see the whole title. His stomach was doing funny things, and he didn’t know why. He did know he didn’t give a shit what the rest of the title was. Or the complete title of the pocket-sized paperback on which the only words visible were The Interrupted—
Adam shivered once more. But he grinned. Tried to make light of it. And why not? Why shouldn’t he? What was the big deal?
“UFOs, Shane? Really?”
Shane nodded. Patted the space on the couch next to him. Adam found himself reminded of that day when they met, him patting the picnic blanket, bidding Shane to sit with him. Shane had done so, eagerly. But somehow it was not what Adam wanted to do right now.
Not at all.
10
ADAM HAD been pleasantly surprised when Shane went home with him from Pride. He’d been so sweet. So… shy.
This is the kind of guy I’ll have to date at least three times before he’ll go to bed with me, he’d thought more than once that day. So surprise, surprise.
He’d shown Shane around as requested. They’d played a few games—Shane was very good, even won a stuffed animal. They visited the booths, and they’d each bought a T-shirt. It was hot when Shane had peeled off his shirt so he could try a few on. Shane had a smooth chest—Adam liked smooth-chested guys, had never been into the hirsute pursuit—with only a fraction of a happy trail that started at his navel and disappeared into his blue-and-white plaid shorts. It had taken Shane a while to pick a shirt. He wanted something gay, but not too gay. Something that he would know the meaning of, but the average shopper at the Super Walmart wouldn’t. Something that he might—repeat, might—be brave enough to wear in the little town where he lived—someplace Adam had never heard of called Buckman, about three or so hours away.
“The pink triangle, then,” Adam had advised.
“Pink triangle?”
“Yeah. I bet even people in Mayberry have heard of the rainbow flag. But most people don’t know about the pink triangle.”
Shane had blinked at him. “I don’t.”
“Voilà! See?”
“It’s gay?” Shane asked.
They looked into each other’s eyes and once again Adam was feeling funny, mysterious things. Guys were a source of getting off. He either ignored men, or he got into bed (and out of bed) as fast as humanly possible. He didn’t feel funny and mysterious things for men. Because that might mean you could feel other things and let your guard down, let the walls down, let them see parts of you that people had no business seeing. And God, the way Shane was looking at him! It was so sweet and… puppy dog.
Adam didn’t do puppy dogs.
But one look from those hazel eyes and Adam was opening up. Being much more than just superficial.
“World War II,” Adam answered. “There were more than Jews put into the concentration camps. Gypsies. Polish people. And us gays. The Jews wore yellow stars of David. They put pink triangles on the homosexuals. This guy named Larry Kramer helped turn the pink triangle into an activist symbol for gays. But he turned it upside down. So it was pointed upward instead of down.”
“Damn” came Shane’s response. Too much? Had the history lesson been too much?
Shane took a deep breath. Then he’d set his shoulders high. “Sounds fucking awesome.”
Adam hadn’t been so discreet. He’d picked a shirt that said Read My Lips and pictured two sailors kissing.
How cute had it been that Shane had blushed?
They’d looked at rescue services too, where Adam had discovered that Shane was a cat person instead of a dog person, but he was looking more at the dogs.
“Dogs bark,” Shane had said, all mysterious again. “Sometimes that’s all it takes.”
That’s all it takes? Adam wondered.
They ate bratwurst, and Adam resisted making it sexual. He could tell it was the worst thing he could do with Shane.
They shared a funnel cake.
Adam popped a piece into Shane’s mouth, wondering where he’d gotten such a silly 1950s idea, and was rewarded with the sweetest smile.
There hadn’t been any kissing, though, although several times Adam thought it was going to happen. There hadn’t been much touching either, although Adam had certainly wanted to touch him.
&n
bsp; Nothing had really happened until they were crowded near the stage, the day almost over, watching the First Ladies of Disco. Three famous divas from before either of them were born, but they were kicking ass.
Daphne was gone by then. She hadn’t wanted to deal with the crowds, and she hated disco, was much more a Mary Lambert or Tegan and Sara fan.
It was right when the singer was singing about getting absolutely soaking wet(!) that Shane linked his fingers into Adam’s right hand and then a few minutes later kissed him—kissed him hard—that Adam realized he might have a chance. And he wanted a chance.
Crazy. It was crazy. He didn’t spend all day with a guy seeing what was to come! What might come. It was easy to get laid if you really wanted to. Even for a guy like him. Not gorgeous. Not a ten.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” Shane had said then, crying into his ear to be heard above the blasting speakers.
No I’m not, he thought. But you are. He shook his head. “You are,” he shouted back.
They kissed again, and quite suddenly there was that strange, high, piercing shrill noise in his head—stabbing him like an ice-cold pick right to his temple—and he’d pulled away and saw that Shane was covering his ears like he heard it too—
(It’s not in your ears; it’s deeper, much deeper!)
—and shaking his head, and then just as suddenly, the noise was gone.
Feedback from the speakers, that’s what it is, he told himself.
Then, as a thousand times before, the music was over, and moments later those in charge were hustling people out the gates—herding them like cattle.
They found their cars (they were holding hands, actually holding hands), and Adam asked Shane if he wanted to go to The Male Box for a couple drinks, but Shane didn’t want that.
“I’ve had enough of crowds,” he said. “I’m not used to so many people. I should have gone home hours ago. I live three hours from here!”
“Want to go back to my apartment?”
Long pause.
Then a single nod.
They parked next to each other as soon as they could and then waited together in Adam’s car for the parking lot to mostly clear. That was where Shane asked if he could touch his face—