Black John

by Amy Lane

  Hard work, company, no drugs.

  That was a triumph, right?

  But when he woke up the next morning alone, he had to face the fact that he’d been hoping… not putting words to it, but hoping….

  No. He would stop it right now. There would be no picturing Galen asleep with his head on John’s pillow, tumbled dark hair taking over the space in silky loops, eyes opening shyly, John’s oddly vulnerable corporate shark. Hope John could live with, but fantasies were for children.

  JOHN REMEMBERED the little strip mall where he’d bought the pizza; it had a pet store.

  “What are we doing here?”

  Galen had been pensive all morning as they got ready to return to Daytona, but John had a plan.

  “Getting you some fish.” The day was hazy and breezy, humid as usual, but not summer hot yet, for which John was grateful. The palm trees blowing sort of made him happy, reminded him of the best moments of that time at Nana’s, when it was too stormy to go outside and he and Tory and Nana and Crosby simply sat and played board games like a real family. If his Florida sense didn’t betray him, they were headed for a long stretch of rain, but his California sense—on constant drought alert—could only be thankful.

  Water washed away all manner of sins.

  “I will kill those fish,” Galen said mutinously.

  “Well, then you will be a fish killer and I will lose all respect for you,” John said, meaning it. “Fish are friends, not food. If you can keep a fish alive, you can fix yourself. If you can’t keep a fish alive, you know you are too broken and you need help and some duct tape.”

  Galen glared at him. “We’re not even sleeping together and you want to fix me?”

  John glared back. “I’m dying to sleep with you, but you know what? The last guy I dated who used is dead because he couldn’t fix himself. I need to know you’re at least willing to try.”

  Galen’s mouth was so lush, when he smiled it felt like butterfly kisses on John’s cock, sweartagod. Even that little smile just flirting with the corners of that mouth right now—that did it for John too.

  “You’re dying to sleep with me?” he asked, those pale eyes so clear that John really did feel like he was looking straight down a soul gate to see what was inside.

  “You keep kissing me, and I’m easy,” John snapped. “Now I’m going to go get you some fish to kill—is there any kind you like?”

  “Scum-suckers.” Prompt reply—delivered with a smirk. “I’m going to remember my glory days as a lawyer.”

  “You are a piece of work, you know that?” But it was a sassy reply, and it didn’t sound like he was giving up or planning to kill the fish, so John was right pleased.

  “I have never had to resort to blowjobs to win my case,” Galen replied smugly.

  John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I was just playing to my strengths,” he replied. “What good is being a porn pimp if you don’t know how to whore.”

  Oh no. He’d been kidding, bantering, but Galen’s eyes—those giant stained-glass windows to his black-velvet soul—grew dark and bruised and shiny.

  “You’re more than that,” Galen said, looking distraught, so John didn’t bother to contradict him.

  “Well, you’re more than a has-been lawyer. In fact, you’re about to be a fish owner. Do you want to come inside? You can pick the color of gravel to put in the bottom, and the little painted things too. It will make you feel useful and save me the effort of decorating.” Oh, he’d noticed his Southern gentleman had returned a little after a ten-year hiatus on the West Coast.

  Galen made a production out of sighing and complaining as he opened the car door and limped out, but once in the pet store, he was enthusiastic about the colors, choosing deep green and royal blue, and he liked the sword and sorcery decorations as well.

  “Are you hiding a geek from me?” John asked as he debated the merits of two large scum-suckers, both of which looked like they could live off of fish poop for a week should Galen conveniently forget the food that made the poop in the first place.

  “Yes. He’s in my penis; would you like to speak with him?”

  John laughed, more and more delighted. “Yes, I think I might, but there shall be a time and a place. By all means tell him that—warn him I’m coming.”

  “I hope so,” Galen said, rolling his eyes at the double entendre.

  “Now that’s just forward,” John told him pertly, and then decided on the bottom-feeder and seven neon tetras. It was a good starter batch, and he bought the whole thing: heater, pump, water treatment, ick prevention, plus the decorations Galen had chosen. And a book on the care and feeding of tropical fish.

  Galen stayed in the car with the bags of fish and the book while John made a stop at the Publix for snacks, soda, cardboard boxes (the real reason for the stop), and duct tape (also on the list). They went through a drive-through for lunch, and by the time they arrived, Galen was in full cry about why they should get some barbs and loaches to really spruce up his tank. John was looking for a place to park on the street again when Galen pointed him to a parking garage.

  “I don’t actually have a car,” he said, sounding embarrassed.

  “So it was go motorcycle or go home?”

  “No. Turn here.” Galen gestured to the right, and John could see the apartment numbers in order.

  “Wait, did Tory have a car?” Because parking off the street would have been mighty convenient.

  “Come to think of it, yes. But he….” The lines between Galen’s eyes deepened. “That’s weird. He was going to pick someone up the day… that last day. And the car… I don’t know what happened to it.”

  John grunted. He would probably have to go to the local police department and ask about it. Or he could just let it stay in impound and rot, because God knows it wasn’t like John had any use for it.

  “Okay, well, food for thought,” he said. The question skirted his consciousness for the first time. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t asked it. Didn’t everybody ask it? But he hadn’t. He’d been so obsessed with I just got out of rehab; how do I do this and stay clean? that he hadn’t considered the obvious, the morbid, the inevitable.

  He didn’t want to know now.

  Now he wanted Galen to spend time setting up his fish tank and thinking about the future. He wanted to believe in happy endings for a little while longer. He needed to believe in them. He just… his sore heart gave a throb, and he told himself he could wait just a few more days to ask the hard question and open the scary aluminum foil box.

  “Why didn’t you get a car?” he asked.

  Galen pointed to the spot with his apartment number on it. “Well, I wasn’t capable of driving when I first arrived,” Galen said, and the two of them gathered their purchases. Galen took the fish with a possessive, gentle air. That spoke well of him, it most assuredly did.

  “What do you mean? Not capable?” John panted, walking at Galen’s side. He’d needed to leave the boxes behind because they were awkward, but his load was still a bit heavy, and he was embarrassed at sounding winded. He’d done laps in the pool that morning, and he reckoned he needed to hit the gym some more. One of the rooms in the house was a gym—Dex couldn’t have all those bodybuilding pretty boys in there if they didn’t have a way to work their muscles.

  Galen grunted and shifted the bags of fish carefully as they neared the elevator. The garage was warm and humid and smelled of waste from the dumpsters outside—once again asserting that the places were always the asshole of the building, John thought, smirking to himself. God, twelve years and 276 months old, there were no two ways about it.

  “I couldn’t move well enough to drive,” Galen said, surprising him.

  “Really? So you’ve made some inroads, then?”

  Galen shrugged. “I actually had plans, you know? I was going to recover completely, get another job, go out and win Taylor back—or,” he amended, looking a little ashamed, “at least go out and prove that he’d given me up too soon.”


  John grinned. “I like that. That’s a motivation for getting better.”

  Galen laughed. “And I like that you’re a good man—but not too good.”

  “Too good is boring,” John said with an air of superiority. “And it….” His voice faltered, the question he wouldn’t ask haunting him without his permission. “It’s too easily bruised,” he finished, trying to smile. “So… you came here with the best of intentions and….”

  “It took too long,” Galen said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to tell you. My whole life, it was better and faster and more, and suddenly it was healing, and it wasn’t faster and more, and it wasn’t better. It just….” He paused to kick his cane irritably. “It just fucking was.”

  “Well, you are walking,” John said judiciously. “And you seem to be able to drive now—I’d trust you with the car. Maybe you just need to set your progress gauge on human and lighten the fuck up.”

  Galen’s laughter sounded relieved and damned near carefree. “Now see? My old crowd was like, ‘If you’re not healing fast enough, it’s because you’re not trying hard enough!’”

  John snorted as the elevator doors closed on them. “In my experience, people like that are usually the ones heading for a fall.” Brant stuffing kids in trash cans to hide that he was trying not to be gay. He’d never been able to escape the stigma of two queers fucking in his bed. By the end of their senior year, he’d stopped trying. His car had been in Nana’s driveway as much as John’s. “And if they’re good people, they learn from it.”

  The elevator door opened on Galen’s floor, revealing a guy wearing black leather from head to foot, on his knees on the wash-and-dry carpet while giving face to a young woman with pink hair, skirt hiked up to her waist while she semisquatted to give him access. Her top half sported a BDSM corset that seemed to be mostly leather straps that hid nipples, nipples only, and nothing but the nipples.

  John and Galen walked by, but not before John assessed the young man’s technique and the young woman’s willingness.

  The young man looked up, his black hair combed over dark eyes made smoky with eyeliner, still holding the girl’s upper labia back with his thumbs so her clit jutted out like another little thumb. Neither of them seemed chemically impaired, really, but the girl’s voice vibrated through the hallway.

  “God, baby, you’re gonna stop now?”

  “You guys want in on this action?” the boy asked, looking them both up and down assessingly. Oh good. Bisexuality was a plus when you’d only just opened up the site for girl parts.

  “No, thank you,” John said sincerely. He set his bags down and reached for his wallet—he had a healthy supply of business cards in there just in case. “But if you two ever find yourself in California, look me up. You could make a lot of money.” He walked up to the boy and thrust the business card in the back pocket of his leather jeans, then gestured to the surprised couple. “Carry on!” he urged pleasantly. “If you can get her to come before we get inside, you’re pretty much a shoo-in!”

  He picked up the rest of his bags and followed Galen to the door. John was in a better position to dig his keys out of his pocket, and as he turned the key in the lock, they could both hear the girl’s squeals of orgasm—faked or real, they sounded pretty damned genuine—rising as she auditioned for the part.

  Galen choked laughter the entire time as John helped him set up the fish tank on top of the bookshelf. This necessitated moving the books to inside the end table in the bedroom and basically took more time than it seemed like it should have.

  “What?” John asked, smirking. “What did you think I would do?”

  Galen shook his head, retrieving a plastic pitcher from under the sink and rinsing it out. “It’s nothing!” he chortled. “Just, you know. I forgot Johnnies did het!”

  John laughed at that. After listening at the doorway to make sure they were gone, he went back down to the retrieve the boxes he couldn’t carry up in the first place. The hallway smelled like sex and cigarettes, and John found himself hoping he never had sex in this place, ever. When he got back, Galen had the tank half filled and the heater and air filter running, and John had his boxes and tape.

  “Okay, then,” he said, preparing himself. “I’ll go pack the books and stuff.”

  Galen’s half smile from their shared laughter faded. “Yeah. I’ll… I mean, the book says I need to let the fish hang out in the bags in the water until it gets to be room temperature, so once I’m at that stage, I’ll come over.” Awkward pause; then he brightened. “Did you bring a Sharpie?”

  “Uhm….” Absurd question. “Why?”

  “To label the boxes. Don’t worry. I’ve got one. I’ll be in when we’re set up here.”

  Oh good. He wouldn’t be alone. “Yeah. Uhm… thanks.”

  Lame, John. A whole morning filled with stunning repartee, John Alexander Carey at his most witty and delightful, and that’s what he’s got? But it was hard to talk through the lump in his throat. That was what it would have to be.

  “John?”

  “Yeah?”

  Galen looked away. “I, uhm… see. I’m starting to….” He grimaced and held up a hand that shook. “I need you to do me a favor before you go.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Could you… I don’t want to space out on you. But… but I hurt.” His voice broke. “One. Could you just bring me one? The bottle is in my bag.”

  Oh God. The addict helping the addict?

  But John couldn’t pack up Tory’s room alone. Not after yesterday. Not after finally thinking of the unthinkable question.

  “Yeah, sure.” More great repartee—but at this point, he was lucky it wasn’t Yeah, can I have one too?

  He didn’t say it. He didn’t say it when he found the bottle and fumbled with the lid. He didn’t say it when he shook out one and only one incriminating white tablet into his hand.

  He gave the tablet to Galen as soon as possible and came back with a soda from the fridge to wash it down. Galen tossed it back with a shaking hand and looked at him gratefully.

  “For a minute there, I thought you would—”

  “I didn’t,” John said flatly, wiping his palm on his jeans so he couldn’t lick it. “And that was a shitty thing to do to me.”

  “Thank you anyway.” Galen glared at him, daring him to judge.

  “I’m not going to yell at you,” John snapped. “For one thing, I’ve got more depressing things to do.”

  And with that, he grabbed the box, the tape, and the scissors, almost grateful to leave Galen’s nice little apartment—which still held hope like tattered party banners—for Tory’s, which was a testament to when hope died, violently and by its own hand.

  At least John assumed it was violently, because otherwise, where in the fuck was his car?

  Crap. He was going to have to make some calls. Old friends, auto impound, the people Dex said he was supposed to claim the ashes from. That was on his plate for tonight, Galen or no Galen, and John had just held proof of why Galen could no longer come first. Dammit, it was time to clean up one mess before he made another.

  Shattered Dreams

  IT WAS simple, really. Stack the shit in boxes, tape the boxes, label the boxes. The lingering bleach fumes from the bedroom and bathroom made John light-headed and burned his eyes, but that made a convenient beard for the watery eyes anyway. A simple job, right? DVD, DVD—

  Oh, look, Twister. Didn’t we see this one in high school? God, before we got kicked out, right?

  Oh my God, About a Boy—we both had the biggest crush on Hugh Grant.

  X-Men! Wait, wasn’t this the movie that we had to watch three times because Brant took turns blowing us when we watched it in our rooms?

  John startled at the memory and looked at the case, opening it as he had been to make sure the movies matched. Tory was the worst for putting the DVD in the wrong case. He’d spent the last hour tracing the viewing history of a dead man by figuring out which case mat
ched which DVD. The fact that he would have to do the same thing with the CDs thrilled him to no end.

  He was also going to have to call Brant and Zion. Brant and Zion had been there from the beginning and had seen them through until the end. John had dutifully waited until he and Tory had both turned eighteen before calling Zion, but the first porn he’d ever shot and sold had featured Zion utterly dominating Tory and Brant. John had needed to jack off three times while filming it, because damn. The three of them writhing together on the bed, Zion issuing the orders, Tory and Brant eagerly doing whatever he said….

  Pornography—and sheer sexual joy—at its very best.

  God, that first company, VJ’s, had been all about fun. The four of them had gotten together, John at the camera, in dorm rooms, parks, and deserted libraries. Although Tory was usually the bottom, he didn’t have to be. Brant and Zion weren’t picky. And when the come shot was completely in the can and only the kissing and afterglow remained, they always, always turned their attention to John and helped him out of his hard-on jam.

  But Tory was the star. There was no way Tory hadn’t been the star. He still had that big-eyed happy-puppy joy about sex that had led them to seduce Brant in the first place. Of course, it had only gotten bigger, a ginormous fricking unfillable vortex, now that his family wasn’t there to control it.

  John tried to help. He gave Tory whatever Tory wanted, whenever he could. But he was only one guy, and Tory needed more. The porn helped, but John was honestly relieved when Tory took his first hit of pot in college. It was the first good night’s sleep he got in the year since he and Tory moved to Nana’s, Tory stoned and weepy, passing out on their dorm room bed, for once not sexually sated but chemically soothed.

  When they tried cocaine, John saw the potential uses—he was running a business and trying to turn in school projects on due dates and filming and editing porn on a deadline. Cocaine was useful, dammit, and he’d used it like a tool through school and beyond, but Tory had never liked cocaine. Tory had sex so he could sleep. He smoked pot or popped ludes so he could sleep. He shot smack so he could sleep, and the dreams were so good that he wanted to stay there.