“Touchdown Tequila.” Tom sat on the couch, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. “You never celebrated with shots?”
Frank shook his head. “I used to watch football with my dad, and he frowned on ten-year-olds drinking.” At Tom’s quizzical look, Frank realized the joke fell flat. Best change the subject. “I’ll just get the beer.”
When he returned from the kitchen, Tom had leaned back and rested an arm on the back of the couch, drumming his fingers. The small frown above his brows was back.
“So, I hope you’ve got ideas on this story, because I read Marcie’s fairy tale book, and I don’t think a play about a guy harassing a girl to marry him night after night will be that interesting.”
Frank set the two beer bottles on the coffee table. He scratched at his neck.
“That’s not the original tale. That’s the cleaned-up version for children.” He answered the question as he weighed the merits of sitting on the couch with Tom or on the floor since he had no other furniture.
Tom’s eyebrows rose, and his blue eyes lit up in what Frank hoped was interest. “Oh, really? Are you saying there’s a more adult version? ‘Cause I could work with that.”
“Well…” Frank sat on the couch next to Tom and averted his eyes. “Maybe. I mean, in the original, the beast was trying to get Beauty into his bed.” He risked a glance over at Tom and then snagged a beer. “In some versions, he succeeds.”
“I think I like it.” Tom sat back, crossing an ankle over his knee. “This could be the selling point. I doubt the yearly high school drama class play could offer anything to compete.” He tapped his knee. “It could be more of a modern love story.”
Frank nodded, taking a swallow of his beer. “That’s what I thought too. Only, give Beauty a little more agency. Have her choose at the end instead of saving the beast by crying over him.”
“How so?”
Frank could feel Tom’s gaze caressing his skin. It was a heady feeling, having such a handsome man center all his attention on him. Frank’s mouth went dry, and he took a big gulp of his beer to wet it.
“There’s a folktale called the Loathly Lady, a reverse of Beauty and the Beast, in which the woman is the ugly one. She gives the knight that marries her a choice between a beautiful woman who turns ugly at night when they go to bed or one that’s ugly during the day and only becomes beautiful in the bedchamber. The knight lets her choose when she’ll be beautiful, and therefore she chooses to be beautiful all the time.”
Frank gestured to his notes. “You can give Beauty a choice between the seductive Beast that woos her or the beautiful prince that lives only in her dreams.”
“Huh. If the beast seduces her, why would she choose the prince?” Tom’s shoulder was so close to Frank that he could feel the warmth from it. He took a breath of Tom’s scent. It had haunted Frank’s nights and fueled his dreams. The wet ones. The ones where he woke with his hand on his cock, quivering, one stroke away from exploding.
“She doesn’t.” Frank fought a wash of dizziness at the sensory overload of having Tom here, in his apartment, so close. “She loves him whether he’s a man or a beast. Just the way he is.”
“But—” Tom’s frown crinkled the slightest bit at the corners of his eyes.
“He’s given the choice of being man or beast, and he is both her prince and her Beast.” Frank swallowed, realizing how close he was to exposing his own hopes and dreams. His inner wolf whined. The revelation hurt in his chest, but it didn’t matter, because he was the only one who would ever know how close to home he was proposing this adaptation. It was okay. You bled a little when you wrote the truth. At least, that was what his old creative writing teacher always told him.
“I like it.” Tom popped the top on the other beer. It startled Frank out of his thoughts, and he scooted farther away on the sofa until he stopped short against the upholstered arm.
Tom didn’t seem to notice. He gestured with his beer at Frank. “So how did you get so knowledgeable about fairy tales?”
Frank lifted his bottle to his lips. “Not all of them, just the ones with this motif.” He took another healthy swallow, hoping the liquid would wet his dry throat. He kept his eyes averted, afraid to look at Tom. “I’ve always been interested in the ones with beasts.”
He didn’t want to tell Tom why he’d studied the monster bridegroom stories. How he’d spent his childhood poring over books of fairy tales looking for happy ever afters for creatures like him. Needing assurance that he would find love one day despite his family’s curse. That he wasn’t just a dumb animal of the forest or a monstrous, ravening beast who preyed on unsuspecting tourists like in the movies. The children’s stories were the record of people like him, the shifters. Märchen passed down for generations of cursed folk to cling to, to know they weren’t alone. Sure, science knew about him; he could find his condition in a few medical texts that dealt with magical medical problems, but in reality it was so rare that Tom had probably never met someone like him.
Tom flashed his million-watt smile then. It would be the death of Frank. He got a boner every time it showed up, no Pavlovian bell needed. He excused himself to give himself a hard thump. Thank God the game would start soon.
FRANK LEFT THE room quick enough to cause a breeze, his cute butt disappearing into the hallway so fast Tom didn’t have more than two seconds to ogle him. Had Tom spooked the guy with his snide question about fairy tales? Tom rolled his eyes. He’d have to watch his mouth if he wanted to get into Frank’s tight jeans.
Annie had told Tom that Frank was gay when she admitted she’d been playing matchmaker at dinner the other night. Since Tom’s breakup with his on-again, off-again boyfriend last fall, he’d kept to himself. A few hookups here and there, but no one serious. It was enough to make him think he was getting too old for the guys who kept flooding New York. Younger and younger. His last audition, he’d lost the role to a twink ten years his junior. It had disheartened him enough to jump at Annie’s cajoling to come home for a visit.
And so far, the benefits of familial obligation were easy on the eyes. Tom hummed to himself, remembering the cords of muscle on Frank’s calves and thighs. Tom would be more than happy to get closer to Frank while he directed the play. As long as Frank knew there were no permanent ties, it would be a convenient arrangement. He and Frank could come and go at the apartment house as they pleased as long as they were discreet about it. Having a booty call so convenient would be an excellent perk of coming home for the summer.
And Tom liked Frank’s idea about the play. But he still worried about it being a full evening’s entertainment. A two act might suit if—
Tom grabbed his phone and typed a line of text to his sister.
What about a short two-act play with a historical presentation opening the performance space and a reception afterward? That way you have time to angle for an endowment.
This would solve so many of his problems. Short plays were minimal sets. It wouldn’t take as long to write. It still wouldn’t solve his costuming and transformation scene problems, but he had time to figure those out. After a few seconds, Annie’s reply vibrated the phone in his hand.
Can’t afford the bar. We’d have to hire a caterer, buy the booze…
Tom typed, nodding when Frank reentered the room and sat down to switch on the television.
I’ll bartend and chip in some wine. That’s all we need, some white, some red, and cans of soda, maybe one signature drink.
He could hear Annie’s whine in her reply text.
Are you sure? Come talk over dinner tonight.
Tom grinned down at his phone. There was no way he was letting Annie wiggle out of this. He did a quick Internet search on his mobile browser. Yep. They had just enough time to get a permit.
The special event liquor license will only set you back $100 and you should have it in time for opening night if you submit the paperwork tomorrow.
When Tom glanced up, Frank’s quizzical look had his
eyebrows halfway up his forehead.
“Annie.” Tom motioned at his phone.
And I suppose you expect me to give the presentation?
Tom shook his head but answered her.
I’ll help with the marketing. You’ll be the new cultural mecca in town. I’ll walk over after the game to discuss.
“I’m trying to convince her into giving a short talk about the history of the bookstore.” Tom turned a sidelong eye at Frank for his reaction.
Frank nodded. “She has tons of info she dug up on the building. It was the first town library. Then a general store, and for a brief period, the meeting hall for the local Wyfonagging Men’s Club.”
“Who?” Tom looked away from his phone.
“Wyfonagging Men’s Club,” Frank repeated. “They were a group of men who thought they were fooling their wives into thinking it was a community charitable organization when it was really an excuse to get out of the house and drink.”
“Huh.” Tom chuckled. “They ever get caught?”
“Annie told me they were disbanded after their one and only attempt to beautify the city.” Frank bit his lip, but the skin beside his eyes crinkled. “Specifically, the front of the library on 5th.” Frank’s eyes danced, and his grin escaped. It lit him up inside. Tom wanted to kiss that smile.
“No. The creepy circle of faceless peeing children statues?” The laugh startled out of Tom’s throat. “Oh man. I had no idea.”
“Annie’s done a lot of research. I told her she needs to write a book.” Frank relaxed back a little on the couch. A prickle of awareness skittered down Tom’s side at how close Frank sat. He liked having Frank within reach.
Tom tossed his phone on the coffee table.
“How’d she take that?”
Frank chuffed. “She said she was the distributor and not the manufacturer.” He bit the inside of his finger. “I think she’s including some of her findings in the pitch to the town council. If they declare the building a historic site, it will have some protection from being torn down.”
“But she told me Dick Majors is on the council. Isn’t he the one that wants to tear it down?”
“Yeah.” Frank deflated into the sofa.
Tom extended an arm along the couch. His fingertips were so close to Frank’s neck he could almost tangle them in Frank’s hair. Frank locked his gaze on the television where a car zoomed around a mountain in a commercial. Did Frank’s steady attempt to ignore Tom’s cues mean he wasn’t interested, or he was shy or maybe just had too much on his mind? Frank was a conundrum. Tom was disconcerted with how hard he was having to pursue. Maybe he should just back off for a little and try another tack?
“Back to the play.” Tom moved his arm and reached for his beer. “I think we take your ideas, make it for an adult audience, and shorten the production down to a sixty-minute show.” He took a swallow, catching Frank’s gaze.
“I’ve made notes.” Frank watched him, his eyes wary.
“Great. I’d love to see them.” Tom followed Frank with his gaze as he left the room again, his more leisurely departure giving Tom a better look at the round backside hidden by Frank’s jeans.
Had anyone pursued Frank before? That was what the play was about, the romantic pursuit. Maybe the play was Frank’s way of making the first move? How fitting for them as writer and director to be experiencing the pursuit firsthand. Tom finished the last of his beer, feeling the warmth seep into his veins. This would be fun.
Torture. That was what it was. Frank hunched over his notes, trying to ignore how close Tom leaned. Tom’s warmth radiated to Frank’s shoulder, his side, his thigh—it was torture. Frank took a deep breath, opening his mouth a little to let Tom’s scent tickle his tongue and roll to the back of his throat. His muscles tightened, drawing taut. Heat and arousal roiled in his stomach and groin. His inner wolf paced in his mind, looking for a way to release itself, and then threw back its head to howl. Frank bit down on the sound as it leaped to his throat, coughing and angling away.
Tom glanced up, his penetrating blue eyes confused, soft pouty lips pursed. Almost like he was waiting for a kiss. Frank shook himself and scooted a few inches sideways. Not that he could go far on his ratty little couch, or he’d hit the bent spring.
Frank gestured to the television where the commentators threw plastic logos across the stage while announcing their pick between the Packers and the Seahawks.
“I can’t believe Brandon chose Seattle.” Frank wheezed, an explanation for his coughing fit.
Tom blinked, eyes turning to the pregame show still running at half volume. He nodded, then tapped his pencil on Frank’s pages, the blending of Beauty and the Beast with the Loathly Lady myth.
“I may have to call in favors with my friends in New York. We need something special for the denouement. The play’s transformation of the beast into the prince needs to be more than just removing a mask.”
“Are you thinking smoke and mirrors?” Frank frowned, envisioning the audience hacking away during the finale in the small third-floor room.
Tom leaned back on the couch to stare at the painted-over water stain on the living room ceiling. Frank’s covert gaze caressed the long, tanned expanse of Tom’s neck. His teeth itched to bite as he watched Tom’s Adam’s apple bob.
The smile on Tom’s face dawned slow, like a spotlight illuminating a figure on a darkened stage. He turned from the water stain back to Frank, who stilled, caught staring.
Frank offered a shrug. “What?”
“You know what would look striking is a tango during the wooing scene.”
“A dance?” Frank was confused.
“Yeah.” Tom bounced up from the couch, and it squeaked in protest. “I’ll show you.” He held out his hand to Frank.
In that split second, a choice stood before him. Frank could hesitate, and it would get awkward. Tom would leave disappointed. Or Frank could grasp Tom’s hand and draw him close, pretend to dance with him while brainstorming a direction for the play. Really, it would just be to help out Tom. And to pacify Frank’s inner wolf. Frank wanted to press against Tom, to touch him, clasp his hand, feel the shift of fluid muscles at his waist.
Frank took Tom’s hand, and the other man yanked him up. Tom used his foot to shove the coffee table to the side.
“Um, I’m not a dancer.” Frank’s stammered protest owed more to being pulled belly to belly with Tom, inches from Tom’s Broadway smile and movie-star looks, than insecurity. At eight Frank had learned to waltz for his dad’s wedding. He’d been excited to be in the wedding. As his dad had danced with his new mother-in-law, it had been Frank’s job to dance with his new stepmother. Shirley had looked like a fairy princess in her poofy white dress. She’d practiced with him for a week to get the steps right. She’d told him how grown up he looked, and he thought he was the luckiest kid in the world to get her for a mom. And he had been until the birth of the twins. Then he hadn’t been able to do anything right. “I only know how to waltz.”
His admission didn’t even faze Tom.
“Great. You’ll be able to pick this up with no problem then.” Tom dropped his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “The tango started out as a dance for men. It’s a manly dance.”
Tom’s blue eyes gazed into Frank’s, so close he saw the irises expand.
“Just remember slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. Step forward with your left.” Tom stepped back, and Frank leaned into the step like a marionette. “Now forward with your right. Good. Forward to the left again, and then step right with your right foot, and slide your left over to meet it.”
Frank held his breath as they danced. They practiced the move, their chests close, near to brushing, and their hips aligned. His back ached with tension from keeping his groin the few inches away from where it wanted to collide against Tom’s hips. His lungs protested, and Frank expelled his pent-up breath. Their practiced movements grew fluid in the tiny living room. Frank stared at the subtle lift of Tom’s mouth, the sensuous bottom lip te
mpting him. Inside him the wolf surged again as if against restraints.
“Frank, can I—”
Frank watched Tom’s mouth form the words. Frank spread his hand wide on Tom’s warm back as he leaned in. He wanted to kiss Tom, ravish him.
Behind them, a roar rose from the crowded stadium, following the kickoff. The spell between them broke, and a wave of awkwardness crashed over Frank. He stepped out of Tom’s arms before he thought better of it. He squeezed his fingers into a fist to keep them from reaching for Tom again.
“The game’s starting.” Frank’s voice came out reedy, winded as if he’d run a mile. “I’m going to grab a beer. Would you like one?” He was halfway to the kitchen before he heard Tom’s assent.
Frank’s numb hand batted at the refrigerator door until it opened. He grasped the icy bottles hard, knuckles whitening, afraid he’d drop them. He nudged the door closed again with his hip.
When he returned to the living room, Tom was scribbling on the pages, but he’d turned up the volume on the set. Frank sat as far to the side as he could and still be on the couch, wincing as the bent spring poked his backside. He handed a beer to Tom.
Another roar surged from the television, and Tom glanced up.
“First down.” He held out his beer bottle, and Frank knocked the neck of his own against it with a clink. They both took a swallow. The beer settled into Frank’s stomach, quieting the quivering mass of nerves that stirred there.
Tom leaned back to watch the game, stretching his arm across the back of the sofa again and crossing an ankle over his knee. Frank lowered his shoulders from around his ears and forced himself to relax. He focused on the game play, not the nearness of Tom’s fingers, and wiggled into a more comfortable position on the couch. The “just bros hanging out” vibe soothed him, filled a craving he hadn’t even known he’d missed since coming to Waycroft Falls. Even his inner wolf calmed, quiet in his head.
By halftime, Frank knew he shouldn’t have drunk that third beer. It made him too lax and warm as he and Tom watched the dancers jiggle through the midgame show.
Wolf Around the Corner Page 4