Plaid Nights Anthology

by Torquere Press LLC

  Nathan gasped and thrust deep into me and held me pinned underneath him. His tense body slowly relaxed as he collapsed on top of me. Our fluids squished between us and flowed off my body. We lay in each other’s arms panting.

  Just as he rolled off me and removed the condom, the phone rang. I thought to ignore it, but Nathan tossed the condom on the floor and moved out of my way. I reached over to the bedside table and answered it. It was after midnight. Who could be calling so late?

  “Uncle Jeff, that man in your closet woke me up.”

  My sister came on the phone. “Seth woke up screaming and said you were in trouble and we had to call you.”

  “I’m fine. I forgot to tell you Seth had a nightmare at my place Saturday night.”

  “He gets them once in a while.”

  Seth interrupted, asking for a glass of water, and my sister hung up.

  I set the phone back on the table and turned to Nathan.

  “What was that about?” Nathan asked. A cool breeze blew through the bedroom as he turned to cuddle next to me. He pulled me close and looked into my eyes.

  “My nephew had a dream about the man in a skirt. He said I was in danger.”

  Nathan paused. “What should we do?”

  “Will you be my bodyguard?”

  Nathan crawled back on top of me and kissed me. I closed my eyes and savored the passion. Another cool breeze blew.

  I opened my eyes and didn’t understand what I was seeing.

  A shadow of a man lingered just outside the bedroom door. Had Nathan’s father returned? I tensed.

  The shape moved slowly forward, as if floating on air. I held my breath as the bedroom light played across his face and I recognized him.

  Ralph Johnson.

  He entered my bedroom and stood at the foot of my bed. His arm rose from his side with a gun and aimed at us. I grabbed Nathan and rolled off the bed with him as the gun exploded. A flame shot out of the barrel as the bullet hit my pillow.

  In the impact from the fall, Nathan landed on top of me, and I struggled to get out from underneath. We untangled ourselves as Ralph stepped around the foot of the bed. He leveled his gun at me and stopped when he saw Nathan. He froze. “You. How can it be you? I killed you.”

  Nathan gasped.

  I rose onto my knees, trying to protect Nathan. The fluids of our lovemaking dripped off of me, cold and damp, and onto the wooden floor. My skin prickled from the chill, and I found it difficult to breathe. My neighbor was crazy. He had killed Nathan’s father, and now he was coming after us.

  Ralph stepped forward and aimed the gun at Nathan.

  Blind panic took over. I pushed Nathan out of the way as a cold chill descended on the bedroom, and an eerie, blue glow grew in my closet. The light intensified, and the door burst open.

  Ralph spun and faced the man in a kilt with a rope around his neck. The blue light surrounded the ghostly man as he moved closer. Ralph turned to flee, his foot catching on the edge of the flannel sheets. He stepped back as we scurried toward the door. The sheets wrapped around his ankle, and his foot slipped on the wet spot on the floor—the puddle of lube and semen and spent condom.

  Ralph screamed and tried to catch himself, but the man in the kilt hit him hard, and he flew across the cedar chest under the window. His legs hit the solid object and stopped, but his upper body crashed into the wooden blinds that covered the panes. The glass shattered and the wooden blades clanged against each other. His body hung in mid-air, a cord from the blinds wrapped around his neck.

  The ghostly figure rushed him and propelled his body through the panes of glass. Gravity took over, his body fell, and Ralph disappeared out the window.

  Snap!

  The glowing blue light hung in the air as the ghostly man looked down. He looked back at us and dissolved into the night.

  ***

  Nathan sat on the couch as the police finished their questions. I looked over at his pale face and wished I could hug him. Dried semen stuck to my skin under my T-shirt and boxers, and it pulled on my body hair. “I just want to take a shower and go to bed,” I told the officer.

  “I think we have everything we need. Are you sure you want to stay here tonight? We can find you a place if…”

  Nathan stood up and said, “No.”

  I moved over to him and touched his arm. “We’re fine, we’ll stay here.”

  Reporters littered the front yard, snapping pictures and trying to overhear any details of the tragedy.

  “Can you make sure everyone leaves?” I asked.

  The officer nodded. “We’ll clear your yard.”

  Another shard of glass fell from the upstairs window and shattered on the front sidewalk. “Thanks for your help,” I said, ushering him to the door. I closed and locked it on the yelled requests for a comment or an interview.

  I turned off the living room light and hugged Nathan. “I know it’s horrible that your Dad was murdered, but at least you know he didn’t kill himself,” I whispered into his ear.

  He pulled me closer and held me. Tears rolled down his face and landed on me. He sniffled as his nose ran, too.

  I held him close and waited until I felt him relax. “Do you want to take a shower? I know I could really use one.” I gently escorted him up the stairs and into the bathroom.

  Turning on the water, steam rose quickly as we stripped and stepped into the spray. We held each other as the warmth washed over us. Using my lemon body wash, I scrubbed him clean.

  He lathered me up, and we rinsed until the water turned cold. I changed the sheets, guided him into the clean bed, and pulled him near. I spooned his body, holding him close.

  A cool night breeze blew in from the broken window, but we snuggled together and kept each other warm. As we drifted off to sleep, a man in a kilt watched us from the foot of the bed. A soft, warm, welcoming light illuminated him, and he smiled at us. The rope from around his neck was gone. He slowly moved over to the bed, kissed his son, and faded away.

  The End

  More by Logan Zachary:

  Big Bad Wolf

  GingerDead Man

  Calendar Boys

  Perfect Working Order

  by Elizabeth Coldwell

  Gary thinks he knows everything about Miles, his best friend from university—until Miles walks into the bar wearing a kilt…

  Dedication

  For David, whose kilt provided the inspiration

  A Scotsman walks into a bar. Yeah, I know it sounds like the set-up for a joke but when Miles strode through the doors of The Fox and Lamb I wasn’t laughing. My reaction could best be described as surprised admiration. In the five years since I’d last seen him, he’d grown into his six foot plus frame, filling out nicely across the chest and shoulders. The ends of his dark hair curled over the collar of his plain blue Scotland rugby shirt and he’d shaved off the patchy beard he used to favor, revealing the strong, square chin beneath. In short, he’d got hot.

  But that wasn’t the only reason I had to quickly shut my gaping mouth as he approached. He’d teamed his shirt not with the expected pair of jeans, but with a Highland kilt that just skimmed his knees, sturdy boots, and thick blue socks. More than a few heads swiveled in his direction, and a couple of women appeared to be openly checking him out, to the obvious displeasure of their partners.

  “Gary!” The voice hadn’t changed. Still deep and resonant, though it had a slight huskiness, presumably as a result of all the shouting he’d done at the game he’d just attended. “Great to see you.”

  “You, too. What can I get you?”

  “Pint of the IPA, please.” He nodded toward the hand pump.

  I set about pouring his beer. “Are you on your own?” When he’d first got in touch to say he was coming down for the rugby, he’d mentioned he’d have a couple of friends with him but I saw no sign of them.

  “Oh, Iain and Andrew got talking to these two lassies who were sitting next to us in the stand. The four of them have gone off clubbing some
where in the West End.” He pulled a wry face. “Not my idea of a good time, but…Anyway, how are you?”

  “I’m well, thanks,” I replied, handing him his drink. “Got an audition for a part in a new spy thriller next week.”

  Since we’d left university, our lives had taken very different paths. Miles had moved back to his native Glasgow, where he’d got a job in the defense industry. From the emails he’d sent me, he was on the fast track to a senior role in the research and development department. Meanwhile, I’d pursued my calling as an actor, with limited success. I’d done some stage work, played a policeman in one of the soaps for half a dozen episodes, but I was still waiting for my big break. For the last seven months, I’d been working behind the bar in The Fox and Lamb. Don, the landlord, was renting the upstairs room to me at a ridiculously cheap rate, and though it wasn’t quite how I’d seen my life panning out after graduation, I was happy enough.

  “How did you get on in the rugby, by the way?” I went on, deflecting any more talk about my less than stellar career. Rugby union had never been my game—I was a football man, always had been—but I knew tonight’s match had been important. England against Scotland was more than a matter of who would lift the Calcutta Cup. Miles had always been very clear on that point. National pride was at stake, too.

  No one else who’d been at the game had come into the pub. Even though Twickenham, the stadium where it had taken place, was less than a mile from here, The Fox and Lamb wasn’t on the regular circuit for rugby fans wanting a drink. It was another reason why Miles’ arrival had raised eyebrows. But the locals could rest easy. I knew there wouldn’t be a flood of chest-beating Scotland diehards or braying English rugger buggers following in his wake.

  Miles sighed. “We were leading going into the last couple of minutes. A famous victory was on the cards. Then England scored a try…”

  He didn’t need to add any more. “Sorry to hear it, mate. Still, there’s always next year, right?”

  His expression brightened a little. “Aye, and we’ll be playing them at Murrayfield then. Home turf. Sixty thousand proud Scotsmen belting out Flower of Scotland before kick-off. They won’t know what’s hit them.”

  Don wandered over. I thought he might be about to tell me off for chatting to the customers when I ought to be collecting empties from the tables, but instead he joined in the conversation.

  “So, are you wearing that kilt in the traditional manner?” he enquired of Miles. Miles paused in the act of raising his drink to his lips and laughed, clearly in on the joke.

  I looked from one to the other, baffled by the remark. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, there are lots of myths about the kilt,” Miles replied. “I blame Mel Gibson, of course—wearing one in that terrible film about William Wallace when he should really have been running around in a pair of trews. And don’t start me on his Scottish accent…But what yer man here—” he gestured to Don with his glass “—is referring to is the fact that a true Scotsman never wears underwear beneath his kilt. And in that respect, yes, I am upholding the tradition.”

  Miles spoke in a matter of fact tone, but a little thrill ran through me all the same. The thought of his cock, bare and free beneath those thick folds of fabric, had my own cock swelling in my boxers. What would it be like to reach under his kilt and take it in my hand, warm and vital?

  I did my best to will my budding erection away, aware that I shouldn’t be spinning erotic fantasies about one of my closest friends. When we’d been at university together, he’d never given the least indication he was into men, whereas I was already out and proud, an active member of the on-campus LGBT society. Nothing he’d said in his emails and phone calls in the intervening years indicated his desires had changed.

  Don settled his elbows on the bar, leaning close to us both. “Well, I’m very pleased to hear it. Reminds me of the old joke. You know, is anything worn under the kilt?” He adopted an exaggerated, high-pitched Scottish accent to deliver the punch line. “No, laddie, it’s all in perfect working order. But seriously—” returning to his usual Cockney brogue “—I’ve got to admire your balls. Particularly if there’s a sudden gust of wind and that thing blows up…”

  Miles wore the expression of a man who’d clearly heard all these lines before. I shook my head wearily. Before he’d gone into the pub trade, Don had been a stand-up comedian, playing the Northern working men’s clubs circuit, and he’d never quite lost the need to perform for an audience.

  Don turned away from us to bellow across the bar room, “Last orders, please, ladies and gentlemen.” Then he winked at Miles. “Fair play to you, mate. It takes guts to walk round dressed like that when your team’s just got beat. Let me treat to you a dram of whisky. The good stuff.”

  “Thanks.” Miles sounded surprised.

  For all his outward brashness, Don was a whisky connoisseur, and he never had less than a dozen different single malts for sale to his clientele. He took a bottle of twenty year old Glen Garioch from its place behind the bar and poured out two measures—one for himself and one for Miles. He went to get a third glass but I shook my head. Being in Miles’ company had made me light-headed enough. I didn’t need a shot of strong alcohol messing me up any further on top of that.

  While they sipped the clear golden liquor, I set about serving the couple of customers who wanted one last drink before our doors closed. Already, people were supping up and drifting out into the night, perhaps encouraged to start making their way home by the rain that had begun to beat against the mullioned windowpanes. I glanced at Miles, who didn’t appear to have a coat with him. Warmed by the whisky, basking in his new-found self-confidence, he probably wouldn’t even notice it was raining.

  When I glanced over at Miles, he was still conferring with Don. From the few words I managed to hear above the wailing of Adele on the jukebox, Don was telling Miles about the driving tour of Scottish distilleries he’d taken the previous summer.

  As the bar room emptied, I kept expecting Miles to come over to me and announce he was on his way. From what he’d told me, he and his friends were staying in a chain hotel close to Euston station, and he needed to be leaving soon if he wanted to catch a train that would get him back to Central London before the Tube stopped running. But he showed no inclination to drink up and leave, still obviously engrossed in Don’s anecdotes.

  In the end, it was Don who ended the conversation, looking up to bellow, “The pub is closed. If you could be making your way home now, ladies and gentlemen, please...”

  Those words appeared to snap Miles out of some kind of trance. He glanced at his watch. “Shit, is that the time? I’d better be off.” With one swallow, he drained the last of his whisky.

  The station was less than five minutes’ walk away. If he hurried, I knew he’d make his train. But as I glanced at the rain-washed scene on the other side of the window, a devil of an idea popped into my brain and refused to leave.

  “You know, you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to,” I said casually.

  Miles shot me a look, as if guiltily aware that he’d let Don monopolize his attention when he’d really stopped by to talk to me. “Sorry, Gary, I’d love to stay and have a proper conversation with you. But I’ve got a train to catch.”

  “My room’s just upstairs. I don’t mind if you want to crash there. What do you say? We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, after all.”

  The last of the departing customers pushed open the front door. As the man turned to call his goodnights to Don, Miles got a glimpse of the street outside and for the first time appeared to realize how heavily the rain was coming down.

  He smiled, his cheeks dimpling. “Yeah, that’d be nice. Thanks, mate.”

  ***

  I left Don to cash up the night’s takings and made the way through the side door into the corridor at the back of the bar. Miles followed me up the stairs, bending his head as he did his best to avoid colliding with the low ceiling on the stair
case. That action reminded me all too acutely of his towering height: his broad frame proving too big for the confines of this centuries-old architecture. My last boyfriend, Toby, had been a dancer in a West End show, fey and slender. He’d had no trouble negotiating these stairs when I’d led him up here to bed. Miles, on the other hand…

  Whoa, slow down! I told myself. You’ve only invited Miles up for coffee and a chat. Don’t think of this as any kind of seduction. It’s not like he’s given any signs of being into you or anything.

  I unlocked the door to my room and let Miles inside, glad I’d decided to give the place a thorough spring clean the previous weekend. For once, my dirty jogging gear and old copies of Shortlist magazine didn’t litter the floor.

  “Can I get you a coffee, or would you like something stronger?” I asked. “I’m afraid I can’t compete with Don’s collection of single malts, but I’ve got a bottle of half-decent vodka in the fridge.”

  “Coffee would be grand,” Miles replied. I thought he might choose to sit in the easy chair with the Aztec-patterned throw draped over it. Instead, he undid his boots and took them off before making himself comfortable on the bed.

  He sat cross-legged, just as I remembered him doing on his bed in our shared dorm room, and as the kilt settled around his meaty thighs I couldn’t stop my mind floating back to Miles’ casual acknowledgement of the fact he wore nothing beneath it.

  I waved a hand in the direction of my iPod, snug in its dock on top of the bookcase. “If you want to choose some music, be my guest…”

  He made a grunt of acknowledgement. I didn’t see him fiddle with the device, but as I set about spooning coffee into the cafetière, a track by Biffy Clyro began to play.

  “Huh, typical of you to choose a Scottish band,” I quipped.

  “What can I say? I just like this song.” He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, clearly lost in the driving beat of the music.