“It’ll just make me late, too, which will put me even later getting back to your rescue.” Damn, sometimes he is so downright logical, it’s scary. He has an appointment with a client about a wedding he is scheduled to shoot this summer, so he is taking the Monte, and Rachel is coming to get me. She isn’t staying, though, says she has things to do. Sure she does. Just sacrificial Max, being thrown to the lions once more.
“Besides, isn’t Rachel going to be here any time now? I don’t think she’d appreciate walking in on us again.” He smiles at me most roguishly, and I blush at the memory, even though it was many years ago.
May 21, 1981
AN INCREDIBLY happy day for Richard and I: the day we moved into the cottage on Lupercalia Lane. Our own home at last. Just him and me, together. A dream we had worked for for almost five years before seeing it realized. It hadn’t been easy, by any means, and I have to admit there were times along the way when I became discouraged for one reason or another—whether because of Richard’s unexplained absences, saving the money for the sizeable down payment we wanted to make wasn’t happening fast enough, or we simply couldn’t find just the right house—but we made it, and here we were!
It was also a bittersweet day, leaving home for the first time. I had literally never lived anywhere else from the day I was born, had known no other home but my grandfather’s house in Webster Groves. As excited as I was, it was also hard to leave my mother and my sister. Diana was eighteen and six months pregnant at the time with Jackson. Jackson’s father was an older man who seduced her and impregnated her in the back room of the fast-food restaurant she worked at. He was the assistant manager there and, as it turned out, married, and when the home pregnancy test came back positive, he got a quick transfer to another store (almost as fast as the speed with which Jackson was conceived, Diana used to joke with me later), and was never seen again. The curse of the Montague women, you know. Passed down from generation to generation in a time-honored tradition. Only time will tell if this trend will be continued or not in any future female line. At the moment there is only Jackson. Sebastian has no children, and unless either I or Richard grow a uterus, which I consider to be highly unlikely although rather amusing, I don’t see us having a daughter to be cursed with it either. After all was said and done, Juliet didn’t care if Diana never saw the loose-moraled son of a bitch again, but she contacted a lawyer and made damn sure he paid the price for what he did. And to give the devil his due, he did make child-support payments on a regular basis, but he never wanted anything to do with the child.
Diana was fond of showing off her growing bump, which by then was fairly sizeable. She was always confident that she would have a boy. Her son’s full name is Andrew Jackson Montague, but ever since he was born, he’s gone by the name of Jackson. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who he was named after. That’s my sister for you. The day we moved, she got completely hormonal on us. She hugged us both and told us how much she would miss us, and we promised to visit often and swore we would always be there for her and the little bump baby.
We didn’t have a lot to move from our old home to our new home, not really, the only pieces of furniture being our bedroom set, the rest of it consisting of our clothes and books and miscellaneous possessions that were boxed and ready to go well before the day, all of which fit into a small trailer we had rented for the occasion. There are some benefits to being anal, I suppose. We had taken some of our savings and gotten a few essential pieces of furniture at flea markets and estate sales, just the minimum for now, including the piano that Juliet and I found in Ladue. That piano was my pride and joy, still is actually, as I’ve never replaced it. I could afford another one, a better one perhaps, but I love that one dearly, and all the memories that go along with it. I arranged for the furniture to be taken directly to the cottage, seeing as that was where it belonged anyway. My mother had graciously taken me on a shopping expedition to stock our kitchen and bought us all the little conveniences that make cooking a joy, from pots and pans to a full-stand mixer, knives and measuring cups, a food processor, a cappuccino machine, a coffee maker, and a bean grinder. What more could two young men just starting out want or need? The bed we already had. And had broken in already. Thoroughly.
We made short work of carrying everything from the trailer into the house, leaving the doors wide open for convenience’s sake. It was a beautiful day in May anyway, temperatures in the seventies, the most gentle of breezes stirring the flowers in the garden, a good day to air out the house, a day that was befitting what promised to be the start of our new lives together. I mean, we had been together for almost five years, but it seemed different now. Better. We weren’t just living in a room at my mother’s house—and yes, I do realize how generous she was to take care of both of us all that time, especially my lover, who was no relation to her whatsoever—we had our own home. It was a tremendous feeling, and we were both pretty pumped.
I had marked every box with the precise location of where it was to go, which made distribution much easier. And more organized. Although a few times, I caught Richard attempting to set boxes in random locations, and I had to reprimand him for his laxity. He laughed at what he liked to refer to as my analness, assuming that there even is such a word and not just his own peculiar contribution to the English language.
Naturally, I couldn’t bring my mother’s awesome stereo system with me. It was hers, after all, but I did take a little of our savings—it was for a good cause, we agreed—and bought one of our own, another Pioneer, but I hadn’t had a chance to properly set it up yet or balance the speakers even. It sat in the original boxes still, on the floor by the empty bookcases, and once everything came in from the car, I thought that now was as good a time as any to do just that. And then maybe set up the books. However, when I reached for the first box with the intention of tearing into it, I felt a firm hand grip my wrist, and I found myself being pulled into my lover’s strong arms.
“Now, what do you think you’re going to do?” he whispered warmly in my ear.
“Put the stereo up,” I responded, rather limply, I’m afraid, as I felt his tongue licking wetly at my helix, probing around the crest and into the very meatus itself. God, what a turn-on! But I was determined to be strong, so that by this evening everything would be in place, and we could benefit from the fruits of our labors before we went to bed that night.
“If you want music, I’ll sing to you, sweet thing,” he offered, continuing his ministrations on my ear, and all the blood in my body seemed to form a union, meeting in my groin and going straight to my cock.
Oh my God, the things that man does to me! His touch acts as a shunt that bypasses my first brain completely and sends his messages directly to the second-in-command. Or is it actually the controlling brain and I don’t realize it? Fuck it, who even gives a damn?
I tried to be strong, to be the efficient Max, the responsible Max. The sensible Max.
“Richard, it won’t take long,” I feebly protested. Half-heartedly attempted. Lamely attempted. But how did I end up on the sofa with him reclining full length on top of me? Oh my God, he’s so hard, and oh God, he’s so incredibly hot… and damn, simply damn….
“My luscious little wolf,” he crooned into my lips, his words sending a vibration straight to my soul.
“Richard,” I moaned back. His hands were pinioning my wrists over my head now, and I was beginning to forget what I was even talking about. “Um, we should be… I mean, I should be….” What the hell was I even yammering about? Damned if I could remember.
“We should be what?” he asked softly.
“Um… stereo,” I managed to gasp out, even as he released my hands, sliding backward down my body until his mouth was parallel to my cock, the warmth of his breath on my sheathed erection delightfully maddening. He moved his lips over my hardness, lipping it, sucking at it through the material. I was fast losing the ability to speak, much less think. “Mmm, Richard….”
He pr
essed his nose against my crotch, his fingers seeking and pulling at the zipper of my jeans, I heard each tooth as it disengaged from every other, until I could feel my cock spring free at last, that traitorous organ, and I knew very well that I was lost. And didn’t care.
He buried his nose in my pubes; it sounded like he was snorting them, damn near, snuffling into my crotch like a pig searching for truffles. My fingers sought his head, found it, gripping tightly at those gorgeous blond tresses. His nose was nudging at my balls—it’s my opinion that they are too hairy, although he pronounces them perfect—his tongue lapping at my twin sacs. Damn, I could already feel pre-cum oozing from the head.
He took my balls into his mouth, devouring them as I bucked up, slapping him across the face with my cock. “Oh yes, oh yes,” I moaned, drowning in my great desire for him. I heard his response against my cock, my name repeated in that breathy-sexy-lusty voice that never fails to send shivers down my spine, “Max, Max, Max!” It was only a matter of time now ’til he would take me into that hot, moist mouth. Paradise, pure paradise.
At that moment, I heard a sound out of the corner of my ear. What the hell? I jerked my head up just in time to catch a glimpse of Rachel standing there. God knows how long she’d been standing there or what she saw. Surprised me so much I tried to sit up, which enterprise was doomed to failure with Richard buried in my crotch like that. Damn! My fingers were so entwined with his hair that I inadvertently yanked on it, pulling his head up, which caused him to accidentally bite down on what was in his mouth. My tender bits. My bollocks. My nuts. My family jewels. Which in turn brought a strangulated cry from me as we both fell off the couch into a tangled heap on the floor.
By the time I looked again, Rachel was gone. It was only then I remembered that the door was wide open, pissing and moaning as my lover tried to make amends to me for having bitten me.
SO, RACHEL picks me up and drives me to my mother’s while Richard takes the Monte and heads off on his own business. When we arrive, I look for strange cars in the driveway. My mother’s car is there; there’s no sign of Diana’s. But there is a strange Cadillac parked next to Juliet’s Oldsmobile. I sigh. So there is someone here. Dammit. Someone who appears to be into conspicuous consumption.
Rachel ruffles my hair affectionately. “Max, calm down,” she laughs. “Want me to come with you? I will, you know.”
“No, no, I’ll be fine,” I sigh dramatically. “Besides, Richard shouldn’t be too terribly long, and then we can make our excuses and go. It’s only dinner, after all.” But I make no move to get out of the car, flipping on her radio instead, which seems to amuse her. “I’ll go in a minute,” I waffle, settling back to listen to Beethoven’s Fifth, which has only just begun. Bum bum bum bummmmmmmmm.
After a few minutes of this, Rachel nudges me. “What?” I ask.
“You’ve been spotted,” she informs me. “I see the curtains moving, I’m pretty sure it’s your mom. You might as well go in now and get it over with before she comes out and drags you in. You’ll only lose dignity that way.”
I grumble and fuss and stall for at least five more minutes, but I can see the nervously twitching curtains now; they seem to have taken on a life of their own. Most assuredly we are being spied upon, and yes, it is better to walk in under my own power than to have my mother come out and drag me in by my ear. Which I certainly wouldn’t put past her.
Rachel tries to assuage my fears. “Max, it’ll be okay. Just be polite to the girl for a little bit. Then when Richard comes, she’ll see the two of you together, and she’ll know you’re not available and move on.”
“I know, but dammit, it’s undignified to even have to go through this shit!” I fuss. “At my age, especially!”
She bends over and kisses my cheek. “You’re still stalling,” she chides me gently. “Go on, you sexy little thing. Did I remember to tell you that you look very hot in that suit?”
“Soft words won’t turn me now,” I tell her, scowling, “since you’re leaving me here at their mercy, you cruel wench.”
Rachel only laughs and points toward the house significantly. I get out, slamming the car door very loudly as a signal to my mother that I am indeed on my way.
I walk into the house, finally, attempting to gird my loins against the inevitable assault. Okay, where are they most likely to be? In the living room, perhaps, judging by the rustling curtain game I witnessed. But no, no one is there. Must be already at the table. Juliet will be pissed. I sigh even as I can’t help but wish that my mother would quit this shit and hope that Richard comes back soon to take me away from this madness.
Damn, I need a drink! Maybe I can slide past and grab something out of the kitchen first.
No such luck.
I can hear my mother’s voice. It catches me and pulls me unwillingly into the dining room. Okay, then, show time it is. I prepare myself to smile politely at the unknown visitor who my mother is so insistent I meet, preparatory to letting her know in as kind a way as I can that I am not in the market, I am not interested, I am absolutely not available, and I am very much in love and have been for twenty years. I stride easily into the room, prepared for anything.
But not for this. Not for this man who sits so familiarly beside my mother at the head of the table, his hand atop her knee, smiling into her eyes. What the fuck?
He is somewhere around fifty or so, I gauge; his hair is mostly black with a distinguished gentlemen gray about the edges. Muttonchop sideburns, trimmed to be not quite as ridiculous as they sound, for all I know they might be considered to be stylish. An aquiline nose and high cheekbones that conspire to allow him to look younger than his years. But it’s the eyes that I notice the most: they are dark and yet fiery, and there is something in them that doesn’t sit well with me. But that’s probably because of the way he is looking at my mother.
I glance in confusion about the room. No sign of any girl or woman. No prospective girlfriends for Max to meet. No potential hearts to break. (Ha ha, being facetious there. I don’t think I’ve ever broken any woman’s heart, not really. Or even any man’s).
“Max, you finally decided to come in!” My mother rises, and I can hear a slight edge to her voice.
“Sorry, Mom,” I mumble, “I was talking to Rachel.” I eye the man askance. He rises as well, holding his hand out in a gesture of welcome.
“Max, I’d like you to meet Terranova. The Reverend Terranova Fisher.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Max.” The man has the voice of a practiced speaker, I can tell. I take his hand in my own; his grip is firm. And challenging. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Juliet.”
I may be slow sometimes, but even I start to get it now. Mother hasn’t brought me here to meet a prospective girlfriend, but rather, a prospective boyfriend. For herself. And he’s a reverend? The light bulb slowly begins to flicker as the proper connection is made, the slender filament doing its thing, illuminating my mind, brightening the shadows in the corners. My suspicions are confirmed with my mother’s next words.
“Terranova is the pastor of the Church of Divine Providence.”
That explains much. The church that Diana and Sebastian were complaining about. The one Juliet attends with Amy. Cowabunga, Batman! I think we have achieved liftoff! Hang the mixed metaphors.
“Your mother and I would like to see you at service sometime, Max,” he invites me.
“Uh huh,” I reply noncommittally. I glance at Juliet; she’s looking at him. Oh dear God, what is going on? And why is this man sitting at the head of the table, as if he belongs there? “I’m not much of one for going to church, I’m afraid.” Thinking to myself: and neither is my mother. Not normally, anyway.
“You are most welcome, my son, to join us.”
What the fuck? I start to open my mouth, but before I can point out that not only is the son of a bitch most assuredly not my father, he isn’t even old enough to be, Juliet cuts in. “Wine, Max?” And Reverend Buttinsky rises, reaching for the dec
anter and pouring me a glass of some sort of rose, which he offers to me like it is the bloody blood of Christ. And no, I don’t care how that sounds. I take it as graciously as I can and mumble, “Thanks.” Juliet catches my eye, and I see a warning there, so I leave it alone. For now.
If it isn’t rather patently obvious, I have taken a strong dislike at first sight to the Right Reverend Terranova Fisher. What the hell kind of name is Terranova anyway? Smacks of revivalism to me. Probably made up. Or Southern. And just why exactly is he tomcatting around my mother? And why is she eating it up like a love-starved schoolgirl?
Okay, calm down, Max, I tell myself, taking a good healthy drink of the wine. And then another one.
“Max!” my mother chides me. Jeez, can’t I do anything right? “Help me in the kitchen?” Universal mother talk for I want to see you alone, now. Whatever. Better that than to be left alone with Bozo the Preacher. I excuse myself and rise from my chair, even as he makes a move to pull hers back for her. Consummate suck artist. Not in a good way. I make sure that I move out of her reach in case she is feeling the need to grab my ear for any reason and drag me along.
We meet in the kitchen. Hopefully neutral territory.
“Max….” Her opening volley: a warning shot. Only my name, but it’s the tone of her voice that is significant.
“Juliet….” I respond, copying her.
“Please be nice to our guest.”
“Your guest,” I point out.
“Our guest,” she returns. “Why didn’t Rachel come in with you? She’s always welcome, you know.”
“I know, but she’s busy. She just gave me a ride, that’s all. Richard’ll pick me up later.”
“Why don’t you call him and tell him not to bother? You can spend the night. I’ll drive you home in the morning.”
“It’s not a bother, and I don’t want to spend the night.” Mexican standoff.
“How much later?”
To the Max Page 16