“Then taco salad it is,” Maggie almost squeals. Richard merely smiles while I try not to roll my eyes. He puts his hand behind my neck, massaging it gently, and it is all I can do to keep from purring like a contented kitten.
“Juliet and her beau coming?” Rachel asks.
“I haven’t invited them.”
“Max, why would you? You do the same thing every year, she knows that, and she’s always there,” Rachel sensibly points out. “I just wondered if you had talked to her. What about Moonsong? Is she coming?” This question, of course, being directed toward Richard. For some reason, my mother has invited Richard’s mother to stay at her house as a guest. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand, Moonsong is unabashedly on our side, mine and Richard’s, and has no problem with touting the beauty of our love. On the other hand, her presence apparently agitates my lover; even now I can feel it in the sudden tensing of his hand against my neck, the sudden stiffening of his posture.
“Moonsong does what Moonsong wishes to do.” He shrugs most casually, even as he uncrosses his muscular legs and rises. “Max, you ready to go?”
I hastily stand. “Yeah, sure, mind if we stop by my desk on the way out? It’ll only take a sec.”
“Sure.” He reaches for my hand and I gladly give it to him as we make our way swiftly toward the door, Maggie turning to follow us. “See you later, Rachel.” He nods at her, and we are out the door before she gets a chance to respond. Just before the door closes, I can hear, “Bye, guys!”
Maggie tells us good-bye and returns to her tasks at the reception desk, and I am in the act of turning toward my own desk when a bell suddenly goes off in my head: an alarm bell of sorts that takes me very much by surprise. I freeze where I am, glancing around, causing Richard to pull back toward me. “What the…?”
And then I see them: they are between my desk and Amy’s, and they look as if they are headed our way. My hackles rise, and I feel a growl in the back of my throat that is threatening to make itself heard. “Let’s go!” I grab at him, rather more sharply than I intend, walking in the opposite direction.
“But I thought….” And then he sees them, too, and I watch him as his eye meets that of Morgan Arthur, and the growl is growing stronger now, with definite undertones of possessiveness.
“It can wait,” I insist. My grip is stronger now, and I have managed to use my forward momentum to bring him along with me, past all the currently empty desks and out of the door, but not before I catch the triumphant look on that smarmy git’s face. At this moment, I’d like nothing better than to assume my lycan form and tear his fucking throat out.
We reach the elevator in record time, my breath coming now in steam form, and my thumb jabs viciously at the down button until Richard grabs it and pulls it back. “Once is enough. You don’t get points for multiple entries,” he tells me. He waits until the car arrives—luckily it is empty—and we are safely within its metallic confines before he gathers me into his arms and just holds me, not saying a word, simply waiting for me to calm down, reassuring me with his love.
Damn, I hate that Morgan Arthur. What is it about him? Why does he set off every alarm I have whenever he is near? What does he want with my Richard—my Richard?
Feeling agitated to the max and wishing I knew what the hell is going on!
Chapter 21
Someone’s in the Kitchen With Richard
I LAZILY stretch my leg, careful to keep my foot beneath the blanket that cocoons us, lest I get it wet in the dampness of the grass beneath us. I burrow into the space beneath Richard’s armpit, just content to inhale all the intoxicating scents that comprise my lover: musky, sweaty, spicy, sensual, and very much alive with the essence of my Richard. He stirs around me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have licked his armpit if I wanted him to keep sleeping. That was so naughty of me. “Happy Fourth, Max,” he whispers, reaching for my lips.
“Happy Fourth,” I respond with a kiss of my own.
We have spent the night under the stars with only a blanket betwixt us and the now dew-dampened ground, having decided on an impulse to make love out of doors and then falling asleep wrapped about each other. Normally we never do this without our air mattress, but there comes a time when you just throw caution to the wind and do what your heart dictates and your gonads demand. And with all that we have to do today, it is unlikely that we’ll get another opportunity to swap spit or much of anything else. Maggie’s concerns about walking in on us doing anything other than party preparations are pretty much wishful thinking on someone’s part.
The first Fourth of July Richard and I ever spent together was back in 1976, which was the year of the bicentennial anniversary of the founding of this nation. Personally, I have never been one to participate in mass celebrations of any sort, and the idea of trying to navigate my way through the drunken hordes to be found at most of these revelries has never appealed to me. My family wasn’t much on Independence Day events, either.
When we were younger, Juliet took Diana and Sebastian and me to view the fireworks display downtown, but I made such a fuss about the crowds that she never attempted that with me again. The smells were unbelievable, and the noise was just more than I could handle, having spent most of my sheltered life well away from strangers.
Rachel’s family held a huge barbecue that particular Fourth, mostly because of the bicentennial, and Richard and I had been invited, and we went next door for a little while, availing ourselves of Mr. Sheldon’s free-flowing keg of beer, which was particularly welcome on such a warm, muggy night.
From the moment I had introduced him to her, Rachel had accepted Richard as a part of her life, because he was a part of my life. Because she loved me, she loved him, unquestioningly, without reservations. Those came about later, and only by his own actions. The Sheldons had accepted him as well, treating him no differently than they did me, which was like a son, actually. And they accepted our relationship at a time when being queer was unacceptable to most people and treated like a disease, although there are still some who think that way even today. Obviously. We came and went in the Sheldon’s home as if it were our own and thought nothing of being asked to perform chores as if we were a regular part of the family. Rachel never did move out of the house she grew up in, even after they passed, and I know she misses her parents terribly.
In St. Louis County, then as it is now, the sale of and shooting off of fireworks is strictly prohibited. Which does not prevent a number of people from defying the lawmakers and doing it anyway. One of Rachel’s parents’ guests—I don’t remember who it was, some second or third cousin or something, a so-called adult and definitely someone old enough to know better—had actually brought some of the contraband to the gathering and proceeded to set off a varied assortment of bottle rockets from a distant corner of the backyard. Richard was instantly taken with them, watching in fascination as they exploded in colorful ribbands above our heads. I watched him watch them and followed him in my usual puppylike manner when he approached the shooter, asking a million and one questions about them, which the other was glad to answer. Everyone loves to talk to Richard; they are drawn to him like moths to a flame. It’s all that charm he exudes without even trying to. It turned out that Richard had never seen an actual firework display. Moonsong was usually too busy with whatever Moonsong tended to be busy with—and I began to suspect that this did not include her son very often—to observe any of the rituals oft associated with childhood and adolescence. Until he moved in with me and my family, Richard had never even been to a real family function. 1976 was a year of firsts for us both.
At that party in the Sheldons’ backyard, Richard and Rachel and I sat together, a little apart from the others—Rachel is sensitive to my dislike of being around too many people at one time—just talking and drinking beer. I had my chair as close to Richard’s as I could get; if we’d been at home, I’d have been on his lap, but I was still a bit shy and not quite out to everyone yet at this point
. Although it was no secret that we were together together and not merely together as friends, as our fingers were twined most of the time and we seemed to be touching every chance we got. He used any pretense to brush against me, to surreptitiously kiss me, to mouth I love yous. How I lapped it up like the very nectar of the gods!
Someone’s child—I never did learn who the monster actually belonged to—was running about with a small camera grasped in his annoying clutches, snapping photos with wild abandon when you least expected it. I suspect he got more than a few good shots of Richard and me kissing; he seemed to be hovering around us for some reason, at every turn. Rachel tried to shoo him off, but he was a very stubborn child and merely laughed at her. At first I thought that Richard was irritated with his presence, glaring at him, but on closer inspection I discovered that it was the camera which drew his attention and that which his eyes were actually focused upon. When he found me looking at him curiously, he blushed slightly, explaining, “I used to have one of those when I was a kid. I used to take pictures with it wherever we went. Until one of Moonsong’s boyfriends took it, that is. I never did get it back.” He shrugged nonchalantly, like it was no big deal, but it was too late. I had seen the look in his eyes, the way they gleamed when he talked about it. It was a big deal, at least to him. The next day I withdrew some of my savings, and I bought him a decent camera and a book about photography. It was well worth the expense to see the expression on his face when I gave them to him. He pored over that book day and night, talking about F-stops and S-stops and every other kind of stop there was and I don’t know what the hell he was talking about most of the time, but I just let him talk, giving him my wholehearted adoration and simply listening to his sexy voice, content in the knowledge that I had contributed to his happiness. With Rachel’s help, we found him a photography class and got him to enroll in it; he quickly excelled, being a natural, as the teacher said. With time, we were able to afford better cameras and better equipment, and then he began to take photos professionally—advertising at first on the free board of the local supermarket—the first real job he’d ever had. One gig led to another, and by virtue of word of mouth from satisfied customers, he was able to expand his client base, as well as to do freelance work.
And now he is considered to be one of the best in his field, some of his photos having appeared in such periodicals as National Geographic and Time and People, just to name a few. Can you tell how very proud of him I am?
IT WAS during that first holiday together that I began to get the glimmerings of an idea, one I was unable to bring to fruition for a few more years, not until July of 1981. By then we were in our own home in St. Charles County, a county which, by the way, does permit the sale and shooting of fireworks. That was the first year ever of the Lupercalia Lane Fourth of July Extravaganza, hosted by none other than yours truly. This was to be our holiday, our special occasion, held at our home. Juliet does Christmas, and we alternate everything else, such as Thanksgiving and Easter, but this is ours and ours alone. And every year our friends and family join us for food and libation, for games and for laughter, for music and for chatter and for, of course, the fireworks, which my lover is in charge of, and which light up the country sky for miles around with the most amazing explosive brilliances. We keep the guest list small and exclusive, but over the years it has grown to include ever more of our expanding little family circle. Every year they know when to come, and they know what to bring, and we have the most wonderful time ever. To me, it is more than merely a day to mark the occasion of our country’s birth. It is far more personal. It is the first real symbol of Richard and I as our own family. And I am desperately determined to keep that family from being torn apart by anyone or anything.
“Ready to get up?” he asks, “I know you’re dying to get everything started, aren’t you?”
I gaze up into those beautiful dark blue eyes, and for the moment, everything else is immaterial. “All in due course,” I reply, “I think we have time to lay here for a few more minutes.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” my lover confesses with an unexpected sigh of relief as he draws the blanket tighter around us. “Hold me, Max. Hold me like you’ll never let me go.”
This is very unlike Richard. It takes me so much by surprise that without a second thought I latch onto him as per his request and squeeze him tightly, feeling a certain amount of tension in his shoulders and throughout his strong arms. Could he possibly be feeling the same sense of foreboding that has been troubling me? That same idea that something terrible is headed right toward us?
“I’m here,” I reassure him, “I’m here for you, baby, always.” And we simply lie together as the sun begins its ascent, clinging to one another in a loving tableau.
RACHEL is the first to arrive. She always helps to decorate the house. Being the somewhat different beings that we are, Richard and I long ago decided to eschew the normal frippery to be found in volumes at this time of year—the red, white, and blue bunting, the American flag, the gangly wooden figures of Uncle Sam, etc.—and have chosen instead as our theme the French Revolution. Why? Because we can can can….
And actually, if you think about it, the architects of the French Revolution owed a great deal to their American brethren; they were influenced by what they heard and read of the great struggle against the British tyranny, and the words and wisdom of such great men as Jefferson, Franklin, and Thomas Paine helped add fuel to a fire that had already been lit beneath the bourgeoisie, to set the scene for such men of action as Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. It’s not so much that we are rejecting the American Revolution as we are embracing our French brothers in ideology, if that makes any sense. Although we do draw the line at requiring participants to come dressed as their favorite revolutionary.
Rachel brings pasta salad and homemade brownies with fudge icing—my favorites!—but no Mark, as his job requires him to work strange hours and inconvenient holidays. I’m not sure in my mind how serious they are, as evidenced by the fact that they still have separate domiciles, but then again, you are talking to one impetuous wolf who invited his new lover to move in with him within a few days of their first lovemaking. Not everyone works quite that swiftly, I know. But when you’re positive you’ve met your one and only true love, why wait?
Richard is in charge of the barbecuing of the meat. I have no knowledge of or interest in grilling; that is strictly his domain. I, however, make the barbecue sauce, my own recipe, one of which I am actually rather proud and which I have managed to hone over the years. It is both tangy and spicy and full of secret ingredients that I am not about to divulge in these pages. We have a little of something for everyone, from bratwursts to salsiccia to hamburgers to chicken, and a St. Louis favorite that seems to not have curried much favor in other parts of the country: pork steaks. I prefer the center-cut boneless pieces to the butt slices, as they tend to have a better flavor and just the right balance of fat to meat. My contribution lies in the other courses: my own potato salad that is a blend of mayonnaise and mustard with bacon and chopped egg; my orange JELL-O salad with crushed pineapple and apricots, topped with a blend of whipped cream and shredded cheddar; my very own deviled eggs, with just a touch of hot sauce; and my special Fourth of July cake: a chocolate sheet cake topped with whipped cream and decorated with strawberries and blueberries in the shape of the American flag. Ha! Were you expecting a fleur-de-lis?
Rachel sneaks up behind me as I stand at my cutting board, intent on cubing potatoes to add to the pot of boiling water on the stove. I am wearing my Kiss the Cook apron—I could tell you stories that begin with wearing nothing but that apron, but I’ll refrain, at least for the moment—and a tricolor cockade that Richard set upon my head this morning, kissing me and calling me his own little Maximillian. Obviously a Robespierre reference. I know she is there, of course, but I allow her to think she has taken me unawares with her pat on my ass as I pretend to jump. “Happy Fourth, Max!”
I turn to her and gri
n, kissing her cheek. “Trying to give an old wolf a heart attack?” I joke.
“That depends. Whatcha leaving me in your will?” she fires right back.
“Richard?”
She pretends to consider my offer. “Naw, heartache I can do without,” she says, which earns her a frown from me.
“Don’t start,” I warn her, “I have enough on my mind without you adding to my insecurities.”
She winds her arms around my waist, leans her head on my shoulder. “Sorry, Max, you know how I worry about you, and Mr. Burke is just overdue to disappear, you know? Not that I don’t trust him, but I don’t trust him.”
Just then, and before I can make any sort of swift retort—but what’s the point, other than that she is hitting too close to home—the topic of our discussion himself saunters in, a catalog in his hand, Principessa at his heels, his eyes fixed on something on one of the pages, unaware of Rachel’s presence as he continues a conversation we were having a little bit earlier. “I think this one looks interesting, Max. It has some distinct possibilities, depending on how we use it, you know? It says here that it vibrates too. What color did you like?”
I blush furiously, knowing damn well what he’s talking about, coughing in a pronounced manner to let him know we are not alone. He glances up from the page but is not disconcerted in the slightest to see Rachel standing there. “Maybe we should ask Rach’s opinion,” he says, holding the naughty directory out toward her. To my dismay I see her reach for it, so I hastily intervene, snatching it before she can touch it.
“No, I don’t think Rachel is interested,” I thrust the small volume behind my back, quickly pirouetting away from her, almost losing my balance in the process. Which only causes Rachel to work that much harder at getting it out of my clutches.
To the Max Page 28