The Chartreuse Door

by Lisa Gray

  When Keir lifted his gaze, his eyes shone with concern. “You’ve been badly hurt.”

  With a dark grin, Riley shrugged. “A house fell on me. Like the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  Keir’s eyebrows rose. He looked like he really wanted to ask, but was fighting with himself to be polite.

  Putting the plates and “silverware” on the table, Riley took pity on the man’s curiosity. “I got caught in an earthquake in Turkey. A friend and I dug his sisters out from their damaged house, but he was still in there when half of it collapsed. I wasn’t quick enough to get him out before the other half went.”

  “How horrible. And your friend?”

  Riley shook his head, not wanting to hear the words even from himself that Yusuf hadn’t survived.

  “I’m so sorry.” Keir rubbed Riley’s arm.

  It felt…good. For the first time, the familiar urge to reject any offer of comfort in favor of his rock-solid self-control just wasn’t there. For the first time, he wanted to melt into that warm, soothing caress. After a few moments wallowing in the gentle sympathy, he smiled and managed a simple, “Thanks.” Not trusting himself to talk any more about it, he pulled out one of the chairs for Keir. “Go ahead and dish up the salad. Did you want some leftover Thai food to go with it? It looks pretty good.”

  “Thai Palace on Barkley Street?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then definitely.”

  Riley popped the containers into the microwave and filled plastic cups with water from the sink. A couple minutes later, he put boxes of reheated pad Thai and red curry pork on the table. The two men served themselves, and conversation lagged while they ate.

  Prepared to fake liking the salad, Riley was surprised at just how good it was. He’d have to do more shopping at the farmer’s market if he could get tasty food like this. Well, at least as long as he could convince Keir to work his culinary magic.

  Spearing another forkful of salad, he mused that, on the surface, this visit appeared to be going well. But a quick glance across the table confirmed the impression of wariness he’d been getting from his guest. Keir didn’t quite trust him yet. Hoping to put the man at ease by getting him to talk about himself, Riley asked, “Where’d you learn to cook so well?”

  “I grew up in a dozen different embassies around the world. My parents spent their time entertaining dignitaries. I spent mine annoying the kitchen staff. The chefs, in self-defense, put me to work.” He took a sip of water. “The embassies always had master chefs. I just took advantage.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. That chicken you made me was incredible. I can’t tell you how much I needed it that night. And I have to say, salad isn’t something I’d normally choose, but this is great.”

  Keir beamed at the simple compliments. The man truly didn’t realize his own worth.

  They were getting along so well Riley didn’t want to bring up any unpleasantness, but thinking about the chicken dinner reminded him he owed Keir an apology. “Look, about that first day, I can explain.”

  “Oh, I understand now. You were in pain. That’s why you were such a…well…”

  “Bat-shit crazy lunatic? Arrogant prick? Raging berserker?”

  Keir laughed. “I wouldn’t say that. I might think it, but I wouldn’t say it.” Keir fiddled with his napkin. “Did I do something that day to set you off?”

  Riley shifted in the chair, suddenly uncomfortable. How could he have ever imagined Keir as the jerk from the moving company? “Before you got there, I’d tripped over a handcart the movers forgot. Damn near killed me. After a few pain pills, I mistook you for the guy I’d called to complain about the handcart. I was boiling mad—just not at you.” Riley softened his tone. “But that’s no excuse for treating you like that. Did I scare you?”

  “Honestly, I thought you might attack me.”

  Riley sighed. It would take more than toffee and veggies to atone for the rough treatment he’d given Keir. “I know you won’t believe this yet, but I promise, you can trust me.”

  That sweet, hopeful smile lit Keir’s whole face again. A good sign.

  Riley was pretty sure his own answering smile looked just as sappy. Things were back on track, at least for now. He served himself another helping of salad and dug in.

  After they’d finished eating, Keir slid his plate to one side and folded his hands on the table. With an apologetic air, he said, “I hate to spoil this lovely meal…”

  Uh oh. Here it comes.

  “…but I got a call from Mrs. Prendergast this morning. She’s quite upset about your door.”

  “I imagine she is.” He couldn’t hide the snarky animosity in his tone.

  “Don’t judge her too harshly. She can be overprotective, but in her mind, she’s crafted this community pretty much by herself. That’s not far from the truth. Whenever a unit goes on the market, she works to find someone exceptional to fill it. You should be flattered she picked you.”

  In a wry tone, he countered, “I’m pretty sure she picked me because I’m gay.”

  That adorable blush rose again. “Well, that may be true, but it couldn’t have been the only reason.”

  Riley figured the photo journalism awards he’d won had tipped the scale. He could have explained but didn’t want to sound like an arrogant bastard again.

  Keir smiled. “We seem to have wandered away from the subject of the door. I know the gray color is dull and staid and maybe a bit depressing, but could you please change your door back to it?”

  Riley wasn’t sure he wanted to. Besides being the symbol of taking a stand against the neat little cubbyhole he was supposed to fit into, the door had brought Keir over for lunch, hadn’t it? If he repainted, would that put an end to any future visits? But if he sank to extortion—go out with me or the gray door gets it—would the man ever come to trust him?

  Keir had watched as the flurry of questions pinballed in Riley’s head. Maybe the guy had worked out what the debate was, because he offered, “You know, we could go buy some gray paint now. I’d help you redo the door, and then I could give you a tour of the neighborhood. Or if that’s too much walking for your leg, maybe we could go to a movie?”

  Riley mentally waved goodbye to his statement of rebellion. If a bland door got him a date with Keir, he’d learn to love gray. “It’s a deal.” He stood and gestured toward the stairs. “I just need to get my cane.”

  “Let me save you a trip. I’ll get it for you.”

  “You sure?”

  Keir nodded.

  “I left it in the master bedroom.”

  “No problem.” Keir headed up the stairs.

  Riley did the dishes, which amounted to dumping everything in the trash. Things were working out better than he could have imagined. Visions of pleasant days and intimate nights filled his head. He itched to trace Keir’s birthmark with his fingertips and commit all its twists and coils to memory. And then he’d start learning the rest of that intriguing, beautiful man. Coming out of his sensual reverie, he realized too much time had passed. Keir should have been back by now. Moving to the bottom of the stairs, Riley called, “Can’t find it?”

  No response.

  Prodded by a growing uneasiness, he climbed the stairs and glanced into the master bedroom. Nothing. Turning, he saw the door to the spare bedroom was open. A chill raced through him as he realized the size of the shit-pile he’d just kicked over. Keir had said the condos were mirror images of each other. Riley’s master bedroom was on the left, not the right. On the right was his spare bedroom, his lookout, his spy station. Shit, shit, shit! How fucking stupid could one man be? Dreading what he’d find, he moved to the doorway.

  Keir stood in the middle of the room, each hand clutching crumpled papers torn from the walls: photos of Keir, printouts of news items about his parents, lists of personal information Riley had compiled. Unimpeachable evidence Riley was a stalker. Or worse.

  His gut twisted, threatening to void itself, but he took a couple steps into th
e room. “Okay, I know this looks bad, but—”

  Keir turned to face him, eyes huge and dark with pain.

  Whatever paltry excuses Riley had been going to offer died unsaid.

  Without a word, Keir edged around his betrayer, taking care not to get too close, and fled.

  Riley moved to the window and collapsed on the crate, cursing his stupidity. He watched as Keir scurried to the safety of his home.

  How had he fucked everything up so badly? Why the hell did he keep hurting this sweet man?

  The last he saw of Keir was a jerky movement in the window of the living room as the man yanked down the blinds, shutting Riley off from him.

  No doubt, forever.

  Chapter 9

  Heart still pounding after his abrupt flight, Keir slammed the door shut and engaged the locks. He spun around and pressed his back against the sturdy door, in shock at the realization his neighbor—the guy who excited him—was stalking him. The man was just as crazy as Keir had suspected that first day. Crazy and dangerous. Despite the deep sense of loss settling over him, he decided to forget the shivery delight of having caught Riley’s attention. That kind of attention he just didn’t need.

  As his knees weakened, he lowered himself to the floor in a slow, shaky slide. That awful room. All that personal information so neat, so cold, all typed up like some kind of dossier. And those photos. Some of them taken through his windows.

  His eyes widened. The windows!

  Scuttling across the floor, he worked his way to the front wall. With a quick jerk, he pulled down the blind. Huddled on the floor beneath the window, he wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked back and forth, trying to stop long-buried feelings from clawing their way to the surface. This wasn’t the same. Just because he was running. And hiding. And being hunted. It still wasn’t the same.

  But the emotions burning through him felt all too familiar. The panic and the pain of betrayal sent his thoughts spinning back to that awful day so long ago. He clapped his hands over his ears, but in his mind he could still hear the deafening chants of the angry men at the embassy gate. Back then, he’d learned enough of their language to get the gist of the shouted demands: surrender the abomination—the homosexual boy who bore the demon’s mark on his face. The frenzied crash of rocks and metal hurled against the gate reverberated like thunder. He swallowed hard, pushing down the panic—if the men broke in and caught him, they’d stone him to death.

  That day, careful to stay out of view, he’d drawn the shades in his father’s study, then folded up under the massive carved teak desk, making himself as small as possible. Hours passed while he’d sweltered in the heat and prayed for someone to rescue him. When at last he heard his father’s voice in the hallway, he wept in relief. Crawling out of his hiding place, he whispered, “Dad?” He tried again louder. “Dad, I’m in here.”

  Moments later, the door opened, and both his parents entered. Keir ran to his mother, who hugged him and tucked his head under her chin. “Thank God. We were frantic when we couldn’t find you.”

  Keir pulled her closer, inhaling long and deep. She smelled of sweet dates and mint tea. And safety. “I’m sorry, Mom. I only went into the garden for a few minutes. If I’d known they were out there—”

  “Hush. It’ll be all right. We’ve come to an agreement with the local cleric.”

  Something in her voice warned him, some false note that sounded off. “Mom?”

  She let go and took a step back, wearing a brittle, twisted smile. “We’re sending you to the Christian church. They’ll do a ritual that will appease everyone.”

  He peeked around her and saw men in black robes waiting just outside the study door. His heartbeat shot up. He was supposed to go with these men? For a ritual? To do what? Why did he have to leave?

  Before Keir could ask anything, his dad said, “Tell him the truth, Maia. He deserves that at least.”

  Keir turned to face his dad. The look of shame on the man’s face sent ice crackling though Keir’s gut. Despite the heat, he shivered. “Dad, what’s going on?”

  His mother put her hands on Keir’s shoulders and turned him to face her. “Try to understand. Your father can’t broker a peace treaty if these people don’t trust him. Lives are at stake. I know you didn’t mean to, but you’ve landed in the middle of it.” She wore that scary smile again. “We’ve agreed to allow the priests to cure you of your gayness.”

  Keir’s mouth dropped open, but he couldn’t find words. He swiveled his head back and forth from his mom to his dad, hoping for one of them to intervene. To tell him they didn’t mean it. To promise they’d keep him safe.

  His father pleaded, “Please, son, don’t fight this. Just remember, in the end, you might be grateful.” His tone made it clear he didn’t believe it for an instant.

  His mother huffed out a deep, shaky sigh. “Let’s not drag this out. We agreed it had to be done.”

  She turned and beckoned to the strangers hovering in the hall.

  The grim-faced men entered, one carrying a stack of heavy blankets. Panic seized Keir, and his muscles turned to sand. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t obey.

  They grabbed Keir and lifted him off his feet. Raw terror gave him back his voice. “Dad, please! You can’t let them take me. I promise, I’ll be good, I won’t go outside. Mom, help me!” He’d struggled, twisting and kicking, but a skinny fifteen-year-old proved no match for determined acolytes doing the work of God. They wrapped him head-to-toe in the blankets to immobilize him and carried him off.

  Trapped inside that stifling cocoon, his mind filled with horrific visions of being tossed into a well or buried alive. He screamed his throat raw, pleading for his mother and father to rescue him, to forgive him, and take him back. No one answered.

  Weeks later, after being released from the hospital, he still couldn’t face his parents. Each painful breath reminded him of their betrayal. Not knowing what else to try, his mother had finally sent him home to the U.S., accompanied by a guardian hired to live with him. On his eighteenth birthday, he’d received the deed to the condo, the bank account number for a college fund, and the guardian’s resignation.

  Now, sitting on the floor of his home, he realized history was repeating itself—once again he was trapped, hiding, and helpless. At least he wasn’t facing religious fanatics bent on changing him into something of their own making.

  But Ethan was.

  Sudden rage ignited through him. No! Not again! Not anymore. All during that dark time, Keir had fantasized about a champion who’d sweep in and save him. That guy—that hero—never showed.

  Damn it, Ethan needed a hero. And no one else was volunteering. Only one alternative, and that person wasn’t going to have the luxury of hiding under a desk or cowering behind lowered blinds. Envisioning the implausible role he’d just assigned himself, he broke out laughing. The edgy, hysterical sound of it worried him.

  Uncertain what he’d do and where this absurd courage came from, he stood and started pacing. Just what would a hero do in this situation? His vigil at the church the previous night had accomplished nothing except to give him a chill. He didn’t even know when the church’s program met or if it would be a group torture session or one-on-one. He didn’t have enough information.

  He stopped pacing. How foolish was he? If he wanted more information on the church, why not call them? If everyone was so convinced it was all benign, wouldn’t the church be open about it? To be sure to get them talking, he could invent a son he wanted to enroll. With any luck, they’d want to get the poor child in right away, maybe even in the same time frame as Ethan. It could work.

  His breath hitched at the thought of acting out the deception. Lying had never been his talent. If his ashen face or tongue-tied sputtering didn’t give him away, his conscience might very well force him to confess on his own. But maybe he could at least get some inside information. He looked up the number of the church and dialed the phone with trembling hands while his stomach did f
lip-flops.

  “Christian Outlook Church. How may I direct your call?”

  His knees turned to jelly, and he had to sit. “I…I’m looking for information…on…conversion therapy.” There, he’d managed to get out the words without vomiting.

  “You’ll need to speak with Reverend Pritchard. Hold, please.” Music—a hymn, of course—played for a few moments.

  “Reverend Pritchard, here. How may I help you?”

  Keir gripped the phone. He could do this. For Ethan. “Um, hello. I heard you do…conversion therapy. My son, um, I’d like to enroll him.”

  “It’s true we’ve offered our parishioners assistance in that area. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.” The man was being cautious. Made sense—it wasn’t like the good reverend was marketing the “Jesus Loves the Little Children” theme. “For a start, how about telling me your name?”

  “My name?” He needed a fake name! Why hadn’t he thought this out better? His gaze darted around in a wild search for inspiration, but found none. The silence stretched out. Just say anything! Before he could stop himself, he burst out, “My name is Riley Quinn.”

  Oh, God.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Had he really just appropriated his stalker’s name?

  “Well, Mr. Quinn, tell me a bit about your son. How old is he? How does he feel about his condition?” The clicking of a keyboard was audible in the background. The man must be opening a file on the imaginary child.

  Panic faded as an odd sense of calm rolled over him. This part he could handle; this part he’d lived. “My son is fifteen. He tries to hide who he is. The places we’ve lived have grown more and more violent against gays. He’s afraid all the time.”

  “Yes, violence is an unfortunate reaction, leading to fear and greater anxiety. That’s where we can offer help and hope for a brighter future for both of you. Is the boy’s mother involved in his upbringing?”

  “No, I’m afraid she couldn’t deal with the whole issue.” A brief flash of old anger flared, but he dismissed it. He’d moved on long ago.