UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1)

by Michael Harris Cohen

  He didn't even care about the burlesque show anymore. He didn't watch it. He only watched Rory, was fascinated by him. Captured. Already obsessed. He watched Rory's hands flutter, his lips move, his eyelashes bat. Watched the exaggerated emotions play across his face, his sighs, his laughter, his pout as he wiped away a tear. The cadence of his voice as he told a story, all diva, no falsetto. Breathless. Excited. Cute.

  And then Rory was back at the table, standing between Pete's thighs, signaling to the waiter, and the waiter lined up two shot glasses in front of them, and looked expectantly at Pete, who felt obliged to remove his wallet and settle up. "A tab?" the waiter, the same charmer from earlier, suggested. Pete dutifully provided a card instead of cash.

  Rory tilted his head up and his lips grazed Pete's ear. "Such a nice Daddy," he purred.

  This time the shock of his words was electric.

  Pete made sure his voice was as firm as the hands he used to push Rory gently out of his space. "My name is Pete Spencer. Call me Pete or call me Spence."

  Rory stared at him, his face both defiant and hurt. "But don't call you Daddy?"

  "Exactly."

  Rory's face fell into a full-on, dramatic pout.

  Pete glared. This was a boundary he would not allow Rory to cross. No way.

  Rory kept pouting, so Pete picked up his cane and his coat and eased himself from the barstool. He felt a kind of hollow sadness that he would never see Rory again, but it really was for the best, and he knew it. It could never be anything, anyway. Rory was just heartbroken and insecure right now. He'd needed someone safe at the table, and Pete had been handicapped, alone, and available. That was all. If he let himself be manipulated and charmed into thinking otherwise, he was an idiot.

  He started to push past Rory, toward the door.

  "Mr. Spencer, please don't go."

  Pete turned his head. Rory's eyes were shining, as if filled with unshed tears, and his voice was loud enough to be heard, but polite. "I didn't mean to be rude."

  It wasn't exactly an apology, but almost. Probably close enough, because Pete found himself turning back. "It's just...we don't know each other." He knew he'd already said that once, but couldn't help saying it again.

  Rory nodded. "I understand. Cheers, Mr. Spencer." He picked up a shot glass, saluted Pete with it, and tipped the contents into his mouth. Swallowed in one big gulp. He grinned and set the glass back on the table, upside down. He turned and flounced up to the stage again.

  Funny, Pete hadn't even noticed the current performance ending, so entranced was he with the drama going on at his own table.

  Ridiculous.

  Without allowing himself much thought, he picked up the remaining shot glass and knocked back some awful, sweet, sticky red syrup that he never wanted to taste ever again. And then he waved the hunky waiter over and ordered a Jack and coke.

  Something was wrong, but Pete couldn't identify exactly what that something was. Alarm bells rang in his head, even though everything about the scene seemed okay, overall. Timmy lay prone across his lap, wriggling and whimpering, and Pete's cock loved it. Hard as a stone, pressed against Timmy's squirming body. He was spanking his boy for some naughtiness, although he couldn't remember the exact transgression, which was unfortunate.

  Timmy clearly adored the punishment, which meant he well and truly deserved it, because that's when he loved punishment the most.

  "How many spanks until you forgive me, Daddy? Can I count them?" And when Pete wouldn't tell him, just kept up the hard rhythm of the swats, Timmy's voice grew even more pleading. "Please forgive me, Daddy, please!"

  Pete felt a rising burst of pride. Timmy would take as much as Pete needed to dish out to feel whole again. He was such a perfect, perfect boy. Pete's cockhead pulsed with need, and he could feel pre-come dripping from his slit, and then–

  and then he remembered.

  Timmy was dead. And Timmy didn't smell anything at all like the clean rain smell of the actual boy crying in Pete's arms.

  Pete's eyes snapped open.

  He recognized the dim glow of his bedroom. He was on his left side, fully clothed, spooning a quietly sobbing boy. It came back to him slowly. Joey or Rory or Jory. One of those. The middle one, he told himself, more convinced the more he repeated it to himself. Joey had been the one who dumped Rory, just the night before, or something like that, which is why there'd been no one to save the table, and why Pete, with his cane and his bum leg, so desperately in need of somewhere to sit, had caught Rory's attention.

  He didn't know why Rory was crying now, and wondered if it was his fault, if he'd gotten drunk and said something mean. It was possible. More than possible, it was probable. He didn't remember getting home, so clearly he'd gotten drunk, was probably drunk still because he couldn't tell if he had his shoes on.

  He hoped to hell he had his shoes on.

  He knew he was bitter, knew he was angry at luck and circumstance and all the world and his place in it, so asking Rory why he was crying didn't seem like a good idea. No, not at all. So instead he smoothed his palm across Rory's back. "Shh. There, there. It's all going to be all right. Go to sleep, glitter boy."

  He followed his own command, refusing to think about the feel of Rory's back against his bare palm.

  The sun streaming cheerfully into the room woke him, and the searing pain in his head guaranteed the awakening was exceptionally unpleasant. Pete squinted hatefully at the window, wondering what kind of supreme asshole would fling the curtains open at this time of the fucking morning, but he was alone, and he lived alone, so it was his own fault for forgetting to close them last night. He cursed at himself for being an idiot, then wound himself tighter into the blankets and rolled away from the brightness.

  He just wanted to sleep.

  Except the tightness of his jeans against his bladder was really annoying.

  There were sounds coming from beyond the bedroom. Clinking noises, like dishes being moved around. And a musical half-humming, half-singing sound.

  Back to the tightness of his jeans.

  He'd gone to bed wearing jeans and without closing the curtains, and someone was in his kitchen. Not someone. Rory. The glitter boy who was the master of ceremonies at the burlesque show last night.

  He groaned out loud.

  He'd had too much to drink and a good bit of the night passed in a blur. He remembered waking to Rory crying in the night, and noticing his gloves were gone. He had no recollection of leaving the club or getting home.

  Whether he'd taken his shoes off or left them on.

  He was pretty sure they were off now. He slid his right hand beneath the covers. Right thigh. Right knee. Right calf. Stump.

  The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Had Rory removed his shoes while he was drunk? Poor kid. That probably explained the crying. No one deserved that. Take a guy's shoes off and find out he has no foot.

  He wondered if Rory had pulled his shoes off first or his gloves. Which had he discovered first, half the missing right hand or the whole missing right foot?

  Pete wouldn't have blamed him for sneaking out right then. In fact, they'd probably both have been a lot more comfortable if Rory had. So what the fuck was he doing in the kitchen?

  He really had to piss, and he didn't know where his prosthetic was, or his cane, and the thought of Rory walking in while he was pissing into a plastic urinal jug was just–no. That's what that was–a complete and total no.

  And then the room door popped open and there he was, glitter boy, holding a plate and a coffee cup, smiling, fresh as a daisy.

  "Daddy! I brought you coffee."

  And before Pete's brain could formulate a single word, Rory set the cup and the plate on the nightstand and flung himself onto the bed.

  "Rory–" Pete managed to sputter.

  "I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to call you that. I forgot. Mr. Spencer, then."

  He was all wide blue eyes and too-long hair, and Pete realized he hadn't seen Rory's real hair until now,
or at least hadn't seen it while sober, because first it had been tucked beneath that ridiculous pink hat, and later it was hidden under a wig. He liked it. Long and loose, past his shoulders, with a little bit of wave. Not quite blond, not quite brown. Plenty of hair to wrap one's fists into, to pull that face right into his–he coughed, cleared his throat. Tried to clear that visual out of his head.

  "How did you end up here, at my place?"

  "Please don't be mad." Those eyes, they got even bigger, though how that was possible, Pete didn't even know. "I did a very bad thing and got you ridiculously drunk. And then it seemed irresponsible to send you out in the cold alone, so I figured the best thing to do was to see you home."

  "I had a ride," Pete protested.

  "Oh, yes, you did," Rory said, and there something in his voice, just there. Some kind of judgment.

  "What?" Pete asked. "What was wrong with my ride?"

  "Do you even know that guy? He's like–one of the biggest drug dealers in the–wait! Are you a drug addict? Mr. Spencer!"

  Rory's whole face fell into such disappointment that Pete felt immediately ashamed. "I–"

  "Seriously?" Rory slid away then, backing up until he sat on his haunches at the end of the bed. He sighed, let his shoulders hunch forward, and then lifted his face toward the ceiling. "How does this keep happening to me? How is it that I pick the wrong guys, over and over and over, every fucking time?"

  "Rory. It's not like that."

  "Really?" Rory asked. "Because that's what they all say. Every single one. No wonder you got shit-faced so fast. And I brought you coffee and a bagel and everything."

  Tears slid down his cheeks, and Pete felt like the lowest dirt-bag on the face of the earth. He wanted to cry, too, but he'd quit crying a long time ago. "I'm sorry. I was in a bad accident, and sometimes I run out of pain killers before I can refill my prescription. I don't know what else to do, so yes, I buy them illegally."

  "There are other ways to cope, you know."

  "I haven't been good at that."

  "Have you even tried? Like meditation and yoga and breathing and distraction?"

  Pete sighed. His bladder felt like it was going to explode. He couldn't have a reasonable conversation when he was this uncomfortable.

  "You don't want to talk about it." There was that accusation in Rory's voice again.

  "It's not that. It's just complicated. And I need a few minutes of privacy."

  "Why, to shoot up or something?"

  Now that was offensive. So offensive it made him spit out the truth. "No. To empty my bladder. Do you mind?"

  "Fine, whatever," Rory snapped, and flung himself out of the room.

  "Will you close the door? Please?" Pete called after him, gritting his teeth.

  Rory poked his head back into the room to grab the doorknob, rolled his eyes, and pulled the door shut with a slam.

  Pete rolled to the edge of the bed near the window and found the urinal. His body protested every move even more than usual, as if he'd spent last night dancing like a maniac rather than sitting on a barstool. When he was done, he set the container carefully on the floor beneath the nightstand where he hoped it wouldn't get knocked over. He'd never imagined having a sleepover and this was why–too many things had the potential to be exceptionally awkward and embarrassing.

  He got his fly fastened and zipped, wrapped himself in the sheet again, and scooched to the far side of the bed where he could reach his breakfast. He tried to call out to Rory, but discovered his voice was stuck. He coughed, and reached for the coffee mug. "Rory," he called out. "It's fine now. You can come back in."

  He sipped the coffee, and it was good.

  Rory didn't come back. Pete waited, listening for sounds of Rory moving around, but his little house felt silent. Maybe Rory had cut his losses and ditched. That was probably for the best, really, but the thought of Rory being gone left him feeling hollow and sad.

  Ridiculous.

  Idiot.

  They didn't even know each other.

  He took another sip of coffee. Looked at the bagel. Ugh. Too early for that.

  Then he spied a shoe near the bed. Four shoes, actually, one of them containing his prosthetic foot. He leaned toward the floor and picked up the heavy shoe/foot combination and tossed it at the door. It hit with a loud thump.

  Within seconds the door opened and Rory peeked in. "Are you okay? Are you decent?"

  "Yes to both."

  Rory looked around. "What was that noise?"

  "My foot hitting the door."

  Rory grinned, and peered around the backside of the door to look down at the foot-in-shoe combination. "I can't even tell you how much that scared me last night." He made his eyes go big and round. "I screamed like a little girl in a haunted house. And you! You weren't even nice, not at all. You cussed and swore and said all kinds of crusty mean things. Like it's just a missing foot, for fuck's sake, and if I was going to be such a baby I might as well get the fuck out. Man, Mr. Spencer, you got issues."

  Pete stared into his coffee cup and wondered how much worse this could possibly get. "What else did I say?"

  "You tore your gloves off and waved your hand in front of my face and you said, you said...well, never mind what you said, but you made me cry."

  Pete looked up at him then. "What did I say?"

  Rory was biting his lip, and maybe even blushing. "It's embarrassing. And not even true."

  "Was it mean? I know I'm a shitty, mean drunk. I don't know what I was thinking, ordering hard liquor. I know better than that. I'll apologize a hundred times over if you just tell me what I said that made you cry."

  Rory closed his eyes. "You said, 'Not everybody gets to be as pretty and perfect as you'– See? I told you it's not even true."

  Pete was so embarrassed he wanted to crawl under the bed. Nothing like too much booze to make him spew his true feelings in the most humiliating way possible. He set the coffee cup on the nightstand and covered his face with his hands. Groaned. "Remind me to never drink again."

  He took his hands away and looked at Rory, who'd finally sat down on the end of the bed. "But I meant it as a compliment, you know. I mean, it's even harder to be me around someone like you."

  "What do you mean by that, someone like me?" Rory asked.

  "Young, attractive. Whole."

  "You're attractive!" Rory said. "I mean, why do you think you're not? Well, aside from the obvious."

  Pete glared. "What the hell, aside from the obvious?" Old and broken, pieces of him sawed off and sheared away and tossed into a bio-hazard disposal bin, flushed away or sent to space or whatever they do with that shit.

  "That you're so fuckin' grumpy."

  Pete stared at him. "That's the obvious? That I'm grumpy?"

  "Well...yeah. What else would it be? I don't think I've seen you smile yet, and we've spent hours together. And seriously, I'm not perfect, but I am adorable. I make people smile all the time."

  "I believe it. And I'm sorry, a hundred times over, for making you cry."

  "Okay."

  "That's it? Okay and I'm forgiven?"

  Rory nodded. "Sure. So long as we get back to how you aren't an addict because you use other things besides drugs to cope with pain."

  "You're not letting that go, are you?"

  Rory shook his head, and his hair swished in a lazy, sexy swirl around his shoulders. "Nope. Because I don't date drug addicts."

  Maybe there really was something wrong with this kid. Maybe he had screws loose that weren't immediately noticeable or something. Like a...Pete couldn't quite find the right word for it. But no, now he was being an ass.

  "We're not dating."

  "Says you."

  Pete rolled his eyes, exasperated. "I must be twice your age."

  Rory blinked. "Maybe I like that in a man. Maybe that's my type."

  "You don't even know me." Pete said, for what, the third time?

  "You keep saying that. But that's what dating is for, isn't it? Gettin
g to know someone?"

  Pete growled. He couldn't help it. This bright young thing was barging into his gloomy domain, bringing glitter and light and hope, and when he left, he would leave the place darker than ever, and Pete couldn't stand the thought of it. Might not live through the loss.

  He shook his head. He didn't dare take the chance.

  "Rory. Go home. I'm not the one for you. Whatever romantic notion you have in your head about me, you're wrong."

  "Because you're not perfect?"

  Pete didn't even know what to say to that. He was so far away from perfect it was ludicrous. He was more than a mess–he was a lost cause, beyond fixing. Too broken to deserve to lay even one finger on the perfect skin of this beautiful creature.

  Rory stared at him with big watchful, wary eyes, as if he could see Pete thinking all of these things. And he didn't wait for Pete to find an answer. He said, "The thing is, Mr. Spencer, what you can't seem to see is that I'm not perfect, either."

  Pete boosted himself further up on the pillows. "Tell me, Rory. Since you've seen so many of my imperfections, tell me at least two of the ways you're not perfect."

  Rory sprawled across the bed, scooted close enough to rest his head on Pete's belly, and without even thinking about it, Pete let his left hand drop and his fingers tangle into that lovely hair that felt as soft as it looked.

  "I'm way too emotional," Rory said. "My whole mood can change in a heartbeat, and then change back again. It makes people crazy, makes me hard to be around. If someone gives me a chance, takes a little time to get to know me, they can figure out how to head it off, or get me out of a mood pretty easily, but people usually get tired of me too fast for that. A person either needs patience to deal with me, or they need to figure out how to discipline me. I'm a lot of work."

  Pete felt his pulse jump at the word 'discipline'–and coached himself to keep his breathing even. Some part of him suspected Rory used that word on purpose, probing for a reaction, but he wasn't sure. "Is that why you keep calling me 'Daddy'–you want me to discipline you?"

  "I don't know," Rory said softly. "Maybe."

  "I had a boy once," Pete confessed. "A lover, I mean. I've never been married or had a son. He was my world."