by Tinnean
“Th-thanks. I mean it. That… that was….”
“My pleasure, Wills. Are you ready?”
“I’m… I’m good, babe.”
I opened the door, and we went to the sinks.
The attendant, either having heard nothing or pretending to have heard nothing, offered us a towel and a mint, and I tipped him before Wills could.
We returned to the ballroom and danced until we were both out of breath.
“I’ve… I’ve gotta take a… a break,” I panted.
“Sure. I could use another glass of champagne.” Damp hair feathered across his forehead and clung to the back of his neck, and his shirt hugged his torso, his nipples like dark shadows just visible through the Egyptian cotton.
He really would look good with a nipple ring. “Babe….”
“Yes, moon of my delight?”
One of the boys at our table overheard and sighed. “You lucky dog,” he said enviously. “I wish I could get my johns to talk to me that way.”
I smiled and patted his shoulder, but I could have burst with pride. This was my guy, not some john.
Wills, meanwhile, was oblivious. A waiter had come by with filled glasses, and he’d taken two. He selected a fresh peach from a bowl in the center of the table and sat down, sliding down onto his spine. I knew that under the table his legs would be sprawled apart, and I licked my lips, but the taste of his come had been replaced by the sharp bite of the mint.
“What are you planning?”
He grinned up at me through his lashes, picked up a paring knife, and sliced into the peach. It was plump and juicy, and the juice ran down his fingers. The first slice he dropped into my glass, the second into his, and the third he offered to me. I held his hand steady and licked his fingers, then bit into the slice. The juice dribbled down my chin.
Before I could try to catch the sweet drops with my tongue, Wills was there. He wrapped his hand around my neck, urging me close to him, and licked them off.
Someone behind us cleared his throat. “I’ve been watching you. As one of my last official acts, could I persuade you to join us as an escort?” Charlemagne was standing there, a slight flush on his cheeks.
“Sorry, Theo,” Wills apologized softly. “I forgot we weren’t alone.”
“He’s not for sale.” I squeezed the hand he was just removing from my neck. “You wanted something, Charlemagne?”
“I’ve come to claim my dance.”
Wills straightened in his chair, reached for a napkin to dry his hands, then rose to his feet. “It’s almost midnight,” he said, apropos of nothing.
I gave a slight nod. Before the clock struck twelve, I’d have him back in my arms, where he belonged.
The band was playing old standards that offered the perfect excuse to hold that someone special close, and the dance floor was packed, but the crowd parted to let Le Roi and the man he’d chosen as his dancing partner step onto the floor.
I overheard various comments as I approached the crowded area.
“Who’s that with Le Roi?”
“He belongs to Sweetcheeks.” I was pleased to hear that. They’d know not to poach.
“What happened to Michael?”
“Who? Oh, the archangel from Halloween? Beats me.”
“I heard he was gone by the next morning.”
“Poor Charlemagne.” There was gloating in the commiseration. There were always two or three escorts in the running for Le Roi, and I recognized the speaker as one who had lost to Charlemagne. “That’s the second time that’s happened to him, isn’t it?”
“In ten years? I’d say that’s not too bad.” It was the brunet security man. The blond stood beside him, intently scanning the crowd. Comments faded.
I continued weaving through the couples. It wasn’t difficult to find my lover and Le Roi. There was a space around them, and people were nodding and murmuring in approval.
They did make a striking couple: about the same height, Wills with his dark hair and eyes but very fair skin, and Charlemagne with his deep auburn hair, blue eyes, and equally fair skin.
I felt my brows snap together and my lips narrow into a grim line. Charlemagne had his hand on Wills’s ass. Wills was smiling at him, but I was close enough to see that his eyes were cold.
“I could be very good to you,” Charlemagne was saying. “Whatever Sweet—” Wills stepped on his foot, just hard enough to get the point across. “That is to say, whatever Theo is giving you, I can give you more and better.”
“I’m not interested. Now, take your hand off my ass. Right. This. Instant. Or I will, and I’ll break every one of your fingers while I’m at it.” There was a hard quality to his words, but they were spoken quietly, and I doubted anyone else could hear them.
Charlemagne quickly moved his hand.
I tapped his shoulder. “Cutting in.” I bared my teeth at him in a faux grin.
“Fine. Thank you for the dance.”
“You’re welcome.”
It wasn’t going to look good if Le Roi, of all the rent boys, didn’t have a partner when the New Year was rung in. He’d probably have to settle for one of his own boys. I just felt so bad about that.
Charlemagne turned and started to walk away but came to an abrupt halt. “Michael,” he whispered.
I gazed around to see who had caught his attention.
Coming toward us, dressed in a tuxedo so white it almost hurt the eyes to look upon, was the archangel from the Halloween Ball.
“I told you I would return.”
A fanfare from the band drew everyone’s attention from the two embracing men. Everyone faced the bandleader, who was looking at the clock. The countdown had begun.
“Our first New Year, Wills.”
“Yes.” He squeezed my hand, and though we counted along with everyone else, our gazes were locked on each other’s.
“Three. Two. One! Happy 2003, everyone!”
The ball dropped, confetti and streamers fell from the ceiling, and balloons rose up from the floor. Cheers and laughter rang out, and kisses were shared.
“Happy New Year, Wills,” I murmured and kissed him. His lips were warm and soft under mine.
He moved my hands to his ass and looped his arms around my waist. As “Auld Lang Syne” began to play and we swayed to the music, he whispered against my lips, “Happy birthday, baby.”
Chapter 10
IT WAS a miserable gray January day a couple of weeks later. I was in my office setting up a spreadsheet for a possible client when I heard a key in the lock. A glance at the clock on my computer showed it was only midafternoon. I got up and went into the foyer just as Wills let himself in the door.
“You’re home early, babe. What’s up?” When I would have kissed him, he held his hand out.
“Stay away from me.” Before I had the chance to feel hurt, he gave a violent sneeze.
“Bless you.”
“Thank you. Dammit. I think I’m coming down with something. I’ve been sneezing all afternoon.”
“Oh, babe….”
“I feel like shit.” There were twin spots of hectic color on his cheeks. “Mr. Vincent took one look at me and sent me home.”
“You need to be in bed.” I rubbed his shoulders. “I’ll make you something that will be good for what ails you.”
“I’m not hungry.” He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Good thing. I don’t have any soup in the fridge, and I’ll have to make it from scratch. Chicken, okay?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“If you’re just gonna talk nonsense, don’t say anything.” All I could think was, Will I be able to take good enough care of him?
“Yes, sir.” He gave a massive shiver.
“Ass.” I pressed my palm to his forehead. “You’re hot.”
“I know, babe. You’ve told me that often enough.” He tried for a jaunty, devil-may-care grin, but wasn’t very successful. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, and his n
ose could have rivaled Rudolph’s. He removed his overcoat and hung it in the closet.
“Wise guy. I think you’re running a fever. What happened to your—Wills! Your shirt! Your suit jacket!”
He sneezed.
“Bless you.”
“Thanks. That’s what happened to them. I was drinking a cup of coffee and sneezed. Man, I was lucky I didn’t get it on Mr. Vincent. I sneezed so hard I thought my brains were gonna shoot out my ears.”
I patted his shoulder. “Poor baby. Okay, get out of those clothes and into your flannel jammies.”
“Ha-ha. Would you….” Wills sneezed again.
“Bless you.”
He sighed. “That’s gonna get old real fast, Theo.”
I kissed his cheek. “Not for me. I bless every day that you’re in my life.”
“Ah, babe….” Another sneeze. “I’m not supposed to get sick! An employee of….” Three violent sneezes in a row. “I’m not supposed to get sick!” He looked baffled.
“Right, tough guy.” I ruffled his hair gently, in case he also had a headache he hadn’t mentioned. “Go on. Take a couple of Tylenol, get changed, and get into bed. You want rice or pastina in your soup?”
“Rice, please?”
“Okay. I’d better get it started now. And don’t worry about your suit. I’ll take it to the cleaners tomorrow.”
“Thanks, babe.”
I turned up the thermostat and went into the kitchen. Miss Su followed me.
“Mrrow?” She sat hopefully by her food bowl.
“Sorry, Miss Su. It isn’t time for your dinner.”
“Mrrow.” She blinked and came to me, stropping herself against my legs as if to assure me there were no hard feelings, then sauntered out of the room.
I took down a six-quart soup pot from the pot rack Wills had built for me and suspended from the ceiling, and filled it with cold water. We’d gone food shopping a couple of days earlier, and there was a package of chicken breasts in the fridge. I pulled it out, rinsed them off, and put them in the pot. Once it came to a boil, I’d skim off the scum and turn the flame down so it would simmer gently for an hour and a half.
Wills might not be hungry enough to eat the chicken tonight, but he could have it tomorrow. And if he wasn’t in the mood for it, I could always make chicken salad.
As for the rice, I didn’t keep minute rice in the house, and it would take at least half an hour for it to cook, so I’d wait until the soup was almost done.
While the soup simmered, I took a can of ginger ale from the fridge, popped the top and stuck a straw in it, and went into the bedroom. Wills was nowhere to be seen, but the bathroom door was open, and I heard the toilet flush and the water run.
“You okay in there, Wills?” I put the can of soda on the night table by his side of the bed and switched on the electric blanket so the sheets would be nice and warm.
“Almost done, babe.”
Weak, wintry afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows, and I pulled the curtains closed and turned on the bedside lamp.
Wills’s gun wasn’t in sight, and I assumed he’d put it in the gun safe on the top shelf in the closet, something he did no matter what. He’d left his jacket and trousers lying across the bed rather than dropping them on the floor, and I blew out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. If he was being careful of his clothes, then this wasn’t going to be one of those times when he came home from work so wiped he left them lying where they fell and succumbed to restless, disturbed dreams that left him even more wiped.
As I emptied his pockets, I glanced idly at a newsletter he’d had tucked in the inner pocket of his jacket. It had been folded open, and the three pictures on the page caught my eye. They had obviously been taken at the office Christmas party.
One was of a woman who looked like a young Ingrid Bergman. Wills’s secretary? She stood with a microphone in her hand, and the caption read, “Arianne DiNois entertaining us with her rendition of ‘Santa Baby.’”
The second was of a good-looking man exiting a closet. Because the pictures were in black and white, I couldn’t tell what color his hair was, but he seemed to have very light eyes. He was holding what looked like a sprig of mistletoe between his fingers, his hair was mussed, and he had a smug, satisfied grin on his face. “Who was Dev Howard kissing in the supply closet?”
The third was Wills…. Wills? “William Matheson, demonstrating his ability to have a scintillating conversation with anyone.” He was standing next to a coat rack, apparently in a deep discussion with a hat and an overcoat. I couldn’t prevent a snort of laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“Were you drunk, babe? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you….” I turned, holding out the newsletter, then tossed it aside when I saw my lover’s face. He was drawn and pale, and shivers wracked his body. “Never mind. Get in bed. Did you take your temperature?”
“No. I didn’t know we had a thermometer.” He was wearing green-and-black-plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a white undershirt, and goose bumps dotted his arms.
“Everyone has a thermometer.”
“I don’t. Didn’t.”
“Macho smuck.” I deliberately mispronounced the Yiddish word, hoping for a laugh. It got me a halfhearted smile. I went into the bathroom and rummaged in the medicine cabinet. I knew there was a digital thermometer in there somewhere. The boys had been healthy for the most part, but when anyone had come down with a cold or the flu, Paul had been the one to take care of them, and he’d insisted on having a thermometer in the house. “Gotcha!”
Wills was in bed when I returned with the thermometer, the covers up to his chin. He opened his mouth obediently and kept the slim silver point under his tongue. The numbers flashed on the LCD screen, quickly rising above 100, 101, 102.
It beeped, and Wills removed it from his mouth and squinted at the readout, but I took it from him.
“What’s it say, babe?”
“One hundred two point five.”
“That’s not too good. I generally run a degree below normal.”
I wasn’t happy about that, but before I could say anything, he sneezed, a very wet sneeze, and I handed him a tissue. He angled up on an elbow and blew his nose, wincing.
“Damned tissue feels like sandpaper,” he groused. His poor nose was so red.
I went back into the bathroom and took a jar of Vaseline from the medicine cabinet. Instead of giving it to him to put on his sore nose, I did it myself.
“That feels good.”
“Good. Is your throat sore?”
“It’s a little scratchy.”
“Did you take the Tylenol?”
“You told me to, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but did you take it?”
“Yes, Poppa.”
“Wiseass. I’m gonna check the soup.”
“Okay. I could use something to drink while you’re in the kitchen….”
“No sooner said than done, babe. I brought you some ginger ale.”
“Thanks, Theo.” He couldn’t quite reach the can, so I handed it to him. “My mom used to give me ginger ale when I was sick.”
I brushed the hair off his forehead. He must have been thirsty—in a matter of seconds he was making slurping sounds through the straw.
“Let me take that. Now, you try and sleep. I’ll be back to check on you, but I won’t wake you until the soup is done.”
“’Kay.” He turned on his side—facing my side of the bed—and pulled the covers around him. I tucked them in so no stray draft could get in and chill him. “Thanks, babe.”
“You’re welcome.” I dropped a kiss on his hair, then straightened and looked around to make sure everything was neatened up.
All that remained was to put his shoes in the closet, and once that was done, I scooped up the kitten, who had come in and made herself comfortable behind Wills’s knees.
“Come on, Miss Su. You don’t want to disturb Daddy when he isn’t feeling well.”
She butted my chin with her head and purred, and I turned off the lamp. I left the door ajar so I could hear him if he needed me.
If he needed me….
“Y’know something, Miss Su? Daddy is the first person who ever needed me. That’s pretty cool, isn’t it?” I took her continued purring as agreement and gave her a light squeeze. “Let’s go see how the soup is coming along.”
WILLS WASN’T sick for long. With the help of the Tylenol and plenty of fluids, his temperature was back to normal in a couple of days, and after it had been normal for twenty-four hours, he went back to work and I went back to preparing clients’ income tax returns.
In more ways than one, things were back to normal.
Chapter 11
VALENTINE’S DAY was coming up. I wanted to give my lover something special, something that he could wear always, have with him always.
The sales associate at Mount Olympus, the exclusive jeweler a few doors down from Beau Brummel’s, had taken out a velvet tray containing fourteen-karat-gold chains—I wanted something that would last, and while twenty-four-karat gold was purer, it was too soft—and I studied the different types of links. I had selected a gold Virgo charm surrounded by jade, which was Wills’s birthstone, and it was being engraved while I chose the chain it would hang from. In the case beside the chains were wedding bands, and after a wistful glance at them, I turned my attention back to the chains.
“This one, I think.” I handed him one twenty-eight inches long. Once the charm was suspended from it, it would rest just above my lover’s heart.
“That’s rather masculine, don’t you think?”
“I’d hope so”—the name tag on his breast pocket said Mason—“Mason. It’s for a masculine kind of guy.”
He blinked. “Oh. I see.”
“Good.” I could have whipped out the money clip that had been among the gifts Wills had given me for my birthday on New Year’s Day—my birth sign, Capricorn, was on it, with dark red garnets for the goat’s eyes—and I could have peeled off the bills and said grandly, “I’ll pay in cash.”
Mason’s eyes would have widened, because not many people carried around that much cash.