Don't Try This at Home

by Ellee Hill

  “Want a ride back to the ballroom?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I guess I should help clean up.”

  The sun had set while they were in the hospital, and the heat had given way to a cool breeze that smelled faintly of manure. “Thanks for the ride,” Bret said as they drove back. “And for figuring out what was going on. Would’ve sucked if I’d dropped dead in the middle of the Testicle Festival.”

  Tyler just nodded in reply. Crammed together in his little car, their shoulders almost touched, and it was very difficult for him to pretend he wasn’t affected by the other man’s presence. Tyler wanted to touch: to feel the brushy texture of Bret’s hair and the roughness of his cheeks, to test the strength of his arms. He wondered what the untanned portions of Bret’s skin looked like, whether the promise of his big hands and feet was met, how he sounded in the throes of ecstasy.

  It was with considerable relief that Tyler pulled the car into the ballroom parking lot, almost empty now, with only a few trucks remaining. He cut the engine, and for a moment they just sat there in silence.

  “C’mon in with me and I’ll tell Uncle Frank to refund your ticket money. You hardly ate any of your dinner.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Tyler said. “I got my money’s worth in entertainment.”

  Bret chuckled. “It was a little more exciting than usual, I gotta admit. But you know what else?”

  Tyler turned to look at him. “What?”

  And Bret kissed him.

  It was kind of a sloppy kiss. The angle was awkward and the gearshift was in the way. They both tasted of garlic bread and fried balls, and Tyler almost yelped when Bret’s nose brushed against his. But Christ, it was really good. And when Bret moved his head away for a second, took a deep breath, and swooped back in, Tyler finally got to run his fingers through that hair. It was softer than it looked. Bret, meanwhile, was kneading Tyler’s shoulders with his fingertips, nice and deep, like a massage.

  Despite their close confines, they did their best to crawl into each other’s laps. Tyler ignored the way the emergency brake dug into his thigh, and Bret swore when he bashed an elbow against the dashboard. They tugged at one another’s shirts in search of more skin contact. Their breathing was very loud inside the little car.

  “Tyler,” Bret moaned, pressing his hand against the aching bulge in Tyler’s jeans. “Shit. You’re so—”

  Whatever he was going to say was lost as someone knocked on the passenger side window.

  A very large man was peering angrily inside. He wore a cowboy hat and his face was red—from sunburn or anger, Tyler couldn’t tell.

  Bret swallowed audibly, rolled down the window, and said, “Hi, Dad.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I think that’s pretty obvious, Dad,” Bret said, while Tyler attempted to melt into the footwell.

  Bret’s father growled. “Who’s this?”

  “Dad, meet Tyler Wang. I messed up his face but he saved my life anyway. Tyler, this is Bob Hollister, currently Rancher of the Year for the third year running.”

  “Uh, hello,” Tyler mumbled.

  The senior Hollister only glared. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing—”

  Bret shook his head. “I know exactly what I’m doing. We’ve been over this. I’m a grownup. I’m queer. It’s the way things are. Mom got over it a long time ago, and you’re just gonna have to deal. Doesn’t make me less of a Hollister.”

  For a long minute, Bob said nothing. Tyler began to wonder if the man carried a gun. But then the weathered face relaxed and the older man sighed. “Least you ain’t a goddamn vegetarian like your cousin Chuck.”

  “No way,” Bret said with a grin. “I like my meat too much.”

  “Bret—”

  “It’s okay, Dad. It really is.”

  After another pause, Bob nodded once.

  Bret reached over and patted Tyler’s knee. “Tyler drove all the way here from the Bay Area for the festival, and he ended up mostly missing it. I’m gonna show him we can have a good time in Oakdale anyway.”

  His father glanced in Tyler’s direction; his gaze wasn’t entirely hostile. “It’s good ta meet ya. Maybe we’ll see ya around the ranch.” And then he turned and walked back to the ballroom.

  Tyler let out a long and noisy breath, but Bret smiled. “Sorry about the drama,” Bret said.

  “It’s just one of those days, I guess.”

  “But not everything has been a disaster, has it?” He slid his hand up Tyler’s leg, letting it rest on his upper thigh.

  Tyler grinned back. “Not everything.”

  They ended up going out to a burger place that, surprisingly enough, had a veggie burger too, not to mention killer fries and old-fashioned milkshakes. And as Bret directed Tyler deeper into the hills on backcountry roads—heading to his favorite spot where they could lie on their backs and count the stars, maybe hear the coyotes howl—Tyler decided that maybe he wouldn’t murder Jordan Coelho after all. For the first time in ages, Tyler Wang was having a ball.

  KIM FIELDING is very pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. She has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full-time. She also dreams of having two perfectly behaved children, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.

  Kim can be found on her blogs: http://kfieldingwrites.blogspot.com/ and http://www.goodreads.com/ author/show/4105707.Kim_Fielding/blog and on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Kim-Fielding/ 286938444652579. Her e-mail is dephalqu@yahoo.com.

  SNAPSHOTS

  Rena Butler

  HE was one of the most gorgeous men Alex had ever seen. Unfortunately, he was also unconscious.

  Or at least Alex hoped he was merely unconscious. The other club patrons in the men’s room didn’t seem too concerned; but then, they were mostly in pairs and largely preoccupied. Alex crouched down and grabbed the man by the shoulders, shaking him gently. Nothing. He shook a little harder and the man’s head lolled back, but at least Alex could tell he was breathing.

  “Hey,” he tried, but if the pounding beat of the club music that poured in every time the door opened hadn’t woken this guy up, it was doubtful that shouting would. There was only one thing to do. Well, it worked in the movies, anyway. Alex drew his hand back and slapped the man hard across the cheek.

  “—the fu—?” The man’s whole body jerked hard as he came to, and Alex breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Are you all right?” Alex asked. Possibly not the most intelligent question under the circumstances, but he figured he should probably try to get this guy alert and talking.

  “W’re ’m I?” he mumbled, wincing and bringing a hand to his head.

  “Club Sugar. More specifically, the bathroom. More specifically, the floor of the bathroom. Which is probably crawling with, well, if you’re lucky, mostly fecal coliform bacteria. If you’re not….” Alex shuddered, not even wanting to think about necrotizing fasciitis or MRSA or…. “Can you sit up? Because you should do that. Now.”

  “Yeah, I can si—ooh, shit,” the man groaned, making it no further than pushing up on his arms before he was collapsing back down to the floor.

  Alex managed to catch him and, by getting his arms under the other man’s, hoist him up to sit against the nearby wall, trying to touch as little as possible of the man’s clothing that had been in contact with the floor. “Don’t vomit,” Alex muttered, half imploring, half praying. “Please, please don’t vomit.”

  “Think I already did that. You smell good,” the guy said, and Alex got a glimpse of the most incredible hazel eyes, flecked ever so lightly with green, before they were rolling back in the man’s head and he was pitching forward again.

  “No, huh-uh, stay with me,” Alex said in his best
commanding voice, using his forearm to pin the man’s shoulders against the wall. He slapped lightly at the man’s face again. “Wake up.”

  “Stop hittin’ me,” he grunted, one arm trying to come up and bat Alex’s hand away, but it missed by a good six inches.

  “Then stop passing out. What’s your name?”

  A lazy grin spread across the man’s face. “Who wan’s ta know?” he slurred.

  “The guy who’s trying to make sure you don’t have brain damage. Did you hit your head? Does it hurt anywhere?”

  “It hurts everywhere,” he groaned. “An’ I’m pretty sure I didn’t damage anything worse than it was before.”

  “Open your eyes,” Alex said as sternly as he could manage, checking each pupil carefully. That’s what you were supposed to do, right? He’d picked up a few things from the seasons of House he’d watched. Which was why he was very carefully examining this man’s eyes for signs of a concussion, and not to determine if they were more green than brown. Or rather both, a gray-green ring inside an amber one, combined to the most stunning effect—

  “Bryce,” the man said with a lopsided smile.

  “What?”

  “That’s my name. Bryce.”

  “That’s not a name. Who’s named Bryce? Other than Ron Howard’s daughter, I mean.”

  Even in his inebriated state, Bryce managed to shoot Alex a withering look. “’Cause yours is so much better, I’m sure.”

  “Actually it is, it’s—” But Alex was cut off when Bryce’s eyes suddenly started to droop again. “Hey, pay attention. Are you here with anyone?”

  Suddenly, Bryce seemed quite alert with anger. “Fucker ditched me for some leather daddy with a pedophile mustache. Seriously, straight out of creepy ’70s porn. Who does that to their supposed best friend?”

  “Not a guy named Bryce, surely,” Alex said, pushing his finger through the other man’s glossy, dark blond hair—checking for any bumps or tender spots on his skull, of course.

  “’Course not,” Bryce sighed. “Mmm, yeah, pull my hair a little.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”

  “Nah, I remember it. Kinda. I was dizzy, the floor looked really inviting, so I just kind of… slumped.”

  “You may be right about the brain damage,” Alex muttered. “All right, you think you can stand up? Maybe splash some cold water on your face?”

  “You tryin’ to get me wet now?”

  That smirk should really not be so appealing on a man Alex had recently peeled off a bathroom floor. “I’m trying to keep you conscious. Standing up: yea or nay?”

  “Possible yea,” Bryce said, grimacing as he got his feet under him. With Alex’s help, he made it to a wobbling stance, taking a few tentative steps to lean heavily against the sink. Alex turned on the tap as cold as it would go, and Bryce thankfully retained enough hand-eye coordination to get the water to his face without creating a splash zone. “Much better,” he said, pulling up straight and grinning at himself in the mirror.

  And then his eyes went wide. He spun on his feet and dove for the nearest stall. To vomit.

  Alex shut his eyes and plugged his ears until he was relatively certain it was over. “I thought you already did that.”

  “Apparently I wasn’t finished,” Bryce groaned, his voice echoing off the stall walls.

  “And now?”

  “Think I’m good.” A pause. “Wait.” Another, longer pause, and Alex braced himself for the sound of… a long, luxurious belch.

  “Okay, all good,” Bryce said, voice far steadier than his feet as he stumbled back to the sink to clean up and rinse his mouth. Alex handed him a wad of paper towels, and Bryce wiped his face. Fortunately, his clothes seemed to be untarnished, if a bit wrinkled, and when Alex looked back up, he realized it must have appeared to Bryce that Alex had been giving him the once over. Bryce leaned in a little, his eyes darkening. “You have a really, really nice mouth.”

  “And you have breath that could stun a rhino at fifty paces. I’m getting you into a cab.”

  Bryce pouted, but he put up no further objections as Alex gently steered him out of the bathroom, through the mass of writhing bodies in the club (which took a little effort, as Bryce kept getting distracted), and out into the muggy evening air. Luckily, by this time of night, there was a line of cabs outside the club for situations just such as this. “You remember where you live?” Alex asked sardonically.

  “I remember all the words to that one R.E.M. song. ‘That’s great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an air-o-plane, Lenny Bruce is not afraid—’”

  Alex cut him off with a hand over his mouth, wrapping an arm around Bryce’s (warm, lean) waist to make sure he actually got into the cab. Alex pulled his hand away and Bryce chanted “Leo-nard Bern-stein!” But then he smiled and laughed a surprisingly sane, almost musical laugh and slid into the seat. “Sure you don’t want to come with me?”

  Alex ignored the question; much as he might like to say yes, this guy was still wasted, and Alex felt like he’d done enough charity work with the drunk for one evening. “Make sure you shower as soon as you get home; I don’t know how long you were on that floor. And maybe get yourself tested. I don’t mean just for STDs, I mean for everything. Tell them you just got back from six months in the Amazonian rainforest. And how much bleach do you have at home? No, never mind, just burn the clothes.”

  Bryce laughed again, and Alex began to reconsider. Maybe he could at least get Bryce’s number, for a time when the man smelled less like tequila and overflowing urinal.

  But Bryce was pulling the door shut, yelling “Au revoir, mysterious stranger!” as the cab pulled away and into the late-night Miami traffic.

  That’s when Alex realized he’d never even told Bryce his name.

  IT took a good ten minutes for Alex to get himself into his best skinny jeans, but there was no denying they made his ass look incredible. It was two weeks since his foray to Club Sugar and he’d finally gotten the chance to go out again, and he didn’t intend to come home alone this time. He rarely did the one-night stand thing anymore, but sometimes a man just needed to get laid. Tonight, Alex was that man.

  The bar he chose was one of his favorites—smaller and quieter than Club Sugar, perhaps a touch more dignified; Alex did have some standards, after all. Grinding against half-naked strangers was all well and good, but he preferred a little conversation as foreplay, call him old-fashioned. And the pickings looked good tonight as he surveyed the other patrons, so he chose not to approach anyone right away, but decided to take a seat at the bar and observe for a bit.

  The hand that clapped down on his shoulder nearly made him drop his rum and Coke. “We’ve got to start meeting like this,” a voice behind him said. “You know, when I’m not flat on the bathroom floor.”

  Alex spun in his seat to come face-to-chest with a smirking Bryce. And what a nice chest it was, too, shown off to perfection in a simple black T-shirt. Alex set his drink on the bar and quickly wiped his hand on a cocktail napkin so it wouldn’t be clammy when he held it out. “Hey, man,” he said, still reeling a little in shock. “Nice to see you vertical.”

  The laugh was just as infectious as Alex had remembered, and the little spark in Bryce’s eye made Alex consider the benefits of getting him horizontal again. “And to think I never even got the name of the man who was brave enough to rescue me from a slow, gruesome death.”

  “Alex. It’s Alex.” He should probably have stopped shaking Bryce’s hand by now.

  “Well, I took your advice and burned my clothing,” Bryce said, sliding easily onto the stool beside Alex. “I’m also passive-aggressively ignoring my quote-unquote ‘friend’ who ditched me. Though I’m still enjoying his regret-filled texts about waking up next to a creepy, middle-aged flogging-enthusiast-slash-investment-banker who won’t stop calling him.”

  Alex laughed. “Don’t leave him hanging for too long. A man like that needs all the friends he can get, if only so they
can selflessly point out the error of his ways.”

  “And I’m about as selfless as they come.”

  “Glad to hear it. And your own enthusiasm for flogging?”

  Bryce appeared to ponder it with great concern. “Fickle. Depends on the flogger.”

  Alex grinned, feeling a distinct heat flooding his veins. “Ah, so you’re the floggee.”

  “This is all completely hypothetical, you understand,” Bryce said, maintaining his solemn façade. “I have a strict no-flogging policy until at least the third date.”

  “Are we counting our bathroom rendezvous as a date? Should I have the cat-o-nine-tails ready for our next run-in?”

  Bryce’s stern expression broke into a grin. “Here we are already talking about corporal punishment and you haven’t even bought me a drink.”

  “Apologies. What’s your poison? From our previous encounter, I’m guessing… Sauza?”

  With a grimace, Bryce said, “God, no. I’ve sworn off tequila for life, if that horse piss even counts as tequila. And you’re in luck, because I don’t want a drink. Finish yours and let’s dance.”

  The dance floor was just crowded enough that Alex didn’t feel too embarrassed when Bryce threaded an arm around his waist and yanked him in tight. They weren’t quite grinding on each other, but Alex was pretty sure his high school dance chaperones wouldn’t have approved. Bryce was ever so slightly taller, and their bodies fit together in a way that made the front of Alex’s jeans tighten considerably.

  Alex slid his arms around Bryce’s neck, and Bryce responded with a sudden thrust of his hips that drew a surprised gasp out of Alex. But he gave back as good as he got, pressing in closer until his thigh was nudging between Bryce’s legs. He felt Bryce’s chest vibrate as the other man chuckled approvingly. “You’re an excellent dancer,” he whispered right against Alex’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “Wonder what else you’re good at….”

  Oh God, yes. This was going perfectly. Gorgeous, witty guy with an incredibly body, who seemed to be—yep, a press of their hips confirmed it—just into Alex as Alex was into him. So why waste time? Alex was just leaning in to whisper an invitation when Bryce said, “Looks like you’ve got an admirer.”