Someone Like You

by Timothy J Beck

  The most enlightening part of making love with his new knowledge of Hunter’s feelings was that nothing was different. Their bodies had the same intuitive sense of when to please and when to be pleased. When to hold back. When to let go. Hunter’s eyes had the intensity they always had during sex. And when it was over, they both still felt the need to keep holding on, to keep touching, to keep looking at each other.

  “How could I have not understood that this is how you say ‘I love you’?” Derek wondered aloud.

  “How could I have failed to realize that a man who’s in love with words would need to hear them?” Hunter asked. He lit a cigarette, then settled back so Derek could nestle against him.

  “Once there were two princes,” Derek said. He couldn’t see his lover’s face, but he could tell by the way Hunter’s arm tightened around him that he’d needed this as much, if not more, than sex. Derek smiled and went on. “One’s wealth was tangible. The other’s wealth was not. One was born to everything. The other worked for it. The funny thing is, neither of them knew which was which. But it didn’t matter, because together, they had it all.”

  “Thank you,” Hunter whispered. They were quiet until he finished his cigarette, then Hunter repositioned himself so that he was the one being held.

  “I love what you wrote to me,” Derek said. “Sheree once told me that you’re fearless. I understand the courage it took to open yourself up even though you thought I was gone. I don’t want you to worry about that ever again. I’ll never fly far without you.”

  “I’ll never try to stop you from flying.” Hunter said. “I’ve been so happy with you and our life together. I didn’t realize how lonely you were when I traveled or worked long hours. I’m glad you’ve found friends. I want you to hold on to those friendships. I’d like to know them, too.”

  “I’d love that,” Derek said, grinning at the thought of his lover fending off Vienna’s clinical appraisals. Relishing Meg’s wicked sense of humor. Coping with the flirtatious rapport that Derek and Christian shared. Watching Emily-Anne wreak havoc in his hotel. Grappling with Davii’s complexities. It would do Hunter good to have his life populated with Derek’s friends.

  “Have you written your first column yet?” Hunter asked.

  “I gave it to Mr. Barrister today,” Derek said.

  “What did he say?”

  “Pulitzer,” Derek said, and Hunter laughed. “He said I use too many words.”

  “What does he know?” Hunter asked.

  “I wanted to ask you about Garry and—” Derek broke off, noticing a new addition to Hunter’s artwork on the wall. He sat up, his voice gently reproachful when he said, “Hunter.”

  Hunter followed the direction of his gaze and said just as softly, “That’s a very expensive piece. I bid on it for a worthy cause.”

  “You got robbed,” Derek said.

  “It’s a pretty good likeness of Miss Indiana to have been done by a three-year-old,” Hunter disagreed.

  Derek looked at Hunter, then reached over to lightly cuff his chin. “You do love me.”

  “I do,” Hunter said.

  40

  My Tennessee Mountain Home

  The morning air was cool and crisp. A light breeze danced through the trees, creating music in the leaves as an accompaniment to the birds’ songs. Small animals rustled through the underbrush. Like any Disney-perfect morning, light shimmered through mullioned windows and fell on a figure lying on the bed. But was she a princess or a witch?

  Jarred awake by the ringing telephone, Natasha extended a hand from the covers and mumbled something into the receiver.

  “Yeah, hey. Is Larry there?”

  “DeWitt?” Natasha asked sleepily.

  “I know it’s early, but you don’t have to call me a dimwit.”

  “DeWitt,” Natasha said more clearly.

  “No, Larry.”

  “I don’t know Larry,” Natasha said.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Who’s this?” Natasha repeated.

  “Is Larry there?” the voice asked a little more impatiently.

  “Larry’s slopping the hogs. Try back later.” Natasha hung up without waiting for a response.

  She was living in a land of endless DeWitts, but apparently some were named Larry, and others lacked basic comprehension skills.

  Natasha brought that train of thought to a screeching halt and looked across her bedroom to the framed poster hanging on the wall, a quote from Margaret Cho: “Sometimes when we are generous in small, barely detectable ways it can change someone else’s life forever.”

  When she’d bought it, she thought Margaret Cho was some great Eastern philosopher. A few nights later, a cable special had corrected her mistake. She was a little disturbed; Margaret Cho reminded her of one of the Cosmetics associates, and she wanted nothing more than to put her memories of Drayden’s behind her. Upon reflection, however, she decided to let the quote hang. She needed a daily reminder that it wasn’t necessary to completely destroy people to get where she wanted to go.

  Since she was already awake, Natasha decided to get out of bed. She started a pot of coffee before taking a shower. When she emerged from the steamy bathroom, a towel on her head, she turned toward the second bedroom and opened the door, looking at the empty space and blank walls. At any other time in her life, it would have become her Doll House. Now it was just an empty room, waiting to be filled with something. She wasn’t sure what. The room reminded her of herself.

  She shook off the thought and drank a cup of coffee, then another. Finally, she brushed her teeth and got ready for work, drying her hair and pulling it into its tight bun, applying her makeup, then slipping into khaki shorts and a knit shirt with a logo over her left breast. She wasn’t particularly fond of the way the uniform fit her. Although it set off her dark hair and blue eyes, she had mixed feelings about not wearing the beautiful clothes of her former life. In one sense, the uniform simplified things. She didn’t have to decide what to wear each day, since the decision had been made for her. The problem was, she didn’t like having decisions made for her.

  Let it go, she thought, walking into the living room.

  And she had let it go. Mostly. Her eyes darted to the bookcase, where the doll stood in her coat of many colors. Only the blond hair was gone. Now she wore an oversized wig with long, black braids that had strands of red woven into them.

  “A form of transference,” her therapist had called it. She’d thought of telling him that since he owed his weekly check to the inspiration for the doll’s new hairstyle, he might want to keep his opinions to himself. But one didn’t say that to one’s therapist. Yet.

  One nice thing about her new place was the outdoor walk to work. She paid no heed to the birds or the music of the leaves. She was indifferent to the brilliant sunlight. What she noticed about the walk was how people moved aside on the narrow path when they saw her determined stride. She liked that part.

  Nodding curtly at the guard, she walked through the employee entrance. She found a locker for her handbag, checked to make sure she was properly creased, tucked in, and tidy, then went to her workstation.

  The other employees greeted her with warm smiles when she took her place on the platform. Her return smile was faint. Just because she’d adopted her policy of not destroying people didn’t mean she intended to befriend them. That issue had been brought up in her recent thirty-day review.

  “Natasha,” the management rep said, “you’ve gotten glowing input from your co-workers about how capable you are. Thorough, punctual, professional. Also, comments about how amazing you are with our small guests. They say you have a way of keeping everything orderly and organized. But no one feels that they know you. We want to know that you enjoy your job!”

  “I love it,” she’d answered tonelessly.

  The odd thing was, she did love it. Because she knew it was temporary. If there was anything she understood, it was how to move up a ladder. This time, she intended to get to
the top. Eventually, she’d be running the entire organization. Although she might never meet its founder—she shuddered momentarily at the thought of Drayden Lvandsson—she’d make damn sure that the business was a credit to the person whose name was on it.

  The Tennessee Tornado clattered to a stop, and its occupants exited the opposite side as Natasha motioned the line to move forward. A small boy and girl clambered eagerly toward her, and Natasha barked, “No running.”

  Chastened, they slowed down, then stared up at her with huge eyes as she held up a hand to stop them. She whipped a tape measure from her pocket and held it against them, then nodded. Car by car, she checked to make sure everyone was seated and properly secured. Another pair of children were pinching each other and giggling, and Natasha stopped at their car and gave them a look that could have inspired a new Peter Benchley novel. They immediately settled down.

  “That’s better,” Natasha said. “We don’t act like little animals at Dollywood, do we?”

  “No, ma’am,” they said in unison.

  She nodded approvingly, then stepped back to let her gaze sweep the occupants of the cars one last time.

  “Enjoy the ride,” she said, and the faces of those who watched her showed that they were almost afraid not to.

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  Copyright © 2006 by Timothy James Beck

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  ISBN 0-7582-1839-7