by Liv Rancourt
“I may never say those words to anyone else.” He scanned the parking lot for witnesses. No people, only the hot sun, the distant hum of traffic, and the endless blue sky. “And my train leaves tomorrow, but I’m coming back.” He swallowed against the enormity of the emotion rising in him. “I don’t want to live without you, and if I didn’t tell you now, I’d spend the rest of my life regretting it.”
Skip’s bangs hung down so Russell couldn’t see his face. They stood together in silence for long enough Russell began to plan for a graceful exit. Susie and Ryker had promised to block the driveway unless Russell was in the car with Skip. He took a step to the side, intending to ease away.
“Wait.” Skip reached out and wrapped his hand around Russell’s wrist, his dark eyes glossy. His expression made Russell’s heart beat in double time. Hope expanded, warming and brightening Russell’s soul.
“Coming back, huh?” Skip’s voice sounded raw, as if it’d been pounded with stone.
“The shows in Detroit have already started. I promised Aunt Maude I’d be there, so I’ll take the train tomorrow.” Russell didn’t even try to fight the grin. “After the run, I’ll head home to pack my things.”
“What time is it now?”
Russell glanced at his watch. “Two thirty.”
Skip straightened his shoulders, his smile holding so much happiness, Russell had to look away. “Then we better get a move on.” He loosened his grip on Russell’s wrist, shifting his grasp to interlace their fingers, their gazes sharing more than the words they’d spoken.
“Let’s go.”
***
“So what do you want to do on your last night in town?” Skip pocketed the keys to his Buick, the bulge in his pants giving his preference away.
Russell let his chuckle promise he shared the same interests. They still had things to talk about, but he wanted Skip alone and naked, and he was prepared to be as bossy as necessary.
At the apartment door, Russell turned, giving Skip his key back in a small ceremony, sealed—after a quick glance around—with a kiss that was more of a flash of lips against skin.
“You can do better than that, big guy.” Skip jiggled the lock to the left, the quickest way to get the door open.
They stumbled into the apartment, Russell keeping as close to Skip as humanly possible. He shut the door, and the musician burst out laughing. “What?” Russell asked.
Skip stood in the center of the small room, arms extended, turning slowly. “I think this is the first time in about six months that bed’s been put up.”
Russell flopped down onto the upholstered chair and held his hands out. “C’mere.”
Skip complied, landing hard on Russell’s lap, legs swung over the arm of the chair. His warmth and lanky strength acted as a salve on the aching pain left by his absence, and in relief, Russell started babbling. “I didn’t know it was possible to miss someone you just met. I didn’t know...how good...” To stop himself from saying anything stupider, Russell pulled Skip in for a kiss, tangling their tongues, savoring his taste.
He didn’t ever want to stop.
Skip smiled against his mouth, pulling away to rest his head against Russell’s shoulder. “I know what you have in mind,” he said, squeezing Russell’s thigh, “but I need a shower first.”
“No you don’t.” Russell’s head dropped back as Skip nuzzled his neck, over the soft skin beneath his ear. Russell’s cock was an iron bar in his slacks, and he could give a good goddamn whether Skip had showered or not. He stroked the bulge in Skip’s groin, forestalling further argument.
Skip writhed against him, driving him even wilder.
“Jesus.”
The need in Skip’s voice spurred Russell to action. He went to work on the other man’s fly, caressing his cock in the process.
“Shower.” Skip might have wanted to say more, but Russell covered his lips with a rough kiss. Holding Skip’s head in place so he’d shut up about the shower, he got both their flies open one-handed. He rubbed his thumb over the head of his own cock, then Skip’s, using the leaking fluid to lubricate his grasp. Not enough. He broke the kiss, spit into the palm of his hand, and grabbed hold again.
Skip nipped along his jaw, nuzzling his whiskers. Russell stroked him, thrusting against his thigh. Skip groaned, and the vulnerability in the sound brought Russell right to the edge. Jerking frantically, he tried to hold on, but it was like trying to grapple with smoke.
Pleasure took him. He lost himself in the moment—the spicy-sweet smell of Skip’s hair dressing, his strength and the softness of his lips, the overwhelming embarrassment for busting a nut so soon. And then he made it worse. “God but I love you.” He ducked to hide his blush.
Skip was still hard, still thrusting, but lazy, gentle. “You keep saying the word, Russ.”
His casual good humor made Russell smile through the awkwardness. “May never find someone to say it to again, so I might as well make it worthwhile.” His heart was so warm, even that cold reality couldn’t chill him.
Skip moved his hips in a slow circle. “Your jizz feels nice.”
Russell snorted. “Can’t help myself sometimes.”
“’S all right. I really need a shower now.”
Russell didn’t need to look to know he had come smeared all over his belly, all over his shirt. They both did. Neither of them moved. Russell stroked Skip’s shaft, long and slow in time with the needy grind of Skip’s hips. The closeness, the heady scent of sex and smoke, and the afternoon heat combined to bring his own cock halfway back to attention, but now it was Skip’s turn.
With only one night, he wanted to pleasure Skip, to worship his body, to prove his readiness to learn the lessons Skip had to teach. The other man had given Russell a glimpse of a different kind of life, and he wanted to repay him. He drove Skip to the edge and caught him when he went over. A part of him never wanted to leave.
They both dozed, there in the old chair, until the sticky dryness made Russell restless. With a soft laugh, Skip tilted his head. “So”—the word came out like a sigh—“if I write you letters, will you write me back?”
“Yes.” Writing letters wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would tide them over till he returned. “Yes, I will.”
Skip cleared his throat. “I mean, or I could call you on the phone...”
Russell stopped, held his breath, gritty reality distracting him from fantasy. What if Skip doesn’t want me to come back? “Do you want to?”
“Yeah.” Skip’s mouth worked as if he were afraid to smile. “You’re not the only one who fell in love.”
Russell stared, pure happiness welling up inside. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Skip ran a thumb over his lower lip. “Guys like us, well, we don’t find this feeling every day. I sure don’t intend to let it go, to let you go.”
For one brief moment, Russell let fantasy exceed reality. “Don’t intend to let you go either.” They might only have one more night, but he intended to make the most of it.
***
Skip woke up early. Too early. There was a man in his bed whose grating snores broke through Skip’s dreams. Russell. He’d be leaving at noon, and though he talked about coming back, Skip didn’t really believe him
The morning sun landed on the roller blinds in squares of amber. The air was stuffy, already heating up. Skip couldn’t move. He never brought men to his apartment, because he didn’t want the traces they’d leave behind, the echoes of Russell banging around in the shower and looking through the cupboards for the coffeepot.
Dancing the cha-cha to a record Skip would likely never listen to again.
Skip lay still, skin prickling where Russell’s arm lay across his chest. He couldn’t weave together all the patches of memory to fill a Russell-sized space. They’d talked nonsense about what would happen when Russell came back, and promised to write letters every day, but what good would that do?
He’d brought the guy home, and now Russell was leaving. Skip was pret
ty damned sure he’d never see him again. It already hurt.
Torn between getting up and huddling closer, Skip wrestled with the thing that bothered him the most. He understood the importance of family. He himself would likely be sleeping on Lou’s pink carpet to keep his mother happy. But Mom understood him, knew who he was. Russell would be going home to put on an act, possibly for the rest of his life.
There was a difference between loyalty and blindness. Fear could make it hard to tell which was which. Skip rolled over, swung his feet to the floor. Not fair to accuse Russell of cowardice when his own recent lesson in caution still burned. Maybe the guy had it right.
A strong arm caught Skip around the waist and pulled him back in the bed. “Not yet.” Sleep gave Russell’s voice a soft edge.
“I was just going to open a window.”
With a move that would have taken down a wrestling opponent, Russell flipped Skip into the center of the bed and pinned him. “Later.” He dove in for a kiss, and Skip had no choice but to respond. And really, the rough scratch of morning whiskers and the burn of rising need were a satisfying way to put off heartache.
It waited, though, ready to wrap Skip in barbed wire and tear him apart.
Chapter 22
Russell got on the train to Detroit with four dollars in his pocket and a belly full of grim determination. There’d be no replacement for Susie. He didn’t want to leave home, but they needed lawyers in Seattle as much as they did in Minneapolis.
And Seattle had Skip.
Aunt Maude met him at the station. “I have some things to say to you, young man.”
Biting back his first response—that the only thing he needed was a shot of whiskey and a warm shower—Russell found his aunt a smile. “I am sorry I was delayed.”
She harrumphed, her perfect curls reflecting a sheen of disapproval. Over the course of the forty-hour train ride, Russell had drafted a letter to Jack Dodson, asking about a position. He’d also concocted a story to explain why he’d changed his tickets. It involved an imaginary hotel theft, and conveniently excused his missing diamond ring, in case anyone thought to ask.
He repeated the story so often over the remaining ten days of aqua shows that he almost came to believe it. At least until he got back to his parents’ house and found a letter waiting.
The letter was signed, Love, Skip.
The team arrived home late Saturday night, and Russell spent Sunday morning in bed, writing his reply.
Love, Russell.
He was home, the land of tall trees, lakes, and ever-loving flatness. He surveyed his bedroom, the one he’d shared with his brother Rory, and crossed to the window to survey the street. All the same as he remembered. Then he dressed for Sunday dinner, because it was Sunday, and that was what he was supposed to do.
His mother had made a roast to celebrate his return, and the whole family would be there. By the time Russell came downstairs, the big cherry table in the dining room was set for nine. He couldn’t avoid everyone, but he hoped he’d get through dinner without saying anything he’d regret.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” his father called from the front room. “There might be some coffee on the back of the stove, but be careful or she’ll put you to work in there.”
Russell chuckled and kept walking. His mother would drop down dead before she’d let a man help in her kitchen. “Good morning, Mom.”
“Good morning.” His mother greeted him with a quick hug. Between the late-August sunshine and the heat of the stovetop, her cheeks had more color than normal. She wore a white apron over her drab Sunday dress, a string of pearls, and she’d twisted her hair in a perfect chignon. “How was your trip?”
“Fine.” He helped himself to some coffee, stifling the riot of emotions. His trip hadn’t been fine. It had been glorious and wonderful and devastating. He’d met the man of his dreams, and he could never tell a soul. The first twinges of a headache pinched his temples.
He set his letter for Skip in a low basket on the shelf near the back door. “Can I leave this here for the mailman?”
“Of course.” His mother lifted a pot off the burner and set it in the sink. “Maude tells me you and Susie had a fight, so I didn’t set a place for her today.”
The headache settled in for the duration. “Susie stayed in Seattle. She’s getting married.”
His mother pulled a potato masher out of the drawer. “I’m sorry, dear.” She dumped some butter in the pot and started mashing.
I’m sorry, dear? Me too. His mother’s lukewarm response made all his worries seem foolish. Would she even care when he told them he intended to move? “I’m going to join Dad in the living room.”
His mother hummed a response, her attention squarely on the dinner preparations. Russell took a seat on the couch and drank his coffee, subjected to his father’s interrogation. He managed to keep from mentioning anything to do with Skip or Seattle, while at the same time his mind never left the letter. Did I say too much? Not enough? Will Skip think I’m crazy if I write again tomorrow?
The rest of the family arrived; his oldest brother Robert and his wife, and his sisters Dumpling and Rayanne and their husbands. They each had kids, and Russell did his best to attach the right name to the right niece or nephew. He helped Rayanne set up a card table in the sun room for the kids to have their dinner, but beyond that, he mostly he kept quiet. He was tired of telling non-stories about his travels, and somehow, keeping Skip a secret only made him sadder.
He was so lost in himself he almost missed Dumpling’s big announcement. She was the shortest of all of them, and three children had left her much stouter than back in her Aqua Follies days. After the family said grace, she raised her water glass.
“Mom, Dad, everybody?” Dumpling’s round cheeks were flushed, and she gripped her husband’s hand. “We have an announcement.”
Rayanne squealed, Robert’s wife started applauding, and Mom looked up from serving the roast beef.
“I’m having another baby.”
Dumpling smiled so hard, it almost broke Russell’s heart. A chorus of congratulations circled the table.
“That’s nice dear,” his mother said without much of a smile. “I hope you have a boy.”
The conversation went on around him while Russell ate and drank until his head was pounding. Here he’d been so convinced a wedding would make his mother happy, and she’d been more worried about the potatoes.
Might as well get it over with. “I have an announcement too...”
They took it better than he’d expected. His brother and sisters were excited, and his father filled the air with bluster. His mother did little more than pat his hand, so lost in her own pain, she could barely respond. He finally made his excuses and went up to bed, but once he was alone, his thoughts still tormented him.
His twin bed sat parallel to the one his brother had slept in, until Rory had gone off to join the army and some Korean prevented him from coming home. What would Rory think, from his perch in the heavenly choir? Would he send Russell down with Beelzebub, or would he agree with Skip, that it was rare for men like them to find someone to love?
Didn’t matter. Rory was dead, and Skip was halfway across the country. He might need to work for his father for a few weeks, to save up some money, but he’d made up his mind. Russell fell asleep with a belly full of roast beef and dogged determination.
***
Skip swung the car door open. Ten o’clock on a Monday night. Time for bed. He tossed the horn case onto the passenger seat. A month ago, his alarm would have gone off at five a.m. Not anymore. He slammed the door shut and shoved the key in the ignition.
He needed consolation more than he needed sleep.
Fifteen minutes later, he parked his car on Western Avenue, a block away from Pioneer Square. The crowds were thick for a Monday night, so he’d find friends, people he knew, men who’d help cheer him up.
He crossed the ass end of Yesler to Second Avenue, stopping at the blind peanut sel
ler’s stand. The gnarled little man wore a greasy gray cap and had his shirt buttoned all the way to his chin, as if he could keep out the damp ocean air with frayed and dirty cotton. A pair of women came down Second, elbows and foreheads touching, skirts rubbing together as if they were trying to start a fire. They were clean and classy and obviously a couple, but after they crossed Yesler Way and passed the big totem pole, they drifted apart. They strolled along Second Avenue into downtown with a polite spread of inches between them.
Skip put a nickel in the peanut man’s grubby palm and wandered along Second Avenue into Pioneer Square. Those ladies might snuggle in a Skid Row club, but outside they had to act like any other women—neighbors, coworkers, sisters. The same rules held for men, as much a part of his life as his horn and the smell of piss in the alleys. Skip didn’t usually give it any thought. He popped a peanut and shook his head. Didn’t seem fair. Maybe Russell was getting to him.
Demetrio greeted Skip at the door with a hug, which went a long way toward settling him down. “Your boyfriend is here, Lawrence.”
Skip’s heartbeat revved right up again. “Really? Russell’s here?”
Demetrio patted his shoulder. “I meant the little one.”
Oh. Lou. He chuckled at his heart’s ability to generate hope so fast. “Thanks. I’ll go find him.”
“He’s at the back of the bar, looking for trouble, if you ask me.”
“Always is, D.” Skip brushed past the clusters of men standing along the bar till he found Lou perched on the last barstool, wearing a white jersey and dungarees. His hair was parted and rolled and greased, and his lips were touched with light pink. Skip couldn’t be sure if Lou’d dressed himself as a greaser or if Lulu was done up as a dyke.
“Hey, honey,” Skip said, bussing Lou’s cheek with a kiss. It had taken weeks for his friend to stop complaining about the smell of Mary Jane in his draperies, but they were okay now.
“Hey, yourself.” Lou’s smile was wide and warm. “Did you have fun at the gig?”