They all grinned at one another. Mr. Wolfe remembered the high collars all the Beckett children had worn on stage. The wide belts, the bell-bottom pants.
He felt even warmer just thinking about those cumbersome get-ups. The heat was really starting to bother him.
Just as he was about to call Zara, a sleek black limousine pulled up and the grand dame herself stepped out in an eye-popping ensemble of a red, jeweled turban atop her dyed blond bob, torn, skinny jeans, red sneakers, a red tube top, and an electronic cigarette clenched in her jaw. At sixty-five, she had the body of a teenager. He suspected she spent half her day eating lettuce leaves and the other half in the can with her fingers shoved down her throat.
To his dismay, a second pair of legs swung out of the vehicle. When the pudgy guy in the crimson-colored suit wedged himself out of the backseat, he produced a camera, his gaze swiveling in all directions.
"Where are the clothes?" he asked.
"Well, they're not out here on the street, darling," Zara drawled, unleashing a heavy stream of smoke. She drew on her electronic cigarette again.
Mr. Wolfe didn't particularly wish for the companionship of celebrity blogger, Urnie Marriott, but there wasn't much he could do about it.
"You're the archivist?" Marriott asked Mr. Wolfe. "What do you think of my shoes?"
Mr. Wolfe peered down at them. "Is that what they are?" He lifted a brow. "How...interesting."
Zara let loose a smoke-filled laugh. "That's industry code for ugly. And you know, Urnie darling, those shoes are ugly."
"No, they're not," Urnie muttered, but as an auction house associate met them in the loading dock, Mr. Wolfe noticed the blogger kept trying to yank down his pants, attempting to cover his shoes with the hem.
Inside the shuttered garage, Mr. Wolfe and Ambrosio brushed past the others to examine the Beckett costumes.
Mr. Wolfe could have wept for the shameful way these iconic treasures had been treated. He lifted a miniature soldier's uniform with reverent, gentle fingers and examined it. The collar was outlandish. Wide and big. It still stood stiff as a board since it had been glued to Styrofoam, the go-to product of the seventies. Not looked after, fabric tended to slip away from the foam, as had happened here.
He could tell in one swift glance that this collection would be a massive reclamation project.
"What do you think?" Urnie breathed in his ear.
Mr. Wolfe tensed. He disliked Urnie immensely, just from reading his bitchy blogs. He'd also covered the shocking, horrible murder of Bobby Beckett by his former lover slash bodyguard in lurid, often incorrect detail.
Mr. Wolfe had known Bobby as a child and often fretted about the kid's dislike of the public eye. He swallowed hard when he glimpsed the last costume Bobby Beckett had performed in. It was a black sequined tunic he'd worn over tight black pants in a sold-out Staples concert the night he died.
The whole world now knew that he had left the stage, changed into street clothes in his dressing room and had received a text message from his ex-lover who demanded to speak with him. Beckett had tried to dodge the man by taking the elevator down to the garage where his chauffeur-driven limousine awaited him but Lewis Ingersoll stepped out of a shadowy corner, opened fire on Beckett with an unregistered handgun, before turning it on himself.
Ingersoll survived the shooting. Beckett did not.
Mr. Wolfe examined the black tunic, shocked at how tiny the man had been.
"He's what? A size two?" Ambrosio whispered.
Mr. Wolfe nodded.
"I want to archive everything. I want to create a special showroom for all of Bobby's grieving fans to come and visit him. I want to charge five dollars a person, all the proceeds going to AIDs-related programs," Zara said. "I think Bobby would like that."
She would know since he'd been her protégée and, from everything Mr. Wolfe had heard, she'd taken the pop singer's death very hard.
"Will you do it for me?" she asked Mr. Wolfe. "Will you help me?"
"Yes." He nodded slowly. It was another massive undertaking, but he wanted to do this for Bobby, who'd made the human mistake of loving the wrong man. He had to do this for Bobby whose costumes had been allowed to languish in dusty hell.
"Good," she said. "Then you can finish it by the end of the month along with my collection."
"I can't--" he began but she'd already turned and walked out, her blogger-pup scampering after her. Yes, he would do it. Somehow. Some way.
The auctioneer said, "Where would you like the collection shipped to?"
"I'll let you know in the morning," Mr. Wolfe said, his mind still spinning.
"Very good, sir." The auction house assistant slid him his business card. "I'll await your call."
As soon as they'd all stepped out of the garage, Virginia spoke.
"He was so skinny! What kind of mannequins will you use to display his clothes?"
Mr. Wolfe had forgotten she was still there and struggled to lift himself from his racing thoughts.
"Foam fashion forms," he said. "We'll still have to shave them down to fit his clothing."
"How fascinating!" Virginia's eyes practically glowed in the dark.
Mr. Wolfe smiled when she asked if she could help in any way.
"Yes, my dear. I'll contact you first thing tomorrow when I've figured out where we'll store the collection."
"Oh, boy!" She rushed forward and squeezed him again. As if it were an afterthought, she hugged Ambrosio too. "I can't wait!"
The two men watched her climb into her ergonomically sound vehicle and take off.
"Dinner," Ambrosio said. "What are we going to do, Wolfie? That fucking bitch just handed you double the workload."
"Yeah." Mr. Wolfe glowered. "I know.
He was so stressed out about the new collection that he couldn't stop talking about it all the way into Little Tokyo.
With Ambrosio at the wheel, the journey took a scant twenty minutes. Parking almost as long. It was the only thing he hated about his favorite part of town.
Inside the tiny, homey House of Shabu-Shabu, the restaurant staff greeted the two men with genuine pleasure.
The owner, Yoshi, escorted them to a corner table in the tightly packed premises. Mr. Wolfe sat opposite Ambrosio, inhaling the pleasing scent of freshly cooked meat. Mr. Wolfe was a big meat eater and loved the beef at the House of Shabu-Shabu.
He stopped talking about the Beckett collection long enough to listen to the sounds around him. He smiled. Ambrosio grinned back at him. They both enjoyed the eternal swish that gave the name to the dining style of shabu-shabu.
Yoshi returned with their first dish of raw beef and opened up the cooking pot inserted in the middle of the table. He lowered the condiments he knew the two men liked onto the table, along with a plate of vegetables and bowls of udon noodles and rice. Within seconds, a waiter hurried over with two pots of warm sake.
"Perfect, thank you," Ambrosio said.
Mr. Wolfe watched his right-hand man drop pieces of thinly sliced beef into the boiling water. He was so hungry, he forked a slice of raw beef and chewed it quickly.
Ah, sublime. He caught the brief look of reproach on Ambrosio's face and mouthed, sorry to him. It was hard to wait, but soon, his dinner plate became pleasantly filled with fragrant meat and vegetables.
Ambrosio hated to see him eat raw meat, fretting about bacteria and parasites. It was the one area in which Mr. Wolfe toed the line. Normally he wouldn't scarf down uncooked meat in front of Ambrosio but he was so hungry he couldn't wait. He picked up a piece of cooked beef. Perfect.
He chewed and swallowed thoughtfully. It amazed him how good a piece of meat boiled in water could be. When Ambrosio had first brought him here, Mr. Wolfe had balked at the idea. Then he understood. The beef was of such high quality it needed very little to enhance it. Boiling it surprisingly brought out all the juicy flavors.
Ambrosio kept cooking and Mr. Wolfe kept eating and drinking.
The sake only made everyt
hing taste better and took the edge off Mr. Wolfe's anxiety. He stopped fretting about the clothes and focused instead on the succulent Chinese cabbage.
"We'll have another round. Ten pieces of beef, please," he overheard Ambrosio saying and his toes curled inside his boots.
When at last he lifted his head and found Ambrosio's warm gaze meeting his, Mr. Wolfe sighed with contentment.
The waiter brought their check, which Ambrosio paid with cash. As he left a hefty tip, he glanced back at Mr. Wolfe.
"Do you want to go back and get your SUV?"
"No." Mr. Wolfe had no desire to drive all the way back to the airport. He wanted to go home.
"Sure?" Ambrosio asked.
"I'm very sure."
Ambrosio smiled.
Outside, they walked the two blocks to where their car was parked on Central Avenue. Mr. Wolfe was surprised the SUV was still in one piece. They hadn't parked in the safest neighborhood. Far from it.
They climbed inside, Ambrosio adjusting the internal temperature of the vehicle. It had cooled off some outside, but Mr. Wolfe was hot. Damned hot. And in the best way possible.
Ambrosio lifted his gorgeous ass off the driver's seat and reached into his back pocket. He slipped on his wedding ring.
"You're sure about leaving your SUV at the warehouse?"
"Positive. I'm also sure that more than anything else in the world I want you to take me home and fuck my brains out."
Ambrosio's grin was huge as he slipped Mr. Wolfe's wedding ring onto his finger, then gave him a quick kiss. "Great minds, my love, think alike."
Chapter 3
At their sumptuous June Street home in the original "Hollywood", the district of Hancock Park, Ambrosio raced into the driveway and turned off the ignition.
"You have no idea how hard it is to look at you all day and not be able to touch you," he said, his voice cracking.
"Oh, sweetheart. The feeling is mutual."
For a moment the two men stared at one another, then their mouths met in a searing kiss that got the windows all steamy.
Ambrosio laughed, breaking off their embrace. "We're the last of the red-hot lovers," he said as he stepped out of the SUV.
The two-story Tudor house covered in ivy was their haven. They'd bought it for just over a million dollars four years ago when the real estate market crashed in LA.
It had been recently valued at over three million dollars thanks to their careful refurbishment. This had been no easy task. Dealing with the notoriously difficult and nosey Hancock Park Homeowners' Association had proved tougher than dealing with the city regarding permits. They had been warned by the previous owner who'd given up and sold the house to the couple.
Mr. Wolfe walked around to the rear of the property to enter the back way. He loved coming here into the garden at all hours of the day and night. He adored seeing the pagoda erected for their wedding three years ago when same-sex marriage had been legal in California.
After a lifetime of loneliness, it had been the best day of his life. Marriage had been more important to Ambrosio than it had to Mr. Wolfe, until the big day arrived.
They'd held the wedding here, building their rose and ivy bedecked pagoda. They'd invited all their close friends. Mr. Wolfe prided himself on the fact not a single celebrity had been on their list. All their friends were workers, like they. Seamstresses, pattern makers, designers...and Ambrosio's beloved sister, Mireille, who was a senior buttonhole maker and pocket marker for a major design company in Japan.
Mr. Wolfe hadn't met Mireille before but now loved her almost as much as he loved Ambrosio. He gazed past the pagoda to the guesthouse designed as a miniature replica of their Tudor mansion.
Once a month, on the night of the full moon, Mr. Wolfe retired there under lock and key to ride out his change from polite and efficient costume archivist to homicidal maniac. He still had no idea why his cherished and adored Ambrosio put up with his affliction, but Ambrosio said it was nothing.
Nothing!
Mr. Wolfe craved raw, bloody meat during those wretched hours, but thanks to Ambrosio's care, had not killed a living creature for eleven years. He tried not to think of his dreaded curse and the trail of death he'd left behind him all the centuries he'd been on earth.
It had been such a relief to find a man who didn't find his altered state so frightening. Mr. Wolfe had tried desperately, just as he had with all the other men he'd loved and lost, to keep his true nature hidden. So passionate had their love affair become however, that when Mr. Wolfe disappeared once each month, Ambrosio suspected infidelity.
He'd followed Mr. Wolfe late one full moon into the Angeles National Forest and watched as his lover went through his ghastly metamorphosis and attacked a wolf hunter intent on ensnaring a female wolf.
Ambrosio had watched the whole thing. He'd seen Mr. Wolfe, his Wolfie, attack and chew a human being as the female wolf made her escape.
Mr. Wolfe had been traumatized that Ambrosio now knew his secret.
Ambrosio had been traumatized that the wolf trapper had such lousy fashion sense.
After that, there were no more long, painful nights spent in agonizing solitude. Mr. Wolfe never could decide with change was worse; going from human to were, or back again.
He stood now, Ambrosio's arms around him, his lips at his temple.
"Somebody here mentioned wanting to get fucked," Ambrosio said, moving his mouth around Mr. Wolfe's face.
"And so I did." Mr. Wolfe laughed, the sound ringing out across the sky. Until he'd met Ambrosio, he had never been one to laugh much. Now he did all the time.
"Do you remember the night we met?" Ambrosio asked, pressing a hot kiss on Mr. Wolfe's cheekbone.
"Of course I do." The mere thought that he could possibly forget almost made Mr. Wolfe choke. "I still remember what you said, too."
Ambrosio chuckled, picking up the pace on his kisses. He was the most passionate kisser and wicked lover Mr. Wolfe had ever known.
"What did I say?"
Mr. Wolfe inhaled sharply when Ambrosio's tongue touched his jaw.
"We were at that concert." His cock twitched in his pants. Ambrosio's warm breath on his skin made his thoughts spin. "We went to see Bon Jovi..." He started to chuckle. We both hated the costumes." Mr. Wolfe gasped as Ambrosio licked his Adam's apple. It had never even been a remotely erogenous zone for him until the night he met Ambrosio.
"Who hated the costumes more?" Ambrosio asked coming up to Mr. Wolfe's ear and nuzzling him.
"I think you did because you said he was wearing too many clothes." He swayed a little as Ambrosio palmed his cock now. Oh, man, the things Ambrosio did to him...
"You said you hadn't paid seventy-five bucks for Jon Bon Jovi to keep his shirt on!"
"My, what a memory you have." Ambrosio finally kissed him fully on the lips and just as Mr. Wolfe was starting to enjoy it, Ambrosio took his mouth away from him.
"Speaking of clothes, you're wearing way too many."
The two men stared at one another. Mr. Wolfe practically swooned in his husband's arms. No man had ever had the effect Ambrosio had on him. Mr. Wolfe, exacting, precise, cold and calculating was a hot mess when it came to his man.
"I think I can do something about that," he said, when his voice finally worked.
"Make it fast, Wolfie."
Wolfie. From another man's lips it would have enraged him, but he now craved this simple term of affection.
Ambrosio's mouth crushed his once more, the heat flaring between them.
"Tsk," Ambrosio murmured against his lips and picked him up. Mr. Wolfe loved the feel of Ambrosio's strong arms engulfing him and settled his head against his man's chest. Ambrosio managed to press the key code on the backdoor and it swung open.
Inside the kitchen, Mr. Wolfe could still detect the lingering smell of their bacon and egg breakfast and smiled, remembering how Ambrosio had fed him the rashers with his fingers.
They'd lingered over coffee and kisses, showering t
ogether as always. Mr. Wolfe had gone to the warehouse first, Ambrosio driving off a little later to meet the others. The rest of the crew had no idea that Mr. Wolfe and Ambrosio were life partners. Mr. Wolfe felt the men would not respect Ambrosio's authority if they knew. He was aware that Vez, the most senior of the workers, had a crush on Ambrosio, but Ambrosio seemed not only oblivious but was absolutely trustworthy.
Mr. Wolfe was certain of that.
Inside the kitchen, Ambrosio kick-shut the door, lowered his Wolfie to his feet and said, "Get naked. I'll meet you in the bedroom in two minutes."
Wolfie ran to the room, keeping an ear out for the fridge door opening and closing.
It did.
Oh, he's bringing champagne to bed!
Mr. Wolfe switched on lights as he barged down the hall. Not that he needed them. His eyesight was always sharp thanks to his inner wolf, but he turned them on for Ambrosio, who had many astonishing attributes but, alas, night vision wasn't one of them.
Upstairs in the bedroom, he lit only candles, and there were many of them. He gazed out of the window at the view of treetops and the sprinkling of stars in the sky. It was the only thing he disliked about LA. The smog obscured most of the stars.
He began to remove his clothes, badly wanting to hang things up, or toss them in the laundry hamper, but if he wasn't fully nude by the time Ambrosio arrived, there'd be hell to pay.
Mr. Wolfe sat on the edge of the bed and began removing his boots. He gasped when he saw Ambrosio standing in front of him. Even with his acute hearing, he hadn't caught his husband's footfall on the stairs.
"How do you do that?" Mr. Wolfe asked for about the thousandth time in their relationship.
Ambrosio just shook his head. He set the tray with champagne and glasses on the vanity table and put his hands on his hips.
"I thought we agreed you were going to make it fast, Wolfie?"
"I, ah...I'm sorry, baby. I'm trying."
"Well, it's not good enough." Ambrosio dropped to his knees and began massaging Mr. Wolfe's cock through his tight pants. Mr. Wolfe leaned back. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe Ambrosio would just fuck him and not--
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