Loving Edits

by Mickie B. Ashling

“I’m not,” Tono replied, placing a large wine glass with bits of floating fruit and ice in front of Paul. “I’m a professional Jai alai player, but I’ve written a romance, loosely based on my relationship with Mick.”

  “A romance?” Paul scoffed. His look was a combination of surprise and ridicule. “Why?” He turned to Mick for the answer.

  “Because I’m dying.”

  Chapter 3

  PAUL didn’t know how long he stared or when he closed his mouth, which had literally dropped to the floor.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I wish I were, Paul.”

  “But… you look great,” he protested, “not like a dying man at all!”

  Mick’s smile was as sad as his tone of voice. “This isn’t one of those diseases.”

  Paul stood abruptly, but not before picking up his glass of sangria and draining it. “If this is some kind of sick joke, Mick, I’m really not amused.”

  “Hey,” Mick pulled at Paul’s hand. “Sit… let’s talk.”

  Paul sat back down and glared at Mick. “Start talking, or I’m leaving.”

  “Have you ever heard of Lou Gehrig’s disease?”

  “I’ve heard of Lou Gehrig,” Paul replied. “He’s that baseball player who said he was the luckiest man in the world, and then he retired.”

  “He retired because he was sick, Paul. He died a year later.”

  “Mick, you know I hate baseball.”

  “I know you do, but the reason I bring it up is because I have the same disease: ALS. After the ballplayer died, people started calling it Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

  “What the fuck is it?”

  “ALS is a neurological disorder that affects certain muscles. Eventually these muscles stop functioning, ultimately causing death.”

  Tono drew his chair closer to Mick’s and put his arm around his shoulders while Mick talked.

  Paul listened as his former lover explained his disease dispassionately. He was more beautiful than ever, which made the words coming out of his mouth so difficult to understand. His ink-black hair was shiny and abundant, his skin tone perfect. Surely he must be mistaken. “I think I’d better go, Mick.”

  “Please don’t go, Paul.”

  “Why did you ask me to come here?”

  “So we could catch up—shoot the shit. Tell me what you’ve been up to in the last seven years,” Mick replied easily.

  “All good reasons before you laid this bomb on me. Are you for real, or is this your dramatic way of getting me to help edit your manuscript?”

  Mick’s laugh was genuine, although Tono glared at Paul accusingly.

  “He is not exaggerating! How could you even think that, ¡imbécil!” Tono accused.

  Mick put his hand on Tono’s knee and squeezed, shaking his head silently.

  Paul observed the two men. “Okay, I’m listening. What is it you want from me?”

  “I want you to edit my love story,” Tono said, straight to the point.

  “No way,” Paul answered immediately.

  “Please, listen for a minute,” Mick said. “Tono wanted to write our story, Paul. I tried to dissuade him,” Mick continued, smiling at Tono, who reached for his hand and brought it up to his lips. It was an effortless display of affection that Mick seemed to fully appreciate, which irritated Paul for some reason. “I told Tono that no one would care to read about our life, but he insists that it’s something he needs to do for himself.”

  “Why don’t you just keep a journal?” Paul asked, finally acknowledging Tono’s presence.

  “Because, I want to tell the world about our love.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Paul replied, rolling his eyes in disbelief. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Look, Pol,” Tono said evenly, “I can write. Maybe not as good as you or Mick, but I can put words together. I need to do this for my sanity.” Tono’s sentence ended in a whisper. His complexion was ruddy with the effort of holding back the tears that shone brightly in his eyes, turning them the color of warm toffee.

  “Christ, Mick, are you really dying?” Paul grabbed the pitcher of sangria, poured himself another glass, and downed it in two swallows.

  “Yes, Paul. Scout’s honor,” Mick said, making a cross over his heart.

  “How soon is this going to happen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, approximately how much time do we have? Are you dying tomorrow or ten years from now?”

  Mick shook his head, laughing despite the drama of the moment. “Does your entire world run on a schedule?”

  “Mine does. I know you have no concept of the word, and in typical fashion, even your death has its own timetable.” Paul’s statement was harsh in an attempt to offset the tears that filled his eyes suddenly. He turned to Tono and said, “Can I have some real liquor?”

  “I have Scotch.”

  “That’ll work.” Paul followed Tono into the kitchen and stood behind him as he rooted around in one of the boxes looking for the booze.

  Tono exclaimed something that sounded Spanish when he felt the bottle of Chivas; he pulled it out and poured two fingers’ worth into a paper cup. “Sorry, I don’t know where the other glasses are.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” Paul said, sucking up the booze. “Hit me again.” He handed Tono the cup.

  Tono raised his eyebrows and shook his head, but he poured another round and watched Paul swallow. “You will get drunk if you don’t eat first.”

  “I can’t think of food right now,” Paul stated, handing the cup back with a shaky hand. “You have no idea how far back Mick and I go.”

  “I know you still love him.” Tono’s eyes were sympathetic. The jealousy had evaporated after seeing Paul’s reaction to Mick’s news. “It’s something we now share, so don’t tell me I don’t understand, okay?”

  “Christ! I’ve got to go.”

  Tono reached out and held Paul’s arm. “He needs you, Pol. He needs both of us.”

  “Stop calling me Pol. It’s Pawwwl,” he slurred the words, clearly on his way to a major drunk.

  “Sorry,” Tono replied, rolling his R’s.

  “You can’t even speak English!” Paul accused. “How the hell do you think you’ll be able to write a story?”

  “I write with passion from my heart. Entiendes?”

  “Shit!”

  “You will help me,” Tono said. “We will write it together. Cooperar, sabes?”

  “It’s collaboration, you fool, and no! I will not write it with you.”

  “Tono,” Mick called from outside. “What’s going on?”

  “Nada, cariño.” He turned to Paul and said, “I’m going now. Don’t you upset him.”

  “Upset him? What about me? I’m fucking upset as hell.”

  “You. Don’t. Count.” Tono punctuated each word with a thump on Paul’s chest. He turned to join Mick, giving Paul a perfect view of his ass once again. How Paul could think of sex at a time like this was beyond him, but think of it he did, and the idea of impaling that fine Spanish ass leaped to the forefront of his brain. He poured more Scotch into the paper cup, noting with some satisfaction that his hand was no longer shaking. He gulped down the booze, barely tasting it, and went out the sliding door to join them.

  THE paella was amazing. It had that gorgeous yellow-orange color and was littered with shellfish, chicken, and colorful red and green peppers. It was one of his favorite dishes, and obviously Mick remembered, or they wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. “Who cooked?” Paul asked, stuffing another forkful into his mouth.

  “I did,” Tono replied.

  “Wow. You’re a man of many talents. Part Renaissance, part Cro-Magnon.”

  “¿Qué dice?” Tono questioned Mick.

  “It’s nothing, majo. I think Paul’s had a few too many drinks.”

  Tono nodded. “Let’s put him in bed.”

  “Yeah,” Paul leered at the pair. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Paul had an instan
t flashback of the two of them sharing a trick on one of their many vacations. They’d always enjoyed playing, and hot, horny waiters were their specialty. By the time Paul and Mick were done with the flavor of the night, they were assured first class treatment for the rest of their stay.

  “Do you still play?” Paul looked at Mick with pure lust in his eyes.

  Tono made a move to smack the grin off Paul’s face, but Mick held him down. He pursed his lips and shook his head, silently admonishing his lover to cool it. He stood and moved over to where Paul was sitting and lifted Paul’s chin with his forefinger. He bent down and kissed Paul, lingering a few moments, despite the protesting whimper from Tono in the background. “If you weren’t too shitfaced to remember, we could have had a little party.”

  “I’m not drunk.”

  “Sweetheart, you passed drunk a long time ago.”

  “Can you still get it up, Mick?”

  Mick took Paul’s hand and pressed it to his groin, which responded quite nicely to Paul’s touch. “What do you think?”

  “Shit. Mick, I want you. I want both of you.”

  Chapter 4

  THE paella was decimated, the pitcher of sangria empty, and the three men were still outside having after-dinner drinks. None of them smoked cigarettes, but Mick did like his occasional weed, so he pulled out a stick and lit it, inhaling deeply before he passed it to Tono. The Spaniard took a hit and handed the high-grade marijuana to Paul, who took it nonchalantly. He was still drunk, despite all the food, but he took the weed anyhow, hoping it would push him into oblivion. He was thinking of Mick’s devastating news and couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that his former lover was so sick. He didn’t look ill―in fact, he looked more attractive than ever.

  Paul took a deep breath, relaxing as the powerful vapors saturated his lungs. He didn’t want to think about death or dying. They were in their thirties, for God’s sake—they weren’t old men. Surely Mick was mistaken. He was given a diagnosis by doctors from another country who didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. Tomorrow, he would call in the best and have them perform a battery of tests on Mick. He wasn’t going to accept anyone’s opinion but a qualified physician from New York City. Meanwhile, he was going to sit, enjoy his cognac, and admire the two brunets who stared back at him. Christ, they were a pair! He couldn’t figure out which one he wanted first, and they obviously knew he was attracted; Mick’s warm smile was an open invitation.

  The urgency of the attraction had not waned as the evening progressed. Thirty minutes had gone by and Paul was still attracted. “Tell me about Jai alai,” he asked Tono, in an attempt to take his mind off his cock.

  “What would you like to know?”

  Paul tried very hard not to stare, but he couldn’t break away from the Spaniard’s intense gaze. His face was thick with the shadow of a beard that made him look dangerous. His lower lip was full, and he chewed on it―a habit Paul had noticed earlier. He wanted to kiss him, to taste the drops of Courvoisier that dotted his upper lip; he wanted to sample the flavor that had so captured Mick for the last six-plus years. Instead, he trained his steel blue eyes on Tono and said, “Is it played with a ball?”

  “Yes, in a fronton.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a court consisting of three very high walls.”

  “Like a handball or racquetball court?”

  “Similar, yes, but we don’t use our hands to catch the ball, or a racquet. We use a cesta.”

  “A cesta?” Paul was clueless about most sports, having never enjoyed them. Track was the only thing he could tolerate when he was in school, and even that failed to hold his attention for longer than necessary.

  “It’s a long wicker basket shaped like a banana,” Tono explained. “It’s strapped to a Jai alai player’s hand, and we use it like a mitt to hurl the ball across the court. Once the ball bounces off the wall, another player has to catch it and hurl it right back, without juggling the ball or hanging on to it in any way. If the other player fails to catch the ball or drops it to the floor, he loses, and another player takes his place. The last guy standing wins.”

  “Like a round robin?”

  “I think so,” Tono replied, looking at Mick for guidance.

  “Yes.” Mick nodded.

  “What’s the ball made of?” Paul asked.

  “Metal strands wrapped in goatskin; it could kill you if it hit you in the head,” Tono added.

  “Christ, it sounds awful.”

  “No more awful or dangerous than your American football. It’s exciting and fast; you have to have extremely quick reflexes and strength to play it well. Most young men in my part of the world grow up playing the sport.”

  “Is it Spain’s national sport?”

  “Not Spain.” Tono bristled. “Euskadi, the Basque Country.”

  “Isn’t that part of Spain?” Paul asked facetiously.

  “The Basques have their own tradition and language. Don’t you know anything about us?”

  “A smattering of knowledge only. I’m sorry.”

  “I thought you were so smart,” Tono challenged.

  “Who says I’m not?” Paul countered.

  Mick stepped in quickly. “The Basque people are a distinct ethnic group, and they are fiercely independent. They consider themselves to be culturally and linguistically different from any of their surrounding neighbors.”

  “Tono is Spanish, isn’t he?”

  “A Basque is first and foremost a Basque,” Mick replied. “Whether they are citizens of Spain or France is secondary to how they identify themselves.”

  “I knew they were rebels. I just didn’t realize they were elitists as well.” Paul smirked.

  “Paul,” Mick said reproachfully.

  “Sorry. Go on, please.” Paul smiled, not unaware that Tono bristled with anger.

  “When you’re in Basque Country, you’ll know it,” Mick continued. “Their language, for one thing—I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  “Don’t they speak Spanish?” Paul asked.

  “They speak Euskara as well as Spanish or French, depending on which side of the border they live on,” Mick replied.

  “Is it hard to learn?”

  Mick laughed. “Virtually impossible, especially if you’re my age.”

  “It’s no more difficult than English,” Tono huffed. “I’ve managed to teach Mick enough for him to understand when people ask him basic questions.”

  “Majo, you’re too generous with your praise.” Mick reached for Tono’s hand and meshed fingers with him. “I get by, Paul,” Mick turned his attention back to his guest. “Basque is ridiculously hard to learn. I did a lot of research on the language when I first arrived in San Sebastian. It’s been spoken continuously in and around its territorial location longer than any other European language. There are rumors and conjectures on the origin, some based on reality, others on myth. One of the most colorful ones I’ve heard is that Basques come from the lost city of Atlantis, and their language is as mysterious as that underwater world.”

  Paul laughed. “Sounds magical. Next you’ll be telling me that they raise unicorns in the Pyrenees.”

  “They do have these amazing goats,” Mick joked. “Biggest horns ever.”

  “Really,” Paul said with a gleam in his eye.

  “I said horns, Paul.” Mick reply was flirting. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

  Paul stood and stretched. “I’ve changed, Mick. I’m older and wiser, but that part of my personality is the same. You never answered my question earlier. Do you guys play?”

  “It depends on how drunk we are.” Tono gazed at Paul.

  “Right now I’m very drunk. Are you?”

  “Come.” Tono stood, surprising Paul. He’d thought that Mick would make the first move.

  He turned to his friend and raised an eyebrow. “You okay with this?”

  “I’m right behind you, buddy.”

  “No kidding,” Paul mumbled
, seconds before Tono seized him and kissed him roughly. He practically went up in flames as his body reacted to the Spaniard’s aggression. Tono’s kisses were hot, primal, and fiercely erotic. He could feel himself getting harder as Tono’s forceful tongue swept every corner of his mouth. Tono released him abruptly, and he would have fallen if Mick hadn’t caught him from behind. Mick turned him and kissed him next. His kisses were gentler but just as exciting, sending Paul back in time instantly to the early years of their relationship. He was unable to hold his feelings back, and he clutched at Mick, drawing him closer. “God, I’ve missed you,” Paul said, shocking himself with the admission. He didn’t realize the truth of his statement until the words tumbled out of him in a hot, breathy whisper.

  “Come with me.” Mick tugged at him, latching on to Tono with one hand but never letting go of Paul. They moved toward the bedroom awkwardly, three men kissing and touching, never wanting to lose the connection in case one of them would start to think rationally. Right now it was all about feeling. Tomorrow they could dissect the whys and wherefores.

  They fell on the bed in a heap, wrestling with clothes and limbs, licking and caressing every square inch of available flesh. Paul’s senses of touch and smell were magnified by the combination of the booze and the pot. He felt as if he were being assaulted by two gorgeous angels determined to give him a night of pleasure he would never forget.

  Tono had stripped off most of his clothes and knelt at the foot of the bed, incinerating Paul with his eyes. The Spaniard’s torso was magnificent, a study in sculpted strength, covered with a light layer of golden brown hair. “Open up,” Tono demanded, just before parting Paul’s legs and swallowing him to the root.

  “Oh God,” Paul groaned, grasping Tono’s hair and losing himself in the heat. Mick covered his face with tender kisses, ending at Paul’s mouth, while Tono practically fed off him.

  “Mick,” Paul sighed, not sure if this was really happening, but if it was a dream, he wanted it to go on forever. His cock felt like it would explode if he didn’t shoot in the next few minutes. Tono was relentless, pushing back Paul’s foreskin and teasing his slit before sucking his cock as far down his throat as possible. Paul’s entire body was tingling, and the urge to come was powerful and immediate.