Loving Edits

by Mickie B. Ashling

  The encounter outside Mick’s presence was the most disturbing because it had been deliberate. He had no idea if Tono ever told Mick what had transpired, but memories of the Spaniard going down on him kept repeating like red onions―bad for his digestion, but oh-so-sweet. Paul knew that Tono was attracted to him as well. They were tiptoeing around each other, avoiding physical contact, like fighters in a ring, afraid that another incident between them would change everything. It was hard to explain his attraction. There were a lot of things about Tono that bothered him; his territorial attitude toward Mick, for one; his self-assured and stubborn ways, for another; and lastly, this need to write an ode to his lover, an old-fashioned tribute that was as outdated as Valentine cards. His only saving grace, and the primary reason Paul put up with any of it, was Tono’s unceasing devotion to Mick. He loved him passionately, and his constant presence would see Mick through this devastating illness. The Spaniard’s love wasn’t subtle; it was very much in your face, and even though it wasn’t directed at him, Paul felt like he was a part of it, and it soothed him in ways he didn’t understand.

  “Do I have to keep that promise? Honestly, Mick, you know as well as I that the chances of his book ever selling are not good. There are hundreds of gay romances that hit the Internet on a monthly basis. What’s so special about Tono’s book?”

  “I don’t think he cares whether it’ll sell or not, Paul. He just wants to write it to have a physical token of our love and our relationship. We have no children, obviously, so when I go, there will be nothing to show for our life as a couple. He needs this book to celebrate our story. Don’t you understand that?”

  “On an emotional level, yes, I do. As a publisher and editor, I think it’s a waste of my time.”

  “Paul.” Mick’s expressive eyes were imploring. “Do it for me if nothing else. I can’t imagine what Tono must be feeling, knowing I’m going to die. I know that if our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t be able to cope without some sort of reminder that once upon a time we had a beautiful relationship that transcended language and culture and tragedy.”

  “Christ, Mick! You’re forgetting one thing. I’m in love with you as well and having my own issues dealing with this. Don’t you think that writing this story might just do me in?”

  “Sweetheart.” Mick’s eyes filled suddenly. “I’m sorry. Do you really love me that way after all this time? You were the one who let me go.”

  Paul stood abruptly, turning away from Mick’s probing gaze. He couldn’t possibly tell him that the very idea of what was to come was torture of the worst kind, and that he’d been drunk, or close to it, every night since he’d learned about the ALS.

  Fortunately, Tono walked in at that moment, rescuing Paul inadvertently. He would be spared the shame of admitting why he’d abandoned Mick in the first place. There was no reason to acknowledge his weakness and lessen himself in the eyes of his former lover. Better for Mick to think he was cold and heartless instead of needy and jealous, a man so caught up in his own miserable failure he couldn’t find joy in his lover’s success.

  “Are you ready to go?” Tono asked.

  “Paul, we’re done for now, right?”

  “Yes,” Paul answered, with relief. “Give me a call in the morning, Tono. We’ll work something out as far as scheduling our time together.”

  Chapter 19

  TONO was dreaming of Spain. In his dream Mick was healthy and dancing down the cobbled streets of Pamplona, a neighboring city they visited each year in July for the big festival, which included the Running of the Bulls. Paul was in the dream as well, and Tono had trouble separating the two of them. They kept intertwining and morphing into each other’s bodies, like celestial beings surrounded by a glowing light illuminating each man. They were beautiful, gentle, and tender with each other, and that feeling overflowed and bathed him in its joy.

  He opened his eyes suddenly and blinked at the darkness. Mick had woken him with his twitching, a common occurrence even in his sleep. Tono rolled over on his side and focused on Mick’s sleeping form beside him. He didn’t look like a man who was in the grip of a deadly disease. His dark curls framed his face, and he was achingly beautiful in the dim light, just as he had been the first time Tono had laid eyes on him.

  MICK had been at the bar, Vergara, with one hand wrapped around a wine glass and the other reaching for a pintxo, when he looked up as Tono walked in with a few friends. The attraction was instant and powerful; Tono had ventured forward to flirt with the dazzling man whose stunning eyes drew him like twin magnets.

  When he realized that Mick wasn’t Spanish, he tripped over the English words but managed to communicate his interest. He’d been delighted to find out that Mick was the famous American author rumored to be in the area. Tono had read Mick’s bestseller because he was an avid reader, and the book had been marketed heavily in Europe. He’d enjoyed it immensely and couldn’t believe his good fortune in finding out that Mick was not only gorgeous, he was gay, and, more importantly, attracted to him as well.

  He’d had the distinct pleasure of introducing the American to his first Jai alai game. Mick was quickly engaged by the ambiance of the fronton, which seethed with people in a highly charged competitive atmosphere. Bookies darted back and forth with wads of cash in their hands, collecting bets or paying the winners. The crowd knew each pelotari and shouted out words of encouragement to their favorites to spur them on, hooting when they bested their opponent or booing loudly when they dropped a ball. The players were dressed in white trousers with colored sashes around their waists instead of belts, and numbers were embroidered on their shirts to identify them. The loud thwack the ball made when it hit the concrete was an audible reminder of the strength and stamina each man needed to hurl it back and forth with lightning speed. Tono was the best-looking and the fastest man on the court. His fans were loudly supportive and screamed each time he scored. The sport was different and exciting and the enthusiasm of the audience contagious; it was an adrenalin rush Mick had never experienced before.

  Tono had shown off that night, and the payoff was huge, not only financially, but in the look of wonder and respect that lit up Mick’s face as soon as they got together after the game. It was the first night they had sex, a sweet joining of bodies that went beyond the ordinary mechanics. The slow exploration awakened feelings Mick had left behind with Paul, surprising them both with a love connection neither man had expected.

  Mick and Tono became inseparable, finding so much more in common than sex. They shared a love of adventure, travel, history, and most surprisingly, poetry. They spent hours in bed reading poems and making love, only leaving the comfort of their room to take long walks along the Paseo de Zurriola, the path near the cliffs of San Sebastian overlooking the magnificent harbor. Although Mick had shared much with Paul, their literary tastes were very different. Tono was a romantic like him, believing in love and happy endings. He leaned toward books that had the potential for a good outcome, something Paul shied away from.

  They’d traveled to small villages that dotted the coast. Fishing continued to be a large part of Basque industry, and the variety of marine life, abundant in the waters surrounding the area, had been a source of income for generations. Tono’s father and uncles were fishermen, and one of them owned an anchovy canning factory. He’d given Mick the grand tour of the fetid building, insisting that fresh anchovy bested canned any day. Mick had to acknowledge that he’d never tasted anything quite as good as the tiny but very salty green fish, and he’d come to love the flavor. He watched Tono the first time, placing a spoonful of fresh, olive oil-infused tuna on a slice of French bread, topping it with three fresh anchovies garnished with a spicy green pepper. Mick had become addicted to this delicacy; in fact, he’d become quite the connoisseur when it came to pintxos, also known as tapas, the amazing finger food served in varying ways in the north of Spain. Undoubtedly, they were all over the country, but the bars receiving the highest Michelin ratings were in San Sebastia
n.

  Tono Garat, Mick had learned, was the Michael Jordan of his sport. Young boys followed Tono around wanting an autograph and hoping to learn a thing or two by being in his shadow. Regardless of which town they had visited, Tono was a celebrity, and soon, Mick became just as well known as the gringo writer who dazzled everyone with his welcoming smile.

  One of the places they had visited was Guernica, the historical town founded in the fourteenth century, a proud symbol of Basque freedom. Tono tried to explain his people and their fierce need to remain autonomous and independent of any ruling body but their own, sometimes carrying this need to the extreme. Tono manifested this same spirit, proving on many different occasions that he was his own person, never intimidated by others. Even his love for poetry was a source of pride, not shame, and he would stare down anyone who had the audacity to think any less of him because of his romantic tendencies. He didn’t flaunt his sexual orientation in deference to his parents’ and his fans’ sensibilities but wouldn’t have lied if asked pointblank. Still, he chose to remain in the closet, and the few friends that were aware of the truth didn’t discuss it; he was a local celebrity, rewarded with respect and privacy.

  Mick had been intent on tasting, smelling, and hearing everything that Spain had to offer. Tono had learned to love his country all over again, seeing it with fresh eyes; the sights and sounds he’d taken for granted were revisited. Every food group was explored, starting with the staple, tortilla de patata, the potato omelet found in every bar in the country, to the odd-looking, almost prehistoric percebes, the shellfish with long bodies resembling goosenecks and a foot at the bottom used to attach themselves to rocks. They were exceedingly fishy, an acquired taste both men found repugnant. The music, the flamenco dancers, the bullfights, the wine, and the museums were so much a part of their daily repertoire it was a wonder Mick had found any time to write at all. But he did, every morning for a few hours while Tono slept.

  They’d spent several weeks in Barcelona, one of the gayest and oldest cities in Spain, soaking up the nightlife and sampling the local flavor by inviting a few men into their bed. At first, Tono had been shocked by Mick’s playfully wild and adventurous side, but he had soon realized that it meant nothing to Mick but sex. The other men were only a form of entertainment, strictly sexual tools used to liven up their private sessions, which continued to be deeply satisfying. Neither man had a need or desire to venture out of their relationship. Their nights were filled with lovemaking that left them sated and grateful for each other’s presence. Tono had never been happier―a happiness lasting over six years―until ALS robbed him of the future he’d planned on spending with the man he loved more than anything in the world.

  “TONO,” Mick’s voice cut through his reverie, pulling him back to the present.

  “¿Qué pasa?”

  “Why are you awake?”

  “I was just thinking about the summer we met.”

  “Why?”

  “I was dreaming we were in Pamplona, and when I awoke, I remembered.”

  “Good times.” Mick smiled. He reached down to touch Tono’s cock, which was tenting his pajama pants. “That must have been some dream.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “We need to make your dream a reality,” Mick purred, leaving trails of moisture down Tono’s naked torso.

  “Cariño,” Tono sighed, caught somewhere between his dream and the present. He responded so easily to this man who continued to satisfy him regardless of his situation.

  “So ready for me,” Mick exclaimed, delighted by Tono’s swift reaction to his touch.

  Tono pushed the elastic down his thighs and flung his pants across the room. He felt Mick nuzzling his balls, making sweet noises of contentment as he began to lick them. Tono spread his legs to give Mick better access, ever mindful of his physical restraints. It was easy to forget what was going on with Mick, since he was so adept at lovemaking, but he did require a little bit of extra help lately. Mick bit Tono’s inner thigh, following it up with soothing swipes of his tongue. He bathed the soft skin between his balls and his asshole and probed the tight puckered entrance, spurred on by Tono’s soft cries of pleasure reverberating in the silent room.

  “I love you, my majo,” Mick declared huskily, seconds before he engulfed Tono’s shaft. He twirled his tongue around the silky ridges, humming his pleasure while creating powerful sensations that zinged up Tono’s spine, causing him to cry out. “I need to possess you,” he growled, pushing Mick’s head away. He got on his knees and reached over for the lube on the nightstand, never taking his eyes off Mick, who was now semi-reclining, leaning on his elbows and watching him.

  “Make love to me like that first time,” Mick whispered.

  Tono’s heart broke a little upon hearing those words. He slathered the lube on himself and sank into Mick, groaning out his satisfaction, appreciating the soft huff that escaped from his lover’s lips. He had no idea how much time they had left, or how much longer they would be able to be this intimate. The doctor had alluded to an indefinite period, but Tono was nothing but realistic. He would approach each encounter as a gift; another memory to file away with the many he had already. Another sentence in his journal to be added to the love story he was determined to write.

  PAUL’S thoughts were on Mick as well. He sat with his attorney, going over the papers that Mick had signed two days ago. He’d given Paul full power of attorney to act as his literary agent. However, Paul and Tono were joint executors of Mick’s will and living trust. Mick stated clearly that he wanted no heroic measures performed to lengthen his life, and a DNR was already being prepared for Mick’s signature in the event that it would be needed, propelling Paul into the reality of what was to come.

  Seeing it in black and white was ghastly proof that Mick was indeed dying. Whether it was tomorrow or five years from now, there was no escaping the final verdict. It made Paul sick to his stomach, and his desire to escape became paramount. He needed a few days of mindless pleasure to forget what was happening, and jetting off to some warm place where the booze flowed profusely and the men were willing to lend themselves to the task of complete amnesia sounded like a good plan. He knew that it would have to wait a few more days until he finished editing Mick’s manuscript, but after that, he would go. He needed to distance himself from both men and try to regain some peace of mind.

  His attraction to Tono continued to plague him, and his daily visits with Mick were hard to get through without wanting to take charge and see to all his creature comforts. He was having a terrible time taking a backseat, yet his respect for the Spaniard grew on a daily basis. He’d found the perfect physical therapist in the form of Samuel, and he didn’t flinch when presented with the bill for the medical equipment needed to make the apartment user-friendly for Mick. Paul had no idea what kind of money Tono had socked away, but an apartment on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan came with a hefty price tag that didn’t seem to bother Tono.

  Paul knew that Mick’s novel would be a bestseller, and Alcott Press would have been happy to give him an advance, but Mick had declined. His decision was based on the superstitious notion that accepting money for a project that had still to be completed would jinx him; an idea Paul couldn’t refute. It was another source of frustration for Paul. The fact that he couldn’t help financially, which was all he had left in his arsenal aside from his editing skills, disturbed him. If money wasn’t a motivating factor for either man, what did they need him for?

  His intercom buzzed, and Linda’s announcing that Tono was on the phone seemed almost prophetic.

  “Yes,” Paul picked up immediately. “Is everything alright?”

  “Sí. I was calling to set up our schedule.”

  “What schedule?” Paul asked, forgetting for one brief moment that he’d agreed to work on Tono’s story.

  “The one you and I have to establish to work on my manuscript.”

  Christ! “What did you have in mind?”

  “Samuel comes
every other day for approximately two hours. It would be easier for me to spend time with you if I didn’t have to worry about leaving Mick by himself.”

  “That sounds reasonable, but it’s during the day. My agenda is usually full.”

  “We could do this early in the morning before your day starts.”

  “I suppose,” Paul said, annoyed that his plan for escape was shot to hell. “When did you want to start?”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Be at my apartment at exactly seven-thirty.”

  “Bien. And Pol?”

  “What?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me just yet. You may not survive tomorrow’s meeting.”

  Tono laughed on his end and hung up, leaving Paul staring at the receiver.

  Chapter 20

  PAUL was enjoying his second cup of coffee when Baxter showed Tono into his home office the next morning. The Jai alai player was surprisingly prompt, a huge plus in his favor considering how much of his life revolved around Mick’s impromptu existence. Paul observed Tono striding purposefully across the carpet-strewn floor, dressed in soft khaki shorts and a black T-shirt stretched across his impressive torso.

  “Good morning.” Paul nodded. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Please.”

  Paul poured from the thermal carafe that Baxter had prepared. “Cream or sugar?”

  “You don’t need to wait on me, Pol. I can take care of myself,” Tono chided.