To his surprise, a coyote met him in the kitchen. The storm door was wide open behind the animal; Josh probably forgot to close and lock it the night before. Old habits were sometimes hard to break as the cliché went. The screen door was sliced down its center.
Saliva dripped from the animal’s muzzle as it growled. It moved its ears back and showed off its teeth, hungry or even rabid. Hair rose at the back of the animal’s neck, proving that it was pissed off. Its growl deepened, sounding like a summer lawnmower that badly needed a tune-up. And its eyes, medium brown in color with black pupils, were wide, unwavering and motionless, fully concentrating on its prey, a tasty and rather sweet Zeth Mandell.
I’m doomed. He means business, Zeth thought, standing in one spot, positioned next to the Kenmore refrigerator, peering at the animal and studying its body language.
The furry gray-brown dog looked as if it could leap at any second, muzzle open and prepared to take a bite out of Zeth’s neck, his chest, somewhere. Zeth began to sweat, fear locked in his steady glance and legs. Truth told, he couldn’t move because he was ready to shit himself, overcome with the thought of another attack, under the coyote’s spell. He was far too frightened to call out for Josh, who was busy upstairs, cleaning up the bedroom after their morning of lovemaking, showers, and dressing.
As if on cue, the canine leaped forward, flying off its muscular haunches. It continued to growl as it flew the twelve-foot distance between them. The animal lunged at Zeth, pushing its back legs off the kitchen’s wooden floor, springing at Zeth with an opened mouth, flared nostrils. Fur flew through the kitchen, gliding in a graceful and predicted action. The dog lunged at Zeth, met massive paws against his chest, and pushed Zeth to the kitchen floor.
Zeth cracked his head against the wooden floorboards, left out a ggrruuumph sound, and felt blood at the rear of his skull, an open wound that would probably need attention and stitches. The coyote’s weight held him to the floor. Its front paws pressed against Zeth’s chest, and its muzzle was aligned with Zeth’s face.
Their eyes met as if to say: Die or live. Whatever it takes.
The coyote snarled, showing its yellow-white teeth, dripping saliva on Zeth’s chin.
Fear.
Zeth had never been acquainted with it like that moment. He trembled inside, wide-eyed, and started to feel every muscle tense. His nostrils were flared, and he lost oxygen, almost falling into unconsciousness. The weight of the coyote against his chest only added terror to the moment, pressing against his torso, pinning him to the floor. Zeth couldn’t move, paralyzed and in horror. He lay with his legs slightly spread open and stared up into the beast’s golden-brown eyes, lost there, bemused, and not himself, knowing that he was probably going to die at any moment.
* * * *
Seconds ticked by, and the coyote was just about ready to rip off Zeth’s face, enjoying his features as breakfast, when Josh appeared inside the kitchen and stood behind Zeth, in front of the coyote. He held a 30.06 Remington rifle with a Blazer scope and yelled at the top of his voice just as the coyote was ready tear off Zeth’s face.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Josh yelled and shot at the open front door.
An obnoxious echo filled the kitchen: Pow! Click. Pow!
Startled, knowing that it had lost his battle, the hungry coyote bolted out of the kitchen, running away with its tail between its legs, heading back to its fellow pack members and den.
Just for safety’s sake, Josh reloaded a bullet in the Remington’s chamber, clicked the chamber closed, and executed another shot, scaring off the coyote for good, showing the animal who was boss. He placed the rifle on the kitchen counter, next to the coffee pot, and knelt on the floor beside Zeth.
“You saved me again,” Zeth said, staring up at Josh. “I thought the coyote was going to have me for a snack.”
“He would have had I not heard what was going on. The growling tipped me off. I know a coyote when I hear one.” Josh brushed fingers through Zeth’s hair and caressed one of his cheeks. “You’re safe now. He’s gone. I scared him back to his pack.”
Zeth sat up, feeling pain in his shoulder and neck again. He already started to calm down, no longer shaking and terror-filled. “It was a close call. I could have been killed.”
“As I said before, I’ll take care of you. You know that now. I’ve proven it to you a couple of times now, Mr. Mandell. What more do you want me to do to prove it to you?”
The only thing that came to Zeth’s mind was simple. “Kiss me. That’s what I want from you. What do you say?”
Josh bubbled with a grin, nodded, and leaned into Zeth, meeting his mouth with the park ranger’s, sealing a deal they both agreed to.
* * * *
June 16
“Denning is being done to the coyotes,” Zeth explained to Josh over dinner. “The state will hire professionals to come in, track the coyotes, and find their dens. It’s very humane as opposed to traps, air hunting, and snares. Believe it or not, hunters used to use chemicals to rid the parks of coyotes or manage their population. Fortunately, that’s illegal now. Denning is the best method. I know of a coyote farm in Idaho where the pack, or packs, will be safe. There’s over seventeen thousand acres for the coyotes to live without human contact. They’ll be safe, unharmed, and happy.”
“When will this start?” Josh asked, enjoying a longneck bottle of beer with steaks, carrots, and potatoes that were grilled.
“Sandra is working on it. The process will start in a week and take about a month. The park will be free of coyotes by the end of July. If not, then the first week of August.”
“I’ll be back in the city by then and making movies.”
“You should make one of your movies up here. We can fit your crew into your cabin and my A-frame. You can make something about a park ranger or cowboy. Bring Hatch Films to the park and create an awesome movie. If anyone can do it, you can. I’ve seen your work, and you make some magic with film.”
* * * *
That night, Josh lay in bed next to Zeth after they made love. He listened to the visiting owl again, springtime crickets, and the mellow wind. Tucked in the darkness of the room, coyotes awake and howling in the night, he whispered, “Zeth, are you awake?”
“For you I am. What’s on your mind?”
“Denning,” Josh said, being honest.
“Denning?” Zeth questioned. “What are you thinking about that for?” He leaned closer and squeezed Josh’s hand.
“A documentary. You told me to bring Hatch Films to the park. You said to make some of my magic up here. So I’ve been thinking all evening about a documentary on denning. We film the coyotes being tracked to their dens and their harmless capture, and how they will be removed from the park and taken to Idaho to the coyote ranch you mentioned. What do you think?”
Zeth squeezed Josh’s hand again. “You’re onto something.”
“You think?”
“I think.” Zeth turned on his good side and faced Josh. All Josh could see was a silhouette of the man in the dark bedroom, tucked in the bed among the cabin’s cozy walls. “You have to promise me one thing if you decide to do this, though.”
“What?” Josh asked, his head spinning in all directions, brainstorming the idea, just as his many ideas had formed from scratch.
“You let me be a part of it. I want to see what you do with cameras and a director, the staff, and everything about movies.”
Josh laughed. “I plan to make you the star of the show, besides the coyotes, of course.”
Zeth growled like a coyote, chuckled, and replied, “You’d better. I do have star qualities, don’t you think?”
“More than you know.”
Josh kissed the man, making love to him a second time, knowing that he wasn’t about to leave the Penichowaba State Forest anytime soon, or the naked ranger beside him.
* * * *
There were no dreams of the Penichowaba warlocks that night for either of them. There were no post-midnig
ht walks through the woods or to the kitchen for glasses of water. No green light. In fact, the pair never dreamed of the warlocks and the coven again. Never. At peace next to each other, as lovers.
In Josh Hideaway’s arms, Zeth felt as if the man had become his protector, a caretaker. The man he considered a hero for saving his life, not once, but twice. Zeth slept like a baby that night, and many nights to follow, with Josh at his side, safeguarded.
THE END
Autumn Cliché
For Kenito Padilla.
October 22
My boss in Columbus, Ohio, Tommy Tudor, told me, “Chad, you’re the best man to drive east, land in Erie, Pennsylvania, and take a boat to Haven Island.” His other instructions entailed, “I want you to interview Finn O’Rourke. Be courteous to the man and come back to town with a story.”
I worked for Artist Trend for the last dozen years, since I graduated with a Masters in writing from Broan University in Cleveland. Tudor hired me on as his assistant back then. Now I had the ability to hold my own and write stories for the online magazine, but still stayed under Tudor’s wing since he bought into the magazine and owned thirty percent of Millburn Entertainment.
I liked Tommy Tudor, but most people didn’t. He came across as arrogant at times, stubborn, and childish. I prided myself to know that I could handle his temperament, writing for him and allowing our relationship to grow as employee and employer. Some workers at Artist Trend thought we were sleeping together, screwing our brains out, since Tudor just happened to be nice to me. Such assumptions were the furthest things from the truth because Tudor loved his wife, Terry, and their three daughters.
Before heading east, driving the two hundred and forty miles, I promised Tudor that I would come back with a story about the ashtray artist. Tudor wanted nothing less.
“It’s what I’m paying you to do. Don’t let either of us down.”
* * * *
One of my dearest friends, Kade Supine, sat across from me at Adele’s Micro Brewery, which harbored youngsters in their early twenties, still wet behind their ears. The thirty-five-year-old, who looked like Ben Affleck with creamy brown eyes, pushed a wave of ink-black hair out of his eyes and begged me not to seek out the ashtray artist.
“He’s insane, Chad. You and I both know that. He lets no one on his island. There’s nothing normal about the man. I’ve heard rumors that he murders men with his bare hands, chops them up into little pieces, and eats them with endive salads and dandelion wine.”
I rolled my eyes, telling myself he consumed too much alcohol, drunk again. He had a problem with stopping at three Cape Cods, always pushing himself. “I’ll be fine, Kade. I’m sure Finn is just as normal as you and me.”
“Trust me,” he scolded, waving a finger at me. “Your Ryan Gosling looks aren’t going to save your ass this time. They may have worked with Wanda Wicks, but they won’t work with Finn O’Rourke.”
Kade may have been right. I didn’t know for sure. What I did know: the oil-on-canvas artist, Wanda Wicks, despised journalists of any kind, threatened to shoot them if they trespassed on her New Mexico ranch, and just happened to have a special place in her heart for Ryan Gosling look-alikes—me. In the end, my interview with Wanda Wicks turned out flawless, and I had gained almost three thousand words for my Artist Trend readers.
I told Kade, “I’m thirty-five and can handle myself.”
“You’re a fledgling.”
I waved a hand at him. “You don’t even know what that means.”
He ordered another Cape Cod from our waiter, who looked like Calvin Harris and winked at me. Kade and I talked for the next hour about his dead romantic life, which just happened to be similar to my own, a mother who suffered from Alzheimer’s, and how Kade had decided to take the fall off from writing his trashy romance novels.
Kade and I had a sexual history. All of our friends knew every sticky and perceptible detail, unable to mind their noses. Five years before, Kade Supine’s career as the romance writer, Hanna Dowe, had taken off. His trashy paperbacks ended up on the New York Times Best Sellers list, week after week.
Kade wrote one novel every one hundred days, filling the market with his pseudonym’s work: Lover’s Endless Mercy, Riding into Dawn, Margot’s Sapphires, and Summer Fling, just to name a few of his titles. During his publishing streak and rocket ride to fame, I had been given the exclusive opportunity to interview Kade Supine for an article in Artist Trend. Being a gentleman, Kade accepted the interview.
What transpired during the interview turned unprofessional. Kade admitted to being horny and seduced me by touching my chin with two fingertips, winking at me, and using eyebrow-raising comments such as: the mysterious cock-ride between us; how you will feel under me; something tells me that you’re drawn to me.
I had just broken up with a cheating boyfriend of three years named Nile Barnes. Honestly, I just needed some tenderness in my life at the time of the interview with Kade Supine, and an exceptional or extraordinary romp in the sexual hay with anyone. Kade filled the position with dexterity and bravery, unabashed.
The sex with the trashy romance writer had been somewhat rough with a little bit of biting and many licks. Gruff noises were shared between us inside his Columbus flat. Howls filled his Carmichael neighborhood because he had left the windows to his flat open.
Thereafter, we became lovers for a few months until he became bored out of his mind with me. He found someone new, and younger, to fill my shoes; some beefy musclehead without any body hair, low IQ, and a deep cleft in the center of his chin that symbolized evil.
* * * *
How Kade and I turned out to be friends couldn’t be fully understood. We never fought over the fact that he had become bored with me in our relationship. Nor did we ever talk about the situation. Rather, he went from one man’s bed to the next, month after month, enjoying the company of various-sized cocks and unnamed male partners.
I, on the other hand, had very few boyfriends since our breakup. My last boyfriend thought it masculine and genius that his parents named him after a superhero, Bruce Wayne MacCardle. I thought it annoying and somewhat pretentious. Anyway, my relationship with Bruce panned out for six weeks, which consisted of too much bitching, lack of showers on his part, and threats that he intended to beat the fuck out of me.
In the end, I left Bruce and his magnum temper behind and decided that singlehood, for the time being, just happened to be best for me.
Of course, there were other men who had an interest in me following my affairs with Kade and Bruce. One fellow named Harry turned out to be a nymphomaniac, enjoying my dick more than my mind. Phillip, I had learned after just two dates, wanted to dress me up in a diaper and feed me with a bottle. Leo liked Jesus more than he liked me. Ted enjoyed geriatrics instead of men in their thirties. And last, but certainly not least, Daniel Mockey, a bearish man with a flawless complexion, desired go-go boys instead of nonfiction writers.
* * * *
One man did have my heart over the others: Oliver Penntell. The fireman from Cincinnati. After an online meeting with Ollie, as he liked to be called, the man wooed me just as the gentleman he turned out to be. We dated nonstop for seven months, traveling back and forth from Columbus to Cincinnati.
Our affair turned potent, but ended short. Following a string of romantic encounters and nights of passion expressing our love for each other, the beefy fireman sat me down in his Cincinnati apartment with a cold longneck beer and told me, “My mother is very ill. She lives in Terre Haute, as I’ve already told you. The cancer is getting worse, and she needs me to help take care of her.”
“You’re moving to Indiana, aren’t you?”
He touched my left cheek, grazing fingers across the smooth and unshaven skin. Then he brushed the same hand through my hair. “You’ll be fine without me. You’re a good man, Chad Base. You’re a strong man. Another guy will come along, and you’ll fall in love again. Something tells me that you won’t be alone for very long.”
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“I never thought you would hurt me,” I told him. “I thought we would get married and live a happy-ever-after type of life together. Just you and me. I would have moved to Cincinnati if you had asked me.”
He took me in his arms and hugged me close to his chest. He squeezed part of the life out of me, being the vampire that I believed that he had transformed into, and said, “My mother is my life. You know that. I can help save her life. I have to be there for her. I realize that I’m choosing her over you, but…”
“You bastard,” I whispered to him and slapped him, nailing him across the face with my left hand. “You’ve led my heart astray. You’re killing me. You’re a murderer and don’t even realize it.”
“But, Chad…Chad, you have to understand. You must.”
But I didn’t understand and never would. Never.
We haven’t spoken since.
* * * *
Following my short time with the handsome fireman, I decided that being alone played out best in my life. I buried myself in work, interviewing a number of local celebrities for Artist Trend, traveling throughout the tristate area. Work became my way of life, creating one thousand-word articles for the online magazine and sinking myself into one story after the next, fulfilling my deadlines for Tom Tudor and becoming the best writer I could possibly be under his instruction, manhandling, and care.
Rarely did I date men. Instead, Kade and I spent some quality evenings at The Man Shack, a queer bar in downtown Columbus and lured men into our separate beds. Occasionally, I slept with a nameless man, getting my rocks off, unable to commit my heart to anyone in particular. Never did I sleep with the same man twice, fearing a connection, love spell, or questionable whatnot. Preventing myself from falling in love turned out to be my ploy. Fucking felt more appropriate instead of getting to know a man, any man. Frankly, I had never wanted to fall in love again, not after Oliver Penntell, and risk the atrocity of having my heart broken again. Singlehood had become my life, which offered happiness in my world. Case closed.
Men of All Seasons Box Set Page 12
