Words

by John Inman

  “I’ll buy earplugs. If that doesn’t work, I’ll break all your CDs.”

  “I get up in the middle of the night and raid the fridge. In the morning there’s crumbs and dirty spoons everywhere.”

  “I do the same thing.”

  “I’m a slob. I only moved to California so I wouldn’t have to clean my bathroom back in New York.”

  “That’s okay. There are days when I actually enjoy housecleaning.”

  “Really?”

  “Fuck no. I’m babbling.”

  “I’ve never walked a dog or picked up doggy poop in my life.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  Logan stared into Milo’s eyes, racking his brain for something else to complain about. When nothing sprang to mind, he said, “I suppose I could pay you rent.”

  “The house is paid for. Do shut up.”

  “Then I’ll help with expenses.”

  “Hell yes, you will. I’m too young to be a sugar daddy.”

  Logan guffawed.

  They floated silently in the water, still hanging on to each other as the sun beat down on their heads and the sensation of their naked bodies pressed together once again began to fill their cocks with need.

  Logan felt so deliciously comfy cradled in Milo’s arms, as if he truly belonged there, that he began to feel his eyes misting up again. The tears were starting to embarrass him.

  “I never knew I was such an emotional guy,” he muttered, holding Milo close.

  “Love changes us all,” Milo whispered back, his embrace tightening, his fingers sliding up to caress the back of Logan’s neck.

  Logan let Milo’s hands and the heavenly feel of Milo’s sleek body cuddled snug against his own carry the next few seconds into a memory Logan knew he would cherish forever.

  “It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?” he finally said. “Us moving in together.”

  Milo nodded, his head tucked neatly under Logan’s chin. “It’s the only thing to do. We love each other. We have to be together. Please say you’ll do it. I want you here. With me. Every single day.”

  “And the nights?”

  “God yes. The nights too.”

  Logan splayed his broad hand across the back of Milo’s head and gently held him close, rocking him as they lazily treaded water. When he squeezed his eyes shut, another tear slid down his cheek. As if somehow knowing it was there, Milo tilted his head up and kissed it away.

  This time his tears didn’t embarrass Logan. He smiled down, cupping both sides of Milo’s face in his hands, his thumbs resting lightly at Milo’s temples, their cocks once again thrumming like crazy under the water, their legs paddling gently to keep themselves afloat.

  “Yes,” Logan said. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll move in.”

  At that moment, a tiny ball of fur sailed out across the water, its four little feet flapping in midair. It landed with a splash right beside them. Emerson sank like a rock, then just as quickly bobbed up through the surface of the pool, sputtering and yipping in glee. He paddled closer with his little front paws and slathered each man with kisses and licks like he hadn’t seen them in a week.

  Laughing, Logan scooped him from the ripples and parked Emerson on his shoulder, where he sat up, shook the water from his coat, and looked around like a tourist.

  Still cuddling close, Logan and Milo—and Emerson—turned as one to study Spanky under the chaise lounge over by the fence. Spanky eyed them in return with little or no interest, then yawned, flopped over onto his side, and drifted back to sleep.

  “My lover,” Milo muttered, pressing a kiss to Logan’s chin.

  “Your lover and his dog,” Logan muttered back, as Emerson bathed them both in happy kisses.

  Over by the fence, Spanky started to snore.

  WITHIN A week, Logan had found a young Navy couple to sublet his apartment. Ten minutes after the new tenants cosigned the lease, Logan hired movers. As Milo had suggested, he put most of his furniture in storage, retaining only his desk, his TV for the bedroom, and his bookcases, along with all the books he knew he could never live without, which was every single one of them.

  On the first evening after everything was neatly put away, Logan sat in front of the fireplace in their newly shared living room with Milo at his side. They were sipping martinis because Milo wanted to celebrate and because he thought the drinks were pretty and the stemmed glasses festive. Plus he liked olives. They spoke softly so as not to disturb Emerson, who was tucked into a tiny ball of fluff between Logan’s legs, sound asleep. Spanky was sprawled out on the sofa where the humans should have been, but the old dog growled and grumbled so much when they tried to move him, they let him stay and parked themselves on the floor by the fire, which was more romantic anyway.

  The house in South Park felt like home to Logan already. His desk sat across from Milo’s in the den. His many bookcases were restocked with his vast collection of books and scattered around the house anywhere they would fit. Logan’s flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall across from the bed in the master bedroom where they could watch the latest television shows when they had nothing else to do in bed, which was absolutely never.

  At the moment, Milo’s head rested lightly on Logan’s shoulder as each of them sipped their drinks and stared contentedly into the fire. They had made love not thirty minutes before, right there in front of the fireplace with the dogs looking on.

  Logan thought he had never been so contented in his life. But his contentment was quickly jarred by Milo’s first words in ten minutes.

  “There’s been another murder,” he said, his chin digging into Logan’s shoulder as he tilted his head up, presumably to see what Logan’s reaction might be to the news. “I heard it on the radio when I was showering.”

  Logan’s heart sank, as if a sudden weariness had taken hold of him and stripped him of all energy. “Oh God. Who was it this time?”

  “A woman named Evelyn Tomes. She lived in El Centro and reviewed under the name BookBlogger. They found her burned to a crisp in her charred trailer somewhere out in the desert. The cause of death was suffocation. A plastic bag had been tied around her head. She had apparently been tortured before she died. Every one of her fingers was shattered. The killings are getting more vicious.”

  “They are getting closer to home too,” Logan said on a sigh. “El Centro’s only a hundred miles away.”

  “I know.”

  They sat silent. Each took a sip from his drink and listened to the fire crack and pop in front of them. It was really too warm for a fire, but it was so romantic neither wanted to let it die. Logan leaned over and pressed a kiss to the tip of Milo’s nose just because he wanted to. “Had you heard of her?” he asked softly.

  Milo shook his head. He was chewing on an olive, which he had just speared from his glass and poked into his mouth. He edged closer. “No. But I looked her up after I heard the news. She wasn’t really a reviewer. She was like the other victims. More of a troll. True reviewers don’t trash five books in a single day, one-starring everything in sight.”

  “Is that what she did?”

  “Yeah. On Gladreads she had over two thousand books on her list of reviewed books, and of those two thousand, a mere handful had more than two stars. All those books had been listed there in the last six months. Her comments were cutting and belittling, and she seemed to really enjoy striking out at authors. I have a theory about people like that.”

  “What theory is that?”

  “I think they are miserable in their own lives, so they take it out on anyone they perceive as having even a modicum of happiness or success in their own. I also think sometimes these trolls are failed writers. Jealous, spiteful, and remorselessly petty. They are lashing out at anyone who accomplished what they themselves could not.”

  Logan nodded, and when he did he enjoyed the way Milo’s ginger hair slid softly across his cheek. “I’ve always thought that too. But it doesn’t make it any easier for the writer who’s being mauled.” />
  “No,” Milo said. “It doesn’t. It also doesn’t help him recoup the sales he might lose by readers who steer clear of his books thinking the bad reviews and the abysmal ratings might be justified, even if they aren’t.”

  “So that’s three deaths,” Logan said quietly, staring once again into the flames.

  “Three that we know about anyway.”

  “You think there are more?”

  “I hope not.”

  Milo set his empty martini glass aside. “Me too,” he said, sprawling out on the floor and resting his head on Logan’s leg. He gazed up into Logan’s eyes. “I love you so much. Don’t be trashing any books when you do your reviews. It’s not conducive to long life, and long life is exactly what I want from you. Promise me.”

  Logan grinned. “No one-star reviews. I swear.” He stroked Milo’s cheek with a fingertip, loving the feel of a smile forming beneath his touch.

  But loving the man even more.

  MILO SNUGGLED close. “I hope you’re happy here,” he whispered, trying not to disturb Emerson, still quietly snoring on the floor, the orange light from the fire dancing in his coat.

  “I’m as happy as I’ve ever been in my life,” Logan purred, planting a kiss in Milo’s hair.

  Milo sighed, reassured by the words, by the loving gentleness in Logan’s voice. “Good.” He tipped his head to gaze at the fire for a moment before turning back to study Logan’s face. “Come with me tomorrow. The neighborhood book club is meeting again. If you’re there with me and we make a big enough show of being madly in love, maybe they won’t grill me about the murders like they did the last time.”

  “Do they know you’re gay?”

  “Do I care if they know I’m gay?”

  Logan chuckled softly. “Apparently not.”

  “So you’ll go?”

  “Yes. I’ll go.”

  A sneaky gleam lit Milo’s eyes. “You’ll be in for a treat. My ex is on the guest list too.”

  “You mean the legendary Bryce? The same Bryce who peels rubber and speeds past in a huff when he spots another beau on his ex-lover’s front porch?”

  “That’s the one. They sent me a program of the evening’s events. Food, me, Bryce—although they have him listed under his pen name of Thomas Giles—and a couple of other local writers. Say, did you ever review Bryce’s book?”

  “No, I recused myself. Conflict of interest.”

  “What conflict of interest?”

  Logan smiled. “You.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, it must not be getting bad reviews if he’s copped an invitation for schmoozing and free eats at the local writing club.”

  “I guess not.”

  “I saw a picture of him on your Facebook page,” Logan said. “He really is a hunk.”

  Milo shrugged. “He’s also a dick. Are you sure you want to go?”

  Logan wiggled his ass around like an eager kid. “As long as I’m with you, I’ll be happy. And free food appeals to me mightily. It means we won’t have to cook. Like either one of us ever does. I can hardly wait.”

  “It’ll be fun.” Milo grinned as he rolled over on his side and lifted Logan’s shirttail to plant a kiss on his belly button.

  “Uh-oh,” Logan breathed. “Somebody’s getting frisky.”

  “Bedtime,” Milo whispered, sitting up to brush Logan’s lips with his own. “Please. I want your clothes off. Now.”

  “Pushy,” Logan said, but he didn’t appear too appalled, especially when Milo’s hand gently cupped his balls in a most promising caress. “We just made love less than an hour ago, you know.”

  Milo batted innocent eyes. “And your point is?”

  Logan snorted. “No point. Just making conversation.”

  A moment later, Emerson was on the sofa, tucked neatly between Spanky’s front legs where Logan had deposited him. The fire was properly screened and left to die on its own.

  Arm in arm, shedding clothes along the way, Milo dragged Logan toward the bed.

  Once again, the flat-screen TV recently attached high on the bedroom wall was completely ignored as the two lost themselves in other pursuits. None of those pursuits had a single Neilson rating to recommend it, but they were most enjoyable anyway.

  JUST AFTER the antique school clock in the den chimed three in the morning, Logan slipped out of bed and padded softly from the room, leaving Milo snoring in the bed. He quietly closed the bedroom door behind him. Standing naked in the hall, he heard a patter of toenails approaching. It was Emerson, scared to death he might be missing something. Logan bent, scooped him into his hand, and lifted him up to tuck the little pup safely under his chin. Together, they went into the den, and Logan closed that door behind them too.

  He parked himself at his desk with Emerson in his lap and booted up his computer.

  Since he couldn’t sleep, and since the murders were preying heavily on his mind, he logged into Grace Connor’s review site, or tried to. The website was shut down. After a few minutes of surfing, he found the BooksOnWheels website. It was still up and running, although no new posts had been added since the day of Edgar Price’s murder. Nor had an announcement of his death been included on the website by either a friend or a gloating murderer.

  Logan scrolled through the long list of Price’s more than 3,000 book reviews and ratings and found exactly what he expected to find. Almost every book that came under the BooksOnWheels microscope was rated either one or two stars, rarely three. There were no four- or five-star reviews at all.

  A quick scan of the author names produced a long list of writers Logan himself had reviewed. Most of their works were fine examples of the craft, although good old Edgar Price certainly didn’t see it that way, nor was he reticent to say so.

  Price’s star ratings were bad enough, but his written reviews were far worse. Cutting, cruel, mocking, and unflinchingly unapologetic. There was a conceit about his reviews that inferred his was the only opinion that mattered, that he brooked no opposition, and that his was the final word on all things literary. By the time Logan finished skimming through a score or more of Price’s reviews, he was ready to kill the man himself. Especially when he found all four of Milo’s books targeted by BooksOnWheels as well. Milo’s newest book had been given such a thrashing that Logan huffed in exasperation and immediately signed out of the website with a sputtered curse.

  He tried Evelyn Tomes, aka BookBlogger, next. Her website too had no new postings since what he assumed to be the day of her murder, only a week or so before. Nor was there an announcement of her death. Logan supposed the website would continue on in stasis until her domain privileges were revoked for lack of payment. It seemed a fairly moribund way to end one’s career. Of course, being murdered with a Walmart bag wasn’t exactly a classy way to go either.

  Studying BookBlogger’s list of reviewed books was like rereading the ratings on BooksOnWheels’s website. One and two stars abounded. Threes were rare. Fours and fives were nonexistent. Evelyn Tomes, however, had gone one better than Edgar Price. She had included one-star reviews on a few of the truly great classics, such as To Kill a Mockingbird and Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. As if fearlessly carried away by her own sense of power and blithely assholing along, ignoring the possibility of eternal damnation, she even included a one-star rant against the St. James version of the Holy Bible itself, calling it “…pedantic, trite, annoyingly over-written, and begetting a treasure trove of pointless metaphor….”

  Logan sat staring at the computer screen, trying to swallow down his laughter so he wouldn’t wake either the puppy in his lap, the lover in the bedroom, or the old dog snoring away on the couch in the living room.

  By panning God, Evelyn Tomes had taken being a bitch to the highest level possible. No wonder she was now a charcoal briquette.

  Surfing over to the Gladreads review site, which every author knew was the equivalent of visiting the most murderous slum on the planet brainlessly unarmed, Logan tried to construct a mental spre
adsheet on the writers most affected by the three reviewers who had been killed. So many common names came up under the reviews of all three victims, including Milo Cook’s, Logan immediately abandoned his idea of maybe homing in on the killer by triangulating the names of those writers targeted with the most ferocity. Hell, the three reviewers had targeted everybody. Consequently, every writer in the world had a motive for wanting them dead.

  For the first time since the murders began, Logan began to feel sorry for the cops in charge of the three cases. It must be rough when you are looking for a suspect with a motive to suddenly come up with a cast of thousands who fit the bill. On top of that, the murders had taken place thousands of miles apart from each other. New York, Indiana, and the Southern California desert. Anyone who read police procedurals knew the far-flung logistics of an investigation like that were daunting at best.

  Offering the police a cluck of sympathy in absentia, he switched off the computer and simply sat there in the dark for a few minutes, his mind blank.

  At the squeak of a door, he turned and saw Milo standing naked, peering into the room.

  Milo’s voice was scratchy with sleep. “I woke up and you were gone,” he said. “Is anything wrong?”

  Milo was so beautiful there in the shadows, brushed by moonlight, that Logan felt a smile creep across his face. “No, baby. Nothing’s wrong.”

  Milo eased into the room on silent feet and swung Logan’s desk chair around so he could kneel before it. On his knees, he wrapped warm arms around Logan’s waist and laid his head next to Emerson’s. The puppy woke and gave him a lazy kiss hello while Logan caressed them both from above. A moment later the pup was softly snoring again.

  “I missed you,” Milo whispered, his lips on Logan’s thigh. “I don’t like waking up alone anymore. Come back to bed.”

  “Okay,” Logan said through a gentle smile. Leaving Emerson asleep on the chair, they slipped arm in arm through the darkened house and crawled back into bed, where they drew instinctively together.

  “I can never get enough of you,” Logan whispered in the shadows.