by Rie Warren
Her arms came around me. Her lips were warm against my cheek. “Oh God, Nick. Of course, hon. We’ll go wherever you want.”
We kissed and it was one of those new ones, tender and slow, intense and deep.
She pulled back. “Mind if I take a shower first?” She wrinkled her nose as she shook out her tangled hair.
“I’ll go make some breakfast.”
I remained where I was long enough to enjoy the early morning view of naked Cat rising from bed. Last night, the night after our stripper-sex make-up sex, she’d taken out the piercings and left them off. Her nipples puckered in the cool air, unadorned and somehow even sexier. I’d had fun teasing the sensitive rosy buds for a long time during the night.
Her finger wagged in front of my face. “Uh huh. Don’t be looking at me like that. You know if you start anything, we’re never getting out of here.” She pushed my gaping mouth closed.
I moved against her as I got to my feet, enjoying her catch of breath before heading to the door.
In the kitchen I pulled out my cell. I fingered the screen for a few minutes. I hit the contacts list and dialed before I could think twice.
“Nicholas?” My mom’s voice shook on the other end.
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
“You mean, am I okay today?” With the phone plugged against my shoulder, I got out a couple mugs and took the cream from the fridge.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you ever call me before? We all lost Daniel on this day.” I struggled to keep accusation deep down inside.
“We didn’t—” I heard her speak to my father and his muffled reply. “We didn’t think you’d want to hear from us. And we were too cowardly to keep trying.”
I slumped forward, resting my elbows on the counter. “What are you and Dad doing today?”
“We always go to church. And then we . . .” Her voice broke.
Dad came on the line. “Good morning, Nicholas.”
“Dad.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a hard day for all of us. What did you ask your mother?”
“Just wanted to know what you do every year, for Daniel,” I whispered.
“Oh. Well, church, as your mother said and then we get out the photo albums. All of them. We remember him.” Such a deep gruffness was in his tone, I wondered if he was crying. “We remember you.”
“I’m still here.”
His voice came back stronger. “Yes. You are.” A few beats of silence fell. “Do you have plans?”
“I’m going to church, too.”
“Can we call you next week sometime? Catch up, perhaps?’ he asked.
I went back to preparing my and Cat’s coffee. “Yeah. Yeah, you can do that. I’ll answer.”
“We love you, son.”
It was the first time I believed that since Daniel’s death.
We weren’t Partridge Family let’s-break-out-the-tambourines-hippy-happy, but it was a start. A very hopeful start.
I was nursing a mug of coffee when Cat entered the kitchen.
“I just talked to my folks.”
She eased into the chair next to me. “How was that?”
“Different. Better.” I smiled at her. “Let’s eat, huh?”
We shared a skillet, finishing off the scrambled eggs and toast. The entire time, Cat kept her hand in mine.
As we left, I cut Viper off at the door. “Not today, girl.”
She whined and shook her head until Cat kneeled beside her. She gave Viper epic lovey-dove rubs and a doggie biscuit she snuck from the pocket of her jacket.
I narrowed my eyes at Cat.
“What?”
“Blackmailing my dog?”
“Gotta get in good with her if I want to stand a chance with her daddy.”
She did not just say daddy, like that, again? I met the arch look in her eyes.
Yeah, she did.
Pretending I wasn’t getting the least bit hard—instead maybe hard of hearing—I shut Viper inside, stowed the key under the planter, and descended the steps with Cat. When we climbed into my Jeep, the playful mood evaporated.
On the drive down 17 South toward Savannah, it was the same thing as at breakfast. Cat held my hand. She let go only when I had to shift. Her fingers rubbed gentle circles over my knuckles. She didn’t jabber on about the weather or blather away about my feelings. She was there, solid and strong. As we passed the turn off to Edisto, the sun blasted free from the cloud cover. The bright disc burned away the fog, leaving us with a vista of fall-colored fields and sun-sparkled creeks.
Forty minutes later, I pulled onto a narrow tarmac road in Yemassee that had seen better days. The church I parked across from had seen better days, too. The crumbling body of the Civil War ruins had been overtaken by a thick pelt of grass that was green and verdant no matter what time of year. It was as if the spirits nestled in the granite tombs embodied the very earth with a life force they wouldn’t give up.
The hush fallen over the grounds was broken only by the sound of winter birds singing and the slough of the breeze through the surrounding trees. I wrapped an arm around Cat’s waist, sharing her warmth.
“This is stunning, Nick.”
“Never been here?”
She shook her head and escaped from my hold. Skipping across the lush carpet of grass, she spread her arms wide and—oh, wow—she looked like an angel freed from the earth.
As Daniel was.
I wasn’t religious, but something about the remains of Sheldon Church called to me, to the part of me that ached to put words on pages. It was aged to its ramparts but still so strong. Columns and archways of richly colored bricks contrasted with twisted live oaks hung with Spanish moss. With the noon-high sun, the autumn day clear blue, unfiltered light haloed the ruins in an ethereal glow.
There wasn’t a congregation or a sermon or anyplace ordained to kneel for prayers, but it was a divine space nonetheless.
Cat and I didn’t talk. There were no words to be said. We ate a simple lunch of sandwiches I’d packed. Spread out before the church, sitting on a blanket I kept in the Jeep, Cat rested between my legs.
The last bite finished, she turned in my lap.
“I’m so glad you came.” I nuzzled the warm hollow below her ear.
“I’m glad you asked me to.”
Her eyelids fluttered down the moment before I met her lips. The taste of her mouth was just a sample of what was to come, because everything with Cat was deeper, wilder, better.
As I drew back, the peaceful feeling spread to something else. It rearranged my heart. It made a goddamn joke of my long lost desire to keep her at arm’s length.
I kissed her again. When we started to get heated, I backed away. Murmuring against her mouth, I said, “We should head home.”
The drive back was hushed again. Outside my house, I parked beside her car. I looked at the clock on the dash then at her.
“I gotta go. Final tux fitting with Josh.”
Cat unfastened her seatbelt. She cupped my face. “I know. Are you going to be okay?”
“I am now.”
Her lips briefly pressed to mine. “So I’ll see you at the wedding.”
“Only if I get to walk you down the aisle.”
“You’re the best man, I’m just a bridesmaid. I don’t think it works that way.”
I curled my hand around hers and kissed her bare ring finger. “Maybe it should.”
“Maybe you should wait until you see the bridesmaids’ dresses.”
I laughed. “Are they that bad?”
“I’ll leave that for you to find out.” She opened her door before I could get out and do it for her. “I lo—”
My heart almost boinged out of my motherfucking chest.
Cat clamped her mouth closed then breathed out in a blushing rush, “I’ll see you Thursday.”
I tried to hide my grin but failed. Cat saw it. She grinned, too, before stammering, “Umm. Okay. Bye.”
Goddam
n. In celebration of what I thought Cat had almost said, I did what any normal guy would do—I honked the hell outta my horn, after she was out of sight and hopefully out of hearing distance, too.
Ignoring the speed limit and barely slowing for the usual Po-Po traps, I hauled ass downtown to Frankie The Tailor’s backroom sweatshop. Even with the windows rolled down in the Jeep and the a/c blasting, my blood ran hot and my heart hammered harder as my foot pressed pedal to the metal.
Set within the area of Queen and King, Broad and Snob streets, Frankie’s was a little-known secret no bigger than a closet. The Guido came from Jersey with a long line of talented menswear makers behind him and an even longer history with the Family. Scissors, straight pins, and sewing machines replaced the sawed-offs, speakeasies, and prohibition flappers.
Frankie was also the Italian Stallion of the downtown queer scene. Jackée would definitely have him on speed dial if she lived hereabouts.
With his hair gelled into a black plume quivering one breeze too high from being flattened to his forehead, Frankie met me as soon as the bell over the door jingled.
“Jeeesus Christ, Nicky. You look like you road in on a fuckin’ horse from the gaddam plains. What’s up with this hair of yours, hey?”
Of course fucking came out like fuggin’, and the left corner of his lip was preternaturally curled around the tip of an unlit stogie.
“I’m supposed to make you fuggin’ presen’able and shit like this? Whaaat the Christ?” He made a sign of the cross over his chest and let me in.
“Is Josh here yet?” I waded through bolts of fabric and weeded my way over Men’s Vogue and GQ littering the floor.
His upper lip curled to his nose. He rolled the damp cigar between his fingers. “That big piece of beef’s in the back. Hiding. Like I’m gonna do a Corleone on him. Madon’, only horse head in his bed between me ’n’ him? That’d be this fuggin’ stallion right here.” He grabbed his crotch.
Like I said, Italian stallion.
Frankie swaggered around the small, smoky room. His suit was A-class and on par with Armani, his heavy square chin covered with the type of designer stubble I’d cultivated on Josh in Atlanta. His ripped body rippled the seams and swells of well-fitted silks and lightweight wools.
He turned to me. “Ya sure Josh ain’t gay? I think I got somethin’ goin’ on wid him. Maybe—ya know—some backroom action or somethin’?” asked the tailor fitting the groom in his wedding clothes . . . for his marriage to a woman.
“Well, this one time, he kissed me.”
Frankie’s olive-pit eyes positively glowed. “You gaddam straight guys. Always workin’ us homos like we might get laid and turn a studmuffin.”
My chuckle was deep and loud. Throw Josh under the bus? Yes, I would.
Frankie’s finger fired into my chest like a shotgun. “You fuggin’ with me, big dog?”
“Nah, man. The kiss was out of this world.” And really fucking weird.
“If I find out you’re jaggin’ my shit . . .”
Fuck. I should quit while I was ahead. And still alive.
Frankie stared me down a few seconds longer before dropping his hand. Then he made a thorough inspection complete with a sneer of my old jeans, scuffed boots, and holey sweater. “You come into my shop like this? Jesus Goddamn. Yer a fraggin’ icon of the romance world. No respect, you got no respect, Nicky. Get your ass in there and lose the Cobain look. Fuggin’ A.”
Inside the dressing room Frankie pushed me toward, Josh stood barefoot, in briefs, cupping his nutsack.
I squeezed into the tight cubicle. “Ooof.”
“Tight fit.”
“Ya think? Where are the suits?” I started peeling off my clothes.
“Dunno.”
Sweeping the curtain aside—with flair—Frankie somehow managed to squish his way in. He turned to one side, brushing against me, then the other, coming face-to-face with Josh who was still in crotch-cupping mode. Frankie acted aloof while I held my breath and Josh turned purple. Finally he hung up the tuxes and left us to it.
I couldn’t wait any longer. “I think Cat’s in love with me!”
“Are you sure?”
Hell no. We were talking about women here, right? When was any man sure about that shit? “She said ‘I lo—’ before she stopped.”
“Could be ‘I loathe you’.”
I landed a punch on his shoulder. “Jerk.”
“Off.” He smirked at me in the reflection of the mirror.
We exchanged fist bumps.
“Hey. You need a hand in there?” Frankie asked from outside, a heavy accent on all the syllables. “’Cause I got two of ’em that work well, real well. Know whad I’m sayin’, fellas?”
Being hit on by a former mob hit man? Priceless. Josh and I tried not to crack up.
“I think he tugged my nuts, man,” Josh whispered.
“He’s gotta make sure you’re hanging on the right side.”
“Dude. I was still in my street clothes.”
I didn’t tell him about my little conversation about how Frankie had the hots for him. “You should be used to it after Jules Gem.”
That time he knocked me in the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up and let’s get these monkey suits on.”
Dutifully dressed in our monkey suits that cost a fucking mint, we stood side-by-side on a low round pedestal with Frankie kneeling in front of us. Despite his earlier horseplay he was strictly professional when it came to his tailoring. He prodded and yanked, smoothed seams and checked cuffs. Looking in the mirror at the almost-matched pair of Josh and me, I had to hand it to Frankie the Tailor. He knew his shit.
He sat back and spat out his mouthful of pins. “There ya go. Leftie,”—he pointed at my crotch—”and rightie.” He peered at Josh’s. Then he looked up at us. “Whad gives wid you two? Competin’ in the biggest schlong department?”
“Don’t think there’s any comparison.” Josh huffed.
“Oh yeah? Let’s whip it out, Frankie’s got the measuring tape,” I challenged.
“I don’t need a goddamn measurin’ tape to know how big my dick is.” Josh squirmed his way out of the sticky predicament. “Besides, I did that when I was like fifteen, needed a yard stick.”
Frankie’s eyebrows peaked in interest.
“Oh yeah? They don’t make a ruler big enough for the size of my cock,” I said.
Coughing, spluttering, sweating, Frankie returned to his position of pinning and tucking, somewhat in a hurry. “Yo, let’s finish this up. I got some things I gotta get to.”
The final pin placed in our trouser hems, Frankie backed away. He squinted through the smoke rings sailing from his lit cigar. “You two oughtta be on the cover of Out. M’I right?”
Faced with the mirrored vision of Josh and me in our wedding day finery, I blinked. He screwed his eyes up. The pale gray tails and pressed white shirts matched except for my black vest and tie to his ivory. The form-fitting, absolutely perfect seams made a big show of our broad shoulders and trim hips. The dove color of the tux did something to Josh’s hazel eyes.
He broke free of the reflection first. “What the fuck you staring at?”
“Nothin’.” I snapped out of it.
Laughing outright, he smacked me on the ass. “You’re remembering our kiss, aren’t you?”
Frankie gasped. At least now he knew I wasn’t lying. I wasn’t likely to get capped by him. “Naw. I’m thinking about how handsome you look, Josh. For Leelee. She’s going to love this, you lucky bastard.”
“You think?”
“You’re going to make an awesome husband.”
“It didn’t go so well with Claire though.”
“Claire never fit with you, you know that. You and Leelee? Something else altogether, something fucking wonderful.” I patted his back. “You got this, Josh. You got her.”
He snatched me into his arms. “Thanks, Nicky. I couldn’t do this without you.”
There was a lot I’d gone through witho
ut him that I needed him to know about. A small lump lodged in my throat and I whispered, “Today was the anniversary of Daniel’s death.”
“I didn’t know, man.” Josh cinched me closer. “We didn’t have to do this today.”
I pulled away. “I know. That’s why I’m telling you. I drove out to the Old Sheldon Church this morning. Let some of that pain go.”
“I would’ve gone with you. I would’ve been with you all those years, too.”
When Frankie pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief and blew his nose, I almost asked if he had a spare. “I know. That means a lot to me.”
We hugged it out one more time. “It was the first time I did something for him. It wasn’t as hard, thinking about him, this year.”
“Did you talk to your folks?”
“Yeah, I did. You would’ve been proud of me. I didn’t even hang up on them.”
“They’re still cunts for cutting you loose like that.” Josh’s chin took on a hard jut.
“I know. But the hate I held inside for so long . . . it fucked me up.”
“So this is good?”
“Yeah. And Cat came with me this morning.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. “Did she now?”
“Yup.” I grinned. “She’s an angel, ya know?”
“Hell’s Angel.”
“Got that right.”
“Hate to break up the Brokeback moment, but I got deliveries arriving,” Frankie cut in.
And probably bodies to hide.
After we changed, we met Frankie at the counter. Vintage cufflinks shimmered under the glass case he splayed his hands on. “Suits’ll be delivered tomorrow, a casa di tua madre. Payment in cash.”
Of course. Money laundering and all that.
After the bill was settled, Frankie tapped his cigar against an ashtray stand. He pulled a hardback of my latest book—The Demon Beneath Me—from a drawer behind him. “Sign it.”
I complied. It was either that or get pinking shears to my jugular, probably. Josh shifted beside me and the Eye-talian Stallion glommed onto him with an unswerving stare. As Frankie rolled the cigar between his fingers in an obscene gesture, he made a big show of adjusting his package with his other hand.
