Idyll Fears

by Stephanie Gayle

  He looked at me, his eyes a little sleepy. “I thought about fucking you in the car and then driving you home.” The words went straight to my groin. “But you seem like the kind of guy who likes to be courted.”

  I laughed. Courted? I was the kind of guy who fucked in cars. Today, though, now, I preferred the idea of a bedroom. More space. More options. I unsnapped my seat belt and leaned toward him. So close I could see his stubble. His nose was twisted, fractionally, to the right. “So give me my roses and let’s go,” I whispered.

  He pulled me in, his hand at the back of my neck. His mouth tasted of dinner and beer. His long lashes tickled my face. He pulled back, as fast as he’d pulled me in. Unsnapped his seat belt and opened his door. “Come on,” he said. The rough edge to his voice, the impatience, made me grin.

  We hurried across the lot, inside the hotel, up a flight of stairs, and three doors down the beige hallway. He inserted his key card into the door’s slot. The light flashed red. He cursed and tried again. The light turned green, and a whirring noise preceded a click. The door opened. He pushed in. Then he tossed the key card like a Frisbee. It landed on the desk by the far left wall. Neat trick. The door swung closed behind us. I put the hinge lock on. He cocked a brow. “In case,” I said.

  He didn’t ask in case of what. He removed my coat, too slowly for my liking. I half ripped his off, showing him how it was done. “In a hurry?” he asked, unbuttoning my shirt one slow button at a time. I shoved his hands away and ripped it off, buttons popping onto the floor. “Always,” I said, shucking my t-shirt.

  He ran his hands over my torso. When he reached my nipples, he pinched them gently. Then he removed his sweater and shirt almost as fast as I had. I took a breath. Damn, he was glorious. His torso belonged on a magazine. No, on a billboard. He had a true six-pack, and the little muscle cutout from his hips that made your eyes go down, down, down. I’d slept with good-looking men, athletic men, handsome men. Cisco put them all to shame. My hands shook as I reached out to put my palm against his abs. They convulsed.

  “Ticklish,” he said, between his teeth.

  “Ticklish?” I used more pressure, sweeping my hands up, leaving a trail of goose-bumped flesh in my wake.

  His head dropped and he exhaled in a slow hiss. My hands were at his shoulders and I tugged his face to mine. My lips were at his forehead. I bent my neck and bumped my nose to his cheek, urging him to turn. He did and I caught his lips with my teeth. Nipped at them until he opened them and my tongue swept inside. We gripped each other and kissed. I felt light-headed and powerful. I pulled at his pants. He swatted my hand away and undid them. Then stepped out of his boxer briefs. He stood, wearing only black dress socks. He must’ve kicked off his shoes when he came inside.

  “You,” he said. His voice was husky.

  My boots gave me trouble. The laces stuck. “Fuck,” I said. Pulling at the knot only made it tighter.

  “Let me,” Cisco said. He knelt and carefully worked at the knot. It came apart at last and I kicked the boot off. The other yielded more easily. The pants and boxers were a blur of tan and white fabric moving through the room, thrown toward the first of two beds. Cisco was still at my feet. He looked up. God, he was beautiful. He reached out and put his hand on my cock. It jumped. He smiled and moved forward, excruciatingly slowly, and kissed the tip.

  His hand still on it, he worked the tip with his lips. Kisses, soft licks. He moved his hand down, toward the base, and slid most of my cock in his mouth. He was warm and wet and working his tongue in ways that threatened my ability to hold on. He pulled back, and my cock came free from his mouth. He worked his hand up and down me. My head fell back. My thighs tightened. His hand came away. It felt like a loss. I looked down.

  He stood and grabbed for my hand. Led it to his cock, jutting forward at me. I squeezed his thickness. Felt the immediate flex of muscle. Then I pulled my hand back, spat into it, and began working him in long, smooth pulls.

  “Yeah,” he said. His eyes shut, he breathed harder. I rubbed my palm over his cock’s head, in slow circles, and then faster, until he was half panting. Then I knelt on the carpet, its fibers rough against my knees. I took him into my mouth. He tasted like Irish Spring soap. He moaned, the sound far away as I concentrated on swallowing him as deep as I could. He thrust his hips forward, little lurches. His hand fisted my hair, and a sharp starburst of pain pulled me out of my trance. It passed, and then I was back to breathing hard through my nose. I slid my tongue along the vein under his cock.

  His thrusts became faster, harder. His cock was pulsing, and I knew he was on the edge. I reached up and played with his testicles like they were Chinese therapy balls. A trick I picked up from a pal back in my clubbing days. “Agh,” he cried. I tightened my grip until I felt him spasm and a warm flood hit the roof of my mouth. I kept my face still, allowing him time before he pulled out. Then I walked to the bathroom, found the sink, and spat. I removed the crinkled paper lid from a water glass and filled it with tap water. Gargled some and drank the rest. I checked myself in the mirror. My face was flushed, red and white. My hair mussed all to hell. My cock was still at attention.

  Cisco was seated at the edge of the first double bed. He looked more awake, his dark eyes fever bright. His eyes weren’t focused on mine, but on a different part of my anatomy. “Does someone need relief?” he asked.

  “Could do,” I said.

  “Then come here,” he said. “I’ve got just the thing.”

  I stood before him, my bare feet prickly against the carpet. He still had his socks on. They looked silly. He reached for me. Turned out, he did have just the thing.

  When I woke in the dark, with an arm around me, I panicked. Where was I? What had I done? Then I remembered. Cisco. Hotel room. Sex. Sleeping. His thigh pressed against the back of mine. It was hot. Too hot. His breath tickled the hairs on my nape. I drifted off thinking that, as Christmases went, this had been pretty good.

  Four hours later, the sky was still dark, but it was time to get up. I needed to get home and change. My attempts at stealth weren’t good enough. Cisco rolled to his side in a fluid move that told me he’d be good in the field. “Oh, hey,” he said, his voice thick.

  “I’m gonna get a move on,” I said. “I need to change before work.”

  His rubbed his dark hair. “Right. You need a ride?”

  “I’ll grab a cab,” I said.

  “I guess I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “Yeah.” Cisco was on until the 30th, when he got four days off.

  “Um, you’ll keep this quiet, right?” he asked.

  I shoved my feet into my boots. “Sure.”

  “I could get in trouble,” he said.

  “How? I’m a consenting adult.” I grabbed my coat.

  “I don’t want anyone accusing of us playing while we should be working.”

  “I think I can manage to keep my hands off you at work,” I said.

  He pulled back the sheet. My mouth got dry. “You sure?”

  “I’ll see you later,” I said, running away before he could read my expression. I assumed it was hungry.

  His low laughter followed me until I closed the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  My fear that things might be awkward at work with Cisco was unfounded. We kept it all about Cody as we chased more false leads and reviewed, again, Sharon Donner’s past for clues about her present location. She’d been born in New Hampshire, gone to junior college in Boston. Worked as a medical secretary for four and a half years. Married Samuel Donner, a certified public accountant from Connecticut. They lived in Wethersfield for several years, and moved to West Hartford in 1990. Aaron was born in 1991. Samuel died in 1994 of heart failure. Died by the water cooler. Luckily, he had a large life-insurance policy that provided well for Mrs. Donner and Aaron. She did some transcription work for extra income. Her home was still in West Hartford. The FBI had eyes on the place. She hadn’t been near it. She hadn’t visited her sister. Her parent
s were dead.

  We went back to co-workers. None had heard from her in years. Ditto for her college friends. We did glean interesting details from both groups. Sharon had been “sick, a lot.” She’d spent a lot of time in her college infirmary. “She had terrible headaches, but then sophomore year it switched to stomachaches and odd pains in her hands. Maybe she had carpel tunnel syndrome, before they knew what it was.” Two of her co-workers said that Sharon had been “plagued” by illness. “She’d come in, looking terrible, but insisting she could work,” one said. “Half the time, she’d be sent home. Sharon seemed annoyed. She’d prefer to be at work, she said. Where she could feel useful. Frankly, I think she liked the attention.”

  Wright and Mulberry had worked the more recent friends and acquaintances. Their reports showed that Sharon’s “sicknesses” almost completely disappeared once Aaron was born. Of course, Aaron was a very sick child. She spent “half her life in hospitals,” one church friend had said. The church friends speculated she must’ve been off her head with grief over Aaron’s death, to commit a kidnapping. Details didn’t support that theory. Sharon had been upset in the wake of her son’s death, but months later she appeared to be coping. She participated in church groups, completed work assignments, and volunteered at the hospital. The hospital volunteer coordinator had confided that Sharon’s manner was sometimes “off.” She’d be solicitous and kind most days, but sometimes snappy and quick to take offense. She had less than modern views on Jews and blacks, and the supervisor had warned her to keep such views to herself.

  She had no other properties. Her car, a 1994 Lexus, hadn’t been spotted. She had healthy bank accounts. Fairly regular ATM withdrawals that indicated weekly shopping expenses. Checks for legitimate services: locksmith, car garage, home insurance, groceries. She was one of those women who held up the grocery line writing a check. Figured.

  Finnegan was in. He and Wright had swapped shifts. He offered a running stream of commentary on our chief suspect. “She bought more craft supplies. How many craft supplies does one lady need?”

  “Maybe it was for church stuff,” I said.

  “Yes, because what people need are more hand-knit toilet-paper covers,” he said.

  “Toilet-paper covers?” I asked.

  “The kind with the Barbie doll stuck in the middle, so the knit part looks like a skirt.”

  “You’re kidding me,” I said.

  “Nope. Hey, Dix, you know those Barbie-doll toilet-paper cover thingies, right?”

  Dix came around the corner, traces of powdered sugar on his lips. Courtesy of the holiday treats some citizen had given us. “What are you on about now?”

  “The Barbie things that old ladies have in their bathrooms.”

  “My mom has one,” Klein said.

  “See!” Finny pointed at Klein. “Told you!”

  “She won’t get rid of it,” Klein said. “It has sentimental value.” He peered at Dix’s lips. “Where’s the Stollen?” Dix pointed. Klein walked away.

  Bank statements. Phone records. Employment records. Parking tickets. Midafternoon, Finnegan looked up, rubbed his strained eyes, and said, “Shoot me. Through and through. Shoot me. I swear to God if I have to read one more mundane detail of this woman’s life . . .”

  “Cheer up, Finny. It’s quitting time.” It was, for him. Despite the kidnapping, people still had schedules. Maybe if we had a genuine lead, an actual sighting, it would be different. We didn’t. Besides, the FBI was on it. We were the backup dancers on this one. Technically, the FBI doesn’t “take” cases from local law enforcement agencies, but we’d become the B team. We knew it. Everyone did.

  Finnegan left with the last of the Stollen, “compensation pay” for the headache he’d incurred reading Mrs. Donner’s crabbed handwriting on complaint letters she’d sent to her cable television provider. “Who writes letters to RCN?” he asked. “Those fuckers don’t pay attention when you’re yelling at them on the phone.”

  “Hey, Chief, could you take a look?” Cisco handed me a folder marked “Church Interviews.”

  “Sure.” Hadn’t Finnegan reviewed this? Had there been a problem? I took the folder to my office. Sat down and leafed through the contents. Yes, these were the interviews Finny had checked. Wait. What was this at the back of the folder? A credit card? I picked it up. No. The heavy plastic rectangle was a hotel-room key. A Post-It on the back said, “If you want to stop by tonight, here’s a key.” There was Cisco’s phone number. Looks like I had plans tonight.

  Concentrating on paperwork became more challenging, but I made it through my last hour and a half. “Stay safe,” I called as I left.

  My answering machine blinked. Had I checked it this morning? I pressed Play. “It’s Mom. Where are you? I’ve called twice to wish you a Merry Christmas. I know you worked today, but you should be home. Call me. Let me know you’re safe. We worry about you.”

  Damn it all. Yesterday had been Christmas. I’d meant to call my parents. Then we’d gotten the hotel tip and then I’d been busy and forgot. Better remedy the situation. I’d tell Mom I’d gotten held up at work. I wouldn’t tell her about Cisco. I kept that part of my life from my parents. They knew I was gay. Celebrated the fact. The minute I introduced a man to them, Mom would start planning our civil ceremony. Okay, maybe she wasn’t that bad. I wouldn’t know. I’d never tested her.

  The second message was from Damien Saunders. “Happy Christmas, Thomas. I know you’re working, but perhaps you’d like to get a drink, later. Tonight or tomorrow or whenever.” A week ago, I’d have returned his call; even as I worried he’d sideline me with another gay cause. Didn’t matter now. I had plans, with Cisco.

  I called my mother and assured her I was alive. Asked about her Christmas. Heard a long story about the upstairs neighbors’ baby. Told her about the false lead. She told me I was a good boy for helping the abused mother and son. “Good boy.” Not a phrase she used often on me.

  I checked my watch. Decided it was too early to visit Cisco. Instead, I did some weights. I’d set up a bench in the guest bedroom. I knocked out a series that left me gasping and sweaty. In the shower, I rubbed my torso with soap. I didn’t have a six-pack. I had a four-pack. Normally this didn’t leave me feeling inadequate, but Cisco’s body was something else. Then again, he was younger. How much younger? Six years, maybe.

  I debated shaving. Decided against it. Instead, I slapped aftershave on my two-day beard. Brushed my teeth. Put some gel in my hair and tousled the front. Used my nice deodorant. Looked for clothes that fit well without screaming, “trying too hard.” Threw a clean uniform in a duffel, in case I spent the night. I called a cab, because someone would recognize my car in the hotel parking lot. The FBI was installed there. They’d put two and two together.

  Small-town cabs were nothing like their city counterparts. Mine was a minivan driven by a guy older than my dead grandfather. I had to shout my destination at him. He kept the radio on at a level slightly below ear-bleeding. The radio was done with carols. Now everything was the “Best of 1997.” As far as I could tell, 1997’s best was a lot of rap music and Elton John singing about dead Princess Di.

  Was Cisco expecting me tonight? I hadn’t said anything on my way out. Hadn’t wanted to make it awkward, or risk anyone overhearing. Maybe I should’ve waited another day.

  The driver dropped me at the hotel’s entrance. I walked through; head high, nodding at the staff like they should recognize me. I got upstairs. Knocked twice. He opened the door. His outfit from earlier was gone, replaced by sweats and a tank top. God, he looked good. Criminally good. I thought about booking him right there. Handcuffing him. Maybe my eyes showed the direction of my thoughts. Or maybe it was my pants. Either way, he pulled me in as he said, “About damn time.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Cisco left for North Carolina on the 30th. On the 31st, I caught up on all things I’d let slip, like clean clothing. I dropped two bags of laundry at Suds. Lucy stood behind the counter, her Go
th face requiring less powder in the pale winter months. “Long time no see,” she said. The Alienist lay facedown on the counter in front of her, its spine creased.

  “Sci-fi?” I asked.

  She looked at the book. “No. It’s about Teddy Roosevelt and a shrink trying to catch a serial killer. ‘Alienist’ is what they used to call psychiatrists, way back when.”

  “Sounds like sci-fi to me.”

  She hauled my laundry bags around the counter. “Sunday okay for these?” She paused. Looked at my rumpled clothes. “Make that Saturday afternoon.”

  “None of your lip, missy.”

  “You sound like my gran sometimes. You know, I think she’s looking for a new Bingo partner.”

  “Bingo isn’t a paired game.”

  “It is the way she plays it.”

  “Nate in?” I asked, pointing at the door that joined the Laundromat to the bar.

  “He’s prepping the bar.” She checked her wrist. Lucy wore a man’s watch. The dial’s face covered her thin wrist. “Should be slicing lemons now.”

  He wasn’t slicing lemons. He was slicing limes. His hands cut perfect circles from the small fruit. One, two, three, four. He stopped cutting and looked up. “Hi, Chief.” Not many people in the place. Late for lunch. Too early for dinner. A few committed drinkers at the bar. “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “You said you used to work construction, yeah?”

  “Of course. I’m a full-blooded Native, aren’t I?” That’s what folks in Idyll said. That Nate was 100 percent Nipmuc Indian. He found it amusing. He’d told me he didn’t think anyone was 100 percent anything these days. “What are you working on?”

  “I’m trying to pry up my kitchen floor. Parts of it are coming up, but the rest is adhered with some sort of superglue.”

  “What’s under the floor?”

  “Wood. Not sure what kind.”

  “Linoleum on top?”