Bastards and Pretty Boys

by K. Z. Snow

  “You look uncomfortable,” he said, his glimmering gaze falling below my waist. “Why don’t you wade out here and stand in front of me?”

  Canny bastard wanted me to walk into the lake. The water was probably five feet deep where he sat, or nearly so, but I was getting hornier by the minute.

  “Come on, Charlie.” Booker’s fingers crawled over his burgeoning erection. “I need you.”

  He needed me. How could I resist? And so I inched out there, rubbing my own cock as I did so, concentrating on my reward for being brave enough to stand in water up to my chest. Just as my gut would send an anxious shiver through my muscles, Booker would do something else enticing—squeeze his shaft just below the head, or caress the head, or run a hand over his chest. Arousal lowered his eyelids and parted his lips. I moved on, irresistibly drawn to him, even as mounting fear slithered beneath my skin and threatened to paralyze my legs.

  But I did it. I got there. I stood in front of him and sucked him off as his strong hands cradled my head and my own hands made a phallic offering to whatever sprites inhabited Cloud Lake. I hadn’t come in water for a while—not since the last time I’d done it in the bathtub, years ago—and it made me perversely proud. After Booker and I had both gotten off, he slipped into the lake, kissed me long and deeply as he held me close, and then guided me back to shore.

  At dusk, we went out in the paddleboat. Another victory. We never got so far out from shore that we couldn’t see the bottom, but hell, I was on water for the first time in twenty-three years.

  Friday night we sat in front of the fire pit on my beach, munching s’mores and drinking beer—a surprisingly good combination. Aside from the crackling and snapping of the fire, the only sounds on the lake were the throaty, double-note calls of frogs and the occasional screech of a bottle rocket from Pumpkinseed Campground. The sky, patterned with stars, looked like the sequined shirt of a Country Western singer.

  Booker wasn’t very talkative. I knew why. The world was on the verge of intruding on our idyll.

  “Are you thinking about tomorrow evening?” I asked gently.

  “Mm-hm. I’ll only have one chance to do it, so I’d better get it right.”

  In order to fend off another uninvited visit by Karl Bollinger, considering I was now part of the picture at Cloud Lake, Booker had called the therapist on Tuesday and set up a meeting. We needed to get something on the guy, and that necessarily involved some contact.

  Booker would be seeing him tomorrow evening in a town about twenty miles away. Neutral territory would be best, for a number of reasons.

  “Do you think he knows you’re going to give him the heave-ho?” I asked.

  Booker, sitting cross-legged, brushed his hands over his jeans. He stared into the fire. “I’m pretty sure he suspects, considering I didn’t invite him over to my place. But I think he’s still hoping he can talk me out of it.”

  “Any idea what you’re going to say?”

  “Vaguely. But I’ll probably end up winging it.” Arms on thighs, Booker leaned forward and absently peeled bark from a small branch.

  My heart ached for him. I wanted to go with him tomorrow, provide him with moral support, but I obviously couldn’t. Even though Karl Bollinger didn’t know me as his son’s boyfriend, chances were good he’d recognize me as Hosea Booker’s neighbor and fuck-buddy.

  “Son of a bitch is really hung up on you,” I said, and immediately thought of Kenneth. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…

  “Damned if I know why,” Booker muttered glumly.

  I knew why, at least from my perspective. “You’re a very desirable man.”

  Booker slid me a glance. “Don’t go there, Charlie. I really don’t want to hear it.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to compliment you.”

  Without looking at me, Booker reached over and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “How long does that battery last in the camera?”

  “Two hours,” I said. Booker would be wearing a mini “spy” camera with audio and built-in DVR.

  “Hope I’m done with him a lot sooner than that.” Now he did look at me. “You don’t think he’ll notice that thing sticking out of my shirt pocket?”

  “Actually, you could probably keep it in your shirt pocket. It’s the audio we need, not the video. Besides, I don’t know how well the camera works in low-light conditions.”

  Booker nodded. “I’ll use my judgment. I’m still not sure where the two of us will end up having our little talk. It just can’t be an enclosed space, like a vehicle. I don’t want him fuckin’ grabbing at me.”

  Booker poked at the fire. A flurry of sparks shaved through the darkness.

  I wondered if I should take down the other cameras we’d set up. There was one outside my back door—a fairly standard surveillance camera with night-vision capability—and a more sophisticated unit, with motion detector and night vision, in Booker’s kitchen. Since making our personal porn vids, we hadn’t checked either camera. That could wait, I figured, until Booker’s appointment was out of the way. Sunday could be our “plug ‘n’ play” day. Booker’s written recollections of his experiences with Karl were already stashed in a safe deposit box at the bank.

  “How do you suppose your boyfriend’s going to react to this shit?” Booker asked. He opened another beer. “Assuming anything comes of it.” He didn’t sound convinced anything would come of it.

  “Kenneth isn’t my boyfriend,” I said. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if he never heard a word about it. He and his father don’t seem very close.”

  Booker tapped the top of his beer can. He looked at me then looked at the fire. “Does Kenneth know he isn’t your boyfriend?”

  The question both pleased and dismayed me—a discomfiting reaction tied entirely to my relationship with Booker. I suddenly realized I had no idea where that relationship was going. I had no idea how much or how little it meant to us and what our expectations were. Hell, I didn’t even know if we had any expectations.

  “What does it matter?” I asked, trying to gain some insight.

  Booker shrugged and kept tapping on the can top. “I just don’t like messing with guys who are involved.”

  I swiveled to face him. “I told you, Kenneth and I never agreed to any kind of commitment. And he’s been sleeping around. I’ve already laid the groundwork for a breakup.”

  “Which means it isn’t a done deal yet.”

  “Booker, for chrissake,” I said, raising my voice and tossing up my arms in frustration, “I can’t blow the man off over the goddamned phone!”

  Nodding, he looked down at his lap.

  “I’m sorry if it bothers you,” I said. “But for all intents and purposes, I am not part of a couple.”

  The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment before a voice in my head responded, quite archly, Oh aren’t you?

  If I felt bonded to anybody, it was the handsome, humble, caring, and altogether extraordinary man beside me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Even the air felt stressed on Saturday. Bloated with storm clouds, the glowering sky split open around noon. Booker and I had been in his shop, working on one of his projects, but we ambled onto the screen porch when the first growl of thunder sounded.

  Approaching storms are always majestic. It was the first one I’d experienced at the lake, and I was enthralled by its slow, rumbling approach from the west. Clouds crawled across the sky and up each other’s backs. They seemed to sponge the light from the sky.

  Booker’s hands rested on the chair arms. I laid a hand over one of his, my fingers stroking lightly, tracing the geometry of his bones. Sporadically, his fingers flexed, grasping mine. It was an assertion of connection—I felt that beyond a doubt—and with each wordless, passing minute, the connection strengthened. But I also sensed that neither of us knew quite what to make of it.

  Booker was reflective. Anxious, too, I supposed. I didn’t try to press him into conversation. Once the storm had passed, we resumed working
for another few hours then had a modest, early supper. Afterward, Booker got ready for his meeting with Karl. I didn’t shower with him, because he didn’t seem to want me to. Not surprising that he wasn’t in the mood for sex. I wouldn’t have been, either.

  “At least you shouldn’t have to worry about the camera getting wet,” I said as I secured it within his shirt pocket. “Sky seems to be clearing.”

  Distractedly, Booker nodded. He slipped on a light jacket, which would cover the small device if he felt hinky about it being visible. Had I not known what it was, I wouldn’t have made much of it. But that was only one person’s reaction.

  It was hard to ignore how good my lover looked and smelled. Although his face betrayed his tension, its grimness gave him a dimension of maturity even deeper than what I’d previously noticed. And it was distinctly masculine.

  At that moment, I realized Booker had a whole variety of appearances and scents, and each had its own strong appeal. Impulsively, I flattened a hand on the side of his face. “I’ll be waiting at my place.” I smiled encouragement. “Just call if you need to hear a friendly voice.”

  The lines in Booker’s face deepened. “Shit, Charlie, I really hate that you’ve gotten involved in this. I think you need to pull back.”

  “Don’t you get it? I want to help.”

  “But why?”

  When he looked at me like that—straight on, his beautiful eyes so large and expressive—I was barely capable of thought. All I could say was the first thing that came to mind. “Because you’re very special to me.”

  Booker lowered his gaze. “Oh, Christ. Don’t say that. I don’t need that.”

  All my filtering mechanisms stopped functioning. I wanted this man more than I could stand. I cared for him more than I could say. “But I do,” I said. “I need it. I need you.”

  Feeling a little lightheaded, I could hardly believe my ears. Had I really started making declarations to him? And so fervidly? I didn’t know what the hell was coming over me.

  Booker dropped against the door frame. Shoving both hands in his pockets, he stared at the chipped linoleum. “Fuck.”

  “What do you mean, ‘fuck’? Don’t tell me you’ve got a boyfriend or a wife or a kid or something.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Then what is? Are there more secrets, other secrets?”

  Booker’s head snapped up. He glared indignation at me. “No.”

  Flustered, I bent forward and imploringly stretched my hands toward him. “Fuckin’ talk to me, man! What’s wrong with me finding you special?” I’d made an investment in him, maybe a more significant one than I realized, and now he was saying he didn’t want it. When he tried reaching for me, I brushed his hand away.

  He seemed stung by my rebuff.

  “Guessing games make me crazy,” I said irritably, just to explain my reaction. I certainly didn’t want to hurt him.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t…” Helplessly, Booker shrugged. “Why do you have to feel that way about me? I’m no better than anybody else.”

  “Yes, you are,” I said, the fervor returning to my voice. “To me you are.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t single me out, Charlie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it isn’t real. You’re fooling yourself. I’m replaceable.”

  “You’re not a fucking sparkplug, Booker!”

  “Then make me one. Make me interchangeable with all the others.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “All what others? Booker, motherf—” I rolled my head back then pitched forward in utter frustration. “What do you want from me? You think I need to fall for a human bundle of contradictions? I don’t.” I shoved a hand through my hair. “I’d be better off unscrewing my dick and handing it over to you. That way you wouldn’t be able to fuck with my head.”

  He was watching me, frowning at me. “What did you say?”

  “Are you deaf in addition to being confused? I swear to Christ—”

  “You’re falling for me?”

  “Not the fuck anymore,” I muttered, although the words were nothing more than an empty comeback. Letting out a long breath, I leaned against the opposite side of the door. I had to calm down before I tried explaining why I was wigging out. Explaining part of the reason, anyway. “I’m sorry. But last night it bothered you that I haven’t gotten rid of Kenneth yet, I assume because you want me to focus on you exclusively. Now you’re upset because I have focused on you.”

  As soon I started talking about “focusing” on Booker, the reason for his resistance became clear to me. Being the target of someone’s attention had given him nothing but grief, except when it was his artwork that set him apart. Now, as he faced the prospect of seeing Karl again, his aversion to being singled out was like a reopening wound.

  I was pretty sure Booker wanted me to want him—at least, temporarily and physically. But as soon as I started finding him uniquely desirable, he spliced my attitude with the only other expression of attachment he knew—destructive, suffocating obsession. Yet there was obviously a part of him that craved attachment.

  A bundle of contradictions, all right.

  Booker kept studying the floor and nibbling his lower lip.

  “Just make up your mind, okay?” I said, sounding as tired as I felt. “Because if I’m gonna get my ass in any deeper, I sure as hell need to know where you’re coming from.”

  I opened the door and walked outside. Booker followed. He didn’t say anything, and I was simply going to shamble to my cottage. But I couldn’t send him off like this.

  I turned in his direction. “Hey!” When he looked my way, I said, “Good luck, sweet baby.” To my surprise, the term of endearment didn’t make me feel foolish and didn’t sound stupid. It sounded exactly right.

  Booker smiled wanly and seemed relieved. “Thanks, Charlie lark.”

  And that, too, had always sounded exactly right.

  * * * *

  My stomach felt awful. I couldn’t seem to settle down and find an adequate diversion. Anything that required concentration was out of the question, so I couldn’t read. I found the TV annoying, so I turned it off ten minutes after I turned it on. I didn’t want to be outside—without Booker’s company, the mosquitoes’ ongoing torment was unbearable—so I stayed indoors.

  Given my state of mind, I figured I might as well make some phone calls. At least they’d take my mind off Booker’s mission and train it on something else.

  Saturday night wasn’t a good time to call the pub. Too busy. Besides, I’d talked to Benny, Sheryl, and Gisella at different times throughout the week. My business manager, bar manager, and brew master respectively, they excelled at their jobs and kept things running smoothly. My trust in them all was implicit and well deserved.

  I did call Carolyn, though, to get an update on the investigations I’d initiated. She was off work but at a barbecue with Ira. I heard the music and conversation and laughter fade out as Carolyn obviously moved away from the center of activity, which was likely somebody’s backyard patio.

  “Liza needs more time to put the snoop on Bollinger,” she told me. “According to her, there’s some deep digging to do. Every lead takes her to a new level.”

  “So there are skeletons in his closet?”

  “It appears that way. In the closet, buried beneath the floor,” Carolyn said. “I’ll let you know as soon as she’s got everything she can get. There seems to be some kind of professional impropriety at the bottom of it all. Charges he barely managed to skirt, some position he lost. Sorry I don’t have any details yet.”

  Filling in the details was something I could almost do myself, just based on what Carolyn had said. I was willing to bet Karl Bollinger had put the make on a patient or patients in Colorado. Whether or not he was ever prosecuted, he likely lost his job and even his license to practice, and then he fled the state. Maybe there was a civil judgment against him instead of or in addition to a criminal conviction. In either case, it seemed he’d tr
ied running from a tarnished reputation … only to risk tarnishing it again.

  “Tell Liza I really appreciate the help,” I said.

  “You’ll be telling her yourself,” Carolyn said drolly, “when you write out that check. Oh, but I do have a freebie for you.”

  “What’s that?” I wandered into my bedroom and flopped down on the bed.

  “That other man you were curious about.”

  The funny feeling in my stomach briefly intensified. “Hosea Booker.”

  “Yeah. Sounds like an interesting guy. You could’ve looked him up yourself. There don’t seem to be any mysteries in his past.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Well, aside from a few speeding tickets, he has a drug-related conviction that resulted in some minor time at a correctional facility. Everything else I found about him had to do with—”

  “Art,” I said.

  “Yeah. Exhibits and sales of sculptures. Do you know him?”

  “I’m getting to.”

  “Well, I hope that drug conviction doesn’t rattle you too much.”

  “Why should it? Marijuana isn’t some demonic substance,” I said derisively. “It’s a weed with beneficial properties.”

  When Carolyn spoke, there was a smile in her voice. “Please tell me you’ve found a replacement for Ken Bob.”

  That was one of her many pet names for Kenneth. “No. Hosea Booker isn’t a replacement for anybody. He’s … unique.” What the fuck; he wasn’t around to hear me utter that detested word.

  “You know,” Carolyn said, “there’s only one thing that disappoints me about this development.”

  “Please don’t get on your damned cop-shop high horse,” I said. “Believe me, he’s learned his lesson.” Carolyn wasn’t as bad as some of her coworkers, but she could still adopt that tight-assed, self-righteous stance once in a while. Oh, we’re perfect citizens. We never break the law. It is sacrosanct, and we revere it.

  “I wasn’t going to!” Carolyn said, taking offense. “I also happen to think the drug laws in this country are screwed up. You know that. Damn, Charlie, you must really like this guy if you’re already his advocate.”