by Eli Easton
His eyes fell on the stack of legal documents lying on the coffee table. Or…. Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Could that provide some fresh motivation? He snorted. It’d provide fresh manure, more likely.
Kyle noticed what he was looking at. He started singing, loud and purposefully off-key. “Old McDonald had a farm, eeii-eeii-ooo!”
“Shut up!”
Kyle snorted like a pig and snuffled against Christie’s shoulder. Christie laughed.
“I keep telling you, it’s not a farm, it’s just a house,” Christie protested.
“’S not the city, ergo it’s a farm. Flies, pig shit, and really, really, really tall corn or green beans or whatever.”
“You’re so wasted. It’s a little house in farm country. Quit drooling on me, and put that out before you burn your fingers.” Christie shoved Kyle over. Kyle blearily put the nub of his joint in the ashtray.
“Wish some rich relative would leave something to me,” Kyle muttered.
Christie’s Aunt Ruth hadn’t been rich, but she was sharp and frugal. She left her house to Kyle, free and clear. The lawyer thought he could sell it for a hundred grand. But Kyle wanted to at least go see it before he sold it off. He had fond memories of visiting that house as a boy.
“Was that the last joint?” Kyle complained.
“Yes. Anyway, we’ve both had enough. Time for bed.”
“Fuck.” Kyle sounded despondent. He ground his eyes with the palms of his hands. “What about pills? You got anything?”
Christie looked at his watch. “Jesus, Kyle, it’s almost 2:00 a.m.”
“Oh, come on! Weed just doesn’t do it for me anymore. I won’t be able to sleep. Do you have anything or not?”
Christie looked at his friend, or tried to. Everything was a bit blurry. Damn, he really had drunk too much tonight. He had five dirty martinis at the club, plus a shot Mick bought for him. It was all over the course of at least three hours, so it didn’t seem like a lot. But one thing about being a regular at The Boiler Room—the bartenders went heavy on the booze in your drinks, and he hadn’t had much dinner. The single toke on the joint pushed him over the edge into the unpleasant side of stoned. His head swam.
Kyle, however, was sitting up looking at him expectantly. Was he genuinely not high enough? Whatever. Christie wasn’t his babysitter. And it wasn’t like they were going out anywhere.
He took the baggie the hookup gave him from his pants pocket and tossed it to Kyle. “A guy gave those to me. Said they were X. I didn’t actually know him, though. So maybe we shouldn’t—”
Kyle was already opening the baggie. He popped both of the blue pills into his mouth and swallowed.
“Hey!”
“I’m sorry, did you want one?” Kyle put a hand over his mouth. He looked truly abashed.
“You’re such a bogart!”
Kyle giggled, then giggled harder, until he was half lying on Christie, laughing. “I’m sorry! So, so sorry! That was rude! And they were your pills too! Oh my God!”
“Dork.”
“I’m not a dork!” Kyle sat up and put his shoulders back, flashing his best clubbing smile. No, Kyle wasn’t a dork. He was fucking glorious. He had platinum-blond hair, big blue eyes, and a fragile build, just like Christie himself. They were practically twins. Guys loved Kyle, and he was a sweetheart too. He was a total slut, but he’d give you the shirt off his back. Then again, Christie had no room to slut shame.
Kyle wobbled a little as he posed. His eyes went funny. Worry niggled at Christie. Kyle should not have taken both those tabs. “You need to drink some water, Ky. I’ll get it.”
He went into the kitchen to get them both some water. It was definitely time to call it a night. Would Kyle be able to sleep after taking two tabs of X? Or would he be up for hours, trying to get Christie to talk? God, please don’t let him freak out like he did a few months ago after taking some pills at the club. He scared Christie that night.
He stood at the sink, letting the water run cold for some time. He blinked, coming out of his daze. He filled two tall glasses of water and went into the living room.
“I want you to drink this whole glass. You’ll—”
Kyle was slumped over on the couch. His eyes were rolled back, showing a sliver of white under parted eyelids, and foam came out of his mouth. His body convulsed in soft jolts.
Christie screamed. “Kyle!”
Instantly the evening changed. The two glasses Christie carried hit the floor and shattered, sending water everywhere. “Kyle, oh my God!”
Glass cut Christie’s stockinged feet as he stumbled to the couch, but he just winced and kept going. He shook Kyle’s shoulders and pulled down his jaw, fighting against the clenching of Kyle’s teeth. “Kyle, are you all right? Kyle!”
Christie looked around, desperate for something to keep Kyle’s mouth open. How could he even breathe through all that foam and gunk? Christie ran back into the kitchen, cutting his feet again, and grabbed a towel. He twisted it into a rope as he ran back, and he forced it between Kyle’s teeth. “Oh God. Oh my God!”
He fumbled for his phone on the coffee table and dialed 911. “Help me! Please! My friend, he’s OD’ing. He’s having convulsions!”
“Calm down, sir. Give me your address.”
Christie gave her the address. “We’re on the sixth floor, apartment 613. Please hurry!”
“The ambulance is on the way. Now sir, I need you to stay calm and help him. Can you do that?”
The operator—God bless her every firm and caring word—gave Christie directions for clearing Kyle’s airways. He wasn’t convulsing anymore, but now he was unconscious. The operator walked Christie through moving Kyle onto his side so he wouldn’t choke.
Christie did everything she said, but he felt like he was fucking it up. He was a mess and still too drunk to think clearly. He grabbed Kyle’s phone with one hand and sent a quick text to Billy. He needed help now.
It felt like mere seconds before Billy pounded on their door and Christie let him in. Billy said nothing, merely fell to his knees beside Kyle on the couch and took over CPR like he knew what he was doing. His face was white with fear and tears swam in his eyes.
“Sir?” Christie had forgotten he was still holding the phone to his ear.
“My friend is giving him CPR,” Christie whispered to the operator.
He felt like he might throw up. The room went gray. The phone slipped from his fingers and terror seized him.
What if I’d been too high to call the ambulance?
What if I’d taken those pills instead, or if we’d each taken one? Would I be like Kyle now too? Who would have called the ambulance then?
Is Kyle dying? How the hell do I live with myself if Kyle dies?
For the first time in eight years, Christie prayed. He prayed absolutely and sincerely and with everything he had. Please God, please let Kyle live. I swear, I will give up partying forever, never touch another drug or drink. Just let Kyle live!
From the distance came the sound of sirens, and then Christie’s world went black.
Chapter 2
“Christie? Are you awake?”
Christie opened his eyes. He was in a hospital bed. A doctor stood over him, shining a light into Christie’s eyes. “There you are. I need you to tell me what your friend Kyle took tonight. It’s very important. Do you understand? And I need to know what you took too.”
He was in the hospital? He must have passed out and ended up going in the ambulance too. Jesus. He tried to sit up. The doctor let him, watching him critically. He had an IV and felt reasonably coherent, even though his head was killing him.
“Is Kyle okay?”
“No,” the doctor said with no trace of softness. “He’s not okay. We’ve pumped his stomach, but we need to know what’s in his bloodstream.”
Christie told him what drinks Kyle likely had at the club, the red wine, the joint, and the two pills that were supposedly ecstasy.
The doctor’s face was h
ard. “Do you know how dangerous it is, Christie, to take street drugs from strangers?”
Christie knew. But everyone did it at the clubs, shared drugs. And normally it was fine. But not this time. “It was stupid,” he agreed.
I never should have shown Kyle those pills. I should have dropped them in the waste can as soon as that guy left the restroom.
The judgmental look on the doctor’s face made Christie feel like shit. How had his life come to this? He’d had a strict upbringing, an enviable education, a good professional job, decent looks, and an apartment in Manhattan…. He had it all. So how did he find himself in a scene from a bad reality show like Intervention?
This isn’t me. He wasn’t an addict or an alcoholic, he just liked to party on the weekends. Everyone he knew did the same. And yet here he was.
“Well, I don’t know what those pills were, but they weren’t ecstasy. You don’t know any more about them?” the doctor pushed.
Christie shook his head. “The guy who gave them to me took one, so he must not have known they were bad.” He described the pills to the best of his memory—which was basically small and blue. He couldn’t remember if they’d had any markings.
The doctor frowned and wrote it down. He had Christie describe the Latino too. He said nothing when Christie couldn’t remember his name. “I’ll let the police know. This guy who gave you the pills—he may be in trouble somewhere if he took one too.”
“I’m sorry,” Christie repeated pointlessly.
“And you didn’t take any pills like that?”
“No. I told you what I had tonight—booze and one toke of weed. That’s it.”
“You were passed out when the ambulance got there and your feet were all cut up. Your blood alcohol level was .24. That’s seriously intoxicated. Are you aware, Christie, that levels as low as .35 can kill you?”
“We were home for the night,” Christie said lamely, but his gut burned. He had been too drunk. He was almost too drunk to help Kyle. He moved his feet under the sheet and felt bandages. Now that he remembered cutting his feet on the glass, they started to ache. “Will Kyle live?” The words caught in his throat.
The doctor’s expression finally softened. “He’ll live. He’s lucky. This time. As for you, we’re giving you fluids, and we’ll retest your blood every hour. Once you get below .08 blood alcohol, you’ll be free to go. But if you can think of anything else that will help Kyle, I hope you’ll let us know.”
Christie nodded, relieved. He watched the doctor go, looked at the IV needle in his arm, and decided right then: it was time for a change.
“The new husbands may now kiss.”
Christie watched Kyle and Billy kiss each other with sweet gusto. The sight provoked a weird mix of hope, jealousy, and worry. Was this truly what Kyle wanted? Would he be okay?
Since the night Kyle almost died three months ago, he was a changed man. Both Christie and Kyle saw that night as a serious wake-up call, but Kyle’s transformation was extreme. He was a party boy ever since Christie met him, but he went cold turkey—no booze, no weed, no drugs, no clubs. He started seeing Billy exclusively. It was even Kyle who popped the question, insisting he was ready to settle down.
All of those were good changes, but Christie was worried about the manic speed with which it all happened. He hoped Kyle stuck with his new resolve and was truly happy.
It was hard to believe one of their duo—Kyle and Christie, fierce boy toys extraordinaire—was married. Of course Christie longed for that too. He wanted a stable relationship, a chance to build a permanent home with someone, to have someone to love and count on through thick and thin. But wanting it was one thing; finding it was another. He had a hard time seeing himself settling down with any of the guys he knew or had dated. His relationships always started with heady infatuation and ended with disappointment.
Probably he expected too much, but he didn’t want to come second after someone’s career or desire to play the field, or sometimes even after his partner’s own vanity. There was one memorable Prince Charming who wasn’t willing to disrupt his gym routine to come to a birthday dinner Kyle arranged for Christie. That was the end of that “boyfriend.”
But Billy truly was a sweet guy. At least Kyle chose well.
The ceremony over, Billy and Kyle hugged their guests. There were about twenty people in the room at the city clerk’s office on Worth St. Most of them were friends, but Kyle’s mom was there, looking elegant in a peach suit, her mascara running all over her face from her tears. Billy’s parents were there too, quiet and looking a little shell-shocked.
Kyle threw his arms around Christie. “I’m married. Can you believe it?” he whispered in Christie’s ear.
“You’re so lucky. Billy’s an amazing person.” Please don’t break his heart.
“I know! He’s too good for me, but I’m selfish that way.” Kyle pulled back and gave Christie a starry-eyed smile. “Now we just need to find you a husband too.”
Christie laughed. “Probably not going to happen in Lancaster County.”
Kyle looked sad at that, pouting his lower lip. “Can’t believe you’re leaving me.” He hugged Christie again.
“You left me first.”
“Yes, but it was for a good cause.”
Kyle announced four weeks ago he was moving out of their shared apartment. Christie could have found another roommate, but he decided against it. The apartment was too small a place to live with anyone who wasn’t practically a brother. Besides, it was too close to the clubs and to all their party friends. Too tempting.
Christie needed a change too—a complete and total change. That’s why he decided to let the apartment go, take a six-month hiatus from Manhattan, and go live in the house he inherited from his aunt. That would give him plenty of time to look over all her stuff, get the house ready for market, and sell it. It felt like the right thing to do. She left him the property along with all her worldly possessions. He should look after it himself, not hire some stranger to pick through her things. And he was ready for a break from city life. He’d had a strong sense of nostalgia for the country lately. Ironic. Growing up, he couldn’t escape it fast enough. He never thought he’d miss it in a million years.
“You’ll come back, right?” Kyle asked, studying Christie’s face. “Once you’ve sold your aunt’s place. You’ll be back?”
“I’ll be climbing the walls in a month. Of course I’ll be back! I can’t exactly build a big old gay life in rural Pennsylvania.”
Kyle frowned at that. “Be careful, okay? There are probably a lot of rednecks there. And, you know, Republicans!”
Christie laughed. “I don’t think they hang gays, Kyle.” At least I hope not.
Billy joined them, putting his big arms around both of them and squeezing. He looked so happy it hurt Christie’s heart. “You two both look gorgeous today. Babe, come say hi to my parents.”
Kyle kissed Billy’s cheek. “I’ll be right there, love.”
Billy moved away and Kyle gave Christie one last embrace. There was a trace of fear in it. “Who would have ever thought? Me married and you leaving the city. We’re going to be okay, right?”
Christie murmured reassurances, but inside, he was scared too.
Chapter 3
A stranger had moved into Ruth Landon’s house. David saw the guy from a distance. He was young, blond, and very “city-looking,” from his expensive boots and tight jeans to his long haircut. He was probably Ruth’s heir. David heard through the neighborhood grapevine that she left her house to a nephew.
He put off his duty, uneasy about talking to the young man. But at last he couldn’t put it off any longer. So after Earl finished the second milking on a Wednesday and went home and all of David’s own work was done for the day, he made up his mind to go over there. He showered, put a TV dinner in the oven to cook while he was out, donned his best suede-and-sheepskin jacket, and walked down the gravel farm lane that led between his place and the Landon property.
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br /> The lights were on in the small brick house, so he figured the stranger was home. This is just business. No need to be nervous. He knocked on the front door. There was no answer. He tried again.
“Hello?” The stranger came walking around the side of the house. God, he was even more swanky than he looked from afar. This close up, his good looks took David aback. He had light-blond hair, which was cut short at the nape but had long sides and bangs that hung over his forehead. He had big blue eyes. His face was delicate, with a long, thin nose, small chin, and a finely drawn mouth. He was of average height but quite thin, and he wore his blue jeans skintight. Small silver rings and balls marched up the curve of both ears. He had on a light-blue long-sleeved T-shirt that matched his eyes, a black down vest, and fur-topped hiking boots. Somehow the entire outfit looked more fashionable than anything David had ever worn in his life.
David’s gaze skittered away, and he found himself focusing on the guy’s vest to avoid his eyes.
“I thought I heard someone knocking on the door. Hi! Who are you?”
The man’s voice was friendly, but it was a little high in pitch, as if he were younger than the midtwenties he appeared to be.
“Hi. I’m David Fisher. I own the farm next door.” He stepped forward and held out his hand. The stranger moved closer and shook it.
“Oh, hi! Yeah, I’ve seen you out working in the field. I’m Christie Landon. My Aunt Ruth used to live here.”
David stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, feeling awkward. “Ruth was a good woman. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Christie frowned. “Thanks. Yeah. I hadn’t seen her for a few years, unfortunately. But she was a very cool lady. Hey, do you mind if we walk around back? I’m burning some leaves, and I’m sort of afraid I’ll set the eastern part of Pennsylvania on fire if I leave them unattended.”
Christie laughed at himself, and David relaxed a little. City or not, Christie didn’t seem judgmental or stuck-up. “Sure.”
