It’s like taking a brick to the face. Not forever? He crawled out of a deep sleep to tell me that on this of all mornings? I’d rather take a brick to the face. I’ve known for weeks—hell, possibly for the whole eleven months we’ve been living with his parents—that it wouldn’t be forever. I’ve gotten through half my days by telling myself I can leave tomorrow if I want. And he waits until the minute—the actual minute—I finally realize nothing in the world matters as long as Ruben’s in it to tell me it’s not forever? Generous? Sweet? The hell—he’s a sadistic, mind-reading monster. I think I might throw up. Like, in his hair.
“What?” It hurt so much the first time, I guess I figure if he says it again it might actually kill me and put an end to the Most Horrifying Morning Ever.
“Living here? With my parents? In this little room with this tacky carpet I know you hate. You know it’s not forever, right? I’ve been socking away a little bit of money, I was thinking we could start looking at places, maybe downtown…”
My relief bursts out of me in a laugh. For the second time I’m weightless, again buoyed by glee. Ruben cocks an interrogative eyebrow—Why exactly is that funny?—and I kiss him. On the forehead. On the cheek. On the mouth. On the neck. I make to move lower with my mouth—his pert little brown nipples are irresistibly chocolate-chippish, for one thing, and I’ve always had a sweet tooth—but first I am careful to tell him:
“I don’t care about that anymore.”
“You don’t care? You hate it here.”
I shrug before I kiss him again. “I mean, I kind of care. I don’t love living here, you’re right. But I don’t hate it.”
Again with the eyebrow.
“You’re here,” I explain. “That’s what I care about. As long as I’m with you, honey, I’m home.”
* * * *
ABOUT MICHAEL P. THOMAS
Michael P. Thomas is a former flight attendant whose mid-life career change to 911 operator has shown him that the widespread fear of sharing and receiving love is a real emergency. He writes to spread love and encourage others to do likewise. And a little bit to scare the gay-haters. For more information, visit facebook.com/GoReadMichaelPThomas.
A Man to Take a Chance On by Tinnean
Max Futé thought he was in good shape—he was a doctor, after all, and knew how to take care of his body—but he was having second thoughts about it as he climbed the stairs to the tenth floor in the building that housed the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security. He tried to breathe as easily as the man who jogged up beside him, but he wasn’t really succeeding.
Mark Vincent, deputy director of Interior Affairs in the WBIS, had offered him the position of chief doctor. The offer was in part because Max had made sure Vincent’s lover had survived his kidnapping and torture by Prinzip, an antiterrorist organization that was run by a madman, but also because Max was a competent doctor.
His actions hadn’t been entirely altruistic. His main goal was to save Charles Browne, a WBIS agent who’d also been kidnapped.
Browne was tall, at least six feet, which meant he towered over Max’s own five foot seven frame. His hair was darker than Max’s, and his eyes were green. Max had taken one look and decided he would do whatever was necessary to become this man’s lover.
Max knew the man called The Administrator planned to make an example of Browne, so Max had come up with a plan to save his life. It hadn’t saved Browne’s pinky finger, but Max’s fertile imagination had spun a tale Richard believed. The warehouse where Prinzip had its headquarters had a subbasement that was almost a dungeon, and he’d been able to conceal Browne down there.
And thanks be to God and Mark Vincent, they had come out of it alive.
“Just keep your mouth shut about Mann,” M. Vincent told him now. “I appreciate you keeping him alive, and I want him to stay that way. Mention his name, and in spite of what you did for him, I’ll kill you.”
“Vraiment?”
“Yeah, vraiment.” They stepped out of the stairwell and walked down the corridor.
“All right.” Max had been threatened by so many of the people he’d come into contact with in the past year or so that he was no longer fazed.
“Okay. This is The Boss’s office. He gives you the final approval, and I’ll take you down to Medical.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“I can’t go back to France.” He’d had no choice but to tell M. Vincent he’d been forced to work for Prinzip because he’d lost his doctor’s license when he’d assisted in his grand-mère’s death. He’d known she was terminal, although his family refused to face it. And grand-mère had been in such pain and had pleaded with him so desperately to do something to end it.
M. Vincent paused and looked into his eyes. “You won’t have to. The Boss owes me. As I told you, the doctor you’re replacing was an asshole.”
“What did he do?”
“He screwed with me.”
“Then I will make a point not to…screw with you.”
“Smart man. Okay, this is The Boss’s office.”
They went in, were sent in to see The Boss by a secretary who looked as if she might be comfortable sitting on the roof of Notre Dame, and when they walked out, Max had the job.
“You need a place to stay?” M. Vincent asked as they went back down seven flights of stairs to the third floor, where the medical department was.
“No. Charles has offered me a place.”
“Browne?”
“Oui.”
M. Vincent shrugged. “He’s been bitching about not being able to come back to work.”
“He cannot. He is dehydrated and malnourished and needs to recover. His hand also needs to heal.”
“Will you be able to hang tough?”
“Excusez-moi?”
“Will you be able to tell him no and mean it?”
“Of course. I’m a doctor.”
“Well, good luck with him.” He opened a door and ushered Max in as another man came from the back of the department. He peeled off gloves and tugged down the mask he was wearing.
“Hey, Vince.”
“Smitty.”
“And hello to you, you sweet thing.”
Max was tempted to look around to see who the man was talking to. He ran his gaze over Max, and it was obvious from his expression he liked what he saw.
“What are you doing here?” M. Vincent asked, sounding annoyed.
“Patching up one of your boys who didn’t retreat when Bélanger advanced.”
M. Vincent narrowed his eyes. “Not Winchester.” He groaned when the other doctor shrugged. “M. Bélanger is our fencing master,” he told Max.
“Never mind about him. Are you going to introduce this sweetie?”
“Jesus. Max, this horn dog is our coroner, Avery Schmidt. He also does the odd patch-up job in-house. Max Futé is our new sawbones, so your services won’t be required anymore.”
“I’m cut to the quick.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. Look, I’ve got to get back to seven. I’ve got a shitload of paperwork to catch up on. Can I trust you to show Max around without you trying to get in his pants?”
“Absolutely.”
“Right. Max, if Smitty tries anything with you, you have my permission to knock him on his ass.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t pull that innocent crap with me. I’ve seen you in action, remember. Does the name Matheson ring a bell?”
“The formaldehyde fumes went to my head.”
“I’ll bet.” M. Vincent turned to Max. “Smitty was doing an autopsy, and my agent and I were observing. He made a pass at him right in front of me.”
“Bastard.” Dr. Schmidt huffed. “Spoiled some of my best lines.”
Max swallowed a laugh. This doctor was very attractive, a few inches taller than Max, and with hair slightly lighter. His eyes appeared to be hazel. Dr. Schmidt was the sort of man Max had always fallen f
or, with dire results. It was a good thing he was in love with Charles, or he wouldn’t have been able to help himself.
“Okay, fine. I’ll behave.”
M. Vincent snorted and strode out.
“Come on, Doctor. I’ll show you around.”
* * * *
Max had been working at the WBIS for six weeks. He liked working there, especially since they left him alone to do his job. He caught up on all the professional journals and even got to do a little experimenting on his own.
He’d been living with Charles Browne for the same amount of time. That should have been long enough for Charles to know whether he loved him or not, devrait-ce pas? Only apparently not.
Charles liked taking him to bed, liked what he did with his mouth and his ass, and frankly, so did Max, but as soon as Charles finished, he’d give Max’s cock a few pulls until he climaxed, and then he rolled over and fell asleep. No sweet words, no cradling Max in his arms.
Max sighed and unlocked the front door of Charles’s apartment. Six weeks, and all that Max had in this home were a couple of drawers in Charles’s dresser and five hangers to hold the shirts and trousers he wore to work. He felt…transient.
A crash sounded from the living room and he hurried down the hall, sliding to a halt in the doorway.
Pieces of the telephone were on the floor beneath a large dent in the wall. Charles panted and glared at him, then swore under his breath and kicked the console table.
“That wasn’t a good idea, mon cher,” Max couldn’t help observing. Charles wasn’t wearing shoes.
He curled his lip at Max. “Think I goddamned well don’t know that?” he muttered as he hopped on one foot, favoring his injured toe. Max remained silent, and finally Charles snarled, “Vincent still won’t give me the okay to come back to work.”
“Do you wish for me to speak with him? You’ve regained most of the weight you lost—”
“It won’t do any fucking good. Vincent will let me come back when he’s good and fucking ready. I don’t know how the fuck I wound up in his department. I’ve always been in Foreign Affairs.”
“What’s brought on this—?” He bit back the words. If he referred to Charles’s loss of temper as a tantrum, he’d wind up sleeping in the guest room. Again.
“Go fuck yourself, Max. You’re only living here because I owe you.”
Max flinched. He’d gradually become aware of that. “You needn’t be grateful any longer.” He left the room and went into the kitchen.
When M. Vincent had brought him to America from Paris, all he’d had were the scrubs he wore. M. Mann had been so kind as to buy him enough clothes to last a week, so he’d have something to wear while he did laundry.
“I’ll repay you,” he’d told him.
“Not necessary, Max. You kept me alive. I owe you more than a few outfits.”
However, Max wasn’t a…a leech. The WBIS paid him well, and he set aside something from each paycheck. He’d learned to expect people to go back on their word to him, so when the time came, and M. Mann wanted his money, he’d be prepared.
He found a couple of brown paper bags in the kitchen, as well as a Baggie for his personal items, and then he climbed the stairs up to their bedroom.
No, not theirs any longer. Had it ever been?
He slumped down on the edge of the bed and took his cell phone from his pocket.
Avery Schmidt had come into the department one day—well, he came by often for a cup of coffee and a chat, but that day, he’d backed Max against a wall, and searched his pockets for his phone. Max had batted at Avery’s hands, but he’d actually enjoyed the playful manhandling, so different from how Charles treated him. Charles’s sole purpose was to get him in bed. Foreplay amounted to a couple of pulls on his cock and a slicked finger shoved up his ass.
When Avery found the phone, he programmed his number in it. “One of these days you’re gonna realize what you’re missing. Call me. Any time, day or night.”
“But suppose you’re doing an autopsy?” Max teased.
“Tough decision. The job or the hot doctor I’ve been panting after.” Avery tucked the phone back in his pocket, then ran his thumbs up over Max’s throat to his chin, tipped his head back, and stole a brief kiss. “Call me and we’ll see which one comes out on top.” He’d sauntered out of the department, and Max had brushed his forefinger over his lips. It had been a long time since he’d been kissed.
Charles thought it was too gay.
Now he pulled up Avery’s contact. “Please don’t be autopsying anyone.” He was starting to think the call would go to voicemail, when Avery picked up.
“Max. What is it, babe?”
“Are you…er…busy?”
“For you? Never.”
“Would you mind coming to pick me up?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Wait! I have to give you the address!”
“I hang out with Mark Vincent a lot. I’ve got it.”
“All right. Avery…thank you more than I can say.”
“No biggie, babe. I’ll see you in a few.”
Max hung up and sat there for a moment, staring at the door that led downstairs to Charles. Why did he always do this…find someone he was sure would love him only to learn otherwise?
He put his phone away and got to his feet. He’d better start his packing, such as it was.
He opened the first drawer and removed shorts and socks. The second drawer held undershirts and handkerchiefs. He packed them into one bag, along with the Baggie that held his comb, toothbrush, deodorant, and disposable razor. Shoes, shirts, and trousers went into the second bag.
He gathered the bags into his arms, returned to the first floor, and set them down by the front door.
“What…are you taking out the trash? Garbage day isn’t until Monday.”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing? Where are you going?” Charles looked surprised.
“I think it for the best if I move out.”
“Why?”
Max was a very big believer in nonviolence, but just then he wanted to throw something at Charles’s head. “You’ve said the only reason you let me stay here is because you feel obligated. Let me tell you something, Charles—I’m no man’s obligation.”
“But—”
Max held up his hand. “You’ve also made it obvious there’s no kind of future for us. Our relationship is pretty much at a standstill.”
He waited for Charles to tell him what he usually did: they didn’t have a relationship, they were just fuck buddies.
Instead, Charles asked, “But where will you go?”
“I don’t see where that’s any concern of yours, but if you must know, there are beds set up in Medical for emergency situations. I think this qualifies. I’ll stay there until I can find a place.”
The doorbell rang.
“That should be my ride.” He opened the door.
Avery stood there, wearing scrubs and paper booties over his shoes. “I got here as soon as I could. All set, Max?” He stooped and picked up one of the bags. “Oh, hullo, Browne.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Max needs a ride. I’ve come to drive him wherever he needs to go.”
Charles stood there with his jaw hanging open. “But…”
“Adieu, Charles.”
In spite of everything, Max almost hoped Charles would say something, call him back.
He didn’t.
Avery opened the trunk of his car—a Dodge, which made Max laugh, since it seemed that was what everyone in the WBIS drove—and they both put the bags in there. Avery closed the trunk, then went to the passenger side and opened the door for Max.
It felt nice to be treated with such courtesy.
“Did I interrupt an autopsy?”
“It’s okay. I turned it over to my assistant. She needs the practice.”
“Thank you.”
“You already thanked me once.”
Avery grinned and shook his head. “Okay, where to?” he asked.
“The WBIS, where else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Excuse me?”
“You need dinner.”
“You’re hardly dressed to dine out.”
“We won’t. I’ll take you to my place. And I promise, no funny business.”
“How can I trust you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Matheson came in one day.”
Avery groaned. “Is everyone trying to put a crimp in my love life?”
“He merely stopped by to have a wound treated.”
“He was shot?”
Max shrugged. “It’s a hazard of the job from what he led me to believe.”
Avery stopped at a light and turned his head to give Max a fierce scowl. “He’s never been shot before.” He seemed to think about it. “Well, not since he first came to DC.” He resumed scowling. “Did he make a pass at you? He’s got a very hot boyfriend at home, you know.”
“Yes, I knew. He took out his wallet and showed me pictures. And no, he didn’t make a pass at me. However, he did tell me about the time you tried to talk him into bed.”
“Well…He’s hot, too. And you weren’t in my life.” Avery was too cute to resist.
“All right, I’ll have dinner at your place, but then you’re to drive me to the WBIS.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
* * * *
To Max’s surprise, Avery behaved himself. He put together a decent coq au vin, and Max finished his entire portion. Usually after quarreling with Charles, he had no appetite at all.
“Why don’t you go sit in the living room? I have a chocolate pudding pie. I’ll make a pot of coffee, and we can have dessert in the living room.”
“Let me help you.”
“You don’t have to. Everything is all set to go.”
“At least let me load the dishwasher.”
“Uh…I don’t have a dishwasher.”
“Really? Then let me wash the dishes. When I was in college, I worked in a small restaurant washing the dishes for pocket change.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Love Is Proud Page 41
