“You’re miles away, Jeff. What are you thinking about?”
He kissed her tenderly on top of her head. “Fourteen years ago, that night you stayed over at Grain Street—”
“And we slept among the building rubble.”
“I don’t remember getting much sleep that night.” Jeff laughed and slid his hand up her thigh. “Maybe the next day—”
“When you were supposed to be doing the final presentation,” Tanya said. She looked up at him. “Why do you keep coming back to me? You’ve got Nick now. Doesn’t he satisfy you?”
Jeff lay back on the pillow and spread his arms wide across the bed.
“Don’t overanalyze everything, Tanya,” he said with a sigh. “Just enjoy the moment. Nick doesn’t begrudge me this. He encourages me to—”
“You’ve told me before, he’s got his own fuck buddies,” she interrupted. “Is that why you do it? To get your own back?”
Jeff sat up and allowed Tanya to slide away from him. He reached out his hand and stroked her cheek. “Sex isn’t about revenge, Tanya. I don’t use it as a weapon to harm Nick. We’re in love. And even more, we’re soul mates.”
Tanya smiled and looked away.
Jeff eased himself off the bed and walked across to the window. He stood with his back to her, looking at the view across the bay. “Yeah, maybe it sounds corny,” he said, “but it’s true. I’ve known him for over five years now. I wouldn’t want to harm him, and neither would he want to harm me. We trust each other completely.”
He turned to look at Tanya. She wrapped her arms around a pillow and hugged it close. “You men are really something else,” she said. “You dress all tough. You flash your tattoos and your muscular bodies. Underneath, you’re soft as butter. What is it you see in that gym bunny?”
Jeff moved away from the window and gathered his clothes from the floor.
“Everything,” he said, getting dressed. “He’s more than a gym bunny. Far more. And for your information”—he turned to Tanya—“we’ve always been completely honest with each other. There are no lies between us. If ever there were, that would end our relationship immediately. He knows I’m with you tonight. And he’ll get a full report when I get back.” Jeff looked down and started to button his fly. “But remember, Tanya. I not only find my gym bunny man real hot—” He paused and looked up. “—but tall, sexy women are a real turn-on for me as well.”
Tanya hugged the pillow closer. “And when are you next going to find me a turn-on, Jeff?”
STEVE SAT in the dirty washroom cubicle, rapidly tapping away on his laptop. He knew he could not be away from the immigration holding room for long, or they would come searching for him.
It had taken him less than a minute to find the mobile number for Ramesh Panchal of Queens Drive, Mountain View. When he called it, the phone was answered quickly. Steve could hear airport sounds in the background.
“Mr. Panchal?” said Steve.
“Yes?” said a voice at the other end.
“My name is Steve Brown. Is your wife Nisha Panchal?”
“Oh my God, has something happened to her?”
“No,” Steve reassured him. “I’m with her here in immigration. She’s lost her bag and mobile phone, so they’re treating her as a suspicious immigrant. I guess you’re waiting in Arrivals. If you get your ass over to immigration on that side right now, you can get your wife and baby released real quick.”
“But we have lived here nearly fifteen years!” protested Ramesh Panchal. “Why do they still treat us in this way? Here in the Valley, I am president of the second biggest security software company—”
“Yeah, yeah, prejudice sucks doesn’t it?” replied Steve. “Put it down to bureaucratic blindness, mate. They reckon that if they lock up every person who differs even slightly from their societal norm, they’re bound to catch a bad guy eventually.”
Steve leaned back against the wall and tried to read some of the graffiti on the scruffy cubicle door in front of him. He wished he had a pen to add to it.
“The fact is,” he continued, “the bad guys know this, so the smart ones simply blend in. Now go get your wife out. Your daughter’s got a temperature by the looks of it.”
“You are a very kind man,” said Mr. Panchal. “I don’t know why you have taken your time to do this, but I am most grateful. Can I do anything for you?”
“If I’m still here in a day, I’ll give you a call. But I reckon I know how to fix things.”
Steve ended the call and turned back to his laptop.
It took him longer than he expected to hack into the Homeland Security database containing the electronic travel authorization records, or ESTAs. Once there, it was just a few moments before he found his own damaged record. It looked to Steve like an inexpert hack. Either that or the person had been interrupted before they could tidy up all the loose ends after deleting the record. The field chains in the database entry had only been partially severed. A few remained intact. Steve spent several minutes tracing the pattern of other entries in the database. Then he painstakingly applied the necessary fixes to his own database entry. Rechecking his work, he felt confident that his US visa waiver record, essential for a visitor from the UK, would now appear to the immigration officials.
“Mr. Brown? Are you in there? You must return to the immigration holding room immediately.” The voice was followed by someone banging on the cubicle door.
“All right, all right, I’m just finishing up, mate,” replied Steve. He rapidly closed his laptop and stuffed it back into his rucksack. “You guys have seriously spooked me this evening. It’s no wonder I’ve got the shits now.”
He was about to push the flush button when he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he read the message on the screen:
Not bad. Took you a while, though. I’ve got a car waiting outside once you’ve got your bags. Nick
“You bastard,” Steve muttered to himself, shoving the phone back into his pocket. “But I’ll get you yet.”
Chapter 13
DOMINIC PAUSED at the top of the long, wide flight of steps that wound past the church of Sant Bartomeu & Santa Tecla on the northern end of Sitges. He looked out over the seafront boulevard of Passeig de la Ribera. It was nearly one in the morning, and the nighttime promenade was in full flow. Couples meandered along, chatting and laughing or simply enjoying each other’s company. Some stopped at one of the many ice-cream stands along the seafront. Dominic caught sight of a few serious clubbers and watched with amusement as they wove their way with speed and intent through the crowds.
On his first visit to Sitges, these young men had fascinated Dominic. Perfectly preened, wearing expressions of haughty exclusivity, they started to appear between eleven o’clock and midnight. Jonathan had christened it the bitching hour. They were on a mission to fuck, moving between more than twenty or so gay nightspots in Sitges, hoping to end up in someone else’s bed or, if they were unsuccessful, sullenly slinking back to their own at dawn. Once, when Dominic awoke before six in the morning, he stood on the balcony and watched a few stragglers doing the walk of shame.
He looked up at the floodlit church, sighed, and started down the steps. He was not a passionate clubber, but tonight he would reluctantly join the ardent young men. Not to party, but to look for his missing husband. He thought about the confrontation on Balmins beach half an hour earlier and wondered how he might have handled things better.
He wanted to tell Jonathan the truth, but there was information that he could not reveal, and that made him feel uncomfortable. Before they encountered Karl Michael at Balmins, it seemed like Jonathan had understood. As they held hands on the beach and watched the waves, Jonathan had talked about the importance of respecting the occasional “convenient lies.” Dominic sighed again and wondered if straight couples had the same complications in their relationships.
In his head, he drew up a route map of possible venues where Jonathan might seek sanctuary. The first was just a
hundred yards from the church. Bar 7, in Carrer Nou, was one of the longest surviving bars in Sitges and a regular drinking place for both Jonathan and Dominic. The bartenders at Bar 7 were always welcoming, friendly, and cheeky. Some of them were English, which made it a popular haunt for British visitors.
When Dominic opened the double doors to Bar 7, he paused. The place was heaving. A raucous rendition of Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” assaulted his ears. Dominic took a deep breath and pushed his way through the crowd. When he finally reached the bar, Adriano, the burly and bespectacled barman, beamed at him. Adriano leaned across the counter, held Dominic’s head in both hands, and kissed him full on the lips.
“Mi delicioso Dominic!” he proclaimed to the whole bar. “Eres un inglés muy guapo!”
Dominic gently pulled his head away from Adriano’s bearlike hands. He avoided looking around, certain the eyes of every man in the bar were, at that moment, staring at him. His face flushed.
“Adriano, I’m sorry. I can’t stop. I’m looking for Jonathan. Has he been in tonight?”
Adriano stepped back and raised his hands in the air. “You may search me if you like,” he said, winking to the men standing on either side of Dominic. “I have not seen your charming husband this evening.” He lowered his hands and folded his arms across his growing paunch.
“But, chaval, it is your honeymoon, is it not?” Adriano narrowed his eyes as he looked at Dominic. “Something is wrong? You two are the perfect couple. Everybody here say it is true. Come”—he reached for a glass—“I will make you one of my special gin cocktails. It is my gift to you.” He reached forward and kissed Dominic again. “You must tell me all about it.”
Dominic smiled wanly. He knew he had no choice but to accept Adriano’s generosity.
NICK STOOD waiting patiently, carrying the small whiteboard on which he had written the words “Steve Brown” with a thick black marker pen. The arrivals hall at San Francisco Airport was crowded. Nick had positioned himself in front of a set of automated doors, which swung open periodically to release another handful of relieved-looking passengers from the customs hall behind them. After a wait of nearly twenty minutes, the doors burst open, and he recognized the tall, lean figure of Steve Brown striding forward, pushing a trolley with two large rucksacks balanced on it.
“Don’t say a fucking word, mate,” said Steve as he thrust the trolley at Nick, “or I’ll fucking nut yer. Just take my bags and get me out of this shithole.”
Nick grinned, took hold of the trolley, and led the way through the crowds in the arrival area out into the damp May evening. They crossed the street in silence to the entrance of the multistory parking deck. Nick pressed the button to call the elevator and turned to Steve.
“Hey look, Steve. You did good, really. I’m running the hackfest. No hard feelings, eh? One of my new recruits did the hack. How did you rate it?”
Steve said nothing.
The elevator doors in front of them opened, and they stepped in. Nick pressed the button for the fifth floor.
As soon as the doors slid shut, Steve grabbed Nick by the throat and pinned him against the wall of the elevator. Then he shoved his knee into Nick’s crotch.
“I don’t care if your name’s Tim Berners-fucking-Lee,” Steve breathed, his face inches away from Nick’s. “It was a shit hack, and you should rip the little fucker’s balls off who did it.”
With a twist of his arm, he shoved Nick’s head down, until his face rested on Steve’s Grinder boots. As Nick flailed his arms behind him, Steve grabbed one of them and twisted it hard.
“Want me to treat you rough, do you?” hissed Steve. Nick moaned softly in assent, and Steve twisted his arm tighter. “Well, you can start right now by learning obedience. That’s if you want to enjoy some more punishment from me on this trip. You’ve pissed me off big-time, shithead.”
Steve gave Nick’s arm a hard flick, and his body twisted over on the floor of the elevator. Before Nick could move, Steve brought his boot down firmly on the side of Nick’s head.
“That’s better,” said the English skinhead. “Compliance. That’s what I like. We can do some more of this later.”
He paused for a few seconds.
The elevator shuddered to a stop at the fifth floor, and the doors opened.
“Time to go,” said Steve. He lifted his boot off Nick’s head. “I’m fucking knackered. Good to see you’re into the obedience side of skin culture.” He reached down to help the American up but then paused. “You’re not a fucking Nazi, are you? You’re definitely only into the gear and stuff?”
Nick stood up and brushed himself down. “Yeah, of course I am.” There was a crooked grin on his face. “I’m a member of Anti-Fascist Action here in the Bay Area. We’ve got enough fucking fascists in this country without me adding to them.”
Steve grabbed the handle of the trolley and pushed it out of the elevator. He turned to look at Nick. “You’re all right,” said Steve. “For a fucking Yank. Now. Where’s yer car?”
Steve followed him and took hold of the trolley.
“You got a place booked?” he asked. “I can take you there now if you want. Or you can come back to the loft, and we can get some action. We’ve kitted out a pretty cool playroom.”
AROUND ONE thirty, Dominic kissed Adriano the barman goodbye, apologized once again for being gloomy, and thanked him profusely for the powerful gin cocktail. He emerged into the narrow side street of Carrer Nou and swayed for a moment as he breathed the fresh air. Then he strode off through an alleyway to arrive at the entrance of the club he liked least in Sitges, the cruisey Zona X. Jonathan had persuaded him to go into the place on their first visit to the town, and Dominic had sworn he would never return. It was designed solely for men to find anonymous sex. There was some subdued club music but no dance floor. Beyond the bar lurked dark corners and the essentials for sleazy man-on-man sexual encounters—a couple of slings, three cubicles fitted with glory holes, and a set of prison bars. Dominic paused on the threshold to read the sign on the wall: Naked Nite! He shivered as the vision of a room full of testosterone-fueled men, staring straight ahead, thrusting their erect cocks toward him, filled his head. A wave of anger washed over him, and he decided if Jonathan was inside, their marriage would end right there.
He was about to turn back into the street when the inner door swung open and a man in his early forties stumbled out. The man swayed slightly as he stopped and leaned forward to peer at Dominic. His breath smelled strongly of stale beer.
“Wouldn’t go in there tonight if I were you,” he slurred in a strong Birmingham accent. “Fucking twinks at every turn.” He leaned back heavily against the wall with a thud. “I’m the oldest one by about fifteen years, I reckon.” He heaved himself forward with a grunt, resting a paw-like hand on Dominic’s shoulder. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested…?”
Dominic pushed the man back against the wall and summoned up his best Spanish. “Lo siento, amigo, no le entiendo. Si usted está borracho, quizá debería irse a casa.” (I’m sorry mate, I don’t understand. Perhaps you’re pissed and should go home.”)
The man closed his eyes and belched loudly. “Just my luck. A fucking dago.”
Dominic thought about kicking the man’s legs from under him and then decided against it. At least the ignorant racist had confirmed there was no need for him to join the nightmare of Naked Nite.
From Zona X, Dominic moved on to the heart of Sitges’ gay nightlife. Two hundred yards down the street was Carrer de Bonaire and Queenz. Dominic thought the club’s regular cabaret a great night out in Sitges. The show had long since ended, and Dominic knew the bar would be packed with well-groomed men who considered themselves the elite of the town’s gay population. Men who spent a fortune on their gym memberships, their cologne, and their dance lessons. Dominic doubted his husband would be here. Jonathan needed wittier conversation than any the self-regarding peacocks of Queenz could ever muster.
Dominic turned around to lo
ok down the length of the street that was the heart of gay Sitges. Carrer de Joan Tarrida was named after the owner of the region’s largest shoe factory, now long defunct. Dominic wondered what the owner would think of the high-heeled sling-backs and boots worn by the drag acts who played at the famous Parrots Pub, which now dominated Carrer de Joan Tarrida.
Before he got to the Parrots Pub, Dominic had two bars to check out along the way. He knew they were popular with Jonathan, because Jonathan had eagerly dragged him into both of them when they first came to Sitges for a holiday two years ago.
The first was El Horno (the Oven). The tiny bar was always full, its numbers frequently swelled by a loyal bear community. Because it was so small, the clientele of El Horno spilled out onto the street, jamming the narrow alleyway outside, waving plastic pint glasses of lager in their hands as they spoke in animated conversation. Dominic slowly fought his way through the raucous crowd of large, hairy men. Some wore token items of leather such as a harness or leather waistcoat. Finally, he reached the bar’s tiny backroom space without any sighting of Jonathan. Dispirited, he returned to the street.
Directly opposite El Horno was XXL. Dominic disliked this bar almost as much as he disliked Zona X. A crowd of ten or fifteen men stood outside the entrance, talking quickly in Spanish. Dominic tried but could not understand what they were saying. Their excited, rapid speech was almost drowned out by the heavy beat of the music seeping through the heavy steel doors of the club. Dominic dreaded the task ahead of him. If he failed to find Jonathan, either at the bar or on the dance floor, he would have to climb the spiral staircase to the upper floor. At the top lay the club’s sweaty, airless darkroom, full of men with eager, grasping hands and thrusting, tumescent cocks. Maybe there he would find Jonathan immersed in the bacchanal. Dominic took a deep breath and cursed his husband. There was only one way to find out.
The Deadly Lies Page 9
