Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits

by Jenna Hilary Sinclair

  David swallowed the lump in his throat, unsure if it was the thought of food or the abrupt recognition of Trace’s appealing appearance that had put it there. Trace’s hand drew David’s attention to the long, dark hair that he enjoyed ribbing his friend about. For the first time, he wondered how it would feel. Was it soft or coarse? He didn’t remember from the times he’d yanked on it while teasing.

  Sliding into a chair at the small kitchen table under the window, David let the table hide everything from his chest down. “Eww…. Yuck. I don’t do mushrooms. That can has been in there since my mother came to visit three years ago. She uses it to make gravy. Vegetable beef, please.” Trace nodded and turned to the pan, and David ended up looking at his rear again.

  David sighed. Thinking about Trace’s ass is not a good idea. He tried to think of something to talk about to remind himself that Trace was not gay. “So. What happened with Annemarie a couple weekends ago? Is she still around?” David asked.

  Trace turned around to look at David. “It wasn’t serious,” he said. “She didn’t… I mean, I didn’t stick around. I don’t do sticky,” he said with an unrepentant smile.

  David chuckled. “A different girl every week. Playboy,” he teased.

  Trace shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that. I never promise them anything more.”

  David tried to think of the last time he’d had sex and was having trouble remembering. “I think I’m getting old. The whole meeting and getting to know someone thing is just too much effort, and I’m not much of a casual-sex person.”

  Trace tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot and dropped it with a soft clink inside the empty soup can before turning around, giving David an incredulous look. “Old? David, you’re what? Forty-two? Forty-three? That’s nowhere near even approaching old. And there’s nothing wrong with casual sex,” he added, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. “As long as both people know up front, anyway.”

  “I’m not against it, and I agree with you, but… well….” How did you tell your best friend that you were, frankly, scared to death of AIDS? In pre-AIDS days, David had been what some would call promiscuous, but after watching more than one friend waste away and die, he couldn’t bring himself to take the risk. He was clean, but it was purely luck. In the past decade, he hadn’t been a monk, but he used condoms religiously and found himself wanting to know more and more about his lovers before he’d sleep with them. He stared at Trace. What could he say?

  Raising a brow when David trailed off, Trace just tilted his head and turned back to the soup.

  David’s brow scrunched as he studied Trace’s back. He was pretty sure Trace knew he was gay—they’d met up at town events from time to time with their respective dates—but sex wasn’t a topic they talked about. Now David idly wondered why. Gay or straight, that was something guys usually went on about, comparing experiences and lovers and what they liked and didn’t, wasn’t it? That was how it was when David went out with his circle of friends; he supposed he assumed it was the same when Trace went out with his other friends. But it wasn’t like that between the two of them. He mused about that while he watched Trace stir the soup slowly. David felt the hollowness of the silence that hung between them. It felt different. Before now they just hadn’t spoken specifically about it. Now he felt like he was hiding something from his best friend.

  “I’m gay,” David blurted before he could think twice and back out of it. “I’ve seen too many friends become pale reflections of the men they once were because of AIDS. I guess it just makes me overly cautious.” Keeping his eyes on Trace’s back, he braced himself for the reaction.

  Trace’s hand stilled the spoon for a moment before restarting its movement. David could imagine what Trace was thinking. Gay? David? They’d known each other better than five years now. Now David kind of wished it had come up at some point, just to ease this awkward moment, just so he knew for sure that Trace knew.

  Holding his breath, David bit his tongue. He didn’t have to defend his life to anyone. If Trace couldn’t deal with him the way he was, he’d be sad and probably pissed, but it wouldn’t be the first time that someone had judged him.

  Trace was watching the pot, and he tipped his head to one side before he answered. That had been quite a statement, coming from David, and Trace was glad the man trusted their friendship enough to share it. “Makes you smart, in my opinion,” he said thoughtfully. “Can’t be too careful these days.”

  David released his breath with a sigh. “Thanks,” he said softly as he leaned back in his chair. They were going to be okay. Thank God. He should have known, really.

  Trace let the spoon sit against the side of the pot as he picked it up. He grabbed two bowls off the open shelf where David kept his olive green stoneware dishes with his other hand as he turned to the table. “You’re welcome,” he said quietly as he poured out the soup.

  Eating in silence, David felt something he hadn’t felt in a really long time: completely comfortable.

  Once he’d finished with his bowl, Trace got up and took it and the pot to the sink, washing them both out. Remembering the mugs in the bedroom, he headed back there to fetch them and clean it all up at once.

  David watched him walk out of the kitchen and disappear into the hall. He sighed and got up to help with the dishes. He felt weak and drained, but not the least bit dizzy. Running some water into the pot in the sink, he went to move it to the other sink basin to soak while he rinsed the bowls. “Ow! Fuck!” he swore, stabs of sharp pain radiating from his shoulder and his arm going numb. The pot fell back into the sink with a heavy clunk and splash of water, and David leaned heavily against the counter for support.

  Shocked by the loud, sudden noise, Trace hurried around the corner, a mug in each hand. “David? What’s wrong?” He shoved the mugs he’d retrieved from the bedroom onto the counter, not even noticing the cold chicken noodle slopping over as he raised his hands to help.

  Head hanging forward, his eyes tightly closed, David took several deep breaths. “Fuck, that hurt!” he swore, making his way over to the kitchen chair with Trace hovering, apparently worried about where he could safely touch the blond to help without hurting him. “I went to pick up the pot full of water and my shoulder…. Shit, I’m afraid I may have really screwed something up when I fell. When it’s just at my side, it aches, but that was a sharp, stabbing, bring-tears-to-your-eyes-and-steal-your-breath kind of pain.”

  “Damn it, I was afraid something like this would happen when you insisted on that damn shower. C’mon. We’re getting you dressed, and I’m taking you to the emergency room,” Trace insisted, urging David toward the bedroom. “You might have broken something.”

  David stood there with his hurting arm cradled in the palm of his good hand. “You know, with the way this day is going, I’m afraid to get in a car. We’ll never make it to the hospital in one piece.” He chuckled mirthlessly; he was only half-kidding. With a weary sigh, he shuffled miserably to the bedroom. Picking out a worn pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes was no problem, but actually getting into them was proving to be a feat of painful mechanical engineering. Giving up, he swallowed his pride and called for Trace.

  “I should’ve thought of that. Sorry,” Trace murmured as he walked into the bedroom. He took the jeans from David and knelt down, pooling the legs so David could step into them, and he pulled the denim up over David’s thighs to settle the waistband, even zipping and buttoning him up carefully before reaching for the T-shirt.

  Biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, David tried to control his body’s reaction to Trace’s innocent touches. Every place where Trace’s fingers brushed, his skin prickled with awareness. When the back of his hand grazed a nipple while maneuvering the T-shirt on without hurting his shoulder, David gasped, barely restraining a moan.

  Trace grimaced. “Sorry, David,” he murmured, figuring he’d pulled too hard. “You got any Birks or something to wear besides running shoes?” he asked, walk
ing over to the closet, peering down at the floor, and then bending over to sort through the jumbled shoes.

  David really wished that Trace would quit presenting him with images of his ass, dress pants stretched tightly over very firm muscle. His eyes closed on a sigh. “Yeah, there’s a pair in the back corner.”

  David rested a hand on Trace’s shoulder for balance while slipping his feet into the sandals. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “SIX HOURS. Six fucking hours. Good thing what was wrong with me wasn’t life threatening,” David complained, sliding out of Trace’s car, which was finally back in David’s driveway.

  Trace just humored him with a “Mmm-hmmm,” not even rolling his eyes. When he’d broken his arm a few years back, he’d sat in the ER for twice that long before seeing anyone. “I’ll get that,” he said, plucking the pharmacy bag out of the car before David could lean over to get it. “No more bending over for you.”

  “And exactly how are you planning on pulling that one off?” David teased, leaning against the side of the car. His right arm and shoulder were wrapped up to hold them still and close to his body. As Trace locked the doors, David added, “Living tends to involve at least a little bending over.” David giggled at the double meaning of the words, punchy from the pain meds they’d given him at the hospital.

  Grinning, Trace walked around the front of the car, shaking his head a little. “You’re looped, man. Come on. Inside with you. You’re on bed rest for a few days.” He took David by the good arm and made sure he got up the steps and through the back door. Trace nudged him through the kitchen, past the dining room with its large, round marble-top table, through the corner of the comfortable living room, and down the hall toward his bedroom.

  “Well, I must say it’s refreshing to have a man trying to get me to bed who doesn’t want me to bend over.” David chuckled, kicking off his Birks and stretching out on the bed with a sigh. “Ahhh…. Tired….”

  Trace smiled and pushed David’s legs under the sheets, pulling the covers up over him. “Just try not to roll over on that shoulder, huh? I don’t want to be awakened by a howling shriek,” he joked.

  David mumbled something unintelligible and was asleep before Trace left the room. With a small smile, Trace pulled the door shut and went to the kitchen to make a note to himself to call David’s boss tomorrow, telling him what happened. He’d ask his own boss about working half-days next week; Trace had plenty of comp time to claim. He’d go in tomorrow—actually today, since it was three a.m.—to finish up his big project piece for Sunday.

  Exhausted, Trace figured he could catch a few hours’ sleep, so he turned off the lights, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants to be more comfortable, and lay down on the couch to sleep.

  The second time he caught himself almost sliding off the overstuffed leather, he got up with a muffled curse and walked back to the bedroom. He had to get some sleep or he’d have crap for brains. He pushed the door open to look in at David. He had that huge bed to himself. There was plenty of room for them both. Hell, Trace could practically lay out spread-eagle and still not touch David, it was so wide. “What the hell’s he need a bed this big for, anyway?” he muttered as he walked into the bedroom.

  He pulled his shirt and pants off before crawling under the sheets in his black low-ride briefs and white undershirt. As he settled down to sleep, it occurred to him to wonder how many other men had slept in this bed. But the thought slipped away before he could form any sort of opinion on it.

  DAVID ATTEMPTED to roll onto his back, and a twinge from his injured shoulder woke him fully. He groaned in pain and swore under his breath. The doctor had said at least six weeks to heal, maybe eight to nine, with at least a full week of bed rest starting now. Fuck. How was he going to get by? Shifting to move the weight cutting off circulation to his leg, he backed into something solid and warm. Glancing over his wrapped right shoulder, he blinked bleary eyes, seeing mussed, dark hair. For a long moment, he was totally disoriented. Oh. Right. Trace, on his back, sound asleep. Apparently they’d slid together as they slept, and Trace had rolled over right up against David’s back. Well, at least it kept me off this shoulder.

  David told himself to pull away, but leaning back against the sleep-heavy weight was very comforting. Closing his eyes, he drifted back to sleep.

  The first thing David noticed upon waking the next time was Trace’s absence. He’d woken several times during the night, Trace’s warm presence helping him fall back to sleep. As he pushed himself into a sitting position, he could hear Trace talking in the other room but couldn’t make out the words. Swinging his feet to the floor, David stood up slowly, his left hand gripping the curved footboard for balance. Once he was steady, he headed toward the smell of coffee and Trace’s deliberately hushed voice.

  “…yeah, six to eight weeks, maybe more. The doctor’s office said they’d fax over the paperwork for the short-term disability. Sure. Yeah, he’s got… a friend to stay over. Help him around the house and all. Yeah, I’ll tell him. Sure thing.” Trace closed his phone with a snap and looked up from where he sat at the kitchen table, dressed in his trousers and undershirt, to see David standing in the doorway. “Hey, handsome. How you feeling?” he asked with a warm smile.

  Momentarily stunned by the smile and the endearment, it took a moment for all of Trace’s conversation to sink in. Not wanting to assume that Trace was talking about himself, David asked a more mundane question. “Were you just talking to Lloyd?”

  “Yes. He said to stay still and get better, though you can still review editorials and write your column if you’re up to it. But if he sees you in the office before the eight weeks are up, he’ll do something nasty and unprintable with your corpse,” Trace said with a grin. “Sit down, David. You’re not even supposed to be out of bed.”

  David shivered at the idea of Lloyd doing anything “unprintable.” “Dirty old coot! It’s just my shoulder. If I have to stay in bed for two months, I’ll be certifiable.”

  “You’re supposed to be in bed for one week to keep your shoulder stabilized. That’s why you’re wrapped up like a Thanksgiving turkey, ya goof. Sit down.” Trace stood and went to pour David a cup of gourmet coffee, mixing it with cream and sugar, the way he knew the other man liked. Turning back to the table, he surveyed David’s pale face. “You want something to eat? You should have something in your stomach before you take more painkillers.”

  “Wonder what I could get for them on the street?” David mused as he slid carefully into a chair. “I could use a new laptop.” Trace laughed. Chuckling, David reached for the mug with his good hand, staring down at the pale tan liquid. Taking a tentative sip, he hummed his approval. Trace knew the way David liked his coffee.

  When Trace opened the refrigerator and started pulling out sandwich fixings, David remembered that he was due to go to the grocery store, or he’d be living on unhealthy delivery food and hearing no end of it from Trace. He glanced up at his friend and watched Trace pull a jar of white stuff out of the fridge and frown at the blue and red label.

  “David, why do you have Miracle Whip in your fridge when you don’t like anything but real mayonnaise?” Trace asked as he set jars of condiments and packages of cheese out on the counter. “And tomatoes? Didn’t you tell me you don’t like tomatoes on your hamburgers? Or was it tomato sauce?” His brow furrowed as he set the deli-sliced meat on the island with a loaf of nine-grain bread.

  Trace’s questions left David blank until he remembered a reception they had both attended at the Williston Hills Country Club after the regional polo tournament, Trace working the social gathering, David representing the editorial board of his newspaper. Snatching a small patch of shade under a giant oak tree, David had complained to Trace about the chicken salad being made with Miracle Whip—a crime for a caterer, but most likely a nod to the overly hot weather—and apparently Trace remembered.

  “Don’t you ever forget anything, Jackson?” David said, shaking his head. “The mayonnaise is in
the door. The Miracle Whip was for—aw, hell—some guy I was seeing for a while. I should’ve known he was a jerk when he said he’d only eat Miracle Whip. And I like tomatoes, just not on sandwiches. I slice ’em up on a plate with salt, pepper, and vinegar.”

  Trace shrugged, grabbed the jar of Miracle Whip, and nonchalantly tossed it in the trash before he nabbed the mayo and a tomato. David laughed as the jar went sailing.

  “Just stuck with me, I guess,” Trace said. “You don’t complain about things, so I remembered,” he said, distracted as he pulled a knife from the block and started slicing the tomato on the butcher block.

  David grinned. “Thanks. I should’ve had you over the night I threw him out too. You make it look so easy.”

  Both Trace’s brows rose as he started building sandwiches. “That doesn’t sound too good, having to throw him out,” he observed. “But I would’ve helped.”

  “Yeah, I think you would’ve. I kind of like having a built-in valet, cook, and chauffeur. Think I could afford you?”

  “I don’t know….” Trace drew out the words doubtfully. “Takes a lot to keep up my high-class lifestyle,” he said, winking as he pulled a few plates down from the shelf. David snickered. Trace lived in a two-room studio apartment. A fancy one in a nice high-rise, but not what David would consider “high-class.”

  “So, what’s for lunch?” David asked, reaching for the flatware and napkins in the caddy on the table and setting two places one-handed.

  “Turkey and Swiss,” Trace said, pulling a bottle of vinegar out of the cabinet. He walked over and set it on the table along with the plate of sliced tomatoes and moved the salt and pepper shakers within David’s reach. “Drink?” he asked as he headed to the fridge.

  It struck David, all of a sudden, how comfortable this was. Of course, they’d hung out on free Saturdays quite a few times, grilling steaks or burgers on David’s backyard deck and talking and watching movies or something, so he supposed it wasn’t any big change.