by Josh Lanyon
Nathan hadn’t said a word. Not one word. He reached out to steady himself on a banana tree, and then looked down at the man who had tried to kill him.
Matt collected his coat and hat. He put an arm around Nathan, and Nathan reeled against him and dropped his head in the curve of Matt’s neck and shoulder. Matt pressed his cheek to the softness of Nathan’s hair. He gave Nathan a moment—he thought he might be crying, but then he realized, no. Nathan was just breathing deeply, exhaustedly, as though he’d run and run to get to this moment, and now there was nowhere else to run.
“Can you walk?” Matt murmured. He had to walk. Matt couldn’t carry him, but he asked anyway.
Nathan nodded. He pulled away from Matt and reached for his coat, and almost overbalanced. Matt grabbed him, helping him shrug into the coat, putting his hat on him.
The man on the ground moved, groaned, and Nathan’s foot lashed out. He kicked him with the strength and accuracy of a mule and then almost fell over again.
Matt put an arm around him and led him through the trees, keeping to the deepest shadows, Nathan stumbling along like he was drunk or blind.
When they reached the plaza, Nathan suddenly straightened up.
“It’s better if we don’t walk across the square together.” His voice was flat.
And that was true. Matt said, “I parked on Seventh Street. Wait for me at the intersection.”
He didn’t know if Nathan heard him or not. Nathan walked out of the bushes across the pavement, and he stood straight and moved briskly, swiftly, with no sign of what had just happened.
Matt watched him go, gilded in moonlight, crossing the square, and suddenly he couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear for Nathan to have to make this particular journey on his own.
He started after him and caught him up quickly, walking beside him, within arm’s distance but not touching, and bitterly damning to hell anyone who watched them and dared to think anything.
They crossed Olive Street and walked north. There was no traffic, no one at all.
And then they were on Seventh Street. Matt took Nathan’s arm, ignoring the initial resistance, and guided him along ’til they came to Matt’s car. He put Nathan inside, and he was gentle now, careful with him. He slammed the door and went round to his own side, sliding inside. He rested his hands on the steering wheel.
“Are you—how bad is it?”
“I’ll live,” Nathan said dully.
“He could have killed you. You know that. He could just as easily have bashed your brains out.”
Nathan stared out his window, not answering.
Matt started the car engine. He didn’t even think about it, he drove straight to his own house, taking Nathan home. He parked in the back, turned off the lights and came around to Nathan’s side. Nathan got out slowly, as though he hurt, and Matt put a supporting arm around him. Nathan tried to shrug him off, but Matt wouldn’t let go, so instead Nathan walked stiffly, rejecting help without saying a word, making Matt feel silly for that protective arm wrapped around straight shoulders and a ramrod spine.
Up the tidy walk, past the flower beds that Rachel had planted, beneath the trellised carport with roses heavy with perfume even in December. Matt unlocked the side door and put Nathan inside before stepping in himself and turning on the light.
Nathan winced at the light, putting a protective hand up.
“You better let me take a look at you,” Matt said. “You might have a couple of cracked ribs. He could have ruptured your spleen or your kidneys.” He was getting angry again, thinking of it. Nathan could have died there tonight. Died an ugly, pointless death in the underbrush of Pershing Square—and for what?
Nathan lowered his hand, frowning. He said slowly, “You must have followed me. I don’t guess you went there for sex.”
“I followed you,” Matt agreed.
Nathan peered at Matt as though he was viewing him from the distance, as though he was having trouble making him out.
“Can I take a shower?” he asked, abruptly.
Unspeaking, Matt got him towels, showed him the shower. He poured himself a drink while he listened to the water raining down from the bathroom and the resounding silence from within.
Gradually the red glare faded from his brain, his heart slowed back into a normal rhythm. He felt depressed, anxious. Nathan was taking a long time in the shower, probably dreading facing Matt as much as Matt dreaded facing Nathan.
The door opened and Nathan came out, his hair wet, combed back. He had re-dressed in his mud-stained clothes.
And for the life of him Matt couldn’t think of a word to say. He was suddenly, abjectly grateful that Nathan was alive, in one piece. The intensity of his feelings overwhelmed him for a moment.
But his silence seemed to confirm something for Nathan, whose face grew stiffer and more closed. “I appreciate what you did tonight, but I’m fine. I should be going.”
“Drink this.” Matt pushed a whisky into his hand.
Nathan hesitated, then he drank. He avoided looking at Matt—looking everywhere but at Matt. He drained his glass, spotted Rachel’s photograph on the piano and picked it up, studying it.
“This is her? Rachel?”
Matt nodded. He felt protective of Rachel’s picture, prepared for Nathan to say something cruel about her although Nathan had never shown any sign of cruelty. He looked up from Rachel’s smile and said, “She looks like she laughed a lot.”
Matt’s eyes stung. “Yeah. We laughed a lot.” He took the photo from Nathan—careful not to look like he didn’t trust Nathan with it—studying it. Rachel’s photographed face—more glamorous than she’d ever looked in real life—smiled back at him, her eyes shining with love and trust. He looked at Nathan, who was watching him.
He tried to imagine what Rachel would make of this, what she would make of Nathan. Rachel was kind and intuitive. He thought she would have been frightened for Nathan too—and frightened for Matt.
Nathan put his whisky glass down, walking around Matt’s living room, as though he were too restless to sit—or expected to be invited to leave shortly. He didn’t look at Matt. Matt could have not been there at all.
Matt watched him, telling himself to tread softly, but the words came out harshly anyway. “You know you could be arrested. You keep on the way you’re going, you will be.”
Nathan had paused at the window, staring through yellow frilled curtains at the garden fenced in white pickets. He nodded, not seeming to notice Matt’s aggressive stance.
“If you’re not killed first.”
At the frustration in Matt’s voice, he looked over.
“I know.”
“Then why? Why are you taking such a chance? You’re not stupid. Why are you risking…everything?”
Nathan’s face changed. Came back to life. “Because I’m not like you! I can’t live my life like a goddamn priest. I need…something, even if I can’t have someone.” He began to cry. It was painful to watch, painful to hear, Nathan fighting it every step of the way, and sobs tearing out of his chest anyway.
“Don’t.” Matt pulled Nathan into his arms, roughly, overcoming his resistance, holding him fiercely. He could feel sobs racking the thin, hard body, and he kissed his neck, his ear, his hair, any part of him he could find—a tear-streaked cheek, the corner of a wet eye, his trembling mouth. “Don’t, Nathan. I love you. Don’t cry.”
He was shocked to hear his own words, but hearing them he knew them for the truth. He loved Nathan. It didn’t make sense, but it was true. From the first moment he’d laid eyes on him.
All the fight went out of Nathan. He went still, then he shook his head, wiped his face on Matt’s shoulder, tried to pull away. “No. Don’t.” He made another attempt to mop his face on his arm. “Don’t.” He sounded a little calmer.
“It’s the truth. I do love you. I can’t…bear this. That’s God’s truth.”
“I can’t bear it either,” Nathan said tiredly. “Let’s forget it.”
&nb
sp; He put Nathan into his bed and lay down with him, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his face against the back of Nathan’s head, feeling the softness of his hair against his face. It smelled sweet, like summer, like grass, like Nathan.
Nathan lay unmoving, waiting for something—for Matt to fall asleep perhaps—but then he began to relax…muscle by muscle, nerve by nerve, losing the battle—whatever battle this was—sliding without a word into a deep exhausted sleep.
Matt held him, cradled him and tried to think what the hell they were going to do.
He woke to the feeling of Nathan’s taut ass pressing back against his groin. His cock stirred and filled, and he opened his eyes. The room was hushed and hazy with the dawn’s early light. Nathan’s skin was smooth and brown, and the nape of his neck looked vulnerable and boyish, with the glint of silver chain against his skin, and the pale hair. Nathan pushed back against him, and Matt’s dick slid along the crevice between his firm buttocks.
He said, “You can’t want this…after last night.”
Nathan said, staring forward, “I need it. Need it more than ever now—and I always need it.” He added, not in apology exactly, but helplessly, “It makes me feel connected. It makes me feel…alive.”
“And it doesn’t matter who or how?”
Nathan’s head turned. He heaved himself, facing Matt. “It matters. Of course it does. I want it to be with someone I love. With you, Mathew. But if I can’t have that, I still have to have it.” He met Matt’s eyes. “It’s a sickness, I know. I wish I could be strong like you and just not need it, but I do.” He turned back on his side and pushed himself against Matt’s rigid cock, humping back in delicate invitation, weak and wanton. “Please, Mathew,” he whispered. “Please.”
…someone I love. With you, Mathew…
Matt said, “I—haven’t done this before.”
And Nathan froze, stopped those tiny urgent movements that were making Matt crazy, rolled over and sat up.
In other circumstances Matt might have laughed at his wide-eyed expression. “No? But I thought…”
“Not this.”
“But you want to?”
Matt didn’t have to think—he’d already had too much time to think. He nodded, and surprised relief flooded Nathan’s face. “Yeah? Sure?”
“I’m sure already,” Matt growled.
Nathan grinned. “I was afraid—” He bit off the rest of it. “Do you have some kind of lotion? Or oil?”
“Petroleum jelly in the bathroom. Lie still.” Matt rose, went into the bathroom and found the jar. Carrying it back into the bedroom, he swallowed hard at the sight of Nathan lying on his belly, brown and relaxed in the sheets. Matt sat down on the bed.
Nathan turned his head on his arms and watched him. “It feels good,” he said. “You’ll see.”
Matt nodded.
“You’re not betraying anyone. It won’t…take anything away from her.”
Matt smiled faintly. “I know. Now you’re thinking too much about it.” He unscrewed the lid of the petroleum jelly, handing it to Nathan’s reaching hand, watching—unable not to watch—as Nathan scooped a glob of glistening jelly and reached behind himself. Nathan closed his eyes as though even this was somehow pleasurable.
“How do you want me?” he asked, and Matt caught his breath on an unsteady laugh.
“Let’s do this,” Nathan said after a moment, and he sat up, getting on his hands and knees while Matt readied himself. Nathan waited for him, his body relaxed and beautiful.
Matt got behind Nathan, the bed dipping beneath his knees, and his cock was huge as he positioned himself. He took himself in hand and guided himself at the rosebud center of Nathan’s ass, prepared for resistance and pain—his own and Nathan’s. And there was a moment of resistance, and Nathan breathed, “Yes, please…Matt…”
Matt pushed, felt that ring of muscle give, and then he was enveloped in dark heat—a black-velvet kiss.
Nathan moaned. “Oh, Jesus, Mathew.” He sounded broken. Matt held very still and Nathan gasped, “Don’t stop. Please…”
Matt thrust once. Felt Nathan’s body clench around him—and he began to understand why, once experienced, it might be hard to forget this, why it might even be worth the risk. Was it as sweet on the receiving end? He couldn’t tell, Nathan was breathing unevenly, pushing back against him, making that little keening sound.
“Is this what you want?” he asked.
Nathan whispered, “I want you to fuck me, Mathew. I need you to.”
And Matt let go, beginning to move inside Nathan, slowly, then faster, lancing in and out, swift and slick, Nathan rocking back against him, begging him for more, urging him to fuck him harder, to take him, to make him feel it in his belly, his chest—naked, shocking, broken phrases that excited Matt more, allowing him to shake off his inhibitions, his fears. He thrust hard, and he enjoyed the roughness of it, the sweet slap of skin on skin, knees brushing knees, thighs against thighs.
He remembered the first time he’d watched Nathan, and he reached beneath his taut abdomen, finding Nathan’s rigid cock—Nathan whimpered in a kind of relief—and Matt worked him while he pounded frantically against him.
Nathan came first, biting off a cry as hot sticky wetness filled Matt’s hand—for a moment it was like he was bringing himself off, he felt Nathan’s release as keenly as though it were rippling through his own body—and then exquisite relief was surging through flesh and bone…
He felt tears fill his eyes. He closed his lashes against them, but maybe Nathan heard something in his breathing. He said, troubled, “Are you sorry, Mathew? Do you regret it?”
Matt moved his head negatively against the muscled warmth of Nathan’s back.
Nathan kept trying to reassure him. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Not to you. You can forget it, if you’d rather.”
Matt listened to Nathan’s heartbeat, fast and light like a deer flashing through sunshine and shadow. “Listen, Nathan…”
Nathan was silent, but Matt could feel the immediate tension down his spine.
“I loved Rachel with all my heart. You’re right, nothing changes that. But—I never wanted her the way I want you.”
Nathan slid out from under him, rolled over. His face was different, grave but sort of lit from within in a way that gave Matt a funny pain in his chest.
“Though I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do,” he admitted.
Nathan slipped an arm around him, lowered his head to Matt’s chest. “Maybe the Japs will solve it for us. Maybe they’ll drop a bomb on us.”
Matt raised his head. Nathan’s eyes were closed.
“Don’t,” he said.
“No? Sorry.”
“It should make a difference, Nathan.”
Nathan opened his eyes. “It makes all the difference in the world. I mean that.” His smile was self-mocking. “It’s a long time since I’ve had anything to lose. I guess I’m scared.”
Matt bent his head and found Nathan’s mouth. He tasted sweet and sleepy. “Me too,” he said. “But I don’t regret it.”
Chapter Ten
When the alarm went off about an hour later, Matt jackknifed up, hair in his eyes, and Nathan sprang up beside him, pulse hammering in the base of his throat.
“Christ,” Mathew said thickly, raking a hand through his hair.
Nathan sat back, watching Mathew carefully. Dawn and all its rosy promises seemed like a lifetime ago. Matt was straightforward. Direct as a bullet, he wasn’t going adapt well to any kind of subterfuge, and Nathan knew then that he wasn’t doing him any favors by falling in love with him. Mathew had been a lot safer mourning the gentle ghost of his childhood sweetheart.
They rose and dressed, and neither had a lot to say.
“Did you believe Pearl Jarvis’s story?” Mathew asked as they stood eating toast in the sunny kitchen. It seemed to Nathan that Matt kept one eye on the window over the sink all the time, as though he thought someone might be watchin
g them. Maybe Matt’s neighbors were the interested kind.
“Didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“But?”
And Mathew told him about the interview with Claire Arlen and Carl Winters, about Jonesy’s carelessness—or forgetfulness—in asking some crucial questions, about the money Carl Winters had given his sister, and about the baby that changed everything—the baby that Pearl Jarvis hadn’t known about. That no one had known about until Sunday night a few hours before the ransom was paid.
It turned out that this was something he could actually do for Matt—just listen to him.
And Nathan listened without moving a muscle as all the pieces fell into place. And it occurred to him that there was one more thing he could do for Matt.
There was a black wreath on the elegant front doors of Benedict Arlen’s mansion in Mandeville Canyon, and Nathan remembered that Phil Arlen had been buried that morning.
He was shown through to a formal drawing room. There was a portrait of a smooth-faced woman with two little boys over the fireplace.
The family was busy drowning their sorrows in dignified fashion. They were all there, all formally dressed in black. Claire sat by the fireplace, looking wan. Carl was examining the leather-lined bookshelves; Bob was pouring drinks with the air of a man fulfilling his manifest destiny. Veronica stood a little apart, watching the others as though her season theater tickets were proving a bad investment—that was probably due to the fact that Benedict Arlen was holding center stage. He broke off what he was saying as Nathan was shown into the room.
“Mr. Doyle,” Benedict said, and the lack of pleasure in his voice was mirrored in the faces of the rest of the family.
“Nathan,” Bob said, uncomfortable and unhappy that Nathan apparently didn’t know better than to crash a family funeral. “This isn’t the time.”
“It’s the only time left,” Nathan said. “Lieutenant Spain and the police will be here within the hour to make an arrest.”
There was general distress at this. Nathan let them work it out of their systems, and then Veronica said steadily, “Who do they plan on arresting?”
