by K. Z. Snow
The man nodded politely. I doubted he understood or cared about my ethnic-name explanation, but at least he was courteous in his indifference. He proceeded to pore over my registration form. “You’ve chosen the one-week program?”
“Yes.” I could have opted for a two- or three-week stay, but I figured a week was enough time to net what I was after. Besides, this retreat wasn’t exactly bargain-priced.
A plastic tag on the man’s grandpa shirt told me his name was Darren and he was a Mentor, capitalized. I suspected what qualified him to be a mentor was the fact he’d already been turned inside out and upside down and had all the queer germs sanitized right the fuck out of him. Same for the other five dudes.
What a shame. Darren, who appeared to be in his late thirties, had thinning hair but a nice physique. I vaguely wondered if any of these guys were seducible. None of them really tweaked my libido, but corrupting one would be fun.
In a perverse way, they reminded me of the playtime I’d be missing out on this week.
The woman seated on Darren’s right was Darlene, his wife. The mentors’ wives, Darren explained, took care of the “hostess duties,” whatever the hell those were, but the camp had cooks and housemaids to do the drudge work. Of course, he didn’t call it that. I had a sneaking suspicion the wives served other, more important purposes. Like maybe keeping their men in line while demonstrating to us infidels that het marriage was the True Road to Happiness and Fulfillment.
It appeared we’d be learning by example as well as through instruction.
Darren gave me a sheet of paper with a day-by-day, hour-by-hour list of the week’s activities: mealtimes; classes, which were detailed on the reverse side; regularly scheduled group- and personal-counseling sessions; a whole shitload of outdoorsy, sporty stuff, including “casual campfire chats,” and even—I could hardly believe my eyes—wood splitting. Wood splitting! Yikes, shades of Paul Bunyan. In some cases, attendance was optional; in others, mandatory. Since all the attendees were single, the schedule’s coup de grâce was a mixer dance.
I wasn’t thrilled to get a nametag, but I was relieved to get the key card to my room. There was going to be an orientation dinner in a few hours, before which all thirty-six registrants would meet their assigned mentors, and I really needed to freshen up and take a nap. I also needed to decide if I should try to set up a personal meeting with Hammer and tell him why I was really there. It was already obvious I couldn’t tell him I was blissfully gay. Any queer not committed to reformation would certainly be banished from the kingdom. I didn’t need a booklet or a mentor to tell me that.
I shuffled on past the sign-in tables and plopped into an overstuffed chair so I could get my bearings before proceeding. There was an auditorium behind the lobby area. Two corridors ran alongside it and terminated in exits, which opened onto paths that led to North Lodge. It housed all the guest rooms, two common areas, a small chapel, and a large dining room and kitchen.
The only rooms that accommodated two people were the ones reserved for couples… and not same-sex couples. Stronger Wings also sponsored retreats for husbands and wives whose marriages were foundering in homosexual waters. The rest of the rooms were singles. Of course. And had private baths. Of course. I was willing to bet my secret stash of lube and condoms that each contained a twin bed, not a double or queen.
Tomorrow morning after breakfast and “counseling intake,” we’d attend our introductory class. Then we’d have lunch. Then we’d get a grand tour of the facility. Thinking about it only deepened my weariness.
Until I saw him.
My breath hit a shoal. Breaking one of the camp’s cardinal rules, I stared. I had to make sure. Although his head was tilted down as he stood before one of the check-in tables, he was smiling. And there was no mistaking that smile.
I waited, heart thumping, until he walked away from the palindrome and struck out through the lobby toward one of the exit corridors. He held the schedule sheet, at which he glanced occasionally when he wasn’t readjusting the shoulder strap of his carry-on bag.
Oh, yeah. Same lithe body and long, easy stride. Same incomparable ass, looking really fine in those khaki Dockers. I even caught another registrant copping an eyeful.
Getting up from the chair, I grabbed my suitcase and followed him. It wouldn’t look good if I hustled up behind any guy too quickly, so I tried to maintain a brisk but unhurried pace.
Another man—one of the mentors, I thought—jogged past me just as I entered the hallway.
“Hey there!” he called out, but not to me. The mentor sailed right past me and up to my target, who paused in front of the exit. “You left your key card on the table.”
“Oh, sorry to inconvenience you.”
Damn, his voice was made for the bedroom—low and molten, measured, never abrasive. My body was little more than an aqueduct for adrenaline as I approached the two men, who stood with their backs to me.
“I’d better get to my post,” said the mentor with bland geniality. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding your room. Just go down the northwest wing and follow the numbers.”
“Thank you.”
The mentor jogged back in the other direction as I strolled up to the exit. “Hello,” I said in my sexiest voice.
He pulled up short, turned, and gave me a startled look.
I smiled. “Long time, no see.”
“Misha?”
“I’m flattered you didn’t forget me or my name.”
“Shit,” he whispered.
Sneakered footsteps squeaked behind us.
Blinking nervously, he didn’t seem to know where to look or what to do. His gaze skittered around for a second or two before he came to his senses and pushed open the door.
Had Robbie turned up at the Stronger Wings Camp and Conference Center, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Well, maybe a little. But I wouldn’t have been stunned.
Only I wasn’t looking at Robbie.
I was looking at Jude Stone.
My stress level for the upcoming week had just been amplified tenfold.
Chapter Three
Two Years and Eleven Months Earlier
I MADE a beeline for the bar. Plenty of the other guests and attendants did too. Who liked sitting through a church wedding and then donning an ill-fitting face to make small talk with other people’s relatives? Nobody, judging by the way the drinks were flowing.
I nursed a Long Island iced tea, even though it was September, and kept getting the distinct feeling someone was watching me. I wasn’t wrong. Every now and then, as I chatted with whomever happened to sit beside me, I glanced across the arc of the bar… just as the man averted his gaze.
Yup, a man. He seemed like an ordinary guy—average height, build, face; good-looking but not breathtaking—yet there was a component in the unremarkable mix that made him seem worthy of attention.
Or maybe I was just horny.
The reception ramped up at my back. Babble increased as people ferried plates of food from the sizable buffet to tables set around the dance floor. Some stood or ate at the bar. There was no music yet—this was the dinner hour, meant for socializing and for filling bellies—but soon a local band would start churning out its versions of “Proud Mary” and the “Beer Barrel Polka,” and the empty floor space would be filled with all manner of dancers, from stiff to spastic to skilled.
I would not, I vowed, let myself be cajoled into doing the “Chicken Dance.”
Two older guys stood behind me as they stuffed their faces and awaited their beers, wondering aloud why a pretty girl like Melissa would marry a black man named Mont. I grabbed the beers when they hit the bar, swiveled my stool, handed over the plastic cups, and said, “They’re in love, that’s why.”
When I turned back, the guy who’d been sliding me those glances was engaged in conversation with a man and woman. He himself didn’t seem to have a date. I didn’t either. It finally occurred to me I might not be the only gay person there.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye.
Something made him smile. Grin, actually. His cheeks rumpled, his white, even teeth showed, and a crescent-shaped flush cradled each of his eyes. I looked more boldly and thought I saw dimples lurking within the creases.
His mouth opened wider. He tilted his head back, and a shaving of laughter drifted toward me on somebody else’s cigarette smoke.
Maybe his smile didn’t light up the room, but it certainly lit up the tunnel of air between his face and mine.
I was beguiled.
“Hi.” A woman in a bridesmaid dress—and they were some vampy dresses for bridesmaids—jammed herself between my stool and the one on my left.
“Hi.” Not wanting my chin to end up buried in her cleavage, I tried to make more room.
“I’m Madison.” She stuck her drink straw in her mouth, which bore alarmingly red lipstick. “One’s of Missy’s sisters. Who’re you?”
“One of Mont’s coworkers.”
Suddenly, my male admirer exclaimed, “Whoa!” Putting up his arms, he drew away from a skittering group of ice cubes. His arms quickly lowered as he apparently cupped his hands over his lap and caught some rogues that had bounced over the bar rail. He dumped them where the bartender’s swirling towel could sweep them away, then shook the moisture off his hands. He had long fingers.
“Who’s he?” I asked Madison. Another woman had come giggling up behind her.
“Trying to cool off that crotch, Jude?” the second one shouted.
He made a cute, good-natured grimace. Our eyes met for the length of a heartbeat.
“Quit flirting with him,” Madison muttered to her friend.
“Why? He’s single, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, but he’s shy.”
“Time he got over it,” said the seductress. “How old is he, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Around twenty-five, I guess.” Madison slid her empty cup on the bar and motioned for a refill. Then she addressed her friend. “Just leave him alone. I don’t need you trying to smear cake frosting on a relative’s junk after you get shit-faced.” Madison half turned toward me. “He’s one of our cousins,” she said offhandedly.
“Oh.” The info caught me off guard, since I’d assumed she’d forgotten about me and my question.
The persistent friend stood on her tiptoes and waved a hand back and forth. “Remember you owe me a dance, Jude!”
He smiled politely and saluted.
“Lay off, Trin.” Madison grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled it down.
Trin, who already seemed well on her way to Funkytown, wriggled free and, alas, noticed me. “You here alone?” she asked brightly.
“No.” I ordered another drink.
THE band was far better than I’d anticipated. I should’ve known Mont was too discriminating to have the usual rusty amateur musicians play at his wedding. To keep myself entertained and add to my stash of fantasies, I watched Cousin Jude move his beautiful ass whenever some matron or teenager hauled him onto the dance floor.
He was really, really good. No matter how much he had to alter his style to accommodate the music or the age of his partner, he was an incredibly fucking good dancer.
A few women asked me to dance, but I declined. I wanted to dance with Jude. Since that didn’t seem doable, I had to content myself with catching a minor buzz and dancing with him in my imagination. When I couldn’t feast my eyes on Jude, I talked a little with other people from the office.
As I came back from one of my trips to the men’s room, I saw him seated alone at a table. He pulled a frilly garter off his arm and tossed it aside.
I adjusted my beer balls. It was time.
“Excuse me.”
His gaze shot up to my face. Those pink swatches surfaced on his cheekbones.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Uh… no.” He seemed flustered by my approach.
I pulled out a chair and sat. I wanted to know him better, although I couldn’t have explained why. Maybe because of that smile I found so captivating. Or those stop-and-linger-awhile lips. Or that ass, with its invisible “Grab Me” sign. Or those sparkling eyes, so dark a brown I could barely tell the pupils from the irises.
His hair, its cut charmingly ragged, was the color of wet sand, although his brows and lashes were darker. The loosened tie and two undone shirt buttons gave me a glimpse of damp chest.
I casually sat back in my chair. “Might we know each other from somewhere?” I asked with mild curiosity.
“I don’t think so.” Jude took a quick drink from the champagne flute in front of him. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought I saw you looking at me like you recognized me.”
He’d been busted… and he knew it.
Trying to put him at ease, I threw myself into Mr. Congeniality mode. “I’m Misha Tzerko, by the way.” Out went my glad hand. “I work with Mont.”
“Jude Stone.” His grasp was firm but proper, as was mine. Our fathers had taught us well. “Melissa’s cousin.”
“Ah.”
Oh Christ, my gaydar needed to go in for repairs. I couldn’t seem to draw a bead on the guy. Maybe he simply was one of those soft-spoken, bashful types. Or maybe he was deep in the closet, fretting over his discomfiting curiosity about man-on-man action. All I could tell from his voice was that I liked it. A lot. It made me think of torchlight and chocolate mousse and French horns.
“So,” he said, “if you work with Mont, you must live in or near Green Bay.”
I nodded. “Yup.”
By small degrees, Jude’s expression began to modulate. He no longer seemed cautious and reserved. In fact, his gaze skated around my face with no timidity whatsoever. The scrutiny set up a quiver between my breastbone and diaphragm. He drained his champagne glass and got up from the table. I thought I saw a twitch at the left corner of his inviting mouth.
“Maybe,” he said, “we have seen each other before.”
I watched him walk away and liked what I saw.
The son of a bitch intrigued me like no one had in years.
MONT and Melissa’s wedding was in the northern part of Door County, where Melissa managed an upscale resort-and-condo complex. Since few of their guests lived or could even afford to live in the artsy and tourist-trappy “Cape Cod of the Midwest,” Melissa, her parents, and her employers generously put a slew of us up for the night. Green Bay wasn’t that far to the southwest—an easy drive, under most circumstances—but I sure as hell didn’t feel like schlepping down the peninsula at one or two o’clock in the morning. Why dodge deer and cops?
The only drawback was that those of us who’d been given lodging had to double up in our rooms. That obviously wasn’t a problem for friends, couples, or family members, but I got stuck with a sixty-something widower named Milt Perlman who also worked at the same small publishing company where Mont and I were employed. I figured I’d just keep myself occupied until I was ready to drop; that way I wouldn’t have to argue with Milt over what to watch on TV or listen to him kvetch about the thousand-and-one things that were sending the world to hell in a handcart.
Jude disappeared from the reception without my noticing. I had no idea if he’d left alone. I had no idea if he’d be driving home, wherever that was, or staying at the resort. I still didn’t know for sure if he was gay, although the odds seemed in favor of it. His final, cryptic statement at the table had been a tip-off, albeit too vague to be fully enlightening.
My regret over Jude’s departure bugged me. My tenacious interest in him bugged me even more. Both bespoke a vulnerability I wasn’t used to. I resented that he’d kept looking at me, had snagged my attention with his looking, and then hadn’t followed through. If he’d just kept his eyes to himself, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him. On the other hand, if he’d expressed a desire to see me again, I’d be content right now instead of all itchy under the skin and ready to carve Perlman a new set of sinuses if he gurbled out a single snore.
Fu
ck. I’d lived twenty-eight years without fretting over someone’s lack of attention. There’d always been plenty of other attention from plenty of other someones to make up for it. But there wasn’t one here now.
I went up to my room, popped a couple of ibuprofen, brushed my teeth, shed my party garb, and slipped into my tiny piece of swimwear. The junk-hugging briefs made me even squirmier. I considered beating off just to relax myself, but Perlman might come stumbling in at any minute.
Before I put on my terrycloth robe, I paused in front of the bathroom mirror. Why hadn’t I gotten a come-on from Jude? There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with me. I was tall enough, good-looking enough, had decent musculature, a big enough dick, a round enough ass.
“You are one sorry diva,” I said to my reflection… then reminded myself that in another day or two, Jude Stone would be nothing more than a fading wisp of a memory.
I made my way to the indoor pool, which was on the other side of the hotel from the rental hall. The reception was still going on, its sounds of revelry and the lingering aroma of baked ham drifting now and then past the front desk… just as I was doing. Nobody was in the lobby. It was nearly eleven.
The smell of warm, chlorinated water greeted me before I pulled open one of the double doors to the pool area. The sound of a swimmer displacing that water was audible as soon as I stepped inside. Evenly spaced lights illuminated the pool from within. Muted lights fanned over the surrounding tile floor. I dropped my robe onto a lounge chair and stood at water’s edge.
The swimmer, a man, stopped and stood near the shallow end, then ran both hands over his hair. He faced the bank of windows and sliding glass doors that revealed, in daylight, a large patio. Just beyond the patio lay the outdoor pool. Umbrella tables were visible in the ethereal glow cast by strings of white fairy lights.
Hope welled within me. I remained still but expectant. The man turned and did a slight double-take. I could feel his shadowed gaze move down and up my body. It made me glad.
