I hesitated, found myself smiling a little. “Thank you,” I said. And then I watched as Max walked slowly out of the hallway into the late afternoon light.
I thought about calling the man I’d left my profession for, but I didn’t know what to say. Any phrases I made up in my head sounded in the end either too casual or too committed, and I didn’t want to lie to Dan or scare him. So in the end, I wrote and slipped a message through his letter box one morning after he’d gone out. Then I waited. Meanwhile, I tried to find a job or perhaps even another course to study. At the same time, I put the house on the market and began looking for something more suited to the new life I’d chosen. Slowly, I became accustomed to the lack of sex.
I waited for three Sundays in the park on the bench where Dan and I had sat. The September weather was warm, and I enjoyed watching the leaves slowly turning red and golden, listening to the distant shouts and laughter of children, and feeling the autumn air against my cheek.
On the fourth Sunday, Dan came. I could hardly believe it. Without the hoodie, I almost didn’t recognise him. I stumbled to my feet, a cold sweat on my palms and words curdling in my throat.
“Dan. It . . . it’s good to see you,” I managed to stammer out. “I didn’t know if I would again.”
He nodded and sat down, the ruined side of his face towards me. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever met. With a small sigh, he placed a sheet of paper next to him and, as I joined him on the bench, I saw it was my letter.
Dan – it’s Bill. I wanted to thank you once more for the time we spent together. I’d like to see you again, if it’s possible. I understand, however, if it isn’t. I’ve been thinking about what you asked me when you left that morning, and I believe I know the answer now. I’d like to tell you, if you’ll let me.
Yours, with affection,
Bill
I’d ended the letter with my mobile number, but he’d never called or visited. So I’d waited in the park these last Sundays, just in case. Now here he was, actually meeting me. In many ways, he was so much braver than I.
“I didn’t know what I should do, at first,” he said. “I thought about calling, but I wanted to listen to what you had to say face to face, and not in the house you work in. I thought you might be here, where you first showed me how to look at things again the way I used to. How could I not come?”
“Thank you.”
“So, tell me,” he said, taking my hand. I clung to his fingers as if I never wanted to let him go. “Tell me the answer to my question.”
“You asked me where I hurt the most,” I whispered, not daring to glance at him, but simply staring down at the grass. “And I thought then how pointless a question that was. Why would I be hurting? I was happy, fulfilled in my profession. I didn’t need anything, no matter what . . . what you’d stirred up in me. I couldn’t understand it. So I assumed it would pass, but it didn’t. Max knew it and in the end I knew it, so I left and here I am.”
As I spoke, Dan’s fingers tightened, giving me the courage I needed to continue. “No matter what happens now, I don’t think I can ever go back. Not to that sense of fulfilment, not even with the affection I shared with my clients and all the good things I gained from my career. Yes, before I became an escort, long before then, I used to have a relationship. It mattered to me very much, but it failed, and I decided that part of my life was over. But the realisation that started when you walked away, that’s deepened since, is this: what hurt me most was the knowledge I could never have such a relationship again. Not in the way the world sees it and the way in which I’ve come to want it too. I could never have that. A ridiculous admission to make, I know. But it’s true and now you know it as well.”
I stopped, feeling I’d said too much and in ways which could never be unsaid: all the dignity of my written words forever washed away by the emotions on my tongue. I wiped my free hand over my face and tried to steady my breathing.
To my surprise, Dan laughed.
“For a bloke who’s supposed to be trained to listen to his customers’ needs,” he said, “you’re pretty damn good at talking. I suppose I’ll have to get used to that, won’t I?”
I blinked and glanced at him. He was smiling. One-sidedly. Something about it and his gaze, not mocking but warm, made the twist in my heart unravel just a little, just enough.
I licked my lips and coughed. “For a man who’s supposed to think only about the way he looks, you’re not so bad at listening to someone else’s unhappiness either. I suppose I’ll have to get used to that too, won’t I?”
As our hands folded over the letter I’d written and the autumn breezes danced around us, he kissed me. And suddenly neither of us was quite so alone with our hurts anymore.
With grateful thanks once more to all at Riptide Publishing.
Riptide Publishing:
The Heart’s Greater Silence
Amber Allure Press:
The Delaneys and Me
Entertaining the Delaneys
The Art of the Delaneys
Dating the Delaneys
The Delaneys at Home (June 3, 2012)
For One Night Only
Martin and the Wolf
Give and Take
A Stranger’s Touch
Brady’s Choice
Tommy’s Blind Date
Tuluscan Six and the Time Circle
The Hit List
Bluewood Publishing:
The Gifting
Rosie by Name
Dido’s Tale
Cheyenne Publishing &
Bristlecone Pine Press:
A Dangerous Man
Bristlecone Pine Press:
Thorn in the Flesh
Pink Champagne and Apple Juice
Dreamspinner Press:
The Bones of Summer
Two Christmases
Musa Publishing:
Angels and Airheads
Eternal Press:
Painting from Life
Untreed Reads:
A Woman Like the Sea
Dancing with Lions
A Little Death
The Girl in the Painting
Creative Accountancy for Beginners
How to Eat Fruit
The Secret Thoughts of Leaves
Anne Brooke’s fiction has been shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Novel Award, the Royal Literary Fund Awards, and the Asham Award for Women Writers. She is the author of six published novels, including her fantasy series, The Gathandrian Trilogy, published by Bluewood Publishing and featuring gay scribe Simon Hartstongue. More information on the trilogy is available at www.gathandria.com and the first of these novels is The Gifting. In addition, her gay and literary short stories are regularly published by Riptide Publishing, Amber Allure Press, and Untreed Reads. All her gay fiction can be found at: www.gayreads.co.uk.
Anne has a secret passion for theatre and chocolate, preferably at the same time, and is currently working on a gay fantasy novella, The Taming of the Hawk. You can find more information at www.annebrooke.com and at her blog, http://annebrooke.blogspot.com.
Riptide Publishing
PO Box 6652
Hillsborough, NJ 08844
http://www.riptidepublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Priceless
Copyright © 2012 by Cat Grant
Cover art by L.C. Chase, http://lcchase.com/design.htm
Editors: Kristen Osborne and Rachel Haimowitz
Layout design: L.C. Chase, http://lcchase.com/design.htm
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and
where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].
ISBN: 978-1-937551-37-7
Printed in the United States of America
First edition
May, 2012
Also available in paperback as part of Riptide Rentboys: The 2012 Collection
ISBN: 978-1-937551-40-7
ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED:
We thank you kindly for purchasing this title. Your non-refundable purchase legally allows you to replicate this file for your own personal reading only, on your own personal computer or device. Unlike paperback books, sharing ebooks is the same as stealing them. Please do not violate the author’s copyright and harm their livelihood by sharing or distributing this book, in part or whole, for fee or free, without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner. We love that you love to share the things you love, but sharing ebooks—whether with joyous or malicious intent—steals royalties from authors’ pockets and makes it difficult, if not impossible, for them to be able to afford to keep writing the stories you love. Piracy has sent more than one beloved series the way of the dodo. We appreciate your honesty and support.
When love’s for sale, who really pays?
Connor Morrison is a 3-D optics pioneer, the star of the UC Berkeley physics department, and a socially inept workaholic. And with his dear friend and business partner, Steve Campbell, handling their investors, he’s content to remain in the shadows. That is, until he meets the gorgeous and starry-eyed physics student Wes Martin.
Wes is brilliant but broke. Ever since his scholarship fell victim to the financial crisis, he's had no choice but to sell his body to stay in school. Already half in love with Connor, Wes initially resists Steve's offer to be Connor's thirty-fifth birthday present. But in the end, Wes is too broke—and too smitten—to say no.
Connor has no idea Steve bought Wes’s attentions, and he quickly falls under the young man’s spell. Yet after one night together, Wes disappears. He can't bear to hook with a man he could so easily grow to love, but he also can’t bear to tell him the truth. Besides, if he sleeps with Connor again, there'd be no way to hide the bruises one of his regular johns loves to inflict. Only one thing to do: let Connor go. Walking away is painful, but not nearly as much as building a relationship on lies.
For JM & MF—thanks for the inspiration!
“Surprise!”
Steve’s front door swung open and Connor’s stomach promptly bounced off the white marble floor tiles. Oh, fuck. Nothing like everyone he knew gaping at him to make him want to dash behind the potted palm in the corner. Not that it’d help, since he towered above the damn thing. For a long moment, he stood there staring at Steve’s wide, cheesy grin and the huge bouquet of silver balloons bobbing in the background, until the urge to flee overtook him.
He’d barely gone two steps before Steve latched onto his arm and dragged him back. “C’mon, Conn, it’s too late to bolt now. Get in here and take it like a man.”
“I’m gonna throttle you,” he hissed at Steve through gritted teeth, pasting on a smile that couldn’t have felt more fake if he’d drawn it on with a red marker. He let Steve lead him over to the bar, his shoulders stiffening and his gut tightening with every slap on the back he got as they maneuvered through the throng. “Make it a double,” he added as Steve poured a glass of Scotch. “It’s the least you can do after pulling this shit.”
Steve tossed him a sour look. “Jesus, quit complaining! You don’t turn thirty-five every day. Just relax for once and celebrate.”
“That’s what I thought we were gonna do—with a couple of steaks and a nice bottle of wine.”
“Like last year, and the year before. Don’t you get bored doing the same damn thing over and over?” Steve handed him his drink. “Don’t bother answering. You worked your ass off this year. We both did. Nothing wrong with enjoying the fruits of our labor, right?”
Easy for him to say. Steve had always been the articulate, outgoing one—every bit as good a salesman as he was a physicist. With his easy charisma and blond, tanned good looks, he had no problem charming the pants off potential investors—or women. Of course, his snazzy new penthouse condo and candy-apple red Ferrari didn’t hurt his chances with the latter.
Connor knocked back half his drink, stifling a sigh as he scanned the living room, packed to bursting with the entire UC Berkeley physics department, plus a dozen or so other people crammed around the buffet table. Thank God Steve hadn’t sprung for streamers and funny hats. “Who all did you invite? I don’t recognize half these people.”
“I thought it’d do you some good to meet new people, mix it up a bit. Make a little effort, and you might actually get laid.”
Connor rolled his eyes.
“Stop it,” Steve added. “It won’t kill you to get out there and mingle.”
It might, if Connor’s quickening pulse was any indication. God, he was absolute shit at anything social. Talking to people he’d never met turned his tongue to spaghetti and sent a hot flush up the back of his neck. All he’d wanted was a quiet evening with Steve, discussing their latest project over too many glasses of Cabernet. Why the fuck was that too much to ask?
He opened his mouth to tell Steve he’d gladly pay him to make everyone leave, but Steve had sidled up to the pretty blonde TA he’d been trying to charm into bed since last semester. Left alone at the bar with weak knees and half a glass of Glenlivet, Connor downed his drink, straightened his glasses, and ventured into the living room with all the joy of a man heading off to his own execution.
The relative peace of Steve’s balcony lay at the far end of the room, but he had to run the gauntlet to get there. Fortunately, he got waylaid only by people he already knew—his department chair and a couple other professors eager to discuss the 3-D optics conference coming up next weekend. After exchanging some obligatory small talk, he managed to slip away, stepping onto the balcony with a grateful sigh.
Blessed peace and quiet washed over him as he lit up a Marlboro and stared over the railing at the twinkling city lights, the sky a gorgeous, deep blue with barely a hint of the ubiquitous San Francisco fog nipping at its edges. It was usually like nuclear winter here even in July, but for the past week or so the weather had been positively balmy. Might as well enjoy it while it lasted.
“Can I bum a smoke?” A voice jolted him from his solitary musings, and he swung around. A young man stood in the doorway. Dark hair, pale skin. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. Smiling, the young man wandered over. Not very tall—in fact, he only came up to Connor’s shoulder. But, God, he’d never seen anyone, male or female, with such perfectly pink lips, or eyes so blue they rivaled the night sky. Where the hell had he come from?
It dawned on him that he was staring. “Um, of course. Here.” His fingers suddenly rubbery, he fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes and nearly dropped them trying to get one out of the pack. Luckily, the young man hadn’t noticed—or maybe he just had the good grace to pretend not to.
The young man propped the cigarette between those full lips, and Connor lit it for him, watching half-mesmerized as he took his first drag and then exhaled, the smoke issuing from his mouth in a long, steady stream. “Thanks,” he said. “I should probably quit. Everyone keeps telling me it’ll stunt my growth, but I guess it’s a little late for that, huh?” An awkward, silent moment, then he laughed, holding out his hand. “I’m Wes, by the way.”
“Connor Morrison.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Connor’s eyes widened. “You do?”
“Well, you are the guest of honor.”
Wes had a firm grip and small hard calluses at the base of his fingers. Must’ve done a bit of manual labor at some point. Didn’t quite go with that sweet-looking face. Connor rubbed a clammy hand down the front of his shabby old tan
corduroy jacket, staring down at his shoes. God, why couldn’t he have worn something a little nicer for a change? At least he’d remembered to shave this morning.
“I’m looking forward to your presentation with Dr. Campbell at the conference next week,” Wes said.
Knocked for a loop twice within five minutes. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up toppling over the railing. “You’re interested in lens-free optical tomography?”
“Oh, hell yeah. The medical applications alone are staggering. An MRI scanner the size of a cell phone? It’ll revolutionize everything. In fact . . .” Wes took another drag, slower and jerkier this time. Almost as if he was nervous. “I was kind of hoping to work with you. That is, if I get accepted into the doctoral program next year.”
“You’re a senior?”
“Yup. Can’t wait ’til classes start next month.” He grinned. “D’you mind telling me more about your new project? I promise not to breathe a word.”
Tempting. Really tempting. Especially with this charming young man looking at him like he was God, Einstein, and Jonas Salk all rolled into one. Steve would kill him if he spilled any crucial details, but what harm would it do to drop a few hints to an eager student? The whole world would know about it by this time next week anyway.
So he started talking. Caught up in the excitement of describing his work—and the avid interest in Wes’s eyes—his anxiety melted away. It wasn’t until his cigarette almost scorched his fingers that he realized how long he’d droned on. “Sorry.” He dropped the butt and ground it with his heel. “I’ve been babbling, haven’t I?”
“Hey, I like a guy who’s passionate about his work. Usually means he’s passionate about other things, too.” Wes flicked his own cigarette over the railing and stepped closer. Close enough for Connor to feel his breath puffing slow and warm over his skin.
Riptide Rentboys Page 5
