by Clare London
But Connor shook his head. “Not now. Not for me.”
“Saving yourself for someone else?”
Oliver’s tone was sharp and Connor looked at him in surprise. “I told you. Bring me the dark one, and the sweet one will follow.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Connor frowned. “He will… eventually.”
Oliver’s cock jumped inside his fist and he moaned, the warm, glutinous come bursting out over his naked thighs.
“He must,” Connor murmured. He seemed to have little attention left for the limp young man beneath him now. “He must.”
***
Scot woke much later. At least, he guessed the time as always. The light outside the motel window had faded from bright golden to a lush, warm indigo. Shit, had he slept the whole afternoon away? Groggily, he reached out across the bed, but Jerry wasn’t there beside him. Where was he? He hadn’t seen him since the scenes in the kitchen.
And had he really seen them?
Scot yawned, stretching languorously in the warm room. He was naked and laid out on the top of the covers. And such dreams…! He’d dreamed of Connor Maxwell, together with Oliver. Provocative dreams, sensual dreams. Were they real, too? He wanted to smile, though he felt so lethargic it was almost too much effort. His body felt soft, hot and heavy. And highly aroused. He ran a hand over his naked thigh, curious, feeling gentle little creases in his skin from lying on the crumpled sheet. The ceiling fan limped around above him, erratic as always, the slight breeze stroking his bare chest. He felt as if he’d been here, in this position, at this moment, for days… for ever. His muscles were sore and a little cramped, and when he glanced down at his hands, he saw brick dust still lingering between his fingers.
The memories of what he’d somehow seen through the wall—experienced?—brought a physical clench to his groin, and he flushed. It had been so vivid! The sight of Jerry burying himself in Vincent’s mouth until he came with a cry, spilling into the man’s willing throat. Memories of ecstasy and unbearable excitement—and now guilt.
=not yours=
Apparently, Jerry hadn’t bothered about how Scot would feel. And what about the way he’d looked at Vincent? Full of a raw need that was far beyond the teasing lust he showed to Scot. Shouldn’t Jerry be the one feeling guilty? Scot glanced over at the chair, wondering where his clothes were. He remembered running from the yard, but not getting back to the room and crashing out. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Things so often felt misted and confused nowadays, more than could be accounted for by the heat.
Where was Jerry? How many places could a guy hide at this godforsaken motel?
=He’s with us, where he wants to be=
Something moved at the corner of Scot’s vision—a shadow at the dusty window, what may have been a dark head passing by. Vincent? Connor?
“The courtyard,” Vincent had said to Jerry. He had offered more: whatever Jerry wanted. From him.
Scot sat up abruptly, reaching for his shorts. He dragged them on over his hips, without bothering with underwear, then rolled off the bed and left the room.
***
Scot was barefooted, and his feet slapped the ground as he padded toward the courtyard. It was a contrast to the weird silence that enveloped him all along the corridor. He’d never seen any movement in any other bedroom, never any evidence of other guests. It was like living inside a bubble, yet still open to the air: an illusion of the real world. The night was cooler than the sweltering day, though still warm enough for anyone to wander about with the minimum of clothing. The moon above was a bright sliver of silver, unobscured by cloud. He paused a few feet from the gate, waiting to hear if he heard any noise, any sign of life.
But the courtyard was an empty, quiet space. Shades of night played over the walls, dappling the stone with strange, distorted shadows. He leaned against one of the gateposts, and looked in. During the day, the ground was dusty and the stone pale and bleached by the sun. But now the colors seemed to be a contradiction, both cooler and warmer than daytime. The moonlight filtered to a softer, pinker light as it hit the ground, and the rich green foliage of the palm trees was nothing more than a dark, rustling silhouette. A beetle scuttled across the flagstones around the pool; a rare breeze blew a fallen frond from the trees up against the wall.
For the last few days, Scot had been the only one to make use of the benches, looking for a way to pass the days. He told Jerry—when his lover had bothered to ask—that he’d found some peace there. He liked the pleasant arrangement of the stones at the base of the pool, the dark red dust against the light-colored building materials. He’d meant it when he asked Oliver why the staff of the motel didn’t make more of the courtyard.
He waited, peering into the shadows, but there was no sign of Jerry here tonight. Or Oliver, Vincent, or… Connor Maxwell. He couldn’t deny the disappointment that stabbed at him. He told himself he was pissed off, he wanted to confront Connor and demand explanations. But it wasn’t just Connor’s explanations he sought; not just Connor’s voice that had captivated him.
He took a few steps into the courtyard. He didn’t shut the gate behind him, but it still felt as if he’d locked himself in. There was always something odd about the air inside the courtyard itself, as if he stepped into another zone. This was the first time he’d been here at night, and the disorientation was even more pronounced.
For once, he didn’t make his way to a bench. He was drawn to the pool instead. He always looked into it every time he visited, though it wasn’t like he expected anything to have changed. It had been sorely neglected and left to run dry, the paths to and from the gate gathering dust and fallen leaves. When exposed to the bright daylight sun, there was clear evidence that the base stones of the structure were cracked and parts of the rim had crumbled. Even in the benevolent shadows of the night, it was obvious it hadn’t been used for a long while.
Scot knew how things should be. The pool should be full of cool, clear water. A bather could sit on the edge on a hot day and trail their feet in the refreshing water, or let themselves down to crouch on one of the steps, gradually submerging fully. The pit was as deep as a tall man’s shoulders, and large enough for several people to take a dip together. The steps led all the way down to the bottom, and the top one was extended to run around its inner circumference, creating a seat near the rim where everyone could rest.
That’s what should happen. He knew it wasn’t the case nowadays. So was it just a trick of this night, that when the breeze whispered in the trees, there seemed to be an answering splash from within the pool? A gentle ripple against the wall; a glint of water in the moonlight.
Hallucination? Imagination?
Or regeneration?
Scot froze where he stood, suddenly both afraid and desperate to see inside the pool, to see if he was in another of these strange, waking dreams-come-true.
A ripple of shadow passed the corner of his vision, but when he wheeled around, there was nothing there. No tall young man, with long, loose hair and a piercing through his nipple, who moved with an easy, athletic grace.
But Scot remained waiting, one hand resting gently on the outer rim of the pool.
And the vision came at last—as somehow, deep in his confused heart, he knew it would.
***
The moon was high and the courtyard—astonishingly, delightfully—occupied.
Connor Maxwell sat on one of the stone benches. He leaned back on a cushion, a blanket beneath him and his head propped against the wall. There were a few other cushions at his feet, and more blankets of soft fabric folded on the end of the bench. Under the trees, lanterns threw arcs of light across the courtyard, and there were baskets of bread and fruit at the foot of the nearest bench. A half dozen bottles of wine were propped against them.
Connor wore loose cotton pants and his chest was bare. His shoulders were broad and straight, his neck long and smooth in the lowering light. He was attractively muscled—nothing too obviously pump
ed, yet with the clear declaration of physical strength. His distinctively curly hair brushed his throat, and his hands rested gently in his lap. He was barefoot.
“Where is he?” Connor’s tone was soft and seemingly tolerant. But neither of the men standing in front of him was fooled. He was angry: they obviously knew the signs.
Oliver wriggled a foot into the seam between two flag stones. Tonight, he wore a different pair of shorts in a thin khaki fabric, though they were as brief as ever, barely covering the cheeks of his ass. He wore a feather pendant on a thong round his neck, and nothing else. He, too, was barefoot. “He’s here in the motel. Of course he’s here. Where else would he go?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Connor’s voice was ominously calm. “I know exactly where he is, physically, every minute of the day. Don’t be so obtuse, Oliver.”
Oliver hung his head. His shoulders shook like he might cry.
“It’s his mind that’s gone,” Connor said. His voice grew tighter. “I cannot reach it. He won’t listen to me.”
“How can that be?” Vincent ventured. He wore his usual silken pants and—like the others—nothing else. He rested his hands on his hips, but a slight shake in his wrists belied his habitual composure. “You can reach us all.”
“He’s using his passion to resist it.” Connor frowned. “It’s such magnificent passion! He has no idea how strong it is… it’s been such a joy to lose myself in it. But he needs me to help him channel it. To reach his true potential.” He looked up at the others, as if suddenly aware of their stares.
“You need him,” Oliver whispered, almost awed. “You feed off it. Off him.” It was a statement rather than a question, but he looked fearful of any answer.
Vincent snapped a warning glance at Oliver, then turned back to Connor. “You have us, still.”
“Yes, us,” Oliver echoed faintly.
Connor’s frown didn’t ease.
Vincent’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“Is he the true one?” Oliver whispered. “Yours?” Despite his obvious misery at being scolded, his eyes were alert with curiosity and something that looked like alarm.
“Be quiet!” Connor snapped. “It’s no business of yours, is it? I allowed you both to play with them, and it seemed you’d served them well. But now… now I can’t reach him. There’s never been such a time before.”
Oliver gave a strangled sound in his throat.
Vincent cast a curious look in Maxwell’s direction. “Maxwell, why are you so worried?”
Connor’s eyes were narrow slits, shining in the dim light, with a sharpness that threatened to cut as surely as the knife that had threatened Jerry’s fragile equilibrium. “Did you hurt him, Oliver?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Oliver protested. “He felt it, Connor—he felt Vincent and his loving, from the kitchen. I know he did. I hoped it’d excite him. But I think it upset him.”
“He was not to be upset,” Connor said coldly. “You were to please him!” His eyes caught Oliver’s and the blond shivered. The pupils within Connor’s gorgeous blue depths were chill, dark, and hard.
“I tried,” Oliver whispered. “But I told you. He didn’t want me.”
Connor’s eyes widened, but with a glimmer of satisfaction and pleasure this time. He reached out a hand and Oliver darted quickly and with relief into his embrace.
“He’ll come, you said.” Vincent’s tone was calm again. “I can feel the dark one coming to me. To us. That will be good, won’t it? And then his lover will follow.”
Connor’s eyes were on something far away now, but he nodded. “It will be good, indeed. The dark one is fresh and full of desire, and he wants to be with us. He’s very fine.”
“So…” Vincent murmured, still seeking to please his master. “You will have him in the end. Both of them, if you wish.”
Connor’s eyes focused back on Vincent’s face. The other man was a few inches taller than Connor, but he bent very slightly before Connor, as if bowing to him.
“You’re right, Vincent.” Connor sounded steadier. His eyes roamed over Vincent’s handsome face, resting on the throbbing pulse at his throat. “You’re very wise in these things, aren’t you? That’s what I like about you, your care in everything you do… and touch. You’re my strong one.”
Oliver glanced at Vincent and sighed. A smile crept back to his face. “And me?” he asked Connor.
Connor absently stroked Oliver’s hair. “You’re the bright one, Oliver. You know that. You always were. Be at rest.”
Oliver sighed and sank back into Connor’s embrace. The fear slid gently from his expression.
***
The gate to the courtyard creaked quietly. Suddenly the vision had gone, and Scot was alone there, his eyes acclimatizing to the dark and the barely-there whisper of sand around his feet. For a moment he swayed, trying to re-establish himself in the here and now.
If that was where he actually was.
He glanced back over his shoulder and, to his surprise, saw Jerry at the entrance, wavering at the open gate as if nervous of going any farther. Scot had some sympathy with that. Was Jerry here to meet Vincent after all? Scot waited for the ache of betrayal and hurt, but again to his surprise, he wasn’t as devastated as he thought he’d be.
“Jerry?” he called softly.
Jerry padded into the courtyard, also barefoot, paused and ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t answer, didn’t even meet Scot’s gaze. It was as if he didn’t see him at all. “Where are you?” he whispered into the half-dark.
Some crappy choice for a secret assignation, Scot thought harshly. No fucking place to hide here. Even if Vincent was a skinny little man who could crouch behind the pool and avoid Scot’s investigation—
“Jerry,” said another voice. Deep and seductive and totally welcoming.
Scot whirled back around to face the pool. Vincent was there in front of him! He was as clear as he’d been in Scot’s weird half-dream, and dressed the same. He looked real. Solid. Sexy. And he was smiling over Scot’s shoulder, directly at Jerry.
“Vincent,” Jerry said, and smiled back.
Jesus. Scot had never heard such a simper in Jerry’s tone! Instinctively, he took a few steps back toward the perimeter wall so that he could look more easily between Jerry and Vincent and…
“Hi Oliver,” Jerry said.
Oliver was there as well? How the fuck? Scot knew Oliver hadn’t been standing beside Vincent just two minutes ago, when Scot had been clinging to the pool wall and dreaming his weird, felt-so-real dream. But that’s where Oliver was now.
Scot stood, frozen, as Jerry walked past him.
“This is the first time,” Jerry said softly.
Vincent tilted his head to one side, a mischievous look on his face.
“The first time I’ve met Connor Maxwell,” Jerry added in explanation.
“So what do you think of me?” said another, new, but oh-so-fucking-not, voice.
Jerry’s laugh was astonishingly relaxed, like another, happier man’s, at least as far as Scot was concerned. “You’re hot,” he said, with humor in his tone. “Though I should have expected that.”
Scot watched with amazement as Connor stepped out from behind Vincent and took Jerry’s hand. They were all dressed the same as in the dream. As if they were just continuing it now, in front of Scot again. Scot recognized that smile on Connor’s face—he’d turned it on Scot in the kitchen the other day.
“But I think you do know me,” Connor said to Jerry.
“I… do?”
“You know me,” Vincent murmured in Jerry’s ear, his hand sliding around Jerry’s waist. “So you know Connor too. You see how easy it is?”
Jerry blinked hard: Scot knew it was his what the fuck? face, but Jerry didn’t challenge Vincent or Connor. Instead he smiled again, sleepily, but with what looked a lot like hopeful anticipation. “Yes. Yes, I think I do.”
Jerry! Scot wanted to grab the man, shake him, shout
into his face, demand to know what was going on. But… what was the point?
“What happens now?” Jerry asked. He arched gently as Vincent kissed his neck, still holding him close. Jerry’s gaze flickered between the three men, his pupils dilating. Never once did he look over to where Scot stood.
“Welcome to Maxwell’s Motel, Jerry Harrison,” said Vincent.
“A proper welcome this time,” Oliver said mischievously. “From all of us.”
Connor continued as if neither of the others had spoken. “I hoped you would come tonight. Come and join us.”
“Enjoy us,” Vincent added.
They took hold of Jerry, one on each arm, Vincent’s lips at his throat, and drew him nearer the pool.
And Jerry spun in their arms, laughing, and then they all vanished into nothing.
***
“Wait!” Scot yelled into empty air. The courtyard was dry and dark, and when he darted back over to the pool, it remained a dry well with nothing to tempt the exhausted traveler. No one else was in sight. And he was obviously, totally insane.
=of course you’re not=
The voice? So soon after seeing Connor, Scot couldn’t for a second differentiate it from the echo of a voice he’d just heard in the flesh. “Where are you?” he shouted. “How were you just here?” Tears pricked at his lashes but he wasn’t going to get upset. No fucking way!
=I don’t want you to get upset. That’s the very last thing I want!=
“So stop playing with my mind!” For a long moment, the silence around him was as deafening as a multitude of shouts. “Leave me alone! Leave Jerry alone!” He realized he was panting, yet he hadn’t moved from his spot by the pool. “Or show yourself!”
And so it happened. Connor stood in front of him, now dressed in nothing but a towel around his waist. Droplets of water glinted in a trail down between his pecs. He held out a hand as if trying to soothe Scot, as if he were some kind of wild animal, and yet it was beckoning him at the same time.
