by Liv Rancourt
Skip flagged the bartender, giving the men standing nearby a surreptitious glance. “Not as much fun as you’re having.”
The bartender handed Skip a glass of beer. A wave of laughter crested over them, and one of the men at the bar stood up. He was tall and broad, like Russell. He wore his hair cut short and a dark suit, like Russell. He gave the man next to him a lewd wink, so full of promise it made Skip’s blood burn, the way he dreamed Russell would.
“If you’re looking at that bull at two o’clock,” Lou said, his gaze traveling significantly in the same direction as Skip’s. “He’s mine.” Lou pressed a knuckle into Skip’s ribs. “Mine.”
Skip brushed his bangs out of his face with a sigh. “You can have him.” The thought of talking to another man left him cold. If he got horny enough, he’d head over to the baths and find some guy to get him off. Dark and anonymous, where he could close his eyes and pretend he was with a certain swimming god.
“Your loss.” Lou’s grin was even sluttier than the man in the suit’s had been.
Skip laughed and leaned against the bar. He and Lou made better friends than lovers because they both had the same taste. This one was too close to his sore spot. At some point, Skip would have to climb back on the horse with someone else. But not yet.
He was holding out, even though he simply couldn’t make himself believe Russell meant what he said about coming back.
“Jack Dodson was here a little bit ago.” Lou spoke without looking away from his target.
“Oh yeah?” Skip stifled the twinge of anxiety at the sound of his lawyer’s name. “He’s pretty sure he’ll be able to talk the judge into giving me a fine.”
Lou shot him a quick glance. “Better than jail.”
“It would be if I had a hope of paying it.”
Lou patted his arm. “We’ll figure something out.”
Kicking himself for distracting Lou from his manhunt, Skip changed the subject again. “Ryker asked me to be his best man.”
Lou squealed and clapped his hands. “Are you going to do it? You look so grand in a suit.”
“I said I would, yes.” Despite his misgivings, he’d agreed. It wasn’t that he was jealous of Ryker’s happiness. Far from it. He just wanted a little of that happiness for himself.
“And will lover boy be there?” Lou managed to target Skip’s number one misgiving.
He snorted into his beer. “I can’t imagine the bride’s ex-boyfriend will want to drive across the country to see her marry someone else.” Russell sent him a letter almost every day, and he signed most of them see you soon. So far, though, he hadn’t set a date. Besides, in his last letter, Russell said he’d been offered a job.
That news pretty much shot down Skip’s last hope.
Chapter 23
The crowd on the dance floor swung in shifting circles to the rhythm of the big band, surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke. Skip had first chair, which mean the back of his black tuxedo jacket was splattered with spit from the trombones. The band was rocking through the “Back Street Boogie,” and for a little while, at least, Skip forgot to feel sorry for himself.
This Friday night dance was his one gig all weekend. They’d only just reached the first of October, and things were slowing down. Wouldn’t pick back up again until the holidays. After that, it’d be a long, cold winter. When he visited his mother on Sunday, he’d have to break the news.
This time, Russell wouldn’t be there to talk him out of a move south.
The band leader called for “In the Mood,” a song that dragged him right back to Green Lake. Before he could fall too far into the well of sadness, he distracted himself with the monkey suit he’d wear for Ryker’s wedding. Yeah, his new threads were unreal, and the party would be a gas.
Tonight was the bachelor party, and since Skip was the best man, Ryker had promised he and the other groomsmen would come by the dance. Flipping his chart between phrases, Skip gave the crowd a quick once-over to see if they’d shown.
They had. Susie and Ryker sat at one of the front tables, with the blonde Amazon Annette and a couple of Ryker’s other friends. Behind them, tall and broad and gorgeous, stood Russell Haunreiter.
The sight squeezed the air right out of Skip’s lungs, which made playing his horn a good trick. Light-headed, heart pounding, he tried like hell to keep his mind on the music. Getting through the rest of the set without embarrassing himself was something of a miracle.
Finally, the band leader called for a break. The musicians weren’t supposed to fraternize, but Skip slipped off his black cutaway jacket and loosened his tie. Weaving through the dancers, the women in pastel dresses and pearls, the men in crisp slacks and sport coats, he kept his gaze trained on the table in the front.
Susie’s black boat-neck top accented her pale skin and dark curls. Ryker looked smug, if a bit more wide-eyed than normal. And Russell? When he met Skip’s gaze, the crowd’s laughter, the clink of glassware, and the clouds of smoke all faded away, leaving only one smile in the room, maybe even in the whole world.
Skip shook Ryker’s hand, kissed Susie’s cheek, and grinned at Russell, hands in his pockets. Touching him was too great a temptation.
“Hi.” Russell kept his hands in his pockets too.
“Welcome back.” Just standing next to him spun Skip’s crank, driving the specifics of polite conversation right out of his head. “There’s girls at the bachelor party.”
“You bet.” Susie shoved her chair away from the table and stood. “C’mon, Annette. I need to powder my nose.”
Annette made a little moue of protest and grudgingly climbed to her feet.
“And Ryker,” Susie commanded, “be a doll and go get us some more drinks.”
Ryker recruited his friends to help, leaving Skip and Russell standing by the table. “She’s subtle,” Russell murmured sarcastically.
Skip smothered a chuckle. “Listen...”
“When are you done?” Russell gazed out over the crowd, casual, like they did this all the time.
Skip brushed the hair back from his face. Nothing to see here, folks. “Ten, maybe ten thirty.” The butterflies in his stomach threatened to send up an air raid.
“I’m staying over at the Burlingame Hotel on Olive Way. Room four-twenty-one.” Russell spoke so quietly Skip was torn between leaning in to hear and stepping away to keep from dragging the other man down to the floor.
He kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, edging closer. “That’s one of those residential places, isn’t it?”
“I plan on being here awhile.” Russell’s smile broadened, but he kept his eyes on the dance floor.
Band members were filtering back on stage, and for the first time in his life, Skip really didn’t want to play. “I guess you have a story to tell.”
“Come by when you’re done, and you’ll see.”
Skip’s fists tightened till his knuckles cracked. No way could he say anything intelligent. He took a three steps toward the stage, turned, and held up four fingers, then two, then one. Russell’s grin could have melted his horn, and Skip jogged off, laughing.
***
The Burlingame was a wedge-shaped building that sat on a slice of land between Olive Way and Melrose, with a view looking out over downtown. Russell’s room was small, barely bigger than the full-sized Murphy bed when he pulled it down from the wall, and the kitchenette boasted a sink, a small refrigerator, a hot plate, and not much else.
Compared with his room back home, it was perfect.
Russell pushed the dining table against the wall so there’d be space for the bed. He had two beers in the fridge but wasn’t even sure they’d need them. In his bag, he had a stack of letters signed Love, Skip, so he wasn’t worried his offer would get rejected.
Not too worried.
He left the blinds up, because no one could see into his third-floor room. Even if they could, the people on the street were mostly greasers and hipsters, and he didn’t think they’d care.
Someone knocked at his door at about fifteen minutes after ten.
Skip.
Russell had to take a deep breath before he could respond, resting his head on the jamb, so excited, his teeth were chattering. A second soft knock brought him around, and he opened the door.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Skip had traded his tuxedo for a striped crewneck and a worn leather jacket, and his curly pompadour swooped higher than it had over the summer. His grin was the same, though, still full of charm and life and joy.
Without speaking, Russell took his hand and drew him inside, pausing only to lock the door before catching the edge of the leather and pulling Skip into his body.
Skip’s hands flared out, finding purchase on Russell’s shoulders. He licked his lips, then laughed, and Russell realized he’d mirrored the quick tongue flick.
“So...” Russell began a sentence, then got distracted by wrapping his hands around the musician’s waist.
“So.” Skip leaned against him. He smelled familiar, like pomade and cigarettes and sweat. They rocked their hips together, still delaying the moment when the barriers would fall and they’d kiss.
“Want something to drink?” Russell asked, forcing himself to be a good host.
Skip smiled. “Not really.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Better.” Skip shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe they were talking about something so mundane. “If she doesn’t bleed any more, she may be home by Christmas.”
“I need to get a record player so we can listen to music.”
“Mine’s packed away.” Fingertips teasing the small hairs on the back of Russell’s neck, Skip hummed a slow, sweet version of “Misty.”
Russell’s head tipped lower, almost outside of his control. “That’ll do.” So close. For the last six weeks, he’d spent every waking moment—and many of his dreams—wishing he had this man in his arms. Skip hummed, tipping his head, leaning closer.
Then they were kissing, a long, sweet meeting of lips and tongue. Russell all but lifted Skip off the ground in his eagerness to bring him closer. For his part, Skip scraped his nails through Russell’s hair, his hummed tune turning into a heartfelt groan.
Long moments passed before they broke apart. “Come sit down.” Russell drew the other man to the table by the window. There’d be time for the bed later. “I guess I should ask whether you’re seeing anyone else.” He wanted to clear up his deepest fear right off.
“No.” Skip settled into one of the straight-back chairs, still holding Russell’s hand. “I told you men like us don’t find someone to love all that often.”
There. That word he’d waited six weeks to hear. “Didn’t want you to get your hopes up.” Russell shrugged, letting go of the tension he’d been carrying since August. “I wanted to surprise you, you know? Jack, Mr. Dodson, I mean, offered me a position, but I didn’t want to say anything until I had his letter in hand.”
“Well.” Skip blinked, his smile softening. “I guess this means I can’t move down to San Francisco.”
“Not right away.” Russell rocked their joined hands. “I want to tell you something else.” He gulped, marshalling his arguments. “When I first came to Seattle, I really thought I knew what I wanted out of this life, but then I met you, and...”
Skip squeezed his hand, and, distracted, Russell brushed a kiss over his knuckles.
“I know the rules for dating women,” Russell continued, “but now I want to learn how to go with men. How to be with you, because I love you.”
“Russell.”
“If you want me, I mean. I’ve done stupid things before, and I’ll probably still make mistakes, and you’ll have to smack me when I goof up.” Russell blinked fast to keep the tears away. “You bring music to my soul, Lawrence Johansen.” He gave in to temptation and slid out of the chair, landing on his knees. “Will you have me?”
Skip cupped Russell’s cheeks, bending forward. “Yes.” He whispered the word just before pressing a kiss to Russell’s lips.
In a crashing wave of relief and happiness, Russell got his arms around Skip and pulled him down to the floor. Without breaking the kiss, he rolled so Skip was underneath him. “I hear the owner of this place turns a blind eye to overnight guests.” He rutted against Skip’s thigh. “So for now, at least, I figured we’d just play it by ear.”
“Play it by ear,” Skip echoed, chuckling as he brought Russell’s hand to his lips. “Good thing we can both carry a tune.”
“Good thing you taught me to improvise.” Russell dove in for another kiss, carried away with joy.
Acknowledgements
This is going to be a long one, because Aqua Follies has been such a journey. Just over three years ago, I saw a call for submissions for stories set in the 1950s. I had 15,000 words to work with, and a friend, Paula Becker, who’s a historian. We were kicking story ideas around over coffee one morning, and she asked what I knew about the Aqua Follies, an annual production during Seattle’s Seafair celebration in the 1950s.
To be honest, I knew nothing at all, but that soon changed. The other thing that changed was the romantic make-up of the story. I started writing about a young woman who came to Seattle to perform in the Aqua Follies. I thought she fell in love with a trumpet player in the band, but the words just did not want to come. Then I figured out that the person who fell in love with the trumpet player was the swimmer’s coach.
The first incarnation went together easily and I sent it off....and got a lovely rejection. I sent the story to a couple other places, and got generally positive...rejections. Then I sent it to my agent, Margaret Bail from Fuse Literary, along with the following:
I love these characters. Do you think the story would work as a longer piece?
Margaret was enthusiastic about Aqua Follies, so I decided to write the rest of the story. I’m old enough to just about remember the ‘50s...well, almost...and while stories set in that time period are definitely historic, it’s possible to find first-person records describing what life was like. To supplement my research, I had a fantastic conversation with pianist Overton Berry, who knew from personal experience what it was like to be a jazz musician in Seattle in 1955. I also had help from the Musician’s Association of Seattle, Local 76-493. Kirsten James and Monica Schley helped me find resources, and Paul Hanson helped with the make-up of a small orchestra and was even able to send me a pdf of an Aqua Follies program!
My friend Paula Becker came up with another timely assist, lending me her copy of “The Plague and I” by Betty MacDonald, an amazing first-person account of living in a sanitorium with tuberculosis. I could do a whole essay on Betty because she’s something of a forgotten treasure. If my scenes in the sanitorium have the ring of truth, it’s because of her and Paula.
When it was finished, Margaret sent it around to various publishers, where it got some favorable comments, but no offers. I still believed in Aqua Follies, so I sent it to editor (and fantastic author) KJ Charles for a developmental edit. Her notes prompted a complete rewrite, which made the story even better. Along the way, I also got tons of feedback from my beta readers (and I hope I don’t forget any...) Rhay, Amanda, Ellen, Debbie, Irene, Selena, and Ruth.
So, I ended up this great story that’d been tweaked and massaged and worked over many times. One of the recurrent themes we heard from publishers was that the mid-century time period was hard to place. I figured they didn’t want to invest in something that might not sell. Given that, I decided to take the risk myself. I sent it to Linda Ingmanson for a final edit, connected with Kanaxa for the cover art, and voila...
Aqua Follies is here, and I do hope you enjoy it! And to the small army who propped me up during this process, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I do want to give a special shout-out to my writing partner Irene Preston for holding my hand through the self-publishing process, and to my husband and kids for their unfailing patience and support. I’ll turn off the laptop..
..in just a minute!
Biography
Liv Rancourt writes romance: m/f, m/m, and v/h, where the h is for human and the v is for vampire...or sometimes demon. She writes funny. She doesn’t write angst. When not writing, Liv takes care of tiny premature babies or teenagers, depending on whether she’s at home or at work. Her husband is a soul of patience, her dog is the cutest thing evah(!), and she’s up to three ferrets.
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