by Kim Fielding
It looked as if Des was trying to get his breathing under control. But his erection remained and he hadn’t reached for the towel. “I don’t mind. Everyone I’ve been with has held power over me. People see how big I am and think otherwise, but they’re wrong. And it’s all right. I never expected to… to command myself. I don’t need to.”
“But you do,” Kurt said, ardor cooled and heart aching. “I can’t have sex with a man who isn’t in control of himself.”
After a few moments of silence, Des nodded and his shoulders sagged. He retrieved the towel and retied it around his waist. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want apologies. Wasn’t as if you twisted my arm.” God, Kurt could still taste Des on his tongue.
Des nodded and, head bowed, shuffled to the bathroom. While he was in there, Kurt took the opportunity to bash his own fool head against the wall three times. Hard. It hurt, but it probably didn’t knock any sense into him. What he should do at this point was call HQ—somebody always answered, no matter the hour—and tell Townsend to replace him with another agent. One who wouldn’t let his dick make stupid decisions.
But he didn’t call.
Half an hour later, Kurt had finished his notes and nighttime ablutions, while Des sat in his sleepwear on one of the chairs, attention focused on the Wilde book. Kurt got into bed and slid to the side against the wall. “I need to sleep.”
Des stood slowly, set down his book, and made his way across the room to the bed. “Can I have the top quilt? I think you’ll still have enough to stay warm.”
“Have it for what?”
“To sleep on.” He stomped a foot on the linoleum. “Floor’s hard.”
“Get in the bed, Desmond.”
After a few seconds, Des did. He positioned himself so far away from Kurt that he was in danger of falling off, and he doused the light. In the close darkness, they both spent a few minutes rearranging pillows and blankets and repositioning limbs. And then they both lay awake for a very long time, a continent of mattress between them.
Chapter Thirteen
Des ached. Oh, the mattress was good enough and the pillows quite nice, and faint susurrations of the breeze through tree boughs made their way into the cottage like a lullaby. But Des’s belly ached from an inadequate dinner, and his balls ached from frustrated lust. Worse, though, his heart ached because he’d had Kurt in his arms and then had lost him, and he’d never get him back.
He hadn’t lied to Kurt; there had been no ulterior motives to Des’s actions. Nothing baser than pure desire. He’d never, not even for a second, hoped that bending over for Kurt would earn his freedom. Even if Kurt had been able to help him thwart discovery by the Bureau, which was doubtful, he wouldn’t try. Kurt was a good and upright man, not the sort to let fugitives escape.
And Kurt was gay. Over the past days, Des had thought he’d caught a few furtive looks cast his way, filled with heat and longing. But he’d dismissed that as wishful thinking on his part, especially as he’d become increasingly intrigued by Kurt. The more time Des spent with him, the more he appreciated the strong lines of Kurt’s face, the long lines of his body, the depth of his gaze. He was possibly the most complex person Des had ever met, his history and inner conflicts camouflaged behind a confident, brusque façade. Des wanted to know him—and increasingly, Des had wanted to touch him.
And he had. Briefly. It had been spectacular, a memory that was going to fuel his wanking sessions for many years to come. Not just because snogging with Kurt had felt good, although it bloody well had, but because something about it had felt personal. As if Kurt yearned specifically for him, and not simply for anyone with a dick and an ass.
Such dreams were stupid.
Dawn slowly lightened the gingham-covered windows, and Des thought about what Kurt had said: A man who isn’t in control of himself. Well, of course Des wasn’t in control of himself; he was a fucking prisoner, wasn’t he? Before that, he’d been under Larry’s spell and under his thumb as well. And before that? He’d been nothing but a kid trying to survive however he could. It wasn’t fair. Life had always handed him bad cards, and he’d done what he could with them. If he’d made mistakes, he wasn’t the only one to blame, was he?
Dimly, as if they were final dying echoes, he heard screams of fear and pain. Screams he’d caused.
Des squeezed his eyes closed and tried resolutely to get a little sleep.
“Will we eat here?” Des waved at the building that housed the motor lodge office and café.
Kurt’s face tightened. “No.” Instead of his usual suit, this morning he wore jeans and a navy polo shirt, but Kurt would have pegged him for a cop anyway. Something about his assured movements.
Ignoring a light drizzle, they walked across the parking lot. Despite the season and early hour, the air held little chill, and Des was comfortable in his T-shirt and jeans. A few cars passed as they walked the couple of blocks to the town center, where Kurt bought a newspaper from a vending box and tucked it under his arm. He then made a quick visual survey before leading them into Sisters’ Diner. It occupied an old one-story house with a sweet garden in front, a porch swing, and pretty stained-glass windows. A nice place, Des thought, but Kurt’s shoulders looked tight as they entered.
About half of the tables were occupied, and everyone stared at them—perhaps more in curiosity than hostility. A grandmotherly woman smiled and took them to seats in the corner, under a display of decorative plates.
“Smells wonderful,” Des said as he sat down.
Kurt gave a grudging nod and managed a thank you when the waitress filled their white ceramic cups from a glass coffeepot. “We’ve got some good specials this morning,” she said. “Ya’ll want to hear them?”
Des quickly said yes before Kurt could send her away. The specials did sound delicious: pumpkin pancakes, sweet potato pie, and persimmon muffins, among others. “Almost everything with a P.” He grinned at her, ignoring Kurt’s scowl.
“We should have made persimmon pastries then. Where’re ya’ll from, honey? That’s no Mississippi accent.” She patted his shoulder in a friendly way.
A Nevada prison likely wasn’t the right answer, even if it involved another P word. “Northern Ireland, ma’am.”
She put a hand to her chest. “Northern Ireland! Oh my, that’s a long way to come for our famous breakfasts. We’re so delighted to have you.”
“I bet it’ll be worth the journey.”
“And how about you, darling?” she asked, turning to Kurt. “Irish too?”
Kurt had been squinting at two people who’d just entered the restaurant, a white couple in their twenties. He turned his attention to the waitress with visible effort. “No ma’am. I’m from California. I’m showing my friend around the country.”
Des was impressed by the fabrication, especially if Kurt had just now thought of it. The waitress seemed captivated, and spent several minutes ignoring the impatient newcomers and dictating a list of everything they should be sure to visit in Mississippi. Des thought the couple near the door might give up and walk away, but they didn’t, and finally the waitress left Kurt and Des’s table and took the couple to seats on the other side of the room.
“I can’t decide between the specials,” Des said, eyeing the menu. “Or maybe I want biscuits and gravy instead. Or country ham and grits. If there’s a country ham, does that mean there’s city ham too?”
Kurt rolled his eyes. “It refers to a method of preparation, not where the pig is from.”
“That’s disappointing. What’s red-eye gravy?”
“It’s made from ham drippings and coffee. You’ve been in the South before. Didn’t you eat anything while you were here?”
“Mostly hamburgers and sandwiches. Larry didn’t fancy what he called regional cuisine.” Larry had always said those words disdainfully, as if food from anywhere but Oregon might poison him.
“And since he didn’t want to eat Southern food, you didn’t get to either?”
Des hoped the hurt didn’t show on his face. “He was the one paying.”
The waitress returned soon afterward, and Des ordered the ham and a persimmon muffin and a slice of sweet potato pie. Kurt shot him a look, obviously aware of Des’s attempt to prove his independence, and then asked for a crabmeat omelet and fruit. The waitress seemed happier with Des’s choices.
Kurt shared the newspaper with Des, who skimmed the articles with mild interest. Whatever was going on in the world didn’t much matter to a man who’d soon be back in a cell. He read the entertainment section, however, wishing he had the chance to see a film one more time. It didn’t seem worth asking Kurt, especially since Roebuck Springs had no cinema.
Their food arrived quickly. Des dug into his—the items were delicious—but Kurt ate with less enthusiasm, sometimes sneaking nervous looks at the newcomers across the room. Des didn’t understand why. The couple looked entirely ordinary, the woman in a gray skirt and purple sweater and the man wearing khakis and a button-up shirt.
“Did those people say or do something?” Des said quietly.
“No.”
Maybe they’d made hostile faces at Kurt the same way the motel clerk had. If so, Des had missed it, but he’d mostly been paying attention to the waitress. “I don’t think everyone here is a racist bastard. The waitress didn’t act like it.”
“And maybe she’s not. Thirty years ago, I could’ve been sent to jail for eating with white folks. I could’ve been beaten or murdered if the locals thought I was too uppity. And when those things happened to black folks around here, maybe that waitress stepped up and tried to stop it. Or maybe she turned away.” Kurt didn’t seem bitter so much as sad and weary.
You’re not the only one who has carried burdens, Desmond Hughes.
After breakfast, Kurt and Des stopped at the grocers and bought enough food to last a couple of days. Kurt said he was tired of eating out and could throw together something edible in the kitchenette. The drizzle had ebbed to a fine mist that sank into the skin of Des’s face and bare arms, reminding him a little of Belfast. Each of them carrying a bag, Kurt and Des returned to the cottages.
After they put the food away, Des expected Kurt to begin searching for the box. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed. Des sat at the table and pretended to read a book, but Kurt likely wasn’t fooled.
“It’s Powell. I need to speak to the chief, please.” Kurt’s sour expression suggested he wasn’t thrilled with the response he got, but he remained on the line, idly trying to untangle a twist in the cord. After a few minutes, he sat up straighter. “Roebuck Springs, sir. . . . No, we just got in last night. I’ll begin after we hang up. This one’s going to take some time—there are a lot of abandoned buildings. . . . He’s fine, sir. No problems.”
Des let out a breath. He hadn’t recognized his worry that Kurt might tell his boss about the previous night, but it must have been at the back of his mind. The fact that Kurt didn’t seem inclined to mention it was interesting. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and he could have ratted Des out without facing any punishment himself.
But Kurt wasn’t finished with the conversation. “Chief, did you send other agents here too? . . . I saw these two people this morning. I don’t recognize them, but— . . . Would East Coast HQ do that without informing you? . . . All right. . . . Yes, sir. Good-bye.”
He hung up and remained on the bed, looking introspective and somewhat troubled.
Des abandoned his attempt to appear uninterested. “Were those people in the diner Bureau agents?”
“Don’t know. Townsend says he doesn’t know of anyone else here, but I guess a different regional chief could have sent them. Or Townsend could be lying.”
“You don’t trust your boss?”
“He’s… I don’t even know the right word. Inscrutable, maybe.”
It was alarming that Kurt, enigmatic himself, couldn’t suss out the fellow. Even more troubling, could Des believe that the Bureau would keep its end of the bargain and allow him more privileges when he returned to prison? Well, it didn’t matter much right now. Either way, Des was enjoying his holiday.
Kurt carefully searched the cottage and the vacant one next door—he was handy at picking locks, apparently—but found nothing. They had sandwiches for lunch, and then Kurt went to the nearest outbuilding: a large house that might once have been the residence of the spa’s owner. The paint had peeled away, the porch sagged, and most of the windows were broken. Des hadn’t accompanied Larry into any of the outbuildings and didn’t even know if Larry had entered them, so he wasn’t going to be any help to Kurt. But tagging along was more entertaining than staying cooped up inside the cottage.
Careful of rotting floorboards and rickety stairs, Kurt used his magic device to search the entire structure, and Des followed with interest. Nothing much remained in the old house other than broken furniture, peeling wallpaper, mouse droppings, and a lot of spiderwebs and dead flies. No wizards’ boxes. Both men were grimy when they emerged to greet the dusk.
“I wouldn’t want to be in there at night,” Des said as they trudged back to the cottage.
“I have flashlights.”
“Not because of the dark. Ghosts. I’m positive that house is haunted.”
Kurt’s laughter was amused but not mean. “Ghosts don’t scare me.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“Of course. Bureau agent, remember? And believe me—people are a lot more dangerous when they’re alive than after they’ve died.”
Des considered that as they took turns washing up and then while Kurt made them salads and pasta for dinner. He prepared the sauce from scratch, and it was very good; apparently Kurt had a flair for cooking. Another unexpected layer to the man.
“I’m having another bath,” Des announced after washing the dishes. He was taking his luxuries while he could.
Kurt didn’t look up from his notebook. “This time put clothes on before you come out.”
“Afraid you won’t be able to resist me?”
That got no response.
The bath was just as lovely the second time around. More so, in fact, because when they’d been at the store, Kurt bought a big cake of soap that was loads nicer than the tiny paper-wrapped one the management had provided. The thick suds filled the room with the scent of orange and cinnamon. “You’ve become a fucking pomander, Desmond.” His voice was too loud in the small room, so he pressed his lips together.
They settled into bed more easily that night, but Des knew from Kurt’s breathing that he remained awake. “Was it the drinking that brought your divorce?” Des asked after a time.
“No. Mostly not, anyway. Maryann might’ve eventually convinced me to get treatment. She was working on it.”
“Then was it a man?”
“I never cheated on her,” Kurt snapped. Then his tone softened. “But eventually I had to be honest with her—and with myself.”
“Why? What made you decide?”
Kurt paused before answering. “AIDS. People were just beginning to talk about it, and I knew a couple of guys who died from it. It… didn’t seem right to lie about who I was when my brothers were dying, I guess.”
“AIDS? What’s that?”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “Jesus. You don’t know, do you?” And Kurt told him about a disease that was spread through sex and shared needles, that had killed actors and artists and athletes and tens of thousands of others. There was no cure for it. The treatments were uncertain. Young, healthy people wasted away, sometimes within months, sometimes abandoned by their families due to the stigma of being gay. It was like a horror story told around a campfire, only it was all true. And even in the darkness, Des could tell how badly it strained Kurt to talk about it.
“It would have killed me,” Des said after Kurt was silent. “If I hadn’t met Larry and then gone to prison, I would have caught this disease. I might already be dead.”
“You don’t know that.
”
Oh, but Des did, with absolute certainty. He felt as if his own ghost was haunting him. “I fucked around a lot before Larry. I enjoyed it. Sometimes I did it for money, if I was. I didn’t really care who I did it with, or how. Is there something wrong with that?”
“I don’t think so, no. But… now it can be dangerous. Nobody knew about HIV until it was too late for so many.”
Des wanted to comfort him, but any attempts to console him in bed might be misinterpreted, so he continued to lay on his back, perfectly still. “You don’t have AIDS, do you?”
“You can’t catch it from sharing a bed,” Kurt growled. “Or making out.”
“That’s not what I meant. Are you… healthy?”
Kurt blew out a puff of air. “I don’t have HIV. I fooled around some in Nam, but back then the only risks were good old syphilis and the clap, and there’s drugs for that. Then I married Maryann, and like I said, I didn’t cheat on her. By the time I was ready to get into bed with men again, I knew about safe sex.”
“Do you have a lot of lovers?” Jealousy was beyond stupid under the circumstances, so Des tried to ignore the feeling.
“No. It’s hard to meet anyone if you don’t go to bars and don’t know a lot of other gay guys. The job sort of gets in the way too. I have a friend who comes over sometimes, but he’s not really….” His voiced trailed away and then he snorted. “Are we done dissecting my personal life now?”
Des would have liked to ask a lot more questions, but Kurt’s patience was obviously at its limit. “Larry’s boxes…. If he’d been able to give them to the angels, I wonder if they might have given him a way to cure AIDS.”
Kurt sat up abruptly, which pulled the bedding off of Des. “That’s bullshit.”
“But—”
“The only angel I’ve ever seen is an ex-Bureau agent, and he’s only half. Evidently some angel knocked up his mother and then disappeared, never to be seen again. No other angels have ever lifted a wing to help out with anything, not one fucking time. And I’ve never seen any of them near demons either. I don’t know what angels do with their time, but helping humans or playing war games with demons isn’t it. They wouldn’t have wanted your goddamn boxes, and they certainly wouldn’t have handed over the key to eternal health.”
